Solitude is the place of purification.
–Martin Buber
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I have found myself painting quite a few islands lately, much like the one shown here in this new piece. This small 12″ by 6″ painting on canvas is titled Purified Solitude and is part of my show, Contact, at the West End Gallery which opens on July 22.
Maybe the islands have come about because they are simply interesting compositional elements. But part of me thinks it’s most likely an emotional response to the tensions of the world, an inner desire to pull away and find some peaceful solitude in a place where the bang and thrum of the outer world can’t reach me.
Of course, that is only possible on a short term basis. We are formed in this world and are part of this world and can never fully break away. The world is always with us. But those moments when I find myself on that island of solitude do much to reinvigorate me, to make me feel strengthened to come back into the world once more.
That’s what I see in this little piece– a temporary refuge where the light can fully surround and cleanse me, purifying and washing away the confusion, the anger and the despair that builds up after time spent in this world.
Thankfully, I know that island is always there, waiting for me to arrive.
What a time, what a time…
I’m always intrigued by the paintings of Reginald Marsh, who painted scenes depicting the urban world of New York City throughout the early part of the 20th century until his death in 1954. His paintings always seemed densely packed with figures and constant movement, all rendered with easily recognizable line work and colors that were strong yet had a soft transparency. Striking.
But it was great fun and over the few visits there I had many memories that burned indelibly into my memory bank. My parents, and my aunt and uncle who sometimes were with us, would, after a while stop at one of the bars that opened to the boardwalk to have a cold one and I would wander alone. It was a wonderland of colorful attractions and games, their facades faded by time and sun. I have sharp memories of standing at one bar’s doorway and watching a singer all dressed in cowboy regalia standing on the bar with his electric guitar singing out country songs in the middle of the afternoon. I sometimes wonder if it might have been country troubador Jerry Jeff Walker who had come out of Brooklyn. 
I remember seeing the crowds down on the beach and suddenly seeing everyone there pointing out to the water and yelling. Looking out, I saw two legs bobbing straight out of the water, almost comically so. The lifeguards rushed out and dragged the body in. Dead and, now that I think about it, had probably been so for a while.
“Hold on!” he exclaimed in a thick accent that sounded Greek and a little angry to a terrified nine year old. He started chastising me.
None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.
The right word may be effective, but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.
I am really swamped in the studio getting work ready for my upcoming show at the West End Gallery. Too much to d0 so I wasn’t going to write anything today except maybe mention the start this morning of this year’s Tour de France, one of the great spectacles of world sport. This great bicycling event starts at Mont Saint Michel, an old abbey on a tidal island off the of coast Normandy, France. As you can see in the photo above, it’s an amazing sight, one that always stirs some mysterious emotional response within me.
Mr. Twigley’s eyes glowed behind his spectacles as he thought of all the lovely things he would put in the musical box.
We here in the States are often woefully ignorant of many of the artists from our neighbors in the other Americas, such as those in Canada and Mexico. Maybe I shouldn’t say “we” because I really can only speak for myself. My knowledge of Mexican artists was pretty much restricted to what I knew of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, both of which I admire very much.
This point was driven home recently by stumbling across the work of Alfredo Ramos Martinez, who lived from 1877 until 1946. He was a painter/muralist who lived and worked in his native Mexico, Paris and California at different points in his life. He is considered to be the Father of Mexican Modernism and much of his work focuses on the portrayal of traditional Mexican people and scenes. He has been described as a painter who was able to capture the melancholy and sorrow of the people and places he painted.
Redtree Times