The sun has just risen over the Atlantic and tide is rolling in. We took a last-minute beach adventure; much-needed after the harsh re-entry into routine after the long holidays. What remains of the week is a frenzied roster of events and tasks; that peculiar state of daily life as parents and professionals. I'll enjoy the drive back once we're clear of the 70 miles of incessant billboard vulgarity which defines so many beaches. I hope for light traffic and blue skies.
...And later, reflections of the sun in the ripples of the pool as my little mermaids dive and glide beneath the surface. Skills honed last summer as we dutifully put in our daily hours poolside in Florida. They grow each day now, shooting up like sprouts after heavy rains.
Reflections on the year past and the weeks ahead, each year accelerating with my daughters ever closer to a day when they will move away and begin their own lives. If I do my job well, they will do so with confidence and wonder; and yet it breaks my heart to think of that day. Therein lies the rub of parenthood itself.
Reflections on the windy sea as Helios makes his ascent. Choppy waves move fast to shore and the artist's mind is lost in contemplating line and surface, form and fluidity. In a few short days I'll return to Spartanburg for the opening reception of the show. It still feels surreal and distant. A friend said she was coming and it made me realize that I had forgotten there would be people I knew there Friday night. Solitary is the practice and the Way. So much so it is surprising when it is peopled.
Wave wash sound of water caressing sand. I'll sit in my library tonight and feel recharged; our spontaneous escapade much needed after the harsh re-entry into daily routine from our long holiday break. Over two weeks back into it and we are all struggling still. I question why; perhaps too often. I suppose I wonder what purpose these Industrial Age structures of school and work actually serve any more. We are operating on 19th century paradigms which are long-since obsolete. Like the provincial sensibilities which make abstract art a hard sell even 100 years into the uniquely American story of it, as a nation we all-too-often mistake nostalgia and narrow mindedness for tradition.
some nights
I visited the Abstract Invitational exhibit last night. Seeing my work in that space felt very gratifying and very humbling. I was struck by how different the exhibition looked at SAM as opposed to the Elizabeth Harper gallery where it previously hung. The museum, -the Chapman Cultural Center as a whole, is top shelf. The citizens of Spartanburg should be proud; they are poised to enter into the global discussion of art with this space.
Any doubts about my seriousness as a painter are obliterated with this show. Any questions as to the significance of my work are laid to rest. I brought it, and no one can ever take away the moment I had with the show last night.
I'll be back a week from today for the official opening of the exhibit and I'll give a brief artist's talk. I'm glad I've now been in the space and seen the show, it makes the opening easier. I met some nice people last night, hopefully I'll meet more next week. I'm hopeful some of my friends from far away may surprise me and fly in, but the support online has been overwhelming as it is, and I know SC is not a destination for many who haven't been here.
It's before dawn and the house is still and in the darkness I drink my coffee and type these words and I'm still trying to understand that last night was not a dream. These little (and not so little) validations keep me going, for I know the road will never end for me.
floods
The rains came and my roof leaked, soaking most of the Eastern wall. The paintings in progress appear be OK, seasoned as they are from extreme temperatures and varying humidity. Sometimes the primitive nature of the studio gives me pause, but I love working in there when the temperatures climb and in the hot, still nights.
I will see the show for the first time this Thursday. As part of Spartanburg's Art Walk, I hope there will be some traffic. I'm curious to see how it will be received, though not having seen the show in the space, it will be an experience for me as well.
The black paintings are promising. I was able to experiment with some 10" square canvases and the results are powerful. It's hard to get a handle on what it will look like big, but I feel very positive thus far. I was able to get down another coat of gesso on the 4 in play, and the surfaces are coming along nicely. I know I'm onto something. I don't recall every feeling this way about emerging work in the studio.
I will see the show for the first time this Thursday. As part of Spartanburg's Art Walk, I hope there will be some traffic. I'm curious to see how it will be received, though not having seen the show in the space, it will be an experience for me as well.
The black paintings are promising. I was able to experiment with some 10" square canvases and the results are powerful. It's hard to get a handle on what it will look like big, but I feel very positive thus far. I was able to get down another coat of gesso on the 4 in play, and the surfaces are coming along nicely. I know I'm onto something. I don't recall every feeling this way about emerging work in the studio.
higher ground
I met the writer D A Adams for coffee this afternoon on his way through town. We have been friends for half our lives, having met in a poetry workshop in college. He's one of those lifelong friends that whenever we meet the time and distance immediately fade. Our intense conversations always leave me transformed and questioning. Coffee turned into 4 hours without either of us noticing. Of him I can say many things, but suffice to say he is a gentleman and a professional. His writing transcends genre and speaks to me personally and profoundly about the human condition.
Today also begins the unfortunate anniversary of the birth, short life, and death of another close friend's child. The mother's blog and Facebook posts are often gut-wrenching and brutally real in a way that makes them extremely difficult to read and nearly impossible to respond to. Years after, the pain remains ever-present for them, and while one tries to be good friend, there comes a point of realizing there's nothing one can do. I'll never feel what they feel; at least I hope with every fibre of my being that I will not, and this by its very acknowledgement creates a chasm so vast that there is only blackness and the seeming hollowness of kindness to offer. I feel for them and I think of Ellie through the years and I wish they did not feel alone in their pain and that I could somehow reach through it.
The black paintings are about our humanity. Seeing and interpreting the last day of Christ within the context of epic poetry, epic story, made me appreciate it anew. I'm still not religious, nor will I ever be again, but the story speaks to me. When I saw my first crude efforts I immediately understood how heavy the works will eventually be. Even those 2 paintings hit me like a Mack truck to the chest; but they were not what I wanted, so I destroyed them. Whatever spiritual or transformative paintings I may or may not have painted to-date are nothing compared to these. These are something else entirely. I see it in my head and I cannot rest. They will not leave me alone.
So maybe the pain I cannot find the strength to speak to in the case of my friends' child is somehow a part of this. Maybe the eternal conversation between good friends is more than the simple act of reunion and is, instead, a regenerative spiritual process; a rebirth. Our inadequate distinctions between joy and agony seem to only limit a true experience of either. Those moments when we allow ourselves to feel deeply and without limits are the moments when our souls awaken from the horrific slumber of daily life. So I celebrate the writings of a grieving mother even as I sometimes recoil from them. I embrace the unending love and connection of a friend as I am aware we may not see each other for months or even years. Our feelings are somehow better when they are inappropriately laid bare, and naked, and present, because we dilute them in our everyday grind. And on those same lines if art (or Art) doesn't somehow connect with and engage that, then it is not, nor can it ever be art. It is, to paraphrase the prophet, an empty sound; like cheap tin.
Today also begins the unfortunate anniversary of the birth, short life, and death of another close friend's child. The mother's blog and Facebook posts are often gut-wrenching and brutally real in a way that makes them extremely difficult to read and nearly impossible to respond to. Years after, the pain remains ever-present for them, and while one tries to be good friend, there comes a point of realizing there's nothing one can do. I'll never feel what they feel; at least I hope with every fibre of my being that I will not, and this by its very acknowledgement creates a chasm so vast that there is only blackness and the seeming hollowness of kindness to offer. I feel for them and I think of Ellie through the years and I wish they did not feel alone in their pain and that I could somehow reach through it.
The black paintings are about our humanity. Seeing and interpreting the last day of Christ within the context of epic poetry, epic story, made me appreciate it anew. I'm still not religious, nor will I ever be again, but the story speaks to me. When I saw my first crude efforts I immediately understood how heavy the works will eventually be. Even those 2 paintings hit me like a Mack truck to the chest; but they were not what I wanted, so I destroyed them. Whatever spiritual or transformative paintings I may or may not have painted to-date are nothing compared to these. These are something else entirely. I see it in my head and I cannot rest. They will not leave me alone.
So maybe the pain I cannot find the strength to speak to in the case of my friends' child is somehow a part of this. Maybe the eternal conversation between good friends is more than the simple act of reunion and is, instead, a regenerative spiritual process; a rebirth. Our inadequate distinctions between joy and agony seem to only limit a true experience of either. Those moments when we allow ourselves to feel deeply and without limits are the moments when our souls awaken from the horrific slumber of daily life. So I celebrate the writings of a grieving mother even as I sometimes recoil from them. I embrace the unending love and connection of a friend as I am aware we may not see each other for months or even years. Our feelings are somehow better when they are inappropriately laid bare, and naked, and present, because we dilute them in our everyday grind. And on those same lines if art (or Art) doesn't somehow connect with and engage that, then it is not, nor can it ever be art. It is, to paraphrase the prophet, an empty sound; like cheap tin.
anew
I spent my last day of 2013 in the studio. Tonight I will drink with good friends and ring in the New Year, safe and stationary for the evening. Through the magic of the internet, I won't be anywhere near a computer or smartphone when this posts, but I wish everyone a happy 2014.
I'll walk into the studio in the new year ready to do battle. I know the way ahead, it is clear to me now.
In just over 2 weeks the SAM show will open, and I will see my work hanging in an art museum for the very first time. I hope this bodes well for the new year, we painters are a suspicious lot. I remember meeting a fairly famous sculptor back in the Spring at an opening at June Kelly who, finding himself surrounded by a motley crew of painters remarked that painters have to take the hard way. For sculptors, he said, if it works we go with it. But you painters have to struggle. If it comes easy you always reject it.
I suppose that's true. Knifing those two paintings yesterday was the only option. I could look at it as 3 months work down the drain or I could see it for what it is; 3 months worth of practice and setting my own bar. What emerges from destruction is often better than what was before. In my case, I've never denied the link between creation and destruction. Indeed, my process is often violent and chaotic to reach the pictures I paint.
I'm glad 2013 is over. I'm not one for the past. Today is the greatest day of my life. This is the greatest time. My daughters' age now is my favorite age they have been, and this has always been the case. I can't look ahead too far into the new year. I have my plots and plans, but in the end I will be where I need to be. I feel the work is about to go somewhere really powerful and so I want for nothing.
I have a feeling that this series will be accomplished much more quickly than I originally thought. I can't wait to watch it come together.
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