You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
—Pablo Neruda, If You Forget Me
I originally didn’t think of this painting, Pull of the Moon, in romantic terms. It has warmth but it seemed to me to be more about the attraction to the moon with its steadiness and its light breaking through the dark of night. But that sort of attraction provides a basis for romance, doesn’t it? Are we not attracted to those who provide light into our darkest nights, to those who are steadily at hand?
It makes me see this painting in a much different way. A much different light, you might say.
I am not going to say much more this morning except to say that this 12″ by 24″ painting is part of my new solo exhibit, Eye in the Sky, which is now hanging at the West End Gallery in Corning. The exhibit opens next Friday, July 21, with an Opening Reception from 5-7 PM. I will be there to chat and answer questions. Hope to see you there.
Let’s end this now so I can get to some busy work. Here’s a lovely video set to a reading by Madonna of the PabloNeruda poem, If You Forget Me. The video itself are scenes taken from the 2010 animated film, The Illusionist. Beautiful work.
We can pay our debts to the past by putting the future in debt to ourselves.
–-John Buchan, Address to the people of Canada on the coronation of George VI, 1937
Governor General John Buchan‘s words to the people of Canada in 1937 foreshadowed the sacrifice they would be asked to make in the world war that would be upon them in the years that followed. We, as a future generation to the people of that era, certainly owe a debt for the effort they made in defeating the Nazism and Fascism that threatened the world.
That raises the question: Is there anything we can do today to put future generations in debt to us?
That question came to mind after I had finished the new painting at the top, Eye to the Future. Maybe it was that the dominant colors of this piece, the pure of the blue of the sky over the brightness of the yellow in the fields, reminded me of the colors of Ukraine. That, in turn, reminded me that the result of their deadly struggle will have wider meaning and ramifications for the future, not only for the people of Ukraine but for much of the world.
Their struggle, along with a multitude of other existential threats, put us at the cusp of our future that, in many ways, is not unlike that period in which Buchan uttered his words to the Canadians in 1937. How we react to these times and what future path we follow will be scrutinized by future generations. Will we have done enough to make their future livable and free? Will they feel deeply indebted to us or will they curse our inaction and ignorance?
I can’t answer that, of course. At least, not with words. Words are meaningless unless they are coupled with action. It’s what we do that will make the difference in the future that is ahead for our descendants.
And that is what I see in this simple painting. The Red Tree watches with interest as the yellow of the field meets its future in the form of the rising Sun. But it watches from a distance though that same future might soon be its own. Behind the Red Tree are a group of Red Roof Houses that here symbolizes a sense of disinterested isolation by those that don’t see that their future is intertwined with the futures of many distant others.
However, beyond that, I find great hope in this painting. In it, I still see the possibility to avert a darker road to the future– if we do more than witness from afar or turn away altogether.
It’s a piece that presents the viewer of a choice, depending on how one looks at it. And I like that when I see that in my work. Eye to the Future is a 12″ by 24″ canvas that is included in Eye in the Sky, my annual solo show at the West End Gallery. I delivered this piece along with the rest of the exhibit yesterday in advance of the show opening next Friday, July 21. The reception on that day runs from 5-7 PM and I will be there to answer your questions. Anything. Just don’t ask me about calculus, okay?
Additionally, we will be doing a full-fledged in person Gallery Talk this year for the first time since 2019. It will take place on Saturday, August 19, beginning at 11 AM and will have all the frills and fun of the pre-pandemic talks. Well, I am going to try to give you that.
That is a future I can control– somewhat.
With a little optimism, here’s a song from the past, from Timbuk 3 in the mid-1980’s. It was one of those one-hit wonders that dominated the radio waves at the time but faded from memory pretty quickly. I hadn’t heard the song in many, many years until a week or two ago and it made me remember how quirky and fun it was. It has a goofy 80’s style video plus it seems to fit this post. Here’s The Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades.
An island always pleases my imagination, even the smallest, as a small continent and integral portion of the globe. I have a fancy for building my hut on one. Even a bare, grassy isle, which I can see entirely over at a glance, has some undefined and mysterious charm for me.
—Henry David Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers
Aah, islands.
Islands appear quite often in my work. For example, there is the new painting at the top. It is included in my upcoming solos show at the West End Gallery, which opens next Friday, July 21. It’s title, InsulataSolitudo, translates as Island of Solitude.
Maybe this idea of combined isolation and solitude is behind the appeal of islands for me. I very much like this idea of a private space that doesn’t have borders with any other land. Nothing grand. Just a small and simple islet where it could be, as it was with Thoreau, my own tiny continent and place in the world with me bothering nobody and nobody bothering me.
Not too much to ask, is it?
Of course, while there are no borders, there are shorelines. Borders to the sea. So, the larger the island the longer the shoreline which means greater access to your island. I came across two very different views on shorelines. One was a positive spin from the late pastor of Christ Church in NYC, Ralph Washington Stockman:
The field of knowledge which even the best of us can master is like an island surrounded by a limitless ocean of mystery. And the larger the island of knowledge, the longer the shoreline of wonder.
Shorelines of wonder. Hmm.
The other has s lightly more pessimistic take on islands– and us as whole. It is from the late theoretical physicist John Archibald Wheeler:
We live on an island surrounded by a sea of ignorance. As our island of knowledge grows, so does the shore of our ignorance.
Shorelines of ignorance. Hmm.
I would guess that if you wanted to retreat to a private island, free from all others, you might be more aligned with the second quote’s bit of misanthropy. After all, something made you want to be there. If you see your time on the island as a temporary getaway, you probably agree more with the first.
Potato, potata?
I don’t know. Maybe. If I were on my little island, I wouldn’t have to face such questions. I would just be there. And that would be good enough for me.
Here’s a fine acoustic version of the well-worn Police song, Message in a Bottle from Sting to complete the triad. Maybe I am on my island and these blogposts are my messages in bottles?
Hmm. Let me think about that while you get off my island. Just keep walking– you’ll find the shoreline pretty quick.
A life in harmony with nature, the love of truth and of virtue, will purge the eyes to understand her text. By degrees we may come to know the primitive sense of the permanent objects of nature, so that the world shall be to us an open book, and every form significant of its hidden life and final cause.
–Ralph Waldo Emerson, Language
This is a new painting (12″ by 6″ on canvas) headed to the West End Gallery for my annual solo show there. The title, Student and Master, describes a narrative and also presents a bit of a riddle.
The narrative is in the relationship between the three (or maybe four or even five, depending on how you look at it) elements of the scene. Initially, I saw the Red Chair, which represents the human element in my interpretation, and the Crow both serving as students to the imparted wisdom from the Sun, which I saw as representing the force of Nature.
But the more I lived with this piece, the more I began to see it as a riddle, an enigma. Was the Crow student to the Sun but also Master to the Red Chair? Or was the Red Chair somehow Master to the Crow? After all, the Red Chair has its back turned to the Sun as though it is beyond the teachings of Nature. Plus, the Crow often studies us in silent proximity.
But I concluded that the Crow was not the student of the Red Chair since the Crow, while no doubt learning a bit from us, often watches us with bemusement at our fumbling relationship to the natural world. Much like a Master shaking their head at the flailing antics of a poor Student.
I imagine everyone will have their own take on this since we all see the world and our relationship to it in different ways. Which is a good thing. The danger comes in believing that our interpretations are absolute and beyond question. Perhaps we all need to try to change our perspective once in a while and attempt to see beyond our initial reading of things.
Maybe we should all see ourselves as the Students we should be and not as the Masters we believe ourselves to be.
I’ll let you chew on that for a bit. In the meantime, here’s a newer, interesting video of a favorite song from the Beatles, Tomorrow NeverKnows. Seems to fit this morning.
Student and Master is included in Eye in the Sky, my 22nd annual solo exhibit at the West End Gallery in Corning, NY. The exhibit opens next Friday, July 21 with an Opening Reception that runs from 5-7 PM. I will be in attendance to chat and answer questions. Maybe to even ask a few myself. Hope to see you there.
The pause—that impressive silence, that eloquent silence, that geometrically progressive silence which often achieves a desired effect where no combination of words, howsoever felicitous, could accomplish it.
—Mark Twain, Autobiography of Mark Twain
I was looking to write something about the painting above, In the High Country, which is part of my solo show at the West End Gallery,opening next Friday, July 21. In doing so, I came across this blogpost from about four years ago that seemed to sum up what I was seeing in it– a high and quiet place.
A place to pause and gather oneself in the stillness of nature. It’s a theme that runs like a ribbon through my work.
I think the following essay and the accompanying composition from Arvo Pärt fit the bill this morning.
We live in a time of chaos and confusion, amidst a constant bombardment of information and misinformation, an indecipherable babble of yelled opinions and enough stupidity to fill all the oceans and flood every coastline of this planet.
And that’s on a good day.
This morning I found myself longing for something, some music or reading, that would take me away from this maelstrom of madness. I came to the music of the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt whose piece Tabula Rasa was a big influence on my early work.
His work is the antidote to the turbulence of our time. It is what I would call slow music. It is the sort of music that requires you to pause to hear it fully. Doing so slows down the elevated heartbeat, syncs it to a pace that seems to be a meditative drone that has forever resided within us though we have long set aside our ability to tune in to it.
For quite some time I have rediscovered that ability to find pause in things with Pärt’s work, including this adaptation of My Heart’s in the Highlands. It is derived from a 1789 poem/song from the Scottish poet Robert Burns. This version is performed by vocalist Else Torp and organist Christopher Bowers.
Listening to it reminds me of the time spent alone wandering in the woods and fields in the hills around our home as a youth. Those times had that same pace, that same heartbeat and silence that made it so memorable in my mind.
Many times I have found my mind wandering back to those times and the spaces and silences that created a sense of home within me. Burns’ words speak a truth for me especially in these times so filled with sound and fury.
Allow yourself to pause for a moment and give a listen. Perhaps you will find your own heart in the highlands…
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer –
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North
The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands forever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forrests and wild-hanging woods;
Farwell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
The Illuminating Eye— Soon at the West End Gallery
The two ways of contemplation are not unlike the two ways of action commonly spoken of by the ancients: the one plain and smooth in the beginning, and in the end impassable; the other rough and troublesome in the entrance, but after a while fair and even. So it is in contemplation: If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts he shall end in certainties.
–Francis Bacon, The Advancement of Learning (1605)
I love this 400 and some year-old passage from Francis Bacon. It pretty much sums up what I have observed about how certainty and uncertainty operate in our lives.
When we cling to certainty, we close ourselves off to the possibility that truths exist beyond our belief. And when those truths ultimately reveal themselves, we are so dug in and defensive of our certainty that we refuse to acknowledge the evidence to the contrary. We are left with nagging doubts about all that we believe to be.
But if we hold on to a bit of uncertainty, acknowledging that we know little, we leave ourselves open to revelation of greater truths. Truths that lead to a validated certainty.
I think this idea represents a large part of what I hope comes across from my upcoming West End Gallery show, Eye in the Sky.I believe much of it is concerned with our search for some evidence of our place and role in this world and universe.
The revelation of a certainty that eases our uncertainty.
I can see this in this smaller painting, The Illuminating Eye, a 12″ by 9″ canvas from the show. For me, this is a piece about how we often search in darkness, waiting for a moment of illumination. And when that light finally reveals itself, a shadow of the darkness remains with us. The light reveals a truth yet some uncertainty always remains with us. That shadow represents the doubt we maintain that allows for an even greater truth, should it ever be revealed.
That’s how I see it for now. I am not absolutely certain that I will see it that way in the future. And, according to Bacon, that might be a bad thing.
Passages: Toward Order — Part of the West End Gallery Exhibit
It is the stretched soul that makes music, and souls are stretched by the pull of opposites-opposite bents, tastes, yearnings, loyalties. Where there is no polarity-where energies flow smoothly in one direction-there will be much doing but no music.
–Eric Hoffer, Between the Devil and the Dragon
As I am in the final days of prep work for my solo show, Eye in the Sky, which opens on Friday, July 21 at the West End Gallery, I am seeing the whole of the exhibit in one place for the first time. It reminds me of how someone could use an artist’s work as a roadmap or schematic of their mind and thought process, even though the artist might want to disguise and mask it.
It can uncover things that the artist doesn’t even know they are revealing at first. A body of work can often show all the facets of the artist’s personality prism. Flaws and strengths. Loves and desires, worries and fears. Highs and lows.
Art does that. And like the self-taught philosopher Eric Hoffer points out above, the music that makes up all art often comes when the artist is stretched and in tension between these polar oppositions.
That makes sense to me. The life of an artist is a very bipolar one, at least in my experience over the past quarter century. You’re always bouncing between polar opposites, all the time trying to find some sort of balance.
For instance, there is the desire to be isolated in privacy yet one’s livelihood is dependent on sharing your work– and by extension, yourself– in a very public way. And artists are often very sensitive to the criticism and judgement of others yet work in a field that is almost solely based on the judgement of others. This, of course, leads to cycles of acceptance and rejection. Overoptimism and excessive pessimism. Periods of highs where the artist overestimates their abilities and value and lows where they question why they even try. Periods when your work is in sync with the times and highly sought– the flavor of the month– followed by times when you are a bit overlooked and out of favor.
Then there is the most obvious comparison to bipolarism, the exuberance of those highly productive periods of creativity followed by the times when the artist has a creative block, leaving them feeling uninspired and in despair.
For some, it’s too much of a burden. I understand why someone would question putting themselves through that kind of stress and perpetual imbalance. It is certainly not for everybody. For me, it a way of living that makes sense since it mirrors what I would be going through in any other field in which I might be employed. In art, these tendencies have a place and even a purpose– if you can come to see and accept it in that way.
And I guess it’s evident at this point that I have. Maybe you can see it in the work from this show. Maybe not. The control in creating the work versus the lack of control n how it is received is yet another part of the bipolarism of the artist.
On that note, let’s get to this week’s Sunday Morning Music. It’s a cover of Nirvana’s Lithium. See the connection? This cover is from back in 2009 by a group from Texas that I was not familiar with, Polyphonic Spree. They are a group that gives the choral treatment to rock songs. This is a fun and highly exuberant cover of the song. Kind of takes you to the high end of the polarity. Not a bad way to get your Sunday charged up.
Hermitage— Part of the upcoming West End Gallery Show
Silence, solitude, what is more essential to the human condition? “Maternal silence” is what I like to call it. Life before the coming of language. That place where we begin to hear the voice of the inanimate. Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them. We are always at the beginning, eternal apprentices, thrown back again and again into that condition.
— Charles Simić, The Uncertain Certainty: Interviews, Essays, and Notes on Poetry, 1985
I am at that point in the process of getting the work prepared for my upcoming show where everything is chaotic. Little time for silence or stillness. This hectic point is the polar opposite from the quietness of mind needed to actually create the work. It makes me appreciate the time I get to do just that.
Makes me want to get back to my hermitage on my little private island of silence. I usually consider my studio in this way but at this point the work has bridged itself to the outside world. It is an island now. Just a busy, buzzy studio.
Small islands often appear in my work. They represent a desired place of solitariness for me, free from the sounds and stirrings of others. They carry an almost sacred meaning in the dialogue I have with my work.
The title of the smaller piece shown at the top, Hermitage, reflects that meaning. It is a small island bearing only the Red Tree and a lone figure that stands looking back at the mainland. I should note here that my islands are often not so isolated from larger land masses. They are not so far removed to be totally isolated and independent from the world beyond their shoreline.
They remain visible and in contact. They are just quietly there, unbothered and bothering no one.
A perfect place for a would-be hermit.
Here is a song from Gregory Alan Isakov that lines up pretty well with this post. This is Before the Sun.
Hermitage is an 8″ by 16″ ink and acrylic painting on canvas. It is included in Eye in the Sky, my soloexhibit opening Friday, July 21, at the West End Gallery. I will be in attendance for the opening reception on that evening beginning at 5 PM. We are still working out details for a Gallery Talk. Stay tuned for details.
A man must dream a long time in order to act with grandeur, and dreaming is nursed in darkness.
–Jean Genet, The Selected Writings of Jean Genet
My annual solo exhibit at the West End Gallery opens two weeks from tomorrow, Friday, July 21. This year’s show is titled Eye in the Sky, as is the painting above. Below is the statement for this year’s show.
I’ve been exhibiting my paintings at the West End Gallery since 1995, doing many group and solo shows. I believe this year’s solo show, Eye in the Sky, is my 22nd at the place I consider my home gallery, since it is the closest gallery to my home. More importantly, my career as an artist began at the West End Gallery 28 years ago.
Like many other things that take place over an extended period, my painting has evolved and changed. The techniques and process of my painting have constantly shifted, sometimes dramatically. And though I remain primarily a landscape painter, elements have been added to my paintings. There were red-roofed houses, red chairs, sailboats, paths, eyeless faces, and fields of flowers, among others. And, of course, the Red Tree that became a sort of trademark, being present in the majority of my paintings over the years.
But there has also been another element that has been present and almost as ubiquitous as that Red Tree. It is the sun or moon that often appears as a large ball in the skies over my imagined landscapes.
Over the years, this sun/moon orb has taken on a greater role in my paintings. Looking back at older work, the sun/moon was not shown often and was quite small in size when it did appear. It was often just a minor compositional element. However, in the intervening years, this sun/moon has grown in size and prominence in the paintings. It now has a real presence in the paintings, often serving as either the central figure or as a spiritual partner or guide for the Red Tree. The two often seem engaged in a silent conversation in many of the works.
There are probably many reasons for this evolution but the best explanation, at least to my mind, comes from a dream I had a number of years ago. It occurred in the months before the West End show of whatever year it was, at a time when I was struggling with my confidence. I felt more deeply blocked and dejected in my work than I had ever experienced before.
I felt empty, like I had perhaps given all I had to give in my work.
I had a dream one night during this time. In the dream, I was standing under a dark night sky that was colored in dark green tones. I was experiencing the same sort of anxiety that I was feeling in my waking life. Then there appeared an opening in the sky, as though a small sliding panel were opened in the sky.
An eye appeared in the opening. Tinted green in the light of the sky, it seemed to be a clear and ancient eye, surrounded by deep creases and wrinkles that were visible as it peered down at me through the opening.
No words were spoken, no singular message transmitted, or wisdom imparted. It was just there.
It had a great pacifying effect on me in the dream as though I instantly knew that there was something overseeing me and that I was not alone, that all was as it should be.
I woke up with that same pacified feeling of assurance, knowing that everything was as it should be. It was a drastic change from my demeanor of the days and weeks before. Its effect has carried me through that time and in times of anxiety since. The sun/moon has come to symbolize that dream and the ensuing feeling. I believe that dream was the starting point for the increased prominence of the sun/moon orb in my work.
The sun/moon has become a vital element in my work, nearly as much as my Red Tree. It serves many roles, often as a steadying force, symbol of hope and a sense of communion with the universe. I think this year’s show, Eye in the Sky, gives ample evidence of that.
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
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.
Redtree Times 