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Archive for the ‘Opinion’ Category

The ancient Mayans may be saying that the world will soon end but it’s not a new concept.  Many people throughout time have foresaw the end of the world through the signs they read in the pattern of their society’s breakdown.  You can read it throughout history.  Men of the day, from ancient Greece onward, decrying the breakdown of their civilization and the imminent demise of the world.

I’ve written a bit about the items I’ve been reading in the old newspapers while doing some research on my grandfather.  At first I was charmed by the vivid nature of the time.  Explosive growth and innovation in so many fields.  Seemingly unlimited potential for those willing to go for it.

But as I scanned through the pages, it became a nightmare world.  Every day brought new horrors.  The local pages were filled with the deaths of so many, young and old, from things that have been tamed by modern science for so long that we no longer give them a second thought unless we’re in a third world nation.  Dysentery, cholera and malaria.  Tuberculosis.

Rabies.  Yes, rabies, for chrissakes.

There were several accounts in the papers from the short time at which I was looking, in which local citizens died from rabies.  In one case the man was placed in a padded cell and was near death, according to the account.

People were hit by trains on the city streets on a regular basis.  Multiple accounts of farming accidents, most in graphic details that you would never see in today’s papers.  Plenty of murders.  There were only a handful of cars on the roads around 1905 but there were plenty of reports of accidents, many fatal.

And fires.  Everyday another fire and often, another death.  In Forestport, a booming logging town in the southern part of the Adirondacks where my great-grandfather plied his trade, the downtown area suffered two devastating fires in the period of seven years.

There was a wealth of other chaotic activities going on to stoke the fires under those who saw the end of the world at that time.  Nationally, there were anarchists setting off bombs.  Local skirmishes the world over.  Here, we had Black Hand societies that stemmed from Italian immigrants and were a precursor to the later Mafia.  They were notorious for their Black Hand letters sent to those from which they wanted to extort money, letters that usually had a drawing of a black hand and a dagger alongside their threat and demands.  Most of the threats were against other Italian immigrants. I was surprised to see multiple accounts of such letters being made public in the papers.

After a time of reading these papers and seeing page after page of relative misery, I could see why the contemporaries of that time would see the end of the world hurtling at them.  Made me appreciate our own times a bit more and put reports of our demise in perspective.

I guess Dickens was accurate for all eras when he wrote those great first lines of A Tale of Two Cities:    It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

So, the world may or may not end as the Mayans forecast.  If it does, it does.  I fit doesn’t, we’ll just feel like it is anyways…


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Hard to believe it’s the first day of December already.  We’re in the last month of this first decade and it seems like we’re still adjusting to living in the 2000’s.

Maybe it’s a good thing.  Put this past decade behind us and start fresh.  There were a lot of things in these past ten years that I think most of us would like to put in the rear view.

Luckily for us, time is very accommodating in that respect.

Time just rushes onward, like a river over the rapids.  It sounds cliche but time truly seems to accelerate as I age.  Maybe it’s just a function of becoming more efficient at the art of wasting time as one ages.  I mean, I’ve had a lot of years to practice this skill and I have to admit, I’ve become pretty good at it.  There aren’t nearly enough hours in the day to accommodate all the ways I would like to waste my time.  Waste is probably the wrong word.  Waste has the implication of there being little if any value to the activity.

Spend is a better choice.  Value becomes a relative term with this word.  What I might consider useful time spent, others might view it as a complete waste of time.

One man’s meat is another man’s poison.

Anyway, time is flying by as I write this.  I’ve already wasted- er, spent–  enough time with this.

Happy December…

The piece at the top is The Dark Blue Above is hanging at the Principle Gallery in Alexandria, VA.  It’s a 12″ by 24″ canvas and one that I think really has great visual pop.

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We were flipping around the dial last night and came across a show on the Travel Channel called Meet the Natives.  It was a reality show where a group of five tribesmen from the small island of Tanna in Vanuatu,  which is part of Melanesia in the western Pacific, travel to the USA to visit with five different families in different parts of the country.  Meeting our natives.  Last night’s episodes consisted of a visit to a large working ranch in Montana and then on to some time with a fairly wealthy Manhattan family.

At first, given the exploitive nature of most reality shows, I wasn’t too keen on watching but we thought we’d give it a few minutes.  I’m glad I did.

The five tribesmen come from a society that we would call primitive.  They live in the jungle, nude for the most part but for their nambas, which are penis sheaths.  They farm small crops and raise a few animals, primarily pigs and chickens, for their sustenance. They also hunt with traditional weapons made from the materials of the forest.  They enjoy celebratory dances and an occasional sip of kava, the traditional sedating beverage made from the kava root.  They have a system of beliefs very much tied to their environment and nature.

They may be the happiest people on earth.

The five chosen for this trip to the US, which follows an earlier trip to Britiain, were charming.  They were inquisitively open-minded and full of good humor.  The chief of their tribe was one of the travelers and made very astute comments about what he saw.  One, called Happy Man, was always laughing and joking, endearing himself to everyone he met with his smile and playful manner.  Another served as their translator, having left the tribe for a while to go to school where he learned English.

Their first stop was in Montana.  They were the guests of a family that ran a large ranch with about 5000 heads of cattle.  It was a surprisingly good fit for the tribesmen.  They were able to see equivalencies in the day to day life of the cowboys with their own, such as the care of the animals.  They also fit in well at the local tavern where they drank beer for the first time (“sour but nice”) and danced to a country western band.  They do like to dance.

An interesting moment came when they were out where they first encountered snow, which was somewhat comical.  They stumbled across a buffalo and scampered to higher ground where they watched it.  Their description of it was wonderful.

It looks like a cow but it is no cow.  It has the face of a devil and the hair of a man.

I can only wonder what the folks back home will envision when they hear their account.

They then went to NYC which was much more alien than Montana to the men.  While they were fascinated by many of the things they came across, the chief always registered a bit of sadness of how the people of the city lived, how they were so dependent on money for all their needs.  They encountered a homeless man in Central Park and were perplexed that such a thing should happen in a place with so much.

Happy Man said that it was obvious that no one loved this man.

Kind of sums it up.

There were a lot of things I could go on about the tribesmen.  They may live what we callously call a primitive existence but their intelligence and wisdom is anything but primitive.

If you get a chance, tune in.  You’ll look at our country with different eyes…

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Silence is as full of potential wisdom and wit as the unshown marble of great sculpture. The silent bear no witness against themselves.

—Aldous Huxley

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I’ve been scratching around in the studio for the last few days.  Straightening up a little, putting things in their places.  Taking inventory, as it were.  Seeing what materials I have on hand, what I’m short on.

I do the same with the creative side of my mind.  I take this time, as I’ve noted in the past, to look back at the year and the body of work I’ve created over this period.  What have I done?  What is strong and what needs to improve?

One thing I’ve done in the past year is the continuance of this blog.  It’s done far better than I ever expected as far as readership and it has become a big part of my morning in the studio.  The feedback has been great and  I’ve taken a lot from the comments and e-mails received as a result of this blog but I still worry that this provides too much information about a subject, painting as an art, that often communicates best without words.  I still fear that the impact of my words and thoughts will never add up to anything near the sum of my painted work and, as a result, a seed of doubt will be planted.  A doubt that makes the viewer question their own view of the work.  If I speak and write and eventually expose all my flaws and deficiencies, will the work still stand up?

As Huxley said, the silent bear no witness against themselves.  There’s much to be said for that.  Maybe the silent artist allows the narrative surrounding their work to form on its own, to grow beyond what they themselves may be.  I can see that in many cases.

But I’ve found that I’ve always wanted to control the narrative around my work.  To not let it be spun out of my hands.  So I talk and write.

For better or worse…

The inventory goes on.

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In Our Nature

Another Sunday morning.  Hunting season here, so I listen for the inevitable gunshots that ring through the forests around my place.  Not too many.  Certainly not like it was a number of years back when it sounded like a shooting gallery on the first days of the season.  I’m not a hunter, never really have been , but I have no problem with responsible hunters in the woods.  The hunters who have a level of reverence for their prey and selectively hunt.  It’s the cretins with no respect for the creatures they’re hunting, who are only out there for a thrill kill, that bother me.

There’s an element of selfish cruelty in these guys that pisses me off because it’s the same element of selfishness and cruelty that is present in so many of the horrible deeds that make one want to turn off the evening news in disgust.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.  It’s nothing new, just a part of who we are as a species.  How can one expect something to do other than what is in its nature?

That brings me to my song for today from Neko Case, who is a real favorite of mine.  It’s People Got a Lot of Nerve and its message  is pretty close to what I said above.  Why be surprised when any creature, including man, does what is in its nature?

Have a great Sunday…

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I’ve had the term body of work in my head recently and was reminded of it once again by a couple of sports related stories in recent days.  First, New England Patriots coach Bill Belichick made a risky decision this past weekend that failed and may have paved the way for his team’s loss.  This morning, sports talk radio was filled with analysts calling it a bonehead move but one analyst made me think when he said that sure, it was a mistake but he wouldn’t judge him on this one mistake. Instead, he would look at his whole body of work.

Then there is the case of Andre Agassi who, in his recent biography, revealed that during a year in the 90’s he had regularly used crystal meth during the tennis season.  He was widely attacked for this revelation, many judging his entire life on this episode of bad judgment.  He expressed surprise at the reaction, saying he hoped people would judge him by the whole of his life and not a time he openly and honestly regrets.  He wanted to be judged for his body of work.

It made me think.  How many people out there have judged me on one bad moment I may have had?  Something idiotic I said?  How many people was I holding judgement on whose only exposure to me was in a less than stellar moment in their lives?  How many of these people had changed, grown and evolved, yet I only knew them from a much less developed time in their lives?

I guess the same dynamics are in play when I speak of my painting as body of work.  There are certainly people who have seen my work and it may not have hit them favorably at that point and they formed a judgement that becomes set in their minds, making it hard to overcome.  Like Belichick and Agassi probably realize, there’s not a lot that can be done except to try to focus on what you can control, to try to constantly evolve and improve and create a body of work that shines brighter than the inevitable lowlights we all encounter in our lives.

I try to keep that in mind when I’m in the studio, that I cannot worry about those whose opinions of my work I can’t control.  I can only concern myself in satisfying that person whose opinion I can control and that’s me.  If I can do that, I will create a body of work  worthy of the most critical eye.

The piece at the top is Climbing Beyond the Blue and is on its way to the Kada Gallery in Erie, PA today.  I’m on the road again, visiting my friends in Erie before the holidays and delivering some new work.

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StalinAh, it’s good to be back in my studio after spending three days racing through seven states to deliver new work to galleries in Virginia and North Carolina.  While it was good to spend a bit of time at the galleries, discussing the state of the art business at the moment, it’s always better to be here, focusing more on creation than on promotion and sales.

I was able to listen to a lot of music while driving as well as catch some interesting stories on public radio that gave me something to think about.  Yesterday, as I drove in the early morning rain of Virginia, I heard a story on NPR concerning the way Joseph Stalin is being viewed in present day Russia.  In a poll last year, Stalin was chosen by Russians, in a sort of American Idol style vote, as the third greatest Russian of all time.  Despite the many millions, yes, millions of Russian citizens who were put to death by Stalin, despite the political purges and gulags and Soviet policies that caused a type of artificial famine that killed far more citizens than any natural famine more than once, the current populace said that this Man of Steel was their guy.

Interesting.

In the story, a present day student compared Stalin favorably to the Adolph Hitler of the early 1930’s, in that both restored pride and self-confidence to their citizens in trying times.  He also cited Stalin’s part in defeating Hiltler’s Germany in WW II as another reason for his positive view of Stalin.

Other present day Russians have said that what Russia needs now is another Stalin.  Rootin’ Tootin’ Vlad Putin has started reintroducing Stalin to the Russian public, reinserting verses praising Stalin to the national anthem that were long ago taken out.

It gave me a bit of a chill.

This revisionist history takes place everywhere when the times become a bit more difficult.  The older population who lived through the Stalin era see the chaos of the current Russia and begin to romanticize for what they now remember as the stability of Stalin’s time.  I have to admit, there is a certain level of stability in under a Stalin-like dictatorship.  One doesn’t have a lot of choices or freedoms to clutter the mind.   Most decisions are out of your hands.  For many, this freedom from choice, when viewed through the distance of time, seems almost nostalgic.  Ah, the way we were.

The real question is, when there is this nostalgia for someone like Stalin, when the mindset of a large swath of the population begins to overlook the atrocities of a man like Stalin and the horror of those times, where is that country headed?

I don’t mean to sound like some McCarthy-era siren, wailing that the Russian are coming, the Russians are coming!  No duck-and-cover here.  I just am mystified by how the nationalism of a people is always morphing and how those in power can manipulate the past to fit the present to achieve their desire future.  I hope I don’t live long enough to see the German  people name Hitler as the greatest German ever…

Just something to think about.

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Albert York Grey Cow in Landscape with PondA friend sent me a New York Times obituary from the other day of a somewhat obscure painter.  The headline read, “Albert York, Reclusive Landscape Painter, Dies At 80” and told of the life and death Albert York, “a painter of small, mysterious landscapes who shunned the art world yet had a fervent following within it.”

I’m not sure if my friend forwarded this because it ‘s an interesting read or if he saw similarities between York and me.  But reading it made me think about my own form of increasing  reclusiveness and its effect on my career and beyond.

I used to worry about what sort of legacy, if any,  I would leave behind with the work I’m doing.  I guess that’s only normal when you feel you’re putting everything you have into something.  Much like a business owner who works his whole life growing and nurturing his business wants to believe that his toil will leave an enterprise that lives on past him.  Nobody wants to believe their very best will leave no footprints in the sands of time.

As an artist, these footprints are left through the recognition of your work.  This involves putting your work out there, pushing it and promoting it, making it known to those in the art world.  Sometimes doing good work will be enough but that is a rarity. It is a very social game in most cases, with careers advanced primarily through contacts begetting contacts.  The socially aggressive, those who seek to mingle with the art crowd, are rewarded.

I realized years ago that relying on leaving any sort of artistic legacy through these means was futile for me.  I don’t mingle well, haven’t been to anything resembling a party, outside of a few openings at my local gallery, for many years.  I don’t make contacts well.  Barely keep up with my best friends and family.  I can’t remember the last time I went to a movie, let alone a party.  I seldom like to venture beyond my normal routine or the end of my driveway.

I now realize this who I am and as such, have severe limitations on how I can affect the legacy of my work.  I will never be the insider, the social gadfly who constantly self-promotes.   I thought I could do that at one point but I know now that it’s not for me.  This blog is as close as I get to self-promotion these days.  I can only do what I do and that is paint and try to keep slogging ahead, hoping a footprint or two remains behind.

So, Albert York, my best wishes for you on your new endeavor.  Your work seems to have left a footprint…

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GC Myers 2009I wrote a few days ago about how I am often mystified by the meanings of my paintings and how I this makes me glad that I still have the need to paint.

I thought about that after I hit the button to publish that post.  I have often heard artists say they had to paint, as though it were some sort of exotic medical quandary.

Paint or die.

It always kind of bothered me when I heard this, as though these guys were saying they had some sort of predestined calling.  Like they were prophets or shamans that the world, without their visionary paintings, would spin out of control.  It just always sounded a little pompous to me.

So when I wrote that it made me twitch a bit.  Maybe I’m the pompous ass here.  It certainly is in the realm of possibility.

But I find myself kind of standing behind what I said.  I do need to paint.  It’s not some call to destiny.  It’s not to transmit some psychic message to the world.  It’s more a case of me needing have a form of expression that best suits my mind and abilities.  Painting just happens to fill that need.  If I could yodel, I might be saying I need to yodel.

But I need to paint.

I need to paint to try to express things I certainly can’t put in words, things that awe and mystify me.  I need to paint to have a means to a voice.

I need to paint just to remind myself that I am alive and still have the ability to feel the excitement and joy from something that I have created.  I need to paint to feel the surprise of exceeding what I felt was within me, to go into that realm of personal mystery within and emerge with something new.  I need to paint because it has given me the closest thing I know to answers to the questions I have.

I need to paint because it is one of the few things that I’ve done fairly well in my life.

Would I die?

Nah…

I’d adapt and find something new but it would be hard to find something that would suit me as well.  So I guess I do need to paint after all.  Call me a pompous ass.  I don’t give a damn- I’ve got work to do.

The piece above is a new painting.  It’s a 12″ by 24″ canvas and I’m still working on a title.

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balloon-colorado-4_1503163cThis morning, for the first time in a long time, I was pleased with the coverage my local newspaper gave a story.  It was the story of a possible lost child and  a weather balloon of sorts.  As a local story, it had some interesting aspects.  As a national story it deserved no more attention than a small report in the back of the paper or a short line or two on the crawl across the bottom of the television screen.

My local paper got it right.  Just a few paragraphs and a picture on the back of one  section.  No big deal.

The national press,  however, went insane yesterday and gave us positive proof that they have no self control, no will to vet a story for its value on a national stage.  Yesterday afternoon, all of the 24/7 news outlets devoted hours of coverage to this story, following this ridiculous balloon every step of the way.  Interviews with neighbors.  Interviews with people from Wife Swap, the reality TV show on which the family had appeared.  An endless rundown of the father’s life.

Hours and hours.  All the other news swept aside by this stupid, silly balloon story.

The NBC Evening News opened with the story and devoted nearly 5 minutes of their 20 -22 minutes to it.  With everything that is going on in the world, they devote the first quarter of their show to a little boy hiding in his attic and his irresponsible father’s supposed runaway balloon.  This is the level that we’ve come to expect from those who bring us our news and information.

It’s infuriating.  The other night Jon Stewart, on The Daily Show,did a segment on CNN‘s devotion to fact-checking a Saturday Night Live skit as compared to the way they do absolutely no fact-checking on the talking heads who come on their shows and spout off numbers to back their causes.  It made me realize how totally unqualified the hosts on these shows are to really be able to interview any of their guests with any depth or comprehension.  Stewart is a comedian on a faux news show and is eminently more qualified and better prepared  than most, if not all, of these Barbies and Kens.  They almost always end their interviews with the most cogent questions dangling there, waiting to be asked.  No real info can be extracted when they haven’t a clue what they’re talking about.

And then it’s off to a car chase in El Segundo…

If you’d like to see Jon Stewart’s segment, click here.

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