Redtree Times

Under the Compass– Now at West End Gallery

Inward is not a direction.  Inward is a dimension.

-Sadhguru Jaggi Vasudev

This is a new piece from my show, Persistent Rhythm, that opens a week from today at the West End Gallery. The painting is one of the smaller pieces from the exhibit, 10″ by 10″, on wood panel and is titled Under the Compass.

The words above from contemporary Indian Yogi Jaggi Vasudev came to mind when I was looking at this painting in the studio because as much as the perceived compass in the sky suggests an outward journey, I saw it more as being about an inward one, about aligning the who and what and why that defines us individually with the direction and energy of a greater universal power.

We can search and expand outwardly all we want but until we truly know our way around our inner selves, that search will prove fruitless. We will be the same dissatisfied beings, just in a different setting.

I am seeing the Red Tree here in a moment of this realization that the inward journey has a dimension all its own. And that dimension has rhythms and movements that can take one in all the directions of the known compass.

And then some.

Can I explain that further right now?

No. I could try but I would probably just muddy the waters even more. Sometimes you get caught between these inward and outward dimensions and you appear a bit confused to others. Words can’t describe nor keep up with the ribbons of thoughts and sensations that whirl around that vast inward landscape.

See? Muddier.

I suggest we just be quiet for bit and look at the painting without thinking. Here’s a composition, Floe, from Philip Glass off of his 1982 Glassworks album that seems to capture the rhythm and movement of those inner sensations, at least to my ears. You might hear and see it altogether differently.

This painting and the rest of my Persistent Rhythm show is now hanging in the West End Gallery in Corning, NY. The exhibit officially opens next Friday, July 19, with an opening reception that runs from 5-7 PM. If you can make it there, look for me– the confused looking guy.

Further On Up the Road– At West End Gallery

Now I been out in the desert, just doin’ my time
Searchin’ through the dust, lookin’ for a sign
If there’s a light up ahead, well brother I don’t know
But I got this fever burnin’ in my soul
So let’s take the good times as they go
And I’ll meet you further on up the road

—Further On Up the Road, Bruce Springsteen

Well, the work for Persistent Rhythm, this year’s edition of my annual solo show at the West End Gallery, has been delivered and will be going up on the gallery walls today. It might have been noted here in the past that there is often a bittersweet feeling when the work leaves the studio. There is, of course, a great feeling of relief– and a little pride– in having met the demands of the task. There’s something satisfying in seeing the work at last in the gallery, even on the floor.

There’s also a gnawing anxiety in the gut attached to this time, between when the work leaves my hands and the time people start seeing it. I worry that I have been deluded by my own work, that I am seeing things in it that aren’t visible to others. I worry about conditions that might affect turnout for the show, things I can’t control– the weather, the economy, Martian invasions, etc. Then there’s a worry that I might let others down in some way, that I haven’t done enough.

But along with the relief and the worry there is a bittersweet feeling of seeing something you have created, something that is part and parcel of who you are, leave the space it has occupied with you for the past months. They become almost like companions in the studio. They inspire. They reassure. They calm. They come to feel like living, breathing beings occupying real space rather than two dimensional images created by the placement of colors on a flat surface.

It sounds crazy I know but it sometimes feels like a friend leaving you behind to go on their own new adventures with new people in different surroundings. Their absence leaves a coolness, an emptiness, in the studio. The only way to move on is to get back to work with them now ensconced in memory.

Maybe someday they will come back. Some do. When it does happen, it’s like those videos of dogs seeing their owners after a long absence. They run and jump to them in their joyful excitement. Except in this scenario, I am the dog and the painting is the owner who has returned to look after me. I am often giddy in getting a painting back. That sounds silly and certainly doesn’t help me make a living but that’s the way it is.

Just glad to have an old friend back in my world for a while.

That might not be the exact meaning I glean from the new painting at the top from the show but it is in the ballpark. I see it as being about moving on in whatever direction you are called and leaving others behind with only the hope that one day you will again see them.

The future offers new adventures but the past, with all its connections and memories, still lingers.

I call this piece, a 15″ by 30″ canvas, Further On Up the Road. Its title is taken from the title of a Bruce Springsteen song from his 2002 album, The Rising. I have shared a wonderful version from Johnny Cash in the recordings before his death here in the past. I thought today I would couple this painting with a version from Springsteen when he a folk-based tour with the Sessions Band. This version is different from the original but is highly enjoyable.

Opening Reception, Friday, July 19, 2024 from 5-7 PM

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool ya
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

—Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah

In the final throes of finishing up the work for my upcoming show at the West End Gallery before delivery in the next day or so. This show and the one preceding it at the Principle Gallery have been tough. Very strenuous and draining. More so than in past years since I decided to take on the task of building the frames for many of the paintings in these shows.

But it’s nearing the finish line and I am feeling a built-up hallelujah rising in me. Made me think of the iconic Leonard Cohen song, especially the verse above that seems to fit the moment for me. Well, maybe not standing before the Lord of Song. Maybe the Lord of Paint? Anyway, it reminded me of this post from back in 2016 that focuses on a unique performance of the song. 

Like I wrote back in 2016, not a bad way to kick off a Tuesday morning.

Just came across a really nice video that was filmed in late June [2016]. It was part of the Luminato Festival in Toronto, which has become one of the largest arts festivals in North America since beginning 10 years ago.

The film shows an event organized by Choir!Choir!Choir! which is a Toronto based open choir.  It requires no commitment and meets twice a week in the back of a local pub. Over the years it has performed publicly in many venues with an expanded choirs made up of folks who just want to get out and sing in a communal kind of way.

The song shown here is Hallelujah from Leonard Cohen, a magnificent song that has been interpreted by many artists–I think that the late Jeff Buckley’s version is extraordinary. This particular version is filmed in a decommissioned power plant with an assembled choir of 1500 people with Rufus Wainwright singing the lead.

Just a lovely version of the song and not a bad way to kick off a Tuesday morning.

Infinity’s Call– Coming to West End Gallery

Let man reawake and consider what he is compared with the reality of things; regard himself lost in this remote corner of Nature; and from the tiny cell where he lodges, to wit the Universe, weigh at their true worth earth, kingdoms, towns, himself. What is a man face to face with infinity?

–Blaise Pascal, Pensées (1670)

The painting at the top is one of the first pieces I am sharing from my upcoming show, Persistent Rhythm, which opens Friday, July 19 at the West End Gallery. This painting, a large one that is 20″ by 60″ on canvas, is titled Infinity’s Call.

The theme for this show at the West End Gallery is about trying to capture the rhythm and movement of the perceived landscape which, in my mind, is a physical representation of the rhythm and flow of the infinite.

You know what? It’s 5:30 in the morning and I am not even going to try to explain that last sentence.

You figure it out, okay? And if you do, let me know. I am always looking for an answer or explanation. But please show your work. No guessing.

Pascal might have hit it on the nose with the passage at the top from his Pensees.

We are small potatoes in a vast garden. Even so, we wish to be acknowledged as even a tiny part of the bigger picture.

To have our barbaric yawp go out into the universe…

Wassily Kandinsky- Blue (1927)

The deeper the blue becomes, the more strongly it calls man towards the infinite, awakening in him a desire for the pure and, finally, for the supernatural. The brighter it becomes, the more it loses its sound, until it turns into silent stillness and becomes white.

–Wassily Kandinsky

I am still in the final stages of finishing the work for my annual show at the West End Gallery. It’s been a labor intensive and time-consuming process so I don’t have a lot of time (or energy) to spare for the blog. Actually, I haven’t had a lot to say. There comes a point when I get sick of hearing my own voice. Just want to sit and let it all just be.

Fade into blue…

But I feel obligated to still share some Sunday Morning Music. I was surprised to find that I had never shared this song here before. It’s the Beatles and their ethereal classic, Let It Be.

Fade into blue…

Childe Hassam- Rainy Day, Fifth Ave 1916

And I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
I don’t have a friend who feels at ease
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
Or driven to its knees
But it’s alright, it’s alright
For we lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the
Road we’re traveling on
I wonder what’s gone wrong
I can’t help it, I wonder what has gone wrong

–Paul Simon, American Tune

Not feeling particularly celebratory on this Fourth of July as we face a darker future that many of us never imagined might be possible in this country. It’s certainly not the promise and ideal of America that drew many of ancestors here. Since this is a workday for me and there is still much to be done for my impending show at the West End Gallery, I thought I would run the post from last year’s Fourth of July. 

Another Fourth of July. Independence Day, marking this day in 1776 when the Second Continental Congress adopted our Declaration of Independence. Since that day, for the last 247 years we have been in a constant struggle to live up to the promise that this country offers.

It seems it is always one step forward, one step back. We have always had to contend with the forces of hatred, bigotry, and greed as we try to achieve America’s promise of freedom, equality, and opportunity for all.

It’s a hard journey but worth the effort. For all of us.

Paul Simon wrote the song American Tune in 1973, at the height of the Watergate scandal, the continued war in Viet Nam and widespread social unrest. It felt like we were on the brink three years before our bicentennial.

50 years later, it feels much the same. Different scenarios, same reasons.

At this year’s Newport Folk Festival, Paul Simon performed American Tune with Rhiannon Giddens. The original song had the lines:

We come on the ship they call The Mayflower.
We come on the ship that sailed the moon.
We come in the age’s most uncertain hours
And sing an American tune.

For this occasion, Simon wanted to point out that many of our citizens did not come on the Mayflower or even by their own design. Many were here already. Simon changed those lines to:

We didn’t come here on the Mayflower.
We came on a ship on a blood red moon.
We come in the age’s most uncertain hour
And sing an American tune.

The blood red moon is an Old Testament reference to the book of Joel that prophesizes: The sun will become dark, the moon red as blood, before the overwhelming and terrible day of the Lord comes. It is a warning of the apocalypse that will occur when people lose their sense of love and justice.

We are certainly in the age’s most uncertain hour so this song seems appropriate to the day. 247 years later, the promise of America might be teetering but we are still standing. The experiment and the struggle continue.

And that’s reason to take a moment or day to celebrate before we get back to the fight.

Here’s Rhiannon Giddens and the revised version of American Tune.

Something Beyond– At West End Gallery

Held By the Moon

Anchor– At West End Gallery

Continuum: The Red Tree at 25 is in its final days at the Principle Gallery. It is a show that has a lot of meaning for me, one that I believe deserves to be seen. If you’re in the DC/Alexandria area, hope you can get into see the show before it comes down.

You can take a virtual walkthrough of the show by clicking the image below.

Affirmation— Now at Principle Gallery

It appears to me impossible that I should cease to exist, or that this active, restless spirit, equally alive to joy and sorrow, should only be organized dust — ready to fly abroad the moment the spring snaps, or the spark goes out which kept it together. Surely something resides in this heart that is not perishable, and life is more than a dream.

–Mary Wollstonecraft, Letters Written in Sweden (1796)

I came across the paragraph above recently and it really spoke to questions that often run through my mind. It’s from a letter from Mary Wollstonecraft, a renowned writer in the last half of the 18th century and the mother of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, author of Frankenstein. Her intellectual career as a writer and philosopher was a relatively rare thing in that era and her most significant writing, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman in 1792, was perhaps the first piece of feminist writing, paving the way for the much wider movement that was to come.

Are we but organized dust? Is there something that remains alive in some form after our current carcasses have run their course?

What is that thing, that force, that animates us?

The religious among us will say it is the holy spirit, the soul. Maybe it is some great natural electrical spark, something akin to the force used to animate the creature in the younger Wollstonecraft’s Frankenstein. Or maybe it is some form of energy that we just don’t have the ability to discern with our meager faculties.

Or maybe it is as she hoped against, that we are all just players in a far-flung dream, ready to disperse instantly on the wakening of whoever or whatever dreams us into being.

Who knows?

I certainly don’t. I guess the takeaway is that we’re still here, one way or the other. If we be dreams or dust, let us live our lives as though they are our one opportunity to experience this world.

The painting shown here is Affirmation and is 10″ by 25″ on canvas. It is included in my solo exhibit Continuum: The Red Tree at 25 which is hanging now at the Principle Gallery in Alexandria VA. Time to see it is limited as the show ends later this week.

Call of the Blue Moon–At Principle Gallery, Alexandria

When the sun goes down here and darkness falls
The blanket of winter leaves no light at all
You search for shelter to calm the storm
Shaking with an instinct just to stay warm

I’d walk through the snow barefoot
If you’d open up your door
I’d walk through the snow barefoot

–Barefoot, k.d. lang and Bob Telson

I hadn’t heard this song, Barefoot, from k.d. lang in years. Just one of those songs that gets lost in the shuffle over the decades. Even the songs you love (as well as other meaningful things) sometimes get misplaced and forgotten. So, when it came up on a streaming service the other day on a quick trip to Erie PA, it was both like hearing it again for the first time as well as remembering it as I knew it thirty or so years ago.

But more than that, it immediately made me think of this painting, Call of the Blue Moon. In a show dedicated to the Red Tree now in its last days at the Principle Gallery, this large painting stands out without assistance from the Red Tree. For me, it has a feel of being pulled toward that large blue moon.

About finding warmth or meaning in a cold and sometimes indifferent world.

I could see the voice of this song in this painting.

That’s all I have this morning. Please try to get in to see the show and this painting at the Principle Gallery before it comes down later this week. And, of course, for this week’s Sunday Morning Music, here’s Barefoot from the great k.d. lang.