A number of years back, there was an episode of the quirky television show Northern Exposure, which was set in a small Alaskan town, that involved the town’s philosopher-artist-DJ, Chris, building a trebuchet, shown here on the left. A trebuchet is a medieval war machine, a type of advanced catapult that flings objects great distances. In the show Chris used it to fling an old piano, the old upright flying in a perfect slow-motion arc through a blue sky and crashing to the earth in a pile.
Every time I see this episode I am moved by an odd, primal thrill in seeing the arc of the piano’s flight and am reminded of how this has always excited something I can’t explain in myself.
As a kid watching Fran Tarkenton and Joe Namath (New York teams on our local channels) throwing long bombs brought the same pleasure as the spirals seemed to defy time and space as they hurtled through the cold, autumn skies.
In baseball, there is nothing more exciting to me than the right-fielder throwing out a runner at the plate or third base. I still am thrilled by memories of throws from Dwight Evans of the Red Sox and Ichiro Suzuki of the Mariners that are delivered with arcs of such power and sheer grace.
Then there is the beauty of the towering arc of a home run. I recently saw a replay of Josh Hamilton’s amazing performance at last year’s All-Star game. One after another, huge shots rained out of Yankee Stadium. Majestic is the only word that comes to mind.
Personally, I remember being at a friend’s house in high school with a group of buddies, having blown off classes, drinking beers and just being delinquents. We were in the back yard of this house which was in a small development. One kid picked up a large stone and heaved it sky-ward. It left his hand as we watched and went into the sky in a perfect arc, tumbling in a beautiful, smooth rotation. It seemed to slow time itself and finally began to descend to earth, crashing finally through the window of the neighbor’s garden shed.
I did say we were delinquents, didn’t I?
But that moment is etched in my mind. I have friend who was there that I occasionally see whose eyes become wide when I mention the arc of that rock. He remembers it as one of the amazing things he’s ever experienced, a transcendent event.
Maybe there’s something sad in that but to me it attests to our reaction to the arc. I wish I could scientifically explain how our brain recognizes and processes the beauty of the arc but I can’t. I only know that when I see its natural curvature that I am seeing a type of rightness, that quality I often struggle to describe for the lines and curves in my work.
If I can capture that natural grace, I will be a happy man…
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I’ve been a fan of the work of Paul Klee for some time now. Whenever I would stumble across his work in museums, I would immediately feel a sense of kinship with his work. His work is always the obvious product of his mind and seems unfettered by what might be expected by outside forces.
Much of his work is on paper and is smallish in size compared to many of the pieces that often surround them in museums, giving the work a very intimate, warm feel. I feel like I’m privy to some quiet secret when I see his work. Maybe it has to do with the way his paintings combine music and form, creating that elusive rhythm of which I often write. I also love the grit within his colors and how he sometimes segments his work into small boxes of color, a technique that I adopt at different times in my painting.
Sometimes you run across work that really hits you and you wonder, “How have I never heard of this guy before?”
Redtree Times 
