Redtree Times

Island Getaway— Now at the West End Gallery

Real life is, to most men, a long second-best, a perpetual compromise between the ideal and the possible; but the world of pure reason knows no compromise, no practical limitations, no barrier to the creative activity embodying in splendid edifices the passionate aspiration after the perfect from which all great work springs. Remote from human passions, remote even from the pitiful facts of nature, the generations have gradually created an ordered cosmos, where pure thought can dwell as in its natural home, and where one, at least, of our nobler impulses can escape from the dreary exile of the actual world.

—Bertrand Russell, The Study of Mathematics (1902)

The painting above is a late addition to my current West End Gallery show. I call this 8″ by 24″ canvas Island Getaway.

Islands have been prominent in many of my paintings over the years. There’s probably a psychological basis for this, something about it representing a withdrawal from the outer world, about finding a space for personal autonomy. Or maybe it symbolizes, as Russell puts it above, an escape from the dreary exile of the actual world.

The Exile as a symbol has always been close at hand in my work. I can see the figure in this painting as some sort of exile. Perhaps a self-imposed exile, driven by the desire to be free of the bonds of society.

Or maybe the figure needs a break from wearing their public mask and retreats to a solitary place where they can just be.

Maybe.

I don’t know exactly what they mean. I do know that they feel like core work when I am painting them. By core work, I mean that it feels like they come from and represent some central location within myself. They feel absolutely natural and organic in the way they emerge.

Little thought, all reaction. That’s often the recipe for what I consider good work.

Here is a song from Laura Marling that came on just as I was writing this. Felt like a good fit for the painting. It’s called Goodbye England (Covered in Snow).

Now leave my island, please. Thank you.

Say Hallelujah– At the West End Gallery

The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint.

—Silence, Marianne Moore (1887-1972)

I am taking my cues this morning from the line above from poet Marianne Moore and her poem Silence. There’s a lot I would like to say this morning about the events of the last day or so but I feel restraint is best right now. Perhaps the painting at the top from my current West End Gallery show best expresses my feelings.

It’s titled Say Hallelujah.

Oddly enough, it’s not a painting that feels quiet even though it presents a bucolic scene, most likely one devoid of all boisterous sound, if any at all. But it presents a silence that is jubilant.

I am going to stop right there because I could easily go off on a long spiel.

Restraint is the word for the day.

Two things below. One is the whole poem Silence from the late Modernist poet Marianne Moore. The other is the version of the song Silence Is Golden from the Tremeloes in 1967. It was originally a Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons song, serving as the B-side to their hit single Rag Doll. The Tremeloes actually had a bigger hit with the song. I thought I would play their rendition because they also performed another fave of mine, Here Comes My Baby, written by Cat Stevens.

So, on to silence. Good advice for all concerned. Some folks would be wise to heed the words they will be hearing again tomorrow afternoon: “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

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Silence

My father used to say,
“Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow’s grave
or the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self-reliant like the cat—
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse’s limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth—
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint.”
Nor was he insincere in saying, “Make my house your inn.”
Inns are not residences.

— Marianne Moore

The Centered Self— Now at the West End Gallery

Flow with whatever may happen and let your mind be free. Stay centered by accepting whatever you are doing. This is the ultimate.

–Chuang Tzu, ca. 4th century BC

Centered. The middle way. Neither too high nor too low. Equilibrium.

As someone who has bounced high and low for all my life, I have found there is no one way of centering myself, of finding that middle ground on which to stand. Time has taught me to accept where I am at any given moment and just let it be, high or low. But it is always with the knowledge that wherever I find myself at that moment, it is only temporary.

Everything soon moves in an opposite direction, always back toward the center.

Knowing that both the lows and the highs are forever fleeting is a great comfort. Puts things in the perspective that things are never so bad or good as they seem.

The words above from the 4th century Chinese philosopher Chuang Tzu ring true for me. To accept whatever you are doing in any given moment is the key to staying on that center ground. I found this to be true in the last job I held before becoming a full-time painter.

After years of other unsatisfying jobs, I found myself waiting tables at a local Perkins Restaurant. Great pancakes, by the way. While working there, I had the accident that led to me taking up the paintbrush. Just a little over a year later, I was showing my work at the West End Gallery. Then not long after that, on to other venues around the country.

For a few years I worked both as an artist and a server at Perkins. I never thought of myself as an artist when I was waiting tables. While at the restaurant, I was a server only. When I was painting, I was an artist only. I found that to try to be both in one moment was too distracting and didn’t help me either as an artist or as a waiter.

By focusing on what I was doing in the moment, I was satisfied in both.

That’s a pretty rudimentary example but you probably get the idea.

This sense of balance in being what you are at any given moment is what I see as the central message in the painting at the top. Says so right in its title, The Centered Self.

I can attach all sorts of symbolism to this piece’s elements and composition, but I am going to just let it be this morning. You’re pretty smart. You can deduce from what’s above where this going and can judge whether you see it for yourself. That’s why I like you folks. I don’t have to say everything though I often say too much.

It is, of course, currently at the West End Gallery as part of my annual exhibit there. This year’s show, Eye in the Sky, is on display until August 24. I will be doing an in-person Gallery Talk beginging at 11 AM on Saturday, August 19, with all the usual fanfare and goodies of the Talks that took place prior to the pandemic. Seating is limited so please contact the West End Gallery to reserve a seat.

Here’s a piece of music that I think blends well with today’s subject. It’s from classical guitarist Xufei Yang and is a composition titled Eterna Saudade from late Brazilian guitarist/composer Dilermando Reis. Saudade is from the Portuguese and it is said there is no literal translation for it. The one meaning I found that I thought appled to this morning’s post was: A bittersweet feeling sustained by absolute pain and pleasure at the same time.

Right in the center of the two.

Peace Passage— At the West End Gallery

The proof of apatheia [peacefulness of soul] is had when the spirit begins to see its own light, when it remains in a state of tranquility in the presence of the images it has during sleep and when it maintains its calm as it beholds the affairs of life.

–Evagrius Ponticus, The Praktikos

Evagrius Ponticus, also called Evagrius the Solitary, was a monk and ascetic. of the 4th century. He was considered one of the most influential thinkers and writers of that time, authoring many treatises including The Praktikos which was a guide to the ascetic life.

Though the word apathy is derived from apatheia, they have different meanings. Apathy is defined as being indifferent and impassive. Maybe even ignorant of whatever one is apathetic towards. Apatheia, on the other hand, is derived from the Greek, meaning without suffering or without passion. Or as Evagrius put it, peacefulness of soul.

It is the middle road where one doesn’t ignore the ups and downs of life but bears them stoically, getting neither too high nor too low in the face of such things. It is calm response rather than a passionate one.

I would like to think that’s what this new painting from my current show at the West End Gallery represents. That’s what I see in it– a calm middle passage, neither too high nor low.

The line separating the yin from the yang.

Just something to consider on a lovely Sunday morning with a cool respite from the heat in the air.

Here’s the selection for this week’s Sunday Morning Music. It’s from Dan Reeder who I have featured here before. He was the first artist signed by John Prine when he formed his Oh Boy Records label more than 40 years ago and has been making his uniquely idiosyncratic and often humorous music for that label ever since. This is his cover of the Moody Blues hit A Whiter Shade of Pale.

Growing up in the 60’s and 70’s, this song was a staple of FM radio and high school proms everywhere. Reeeder maintains the feel of the song but in a more stark and simple way. It feels good to hear this morning. Hey, I was going to play his Work Song, which has a decidedly different feel with its stark and simple but explicit lyrics. Great song for some mornings, to be sure. But the song below fits the painting and the morning much better.

The Haze of Passage— At the West End Gallery

A Cabin in the Clearing

MIST
I don’t believe the sleepers in this house
Know where they are.

SMOKE
They’ve been here long enough
To push the woods back from around the house
And part them in the middle with a path.

MIST
And still I doubt if they know where they are.
And I begin to fear they never will.
All they maintain the path for is the comfort
Of visiting with the equally bewildered.
Nearer in plight their neighbors are than distance.

SMOKE
I am the guardian wraith of starlit smoke
That leans out this and that way from their chimney.
I will not have their happiness despaired of.

MIST
No one – not I – would give them up for lost
Simply because they don’t know where they are.
I am the damper counterpart of smoke
That gives off from a garden ground at night
But lifts no higher than a garden grows.
I cotton to their landscape. That’s who I am.
I am no further from their fate than you are.

SMOKE
They must by now have learned the native tongue.
Why don’t they ask the Red Man where they are?

MIST
They often do, and none the wiser for it.
So do they also ask philosophers
Who come to look in on them from the pulpit.
They will ask anyone there is to ask –
In the fond faith accumulated fact
Will of itself take fire and light the world up.
Learning has been a part of their religion.

SMOKE
If the day ever comes when they know who
They are, they may know better where they are.
But who they are is too much to believe –
Either for them or the onlooking world..
They are too sudden to be credible.

MIST
Listen, they murmur talking in the dark
On what should be their daylong theme continued.
Putting the lamp out has not put their thought out.
Let us pretend the dewdrops from the eaves
Are you and I eavesdropping on their unrest –
A mist and smoke eavesdropping on a haze –
And see if we can tell the bass from the soprano.

Than smoke and mist who better could appraise
The kindred spirit of an inner haze.

— Robert Frost, 1962

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Don’t have a lot to say today. Just wanted to show the piece at the top, The Haze of Passage, which is part of my current show at the West End Gallery. As this this 20″ by 20″ canvas started to morph into being, it instantly filled me with the feeling of heat and haze. The kind that slows down movement and thought.

We’ve had some hot and hazy days here recently though nothing to compare with other areas of the country. These days always feel draining for me and leave me feeling as though a bit of that haze has settled in my brain.

It all conspires to remind me of the poem above from Robert Frost, A Cabin in the Clearing. I can imagine the haze here comprised of mist and smoke– perhaps from Canadian wildfires?– gathering around the Red Roofed houses to discuss our fate, to wonder if we knew where we were or where we were going. Perhaps, as its final line alludes, they can see the haziness of our minds in such times?

Hmm. Let me think on that while I share a new song, Yet to Be, from a favorite of mine, Rhiannon Giddens, accompanied by Jason Isbell. It seems to fit the theme here.

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Learning to Fly— Now at the West End Gallery

Well the good ol’ days
May not return
And the rocks might melt
And the sea may burn

I’m learning to fly
But I ain’t got wings
Coming down
Is the hardest thing

–Tom Petty, Learning to Fly

Is he flying?

That was the question that immediately came to mind when this gangly flyer made its appearance in this new painting, Learning to Fly, which is an after-opening addition to the West End Gallery show.

In my mind, he (though I am not certain it is he or she) is attempting to fly but isn’t certain of his having this ability and doesn’t quite know how to go about it. He’s never seen anyone on his little island world fly before so there’s no one to ask. Besides, the idea of taking flight seems so farfetched that asking someone might be embarrassing and bring ridicule.

But he can plainly see that, in the form of the island that holds the Red Tree, that there is more to life than the little world he knows. Perhaps if he could get there somehow, things would change, maybe bring him a better life in every way.

Perhaps he can become the person he wants to be and do the things he feels compelled to do which cannot happen if he stays put. He must leave that place and the others that remain behind.

You might ask at this point why he doesn’t get in the water and swim across to that island. The answer is that, though you cannot see them here, the seemingly calm channel is filled with a rogue band of white sharks, stinging jellyfish, electric eels, and worst of all, man-eating seahorses. It’s a madhouse down there!

So, he is left with flying away as his only means to move beyond his known world. It might not work, of course. He might belly flop and find himself among those merciless and bloodthirsty channel-dwellers.

But if he can somehow take to the air and fly, the Red Tree Island is but a beginning. All the world becomes his to explore and soar above– the land, the sea, the sky. Everything everywhere.

So, can he fly or is this just an ill-advised belly flop into oblivion?

In my mind, he flies.

Oh, he dips and he dives. His feet brush the water just out of the reach of the hungry critters below. He struggles to find a comfortable position in the air. He’s not sure if he should try to take the standard Superman position with arms extended and legs straight out behind him. He did adopt the cape, after all.

He finds that gravity still plays a part, making his legs dangle and his belly sag. Maybe he should have tried this with a comfortable chair or in the standing position? For all he knows, either might work as well and be much more comfortable.

Not sure he lands this first time. Hopefully, it works out for him and he finds what he seeks.

Of course, it is a metaphor for anyone who aspires to be something other than what those around them expect them to be. About doing something that nobody you know has done before. It’s about longing and growth and risk and exceeding expectations.

The realization of imagination.

I say he makes it. I know it can be done.

What about you? And I mean that beyond the question of whether this guy can fly. Have you truly tried to fly?

Here’s the natural musical link and the song that gave this piece its title. I had other titles in mind but this seemed so natural and right that I couldn’t resist using it. This is the late great Tom Petty and his Learning to Fly.

Moonlight Quartet— Part of Eye in the Sky at West End Gallery

Spirit of the midnight dream,
What is now upon thy wing ?
Earth sleeps in the moonlight beam ;
O’er that sleep what wilt thou fling ?

–Letitia Elizabeth Landon, The Spirit of Dreams, 1827

This is Moonlight Quartet, one of the paintings that directly refer in content and tone to the theme of my current show, Eye in the Sky, now hanging at the West End Gallery. The moon here casts a calm and watchful eye over the landscape, having a silent conversation with the crows who, in their own way, are eyes in the sky.

Where the moon is the eye of the ethereal, they are the eyes of that which is earthy.

One of the things that attracts me to this piece, a 24″ by 18″ canvas, is the way the tree and the path (or you might see it as a stream which is just fine) echo the rhythm and flow of the bands of color that make up the sky. It’s as though they are all originate and are built from the same pattern.

Perhaps the pattern the Eye in the Sky sees as it looks down on it all.

There’s a lot I like about this piece and the others from this show painted in this style. They instantly emit a feeling, one that you don’t have to search for within it. It’s right there. I also greatly enjoy the process of painting these particular works. It’s a very meditative process, one that has me setting down a pattern then constantly going back over it until it reaches its final state.

Like continuously following the path of labyrinth, over and over again. Each time through reveals more and more.

One hopes that this is the same for looking at it, that more is revealed with each new view.

I suppose that is the dream for any artist’s work, right?

Let’s wrap this up this morning with a rendition from Kronos Quartet of a song, Marquee Moon, from the 70’s band Television. Led by Tom Verlaine, Television was what I would call smooth punk, less raw and a little more refined in its musicality and lyricism than some of the punk bands that might come to mind. Kronos, as always, does a great job with this piece.

Maestro— Now at the West End Gallery, Corning

Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teachings.

–William Cullen Bryant, Thanatopsis

I am often asked, especially at show openings, which of the paintings there might be my favorite. My answer is always the same, that every piece there has some reason for being there and has something in it that creates a spark within me.

Every piece is a favorite in that it is what it should be. Finding that special quality in each piece is something I wish could be applied to people in a better way.

Of course, there are paintings that always grab my eye a little quicker than others. It might be a color or contrast or a shape or form. Or the light within it. Any number of things having to do with its surface attraction.

But that attraction only lasts so long as there is something to be found beyond the surface. It’s kind of like dealing with handsome people whose beauty is sometimes only skin deep. Their attractiveness often leaves unless they have some inner beauty as well. In painting, this inner beauty might come in the form of an emotional reaction or a sense of symbolic or personal meaning. It doesn’t even have to be an identifiable quality.

Maybe I should just use my go-to phrase for those times when I struggle to describe some nebulous quality: It might just have a sense of rightness.

That’s how this new painting, Maestro, from my current West End Gallery show strikes me. From the time it was painted, it was one of those pieces with a surface beauty that immediately grabbed my eye. But I soon sensed that it had much more going on in it.

The Red Tree quickly became a conductor standing over and leading the orchestra that is the Red Roofs. Or a teacher giving a lesson before a class. Both are maestros, masters who teach and lead by example.

Maybe moral or ethical lessons. I don’t know for sure though my first response was that the Red Tree, as a symbol of Nature, was teaching the human race the many lessons to be gleaned from Nature.

How accepting we are of these lessons is up for debate.

It’s one of those paintings that attracts me and keeps me attracted. It has that sense of rightness.

Here’s a classic from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young from 1970. It fits the subject and also has that sense of rightness. Here’s Teach Your Children.

Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work.

–Mark Twain, In Letter (1908)

Had a little excitement yesterday at the studio though I wasn’t present for the event that caused it all.

While we were in town doing a few errands, a storm came through with heavy rain accompanied by thunder and lightning. We got home just a few minutes after the rain had stopped. I made my way to the studio and, as I climbed the back steps, my nose caught a waft of wood smoke.

It was nothing new since we had had a number of days filled with the smoky aroma from the Canadian wildfires but this felt like something else. It would have been odd for any neighbor to have a fire burning at that time on a weekday, especially after a storm. Decided I better investigate.

Going around the back of the studio, I spotted some smoke among the tops of the stand of trees that are about 60-70 feet from the end of the studio. Drawing closer, I could hear the crackling of fire then spotted the tree. It was one of the big white pines that are abundant on the property. This one had two trunks and running down the one nearest the studio there was a slash with fire flaring out of each end and smoldering embers between.

There were large chunks of the trunk littering the ground which was evidence of a lightning strike. I had seen this a number of times before including on another white pine not far from this where, after a lightning strike, I located chunks from the tree that had been blown 50-60 feet from the tree by the explosion that occurs when the lightning superheats the sap and moisture within the tree.

The fire department was called and they came promptly and doused the poor old tree. Unfortunately, the firefighters provided some excitement of their own when their larger truck hit the silty side of my studio driveway, sliding off and settling at an uncomfortable angle with one of its rear wheels off the ground. This also blocked the driveway completely, trapping the several fire vehicles already there until a large tractor trailer tow truck came to extract it. Thankfully, there were no other emergency calls in our area while the firefighters were held captive at the studio.

Finally, with the tanker freed and satisfied that the struck tree was no longer a threat to the trees or forest canopy surrounding it–which was my concern since we are surrounded by forest– the fire team left. Many thanks to the prompt reaction of the Town & Country Fire Department. Good guys and gals.

The tree now has a deep charred hollow running up it. It will have come down in the coming days since the portion above it, which is at least 40-50 feet, is weighted in a way which could send it in a couple of different directions, toward the studio or power lines, if it were to snap and fall. And with the damage to the lower trunk that is more of a when than an if.

It’s powerful stuff, that lightning. It is like a sonic reminder that nature is big and you are small. Our neighbors said that the lightning strike had made them nearly jump from their seats and if you’ve ever been near a lightning strike, you know that sound. Here’s a song from 50+ years ago that I haven’t heard in quite some time. Seems to fit. This is Chi Coltrane with Thunder and Lightning.

A Song For the Eye— At West End Gallery

The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight.

–Virginia Woolf, The String Quartet (1921)

When I finished this small painting (8″ by 8″ on canvas) for my current West End Gallery show the title that came to mind was A Song For the Eye. The eye, symbolized by the sun/moon, is the theme and included in the title of the show, Eye in the Sky, and the violinist seems to be serenading the moon here. The ribbons of the night sky provide a visual backing rhythm.

But I also thought the painting’s title also referred to this painting and others, as silent visual representations of music. I believe that paintings that reach out to people do so in much the same way as music, having rhythm, flow, and tone.

I think its title works in both ways and I like that.

Here’s piece from violinist Joshua Bell that I think fits well with this painting and has a similar title. It’s Song to the Moon from the 1901 opera, Rusalka, from Antonin Dvorak. It’s a good way to kick off the week.