Redtree Times

Vincent van Gogh, Irises, 1890

The task is…not so much to see what no one has yet seen; but to think what nobody has yet thought, about that which everybody sees.

― Erwin Schrödinger

I came across this quote from physicist Erwin Schrodinger that deals with dimensional perception. I have to admit to not knowing much about the quantum physics to which he refers with these words but the sentiment behind it could be describing the driving force behind this painting and much of what I attempt to do as an artist. I have maintained for some time that art is not about clever ideas or extraordinary subjects but in changing our perceptions of the ordinary, in trying to reveal those dimensions of the visible world that remain unseen to us.

The example I often cite is of Van Gogh‘s painting of a pitcher filled with irises. It is an painting of an extremely ordinary subject, a vase filled with flowers. A common floral painting that has been the subject of perhaps a million or two painters over the ages. Yet seeing it, especially in person, one feels that unseen animating energy of nature and the force of Van Gogh’s perceptions of it. It vibrates with energy. It is no longer a simple pitcher of irises but has become a conduit to a new and deeper dimension, one that delivers us closer to the essence our being.

It becomes a symbol for the sacred ordinary. 

This is an edited version of a post from about 10 years ago. In the original I used a painting of my own to illustrate but thought it would be better to use the Van Gogh painting referred to in the post. Thought I’d add a little music about perception, as well. Here’s a nice version of Doctor My Eyes from Jackson Browne performed with Playing For Change which brings musicians from around the world together online to perform classic songs.

Pablo Picasso- Harlequin with Glass, 1905

How often have I found that wanting to use blue,
I didn’t have it so I used a red instead of the blue.

–Pablo Picasso

Pablo Picasso is probably the most quoted of artists, though many things are mistakenly attributed to him. It’s a case that if it sounds interesting and you’re not sure who might have said it, you credit him or Shakespeare or Lincoln or some other iconic figure.

But I have a feeling that the quote I chose here today is actually his. I can’t see Lincoln saying it.

I certainly know the circumstance to which he refers.

Been there, done that.

In a pinch, you just make do with what you have because you can’t always wait until you have perfect conditions, all the materials you desire, and a moment of inspiration are in complete alignment. Sometimes inspiration is there and you don’t have what you would ideally want to use but you still want to make that mark.

A number of years back, I was having some real back problems. Up until then, I normally painted in a standing position but the pain forced me to sit. I found that there were points where I would reach for a color that I would normally use in certain instances and find it well out of reach. Instead of straining out of my seat and limping across the room to get it, I would take whatever was within my reach and try to either replicate the color or completely substitute another color.

In many ways, it was a good experience. Where I had used reds before, there were blues or greens. Turquoise tended to turn to purples and maroons.

Because my work doesn’t depend on accuracy in depicting natural color, it actually stretched the work a bit more and reinforced that idea that one must make do with what one has at hand. It’s something I have often tried to impress on young artists, that they should never use not having everything they think they need to start as an excuse to not start.

If they have a real creative urge, then they will make do, they will find a way.

The results may exceed what their mind had imagined.

I was recently reminded of this post which ran back in 2018.  I’ve been working diligently on new work for my upcoming annual June show at the Principle Gallery.

I’m rough on my brushes and as I work, they often change a lot as I use them. They wear away the edges and bristles go astray. They then begin to perform in an individual manner, meaning that the mark they make at that point is unique to that brush and way different that the mark it made when I first began using it.

I find that adapting to this change in the brush gives the work a unique quality as well. It sometimes adds a roughness in places where I might not have desired it or even thought of before. It’s surprising at times and almost always adds something unique and of value to the piece in my eyes. I have found that a similarly composed piece painted at a different phase in the evolution of the brush being used has an altogether different feel in its surface.

And I like that. Not having the perfect brush and adapting to the change in a brush is a form of making do, which is an important aspect of the creative process. Making do often creates a uniqueness that differentiates work.

Now, excuse me I have work to do. Or should I say, make do?

Van Gogh- Prisoners Exercisng

Perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.

–André Breton, Nadja (1928)

The words above from Andre Breton, widely renowned as being the founder of the Surrealist movement, have been lingering in my head lately.

I believe that’s mainly because I often refer to my work as being a search for some intangible thing– meaning or purpose. That sounds expansive, as though the search takes me to new and exciting places and planes of thought.

A real exploration for something new and remarkable.

But Breton’s words made me think that my search is, as he writes, an illusion and that much of what I do is revisiting themes, thoughts, and ideas that have been with me for a long time. I go over them time and time again trying to glean what might have went unrecognized when I first encountered them or were seen then forgotten.

It is not an expansive journey at all. It is likely more akin to a donkey endlessly walking the circular path around the grindstone it powers at a gristmill.

Or maybe to be more accurate, it is like the fevered circling by inmates Van Gogh portrayed in his 1890 painting shown at the top, which, by the way, was a copy of an earlier Gustave Doré print. The prisoners are no doubt dreaming of finding their way a better place or state of being. They probably go through a wide range of emotions as they are reflecting on their pasts, trying to figure out how they ended up there or where they will be in the future.

There is probably some pretty creative thinking going on there. Maybe the minds of those ever-circling inmates in prisons and asylums– or donkeys– are not far-removed from those of artists?

I can’t say. Nor can I say whether this endless circling masquerading as a search is good or bad. It is all I know so, for me, it feels appropriate. Built in.

Got to run. I have to try to find something new here this morning. Don’t know if it will feel more like a studio, prison or asylum. Doesn’t matter– it’s the same circle.

Here’s a song that feels appropriate this morning. This is Will It Go Round in Circles from the late Billy Preston.

Alberto Giacometti- Walking Man I

Artistically I am still a child with a whole life ahead of me to discover and create. I want something, but I won’t know what it is until I succeed in doing it.

–Alberto Giacometti

The short statement above from the late artist Alberto Giacometti perfectly captures a feeling that has been with me for a long time now.

Now well into middle age, I have been a professional painter now for over twenty-five years and have did okay with my career in art. I pretty much do what I want, earn a living, get some recognition here and there and have established my own little niche with my work.

It’s a decent place to be at this point in my career and a lot of young artists would love to be in my position.

But most days, even when I feel the tiredness from the wear and tear of the years weighing on me physically, I still feel new to this whole art thing, like I have just scratched the surface with my work. As Giacometti points out, I feel like there is a whole life, an endless horizon, ahead of me that is filled with all sorts of new possibilities.

New forms, new expressions, new inspirations, new voices and more– all yet unseen and unknown. Just something.

And again, like Giacometti, I feel a huge gnawing desire to find that something but don’t have a clue as to what it might yet be.

That was the same feeling that I had when I was first experimenting with painting years ago. I had a hazy vision in the recesses of my mind that I wanted to pull out but didn’t truly know what it was or what it might look like until it had emerged. When it did finally come out, I instantly recognized it for what it was and what it could mean for me. I ran with the inspiration from it for many years.

But at some point during these years, I began to sense that another vision of the same sort resides somewhere down there in my mind, one that had yet to be found. One that I won’t know until it comes out.

So, though I am a sometimes-tired middle-aged guy, I know that I am still a child artistically, one who still sees the whole wide world and all its potential before him.

I work and wait in anticipation that this child’s voice will someday be heard.

The post above ran a few years back. But it speaks to a thought I’ve had for a while.

At my Gallery Talk at the Principle Gallery last year, I joked that art is tough and not for weaklings, saying, “Look at what it’s done to me– I’m only 27 years old.” I don’t know that I followed up with a proper explanation of what I was trying to say with the joke which is that while my body may show the years, the creative part of my mind still feels young and vital. Everything often feels new, much like it felt when first started painting, back around 1994.

In a way, that time when I had the accident that started this whole thing feels like my second birthdate.

So, I was wrong with my joke. I’m not 27. I’m 30.

But I do still feel 27. Some days, even younger. Maybe 17.

And that’s a good thing because as the Frank Sinatra song below says: Fairytales can come true, they can happen to you, if you’re young at art.

Okay, I took a little liberty with the lyric. What do I know? After all, I’m just a kid…

Pondering Blue– At Principle Gallery

As wave is driven by wave
And each, pursued, pursues the wave ahead,
So time flies on and follows, flies, and follows,
Always, for ever and new. What was before
Is left behind; what never was is now;
And every passing moment is renewed.

–Ovid, Metamorphoses

It will come as no surprise to anyone who has reached a certain age that time seems to speed up as your life goes one. When you were a kid time seemed dense and infinite. Waiting a week or a month or, god forbid, a year for anything was excruciating as the minutes and hours seemed to move along like molasses in a frozen hourglass.

But as the years stack up behind you, the passage of time accelerates at an ever-increasing rate. Maybe it’s because we finally realize how limited and precious time is for any of us, after having whiled away so much of the time allotted to us.

I came to expect this speeding up of time as was aging. Could see it happening. But nothing prepared me for how much time has accelerated in these past few years. Maybe it’s because of the pandemic. I don’t know. But I bring up something that I think has occurred a year or two back and so often discover that it was five or six years in the past.

It seems so fresh, so recent– how could that time just slipped by unnoticed?

As always, I don’t really know. I guess it doesn’t matter outside of serving as a reminder of how rare and valuable our time in this world remains.

Perhaps it is our built-in memento mori.

Just an observation. And not an original one, at that. Just saying stuff this morning. That being said, here’s a song that sums it all up. It’s Funny How Time Slips Away, the classic song from Willie Nelson. I don’t know that anyone does it better than Willie but this performance from Leon Bridges is wonderful. It feels elegant in the way it treats every moment of the song as precious as time itself.

If you can spare the time, give a listen.

Exiles: Martyr, 1996

Whenever we encounter a human being in such a way that we feel absolutely certain of the infinity of that person’s worth and the eternity of his or her life, that is Easter.

–Eugen Drewermann, Dying We Live: Meditations for Lent and Easter

Can’t say that I am a religious person, religion never being much of a part of my upbringing. I never attended a single Easter service and pretty much thought of the day in terms of chocolate Easter bunnies and colored eggs in my youth. But I respected the traditions and stories of the Bible and of the other religions as I picked them up through the years and understood the solemnity and importance of faith, even if my own was sometimes lacking. Christ’s resurrection as a metaphor for change and rebirth in one’s own life always resonated with me, much like the sentiment expressed above from German theologian Eugen Drewermann.

That being said, I thought I might play a little music this morning that had to do with the fact that it is Easter Sunday.

I have always been drawn to and moved by the passion and conviction of the great gospel songs especially when performed by those blessed with the talent to elevate the material, such as Mahalia Jackson, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and all so many others. Sam Cooke, one of the greatest pop and R & B stars of the 50’s and early 60’s, was also a great gospel singer. I loved his voice and could listen to him sing the phone book but when he sang the gospel, it was often magic. Here’s his version of Were You There (When They Crucified My Lord), which is an old plantation spiritual that fits in with the day and, performed by Sam Cooke is as I said, magic.

The post above is most a replay from back in 2014. I added the passage from Eugen Drewermann and added one of my early paintings from the 1995-96 series, Exiles.

Obstacles

Isn’t it strange how princes and kings,
and clowns that caper in sawdust rings,
and common people, like you and me,
are builders for eternity?

Each is given a list of rules;
a shapeless mass; a bag of tools.
And each must fashion, ere life is flown,
A stumbling block, or a Stepping-Stone.

–R. L. Sharpe

I came across the short poem, Bag of Tools, above recently and it caught my eye with its simple yet insightful message. Looking deeper, into it, I found that it is often quoted and there are even videos of people reciting it, including one with Maggie Smith that was used in an ad for a large bank.

But who was the author , this R. L. Sharpe and when was it written?

There is little info on the poet and I have seen the poem dated 1890 as well as 1809, although I felt the earlier date was just a misinterpretation of the 1890. date. So after a bit of digging, I came across one little blurb on a forum that stated about the poet:

He was born in the 1870s and died in the 1950s.
For years he worked with his father, Edwin R. Sharpe,
who owned The Carrollton Free Press and a printing shop in Carrollton, Georgia.
In his later years he traveled a lot, mostly freelancing for magazines
of the ’20s and ’30s.

I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the info although I have seen a number of references from books of the early 20th century with attributions from an R.L. Sharpe in Carrolton, GA. I wonder if he ever realized the possibility that his words would one day become so widespread? He obviously fashioned a stepping-stone.

The post above is from back in 2015. I wasn’t going to post anything today but wanted to get the taste of yesterday’s post abut self-doubt out of my mouth and mind. I came across this post and felt that it applied in some way, that we use the tools we are given and make the best of it in our journey through life.

Along with the bag of tools we are all also given obstacles that arise along the way. For some– like those filled with self-doubt– these stumbling blocks prove to be the end of the line, a reason to stop struggling ahead. And for others they provide an opportunity to learn and grow and even as motivation to keep fighting forward.

They become, as in Sharpe’s verse, stepping-stones.

It all comes down to our resolve. Or so I believe. We have all seen people given bags of tools filled with greater talents and attributes that seem so much greater than our own fail to move beyond their own stumbling blocks.

And others whose tool bags seem spare and unremarkable conquer the obstacles presented to them with ease.

Maybe resolve is one of those tools in their bag that is missing in those others?

I can’t say.

But I will tell you that I am searching my bag of tools for a little resolve. I know there’s some in there somewhere. I got stepping-stones to build…

Merit Badge — At Principle Gallery

The writer who loses his self-doubt, who gives way as he grows old to a sudden euphoria, to prolixity, should stop writing immediately: the time has come for him to lay aside his pen.

–Colette, Speech on being elected to the Belgian Academy

If the words above from Colette, the French writer who lived from 1873 until 1954, apply to painters as well as writers then I am in no danger of laying down my brush anytime soon. At 3:30 this morning I was wide awake, my mind racing, thoughts bouncing around like crazy.

Most of these thoughts concerned my work. Or rather, worries about my work. Or should I say, worries about my possible delusions about that work? Is it any good? Or am I just punch drunk from staring at it from inches away every day?

I don’t know. It felt like my brain turned suddenly into mashed potatoes. Not a great feeling at 3:30 AM.

I am working towards my two annual solo shows, as I have done at this time for many years now. I know from experience that there are going to be peaks and valleys of elation and utter dismay during this time. Even knowing that by this afternoon the panic may have transformed into satisfaction of some sort doesn’t help much in the moment. It feels crushing and the self-doubt grows into the larger fear of being exposed as a phony, an impostor who has finally reached the end of their ruse.

I know, again from experience, that the remedy comes in getting to work, so I am getting to it. I feel somewhat peeved that I spent any time at all this morning writing this. the panic of self-doubt, though sometimes paralyzing, can also be a tremendous motivator.

That being said, I am feeling pretty damned motivated at the moment…

Riding Rhythm– At West End Gallery

All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.

—Martin Buber, The Legend of the Baal-Shem (1955)

I’ve been thinking about the line above from Martin Buber, about how we often don’t recognize the reason for or the purpose behind what we seek. I think that is why we are so often somewhat disappointed when we reach the end of any journey, attain a long-sought goal, or reach an endpoint of any kind.

There often seems to be a feeling of being letdown after reaching our destination. Maybe we expect too much. Maybe we think there will be a noticeable transformation that will alter how we and others view us or will help us deal with every day in a better way going forward. Maybe gained wisdom or insight will have been bestowed upon us.

That seldom happens.

But maybe, even though we don’t feel satisfied, we are changed. We might just not know in what form this change came or how it changed us. Maybe only time will reveal how we have been changed. And maybe then we still won’t recognize it as it might be subtle and gentle.

Bear with me here. Just thinking this morning, wondering to what secret destination I am headed.

Hmm. Here’s a song in that vein that I’ve shared a couple of times over the years, I’m On My Way, from a favorite of mine, Rhiannon Giddens.

Good travels to you all.

This place is a dream. Only a sleeper considers it real. Then death comes like dawn, and you wake up laughing at what you thought was your grief.

–Rumi

I am hoping this is the case.

My friend, Brian Pappalardo, died yesterday in the evening around 8 PM. if this life is a dream then Brian lived a nightmare for the past three years. I am hoping that he has woken from this dream and is laughing at us in our sorrow and grief, him knowing that it but a dream from which he has left to return to reality.

I wrote about Brian here a couple of years back when we did a fundraiser for his medical expenses, a year into his medical odyssey. In that time, he had been hospitalized with severe pulmonary problems a number of times, been intubated and on a respirator, had a trach tube, had to learn to talk, walk, and use his hands again, underwent surgeries including one recently for a serious hernia, had several serious infections, experienced kidney failure, and on and on.

So much that my memory is more than likely failing me here. More than anyone should have to experience in any one life, let alone over three years.

But Brian was a great guy, a fact well known to all who knew him, who was able to maintain an ever-hopeful outlook throughout this time. Even when he was in dire situations with his health, he was still quick to laugh and to make a wisecrack. When we talked on the phone, I always gauged his condition on how much he laughed during our conversations. I figured if he was laughing his attitude was good and he would be okay. And right up to our last conversation a week or so ago, that remained a true indicator.

This last trip to the hospital came less than two weeks ago, after a fall that had breaking his leg. All the many ailments of the past three years finally converged on Brian. It was just too much for his beleaguered body and last week was on life support.

Brian was, as I said, a great guy and a loyal friend to so many people. His sister Karen, who has sacrificed so much of herself over the past few years serving as a caregiver for Brian, was surprised at the huge outpouring of care and concern from people from all over when news of Brian’s condition was made known. Brian himself was surprised to hear from so many folks who, in many cases, he had interacted with many years before. He was an easy guy to like.

Gentle in spirit, Brian liked to hear the stories of others which served him well in his long career as a journalist and editor for our local newspaper, the Star Gazette. It also endeared him to many of his caregivers who were often coaxed into sharing the details of their lives by Brian’s inquisitive nature.

I could go on. Let me just end by saying that this dream life lost a truly good guy. I hope that wherever Brian is right now in the real Reality, he is giving that big Brian laugh.

Catch up with you later, Brian. Until then, be good.