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In the Rhythm of the World– At West End Gallery



I recently came across a book of graduation speeches given by Kurt Vonnegut over the years. The speeches are witty, insightful, and bitingly to the point, much like his writing. I thought I would share one of these commencement speeches, one that includes the story behind the title of his book of speeches, If This Isn’t Nice, What Is? 

This speech from 1999 was given at Agnes Scott College, a private women’s liberal arts college in Decatur, Georgia. 26 years later, Vonnegut’s words ring true as we see ourselves vying to survive in a world that proclaims that we should adhere to Jesus’ words from the Sermon on the Mount while simultaneously prodding us to follow the Code of Hammurabi.  

Below is that speech. It’s worth a few minutes of your time. It covers a lot of ground in a short time.



Kurt Vonnegut Commencement Speech, Agnes Scott College, 1999–

I am so smart I know what is wrong with the world. Everybody asks during and after our wars, and the continuing terrorist attacks all over the globe, “What’s gone wrong?” What has gone wrong is that too many people, including high school kids and heads of state, are obeying the Code of Hammurabi, a King of Babylonia who lived nearly four thousand years ago. And you can find his code echoed in the Old Testament, too. Are you ready for this?

“An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”

A categorical imperative for all who live in obedience to the Code of Hammurabi, which includes heroes of every cowboy show and gangster show you ever saw, is this: Every injury, real or imagined, shall be avenged. Somebody’s going to be really sorry.

When Jesus Christ was nailed to a cross, he said, “Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do.” What kind of a man was that? Any real man, obeying the Code of Hammurabi, would have said, “Kill them, Dad, and all their friends and relatives, and make their deaths slow and painful.”

His greatest legacy to us, in my humble opinion, consists of only twelve words. They are the antidote to the poison of the Code of Hammurabi, a formula almost as compact as Albert Einstein’s “E = mc2.

I am a Humanist, or Freethinker, as were my parents and grandparents and great grandparents — and so not a Christian. By being a Humanist, I am honoring my mother and father, which the Bible tells us is a good thing to do.

But I say with all my American ancestors, “If what Jesus said was good, and so much of it was absolutely beautiful, what does it matter if he was God or not?”

If Christ hadn’t delivered the Sermon on the Mount, with its message of mercy and pity, I wouldn’t want to be a human being.

I would just as soon be a rattlesnake.

Revenge provokes revenge which provokes revenge which provokes revenge — forming an unbroken chain of death and destruction linking nations of today to barbarous tribes of thousands and thousands of years ago.

We may never dissuade leaders of our nation or any other nation from responding vengefully, violently, to every insult or injury. In this, the Age of Television, they will continue to find irresistible the temptation to become entertainers, to compete with movies by blowing up bridges and police stations and factories and so on…

But in our personal lives, our inner lives, at least, we can learn to live without the sick excitement, without the kick of having scores to settle with this particular person, or that bunch of people, or that particular institution or race or nation. And we can then reasonably ask forgiveness for our trespasses, since we forgive those who trespass against us. And we can teach our children and then our grandchildren to do the same — so that they, too, can never be a threat to anyone.

A woman’s reach should exceed her grasp, or what’s a heaven for?

You should know that when a husband and wife fight, it may seem to be about money or sex or power.

But what they’re really yelling at each other about is loneliness. What they’re really saying is, “You’re not enough people.”

If you determine that that really is what they’ve been yelling at each other about, tell them to become more people for each other by joining a synthetic extended family — like the Hell’s Angels, perhaps, or the American Humanist Association, with headquarters in Amherst, New York — or the nearest church.

Computers are no more your friends, and no more increasers of your brainpower, than slot machines…

Only well-informed, warm-hearted people can teach others things they’ll always remember and love. Computers and TV don’t do that.

A computer teaches a child what a computer can become.

An educated human being teaches a child what a child can become. Bad men just want your bodies. TVs and computers want your money, which is even more disgusting. It’s so much more dehumanizing!

By working so hard at becoming wise and reasonable and well-informed, you have made our little planet, our precious little moist, blue-green ball, a saner place than it was before you got here.

Most of you are preparing to enter fields unattractive to greedy persons, such as education and the healing arts. Teaching, may I say, is the noblest profession of all in a democracy.

One of the things [Uncle Alex] found objectionable about human beings was that they so rarely noticed it when they were happy. He himself did his best to acknowledge it when times were sweet. We could be drinking lemonade in the shade of an apple tree in the summertime, and Uncle Alex would interrupt the conversation to say, “If this isn’t nice, what is?”

So I hope that you will do the same for the rest of your lives. When things are going sweetly and peacefully, please pause a moment, and then say out loud, “If this isn’t nice, what is?”

That’s one favor I’ve asked of you. Now I ask for another one. I ask it not only of the graduates, but of everyone here, parents and teachers as well. I’ll want a show of hands after I ask this question.

How many of you have had a teacher at any level of your education who made you more excited to be alive, prouder to be alive, than you had previously believed possible?

Hold up your hands, please.

Now take down your hands and say the name of that teacher to someone else and tell them what that teacher did for you.

All done?

If this isn’t nice, what is?

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The Answering Light— At Principle Gallery,

make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

Wendell Berry



I run the post below every five years or so. Since I’m busy this morning (trying to not disturb the silence) and it’s been five years, thought today would be as good a time as any to replay it.

Regardless of what we do, we all need a reminder now and then to heed the silence.



I came across this poem a while ago from poet/author Wendell Berry on Maria Popova‘s wonderful site, Brain Pickings. It’s a lovely rumination that could apply to any creative endeavor or to simply being a human being.

I particularly identified with the final verse that begins with the line: Accept what comes from silence and ends with the lines above. I’ve always thought there was great wisdom and power in silence, a source of self-revelation and creative energy. Perhaps that self-revelation is why so many of us shun the silence, fearing that it might reveal our true self to be something other than what we see in the mirror.

Berry’s words very much sum up how I attempt to tap into silence with my work, to find those little words that cone out of the silence, like prayers, and to find inner spaces to paint that are sacred to me and not yet desecrated by the din of the outside world.

At the bottom is a recording of Wendell Berry reading the poem which gives it even a little more depth, hearing his words in that rural Kentucky voice. It’s fairly short so please take a moment and give a listen.



HOW TO BE A POET
(to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill — more of each
than you have — inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

Wendell Berry



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The Wakening Light— At Principle Gallery




Strange as it may seem today to say, the aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. In this state of god-like awareness one sings; in this realm the world exists as poem. No why or wherefore, no direction, no goal, no striving, no evolving. Like the enigmatic Chinaman, one is rapt by the everchanging spectacle of passing phenomena. This is the sublime, the a-moral state of the artist, he who lives only in the moment, the visionary moment of utter, far-seeing lucidity. Such clear icy sanity that it seems like madness. By the force and power of the artist’s vision the static, synthetic whole which is called the world is destroyed. The artist gives back to us a vital, singing universe, alive in all is parts.

In a way the artist is always acting against the time-destiny movement. He is always a-historical. He accepts Time absolutely, as Whitman says, in the sense that any way he rolls (with tail in mouth) is direction; in the sense that any moment, every moment, may be the all; for the artist there is nothing but the present, the eternal here and now, the expanding infinite moment which is flame and song. And when he succeeds in establishing this criterion of passionate experience (which is what Lawrence meant by ‘obeying the Holy Ghost’) then, and only then, is he asserting his humanness. Then only does he live out his pattern as Man. Obedient to every urge — without distinction of morality, ethics, law, custom, etc.

— Henry Miller, The Wisdom of the Heart, 1941




I’ve had this passage from Henry Miller sitting in a draft file for a long time now. Maybe it was his use of the dated stereotype of the enigmatic Chinaman that kept me from using it. It sounds cringey, yes. Definitely not the preferred nomenclature today, as Walter from The Big Lebowski would be quick to point out.

But I understand that his reference is not a slur as he was referring to the wise and stoic sages such as Confucius and Lao Tzu. It was about artists acquiring a similar Zenlike state in their work one that transports them to the eternal here and now, as Miller put it.

The expanding infinite moment which is flame and song…

That is what struck me about this passage. It is something I understand and maybe the main reason I am a painter today. More so than any reasons based on practicality or talent.

It is that moment that comes while working on a painting when I am no longer in the studio on that particular day but instead find myself in the place and time of the painting on which I am working–the eternal here and now

 A different reality has taken hold then and its feeling is palpable. It is both liberating from and unifying with the world in which I live. Liberating in that the world outside my studio with its lies, hatred, corruption, and stupidity seems like a distant planet in that time and place. Unifying in that this act of creation, this other time and place, allows me to express a connection with humanity that I sometimes struggle to find on the outer world. Asserting my humanness, as Miller wrote.

Of course, this does not happen here in the studio every time I stand before my easel. No, it is a rare gem that is buried deep and has to be excavated. The world impinges further into the studio on some days and in recent weeks I have lacked the energy and mental clarity to be transported fully to that other place and time– the eternal here and now— for any extended visits.

But it’s getting better every day. Yesterday I was able to once again find that place and time for a spell and it was like a trip to a spa for me. As free and easy a day in the studio as I have had in well over a month. It didn’t last long but it felt good for the time I was there and not here.

I hope to find that place and time again today. And to stay a little longer. 

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Echoes of Time— At West End Gallery


The lonesome friends of science say
“This world will end most any day”
Well, if it does, then that’s okay
‘Cause I don’t live here anyway
I live down deep inside my head
Well, long ago I made my bed
I get my mail in Tennessee
My wife, my dog and my family

John Prine, Lonesome Friends of Science (2018)



Another short post this morning. Not even the normal triad of word, image and song since the chorus from the song is serving as the word leg of the three-legged stool I am building here.

So, it’s a two-legged stool. Hope, it stands up.

At least for today.

The same goes for me.

Here’s the song, Lonesome Friends of Science, from John Prine‘s last album, The Tree of Forgiveness, from 2018. As you might know, John Prine passed away in 2020 from covid. II am using the painting above, Echoes of Time, because this morning I am seeing it as that tree of forgiveness as John Prine put it.



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The Welcome Tree–At the West End Gallery



There is one thing one has to have: either a soul that is cheerful by nature, or a soul made cheerful by work, love, art, and knowledge.

—Friedrich Nietzsche, Genealogy of Morals (1887)



Nietzsche wrote a lot more about cheerfulness than one might expect. Not that I suspect that he himself was a cheerful soul. Maybe he was one of those, as the quote above implies, was made cheerful through work, love, art and nature.

I don’t know and I’m not interested enough right now to explore it any further at the moment. This quote seems to be one that is not verbatim from its source but was instead a compilation of thought.

That, too, doesn’t matter to me at the moment. I just like the quote as it stands, without full context.

It makes me wonder about my own nature and that of many others I know. Do I consider myself one who is cheerful by nature? I don’t believe I am though I have certain aspirations of being naturally cheerful, to not feel the weight of periodic depression or be eternally optimistic. I am not to that point yet and seriously doubt I will ever be there.

Actually, I know I won’t ever be that person. Whatever cheerfulness I possess comes from those potential sources that Nietzsche mentions. I think that holds true for most people, but I can’t say for sure. We all wear masks that sometimes cover our true natures.

I am sure we could go into a whole psychological examination of one another here but let’s save that for our diaries this time. 

Instead let us enjoy another song from Chicago that plays into the theme today, as does the painting at the top. This is Make Me Smile. I wasn’t a big Chicago fan when I was younger and they were in their heyday. But we change with time– hopefully and thankfully– and I have become quite a fan over the years.



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The Pacifying Light– At Principle Gallery

 



A man’s work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover through the detours of art those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.

-Albert Camus



These lines above are from an early essay, Between Yes and No, written by the French Nobel Prize-winning writer Albert Camus. It basically states, in sometimes grim detail, his belief that art “exalts and denies simultaneously.” In short, truth is generally somewhere in the middle, never absolutely in yes or no.

Yes or no is generally an oversimplified view, the extreme ends of the pendulum’s arc on which we swing.

While I may not fully understand all the subtleties of Camus’ essay, I do fully agree with the premise as I see it in my own simplified way. I think that art communicates best when it contains both the yes and the no— those polar oppositions that create a tension to which we react on an emotional level. For example, I think my best work has come when it contains opposing elements such as the light of hope or optimism tinged with the darkness of fear or remorse.

The Yes and The No of things. The certainty and uncertainty of all things.

Beyond that, I find this line about the artist’s effort to rediscover those few simple images that somehow first stirred something within their heart and soul intriguing. I certainly recognize it within my own work. I had no idea what I was trying to find when I first began to paint those many years ago. But the idea that there were some inner images that needed to be expressed nagged at me, even though I wasn’t fully aware of what those images were. They were slowly revealed to me and though I often didn’t fully understand their meaning, they somehow made sense and began to fill an emptiness.

That continues to this day. It is, as Camus, says, a slow trek. I still don’t know what to expect when I begin to paint and still have the nagging feeling that there is still an image out there– or in there– that eludes me. But I have some small degree of certainty, for whatever that is worth, that it is there waiting to be discovered. I just have to keep moving towards it.

Here’s a favorite song from a favorite artist, Rhiannon Giddens.  The song is the folk classic Wayfaring Stranger. It’s one of those songs that has been covered by a multitude of singers and is such a strong tune that every incarnation is equally wonderful.



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New Day Rising– Now at West End Gallery



Art is not a plaything, but a necessity, and its essence, form, is not a decorative adjustment, but a cup into which life can be poured and lifted to the lips and be tasted.

–Rebecca West, Black Lamb and Grey Falcon (1941)




In what is considered her masterpiece describing the history and culture of Yugoslavia, author Rebecca West wrote in Black Lamb and Grey Falcon that art and culture, especially in the form of myths and storytelling, provide both countries and individuals with a revitalizing well from which they can drink in order to survive the difficulties of life and history. Art and culture connects us with symbols, stories, and myths that changes our mere existence into one brimming with purpose and meaning. 

I know that West is writing primarily about storytelling and the myths of nations, which is evident in the passage from which the lines above are taken, which I am sharing below. But I feel that the purpose they serve, as West sees it, is very much the same for art in general. Art moves us beyond our own day-to-day existence, connecting us with our known and unknown pasts and futures. It allows us to feel as though we are part of some greater vehicle, serving both as a function of memory and desire.

Indeed, art is not a plaything. It is an elixir that invigorates the spirit and soul.

Below is the expanded passage from Rebecca West. I think there may be relevance in it for this country at this juncture in history.



Art is not a plaything, but a necessity, and its essence, form, is not a decorative adjustment, but a cup into which life can be poured and lifted to the lips and be tasted. If one’s own existence has no form, if its events do not come handily to mind and disclose their significance, we feel about ourselves as if we were reading a bad book. We can all of us judge the truth of this, for hardly any of us manage to avoid some periods when the main theme of our lives is obscured by details, when we involve ourselves with persons who are insufficiently characterized; and it is possibly true not only of individuals, but of nations. What would England be like if it had not its immense Valhalla of kings and heroes, if it had not its Elizabethan and its Victorian ages, its thousands of incidents which come up in the mind, simple as icons and as miraculous in their suggestion that what England has been it can be again, now and for ever? What would the United States be like if it had not those reservoirs of triumphant will-power, the historical facts of the War of Independence, of the giant American statesmen, and of the pioneering progress into the West, which every American citizen has at his mental command and into which he can plunge for revivification at any minute? To have a difficult history makes, perhaps, a people who are bound to be difficult in any conditions, lacking these means of refreshment.

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Moment Revealed — At West End Gallery





We have five senses in which we glory and which we recognize and celebrate, senses that constitute the sensible world for us. But there are other senses – secret senses, sixth senses, if you will – equally vital, but unrecognized, and unlauded… unconscious, automatic.

–Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat



Maybe that’s the purpose of art, to prompt us to some sort of sixth sense, one that otherwise goes unnoticed and underutilized in our usual five-sense lives. It is something that we don’t even know that we have been needing and missing until we are awakened to it.

This sixth sense enables us to detect the many dimensions which exist between and beyond that which we observe with our five senses, adding depth and richness to our sense-limited world. 

And art does just that, serving as the activating agent for this sixth sense and beyond that, acting as the connecting link between the known and the unknown. I believe that is what is taking place when one is moved by art in any form.

It transports you into dimensions beyond the five senses. 

And that’s where the good stuff is…

Here’s a song this morning about one type of sixth sense from Irish singer/songwriter Imelda May. With a style that covers many genres of music including jazz and rockabilly, she wasn’t on my radar until just a couple of years ago. I stumbled across a video of Robert Plant and her performing a rockabilly-Big Band rave-up of Led Zep‘s Rock and Roll that I very much enjoyed. I’ll throw that on below as well.





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The Entanglement— Now at Principle Gallery



The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

–Dylan Thomas (1933)



This is considered the poem that more or less brought Dylan Thomas to fame as a poet. I read it again recently and was surprised at how well it aligns with the theme of my show, Entanglement, at the Principle Gallery. It basically describes how our timed existence here on this world is simply part of the timeless driving force of the universe. How that in this place made of time, the very force allowed us for our short stay here, the life force that energizes us, ultimately destroys then leaves us to regather with its timeless source.

Not sure that it is something that is easily explained and I am not sure if I was able to adequately convey that message with this show. But since the show ends today, I felt it was worth sharing this morning along with a splendid reading from Thomas’ fellow Welshman Richard Burton. And for good measure, I added a favorite song from a favorite guitarist, Martin Simpson. Last shared here a couple of years back, it’s titled She Slips Away, and was written about the death of his mother, as she moved from time to timelessness.

As does my Entanglement show which ends today. So, if you want to see it, today is your last opportunity to see it in its entirety before it moves into the realm of the timeless.





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To the Main Road– At Principle Gallery


I knew that I had ample room in which to wander, since science has calculated the diameter of space to be eighty-four thousand million light years, which, when one reflects that light travels at the rate of one hundred eighty-six thousand miles a second, should satisfy the wanderlust of the most inveterate roamer.

–Edgar Rice Burroughs, Pirates of Venus (1932)



Still feeling a bit off kilter and definitely not feeling celebratory in any way for the Fourth of July tomorrow. In fact, I am a little crotchety this morning. Writing that makes me wonder about the origins of the word crotchety. One of the numerous benefits of the instant information of the InterWebs– we won’t go into its equally numerous pitfalls — is that one can answer questions like this within seconds. No more finding and dragging out the dictionary or encyclopedia or whatever reference book you have stacked on your shelves. I accumulated a bunch of compendiums of knowledge, both general and odd facts, over the years that sometimes answered such queries. Not always which meant writing it on a list to be looked up the next time I went to the library. Information moved much slower then and usually by the time I got an answer I had lost interest.

FYI, crotchety is derived from the word crochet which refers to the craft and hook used in it. The term came to represent someone who was hooked by peculiar thoughts, resulting in a brusque, rude attitude towards others.

Yeah, I fall into that category this morning. Crotchety old man shaking my fist at the sky.

Anyway, the theme today is wanderlust. Maybe by the description of searching for info that should be changed to wonderlust. Is that even a word? I guess I will have to take to the InterWebs once more.

While I am doing that, here’s a tune called Wanderlust from the immortal Duke Ellington and sax legend Coleman Hawkins. This came up on my playlist earlier setting this whole fiasco in motion.

Now, either listen or get out. I got things to do. Like I said, I am crotchety this morning and wonderlust  calls…



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