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I Was of Three Minds

2/23/2016

"Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake."--Wallace Stevens

GARGOYLE

One thing I really enjoy is the study of art and literature. And I especially like it when the two intersect. For example, several years ago I embarked on a series of paintings titled "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird," a tribute to Wallace Stevens and his poem of the same title. In my series, I cast the blackbird as observer. Some of these paintings also contain a stylized female silhouette, who has come to be known as the pink girl.

GENDER AND OTHER ISSUES

BACK TO NATURE

And as the series matured, the girl was not always pink.

BURNING DESIRE

JACKED UP

PINK GIRL IN AN EXOTIC FOREST

Some of the paintings were comments on famous pieces. And some of the girls were not so stylized.

EYES ON THE PRIZE after Thiebaud

TWO GIRLS IN A RED AND YELLOW INTERIOR after Matisse

FLOWER GIRL after Klimt

FRONT ROW BALCONY after Degas

I am looking back today at this series, because I am considering a new sequence of paintings. I just don't know yet what it will be. I do know, however, that it is hovering just beyond the level of my conscious mind, waiting to become ripe enough to pick.

Meanwhile I am taking care of the business of art--moving canvases from one venue to another, cleaning, repairing, and varnishing some pieces, putting the finishing touches on a commission piece. And I spend large blocks of time thinking and researching.

Earlier today, I saw online that the Metropolitan Museum of Art was offering free downloads of 448 art books! I was almost overwhelmed. One of the first ones I looked at was titled AMERICAN ART: THE EDITH AND MILTON LOWENTHAL COLLECTION. I was drawn to it because of the painting on the cover. It was a hard-edge painting titled "Report from Rockport" by Stuart Davis.

I realized that I had seen Davis' work before but had failed to store his name in my brain. So I spent quite a bit of time looking at his work today.

I continued to look through the Lowenthal collection to fuel my curious nature. As I have recently been quite obsessed with both cubism and freneticism, these two also appealed to me.

TRANSCENDENCE by Abraham Rattner

HOMUNCULUS by Paul Berlin

I wish I had some profound inspiration to share in my blog today. But, alas, it remains just outside my grasp. How exciting, though, to know it is there, ever patient until I have fully prepared myself to pounce upon it!

I will close today by circling back to Part II of Stevens' blackbird poem:

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

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Art, Book, or Both?

2/19/2016

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"If I read a book that impresses me, I have to take myself firmly by the hand, before I mix with other people; otherwise they would think my mind rather queer."--Anne Frank

My daughter, Candace, and I are both artists, but the kind of art each of us makes is not alike at all. I make art by cutting up books and magazines; she makes books that are art. Though she has created many different types of books, she is currently working on a series of hand sewn books titled “Common Threads.”. According to Booklyn, an artist-run nonprofit organization headquartered in Brooklyn, New York which represents Candace, these “hand-embroidered canvas books copy the form and design of dime store composition books.”

They are “handmade objects,” “a record of coincidental occurrences generally gleaned from reading or mundane events.”

In her artist statement, Candace acknowledges the impossibility of originality. And she says that her interest in books stems from their inherent unity of text and image, “which lends books continued relevance as a trans-media hybrid.”

Artist’s books are simply works of art realized in the form of a book. They are often published in small editions, though sometimes they are produced as one-of-a-kind objects referred to as “uniques.” Artist’s books have employed a wide range of forms, including scrolls, fold-outs, concertinas, or loose items contained in a box as well as bound and printed sheets. Artists have been active in printing and book production for centuries, but the artist’s book is primarily a late 20th century form.

American artist, and highly regarded avant garde poet, Richard Kostelanetz, who is often credited with coining the term post-post modernism, discusses book art on his website in a treatise written in 1985. (Click on his name to visit an article in Scientific American about the art of Kostelanetz.) He says, “The book artist usually controls not just what will fill the pages but how they will be designed and produced and then bound and covered, and the book artist often becomes its publisher and distributor too, eliminating middle-men all along the line and perhaps creatively reconsidering their functions as well.” (Kostelantetz is a prolific writer whose work appeared in the first issue of The Journal of the Image Warehouse a decade ago. This issue is housed in his personal archives at NYU.)

Candace Hicks’ books are in many prestigious collections. These are only a few: Yale University; Deutsche National Bibliotek; Swarthmore College; Fine Arts Museum of San Francisco; University of Virginia; Stanford University; Brown University; New York University; Austin College; UC Irvine; Dartmouth College; and last but definitely not least, the Museum of Modern Art in New York. (For a more complete list of the collections Candace's work inhabits, and to see several examples of her books, click HERE.

One of my favorite shows by Candace Hicks was made up of huge, composition book pages that were fashioned over tent poles.

I find it very interesting and somewhat ironic that Candace has chosen to make her art in book form when technological trends are threatening the very existence of books in physical form.

I will close today with a slideshow of visual poetry by the aforementioned Richard Kostelanetz and an observation by Hemingway:

"There is no friend as loyal as a book."--Ernest Hemingway

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Listing to One Side

2/18/2016

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"My greatest point is my persistence."--Bjorn Borg

I began a new project today. I am shredding, one page, one line at a time, a book of short stories by Neil Gaiman. I don’t have anything against his writing—in fact, I rather liked some of the stories. I am using the text to make a portrait of Gaiman. I plan to send it to him and hope he will Tweet it to his many thousand followers. (This is part of my plan to take over the art world.)

Other things on my to-do list:
1. Becoming an expat in Ecuador.
2. Willing my hair to grow faster.
3. Pretending I am allergic to peanuts so I will stop eating so much peanut butter.
4. Hanging out with my grandson (a.k.a. Super Dave).
5. Drinking less wine.
6. Deciding whether I want to live in the foothills of the Andes or near the beach in Ecuador.
7. Writing a new poem/short story/novel…
8. Finishing the painting I am working on.
9. Cleaning up my art studio.
10. Rearranging my list into the following order: 10, 4, 9, 5,8, 7, 6, 2, 3, 1

If you are making a to-do list, you should add to it: Write a list poem.

IN THE WHITE CANISTER AT THE BACK OF THE PANTRY

A small bag of Jello (flavor unknown)
whose box was sacrificed six months ago
to make a Christmas ornament;
The 15 year service pin I received just before
my desire to be a teacher became tarnished;
A pair of reading glasses with no left lens
(mentally draw a line through “pair”);
An unbelievably powerful magnet
harvested from an obsolete heart monitor;
A chain of paper clips linked together
by some idiot who obviously
never had to take apart a chain of paper clips
and who didn’t know they would be
forever stuck to a super magnet;
An old photo of a young woman in a wedding gown
who is not me but who looks exactly like me, even to me;
A power cord for the portable light box
that I let my grandson dismantle last week
because I couldn’t find the power cord.

*******

Now I can mark off #7 on my to-do list!

I will close today with a painting and a list by Neil Gaiman:

“I’ve been making a list of things they don’t teach you at school. They don’t teach you how to love somebody. They don’t teach you how to be famous. They don’t teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don’t teach you how to walk away from someone you don’t love any longer. They don’t teach you how to know what’s going on in someone else’s mind. They don’t teach you what to say to someone who is dying. They don’t teach you anything worth knowing.”

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Soup of the Day

2/15/2016

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"The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it."--Wallace Stevens

(This blog was revised and reposted from 2009. I am considering these same issues today...)

I intended for my writing today to be fueled by the idea of omnicentricity and one of my favorite poems by Wallace Stevens titled “Anecdote of the Jar.”

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

But I had trouble focusing today--I kept getting sidetracked by random thoughts. For example, I can’t stop thinking about a phenomenon called “street light blindness.” It seems there are two optical events that need to be recognized in street light installations. The loss of night vision because of the accommodation reflex of drivers’ eyes is the greatest danger. As drivers emerge from an unlighted area into a pool of light from a street light, their pupils quickly constrict to adjust to the brighter light, but as they leave the pool of light, the dilation of their pupils adjusts to the dimmer light much more slowly, so they are in effect driving momentarily with impaired vision. The other thing that should be considered when placing a light on a street is that oncoming headlights are more visible against a black background than a grey one. Less threatening, but also interesting, is the notion of light pollution, which results in urban areas when artificial light hides the stars and interferes with astronomy. A bit more menacing is the fact that light pollution can disrupt the natural growing cycle of plants.

This idea of blindness (or other related detrimental effects) caused by light came to me today because yesterday I was considering the idea of living one’s life with the goal of doing no harm. (I was struck by the irony that ineffectually placing lights could do more harm than good.) “Doing no harm” is a term often associated with the field of medicine, as in the theory of nonmaleficence that is taught to medical students: given an existing problem, it may be better to do nothing than to do something that risks causing more harm than good. In other words, the cure can be worse than the illness. (Consider the process of searching for enlightenment and the problems one can encounter along that path…)

But I am sidetracked again when I recall that a friend of mine once said that her armpits smell like hamburgers when she sweats.  (I know this is quite a leap, and sometimes I don’t understand the workings of my synapses and why I store such information, and how it is connected.  But not to worry.  Wallace Stevens says, “What our eyes behold may well be the text of life, but one’s meditations on the text and disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.”  He also says, “It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.”)

Anyway, once armpits were on my mind, I had to do a little research.  And, of course, there was a website on the topic of why Girls Smell Like Onions. (Close enough to hamburger for me.) Evidently women’s armpit sweat contains a relatively high level of a sulfurous compound which when mixed with naturally occurring bacteria turns into a thiol that smells malodorously something like onion.  (I also discovered that men tend to smell like cheese, but I will consider that later.  Maybe.)  Perhaps the onion stayed on my mind today the same way it stayed on my hands when I was cutting one up to go in a pot of soup this morning.  I tend to think we focus our attention where it needs to go, so I allowed my mind to follow the onion path.  I have been doing a lot of reading on symbolism lately.  So it seemed natural to consider the onion as a symbol.

I am constantly delighted by the way everything in the universe is connected, so I was not really surprised when I happened upon a blog titledThe Universe As An Onion, which discusses the symbolism of this edible bulb.  The blog author notices that when one cuts an onion from top to bottom, the center is similar in appearance to that of an eye.  She also mentions the practice of placing onion over the eye sockets of the deceased so they could see.  This seems somehow ironic when one considers the eye irritation that can occur when cutting up onions.  Having never been a corpse, I can’t report on the effectiveness of the previously mentioned practice, but I have read that onion has been used medicinally since ancient times to prevent flatulence, anemia, and to cleanse the digestive system. And back to the idea that a cure can contain negative side effects, the opposite can also be true--it should be noted that the more phenols and flavonoids onions contain, the more antioxidant and anti-cancer activity they provide.  For example, the boldest flavored shallots seem to inhibit the growth of liver and colon cancer cells more than the milder tasting varieties of sweet onions such as the Vidalia.

Of course, my second grade teacher pointed out that onions owe much of their distinctive flavor to the olfactory sense.  She blindfolded us and had us hold our noses as we tasted bits of onion and apple.  The result was that we could not distinguish between the two.

It seems appropriate at this point to mention that when cutting an apple crosswise, the seeds are each cut in half and form the shape of a star.  This small display of beauty also ruins the seeds in that they can no longer be planted to produce more apples. This was the inspiration for my poem, “Spin Art.”

“Inappropriate…” the ceiling fan whispers again, barely audible,
sounding softer than the skin on the wrist near the altar boy’s pulse,
meaning clearer than the whistle from a distant train.
“Follow the cycle of the crescent,” it would say.

Drawn to the blade by the promise of the blade,
pulled higher on the breeze like the loose end
of a half-freed gossamer scarf, woven to be twisted
and twisted, pulled, spiraling, whirling, and dancing on toe,

I mince around the center of that dark satisfaction,
until dangling by brainstem, I watch the others
spinning past and past and gone.  “Time to stretch now!”
Pulled like a weed with too much root, too much anchor,
too much need to just turn loose and spin free in the wind.

At a critical point, the spiral ceases to expand.  No reverse.
So I travel the same territory over and around.
Not enough lift, not enough drag, not enough heart.  Not enough.
Sounds smooth, you say?  “Yes, but only till the sockets start to give.”

No fanfare, please, and no party colored banner printed out one night
in soft staccato stops and starts with all its tentatively connected parts
less meaningful than dandelion seeds lined up head to toe
along some specially selected crack of a dry July sidewalk.

“The only still point is the center.”  Invisible,
unless they cross-section to see if my seeds form a star.
But once you make that slice, you break forever
the silver-green membrane around each gentle potential.
And what kind of tree would a half-seed grow?

All the murals pick up speed until they move outside
the need to be specific.  One tree, one leaf, one green…
like a dry grass brush was dragged along the whole wet mess of eternity.
Clouds and shoulders.  Leaves and toes.  All together now!
One red dot, one last line, fine red stripe.  “One last time?”

Note:  I always reassure my creative writing students that most poets write about suicide at some point in their career.  It is just part of that bouncing back and forth that the brain can’t seem to keep from doing.  And while suicide can be thought of as the complete antithesis of doing no harm, it can also be a source of beauty when considered poetically, which leads me of course to one of my favorite poems, admittedly a challenge to grasp, “in a middle of a room” by E.E. Cummings:

in a middle of a room
stands a suicide
sniffing a Paper rose
smiling to a self

"somewhere it is Spring and sometimes
people are in real:imagine
somewhere real flowers, but
I can't imagine real flowers for if I

could, they would somehow
not Be real"
(so he smiles
smiling) "but I will not

everywhere be real to
you in a moment"
The is blond
with small hands

"&and everything is easier
than I had guessed everything would
be;even remembering the way who
looked at whom first,anyhow dancing"

(a moon swims out of a cloud
a clock strikes midnight
a finger pulls a trigger
a bird flies into a mirror)

One last handful of things to consider today:

In the Middle Ages, onions were such an important food that people would pay for their rent with onions and even give them as gifts.
There is an old tale of a shipwrecked man washed up on a beach covered with diamonds, which are worthless in that country. All he has with him is a bag of onions, which are highly unknown, and therefore highly valuable there. He is rewarded for the onions with a shipload of diamonds. When his brothers go back there with garlic, hoping for more diamonds, they are rewarded with the most valuable thing in the country, a bag of onions!
When considering why precious stones are precious, Aldus Huxley deduces that it is because they are objects in the external world—along with fire, stained glass, fireworks, pageantry, theatrical spectacle, Christmas tree lights, rainbows, and sunlight—things which most nearly resemble the things that people see in the visionary world. Poets and storytellers, by giving us a mystic vision of these objects with gemlike qualities, bring us into contact with the visionary world and potentially stimulate our own visions within us.
Stevens says: "How full of trifles everything is! It is only one’s thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture."
IMPORTANT: If you have trouble quieting your mind today, you can always go to:www.mediheaven.com where you can be lead through a “rapid relaxation” session. In only four minutes, “you’ll feel like you’re in paradise.” It is free. Of course, you can gain “unlimited access” to increased clarity, purpose, balance, optimism, and energy for only $79.00 US. Onions not accepted.

I will close today with this:
"It was one of those evenings when men feel that truth, goodness and beauty are one. In the morning, when they commit their discovery to paper, when others read it written there, it looks wholly ridiculous."--Aldous Huxley

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Somebodybodybody Had To Say It!

2/14/2016

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"You can't blame gravity for falling in love."--Albert Einstein

I know, it is Valentine’s Day, so I should probably post a sentimental love poem. But I am really pretty pragmatic about the whole romantic love thing. Don’t get me wrong—I admire people who can maintain a long-term committed relationship, and I admire loyalty and respect at any level. But it has been my experience that most relationships are the result of proximity and a desperate desire not to be alone. The poem below, one of the few rhyming poems I have written, and one of the few for the juvenile market, considers how children are taught, even in fairy tales, that they are not complete until they hook up.
BLUE BLOOD
Tree frog on the back door screen,
strangest frog I’ve ever seen--
the back porch light seeps through your skin
illuminating life within.
Aortic arches filter light
against the backdrop of the night,
while renal arches branching, curve
like thin blue fingers through tangled nerves.
Your tiny pumping heart shines through
and your life-blood surges, clear and blue.
Translucent Blue Blood, tell me true,
could you be my prince?

Perhaps an appropriate challenge today would be to write a love poem. Here is a suggested assignment from "Power Poetry."

"If you’re writing a love poem about someone, chances are they’ve had a pretty big impact on your life. In your poem, compare how your life was before and after this person began playing a role in your life story. Maybe you were going through a rough time and they made it better, or you were always a happy person, but they just made you smile a little wider. Whatever your story, everyone enjoys being told how much they matter, so be sure to let this person know how much they’ve changed your life for the better."

I want to share one of my favorite poems today: "Blink Your Eyes" by Sekou Sundiata. (Click on the photo of Sundiata to listen.)

I will close today with this:

"Friends can help each other. A true friend is someone who lets you have total freedom to be yourself - and especially to feel. Or, not feel. Whatever you happen to be feeling at the moment is fine with them. That's what real love amounts to - letting a person be what he really is."--Jim Morrison

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Pillow Talk

2/13/2016

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"A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow."--Charlotte Bronte

Since I usually include a few pertinent quotes in my blog, I couldn't resist the temptation today, since I am also talking about the movie Pillow Talk, to include a few snarky pillow proclamations, a sprinkling of pillow prose, and perhaps some pillow poetry!

Since I saw it for the first time when I was very young, Pillow Talk has always been a favorite movie of mine. I love it because it is cute, romantic, sarcastic, and because it has lots of mid-century modern images--the fashion, the furniture, the colors, and the art.

One of my favorite pieces of Pillow Talk art is a large abstract painting by Ralph DuCasse from 1957, seen below with Doris Day in the foreground. (DuCasse was a well known San Francisco artist and teacher, born in 1916.)

It is notable that this is a very modern piece of art for the time period. It was supposedly chosen to portray the notion that Doris Day's character is a modern woman. When the man whose office she is decorating does not understand the painting, it is a clear indication that he also does not understand her.

Besides that, it is a cool painting! When I first started playing around with oil paint a few years ago, I couldn't resist making a tribute to this piece, along with a companion piece. Each measures 16" x 20". It just made me happy to have a little Pillow Talk in my own bedroom.

I later created an abstract in a similar style in my piece titled Docent. (see upper right corner)

I recently acquired a 5' x 5' canvas on which I am considering making something abstract in these same colors. So I thought I would spend a little time in search of inspiration...

I could not find many examples of work by DuCasse, but this one was cool. It is titled "Peninsular" and is dated 1958.

And this one has a nice soft quality to it. I could not find a title for it, however.

And one more. Recumbent. Undated.

I like these abstract paintings because though they are very vibrant in color, they have a a somewhat limited palette. In art, as in writing, I usually enjoy a project with some strictly imposed guidelines.

I can just imagine these pillow quotes lined up on my own sofa...

Not much writing today, but lots of thinking. I will close with this. Life is Beautiful is another of my favorite movies, for much different reasons. I also like the song by the same title, by Vega 4. (click HERE below to listen) I have also included the lyrics, because it is actually a pretty fine piece of poetry.

"Life Is Beautiful"

Life is beautiful
We live until we die

When you run into my arms
We steal a perfect moment
Let the monsters see you smile
Let them see you smiling

Do I hold you too tightly?
When will the hurt kick in?

Life is beautiful
But it's complicated
We barely make it
We don't need
To understand
There are miracles
Miracles

Yeah, life is beautiful
Our hearts
They beat and break

When you run away from harm
Will you run back into my arms?
Like you did when you were young
Will you come back to me?

And I will hold you tightly
When the hurting kicks in

Life is beautiful
But it's complicated
We barely make it
We don't need
To understand
There are miracles
Miracles

Stand
Where you are
We let all these moments
Pass us by

It's amazing where I'm standing
There's a lot that we can give
This is ours just for the moment
There's a lot that we can can give

It's amazing where I'm standing
There's a lot that we can give
This is ours just for the moment
There's a lot that we can give

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All I Have To Do Is Dream?

2/10/2016

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"A dream doesn't become reality through magic; it takes sweat, determination and hard work."--Colin Powell

Self Portrait, created from the text from a book titled LUCID DREAMING

In 2012 I was invited to be the guest blogger for the Albany Poetry Workshop. I was required to submit a new blog entry every day for the month of February. I convinced myself that since February was the shortest month, I could do it. I learned a lot about myself and about writing that month.
So four years ago today, I posted a series of writings based on dreams. Here is a poem from that collection.
(Note that Grimalkin is an archaic term meaning "grey cat" or also, a spiteful old woman.

GRIMALKIN’S MAGIC
So, you came to me last night
in a strange dream with a strange cat.
One of you, with your smooth mouth
and pale eyes, with just the slightest hesitation,
gentled me, repeatedly.
One of you
settled
in a curl of heat around my shoulders
so deliberately.
There was a garden
and it seems
you played a
banjo…
The song remains.

Note also, the ambiguity of the dream state, enhanced by words such as "strange," "hesitation," and "seems." Conversely, three words offer the antithesis of this quality: "gentled," "deliberately," and "remains."

A dream poem doesn't have to contain a great deal of detail. On the other hand, it may consist of all details, leaving the interpretation to the reader. An excellent reference for this process of creating as well as defining is a dream dictionary.

Consider the following:

To see a cat in your dream symbolizes an independent spirit, feminine sexuality, creativity, and power.
Gray indicates fear, fright, depression, ill health, ambivalence and confusion. You may feel emotionally distant, isolated, or detached. Alternatively, the color gray symbolizes your individualism.
A garden can be symbolic of stability, potential, and inner growth, and specifically, a flower garden represents tranquility, comfort, love and domestic bliss.
To feel heat in your dream indicates a feeling of shame or embarrassment. Alternatively, it represents purity, creative energy or intense passion.
To hear or see someone playing a banjo in your dream signifies a joyous and happy occasion.
To have a dream that takes place at night represents some major setbacks and obstacles in achieving your goals. You are being faced with an issue that is not so clear cut. Alternatively, night may be synonymous with death, rebirth, reflection, and new beginnings.
To see your shoulders in your dream symbolize strength, responsibility and burdens.
To dream that you are dreaming or daydreaming signifies your emotional state. You are excessively worried and fearful about a situation or circumstance that you are going through. Dreaming that you are dreaming also serves as a layer of protection from what you are feeling. The dream within a dream allows you to experience certain difficult feelings that may otherwise be too painful to confront if you were directly dreaming the scenario.
To hear or write a song in your dream indicates that you are looking at things from a spiritual viewpoint.

When I read the poems of other writers, and even my own poems, some compelling mysteries are:

How aware of these symbols is the writer when he or she is creating?
Is the use of such symbols intuitive, intentional, or a combination of the two?

I will close today by juxtaposing these two thoughts:

"Mystery creates wonder and wonder is the basis of man's desire to understand."--
Neil Armstrong

“Understanding is love’s other name.”--Thich Nhat Hahn

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A Point of Departure

2/9/2016

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"Happiness is not a state to arrive at, but a manner of traveling."--Margaret Lee Runbeck

Sometimes you don't know where you're going until you get there.

Several years ago I took a photo of a woman walking down a Paris street in the rain. I didn't realize until I arrived home from my trip that my camera ha malfunctioned and all of my photos were blurred. But I always liked the colors and composition of the photo and decided to paint an acrylic version of it about 24" x 24".

Paris Street Scene

Pedestrian with Pink Umbrella I

Pedestrian with Pink Umbrella II

A Change of Perspective

A few months ago, I was playing around with some cubist ideas and created the third image. Determined to push the envelope a bit further, I changed the perspective somewhat and took the cubist forms a bit further in the fourth rendition. (Click on images to enlarge them.)

A series can tied together compositionally like this one, or it may evolve thematically (as with my series titled "I Just Don't Read Like I Used To") or stylistically (as with my "Frenetic Cubism" series).

Sometimes the progression is not obviously visual, as it originates in the imagination. For example, in this painting, which I sold at the gallery this weekend, was not inspired by a photo, but the image was enhanced by cubist ideas.

Rue St. Vincent

I have noticed that the same kind of event can occur when I am writing. I may start out journaling and end up with a poem. Or I may start out trying to write a poem, and end up with a short story. The process may be one of editing and arrangement. It may be additive or subtractive, or most likely, a combination of both.

I am posting a couple of poems below that I hope to discuss with my writing class tomorrow. Sometimes you just have to write about where you are. In this case, in my kitchen at sunset, or looking out my back door while one a lunch break during a rain storm.

I. THE SOUND OF LIGHT

Beyond the kitchen window
past the white horizontal slats
neatly tilted to measure the light,
the public school across the street
turns her back, windowless and bricked,
as though ashamed or in need of privacy.

When the sun
drops below her flat horizon,
the lights flip on and on and on
until she blushes prettily,
institutional, yet fully aware
that beauty is an arbitrary gift.

Seemingly out of sorts with garlic and turmeric
the kitchen’s chrome and glass and tile
remain cool in light of the purpling sky,
and the low white ceiling glows fluorescent
with an almost silent hum.

This time at the end of day,
the world folds inwardly with the precision
of an origami rooster.

II.THE DISTANCE BETWEEN

No smoke no fire no siren, still
I assumed lightning had struck the tree
three houses down the street.
As I walked back to work,
I saw the fire truck
skimming the street
as though anticipating a blaze
angling sly and sluggish
its bold, straight form around the corner
like a dated vacuum cleaner
with no ability to turn,
as though its wheels didn’t fit exactly
as though it couldn’t travel naturally
as though it was unwittingly fire resistant
and unwilling to discover an emergency.

I recalled how the storm had hit in earnest
as I ate my lunch, soup--
slamming itself repeatedly at the windows
as though determined to earn attention,
and how I witnessed, bowl in one hand,
empty spoon in the other,
as the balloons from yesterday’s party
still tied to the table’s umbrella
all exploded in the same second, silent
through the pane.

Every time I see you, I wonder
about the distance between your smile
and your intention, and I wonder
if I asked, if you would look at me
with first one eye and then the other
to make me dance.

Look at me quickly then off to the side,
and if you’ve been crying,
or if you squint just right
perhaps some lightning bolts will fly.

Divide by five the number of seconds
between the flash and the thunder
to calculate the distance in miles.

I will close with this:
"Set out from any point. They are all alike. They all lead to a point of departure."--Antonio Porchia

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The Struggle Continues

2/3/2016

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"Instinct and study; love and hate;
Audacity—reverence. These must mate,
And fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart,
To wrestle with the angel—Art."

--from Art by Herman Melville

Since I have been working on a commissioned version of Vision After the Sermon, and also considering ekphrasis writings, I was pleased to find this poem about art, and struggle, by Melville. It also compelled me to look further at Gaugin's art and Melville's writing--to juxtapose the two and see what pops up!

Of course, as I familiarized myself with some of Melville's pithiest sayings, the first one I came across was:

"It is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation."

I was reminded that though I am basing my commission on Gaugin's painting, it must reflect my own interpretation and technique. Thus, the inclusion of text and encaustic. It has also been noted that Vision After the Sermon contains several elements of self-portraiture. For example, the figure cropped on the far right is said to be a likeness of the artist. Perhaps I will include my own profile in the face of one of the Breton women. Perhaps I will include a more subtle self reference as I did in my painting Docent. Note the reflection of the artist in the brass ball atop the standard.

Some critics claim that all artists paint themselves, even when not intending to do so. And sometimes the artist just has to proceed without over-thinking the project! As Melville says:
"Whatever fortune brings, don't be afraid of doing things."

While studying Gaugin, I came across another painting with a similar subject matter, Four Breton Women. The tone is quite different, however, as the women are dancing.
As noted in comments on Web Gallery of Art, "The forms have been deliberately flattened" and there is a "deliberate suppression of atmosphere and distance within the picture space by avoidance of a horizon and by the use of saturated colors."
I immediately look to see if there are any self-referential aspects in this piece. (To look more closely at the painting, click on it.) I have not found anything obvious, but will continue to examine it. Perhaps this piece was more about relating the feeling of the subjects than expressing the inner thoughts of the artist.
Either way I can connect it to Melville when he writes:

"Art is the objectification of feeling."

Whether the writer or the artist intends to do so, he or she is always reflected in his or her work. Back to Melville:
It is impossible to talk or to write without apparently throwing oneself helplessly open.

With that in mind I am almost afraid to think what the viewer thinks when confronted with this cubist styled self portrait of mine, or even a couple of manipulated photos promoting an upcoming 60s art show! (I note immediately that none of them seem especially cheerful...)

When attempting to unravel a drawing, a photo, or a painting, as well as a poem, a story, or a blog, the viewer/reader can't help but question the intent of the creative entity. How much is real and intentional, and how much is indeed manipulation. A difficult question to answer!

With regard to both art and writing, I will close today with one last pithy comment from Melville, one that keeps me making art and attempting to express in this blog:

"Yet habit - strange thing! what cannot habit accomplish?"

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I Really Should Be Painting!

2/2/2016

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"Because the world is so faithless, I go my way in mourning."
~ Pieter Bruegel

I usually start my blog with a quote. Today, since I knew I wanted to consider a painting by Bruegel, I chose to lead off with his words. As I have mentioned in the past, I am sometimes prone to melancholy, so I can connect with this.

Last week, in my writing group, we spoke briefly about Ekphrasis--an ekphrastic poem is a poem inspired or stimulated by a work of art. The painting below, "Landscape With the Fall of Icarus" by Pieter Bruegel, is a work of art that can be a great inspiration to the poet interested in exploring this type of writing. One of the reasons this is a good painting to start with is that it has an obvious narrative quality.

This is perhaps one of the best known examples of ekphrasis poetry, and it just happens to be based on this painting!

Landscape With The Fall of Icarus
by William Carlos Williams

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

Williams is one of my favorite poets. When I read this poem, I try to understand why he broke the lines and stanzas as he did and what the impact is on the reader. To me it heightens the sarcasm. Comments?

If you have a desire to write ekphrasis, some very helpful techniques and practices can be found here: http://www.poems-and-quotes.com/article.html?id=641

And for a thoughtful explication of the poem and discussion of the painting, go here: http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/s_z/williams/icarus.htm
And here:
https://megrennie.wordpress.com/2011/02/04/landscape-with-the-fall-of-icarus-poem-vs-painting/

I will close today with this:
"Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks."--Plutarch

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