Redtree Times

Winterglide– Coming to Little Gems, West End Gallery

The unconscious self is the real genius. Your breathing goes wrong the moment your conscious self meddles with it.

–Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman, 1903

The painting at the top, Winterglide, is new, a 12″ by 12″ piece on panel that is going to be part of this year’s Little Gems show at the West End Gallery in early February.

I like the feel of this piece, its ease and coolness. For me, it’s like taking in a breath of cool air that instantly takes away the heat of an overstressed mind. That goes for the way it was painted as well. It came easily and without much thought. More instinctual than intellectual. Shaw’s line above seems to mesh well with how this painting appeared– my brain was pretty much left out of the equation.

I’ve been working lately with pieces that feature snow-covered rolls in the landscape. I find the process I employ in these pieces very meditative. Again, more instinctual, allowing me to get away from the thought process. It allows the colors carry the emotional feel of the piece. The whiten of the top snow layer both cools and unifies the underlying colors.

It kind of allows the eye to glide through the piece. That’s where the title, Winterglide, originated.

As I said, I like the feel of cool freshness in this painting. Like that cool breath, it steadies my thinking.

And sometimes that is all I need.

Here’s an appropriate song for this week’s Sunday Morning Music. It’s the transcendent remake from KD Lang of the old Hollies song, The Air That I Breathe. For some unknown reason, I have only played a couple of KD Lang songs over the many years I’ve been doing this blog. It’s surprising because I am a big fan of her work and she has delivered some legendary — and I mean legendary–performances over her career. If you get a chance, listen to her Shadowland which she made with Owen Bradley, the producer of the late great Patsy Cline, whose voice, like Lang’s, was able to soar to emotional heights carrying us mere mortals along for a glorious ride.

Listen in a dark room if you can. Pure magic.

Give a listen and give your mind a rest this morning. Good stuff…

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The Moon Resonates– At Kada Gallery, Erie, PA

Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.

–Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

Keeping it simple this morning. Even so, there’s a lot to consider in this simple triad of word, image and song.

Words from Oscar Wilde‘s letter from his time imprisoned in Reading Gaol, a replay of a favorite Neko Case song and a wistful painting. I think they blend together pretty well and reflect my mood in the moment.

I guess that’s good enough for a quiet Friday morning in January.

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A Rising Peace– At Principle Gallery

A new moon teaches gradualness
and deliberation and how one gives birth
to oneself slowly. Patience with small details
makes perfect a large work, like the universe.
What nine months of attention does for an embryo
forty early mornings will do for your gradually growing wholeness

–Rumi

I wrote about a very early piece yesterday, commenting on a couple of details in it that intrigued me. They were small things–an edge of mixing color, a loose run of paint, the exposed layers of glazed colors. Not things that carry the narrative (if there is one) or define the piece to the casual viewer but small things that give it life.

Looking at that piece made me think about the importance of these small details in my work and process. My personal judgement of my paintings is often based on these small details and my reaction to them. A fleck of underlying color that barely shows, a brush bristle in the paint, exposed ridges of the gessoed surface’s texture, a partial swirl of a thumbprint, and so many other little details that are easily overlooked add layers of depth to the painting for me. They have little to do with the perceived subject of the painting but often carry as much emotional weight and meaning.

I have often talked and written about how one of the challenges in the studio is to not become bored with what I do, to continually find and create excitement in the work for myself. These details are fine examples of how that excitement comes about in the process of creating a painting. It can sometimes be a long and boring process, especially on larger paintings, with periods where the life and excitement of the piece evaporates. The whole thing feels flat and dull at these times.

But having one of small edge of paint come to life or the texture underneath suddenly pop creates small bursts of excitement. These small bursts build on one another and carry through to the whole of the painting. A good painting, at least to my eye, is filled with these small details.

It’s much like the Rumi line at the top: Patience with small details makes perfect a large work, like the universe.

Let me be clear, they are not details for the sake of having details. I have tried to create paintings filled with detail and have failed spectacularly, creating boring and cluttered messes. No, these are details that almost all unintentional in their origin. They come from the work and the process.

That is when most work is best, when it comes organically and is not contrived by the mind.

That’s my opinion, anyway. Now get out of here– I have to work on one of those forty early mornings that Rumi mentioned. Looking for that wholeness…

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Early Work: Dance Hall, 1994

It takes little talent to see clearly what lies under one’s nose, a good deal of it to know in which direction to point that organ.

–W. H. Auden, The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays, ‘Writing’, 1963

I was looking for something else this morning in my computer files when I came across the image above of a small piece done in my earliest painting days. It’s a loosely done watercolor of the old Dance Hall that once stood at a local amusement park, Eldridge Park. I painted this structure a number of times back then.

I have always skimmed by this particular piece, never taking a moment to stop and examine it with a more probing eye. Its first impression just never hit for me and I mentally devalued it as just a failed experiment. In fact, the small original is stored with a bin of old work that I keep meaning to destroy.

But something made me stop and look at the image this morning. There were many things in this little guy that I liked. The looseness of it and the spew lines at its bottom, for example. The color of the yellow of the sun where it meets the color of the roof. I found it infinitely more intriguing now than I did at that time. It made me wonder what might have been had I continued working in that manner.

That, of course, is a fool’s errand. Wondering what might have been is a futile exercise, especially in this case. This little piece served its purpose (and an important one) and was part of my creative evolution. I took parts of it with me and moved on to the next piece, already heading in a different direction, pulled by forces that might not show in this piece. At the time it was painted, I was already seeing a different future that it portended.

As a result, I gave it little thought at that time for the piece it was. It just felt like an exercise and not an entity of its own. Not the kind of thing I would ever show to anyone though for some reason I did sign it in pencil at some point. It was early on because the C hadn’t yet entered my signature.

But this morning I began to see it as its own being. And I liked it. I am not saying it is a great piece. It’s not. But it is so much more than I gave it credit for the past almost 30 years. And I am grateful for the things that it gave me then and for the unexpected pleasure it gives me now as it is.

I guess those are the best kind, those small unexpected pleasures.

And that gives me an idea for another post…

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It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.

— Pablo Picasso, At an Exhibition of Children’s Art, Quoted in NY Times, 1956

I posted some images over the weekend on social media from a post that came to me via Instagram from an artist/art teacher (I am sorry but I do not exactly know her name!) in Turkey of a group of young kids showing off their copies of several of my paintings. It was wonderful to see how proud they were of their work and how expressive their pieces were.

It is always a great thrill to see how kids perceive and express my work for themselves. It has a pureness that lacks the self-consciousness and self-judgement that comes with maturity which is probably what Picasso saw when he made his statements about the art of children, like the one at the top or his famous line: Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.

Much of the work demonstrated Picasso’s points. Especially the one in the middle above with the young man holding his painting of a Red Chair. It has such a sense of completeness that I could easily imagine an artist like Henri Matisse sighing in admiration at that youngster being able to so easily capture that quality that he sought in his own work.

I certainly sighed. 

Their work reminded me of several other times kids– and adults– have used my work as an inspiration. One of my favorites was at a local elementary school where I gave a demonstration and talk to all the 3rd graders. When I came into the cafe-gym-atorium, the front of the stage was completely covered with their versions of paintings from my Archaeology series. It was quite a sight for me. The underground artifacts were all personal items for each kid which was fascinating. Plus, the kids were probably the best audience I’ve ever had– and I have had some great ones. Their work is below along with images from a couple of adult classes. One was from Budapest, Hungary and the other from a class held at a Claremont, California brewery.

This doesn’t include any of the work that has been given to me by kids over the years that hangs here in the studio. I find constant inspiration in their work, especially on those days when I am filled with self-doubts. They help me feel the openness of that kid spirit again. Just what this artist needs.

To all the kids — and adults, too– I say “Well done and thank you. Keep up the good work!”

Big Flats Elementary 2017

Budapest

Art on Tap Claremont, CA

Me on a Good Day

Turkey

Turkey

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In a Warm Breeze— At Principle Gallery

Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.

–Mark Twain, Old Times on the Mississippi

Things that need to be done this morning. Want to finish a small piece on the easel plus have to plow a little after the first substantial snowfall of the year. Not much of a storm for us compared to many other places in the storm’s path or even here normally at this time of year. But enough that it needs to be cleared away.

So, I am just going to lay out this week’s Sunday Morning Music selection which is Privateering from Mark Knopfler. It’s a good song to have in my head while plowing. Imaginings of warm ocean breezes and the carefree attitude of a pirate are a nice contrast to the thought of light snow blowing into my face. But for a moment I am transformed from a bundled-up guy on a tractor to a swashbuckler scanning the far horizon for my conquest.

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Paul Gauguin–Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?

What still concerns me the most is: am I on the right track, am I making progress, am I making mistakes in art?

–Paul Gauguin

I run this post from about a decade ago every few years, usually when I am at a low ebb, when self-doubt is really nagging at me. It’s usually right around this time of the year, as work for my annual shows gets seriously underway. It’s a time of frantic ups and downs. Two days ago, I was wracked with self-doubt which created a roadblock that seemed impossible to get past. But that same day, I began work on a small piece and suddenly the roadblock was swept away. It’s a maddening, anxiety-filled time.

It’s during these times that I ask myself questions like those above that Gauguin posed for himself. This morning, with the elation of the small painting still hovering in the air, I feel pretty good. Fairly confident, feeling that my work is very much progressing and evolving in a positive way. But time has taught that by this afternoon doubt about my abilities or my own judgement of them might return with a vengeance. 

So, I try not to dwell on it and attempt to simply work through it. That usually provides the answer to my questions and doubts. That’s what I am going to do right now, thank you.

At one of my gallery talks a year or two ago, I was asked about confidence in my work. I can’t remember the exact wording, but I got the feeling that the questioner perceived me as being very confident and seemed to imply that at a certain point in an artist’s evolution doubts fade away and one is absolutely certain and confident in their work.

I think I laughed a bit then tried to let them know that even though I stood up there and seemed confident in that moment, it was mere illusion, that I was often filled with raging doubts about my voice or direction or my ability. I wanted them to know that there were often periods when I lost all confidence in what I was doing, that there were days that turned into weeks where I bounced around in my studio, paralyzed with a giant knot in my gut because it seemed like everything I had done before was suddenly worthless and without meaning in my mind.

I don’t know that I explained myself well that day or if I can right now. There are moments (and days and weeks) of clarity where the doubts do ease up and I no longer pelt myself with questions that I can’t answer. Kind of like the title from the painting at the top, the masterpiece from Paul Gauguin, Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? Those are tough questions to answer for anyone to answer, especially for a person who has little religious belief.

And maybe that’s the answer. Maybe my work has always served as a type of surrogate belief system, expressing instinctual reactions to these great questions. I don’t really know and I doubt that I ever will. I only hope that the doubts take a break once in a while.

There was another quote I was considering using for this subject from famed art critic Robert Hughes:

The greater the artist, the greater the doubt. Perfect confidence is given to the less talented as a consolation prize.

I liked the sentiment but it felt kind of self-serving, like saying that being aware of your own stupidity is actually a sign of your great intelligence. I paraphrase but that has been stated by many great thinkers down through history. While I would really like to believe that all those times when I realized I was dumb as a stump were actually evidence of my brilliance, I have real doubts about the logic as it pertains to myself. If it is true, there are a lot of geniuses out there operating under the guise of stupidity and overwhelming self-doubt.

However, if Hughes is correct then I may be one of the greatest artists of all time and a genius to boot.

But, at the moment, I have grave doubts about both of those assertions…

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Guenther Hears the Boogaloo Softly, 1994

Any form of art is a form of power; it has impact, it can affect change – it can not only move us, it makes us move.

–Ossie Davis, Quoted in Jeanne Noble’s Beautiful, Also, Are the Souls of My Black Sisters

I came across this little piece that I had painted long ago, in 1994, before I ever showed my work to anyone. It’s a tiny little thing, barely 2″ by 3″ in size, but it’s a painting that I consider one of my favorites. It’s not because of anything in the painting itself, although I do like the way it works visually with its simple forms and tones. Actually, it’s because I see an entire narrative in this piece and it always comes back as soon as I see it, even after many years.

I call this Guenther Hears the Boogaloo Softly. The story I see here is a German soldier on patrol in the second World War, in a wintry forest, perhaps in the Ardennes during the Battle of the Bulge. He is separated from his group and as he is wandering alone in the forest, he suddenly hears a sound from deep in the woods, echoing softly through the frozen trees. It is a piano and it is like nothing he has heard before. It has a loping bassline that churns and pops and over it is a tap dance of notes that bounce and roll on the rhythm.

It’s American boogie woogie. Somewhere unseen in the forest a piano is rolling out that boogie woogie beat.

Guenther is transfixed and holds his breath to better hear the music that enchants him. A siren’s song. He loses all thought of his mission and his duty. He is engrossed by the music.

I don’t go any further with this scenario in my mind. There are obvious directions the story could take. Guenther might allow the music to transfix him to the point he doesn’t hear the American patrol coming upon him. Or he might throw down his weapon and flee. But most likely, he would return to his patrol and if he were lucky enough to survive the war, the memory of that music would haunt him for years, sending him on a search to recapture the sound of that moment in the forest.

I see it simply as a being about the transformative power of music and art, about how they unify humans despite our differences. When we hear or see something, we don’t do so as a German or an American, as a democrat or a republican, as a Christian or a Muslim. We react as a human to our individual perceptions. Sometimes we cannot shake these other labels we carry with us but there are moments when our reaction is pure. Which is what I see in this little bit of paint and paper, in Guenther’s reaction to the piano.

Such a little bit of paint yet such a lot to say. And it says it clearly to me even after all these years.

Afternote: There is a certain irony that the boogie woogie sound is largely kept alive by Europeans now with people such as Axel Zwingenberger and Silvan Zingg, a pianist known as the Ambassador of Boogie Woogie  who hosts a boogie woogie festival in his native Switzerland each year. But here’s a little taste of boogie woogie from Amos Wilburn from the 1954 syndicated TV show Showtime at the Apollo. This is his Down the Road a Piece— maybe that’s where Guenther first heard that boogaloo.

Later Afternote: I ran this piece a couple of times, most recently in 2017. Just added the Ossie Davis quote and the Amos Milburn song for this post.

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Pull of the Moon— At West End Gallery

Let me sleep
In the slumber of the morning
There’s nowhere I need to be
And my dreams are still calling

–Damien Jurado, Silver Joy

Working on a large piece which is nearing completion so I want to be brief this morning. Wasn’t going to write at all but I have a song stuck in my head this morning.

The song is Silver Joy and is from singer/songwriter Damien Jurado. from his 2014 album, Brothers and Sisters of the Eternal Son. It was originally featured, along with several other Jurado songs, in the 2015 film, Tumbledown. More recently, it has garnered attention for its inclusion in a newer film The Holdovers. It stars Paul Giamatti as a gruff longtime teacher at a New England prep school in the early 70’s who is forced to stay at the school through the Christmas holidays to oversee a small group of students who are unable to return to their homes for the vacation period.

Saw the film recently and found it to be charmingly bittersweet. If you like charmingly bittersweet films, you’ll probably enjoy it. The song fits the film’s tone well as it is also charmingly bittersweet.

Okay, got things to do. Listen and leave, okay?

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Ventura– At Principle Gallery

And there is the headlight, shining far down the track, glinting off the steel rails that, like all parallel lines, will meet in infinity, which is after all where this train is going.

–Bruce Catton, Waiting for the Morning Train

The beginning of the new year. It’s the best and the worst, at least for me.

At its best, it is a time filled with potential in many ways. Potential growth as a human and an artist, for example. Growth that allows me to get a bit closer to that intangible destination that lingers in my imagination. The potential for the excitement that comes in the breakthrough of new creation.

At its worst, there’s also the potential for failure and disappointment that comes in seeing how limited you are as a human and an artist. The potential for feeling a sense of being static or blocked as an artist.

It’s something I struggle with each year at this time, feeling both giddy excitement and stomach-turning anxiety for what might be ahead in the new year, knowing that I am at a point where action is required. A time for setting aside excuses and getting the creative train back on track.

The passage at the top from the late historian/author Bruce Catton really stood out for me this morning. Much of my work deals with lines and forms receding into infinity, like the parallel lines of train tracks into the distant horizon. Whether one ever reaches that point of infinity is the question and this time of year makes the question seem even more stark.

So, this new year begins at the edge of the tracks, excited and apprehensive at the same time, with the hope that I can climb aboard and ride them into that distant horizon, to something beyond the here and now.

Infinity?

I don’t know. Only time will tell.

Here’s yet another favorite tune from the great bluesman Big Bill Broonzy. This is This Train (Is Bound For Glory). Hope he’s right…

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