When I paint, mysterious things happen. What starts with a void ends with a dialogue. (Jeet Aulakh)
The mystery lies in the irrationality by which you make appearance – if it is not irrational, you make illustration. (Francis Bacon)
When you make the obvious mysterious, then the mysterious becomes unavailable. (Darby Bannard)
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
The circle of the compass does not invite scrutiny. The circle of the full moon is full of incident. (Rex Cole)
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all sciences. (Albert Einstein)
If we are to learn to improve the quality of the decisions we make, we need to accept the mysterious nature of our snap judgments. (Malcolm Gladwell)
All subjects not to mention objects are mysterious. (Sherry Grauer)
The passage into mystery always refreshes. If, when we work, we can look once a day upon the face of mystery, then our labour satisfies. (Lewis Hyde)
Everything vanishes round me and good works rise from me of their own accord. (Paul Klee)
The only things one can admire at length are those one admires without knowing why. (Jean Rostand)
Everything is vague to a degree you do not realize till you have tried to make it precise. (Bertrand Russell)
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
After Atlanta and Folk Fest
One Casey McGlynn, of the Toronto Minivan Gallery, inspires me to once again pick up a paintbrush. Although I've never spoken to him-well, beyond "hello", his work moved me-his color combinations and imagery pushed me to come home and mount a big panel o' wood to some backing strips...and prime the big old thing. I have tons of drying old tubes of oil paint from my Dad (who collected these, leaving them in their original artist palette-boxes) and was thinking I might try a unique palette-one thought out and carefully mixed-and then work out an image...a reverse of image-first thinking. What's (possibly) at stake here is a loss of spontaneity, which seems to be what I most admire in so much of the painted work that I pursue. Drips, mistakes and crossouts...false starts partially covered over, notes to oneself-Basquiat, Twombly speak to me here-as does the work of Justin Robinson, Nathaniel Mather (met at Folk Fest last week) and Clint Griffin (another member of the Minivan Gallery)...pursuing the essence of this work is like chasing after someone I need to possess -someone you need to ultimately have as a lover.
Met another interesting fellow at the FF-one Shawn Wallace, whose West Virginia background and family led him to paint quasi-comic portraits and interesting apocalyptic landscapes...crossing Mad magazine, Weird Tales and outsider drawings of imaginary architectures, Shawn is a humble sort who, much like my friend Ricky Parker, can spin tales for you all day. Many of the tales are taken from his family history. Unfortunately, I couldn't talk to him all that much as I had a booth to attend to and my own sculpture to sell. I was so torn as to what to buy from him, I purchased nothing...but then I called him up on Saturday and asked him if he'd ship me a painting I'd seen...I wanted more than one, but settled-if you know me, you know it's rare-very rare-for me to buy artwork...I have a new painting, 2 new drawings, a print and a sculpture from this show. The latter two pieces are from John Fesken, whose work fascinates me: he makes these intimate little boxes/scenes that give me the creeps...the one I got plunges me into another landscape/mood everytime I give it a look and I have it prominently (but not too obviously displayed in my living room.
Met another interesting fellow at the FF-one Shawn Wallace, whose West Virginia background and family led him to paint quasi-comic portraits and interesting apocalyptic landscapes...crossing Mad magazine, Weird Tales and outsider drawings of imaginary architectures, Shawn is a humble sort who, much like my friend Ricky Parker, can spin tales for you all day. Many of the tales are taken from his family history. Unfortunately, I couldn't talk to him all that much as I had a booth to attend to and my own sculpture to sell. I was so torn as to what to buy from him, I purchased nothing...but then I called him up on Saturday and asked him if he'd ship me a painting I'd seen...I wanted more than one, but settled-if you know me, you know it's rare-very rare-for me to buy artwork...I have a new painting, 2 new drawings, a print and a sculpture from this show. The latter two pieces are from John Fesken, whose work fascinates me: he makes these intimate little boxes/scenes that give me the creeps...the one I got plunges me into another landscape/mood everytime I give it a look and I have it prominently (but not too obviously displayed in my living room.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Are these events considered milestones?
Yesterday, a "For Sale" sign went up on the house I spent 15 years living in-as it so happens, this house is right down the road from where I'm living now. I knew this was coming, after being divorced now for almost a year and a half. That didn't stop the gush of memories and sadness the moment I saw the sign.
Today, I cancelled the telephone service going to my Mom's house. Our family has had that number-239-4063-since before I was born. Somehow, it didn't seem fair to give it up, knowing that someone else will eventually claim it. But paying $50 a month for a phone that has been used maybe four or five times since April is simply wasteful.
I wondered today how the studio might look to someone else if I never returned-say I was killed on the road and someone bought the studio and its contents. Would they have a clue as to what I was up to? Could they possibly figure out what significance all the bits and pieces just lying around might have? Or just sweep them into the trash, not knowing or even caring that they were to be assembled in such and such a way? Guess that's how it ends-it takes you by surprise and (if you're lucky) you don't even have a chance to clean things up.
Today just feels full of endings-as a matter of fact, that's been the tone for a few days. The constant rain might have had something to do with it. Wisht I could have sent some of that down Texas-way.
Today, I cancelled the telephone service going to my Mom's house. Our family has had that number-239-4063-since before I was born. Somehow, it didn't seem fair to give it up, knowing that someone else will eventually claim it. But paying $50 a month for a phone that has been used maybe four or five times since April is simply wasteful.
I wondered today how the studio might look to someone else if I never returned-say I was killed on the road and someone bought the studio and its contents. Would they have a clue as to what I was up to? Could they possibly figure out what significance all the bits and pieces just lying around might have? Or just sweep them into the trash, not knowing or even caring that they were to be assembled in such and such a way? Guess that's how it ends-it takes you by surprise and (if you're lucky) you don't even have a chance to clean things up.
Today just feels full of endings-as a matter of fact, that's been the tone for a few days. The constant rain might have had something to do with it. Wisht I could have sent some of that down Texas-way.
The Christmas Window
Dunno if I ever told this story before.
It involves a young boy, dressed up and looking quite presentable, taken by his parents to New York city to see all the city's Christmas wonders, circa 1960. The dressed-up store windows, the beauty of Rockefeller Center, the shoppers and the shopping.
Macy's, in all its glory-a sight to behold, enchanting in its commercial finery, bedecked in red ribbon and flecked with artifical snow. Each of the many street-level windows promising the true wonders of the season.
But there was a window that was not Macy's that stood out, across the street and maybe a bit uptown from that giant of Christmas cheer. This was a store that warned "To the Wholesale Trade Only"-in its three windows a scene from the North Pole was described-no Santa in sight, but here were his elves, working away towards that indelible date: December 25th. It was in these windows that the boy was overtaken by the idea that he would like to have these elves- although he could not buy them, he could make his own. This soon turned out to be a little easier in his imagination than it was in reality. Where to start-just how to do it proved a bit more for him than was possible, given the limited tools and materials he could lay his hands on. But the burning idea that he could do this-as a matter of fact, he could make anything he set his mind to, stayed with him. And to this day, many years later, this idea that anything he chooses to make is within his grasp, still excites him and drives him.
It involves a young boy, dressed up and looking quite presentable, taken by his parents to New York city to see all the city's Christmas wonders, circa 1960. The dressed-up store windows, the beauty of Rockefeller Center, the shoppers and the shopping.
Macy's, in all its glory-a sight to behold, enchanting in its commercial finery, bedecked in red ribbon and flecked with artifical snow. Each of the many street-level windows promising the true wonders of the season.
But there was a window that was not Macy's that stood out, across the street and maybe a bit uptown from that giant of Christmas cheer. This was a store that warned "To the Wholesale Trade Only"-in its three windows a scene from the North Pole was described-no Santa in sight, but here were his elves, working away towards that indelible date: December 25th. It was in these windows that the boy was overtaken by the idea that he would like to have these elves- although he could not buy them, he could make his own. This soon turned out to be a little easier in his imagination than it was in reality. Where to start-just how to do it proved a bit more for him than was possible, given the limited tools and materials he could lay his hands on. But the burning idea that he could do this-as a matter of fact, he could make anything he set his mind to, stayed with him. And to this day, many years later, this idea that anything he chooses to make is within his grasp, still excites him and drives him.
You know where this is going: it's (as the expression goes) all about me. Although I didn't realize it then or even until recently, that moment in front of the shop window was my epiphany-the moment that set the rest of my life-I knew then that I wanted to make stuff-and I knew that compromise was ok (even though I never even made a stab at actually creating those elves). But I would thereafter be a creator-able to make things out of no-things.
As I lay daydreaming (or maybe it was falling asleep) last night, I realized that this very same spark/epiphany still sits inside me and will (or at least I hope it will) be with me until I breathe my last. And, although my age has slowed my down a bit, I still jump out of bed thinking about what I'll make today. This is a gift, I know. I'm writing about it in gratitude-to or for whom I dunno, as I'm no believer. But here it is: thank you.
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