ART

If you spend time with philosophers, navel gazing as one of my friends would say; it’s easy to get caught up in long-running, compound sentences that close every loop hole, define every slippery term and then, once you’ve boiled every assumption away, you have to repeat the treatise several times to detail what it was that you were discussing in the first place. Falling off the wagon is the chance you take and digressing into passionate expressions of some related issue is the penalty. After a while, after many disagreements and borderline arguments someone will observe, “I thought we were talking about This, or That,” and folks will nod respectfully, to resume their ‘Navel Gazing.’  

Art is such a simple little, three letter word but it embraces such a wide community and range of work that it surely would seem it deserves a multisyllabic word with a liberal array of x’s and q’s. Like philosophy, it’s easy enough to find two people who agree but its hard to find three. When people grow narrow or old they tend to either funnel their ideas and center themselves in a minuscule comfort zone or, they can do just the opposite. This is particularly true when it comes to art and music. Music is after all an art form but some would disagree thus I make this disclaimer. I find it ironic that we loved the outrageous, sexually charged music of Little Richard and Chuck Berry, to our parent’s disgust. Now most of my peers connect with a  similar revulsion for Hip-Hop and Rap. It’s not that the new stuff is bad, we’re just old. If there is a universal truth about Art it’s that the product reflects the culture, regardless of what we think or like. 

In college I did a research paper on Hans Holbein, a 16th Century, Flemish painter. He was a portrait painter, mostly of royalty or the newly privileged middle class. He was good, well compensated but he hated his clients. The rich reveled at their own likeness, displayed on walls in gold leaf frames for everyone to admire but they were condescending, inconsiderate and rude. By the 16th Century, artists knew very well how the eye is drawing into a painting and how, through design and placement, the artist can compliment or insult the people they painted. Holbein was known for placing a dog in the prime position as a way of conveying his low opinion of the subject; they were subordinated by the dog. Artists understand their genre and medium. They are the best judges of what has merit and what does not. We are better educated to the arts than the Dukes & Barons of medieval Europe but not particularly open minded about what we don’t understand. 

The advent of the camera freed artists to go beyond the literal, to create a new, visual landscape. If you don’t like the work of Jackson Pollack or Picasso, maybe Andy Warhol is easier to digest. His painting of the Campbell Soup can or his Gumball Machines are unmistakable and require no backstory. But the Soup Can and Gumball Machine are as abstract as Picasso’s woman with three eyes and no mouth. My old paintings have long since bit the dust. I do still have a small, white grease pencil on black paper drawing that won a prize. Maybe someday I’ll frame it and hang it somewhere. I have dabbled with the camera for a long time but not until the digital revolution have I been able to take it seriously. That sense of how the eye is drawn into the image works for the camera as well as the brush. Then you have Photo Shop, software that allows the artist to tweak color and lines, contrast and texture. Old school photographers look down their noses at the digital format. They are so invested in their dark rooms and the culture of Ansel Adams that they don’t want to consider anything new or different. I think it’s part of a growing old, narrow, comfort zone malady. I love Ansel Adams and Dorothea Lang but I leave space for new growth. I’d rather my feel for the arts be like the great cottonwood tree behind my house than the neatly trimmed bushes in my neighbor’s yard. 

My photographs are on display this month at a gallery in Kansas City. The raw photo is where I begin. It still requires the eye be keen in positioning the camera and framing the image. Auto-mode takes care of all the settings and some would say that’s where you lose the craft but I don’t think so. I get to play with the elements and tweak the settings after the fact. In the end, my purpose is and has always been to please the eye, not some self absorbed notion about sustaining tradition. Some of my shots are so common they need no title while others hang on the edge of abstraction. It’s simple, just like it has always been; if it makes you think and it pleases, then you like it. If you don’t like it, then you don’t like it. You are not required to like a piece of Art but that does not speak to theArt. It reflects your eye and your predisposition to the work. My show will be coming down in a couple of weeks. A few pieces have sold and with luck a few more will go. I will print and frame more and we will show them again. 

STONER DUDE

I went to the Post Office yesterday; I do that. I collect incoming mail at the box on my porch but when I send something, I drop it in the slot at the Post Office. It’s not about security or prying eyes, I just do it. I was sending tax stuff to my accountant. The envelope was heavy enough it needed to be weighed so I took my place in line. There were several people ahead of me and both of the attendants were busy, one with a group of four and the other with a couple. Shortly I realized that everyone was waiting, processing, jumping through the hoops for their pass ports. I was in no hurry so it never occurred to me that I could come back later. I stood there and it didn’t take very long for my mind to wander.  I don’t remember where it went but I do remember the reality of rejoining the present again. 

The odor was overpowering. When someone has been inhaling their cigarette smoke deeply, then they walk into a crowded room, unaware that their breath is a fog of exploding pestilence; it is just that, overpowering. The man was directly behind me. Tobacco is bad enough but this guy was so fresh off the toke I was convinced that his joint was still smoldering somewhere, waiting for him to return. My first impulse was to leave but I’d been in line for a while and I was there first. The Post Office lady appeared from behind a closed door and asked for everyone who was waiting for their pass ports to surrender their completed, official forms which they did. “I wonder how long this is gonna’ take?” The Stoner was male and his voice was as ragged as the smell would suggest. His comment was obviously intended for me but I didn’t turn. When I didn’t acknowledge his comment he continued, “Maybe I’d aught to come back later.” I ignored him again.  We weren’t going anywhere. The people at the counter were hung up on something, waiting for a computer to reboot or for providence to direct them, I don't know. The line wasn't moving. 

The lady came back and took two women from the front of the line, through the door and off to some secret place for interrogation or to have their picture taken, or tortured or something. My imagination can get away from me and it’s really easy for a short, mundane distraction to evolve into a full blown adventure. Shortly, “Oh, pass ports; I remember when I got my first pass port. It was back in ’65.” There was a short pause and then he chuckled as if remembering something funny or clever. Then he started humming and do-de-do-de-doing, all of which were accompanied by a new plume of bad breath. I sensed him turning away and moving toward the rack where express envelopes and priority labels were displayed. I turned, glanced enough to see the man’s profile. He must have been near my age, medium build, short gray hair and a weathered face. He was happy. I suppose I would be too. I was in college in 1965, just out of the service. ‘Weed’ was big then and even though it was illegal, it was available. But the smoking thing has never, ever appealed to me. I tried it for a few days with a friend and some stolen smokes when we were 11. I remember clear as can be, sitting in a big culvert under the road, looking at my smoking cigarette thinking, ‘Why am I doing this?’  It wasn’t fun and I didn’t like the smoke in my nose. Smoking ‘Weed’ was just another insult that my body didn’t need. Though I’ve encountered my share of second hand pot at concerts and parties, I’ve never nursed from the nipple. At this time of my life it’s almost embarrassing to admit, I made it through the 60’s without my curiosity taking me there.

We made eye contact. He looked me straight on and smirked a little smirk. He was really feeling good. I nodded and turned back to the front. The people ahead of me were getting anxious. Their conversation was muted enough that I couldn’t eaves drop but it was preferable to the dude behind me. Then I noticed the smell was gone. I turned and so was he. It would have been easy to condescend, to render good riddance but I didn’t. I wondered how many times I’ve scratched indiscreetly or picked my nose, offending someone with more refined sensibilities than myself. Once upon a time, I was reminded that when you point a finger at someone else, three of your fingers are pointing back at you. I think marijuana should be legalized and taxed appropriately. I’m glad the ‘Dude’ was pleased with himself. I was just inconvenienced for a few minutes and that kind of displeasure is a low price to pay. I’m well and relatively happy even though somebody else smoked all of my dope these past fifty years. 

. . . AND THE GRASS WAS SHOWING SOME GREEN

It’s far too early to open up the attic fan and celebrate spring. A week into March, warm days and sunny skies felt right but winter can spill over into April, even May without rhyme or reason. When summer does this into October we feel good about it. When winter hangs on we take it personally. The lawn was still a dull, dirty shade of brown and winter buds on the trees were still tightly wrapped, but the sun was shining. On Tuesday last, a friend was helping me frame up the last photographs for an upcoming art show. By the time he went home I knew there was something wrong with my throat, a little hack that wouldn’t go away. By bedtime my nose was running and I knew it would get worse before it got better; that was five days ago.  

I’ve known a few binge drinking alcoholics, go for long periods without drinking anything then fall off the cart and disappear for a few days. When they popped up again they looked terrible and couldn’t remember anything. If there is a lesson there for me it is in the parallel, coming out the other end. Trying to reconstruct the last four days is more guess work than memory. I knew I was sick on Wednesday, started drinking water, taking soup and sleeping. At first I thought it was allergies but painful joints and muscles let me know it was one flu or another. I took the flu shot this year but halfway into the flu season they announced they got it wrong. The bug they protected us from was not the flu we were getting. I forgave them at the time and suspected, if I ever get the flu, this will surely be the year. 

Over the next few days I remember going to sleep, waking up not sure where I was. When I couldn’t sleep, a hot shower was the only thing I could trust. Go to sleep in places like my bed or my car in a parking lot; waking up in unlikely places. It wasn’t confusing then, only now. I knew I had to keep taking fluids and nourishment. Getting up, all I noticed was daylight or dark and did I feel good enough to go back to sleep. If not, I would do something for a while and take a hot shower. I realize that all of my behavior was thought out and rational, slow and deliberate. I wasn’t taking any chances. But putting it together several days later, it just isn’t all there. This morning my radio came on at 6:00 and I woke up. It was a new day and I sensed I was off the hook. I didn’t need a hot shower.

In the meantime I had finished the last four photographs, helped my son with some dog-setting duties, kept myself well hydrated and fed. Everything in my kitchen was exactly where I put it down. It didn’t take long this morning to put things away and clean up, framed photos in crates and framing tools in their proper place. I can see the counter tops and both sides of the sink are empty. I looked out the kitchen widow and the grass was showing some green. This flu kept me very into the moment, very self conscious but the hindsight is blurred. Even asleep, the dream factory wouldn’t let me rest and those memories, shuffled in with reality create another disparity. Just how much this is like a binge drinker coming out of the zone, I don’t know. But I do know I’m feeling better and I'll take that.

DAYLIGHT SAVINGS

Getting up this a.m. was a task, and I knew it would be. When the clock falls back there is a short lived sense that you got an extra hour of sleep but the internal clock takes it all in stride. This morning the clock had fallen forward and my body thought it was 5:00 a.m. The radio doesn’t know the difference, it just does what it’s told. I had set it forward on Saturday but I sleep late on Sunday, missed the point altogether. This morning it took 11 minutes for me to bridge the consciousness gap and that put a kink in my schedule. I usually hit the parking lot at 6:25 and start my swim ten minutes later. I thought about my 11 minute penalty and the lethargic effort I was making. I didn’t have to do the math. Within 20 minutes after I finish my swim the guards are rolling up the lane dividers in preparation for the lady’s aquarobics class. I’ve got it timed so I can get my swim in before the ladies take over and only a few minutes to spare. So this time I dozed for a while, until my body was ready to get up. 

I hate to miss workout on Monday. Two days off is alright but three days without exercise sets me back. I arrived at 7:35, the time I usually crawl out of the pool. Sweats and tennis shoes were the uniform and I went up to walk with a bunch of strangers. The track is a balcony over the gym, 16 laps to a mile. This morning they were walking in groups of 2 or 3 or 4 and they were talking. I want to work at a heart rate of 120-130 beats/minute and talking is a struggle at that rate. So they’re talking and I’m passing. They are trained pretty well, sense you approaching and open a hole where you can slip through. You can’t help catching bits of their conversation each time you pass. I try to remember who’s who and connect the sound bites, figure out what the conversation is about. Two ladies were talking about men, someone they knew who had health problems. Two mixed groups were grumbling about the time change. I heard a couple of complaints yesterday at church and not a good word anywhere since. I don’t know if it’s coincidence but it seems daylight savings is unpopular everywhere. It doesn’t matter if we are falling forward or back, it’s an inconvenience. “Just leave the time alone.” That’s what I hear. 

DST has been around for a long time. It came and went and came back again; east, west, Europe, Asia, North America. After the energy crisis of the 1970’s it was pitched as a way to save energy. Nobody wanted kids walking to school or waiting for a bus in the dark so in winter, they left the magic hour in the morning. But summer time, outdoor time was different. The sun comes up early in summer anyway. More daylight in the evening seemed like a good thing. I think people are just more fractious now than I remember, grumbling is more about the person than the object of their displeasure. I don’t like to grumble, it’s depressing. When I feel like complaining it comes quite natural to hit reset and do a second take. If I can’t change what I don’t like, grumbling is just a self inflicted wound. I know there must be people who take some satisfaction there but all I can do is avoid their penchant for pain and try to stay positive. By Thursday I’ll be acclimated and I’ll make the 6:35 swim time without any hangups. I did like the walk and the weight machines afterward. I may incorporate them into my schedule as the season unwinds. Sunrise and sunset, I like them both, regardless of the hour. One is a metaphor for hope and anticipation, the other is about reflection, bookends for a precious day. Even days we struggle through, we only get so many of them and to take any one of them for granted is more self inflicted punishment. The last year I worked at a job, I threw my watch away. There were clocks on the wall at school so we knew when the bell would ring and you could place yourself between meals. DST is one of many harbingers of spring. I really like it when trees start popping new leaves and you need a boat to go fishing out on the lake. When Standard Time comes back around the naysayers will be grumbling about snow and cold. 

NOSTALGIA

By definition, a wistful affection for the past; nostalgia. This may not be the best title but the perfect word escapes me right now. I noticed my high school and college year books on the bottom shelf of my book case this morning. I pulled out the high school book for my senior year and began thumbing through the yellowed pages and snap-shot quality photographs. I took Publications that year, was on the yearbook staff so the book pulls up more memories for me than for most of my classmates. There were only four boys in the class. We inherited sports, some of the clubs and whatever else the girls deemed fit. I did all of the free hand art and sketches. The crème de la crème assignment was the class section for our class, the seniors. The girls who got that plum were the power brokers of the class. They threw alphabetical order out the window. Individuals were paired and placed on succeeding pages, guided by the whims of those girls. You could judge your own status by how far back and who you were paired with. They also did interviews to confirm the honors and activities each senior had accumulated in the four years. Each entry closed with, in their own words, future plans and aspirations. 

As I read the summaries, going to college or joining the work force were most common. There were a few leaning toward the military and some simply stated that their plans were still in the making. Then there were a few with no expectations recorded at all. I remember that interview. Diane sat there waiting for me to speak, then asked, “What do you want me to write?” Hell, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. My plans wouldn’t get us into the next day. But I didn’t tell her that, just, “Leave it blank.” The guys who were going to be lawyers ended up being something else. Nobody wanted to be a teacher but many did just that. The military guys had a better grip on their direction than the rest of us. But ready or not, we jumped out in the fray and life took us for a ride.

Common sense, ( I don’t believe in common sense by the way, Albert Einstein said common sense is the list of prejudices we acquire in our youth, and I’ll side with AE) common sense would have us believe that the sum of our lives is determined by the decisions we make. I think we must live as if each decision is crucial and possibly life changing but my life has more finger prints on it than the decisions I made. Sometimes I think I know and sometimes I think I think. I look at those class pages from 1957 and see squeaky clean faces and best intentions. But once out the door we were more like leaves in the wind, blown from fence to fence, settling in heaps. The cottonwood leaf says to the sycamore leaf, “I have decided to wait here with you. If we choose, we can cross the yard and lean against a different fence.” 

I hang out now and then, have lunch or picnic with some of those old classmates. Even though we sprang from the same hatch, life has taken us on different journeys and we trust what life has left us with. So we delight in the good fortune that brings us together and share memories that only we can share. Later in the day as the wind blows us across the yard, we can give credit where we think it’s due and judge, right or wrong, with the perception of confidence. But when we break bread we don’t press petty stuff, like politics, patriotism or religion. We don’t even ask questions that might take us there. Life is pretty good. Someday, not too soon, I’ll pull the book out and think about it again.

OSCAR NIGHT

         A friend invited me to an ‘Oscar’ party last week. Oscar night comes off like a cross between the NFL Draft and American Idol and it takes several hours. Everyone has a list of awards and nominees and they make their predictions. As the night unwinds, they keep score. On commercial breaks it’s just like sports junkies; food, drink, spirited conversation and anticipation. I was the odd one, hadn’t seen any of the movies and was too late to complete the bracket before the awards began. I really like movies but don’t go very often so the conversations went over my head. The bast movie was about a washed up super hero, with a Mexican director who had a great night, winning several other Oscars as well. My party crowd thoroughly dissected the results and presented a trophy to the best guesser. I nodded my approval, went back for more guacamole and arrived home just before midnight.

         I have a good DVD collection of old movies. Last night I indulged in an old flick that has never left me disappointed. National Velvet was released in 1944, set in England after WW1, the story of a school girl (Elizabeth Taylor), a young drifter (Mickey Rooney) and a horse named Pie. Over time I’ve come to realize the movie’s undercurrent is more compelling than the story. A young girl comes by a horse that runs and jumps its way to the Grand National Steeplechase, the greatest horse race ever. But it leaves you with the warmth and the power of nurture and family. Interestingly, maybe a sign of the times, Mickey Rooney and Donald Crisp (Husband/Father) got top billing, ahead of the young Liz Taylor (Velvet Brown) and Anne Revere who won the Oscar in ’45 for supporting actress, as Velvet’s mother. 

         Mr Brown is the classic, dominant male but no match for Mrs Brown. He obviously trusts and depends on her to be his spell check as it would be. She allows him to be the ‘Man’ then gently provides wise course corrections that move the family in a healthy direction. In her youth she had been the first woman to swim thee English Channel. She understood the need to pursue a dream, even if it was not fulfilled. Without being written into the script she conveys, the journey subordinates the destination and that you must live in the moment. Life will make new demands and you need to be ready to move on. Throughout the movie, Mr & Mrs Brown refer to each other as Mr & Mrs Brown. You never learn their first names. The formal protocol is offset by a singleness of purpose and their affection for each other. In the end, Michael (Mickey Rooney) changes from a shady, self serving bloke into a principled young man and moves on in his life. The Brown family choses the simple life over celebrity and you conclude what you sensed from the beginning, Mrs Brown was right all along. They could have named the movie, “Mrs Brown Kicks Ass.”