Come on sorrow Take your own advice This thundering and lightning gets you rain I’m on a top secret mission A Cousteau expedition To find a diamond at the bottom of the drain A diamond at the bottom of the drain A diamond at the bottom of the drain
—Magpie to the Morning, Neko Case
-5° when I went out the door this morning but the wind had stilled so it didn’t feel too bad. I guess you could call it brisk.
Could be better. Could be worse. Nothing to do but keep on keeping on.
I want to get to other things this morning so here’s a lovely song, Magpie to the Morning, from a favorite of mine, Neko Case, to accompany the little 2″ square painting, Sunrise Strum, that is part of the upcoming Little Gemsshow at the West End Gallery.
Stay warm. Or cool. Or dry, safe, loose, or whatever the heck the best condition is for you wherever you might be.
Here, we’re going with Stay Warm. It sounds more civil than the preferred Stay Away.
Now listen to the song then get out of here, okay? I got stuff to do…
From pure sensation to the intuition of beauty, from pleasure and pain to love and the mystical ecstasy and death — all the things that are fundamental, all the things that, to the human spirit, are most profoundly significant, can only be experienced, not expressed. The rest is always and everywhere silence.
After silence that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
–Aldous Huxley, “The Rest Is Silence” –Music at Night and Other Essays, 1931
The excerpt above is the first paragraph from an essay, The Rest Is Silence, from Aldous Huxley that speaks of the significance of silence in music. He says that our greatest emotions, sensations, and feelings are truly inexpressible with words, that silence has a much greater capacity for expression than our feeble verbal abilities and that music is the closest form with the capacity for describing the inexpressible.
Can’t say that I disagree.
Silence has been one of the things I have been looking for in my work since the very beginning back in the early 90’s when I first took up the brush. I had tried writing for years but it always came down to me scribbling about silence and I quickly saw that my words were insufficient to describe or get to that silence. Without reading Huxley, I knew that music would be the best route to finding that silence but never felt that I had the ability, knowledge, or confidence to create the kind of music that encompassed the silence I was seeking.
I knew that visual art was my only way to get to that silence. It had few rules–which was important because I have always been averse to following rules and wanted to set my own rules, if there were to be any at all. Plus, it was in itself a silent medium, one that relied on the eyes rather than the ears required for music.
But it could take its cues from music, employing parts of it like rhythm and melody. I often refer to rhythm when describing my work and I see melody and musical phrasing in the linework of many of my pieces.
And it could make use of silence in much the same way that it is used in music.
Silence is space.
This space contained in silence allows the true emotion that surrounds it to fill the void. Pure and uncontaminated by word or sound.
Trying to reveal and employ that silence is a never-ending task. Just when I think I understand the silence and that its essence can be captured in a visual form, I realize how much more there is to know of silence.
But I keep trying and sometimes it feels near to my efforts.
It may be wordless and soundless and even formless, but it will make its presence known when it arrives.
That’s the hope in this new small piece, Silent Dusk, that is at the West End Gallery for the annual Little Gems show. It opens next Friday, February 10. Jesse and Linda are in the process of hanging the show so if you want a sneak peek, the show will be available for previews before then.
Here’s a favorite piece from composer Philip Glass who celebrated birthday 86 this past week. His work often makes use of space and silence, allowing for expression of those things that seem beyond articulation. This piece, Metamorphosis II, was used in the score for the film The Hours. This performance of the Glass piece is from Dutch harpist Lavinia Meijer. Seeing her hands move over the strings gives this piece a visual aspect where the silences in it can almost be seen.
And this do I call immaculate perception of all things: to want nothing else from them, but to be allowed to lie before them as a mirror with a hundred facets.
–Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathustra
The annual Little Gems show at the West End Gallery opens next Friday, February 10. In my contribution to this year’s show, I have included a group of 6 small face pieces from what I call the Ring of Fire series. I wrote about that series a bit in the past couple of weeks, describing how they came about from an abundance of photo paper I didn’t want to throw away and a desire to shake some things free in my mind.
Ring of Fire 5
They are all painted quickly with little if any forethought. Watercolors are used and the brushes used are very small, nothing larger than a size 0 liner, so that the strokes are little slashes and rubs of color again the blackish background. It is meant to be done with an immediacy that brings whatever life is present to bear as soon as possible. A line of red and yellow fire is in the background of each and the faces have a reaction to being in proximity to that fire. The result are faces in various states of distress, some in anguish or terror.
For me, they represent a release of some sort. They provide a form of release in psychological terms which might be as important for me as anything they provide artistically. They allow me to reveal those parts of my psyche that often left unexpressed or dealt with in other ways.
From the perspective of the creative process, the brushwork is rough and barely controlled which is what I react to in each of these pieces. I love seeing the imperfection of the unblended strokes and swipes that build up and animate the faces, as you can better see in the detail shown at the top. This rough rendering might be the main takeaway for me, artistically.
I don’t know how these will be received but I have some idea based on other series that showed other aspects of my work in the past. For example, in 2006 I did a series called Outlaws that were pieces done with dark sepia backgrounds with figures that were often holding handguns. I chose the handgun for that series because there was no gray area in how one perceived a gun in a picture. One has an immediate visceral response.
Some folks loved the work and some didn’t. Actually, some folks hated it.
And I understand that. I had a woman come up to me at the opening for my 2006 solo show that contained the Outlaws series at the Principle Gallery in Alexandria, VA. She was visibly distressed and spoke quickly, almost breathlessly. The work upset her greatly and she begged me to promise that this wasn’t the direction my work was heading in the future, that it wouldn’t replace the Red Tree landscapes she loved.
I assured her that the Red Tree would not go away and explained that, like all humans, I have multiple facets and shades in my personality. A variety of light and dark colors like the spectrum of color that comes from a single prism. I told her that this was merely another facet in the prism of who I was as a human. Perhaps not as visible as the Red Tree but still there.
Still me and part of the whole. Maybe it was the tails side of the coin on which the Red Tree was the heads side. Or maybe it was the yin to the Red Tree’s yang.
She seemed relieved but I understood her concern. We want things that we love to stay the same We don’t want them to not change or to suddenly challenge our perspective on them.
I know that by showing this other part of the prism, the work of the Outlaws and this Ring of Fire series, I am endangering how my other work is perceived. But I also trust that the people who really know and understand my Red Tree and other work have an understanding of the wholeness of each human, of the multiple shades of color n each our prisms.
After all, there is a bit of this work, this darker aspect, in even the brightest and most optimistic of my other work. If anything, this work acts as a complement to the Red Tree.
That’s my take on the Ring of Fire series. You will have your own reaction, good or bad. As it should be, it is yours to have.
Here’s an old video of the Outlaws series. It features a guitar composition, Variation on a Theme (Tales from the Farside), from the great Bill Frisell.
The object of painting a picture is not to make a picture — however unreasonable this may sound. The picture, if a picture results, is a by-product and may be useful, valuable, interesting as a sign of what has past. The object, which is back of every true work of art, is the attainment of a state of being, a state of high functioning, a more than ordinary moment of existence. In such moments activity is inevitable, and whether this activity is with brush, pen, chisel, or tongue, its result is but a by-product of the state, a trace, the footprint of the state.
–Robert Henri, The Art Spirit, 1901
The Art Spirit by painter/teacher Robert Henri is a rare book. It might well be a work of art in its own right. First published in 1901, its observations on the making of art have maintained a contemporary feel for the last 120 years, always feeling as though its words could have been written today.
I never fail to either gain new insight or be reminded of some forgotten bits when I pick up the book. Leafing through, I often go page by page muttering “Aah…” or “Yes!” at his wise words.
It’s to the point that when I write something about making art in general, I find myself wondering if it is my own thought or came from Henri. I don’t know if it’s an echo or a form of harmony.
I guess it doesn’t matter so long as the words ring true.
For example, Henri describes the process of creating as amore than ordinary moment of existence. I have often felt that when I am painting, my chosen form of expression, and find myself in a deep groove, I feel as though it is an altered state of being in that moment.
Something beyond myself, beyond my ordinariness.
It might just be that it is not anything extraordinary. It might be that in these moments there is a deployment of parts of ourselves that we are not able to engage with under normal circumstances.
Things, emotions and concepts, we can’t express otherwise. I certainly have felt that at times in those more than ordinary moments I have experienced.
The part I don’t understand is that I sometimes find myself avoiding entering such states. That would be those times when I am feeling blocked, I guess. I usually feel emotionally empty in those instances, feeling as though there is nothing to express. Or that I am somehow fearful to go into that state, not wanting to face the unexpressed.
Fortunately, experience has taught me that simply by starting I am immediately taken past that fear and hesitancy and into that state of being that occurs when creating, that more than ordinary moment of existence.
There is something reassuring in that knowledge, which I find myself employing on a regular basis.
For anyone interested in the creative endeavor, I highly recommend Henri’s classic. I consider this book and Concerning the Spiritual in Art, written in 1910 by Wassily Kandinsky, as indispensable reads for any artist.
Day’s First Color– At Little Gems, West End Gallery
This first glance of a soul which does not yet know itself is like dawn in the heavens; it is the awakening of something radiant and unknown.
–Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
I’m a morning person, an early riser, which means I know the dawn a bit. First rays of sunlight through the trees. Long shadows. Black and deep grays transforming into greens and browns.
First color of the day comes and with it the possibility of the new and the unknown. Every dawn offers the chance for the revelation of something fresh and exciting, something unseen and not thought of before that first sunlight crept through the trees.
Maybe something that changes everything.
Of course, most days don’t fulfill that promise. But the dawn, at least, offers one the chance to experience that awakening of something radiant and unknown.
And that’s all I am asking– just that chance.
That breaking dawn and the possibility accompanying it is what I see in this new piece at the top, Day’s First Color. It is 6″ by 6″ on paper and part of the annual Little Gems show that opens next Friday, February 10, at the West End Gallery.
Now, it’s time to make use of that chance.
Here’s a song from Cat Stevens from his 1971 album Teaser and the Firecat. I played the hell out of that album when it came out, with this song, Morning Has Broken (which is an early 20th century hymn), Peace Train, and Moonshadow, among others. I was also greatly attracted to the artwork on the album cover which was painted by Cat Stevens. It has a naive quality and use of color that has probably influenced me in ways I haven’t recognized or acknowledged until recently. We all take in many things and synthesize them quickly, often not realizing how much they contribute to our whole.
When seen as a whole, art derives from a person’s desire to communicate himself to another. I do not believe in an art which is not forced into existence by a human being’s desire to open his heart. All art, literature, and music must be born in your heart’s blood. Art is your heart’s blood.
–Edvard Munch, Manuscript (1891)
Agreed.
Things to do this morning so I am leaving it at that.
However, I am adding a piece of music at the bottom from a composition, 4 Themes on Paintings of Edward Munch, from contemporary composer Anthony Plog. This piece from the suite is based on the painting at the top of the page, Starry Night, and is written for trumpet and organ.
“All the same,” said the Scarecrow, “I shall ask for brains instead of a heart; for a fool would not know what to do with a heart if he had one.”
“I shall take the heart,” returned the Tin Woodman; “for brains do not make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world.”
–L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900)
Do you sometimes wonder which Wizard of Ozcharacter might best sum you up?
Would it be Dorothy or the Scarecrow, the Tin Man or that Cowardly Lion? Or might it be the Wicked Witch or Professor Marvel?
Or a Flying Monkey?
Got to admit, I have seen aspects of all of these varied characters in myself. Sometimes there is Dorothy’s innocence, the Scarecrow’s lack of brainpower, the absence of a heart like the Tin Man, the false bravado of the Cowardly Lion, the mean-spiritedness of that Wicked Witch and the Con Man patter of Professor Marvel.
Maybe that’s why the story of Oz has resonated for so long with audiences– we can readily identify ourselves in some way with each of those characters.
Even those Flying Monkeys.
That leads me to this week’s Sunday Morning Musical selection, The Scarecrow, from British folksinger June Tabor, accompanied by a favorite guitarist, Martin Simpson, whose music I recently featured here. This song has a wonderful atmosphere and feel. It matches up well with the small painting above.
Top O’ the Heap— At Principle Gallery, Alexandria, VA
Honor is like an island, rugged and without a beach; once we have left it, we can never return.
–Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux, Satires (1716)
Some days after reading the news, I feel like we have left that island. Like we have left behind all honor, respect, and benevolence.
All virtue left behind on that island.
And as the 17th century French poet Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux— a man regarded as being honest and generous in his time– points out, once we left that island of honor, we can never find our way back.
We might find our way to other islands but without honor, they offer little but bare sustenance and a harsh life.
Much like Van Diemen’s Land.
There is a group of folk songs called Van Diemen’s Land which refers to the onetime name of the island now called Tasmania. Off the coast of Australia, it was named for the Governor-General of the Dutch east Indies who had sent Abel Tasman on the exploration that brought the island under the Dutch flag in the 1640’s. In the 1800’s, the island became the site of British penal colonies for the most difficult British convicts that were transported to Australia. About 40% of the transported convicts ended up in Van Diemen’s Land at some point.
I think that honor can be regained with time, honesty and a commitment to good acts. I have been contacted on this blog over the years by some lovely folks who live in Tasmania and they certainly seem to prove the point that we are not permanently bound to our pasts.
The history must always remain there however of only to serve as a reminder to always inhabit on to our island of honor.
There are many versions of the song from all over the Bristish Isles with widely varied lyrics, sang from the point of view of those either on their way or already in place on Van Diemen’s Land. I am playing a more contemporary version from U2 today, that the band wrote about the John Boyle O’Reilly, the leader of an 1864 Irish uprising after the Great Famine. He was banished to Australia for rebelling against the government.
The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect.
—Carson McCullers, Reflections in a Golden Eye (1941)
I like this idea of the mind being a tapestry formed by a weave of the sensuous and the intellectual.
Feeling and thought.
Color and pattern.
I wonder if the key to the mind is in maintaining a balance between these two, the warp and weft of its tapestry?
Balance is no doubt the answer, as it is in most things.
That is what I see in this new small piece (2″ by 4″ on paper) that is headed to the West End Gallery for its upcoming Little Gems show in February. Called Color My World, I view it as being about leading a life that weaves together thought and feeling.
For me, it has that balance. A fine and strong weave.
Here’s a song from Chicago that provided the title for this little gem. I haven’t heard this song for many years now but it was one of those tunes that seemed to be on the radio all the time when I was growing up in the early 70’s. If you’re of that era, you know what I mean.
You study, you learn, but you guard the original naïveté. It has to be within you, as desire for drink is within the drunkard or love is within the lover.
― Henri Matisse
I can always turn to Henri Matisse for something interesting, either in his work or in his words. While he was prolific in his painting there is also a wealth of quotes, interviews and essays from him that give insight into a warmly wise and giving spirit. I will admit that there are painters whose body of work more readily excite me but the words of Matisse never fail to provide inspiration and reassurance when I am seeking some form of validation of what I am doing.
For instance, he speaks of maintaining one’s own original naïveté as one learns and grows as an artist. That rawness and the natural sense of excitement that comes with it, is something I have also felt was important to maintain even as my craft has grown. I see the raw energy of naïveté as the blood that gives a painting its life force, that allows the viewer to see past the improbabilities and imperfections and see the beauty and truth being presented.
Maintaining that naïveté is much more difficult than you might think. One part of that is constantly battling against the proficiency gained through years of practice. The work becomes too polished or too real, too attached to the visible.
Too much of the outer world.
Naïveté require one to trade the reality of the world shared with everyone else for that reality contained within yourself, trusting that this inner world, imperfect as it is, will have a commonality that might speak to similar inner worlds among some of those who view it.
And that brings us to another favorite Matisse quote, below. The link to the universe he mentions is very much the same thing that links one’s inner world to that of another. At least that’s how I see it. This seems like a good spot to end this. Have a great day
We ought to view ourselves with the same curiosity and openness with which we study a tree, the sky or a thought, because we too are linked to the entire universe.
― Henri Matisse
I have some things to get to this morning, so I am replaying a post from several years back. I’m adding a song that has to do with keeping that naïveté. It’s I Don’t Want to Grow Up from Tom Waits. Here’s a sample of the lyrics:
Seems like folks turn into things That they’d never want The only thing to live for Is today… I’m gonna put a hole in my TV set I don’t wanna grow up Open up the medicine chest And I don’t wanna grow up I don’t wanna have to shout it out I don’t want my hair to fall out I don’t wanna be filled with doubt I don’t wanna be a good boy scout I don’t wanna have to learn to count I don’t wanna have the biggest amount I don’t wanna grow up
Here’s a song from Cat Stevens from his 1971 album Teaser and the Firecat. I played the hell out of that album when it came out, with this song, Morning Has Broken (which is an early 20th century hymn), Peace Train, and Moonshadow, among others. I was also greatly attracted to the artwork on the album cover which was painted by Cat Stevens. It has a naive quality and use of color that has probably influenced me in ways I haven’t recognized or acknowledged until recently. We all take in many things and synthesize them quickly, often not realizing how much they contribute to our whole.
Redtree Times 