Short on time today. Woke up later than usual with Bing Crosby‘s Hawaiian Christmas song, Mele Kalikimaka, playing in my head as I stumbled out of bed. It was more irritating than joyful though I do normally enjoy the song.
Anyway, I am hustling around this morning but still wanted to share something. Since I am a little ruffled and crusty this morning, what better way to mark the season than with one of those macabre Victorian holiday cards? In past years I have shared images from Victorian era cards of psychotic looking Christmas clowns, weird walking root vegetables that vaguely look like relatives of Mr. Peanut, one animal eating another while eating yet another, crying children jammed into teapots, a mouse riding a lobster, and a polar bear attacking an ice skater.
I don’t know that we will ever fully comprehend thezeitgeist— the defining spirit or mood of a particular period of history as shown by the ideas and beliefs of that era– of the Victorian era. I often wonder what part of our era will be baffling to future generations in the same way. As you age, you begin to see it occurring as things that seemed normal in your childhood now receive startled reactions from younger generations when they first hear of them.
This Victorian card of a creepy Santa shoving an obviously bad kid into a sack with the simple greeting A Happy Christmas is one example from that era that so often feels weirdly strange to some of us. Yes, every happy Christmas I can remember entailed kidnapping children. But, hey, the kid should have thought of that earlier in the year when he was making those decisions to be naughty or nice.
Here’s a song from JD McPherson from his fun Christmas album, Socks, from several years back. This is Bad Kid. He might talk like a bad boy now but Santa is coming for him with a big empty sack.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about.
― Rumi, 13th century Persian poet
Just wanted to share a triad of song, word and image this morning. The music is a piece from composer Ennio Morricone from the film Cinema Paradiso. The piece shown here is performed by violinist Renaud Capuçon.
I’ve been fortunate to see a number of what I consider memorable performances over the years but one of the most memorable was one from Renaud Capuçon when he was touring as guest violinist for the Bruckner Orchester Linz when the renowned orchestra somehow ended up performing at the Clemens Center in my hometown of Elmira. It was sometime around 2005.
It was marvelous concert with a full orchestra of about 100 players jammed the stage, creating a powerful sound. I am embarrassed to say that I don’t remember what pieces were performed that night. However, I remember vividly Capuçon’s performance. The sound from his violin was incredible. It is the same violin he plays in the video below, the famed “Panette“, a 1737 Guarneri del Gesu, that once belonged to Isaac Stern, with whom Capuçon studied.
One moment stood out for me. During his playing of one really dynamic section, one of the strings of this violin snapped. If you didn’t have your eyes on Capuçon at that moment you would have never known. During a tiny pause within the structure of the piece, he swung the violin to the first violinist, snatching away that person’s violin to resume playing. The only thing that gave a hint that there had been a problem or a change was in the tone of the newly acquired violin, which lacked the richness of the Guarneri.
Even so, Capuçon continued with a feverish intensity as the Guarneri quickly was passed along down the row from 1st violinist to 2nd and so on, each surrendering their violins to the prior violinist. When it reached the end of the row, that violinist hopped up and sped the Guarneri offstage. There was hardly a blip, if any, in the performance while all this was occurring. The thrill of the performance, which was already great, was enhanced by the mishap and how masterfully it was handled.
Here’s Capuçon and that same Guarneri violin. Below that is another performance at the recent opening of the restored Notre Dame Cathedral. The cellist is his brother, Gauthier Capuçon.
“The tides of time should be able to imprint the passing of the years on an object. The physical decay or natural wear and tear of the materials used does not in the least detract from the visual appeal, rather it adds to it. It is the changes of texture and colour that provide the space for the imagination to enter and become more involved with the devolution of the piece. Whereas modern design often uses inorganic materials to defy the natural ageing effects of time, wabi sabi embraces them and seeks to use this transformation as an integral part of the whole. This is not limited to the process of decay but can also be found at the moment of inception, when life is taking its first fragile steps toward becoming.”
― Andrew Juniper, Wabi Sabi: The Japanese Art of Impermanence
The post below is from four years back. It got a bunch of hits yesterday and when I went to see what it had to say (I often forget what I’ve written) I was struck by the image at the top of the post. The whiskey-brown color just grabbed me and at the bottom of the image I noticed wear around an exposed knothole that reminded me of a wave. Maybe Hokusai’s Great Wave in wood? I began to see the image as a painting, something I had not done before. Anyway, I read the post and liked it a lot, which pleased me. I am sometimes surprised when I read something from years ago and am impressed with it, like I was reading it for the first time. As I’ve added to my own patina in the past four years, I thought this would be worth replaying.
I added a song at the bottom that is kind of about wabi sabi. It’s called The Wino and Iknow from Jimmy Buffett. It’s from his 1974 album, Living and Dying in 3/4 Time, long before there were Parrotheads or Margaritaville. Hard to believe I bought it about 50 years ago. This song has been a favorite of mine for that long.
The photo at the top is the floor of our garden shed. It’s a simple structure that we bought new probably 35 [ about 40 now] years ago. Over the years, the once pristine plywood floor has darkened, taking on a smooth rich patina on the parts that have not pitted or worn away from decades of comings and goings.
It’s a beautiful thing and I often find myself stopping while I’m in there, which is every day, just to take some small pleasure in looking at its worn surface. The fact that it took a long period of time and innumerable footsteps, along with the mud, snow, grass trimmings, and oil that come along for the ride, to smooth and wear down the surface adds to my appreciation. It’s not something that could be replicated easily. Oh, you could try but it would lose that organic depth that comes with time.
Just a bit of the wabi-sabi of things around us. That’s the Japanese concept of finding beauty in the imperfection and natural wear shown by things.
And I guess that applies to people, as well. I know I am fascinated in seeing how folks age, how their faces and bodies reflect the life they have lived. There is beauty in the lines on the face or the graying of one’s hair.
Of course, I am talking about other people. I don’t find any beauty at all in my wrinkles or my whitened and thinning hair. In fact, I close my eyes now when I walk past my bathroom mirror out of the fear that some old man will jump out of it at me.
Nah, that’s not true. As much as I would sometimes like to have the smooth skin and the darker, fuller head of hair of my youth, I am satisfied, even pleased, in seeing the wear and tear written on my features. I see a small scar high on my forehead and remember the wound that left it so well.
It was many years ago and I was playing with my Magpie– her name was actually Maggie Blackwater–our highly charged husky-shepherd, chasing her around our yard. As I pursued her, I went through some low hanging branches on a birch tree next to the deck I was building off the back of our home. Midway through, as I ducked my head lower to avoid the sweep of the branches, I slammed it suddenly into a deck board that I had not yet cut off. I was knocked on my back and could feel the instant throb of pain on my forehead from the blow.
Maggie was on me in an instant, licking and urging me to get up and play some more. I laid there on the ground on my back and just laughed as hard as I could while the blood trickled down my forehead. I tend to laugh at my own misfortune, especially when it is of my own doing, which is almost always the case.
Maybe there is a bit of wabi-sabi in our laughter? Maybe it comes from the recognition of our imperfections, our humanness, in those moments?
And even while I was there on the ground, that same garden shed was not far away, its floor not yet so deeply darkened or worn. It didn’t yet have the accumulated memory of its being written on its surfaces. It was newer but it certainly wasn’t as beautiful.
And maybe that’s the attraction of this concept of wabi-sabi for me, that the wear and tear that appears is evidence of our being here, that we existed in this place and in this time. It’s much the same way in which I view my work, my paintings. Evidence that I was here, that my hand made these things and in some way my voice was heard.
That I, like that garden shed and its floor, had a purpose in this world.
Appreciate and enjoy the wabi-sabi in your own life.
I built a shrine in my heart it wasn’t pretty to see Made out of fool’s gold memory and tears cried Now I’m headin’ over the rise I’m searchin’ for one clear moment of love and truth I still got a little faith But what I need is some proof tonight I’m lookin’ for it in your eyes Ain’t no church bells ringing Ain’t no flags unfurled Just me and you and the faith we’re bringing Into the real world Into the real world
—Real World, Bruce Springsteen
Quiet time this morning. Just a song and a painting today. The song, this week’s Sunday Morning Selection, is a live 1990 performance from Bruce Springsteen. Just him and his piano. A fine and powerful version of an underrated song.
The image at the top is All Embracing, a large painting– 30″ by 48″–currently at the Principle Gallery in Alexandria, VA. Something in it speaks to me of the same redemptive power of love that I sense in the song. The kind of love that elevates us carries us through the real world when we have been feeling pushed around and small.
If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.
–Anne Bradstreet, Meditations Divine and Moral (1664)
Cold here overnight. Single digit cold with a supper clear sky and a bright moon. The light reflected on the icy crystals that were created by the extreme cold, making it seem like there were shining diamonds scattered in the frosty grass.
It would have been an even more spectacular display if there had been snow on the ground. Even so, it was beautiful as it was.
Finding beauty in the harshness is somewhat akin to the words above of Anne Bradstreet, who was both the first North American writer and woman to have their work published in the 1600’s. Bradstreet (1612-1672) was born to Puritan parents in England and came to the Massachusetts Colony in 1630. To be honest, I don’t know much about her work, which was primarily poetry. But a quick look at her biography shows that while she was cultured and well-educated, she, like most of the early settlers who came here, endured extreme hardship, suffering from mutliple maladies and losses.
She knew about finding beauty in harshness.
I am sharing a song this morning called Chilly Scenes of Winter. I was going to play Hazy Shade of Winter from Simon & Garfunkel but I somehow always confuse their title with Chilly Scenes of Winter which was a wonderful 1979 movie. It is a small quiet, quirky and funny in a bittersweet way film with a great cast. You can click here or on the title above to see it on YouTube.
That aside, when I searched for the song, Chilly Scenes of Winter, mistakenly thinking I was looking for Hazy Shade of Winter, I came across the song below with that title. It is from an early pioneer of country music, Cousin Emmy. Born in Kentucky in 1903, as Cynthia May Carver, she performed under the name Cousin Emmy from the 1930’s until her death in 1980. She was big country radio star from the 1930’s into the early 1950’s. She drifted into obscurity but found her career revitalized with the folk music movement of the 60’s and the bluegrass revival thereafter.
I don’t know much about Cousin Emmy or her music, but I like this song. Her voice has that kind of flat and plaintive tone to it that is indicative of the music of that part of Kentucky. And it is also a song about finding happiness after suffering loss. In the song she finds a new love after being slighted by her beau who himself is then slighted by his new love.
The man who believes that the secrets of the world are forever hidden lives in mystery and fear. Superstition will drag him down. The rain will erode the deeds of his life. But that man who sets himself the task of singling out the thread of order from the tapestry will by the decision alone have taken charge of the world and it is only by such taking charge that he will effect a way to dictate the terms of his own fate.
― Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West
I hesitated a bit about the use of the excerpt above from a book by author Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, that I read probably thirty years ago.
It’s considered by some as McCarthy’s magnus opus and one of the greatest of American novels. My memory of it is of its powerful imagery of the relentless chaotic violence that marked the tale, which is set in the Texas-Mexico borderlands in the late 1840’s. It’s a powerful told story that has the feel of the most lurid Hieronymus Bosch painting one could imagine.
It’s a book I would like to revisit but I keep putting off, especially in the context of America at this moment in time. It might be too disheartening to see parallels from that book in a contemporary reality.
Even so, the excerpt above describes what I see as the basis for much of my work, which is the need to seek some sort of order in the chaos, mystery, and seemingly senselessness which this world presents to us on a daily basis.
It might be a fool’s errand. I’ve said that many times before. But to not seek some sense of order in the swirl of chaos, some light in the dark, is unimaginable. Unacceptable.
To seek order means that we have not ceded control over our lives and fates to superstition and fear. That we have chosen to think and reflect on those mysteries of life.
And maybe if we can somehow pull one single thread of order from that vast tapestry of mystery and chaos, we will count ourselves among the fortunate ones who live outside the realm of chaos and fear.
Just one thread…
This post ran a few years back but I thought I’d share it because it included the painting at the top, An Orderly Life, which has been at the West End Gallery for several years now. It’s one of those pieces that really resonate for me personally and every time I come across it in the gallery I feel a pang for it. It’s a mixture of wanting it back for myself– as I said, it holds personal meaning for me– and sorrow that it hasn’t spoken to anyone else in the same way. The sorrow is always more pronounced for those pieces that I feel hold something special or that really strike a chord within me. I think this piece will soon come back to me and I will accept it with that same mix of happiness and sorrow. It actually makes the piece feel more alive to me in that we humans experience that same sort of acceptance and rejection throughout our lives, often going unrecognized for whatever their special purpose might be. In a way, the painting is just living a normal life.
And that is okay.
Here’s a 2009 song from Yusuf Islam, formerly known as Cat Stevens. This is titled To Be What You Must.
“I always had the feeling that we were amateurs in a world of professionals. Amateurs stand so much closer to what they are doing, and they are driven by enthusiasm, which is so much more forceful that what professionals are driven by.”
–Emeric Pressburger, on his film partnership with Michael Powell
I recently watched the documentary Made In England: The Films of Powell & Pressburgeron TCM. It was made by Martin Scorsese who is a huge fan of the movies of this pair, citing them as a major influence on his films. I am also a fan of their very unique films– The Red Shoes, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Matter of Life and Death, Black Narcissus, and many others. They often look different, with their lush colors and daring perspectives, than other films from their time and have stories with ideas that also seem far from the mainstream. There is a richness that runs through their work.
The quote at the top of the page from Emeric Pressburger was part of the film and it jumped out at me. This idea of being an amateur in a world of professionals is one that I have often, if not always, felt about my own place in the art world. This kind of links in with what I wrote yesterday, when I was describing my anxiety over the Phronesis interview with Scott Allen. I wrote a bit about sometimes feeling like an impostor when speaking, or even writing, about what I do, that there are far more qualified and talented artists out there who should be speaking about art.
But it was second sentence in that passage from Pressburger that clarified everything for me. It was the enthusiasm of an amateur– that stupid courage, as I put it yesterday– that brought me there. It was the excitement of just doing work that I wanted to see and wasn’t finding elsewhere. There was freedom in not knowing or caring what others were doing or how my work might compare to their work.
And that has worked for many years. Of course, there are blips, times when I begin to think I am a professional, begin to care how my work compares to others or that it has to be more polished or conventional. Much as Pressburger points out, the professional me then is further from that initial force that drove me when I only saw myself as an amateur.
It is something I am struggling with right now. It sounds funny but I want to feel like an amateur again. I want to have that stupid courage at play again, that feeling where I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about what I am doing or how it compares to anyone else’s work. In fact, I don’t want it to compare to anyone else’s work.
To just do it and let the chips fall where they may.
Is that an easy thing to do? It sounds like it should be, doesn’t it?
It isn’t. As with anything, there are complications, other things to be considered– the need to make a living, the need to maintain your relationship and goodwill in the galleries that show your work, the constraints of time and energy, etc. The good thing here is that stupid courage sometimes convinces you to set aside those concerns and, as they used to say, let your freak flag fly.
Hope any of this makes sense to you. It’s kind of the thing that an amateur might write. Maybe I am back on track?
We’ll see.
Here’s a song from Moondog who I spoke of in the Phronesis interview. I am not going to go into any detail at the moment, but he was a most interesting character. Another amateur in a world of professionals. I find myself often listening to his unique music. I will write more about him soon. This is a song called Rollo which Scott Allen said was his son Will’s favorite.
“Phronesis is a creative act, especially when navigating the unknown…It’s not just what happens when we’re faced with dilemmas, paradoxes, and crucible moments. Of course, that’s where our strength of character shines and guides our action choices, which is why we mark it as an act of practical wisdom.”
— Dr. Elena Antonacopoulou
I’ve known Scott Allen for some time now. Actually, I knew of him long before I met him when his wife asked if I could paint a small painting for him that she could give to him on completing his doctorate. In the years after, we have stayed in touch and have met a couple of times. Always an enjoyable experience as Scott is a great guy, very well-rounded with a wide range of interest and plenty of insights.
But more than that, Scott is really good at what he does. Here’s a bit from his website:
Dr. Scott J. Allen is a speaker, academic, author, and podcaster who empowers people and organizations to build stellar leaders.
Scott J. Allen, Ph.D., is an award-winning educator passionate about working with people at all levels and across industries. He serves as an instructor in SMU’s Cox School of Business Executive Education and spent more than 17 years as a professor of management. He also serves as a leadership consultant with Winding River Consulting. His areas of expertise include leader development, the future of work, and executive communication.
Beyond those impressive credentials, Scott also has a popular podcast that deals with leadership titled Phronesis, which is in the top 2.5% of all podcasts worldwide. Phronesis is a term describing how knowledge and wisdom is put into practical use. It goes all the way back to Aristotle who described it as such:
Phronesis… involves not only the ability to decide how to achieve a certain end, but also the ability to reflect upon and determine good ends consistent with the aim of living well overall.
Coincidentally, I used this quote and the word phronesis for a painting many years ago.
A couple of months back, Scott asked me to be interviewed for his Phronesispodcast. I wasn’t sure why since I don’t consider myself a leader in any way, especially from a business or organizational perspective. It’s easy to be a leader when you’re a one-man show.
In fact, I was a little apprehensive. It’s that impostor syndrome thing, where I will somehow finally reveal how unworthy and addle-brained I am. I often feel that when standing in front of group at gallery talk where I look out and know that I am most likely the least educated person there. I sometimes wonder how I tricked all those folks into sitting there listening to my blathering and if this will be the day when I finally show my inadequacy.
Of course, I agreed to do the interview with Scott. One of the great advantages of not being well educated is that I don’t know what to fear. It’s almost a form of courage. You might call it stupid courage. I’ve employed it a lot in my life. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t.
Scott was a pleasure to work with– knowledgeable, well-prepared, gracious, and forgiving. A real pro. He said he could edit out my occasional stumbles and the uhs and umms that sometimes fell out my mouth. I left feeling a little apprehensive, of course. I don’t think I’ve ever done an interview when I didn’t come away feeling like a moron in some way.
But even so, it came out better than I had expected, to be honest with you. Scott did a masterful job of making me seem reasonably coherent. Of course, I might be wrong there. But I think it touches on a lot of different things some of which I will discuss here over the coming days.
If you so inclined, you can listen here below or can go to Scott’s Phronesis site where you can listen to this episode or some of the many other interesting interviews he has conducted with a wide range of people. You can also subscribe to his podcast there. Lots of good stuff!
Thank you, Scott, for doing such a fine job with this and for your support and friendship through the years. It is very much appreciated. All good things to you and your family!
True stability results when presumed order and presumed disorder are balanced. A truly stable system expects the unexpected, is prepared to be disrupted, waits to be transformed.
—Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
I am running way behind this morning for some unknown reason. Wasn’t going to write anything but this line from Tom Robbins that I came across a few days ago was stuck in my head and I wanted to get it out. I think it’s relevant for these times when it often seems that the balance between order and chaos is way out of whack.
How we get back in balance is a question that I doubt anyone can answer with any degree of accuracy. When it happens– if it happens– it will come in an organic manner that is filled with unexpected events and actions. I think it will seem to many like labyrinth where we will sometimes feel like we’re further and further away from the end as we feel our way ahead in the dark when in fact we are near emerging from the maze. Conversely, there will be a point where we will feel like we’re nearly through it and we aren’t even close to the end.
Don’t know if that makes any sense to you this morning. Like I said, I am late and rushing a bit as a result. I thought the painting at the top, Chaos & Light, now at the Principle Gallery, would align with Robbins’ passage along with the song below from Chicago. It’s from their first album and is titled Saturday (August 29, 1968). It is about the riots at the Democratic National Convention that took place in Chicago in and around that date. This includes the Prologue which is an address to the anti-war protesters that ends with them chanting “The Whole World is Watching!”
It was a time out of balance, to be sure. And certainly not the last. I sometimes wonder if we truly regained balance at any point since then.
Anyway, that’s it for today. Got to go try to get things back in balance– here at least. For once.
In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun itself is—as the light called human life is—at its coming and its going.
—Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son
This line from Dickens always makes me wonder about a lot of things– about the emotional feel of moonlight and sunlight, about how each serve as a witness to our existence, about our affinity for light as humans, and how we react to light.
This wondering brings up lots of questions. Is our life in the light, be it sunlight or moonlight, even real? Or are we mere ghosts, manifestations of formless souls, that only exist and find form in dimensions of light?
I sure don’t know. But I do like wondering, especially about those questions that can’t be answered. Sometimes it seems like those are the only questions that matter.
I see that the light is breaking in gray through the trees. Time for this ghost to get moving.
Here’s a song from Joni Mitchell from her jazz-tinged work of the early 1980’s. This is Moon at the Window.
“You can’t fool me—there ain’t no Sanity Clause!” 
Redtree Times 