Redtree Times

Serene Gratitude— At West End Gallery

I am thankful for small mercies. I compared notes with one of my friends who expect everything of the universe, and is disappointed when anything is less than the best, and I found that I begin at the other extreme, expecting nothing, and am always full of thanks for moderate good…. If we will take the good we find,… we shall have heaping measures….

–Ralph Waldo Emerson, Experience

Today is the last day to see this year’s edition of my annual solo show, Persistent Rhythm, at the West End Gallery. 

It’s always a little bittersweet at the end of any show, seeing the work come off the walls. You wish it could stay up longer, of course. Or that certain pieces had garnered more attention. Or that you could have changed one thing or another or said something different at some time in the gallery. 

But it’s also a time to look back on the show with a sense of pride and gratitude. Pride in the sense that I feel that I have done my very best and that each piece in the show well represents what I hope shows through in my work. 

The gratitude is for the opportunity to do what I do. Gratitude for those who follow my work and support me. Gratitude for the gallery owners, such as Jesse Gardner at the West End Gallery, who have graciously given me the opportunity to showcase my work. Gratitude for the opportunity to express myself in the way I want.

Yeah, it feels a little sad when a show ends but it also highlights how fortunate I have been to even have a show in the first place.

And that is, in the words of Emerson, one of those small mercies.

And thank you for reading along. Much appreciated.

Now get out of here before I poke you with a stick…

The Blue Moon Calls– At West End Gallery

How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.

–Theodore Dreiser, Sister Carrie (1900)

At the Gallery Talk for my show at the West End Gallery, I mentioned that I wanted to be a writer as a young person. Painting wasn’t even on the table at that time. I said that I was never really a great storyteller, that my writing seemed to always find its way to describing wide open spaces and the silences contained in them.

Not the most fertile ground for great narratives.

I realized at some point that writing would never be the vehicle for carrying whatever it was that I had a need to get across to others. It might have been that my skills were lacking to describe things that were beyond words. Things in the atmosphere, things that we only sense on a subconscious level.

Years later, I found that painting best filled my needs. I found that it was easier to create a meaning for space and silence visually rather than with words that sometimes felt inelegant and insufficient.  Painting certainly got my point across more specifically and succinctly than the plodding paragraphs I was producing.

It created a means of access for people other than me to those inaudible feelings and purposes, as Dreiser called them above, in a way that I could never achieve with my writing.

Painting has definitely been more satisfying for me.

It gets me there.

And that’s all I can ask of it.

The painting at the top is a good example of what I am talking about. It would be hard for me to put together a readable and interesting narrative that would fully describe what I sense in this piece with a glance.

Its vague shadows and light say more than many thousands of my words.

The painting is a 30″ by 48″ canvas titled The Blue Moon Calls. It was a late addition to my Persistent Rhythm solo show at the West End Gallery. The show ends at the end of the day tomorrow, Thursday, August 29.

Between the Sea and the Sun— Now at West End Gallery

I am part of the sun as my eye is part of me. That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly, and my blood is part of the sea. My soul knows that I am part of the human race, my soul is an organic part of the great human soul, as my spirit is part of my nation. In my own very self, I am part of my family. There is nothing of me that is alone and absolute except my mind, and we shall find that the mind has no existence by itself, it is only the glitter of the sun on the surface of the water.

– D.H. Lawrence, Apocalypse, 1930

Just a reminder that there only THREE DAYS left to see my solo exhibit, Persistent Rhythm, at the West End Gallery in Corning. The show comes down at the end of the day this Thursday, August 29th.

I am proud of the work in this show and feel it might well be one of my most cohesive shows, meaning that I didn’t feel as though there was a drop off in quality or expressiveness throughout the group. Each piece had its own lifeforce, its own message, that added to the group as a whole.

I’ve always adhered to the paint the paintings you want to see theory which basically means that there are things you have a need to see in art sometimes that you’re not seeing so it’s up to you to create them. That was pretty much why I began painting and it holds true to this very day. I think this show exemplifies that idea. This show has an overall feel and look that is what I have hoped to come across in the past in looking at the work of others.

Something that would satisfy a need inside me. Feed the soul, as it were.

And it does. Plus, it just looks damn good to my eye. But that’s just me, of course.

Here’s a tune from an artist of which you most likely are unaware. His name is Davy Graham who died in 2008 at the age of 68. He was a British folk/Baroque guitarist who had a style of playing that made him very influential among players in the 1960’s, Paul Simon, Richard Thompson, and Jimmy Page among them. I thought the song below, Rif Mountain, lined up well with the painting at the top from my show and the passage from D.H. Lawrence below it.

White in the Moon— At West End Gallery

What we call our destiny is truly our character and that character can be altered. The knowledge that we are responsible for our actions and attitudes does not need to be discouraging, because it also means that we are free to change this destiny. One is not in bondage to the past, which has shaped our feelings, to race, inheritance, background. All this can be altered if we have the courage to examine how it formed us. We can alter the chemistry provided we have the courage to dissect the elements.

–Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin (1931-1934)

I think this passage from The Diary of Anaïs Nin fits the painting above from my current show at the West End Gallery very well. The way I read this piece, titled White in the Moon, is that it is about the figure in the foreground revisiting their past.

The house, along with the tree, represents their childhood and their early home while the path from it symbolizes the road they have followed away from that place and time. The fields through the path winds represents the patchwork of memory and experience that has brought them to this point from which they now look back. 

The light from the moon brings it all alive. It reminds me of an animation I once saw of how the brain works.  It pointed out that certain thoughts and memories awaken parts of the brain which was illustrated by that part of the brain suddenly glowing with light.

Maybe that is how memory of our past works– as though we are shining a light on it so that we may get a better look at it.

Nin points out that while we carry the past with us in the form of memories and experiences, we are not anchored by it. We are free to move beyond this past, as well as any other thing that be used to hold us in place such as those she mentions– race, inheritance and background. 

Yes, we carry these things of our past with us. Yes, they have shaped our feelings and define us to a degree. But only to a degree. We should live as evolving creatures, continuously adding new experiences and perspectives.

While we may look back at that childhood home from which we came from time to time, it is no longer our home. We now live in a different time and place as a very much changed being.

Examining how we came to be this version of ourselves, to see how the various parts fell into place, allows us to set a course forward, to choose how we may change even more. That can be a scary prospect for some, especially for those who have anchored themselves to the past, but it can be a liberating and expansive feeling.

The road that runs away from our past can be very much open to us. We just to make conscious decisions to follow it forward.

I hope this makes sense since I am clicking the publish button without rereading it. White in the Moon is 18″ by 24″ on canvas and is part of my Persistent Rhythm show at the West End Gallery. The exhibit comes down after the end of the day on this Thursday, August 29.

Here’s what I believe is a fitting piece of music for this post as well as a lovely way to start your week.  It’s from contemporary composer Max Richter and is titled She Remembers.

Sharing Heart– At West End Gallery

Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.

― Kahlil Gibran, Mirrors of the Soul

I cry quite often.

I am sure there was a time when I would not admit to this., possibly seeing it as a sign of weakness. As I age, I find myself becoming more transparent Less guarded and less caring of the opinions of others. I have come to see it simply as a part of being human. Certainly nothing to hide.

Like most everyone, I cry at sorrow and loss, such as those times when I miss my parents or grandparents. But I never cry for myself as I once did as very young child.

Certainly, never out of pity for myself or at those all too often instances when I have hurt myself. I learned long ago that that kind of crying didn’t change a thing and just wasted the time needed to get things straightened out. Actually, when things go wrong for me, I usually react with laughter. It helps more than you know. Much more satisfying, that’s for sure.

But I cry a lot. At beauty. At wonder. At the inherent power in goodness and love. At the courage and righteousness of those defiant few that confront hatred and injustice. At the sacrifices made by regular people to help others. At unexpected kindnesses offered. At those moments of feeling attached to all deep feelings. At things that make me absolutely joyous.

I cry sometimes simply at seeing the pure happiness of others.

There are passages in literature and music that instantly bring me to tears. And so many scenes from films. Henry Fonda‘s final scene in The Grapes of Wrath always makes me cry. I also tear up every single time I see the Marsellaise scene from the famous scene in Casablanca where the patrons at Rick’s Cafe drown out the singing Nazis there with their singing of the French national anthem. I am not exactly a Francophile, but that reaction has transferred to just hearing the Marsellaise anytime. Several times during the Olympics. There’s a defiant boldness in it that speaks to whatever it that triggers my tears.

I was brought to tears seeing Gus Walz, the 17-year-old son of vice-presidential candidate Tim Walz, at this past week’s Democratic National Convention openly sob and cry out “That’s my dad!” as his father came to the stage to thunderous applause. It was such an authentic moment of pure joy, pride, and love. It made me like Tim Walz even more because someone who inspires that kind of public outburst of love from their children is obviously a good and loving parent and person.

I also envied him. I can’t think of anyone who would be crying with that kind of love or joy for me in that instance.

Those on the rightwing immediately attacked the younger Walz for his very human display of emotion. It was predictable and right on point for that party as it is now constituted. Cruelty and mockery are among their trademarks now and any recognition of the human qualities of empathy, kindness, and caring is absent. All I could think is how pitiful and awful these people have become. They lack love and warmth for humanity and, as a result, will never know or even imagine the kind of love that would inspire such a reaction from their children.

It is a sad commentary on how that party has transformed in recent decades. I would choose Gus’ raw human emotions over their joyless and ugly cruelty anytime.

Okay, that’s off my chest. Thanks, if you read this far. Here’s this week’s Sunday Morning Music selection. It’s a great performance by k.d. lang of the song Crying from a tribute to Roy Orbison soon after he died. She had performed a wonderful duet with Orbison of this song before.

I can’t say this brought me to tears but there are moments here where she has me in absolute awe. Maybe a tear or two, I don’t know.

Hokusai– Great Wave

You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.

—-Henry David Thoreau

A little tired this morning. Stayed up quite late watching an engrossing program on the television. Thought provoking and hope inspiring. Woke up this morning still thinking about and found myself wanting to look at some great Japanese prints of ocean waves, blue and unrelenting. In that vein, thought I’d share this older post featuring some of my favorite Japanese prints from the 19th century this morning, mainly from Hokusai and Hiroshige. The one above, The Great Wave from Hokusai, is undeniably the most iconic of all Japanese prints.

With their great rhythm, harmony, and force, I could look at these pieces continuously and never feel like I’ve looked enough.

As for the symbolism of these waves today, you can plug in whatever meaning pleases you.

I know what it means for me today– with an increasing bit of hope for the future.

Hokusai- Feminine/Male Wave Kammachi Festival Float Ceiling Panels

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Feminine Wave – From Float Panel Hokusai

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Hokusai

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Hokusai

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Hiroshige- Navaro Rapids

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Hiroshige- Sea Off Satta Point

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Hiroshige-The Wave 1859

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Hokusai- View of Honmoku off Kanagawa

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19th Century Japaneses Woodblock -Artist Not Indicated

Passing Through Blue— At West End Gallery

When whippoorwills call and evening is nigh
I hurry to my blue heaven
Just a turn to the right, you’ll find a little white light
Will lead you to my Blue Heaven

–Walter Donaldson, My Blue Heaven, 1924

Not going to say much this morning. Just basking in blue this morning. In a good way. Not in the I got the blues kind of way. More in the sense of other more positive ways attached to the color. Like its symbolism for a certain political party. Or true blue, which indicates loyalty and truthfulness. The color also represents the freedom of open spaces such as the sky and the sea and as well as intuition, imagination, expansiveness, inspiration, and sensitivity. There’s an interesting site, colorpsychology.org, that gives greater insight to the color blue, along with all the other colors of the spectrum.

I am showing a painting above, Passing Through Blue, that has the feel of blue in the more positive sense of the word. It’s part of my solo show, Persistent Rhythm, that is currently on display at the West End Gallery in Corning. Just a reminder that the show ends a week from today, on August 29, so time is fleeting if you want to see it.

Here’s a song that I have played here before that kind of sums up the better aspects of the color blue. It’s a version of My Blue Heaven from Norah Jones. The song was written by Walter Donaldson and originally performed as part of the Ziegfeld Follies of 1927. Most of us mainly remember the Fats Domino version which was a hit for him in the 1950’s.

Okay, give a listen if you so desire. Then look to your own blue heaven and stay blue.

Pondering Blue– At West End Gallery

If I write what I feel, it’s to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.

–Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

I came across this passage in The Book of Disquiet from Fernando Pessoa. I have written about Pessoa in the past here and this book sits on a stonewall in my studio where I can pick it up at any time to browse its always compelling contents.

This particular passage immediately struck a chord with me, from the standpoint of writing as well as from that of my painting.

Both often come about because of a need to release and express those welled-up emotions that come from an existence based mainly on feeling. A need to have my say, even though in both cases I understand that my feelings and my expressions of them are of little consequence.

I sometimes wonder if I feel too much, experience too much of an emotional response to too many things. But trying to repress my feeling only creates a dam where every feeling is deposited. The feeling is not reduced, just unreleased.

And the fever builds.

And the only way to reduce this fever of feeling, as Pessoa states, is to write. Or paint, in my other case. Maybe I am fortunate to have two ways to break this fever. Or maybe I simply need both in order to fully do so.

But I know, as Pessoa also points out, that my expressions mean little in the long run. Ultimately, I am just a little person filled with many– maybe too many– feelings.

And that begs the question: Can you have too many feelings?

I don’t know. I can only recognize what exists inside myself. That is all I know so it is a normal state of being for me. It’s like experiences in your childhood that seemed perfectly normal because that was all you knew but when you see that others had vastly different experiences, you begin to wonder.

And this morning I find myself wondering.

For the moment, the fever has come down a bit…

Waiting For the Fire, 2002

You can climb a mountain, you can swim the sea
You can jump into the fire but you’ll never be free
You can shake me up or I can break you down
Oh, oh
We can make each other happy
Oh, we can make each other happy
We can make each other happy
Oh, we can make each other happy

—Harry Nilsson, Jump Into the Fire

We can make each other happy…

I am running late but I have to mention that I am still vibing, if that can be used as a verb, off the first night of the convention in Chicago. Lots of passion and fire there. The genuine article that comes from real emotion and belief, not needing the staged theatrics of Hulk Hogan tearing his shirt off. 

It feels like a bonfire fully ablaze and roaring. A joyful and hopeful fire. Maybe that’s just me. I’ve been waiting for that passion and fire to come from reasonable, forward-looking American people for some time. We seem to sit on our hands all too often, thinking that somehow reason will prevail. But for too long, we have ceded passion and fire to unreasonable people, those who yell the loudest even when what they are yelling are nothing but lies and often downright crazy.

It’s time to reclaim the fire and the passion. To get excited, to get off our hands and let our voices be heard.

To stoke the fire even more.

So, what are you going to do?

Me? I’m going to jump into the fire.

Here’s a longtime favorite from the late Harry Nilsson that says just that– Jump into the Fire— and very much sets the tone for what I am seeing. All passion and fire. We can make each other happy…

Red Sun Dance— At West End Gallery

This is the true joy in life: the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one, the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap, the being a force of nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

-George Bernard Shaw

I was going through some older posts this morning and came across one that pointed out the grim joylessness that overwhelmed us during the trump years– that short but seemingly never-ending era doesn’t deserve capital letters. There was never a single unifying moment in those years nor even a half-assed attempt to try to bring us together as a nation. Even during the covid outbreak, at a time when we should have been brought together, there was division sowed as he pitted blue states against red states in doling out federal resources.

Negativity reigned in that dark time. It was an administration of greed, grievance, and retribution. I can’t recall a single moment when a positive unifying vision was presented to the country. He declared American Carnage in his weird and creepy inauguration speech and, unfortunately for us all, delivered just that to the American people.

I think that is why the Harris/ Walz campaign’s embrace of joy and inclusion has been so effective thus far. Its positivity stands in stark contrast to the constant griping and whining coming from the other side. It’s like one side goes onto the dance floor to express their feelings of joy out in the spotlight while the other side sulks angrily in a dark corner, bitching that nobody asked them to dance.

The dance of joy is infectious. It grows and glows. The glumness and anger of that other guy is just an infection– sore and red and eating away at everything it touches.

That being said, I thought I would use another earlier post that talks about the joy found in purpose. I adapted it a bit to fit the painting at the top.

Joy was the word that first came to mind when I finished this smaller new piece, Red Sun Dance, now showing at the West End Gallery as part of my Persistent Rhythm exhibit that hangs there until August 29. There was just a feeling of realized joy and happiness throughout it, the kind that Shaw described above in his play Man and Superman.

It’s a feeling of finding the joy contained within that dances with positivity, sweeping away anger and grievance.

I think the feeling he describes must be one of the greatest joy in this world: to find a purpose into which you can fully throw your whole being for all of your time on this planet.

A purpose that gives you a place to stand and rise above the selfishness and pettiness of those, including yourself, who would drag you down.

A purpose that allows you to tap into some greater force in order to gain energy for your toils.

A purpose that lets you deny the cynicism that sometimes shows up in abundance in this world.

A purpose that serves you endless joy in what seem to be empty moments.

A purpose that even finds the joy in tears.

I think there is a purpose for each of us. Finding it is not always a simple matter and some of us will never find the one purpose that is truly our own. We may not be willing to give enough of ourselves to something that is beyond our own needs and desires. We might still find some joy in our life but it will no doubt be short lived.

For me, it has been painting. At first, I found this surprising because I often viewed it as being selfish in nature. My perspectives. My emotions. It was even called self-expression. But the purpose came from having others find comfort and happiness in their reactions to my expression. Their joy fed my joy.

But there are days when I still find myself losing sight of this purpose, when it is a struggle both in the studio and in the outer world and I feel drawn back down to less positive feelings. But I will be somehow reminded of that purpose and that joyful feeling returns.

That happened the other day. A gallery owner called and told me of a person who had bought a painting of mine that they had desired for quite a long time. In fact, this person had come into the gallery for this painting and it was gone, having been returned to me. I sent the piece back to the gallery and when the person returned to get it, they started crying in joy. I can’t even express how this makes me feel outside of saying again that their joy fed my joy, their tears became my tears.

Those moments make my time alone in the studio seem more special and filled with purpose. They make me that joyous one, if only for a while.

And that is good enough for me…