The whole thing’s coming down so let’s just get out of the way Well I’m not paranoid there is no conspiracy But I swear Big Brother’s watching me Turn on, tune in, drop out, give up with me
–Cracker, Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out With Me
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As much as I try to avoid the news lately, it seems to somehow find its way to me. Oh, there is an occasional bit of good news such as the amazing drop in carbon emissions around the globe caused by the world basically taking a nice long break. Air quality in cities that have long been recognized among the most polluted in the world are now at levels that are considered very good. In cities in northern India, the clear air has given them views of the looming Himalayas that haven’t been seen in a purported 30 years. City dwellers in these same cities are reporting that they are seeing the stars at night, something some claim to have never seen.
That’s a hopeful sign that the earth will quickly repair itself after we sloppy human pests vacate the premises.
Unfortunately, it seems like Mother Nature is urging us to leave a little quicker than we humans would like. Not only are we facing the horrors of covid-19, which tragically caused at least 2000 deaths yesterday here in the USA, I awoke to find that the Krakatoa volcano is erupting and that a highly virulent strain of bird flu has broken out on the turkey farms of South Carolina.
I had to turn off the news, fearful what new fresh slice of hell the next segment (and Mother Nature) might have in store for me.
Or rather, for us.
So, let’s turn on some appropriate music. A little Cracker performing their Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out With Me. If Ma Nature’s coming for us, maybe I best get out of her way. The figure is the Omega, the last man on earth, and the Red Tree is the Alpha, a symbol of new growth, of rebirth.
The painting at the top is titled From Omega to Alpha and is currently at the Principle Gallery in Alexandria, VA.
Saddened this morning to hear that singer/songwriter John Prine died yesterday from the coronavirus at the age of 73.
As I’ve noted here in the past, I have been a big fan for nearly a half century and many of his songs are so deeply embedded in my psyche that they are often the accompanying soundtrack to many of the events in my life. His songs were witty and wise while often reaching into the deeper parts of the human spirit and emotion.
His is a voice that will be sorely missed especially in these awful days when we are seeking for something that gives us direction or reminds us of our our own humanness. But his legacy is a lifetime of music that will speak for him from beyond the grave.
I wanted to play one of his songs today and there are so many choices that would have been easy to make. Paradise, Angel From Montgomery, Hello in There, That’s The Way the World Goes Round, Sam Stone, and on and on. I wanted something that you might not have heard if you weren’t a fan over the years. My choice was one used here on a post several years back that was concerned with the importance of kindness. It’s title is He Was in Heaven Before He Died.
I am pretty sure John Prine fell into that category.
Give a listen and have yourself some kind of day.
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Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you’re already in heaven now.
—Jack Kerouac
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I am not sure what to do with these words from Jack Kerouac but I do like them and think they deserve to be passed along. I am a firm believer of kindness in all forms and believe that it is a pathway to a better life here in this world.
When I was waiting tables I found that my own attitude and demeanor often dictated how others responded to me. If I smiled and acted congenially, more often than not the person I was dealing with responded in the same manner. We are reactionary creatures and we instinctively respond according to the tone we encounter– rudeness with rudeness and anger with anger.
And kindness with kindness.
It’s our choice. If we can fight against our reactionary nature and choose to act and react with kindness, we can shape our world and then perhaps realize that a form of heaven might be within our grasp.
I have never had the faith or certainty of those who believe that there is an actual heaven waiting beyond this world. I would like to but I just don’t have it within me. So, for me, if there is to be a heaven it is something to be sought in the here and now. By that, I mean creating an environment that is honest, kind and gentle.
A life that is peaceful and quiet–that would be heaven to me.
So, when you’re out there today and face rudeness and anger, make the choice to react in a gentler manner and be kind. Your world might be one small step closer to heaven.
This quote reminded me of a song from one of my favorites, John Prine. The title pretty much sums it up: He Was In Heaven Before He Died.
Going forward, I think I am going to designate Tuesday as a No-News-Day. Just turn off the news and the social media. Whatever is there will catch up to me soon enough, that’s for sure. Listen to only music and try to focus on the work at hand.
So, Tuesday’s a No-News-Day.
And if this works out, maybe Wednesday, Thursday and a couple of others will follow.
Probably not Friday though. The masochistic part of me that seems beyond my control wants to go into the weekend at least a little pissed off.
So, I am starting this Tuesday No-News-Day with some comfort music. Well, at least, for me. It’s Darkness on the Edge of Town from the 1978 album of the same name from Bruce Springsteen, which was his long awaited followup to the classic Born to Run.
It was an interesting and dark period for Springsteen in the 3 years or so between the release of Born to Run and the making of Darkness. He had all these accolades for Born to Run which was hailed as an instant classic and seemed to be on top of the world. But he was in the midst of an ugly, protracted lawsuit with his former manager that stripped him of the rights to his music, left him broke and prohibited from recording. He survived by a heavy touring schedule with long epic shows that built up the base of hardcore fans that would support him for the rest of his career. This period of time was reflected in Darkness on the Edge of Town.
There was an HBO documentary from about 10 years ago about making of Darkness on the Edge of Town. In it, Springsteen talked about wanting to create a cinematic feel and sweep with the music, one that evokes a visual image with the sound. Sound pictures, he called them. I understood what he meant by that because I have always viewed my paintings in the reverse of this, as being visual music. As though the message or feel he (and I) wants to get across is caught somewhere in between the two mediums. Or maybe even more than the two.
I believe a lot of artists must see their work as a mixture and synthesis of multiple mediums. I certainly sometimes see my own work in terms of literature or poetry or cinema.
Anyway, this is an easy throwback in time for me. I am coupling it with an older small piece from 2006 that I think fits the song’s feel. This was from a series of small cityscapes that featured the outskirts set against skylines of tall buildings or industrial structures. I loved painting these piece and they still bring me a lot of joy when I revisit them.
Give a listen. Enjoy your own No-News-Day if you can.
I was looking at this painting above this morning, one that resides with me now here in the studio. It’s from back in 2011 and is called Dissolve. It really spoke to me from the moment I realized it was finished and laid down the brush.
It still does.
It’s a simple piece with complex feelings, one that makes me immensely happy and slightly sad at the same time. It’s contented yet wistful and yearning, something mirrored in the beauty and solidity of the fields in the foreground set against the dissolving colors of the sky.
With it’s duality of feelings, it’s a very human piece, I guess. And that bit of humanness is what struck me this morning. While I have alternated between high and low emotions lately, looking at this painting for a bit seemed to modulate all of these feelings. The lower ebbs are still there but there is a visible counterweight that takes away some of their depth, makes them more tolerable.
This modulating effect might be the most valuable aspect of my work, at least for myself. Without it, everything else that the work provides for me is worthless.
So, this morning I sit with this image in mind and feel… like a human. And, for the most part, that’s a good thing.
Hope you’re feelng human this morning and can find your way, perhaps with a little modulation of your own, to a good day. Here’s a song from one of my favorites, Neko Case, from a 2006 appearance on Conan. Here’s Hold On, Hold On.
Last week, Bob Dylan released his first original song in eight years. Titled Murder Most Foul the 17 minute song is primarily focused on the 1963 assassination of JFK but uses it more a point of departure for a guided ride on a hazy time machine that moves through the decades that followed.
Over a slow paced backing with piano, drum and strings that gives it the feel of an elegy or requiem, Dylan takes the imagery of that dark November and weaves it together with a long list of wildly disparate references to musical selections and pop culture figures.
It all becomes a mesmerizing drone.
On one hand, it seems to be just a mishmash of words and references with no real meaning.
But on the other hand, it feels like it is pointing us to this moment as an endpoint for an arc that began on that day in 1963, with every moment and event since, large or small, pushing us forward to this culmination.
Like we’ve been on a journey since that day and this moment and situation was our ultimate destination.
And for many whose lives have spanned that time period, that feeling is one that makes a certain amount of sense. For these folks, that day in 1963 has cast a shadow over everything since and there is a constant groping through the detritus of the years to find the connecting strands that will somehow make sense of it all. For them, there seems to be something going on, a set pattern of small indiscernible nudges, that is just out of reach or understanding.
And this song somehow feels like it is bringing finality to that pattern’s path.
I can’t say whether that this is true or not or if I even believe what I’ve just written. Maybe it’s an epic. Or maybe it’s just a load of crap. I guess, like all art, it’s a subjective opinion.
For me, it’s just oddly compelling. I’ve probably listened to this song forty times or more in the past week, sometimes playing it on a loop while I have been stretching canvasses or working at some other simple physical tasks. I find it oddly soothing, especially after listening to it immediately after watching the news reports on the current situation. I find myself pausing at certain recurring moments in each playing of the song and catching a few of same couplets, out of the many that make up the song, again and again.
Maybe I am trying to find the pattern in this song that might somehow bring to light the pattern that has possibly spanned the past 56+ years.
I don’t know.
I’m sharing a version with lyrics so, if you have the desire and 17 minutes to spare, give a listen. It will give you something to think about in your time of isolation. Have a good day.
I always play a bit of music on Sunday mornings here, usually trying to link it to whatever is going on in my little world of paint or out there in the larger world. You know, a relevant song for a new painting or for a current event that might be dominating the news.
But sometimes they are songs that I simply like, songs that have meaning for me. Songs that make me cry. Or songs that make me happy and maybe even laugh.
I didn’t want to go with songs that make me cry today. There’s been enough reason to cry lately without having to be prodded.
So, I am opting for a song or two that make me happy. Make me smile and actually chuckle. Plus, you can easily link both with the situation at hand.
Facing hardship is an integral part of the nature of being alive. Illness and injury, death, loss, failure, humiliation– we all face some or all of these things in our lives. Some face fewer and some even more of these hardships, but none are completely exempt. While facing my share–which are no more than most– I have always found music and humor to be effective coping mechanisms.
For me, it helps sometimes to laugh at my misfortune, especially if it has come about at my own doing. Laughing makes the situation seem smaller, less momentous. Laughter actually belittles the moment. I know that in the aftermath of some of my most down moments that I have some soothing salve in laughing at myself and the moment as I lick my wounds.
So, let’s lick our wounds and have a couple of songs. Both are from Eric Idle of Monty Python’s Flying Circus fame. He wrote most of the songs that the troupe employed in their shows and movies. We were lucky enough to see him many years ago, I think it was 2000, at Carnegie Hall for a very enjoyable evening of his songs and some well known Python bits.
The first is a beautifully shot film of a sing-along performance of Always Look on the Bright Side from the film, Life of Brian. The song has become over the years the go-to song in Britain when they are facing adversity, a screw you to the problem at hand. In recent days, a tug on the Thames River has been blaring it from loudspeakers as it chugs up and down the waterway.
Plus, this version has pipers. What more could ask?
The song here at the bottom is The Galaxy Song from the film, The Meaning of Life. It puts the problems we face into a galactic and universal perspective.
So, give a listen. Maybe sing along and smile. But do try have a good day.
Living in isolation has never been a great challenge for me in normal times. I thought I was a distant island that only needed a visitor every once in a while for those few things I couldn’t provide for myself. But these are not normal times and the impingement from the outer world pushes hard into my space now, disrupting the solitude that I thought was impenetrable.
Listening to the words that the great leader*** spoke yesterday, where he basically admitted that he wanted the states’ governors to bend the knee before him and had instructed the VP to not call and offer assistance to those that didn’t, made me realize that we are all islanders now.
50+ sovereign states, all fending for themselves, with a hope that exceeds reality that the unified power of the central government will offer much needed aid, will somehow favor them above the others in their time of need. We are in trouble and call out for aid to those who have a sworn duty to serve us.
Much as Puerto Rico did not so long ago in the aftermath of the historic hurricanes that ravaged that island.
We are all Puerto Rico now.
We probably should have taken the treatment Puerto Rico received, a few rolls of paper towel dismissively thrown at them along with conditioned promises of aid that were never fully realized, as an omen. We all are about to receive that same treatment and the storm that approaches this time is even larger and deadlier.
Anyway, I came across a post written for a 2013 show at the West End Gallery that featured the above painting, Islander, as its title piece. I thought the words were pertinent to this time. Its a painting that really resonates deeply with me on a personal level and one that, inexplicably at least for me, has never found a home. It still resides at the Just Looking Gallery in California, waiting patiently for someone to see what I see in it.
Along with the post below, I have included a version of Simon and Garfunkel‘s classic I Am a Rock. This video features the lyrics which is a way I have been listening to a lot of music lately. Times of crisis make me look harder for connecting threads of meaning. Whether they are there is another thing.
Give a look and have a good day on your little islands.
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I am an islander.
But I don’t live on an island. Never have and probably never will.
No, my island is a metaphorical place, one that exists in the creative ether of my mind. An island that is completely apart from and immune to the outer world that exists across the deep surrounding waters. Self-sustaining and self-ruled, a blank slate on which I can create my own reality.
It’s a place free from the ire and pettiness of others. Free of strife and injustice. and filled with the quiet of solitude. Filled with color, warmth and emotion.
An island of creation and peace.
But there is a paradox in being an islander. While trying to remain separate, it becomes abundantly clear that we can never really exist as totally independent from the outer world. Actually, to the islander those bonds to the outside world become even more apparent and important. The isolation only serves to heighten our recognition of our inclusion and connection to the world. You begin to recognize them as lifelines, bringing those things to the island that you cannot create in yourself.
Try as one might, one can never live in isolation from their own humanity. I think the best you can do is to create an island that you can visit periodically to revitalize yourself. And that’s what I believe I see in the work for this show– paintings that take me away for a short while from the outer world and place me on that peaceful island.
For that short time, I am truly an islander.
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No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
No parades this year with the drone of pipe bands and local fire departments showing off their freshly shined trucks while kids aboard them throw fistfuls of candy at the yelling crowds. No raucous drunk buses trekking from pub to pub filled with folks in plastic Kelly green derbies and Kiss Me I’m Irish t-shirts. No restaurants, firehalls or Hibernian Centers packed with revelers chowing down on their corned beef and cabbage and pints of Guinness.
No, this is not a year that will be tipped toward the louder side of this holiday. Instead, it will be one that leans toward the more somber and melancholy side of the Irish character, which is never far from the louder and more sociable part.
For me, moving to this more melancholy part is not a challenge. It usually brings memories of my mom, who has been gone nearly 25 years now, to the forefront. This would have been her 88th birthday. St. Patrick’s Day and her are permanently connected in my mind, down to the color green that I associate so much with her memory.
It’s the cool green of damp ferns, bright and vibrant in the yellow of the sun yet more fully beautiful and rich in the blue darkness of the shadows.
I stopped for just a moment now and a flood of memories came over me. That made me even more melancholy because they were so many of the same memories that I have been relishing for years now while I know there are so many more that are deeply tucked away in the folds of time and mind, hidden so that they would most likely be forever lost to me.
So, try your best to enjoy your St. Patrick’s Day this year, be it with a pint and a song or a tear and a memory. Or both.
Here’s a bit of Irish from the Chieftains, who we lucky enough to see at Carnegie Hall on St. Paddy’s Day many years ago. Wonderful show. These are two songs with Morning Dew in their titles that are distinctly different. The first is the instrumental The Morning Dew which has the feel of march and the second, the wistfully sad song of memory, May Morning Dew.
It seems a little silly to write about my work while what is happening in the outer world beyond my studio goes on. I would prefer to give air to my anger at the gross incompetence and irresponsibility displayed by our government in its handling of the current crisis. Or to voice my anxiety for the health of my family and friends, as well as my own. Or my fears about the almost certain loss of the better part of my livelihood for at least the near future. And maybe well beyond.
Who knows how this ultimately shakes out?
So, writing about painting seems grossly insignificant, even trivial, at the moment.
But it’s what I do.
I am painting diligently now with the hopes that soon there will be a return to normalcy.
It’s what I do.
It also keeps me from thinking too much about the current situation, keeps me as sane as I can be. Now, where that falls on the sane to insane spectrum, I can’t tell you. But while it provides me with an escape route, the outer world often finds its way in.
Take the piece at the top, a new painting on paper that’s 18″ by 24″. It’s a real throwback to my earlier work with transparent color washes with hard edges and a sparseness of detail. Painting it was a joy, like meeting an old best friend once more and recognizing all those things that made that person important to you at one time. There was an inherent comfort in it for me, one that allowed me to forge ahead, finding focus even though my mind was still partially distracted.
The sky in these works always seem to dominate whatever element I choose to serve as the central character in the composition, here the house and the adjacent Red Tree. This domination provides evidence for me of our frailty, our relative smallness in the greater scheme of things in this world, in this universe. But at the same time it provides affirmation of my own existence, standing alone under the dome of the sky.
It just felt good. Feels good. The image above is not perfect, needs a little tweaking as I just noticed a shadow on the foreground. But for the moment, it’s good enough. But even though it, for the most part, takes me away from the now, the current situation always seems to creep back in. When I was finishing this piece the idea of social distancingas a way of mitigating exposure to the virus was on my mind. This piece, like much of my work, has a sense of isolation.
I decided to call it Keep Your Distance, the title taken from a Richard Thompson song from one of my favorite albums, Rumor and Sigh.
Here’s the song. Give a listen and keep your distance, okay?
When I was about eleven, I remember getting the posthumous album, Pearl, from Janis Joplin. This was pre-boombox and Walkman, the era where vinyl still ruled the musical roost and eight-track and cassette tapes were the new pretenders to the throne. My copy of Pearl was on tape cassette and I listened to it incessantly on a little personal tape recorder, the kind someone might have used for dictation. Even with the limits of the technology, Janis’ album was a revelation, especially for a kid living out in the country who spent much of his time alone.
What I didn’t know until yesterday is that a couple of tracks from that album were songs that were originally performed by one artist, an early Soul and R&B artist by the name of Garnet Mimms. I was listening to a quirky local channel that plays a weird mix of old music, a station that I sometimes jokingly call Offbrand Radio because they often play versions of hit songs performed by artists other than the hitmakers. I often find myself scratching my head wondering why a certain song that I’ve heard and enjoyed a thousand times before just doesn’t sound right. Or is suddenly downright awful.
But every so often things go the other way and I am thrilled with what I am hearing.
Such was the case yesterday. The song Cry Baby which Janis immortalized on Pearl with a scorching rendition came on the radio but it was man’s voice. I prepped myself to laugh or yell “Why would you do that?” at the radio. But it was good. Really good.
I Shazammed the song to find out who it was because this channel almost never identifies the singers or bands it plays and found that it was a name I was not aware of– Garnet Mimms. I did a quick search on him and was shocked and a little ashamed that I had never heard of him. Along with Cry Baby, Mimms also did the song My Baby from Pearl. Several other songs were minor hits in the early 60’s and later were covered by the Yardbirds, Led Zeppelin and many others.
Listening to many of his songs, I was really pleased with the high level of quality in his performances and in the songs themselves. Great stuff.
Reading his bio, Garnet Mimms, who is 86 now, had a lot of success before retiring from music in the 1980’s and turning to a life of ministering the gospel to incarcerated prisoners. But even with his success and the fact that he is often cited by those familiar with his work as the first Soul singer, the equal of legends like Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson and an influence on singers the likes of Janis Joplin and Otis Redding, his name is not well known. As one pop music critic wrote, Garnet Mimms is “criminally underappreciated.”
As someone who works in a creative field, that is something I can understand and appreciate. Being criminally underappreciated may be the next best thing to being celebrated at the highest levels. There’s evidence for people to find. The work is still there and it is consistent and timelessly strong enough to still turn heads.
“Criminally underappreciated.”
I can only hope that someone will someday say that about my work.
So, while I am ashamed that he has been off my radar for so long, it is my great pleasure to play a couple of songs from Garnet Simms here for this Sunday’s morning music. First up is his version of Cry Baby and then A Quiet Place, which is a title that meshed well with my own work.
Redtree Times 