The great mystery is not that we should have been thrown down here at random between the profusion of matter and that of the stars; it is that from our very prison we should draw, from our own selves, images powerful enough to deny our nothingness.
In a picture, it should be possible to discover new things every time you see it. But you can look at a picture for a week together and never think of it again. You can also look at a picture for a second and think of it all your life.
“All there is, is fragments, because a man, even the loneliest of the species, is divided among several persons, animals, worlds. To know a man more than slightly it would be necessary to gather him together from all those quarters, each last scrap of him, and this done after he is safely dead.” ―Coleman Dowell, Island People
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It’s been hard finding footing lately in the studio. It’s been hard to just get started on most days. There are plenty of factors that play in to this, some external and some internal, some that I can control and some I cannot. But the end result is the same: I am left feeling fragmented, broken into shards that don’t want to reassemble easily in the form of my work.
I am not worried however. This is not the first time I’ve felt so fragmented nor will it be the last. I know that I come apart at times and have to bide my time, just continuing to try to put myself back together so that I may uncover what I know is waiting there for me.
It’s there. It may seem an awfully long way away but I can see it and I know that while it may take time and much effort, I shall be together with it again.
The painting above is a piece that has been with me for a while now. One of the orphans that come home to reside for a bit. I wrote about it last year when I thought I might change its name to Dimming of the Daybut it still remains under its original title, Fragments, in my mind. And I suspect it will stay that way.
This painting is based very much on this feeling that I am experiencing at this moment and when this feeling emerges, I often think of this painting. There is darkness and distance here. The space between the Red Chair and the house has a certain weight that makes me feel as though there is something more than physical distance at play here. The sky, a confetti-like blend of thousands of little fragments of brushstrokes that gave the painting its title originally, represents, for me at least in this piece, the world falling out of harmony.
Dark, distant and coming apart.
Yet despite that I find this painting very comforting. I think that goes back to what I said above, that I know this place well from past experience . I know how to navigate it and know that the distance is not so great nor the darkness too deep. And I know that the parts are still in place to come together again in the future if I simply exercise patience and don’t give in.
It’s funny how that works. I walk by this painting several times a day in the studio and it’s often without a thought as my mind is preoccupied with something else. But every so often I stop before it and suddenly all of these feelings flood back on me when I look closer. I’m glad it works that way, actually.
Here’s a nice version of the Richard Thompson song whose title, Dimming of the Day, I was thinking about renaming this painting. It’s a strong yet tender version from Tom Jones. Have a good day…
This is a blog entry from this day back in 2010. I came across it this morning and thought it fit my mood for this morning. Must be something in the date…
As machines become more and more efficient and perfect, so it will become clear that imperfection is the greatness of man. ——Ernst Fischer
I’ve wondered about the concept of perfection for some time and quite some time back came to that conclusion that perfection is not a human quality, that we are defined by our imperfections. That’s somewhat what the quote above says. When I read it, it struck me at once but I had never heard of the writer, Ernst Fischer. Looking him up, I found him to be an Austrian Marxist writer who waved the banner for Stalinist policies for many years but in his later years ( he died in 1972) came to regret his past. His memoir of his life began with a chapter that was titled Was That Me?, indicating his astonishment at looking back and seeing the phases he went through in his life.
I think most of us could start our own memoirs with that same first chapter title. I know I could, even though I feel that I am very much the same at the core now as I was in my earlier days. My actions were not always consistent with that core, however. I was, and am, a walking exhibition of flaws, imperfections.
As are we all.
Maybe it’s when we begin to align our actions to what we are at the core that life begins to appear become easier to swallow and our imperfections become less evident and not worn on our sleeves for all to see. I’m not talking about trying to acquire perfection. No, I mean that we just try recognizing the flaws that make up each of us and accept them. Life is in toleration- of others as well as of ourselves
Please bear with me here. One of the problems of doing a daily blog is that I often post things as though I were writing them in a journal, unedited and just as they fall out of the mind. They are not always fully realized thoughts or ideas and will soon be questioned in my own mind, like reading an old journal written when much younger and wondering , “What was I thinking there?” or “Was that me?” You hope that, as we age and gain experience, that this is a less frequent happening in our lives. But writing in this public forum, forcing out words each day, it sometimes reappears.
One’s imperfections become apparent.
Phew! I don’t know what I just said here and I don’t really want to reread it so I’ll let it hang out there for now, flawed though it may be.
The piece at the top is a tiny painting, 2″ by 4″, that I call Red Eye. For some reason unknown to me at this point, I felt it fit this post.
This painting is one of those pieces that somehow found its way back to the studio after making the rounds at several galleries. I’m not always surprised when one does make its way back to me but this one kind of surprised me. There’s just a lot that I like about this painting. So I will enjoy it for a while longer for myself. Here’s what I wrote about it a few years back.
Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence. -Helen Keller
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Who can speak more about optimism than Helen Keller?
I still struggle to get my mind around how she persevered to overcome blindness and deafness. Such a remarkable thing. It makes me question my own strength of character, makes me wonder how I would respond if similar circumstances. I wonder how well known her life’s story is to the younger generation, outside of the tale of her early years with the woman, Anne Sullivan, who taught her how to join the world as portrayed in the play and movie, The Miracle Worker. That drama, while marvelous in itself, doesn’t reveal the great influence that Helen Keller had through her life as an activist and inspirational speaker. She is a pretty amazing case, to say the least.
That brings me to this little piece, a new 12″ by 12″ canvas that I call Passing Clouds. There’s a lot of joy, a lot of bright-eyed optimism in this painting, both in the process of painting it and in the final product. It’s one of those pieces that I truly enjoyed every moment that I worked on it and never felt a twinge of doubt about the strength or validity of it. It felt in rhythm with the first brushstroke and every subsequent move was made with complete confidence. That’s a rare thing. Usually there is a struggle at some point. But occasionally things come together and a painting like this flows out with complete ease.
No, there are no clouds hanging over this one. Just floating by…
I wanted to include a version of Irving Berlin‘s classic song Blue Skies, one of my favorites. But as I searched I came across this different song with the same title from Tom Waits. I had forgotten this song that I hadn’t heard in many years but it immediately came back to me. Just a lovely small song, perfect for a lovely small painting.
Yesterday I wrote about how the truth, particularly as it applies to the news, has become a subjective item. It seems to be more about how we feel about something rather than what the facts provide. This in turn allows falsehoods to become accepted as truth in the eyes of some despite all evidence to the contrary. It’s an unfortunate scenario that may have already affected us and may create awful consequences at some point in the all too near future.
But you can’t judge the facts like you’re judging a piece of art. The facts should not be affected by how you feel about them or whether you like or dislike them. They stand as they are. Can you imagine being innocent and on trial? All of the evidence and testimony proves your innocence but you are convicted because the jury felt that you were nonetheless found guilty. The jury just didn’t like something about you.
Unfortunately, that’s not that far-fetched an analogy.
I thought I’d run the post below from a few years back that talks about how the emotional subjectivity is appropriate in art, where your feeling is as important as the facts.
Painting is a blind man’s profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen.
–Pablo Picasso
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I love this quote from Picasso. I think that is what all art really is– an expression of feeling. Emotion. I know my best work, or at least the work that I feel is most directly connected to who I truly am as a human being, is always focused on expressing emotion rather than depicting any one place or person or thing. At its best, the piece as a whole becomes a vehicle for expression and the subject is merely a focal point in this expression. The subject matter becomes irrelevant beyond that. It could be a the most innocuous object, a chair or a tree in my case. It doesn’t really matter because the painting’s emotion is carried by the painting as a whole- the colors, the texture, the linework, the brushstrokes, etc.
In other words, it’s not what you see but what you feel.
I think many of Vincent Van Gogh‘s works are amazing example of this. They are so filled with emotion that you often don’t even realize how mundane the subject matter really is until you step back to analyze it for a moment. I’ve described here before what an incredible feeling it was to see one of his paintings for the first time, how it seemed to vibrate with feeling, seeming almost alive on the wall.
It was a vase of irises.
A few flowers in a pot. A floral arrangement. How many hundreds of thousands of such paintings have been created just like that? But this Van Gogh painting resonates not because of the subject matter, not because of precise depiction of the flowers or the vase. No, it was a deep expression of his emotion, his wonder at the world he inhabited, inside and out.
I also see this in a lot of music. It’s not the subject but the way the song is expressed. How many times have we heard overwrought , schmaltzy ballads that try to create overt emotion but never seem to pull it off? Then you hear someone interpret a simple song with deep and direct emotion and the song soars powerfully. I often use Johnny Cash‘s last recordings, in the last years and months before his death, as evidence of this. Many were his interpretations of well known songs and his voice had, by that time, lost much of the power of his earlier days. But the emotion, the wonder, in his delivery was palpable. Moving.
Likewise, here’s Chet Baker from just a few months before his death. He, too, had lost the power and grace of youth due to a life scarred by the hardship of drug abuse and violence. But the expression is raw and real. It makes this interpretation of Little Girl Blue stand out for me.
I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
―T.S. Eliot
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I’ve read these lines from T.S. Eliot before but it was only this morning that I equated them to the creative process. Well, so far as I see it in my own experience. You see, you can struggle to describe in words how things come about, how things finally appear.
You might describe an inner process of visualizations and intricate thought synthesis, of pulling deep emotions to the surface and so on. Maybe that is so but I think it is not really part of the process but is rather an interpretation of what you believe happened.
I think the real creative aspect occurs in a way much like the words above describe– in the stillness and darkness of a meditative void. The mind emptied and all thoughts of the past and the future are set aside. No hopes or desires. Just a quiet dark blankness that waits in endless patience for the first crackling of light to pierce through.
But there are times when the light doesn’t come and you lose patience in the waiting. So you start without the light and occasionally, nearing the end of the process, you find that your mind has emptied and the light has caught up with you. What you are looking at it something quite unlike what you thought it might be when you struggled to begin.
I know this all sounds pretty esoteric, pretty out there and maybe it won’t make a lick of sense to most who somehow slog through to this point. But really it comes down to the idea that you clear the mind and let it just happen.
If it happens at all. Sometimes the light doesn’t find you. But on those times when it does, it is like the freshest clear air has wafted over you and left you with a feeling of ethereal lightness. The clearest air. And I guess that is why I keep doing this and probably will until the day I die.
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The painting above is a 16″ by 20″ canvas titled Into the Clear Air and is included in Part of the Plan, my show that opens tomorrow, Saturday, October 29, at the Kada Gallery in Erie. The reception begins at 6 PM. Hope you can make it!
The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are. —Joseph Campbell
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I don’t think many of us consider being who we are as a privilege. Too often we look to others, admiring and desiring those qualities that we see in them while downplaying our own unique traits and abilities. As a result we maintain a low profile, going along with the flow and seldom raising our voice to let our opinion be known. We allow ourselves to be made smaller.
I think the subject of this painting, a 12″ by 24″ canvas called As I Live and Breathe, is about accepting who you are and having the bravery to show that to the world. Stepping forward and daring to speak your truth. There is a liberation in this simple act of understanding who you are. It sheds fears. The disappointment that often came with the realization of what you were not is replaced with the thrill of seeing who and what you truly are.
We all deserve that privilege, that thrill of being who we are.
This painting is included in my new show, Part of the Plan, that opens Saturday, October 29, at the Kada Gallery in Erie, PA. I will be on hand for an opening reception from 6-9 PM. For all you Cleveland Indians fans in the area: come out early so you can watch the Indians’ World Series game that night!
The works must be conceived with fire in the soul but executed with clinical coolness. —Joan Miro
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This new painting is a 10″ by 30″ canvas that I call Cool Fire. It is included in my show, Part of the Plan, which opens this Saturday at the Kada Gallery in Erie. I came across the words above from artist Joan Miro, whose work I admire very much, after I had finished this piece.
I was struck by how his words lined up with how I see this painting, especially in its juxtaposition of warmth and coolness. It creates a tension that is similar to the actual creation of many works of art, one where the artist walks a fine line between passion and control.
I think this balance is critical in creating work that reaches out to the viewer. Too much control and the work, while it might have great beauty, is cold and passionless. Too much passion without little control may appear erratic and off message.
But to make these two opposing forces work together is what brings life to the work and allows it to reach out. And I think this painting, with its equal parts of fire and self control, is a pretty good example of walking this fine line.
Never doubt that a small number of dedicated people can change the world; indeed it is the only thing that ever has. —Margaret Mead
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I love the words above from anthropologist Margaret Mead. I think they are empowering and a reminder of our innate ability to shape the world.
Too often we fail to exercise our own power to change the world because we think that we have little power to do so. We all too often see ourselves as unseen players on a huge stage, that our existence is noticed by no one.
But what we fail to understand is that we change the world by our very existence. It comes through the way we carry and express ourselves, in the manner in which our actions and words affect those close to us.
We create the patterns for our young, molding the way in which they view and act within the world. Our actions and words set the tone for their future, building a sense of openness and possibility or one of angry pessimism in them. Calm words, thoughtful reactions and a strong resolve to do what is right can change the world in a small way. It can only make it better.
And this attitude will attract others and together their power to affect changes increases dramatically. That is how changes comes to this world. It starts with one person who creates an atmosphere where anything seems possible, especially those things that stem from positive attributes.
I see this new piece, The Figurehead, a 5″ by 27″ painting on paper which is part of my upcoming Kada Gallery show, as an embodiment of this sentiment. The Red Tree here displays a graceful quality that holds sway over all those who are within in its sight, serving as a symbol of inspiration and strength.
I think we are all figureheads of a sort. We all hope to represent certain ideals and qualities and ideally they are apparent in how we present ourselves to the outside world. So it is vital to remember that we all in some way stand alone on a rise where we are visible to those around us. Our words and actions matter in a large way.
The great mystery is not that we should have been thrown down here at random between the profusion of matter and that of the stars; it is that from our very prison we should draw, from our own selves, images powerful enough to deny our nothingness. 
“All there is, is fragments, because a man, even the loneliest of the species, is divided among several persons, animals, worlds. To know a man more than slightly it would be necessary to gather him together from all those quarters, each last scrap of him, and this done after he is safely dead.” 
As machines become more and more efficient and perfect, so it will become clear that imperfection is the greatness of man.
Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.
I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. 
The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.
The works must be conceived with fire in the soul but executed with clinical coolness.
Never doubt that a small number of dedicated people can change the world; indeed it is the only thing that ever has.
Redtree Times 