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Posted on 2/29/2012 7:01:06 PM
By Donald Fox
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Southwestern
The so-called modern era is often defined by rapidity of change, particularly with the idea that change is for the better. Alvin Toffler published his landmark book, Future Shock, in 1970. The basic premise of the immediate bestseller was that too rapid change is psychologically disturbing for many individuals and could be structurally unsettling for society. In 1970 computing was in its infancy compared to today, but already humans had successfully landed men on the moon (dependent upon computers), and the space race had been in full swing for over ten years. Americans had become used to supersonic travel, fast cars, fast trains, and fast food. In coming years Moore’s Law would manifest in the exponential doubling of computer capacity and speed, and a new generation would grow up not only used to television but also computer games and computer simulation. As expressed in a popular film of the 80s, the “need for speed” was practically a cultural mantra.
Art was not exempt from these changes. Those impatient with oil paint’s slow drying time turned to acrylic and water based media. Most large scale painting of the 60s and 70s and beyond relied on acrylic for its rapid response. Several generations of TV painters who still used oils developed shortcut techniques to complete easel paintings within 25 minutes or less. Increasing numbers of realist painters began to rely on photographs, slide projectors, and other projective equipment to bypass the drawing stage of a painting. Even today those painters who follow the plein air tradition (not that old when compared to the overall history of painting) sometimes participate in paint-outs that partly focus on who can paint the fastest and best. To be fair, many of them also do slower studio painting as well.
If you were to go to a good museum and spend some time watching the people, you would see a lot of quick movement through various galleries to see as much art as possible within a relatively short amount of time. One pass through and the viewer can proclaim, “I’ve seen the exhibit.” An occasional student, perhaps, will linger in front of several paintings to take notes for an assignment or to draw from a master work. Most viewers, however, take the quick tour. It’s almost as though we’ve forgotten how to look, how to slow down and actually enjoy what is being seen.
Just as there are increasing numbers of people advocating slow food; i.e., taking time to relish the choosing of quality food, preparing the food, and savoring the taste of the food as it is eaten, and also enjoying the company of others while doing so, I like to believe there is advocacy of slow art. Certainly it’s wonderful how computers and visual imaging through digital technology have advanced and continue to advance, but what is read or seen on a screen can’t compete with the visual/textural/dimensional experience of an actual painting. Subtleties of the latter take time and attention to be fully appreciated. The slow experience of art is an affirmation of human capacity to relish something in depth, to contemplate the relation of that experience to self and of the self to other selves, other human beings. Yes, life is often fast-paced, but we can also choose to slow down and look at the marvelous work that continues to be crafted by many gifted painters.
Posted on 2/28/2012 4:27:39 PM
By Donald Fox
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Streetlights
Simon rarely speaks to another human being. Very few human beings ever speak to Simon. His mother speaks to him and bathes him and dresses him and feeds him and does just about everything for him. This is because Simon lives in a world of his own that no one else really knows very much about, for Simon has very few words with which to tell anyone what he is thinking. But, what Simon could do is draw.
Give Simon a piece of paper and a pen, and he can draw the most elaborate images from start to finish without even looking at the object or objects that he is drawing. For you see, Simon is a savant. Some use the term idiot savant because people like Simon have very few social skills and seem to know little about the world in which they live. They live outside society. They have no real way of connecting to people in society. The most ordinary things that people do, Simon cannot do. He will not hold open a door for an elderly lady. He will not smile and extend his hand in greeting when seeing someone he knows. In fact, it is hard to tell if he even knows anyone at all.
On that paper, though, Simon can masterfully render the most intricate of constructions based upon a single glance. It is as though that image registers in Simon’s mind and remains there in all its vividness for him to project onto that sheet of paper one line at a time until the complete image is rendered in acute detail. Unlike many trained artists, Simon will not start in the center and work outward. He won’t subdivide the paper or create light guidelines to establish an overall composition or placement of objects. He just seems to know exactly where the edge of a building should be on the page, and the rest will grow proportionately all the way to the other side. And by the time the opposite edge is in place, the entire building will be subtly placed within the picture space as if it had been carefully planned from the beginning.
How Simon knows these things and how he can draw with so much instantly grasped detail, no one really knows. Many trained artists see his work and think, “What I wouldn’t give to be able to visually grasp things like that.” But not many artists would be willing to give up their sense of awareness, their critical thinking, and their ability to communicate with others in order to gain that skill. Eventually they realize that the gift of the savant may actually be a curse, for no one knows if the savant like Simon actually comprehends what he can do. We might look at Simon’s drawings and marvel at their uniqueness, but even though they may at first seem to have some expressive quality in the nervous line, they are actually missing the sensitivity and aliveness that is usually associated with fine art. The savant may be highly gifted in one or two special areas – and we can marvel at the expression of those gifts – but what’s missing is a deeper human element that sets the savant apart from the rest of us. Therein lies the irony and the tragedy.
Posted on 2/27/2012 4:40:32 PM
By Donald Fox
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Fannin Street Flowers
Among the many painters I admire, Camille Pissarro is definitely among the top ten and near the top of that list. Generally I don’t think in terms of ranking artists because to compare one to another does not make much sense to me. I prefer to value an artist for the work that he or she did/does. If I do any comparison, it usually is within the body of work itself, early to late perhaps. But if I were grouping artists, Pissarro would be among the first mentioned.
For me, Pissarro stands out because of his steady work habits that resulted in regular output of consistently fine work that also documented parts of his life and the regions he frequented. Despite numerous setbacks, including lifelong financial struggle (hundreds of his paintings were destroyed during the Franco-Prussian War), he continued to work well into his old age when he eventually went blind.
Older than most of the Impressionists (ten years older than Monet), it has been suggested that he was not as swayed by the revolutionary fervor of the younger painters. He also often served as advisor to many younger artists, and it is reported that he was a kind and generous teacher and friend. Rather than theorize about painting, he insisted that nature is the only teacher and continued this philosophy even when for health reasons he had to leave the country and live in the city. Some say that it was here that he did his finest paintings.
I’ve been fortunate to have seen a great deal of Pissarro’s work first hand in major collections in the U.S. and Europe. The richness of texture and solidity of composition tend to impress along with subtlety of color. Even though he did explore some post-Impressionist techniques like Pointillism, his work always has a sense of structure, not tightness by any means as the brushwork is always emphasized, that differs from the increasingly loose painting of other Impressionist painters ( in some of their paintings the forms practically dissolve). Still, his influence is often attributed to painters as diverse as Monet, Renoir, Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Cezanne, all of whom he knew and to some degree mentored.
Although many examples of Pissarro’s paintings are available in books and online, the best way (maybe the only way) to fully appreciate them is to see them directly in the flesh, so to speak. The effort will be well worth it.
Posted on 2/26/2012 5:31:54 PM
By Donald Fox
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Docked
If one studies design and composition, certain specialty terms will be encountered. The meanings of some terms are fairly specific but others may have several meanings that generally would need to be qualified in order to communicate clearly to a reader. In most writing it is a good idea to define a term so that confusion is eliminated, and the reader is directed to the point in the clearest possible manner. One potentially confusing term is plasticity and its variant, plastic form.
The general meaning of plasticity is that something is capable of being molded into a form. We might think of clay, for example, as a plastic medium since it can easily be molded to a variety of forms using a variety of techniques. Clay is malleable and therefore it is easy to consider its plastic qualities. Wood or stone, although rigid, can also be formed, and either could be considered a plastic medium. The forming process for working with rigid materials would obviously be very different from malleable ones.
In neuroscience, the brain is, in recent years, considered a plastic organ. Brain plasticity refers to the ability of the brain to change itself when necessary. If a certain portion of the brain is injured, other portions may take over the functions of the injured part as the brain seeks to heal itself. Ongoing research in this area is creating breakthroughs for sufferers of strokes, drug and alcohol addiction, traumatic injury, and other brain disorders. Even the aging brain can be altered through specific exercises to function more efficiently.
In two-dimensional art, especially painting and drawing, plasticity refers to the manipulation of materials in order to create the appearance of three-dimensional forms – objects in space. The concept of the picture space within which a painted image manifests depends on our ability to first perceive space and understand certain qualities about that perception. Secondly, based on our observation, the drawing or painting materials are manipulated in such a way that we recreate or simulate whatever has been observed. We can create the appearance of distance and depth, volume, weight, solidity and transparency, and illumination. All of these perceived qualities we translate through manipulation of the medium into the appearance of the observed in a painting or drawing. When we also consider the varieties of ways plastic form has been achieved, we see a vast range of creativity. This may seem as though we’re stating the obvious, but the result is a remarkable achievement with a relatively short history within the overall timeframe of human existence. Personally, I think this is worth contemplating so that we don’t just take it for granted.
Posted on 2/25/2012 7:52:14 PM
By Donald Fox
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Rocks Mid-stream
Everyone has doubts about their work at some time. Probably we all question what we do while we’re doing it. If we’ve learned to critique as we work, that is certainly a good thing. We can self-correct as we go, but when the critiquing becomes constant, then we can actually stop ourselves from doing any work by thinking that whatever we do is not good enough.
I have a friend who no longer paints. He actually is a bright, perceptive, creative person, and a highly skilled artist, but he became overly critical of himself to the point of sabotaging his every effort. His self-criticism became so strong that he could no longer hear positive feedback from others. Artists whose work he respected would tell him that his work was good and that he was being too hard on himself. Somehow, though, he had this image of perfection in his mind that negated whatever was said. He had an inner vision that he could never quite match in reality, or so he often said.
There is a long history in art of tortured souls who, for whatever reasons and besides being very gifted, eventually do themselves in, literally or figuratively. Caravaggio died under mysterious circumstances at an early age. Van Gogh is often cited as the epitome of the tortured artist. In modern times, some artists succumb to substance abuse. Poets and writers are not exempt: Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and David Foster Wallace to name but a few. We can say these are the extreme cases and these individuals suffered from deep psychological problems, but if an artist stops creating because of internal criticism, he or she has in effect killed the creative self.
It is too easy to judge another and say what they should or should not do. We can never really know the circumstances of that person or what is truly in that person’s mind. However, when we hear a person constantly undercutting whatever he does, it is obvious that something is not right. Being supportive is about all we can do. We cannot fix their incorrect thinking. None of my friend’s friends have been able to alter his actions no matter how much we love and support him. He has convinced himself otherwise.
Certainly creative work can be frustrating. Life itself can be very challenging. It is important to develop supportive relationships with those we trust and whose opinions we honor. Self-criticism may be important to continued growth as an artist, but there needs to be balance as well. External support can be important for guidance if we’re willing to listen, for that internal (infernal) critic can be the most devastating of all.
Posted on 2/24/2012 7:06:06 PM
By Donald Fox
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Bird in Tree
I mowed the yard today, which had become extremely ragged since lately we’ve had lots of rain, much of it coming on weekends. Working during the week, I only have time for housework on the weekends, but this is also the main time for most painting. Frequently, the housework goes undone much to my neighbors’ dismay. Recent rains only just ended the severe drought conditions for our part of the state. Because of the drought, grass in the yard had died back allowing various native weeds to establish themselves. Dollar weed, thistles, and other types of weeds with unknown names have been growing and spreading. I’d take half an hour some days to pull weeds and keep the growth somewhat in check. When the ground is damp, the weeds are easy to pull out, but if it’s dry, the weeds have to be dug out. So, I’d managed to pull most of the thistles and dollar weed, but had left the grassier type weeds to grow. These it’s easier to mow.
Mowing a yard is a fairly mechanical chore. The grass can be cut by mowing parallel rows, back and forth until complete. Another option is to mow the outer edges of a large rectangular section turning at each corner until a successively smaller and smaller rectangle is whittled down to a single short strip. These two options are the most efficient way to ensure even cutting. The rectangle or square of a painting, however, can also be crisscrossed from various angles, not just side to side or top to bottom. Angular lines tend to suggest spatial depth as might be seen in a road, line of phone poles or trees, or a row of houses down a street. These larger lines within a composition hold objects in place on the surface while also creating the visual depth that gives a naturalistic appearance.
Abstract painting of the 1950s and 60s tended towards an allover style. Jackson Pollack, for example, is most known for his allover drip paintings where the lines or strings of very liquid paint create a web of interweaving lines and drops of color. The spatial effect in many of these paintings is quite different from the design of landscape paintings, and yet there is a naturalistic feel about these obviously abstract images. Perhaps it is the web-like structure that suggests dense foliage. Light playing across the surface of and sometimes penetrating overlapping leaves can create a similar web-like appearance. The same is true for tangled brambles, dense vines, wild grasses in a windblown field, and other natural forms viewed from a particular perspective.
Our minds tend to create associations; we make connections between things that at first may not appear to have any connection. Perhaps this is some ancient survival mechanism at work. Primitive man survived when he could distinguish friend from foe, but he may also have been given an edge by being able to create or see connections that a predator might not. We often can perceive (or impose?) order where at first there might seem randomness. This mental/visual acuity is fundamental to the making of art. Perhaps the exercising of this skill is one of the reasons why we make art in the first place. It is simply part of what we do.
Posted on 2/23/2012 4:14:08 PM
By Donald Fox
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Aspen Grove
The easel planted firmly,
canvas clamped tight against the wind,
colors ooze from tubes
like gelatinous rivers
blue, yellow, red, brown, white –
from these will grow
a craggy tree, distant hill,
sunlit sky with jaundiced cloud –
“What are you doing?
Those are only strokes and spatters
that say nothing of firm bark
or solid stone, veils of color
dragged across a taut curtain.
They could be the random squiggles
of happy children, though more precise.”
You question what I do?
Here I try to show your grace
and beauty that others might see
how radiant that tree shines
against its blue backdrop,
the subtle purple shadows
like regal robes trailing behind
every weed and blade of grass.
“We appreciate that you see us so,
but note that every stroke
says more about you than us.
We are not pigment, even
as light reveals each twist and turn
of leaf or twig, the soft nuance
of wheat, angular reach
of branch and thorn.
You make something
other than what we are.”
Of course. It’s art.
It’s nature recreated
in the mind’s eye,
filled with respect,
homage, love,
imbued with awe and wonder.
“Yet reduced to lines and patterns,
tracks of colored thought
nowhere near the intense richness
that rises from the earth
or falls from the sky.
Can you hold a budding flower
in the spectrum of your brush?
Can you soar on thermal wings
like birds taking flight?”
I record what I see
and mold that within a frame
that others may mold
their own visions –
“Based on yours?
We are not fictions
that dim or fade
with the newest thought
or shift in mood
at the slightest whim.”
Nor do I paint you thus.
Yet you also feel time’s shift
and bend to the weight of change.
You sag if the land runs dry.
You fall when roots fail
or snows press down
like a smothering anvil.
How does it harm
that I echo a red-edged cloud
in a red-tipped leaf?
“You imagine because
you can’t accept the truth.
You alter rather than admit
your days too short.”
Posted on 2/22/2012 8:52:28 PM
By Donald Fox
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The Reader
Governments have major concerns about controlling space. They control their borders to ensure that uninvited people do not enter against current laws. Controlling the space within their borders includes the air space as well as the ground space and the underground space. Issues related to water rights or mineral rights must be resolved according to whatever legal guidelines are set in place within a particular country. Cities control space for making streets, running sewer lines, power lines, gas lines, and anything else that is necessary for the proper functioning of the municipalities. Some spaces may be kept open as public spaces for everyone to enjoy. Other spaces may be restricted for specific use. Sometimes, though, problems result when there is conflict between public and private, and then some resolution must be created. There is nothing unusual about this.
Artists work to control space in paintings, drawings, designs, sculptures, and in nearly any form of creative endeavor. The issues will vary according to the medium, but it is an area of concern. Recently I came across two very interesting space related problems for two different artists. Both are sculptors, and though the basic problems are quite different, there also is an unusual similarity between them.
In 1989 the Berkeley Art Project group initiated an art monument competition for a work to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the Free Speech Movement that began on the UC Berkeley campus. The idea behind this is that once the monument was created, it would be given to the university, which would be in less of a position to refuse something they would not have commissioned themselves. After an open period of feedback from public, art critics and professionals, and some university faculty – a very democratic selection process – Mark Brest van Kemper’s Column of Earth and Air was chosen. The design consisted of a six-inch circle of dirt surrounded by a six-foot circle of concrete around which is inscribed “This soil and the air space extending above it shall not be part of any nation and shall not be subject to any entity’s jurisdiction.” In effect, an invisible sixty thousand foot column of air is the primary monument. Initially, the university did not want to accept the gift. Under public pressure, school officials relented on the condition that any press releases make no mention of the Free Speech Movement, still a sore spot with the university. The irony here is delicious: censorship of a monument to free speech. I also especially love the way the concept of space is cleverly utilized in the sculpture.
The second spatial challenge concerns James Turrell’s 2003 sculpture Tending, (Blue) currently located in the Nasher Sculpture Garden in Dallas, Texas. This site specific sculpture is an enclosed room with a clear opening in the ceiling nine and a half feet square, which leaves the sky visible. Programmed lights in the room shift from red, blue, green, and yellow at set intervals. These create amazing changes in the appearance of the sky. It would seem as though the space is well controlled. However, nearby a forty-two story condo is under construction which will intrude on the view from the room. The primary intent of the artist will have been defeated. The sculpture is temporarily closed to the public while the artist re-thinks the design to remedy the future problem, but obviously his initial concept of controlling space has been compromised.
In many respects painters can control space more easily through composition and color, but, even so, careful planning and execution are necessary to ensure successful results. Once the painting leaves the artist’s possession, however, certain controls are lost. The frame may change, and the lighting conditions under which the painting may be shown are usually beyond the artist’s control. Neither of these may necessarily affect how the artist has handled space within the painting, but he may never know for sure either.
Sources:
“Berkeley’s Invisible Monument to Free Speech.” San Francisco Chronicle (original article). UCIRA Santa Barbara. 2010
Breal, Jordan, “Straight from the Art.” Texas Bound for Family Fun. Texas Monthly supplement. March/April 2012: 15
Posted on 2/21/2012 5:40:38 PM
By Donald Fox
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Outside Mama's
The history of art is interesting, engaging, and can be viewed from a variety of perspectives. Much focus is given to how images change from culture to culture and through time. The concept of a singular painting developing from prehistoric paintings is interesting but flawed since those early paintings were unknown until the early 20th century. Stylistic changes can be traced within particular spans of time and within certain regions. As technology advances so generally does cross-pollination occur along with multiplicity of expression.
Traditions grow within cultures and sometimes, especially in modern times, we see cross-cultural influences. For example, in late 19th century Europe consider the influence of Japanese prints which showed up in backgrounds of some Impressionists and painters like Degas, Whistler, and Sargent. Oriental composition can be seen in the paintings of Toulouse-Lautrec and Degas and others. This follows the so-called opening of Japan by Commodore Perry.
The social history of art is also intriguing, especially in Western art. For the moment forget prehistory since it is so far removed from what we know as civilized culture. The humanizing forms of Hellenistic art greatly affected art that followed it. Much Greek art was also more accessible to a wider audience than the art of Egyptian or Mesopotamian cultures. Even Chinese art for centuries existed within an elite cultural bubble inaccessible to the average Chinese citizen. Greek art, however, began a process of democratization that led to art, especially painting, becoming more widely available to greater numbers of people. With economic changes and the growth of merchant classes and eventually a middle class, art was within reach of a far greater audience. This in turn affected imagery as iconography shifted from the state/royalty and religious images to ordinary persons and objects. We see this in portraiture, landscapes, and still life paintings. The Golden Age of Dutch and Flemish painting epitomizes this shifting trend.
In Western art today the trends come fast and furiously. Cole Porter’s song from the 1920s, “Anything Goes,” could easily describe what is to be found in nearly any gallery or museum. For some artists, the wilder the better, the crazier the more desirable, are the modus operandi. Flaunting tradition, breaking with the past, and creating the never-before-seen are what define the best, the newest, that art of the moment. History, however, as has borne out time and again, will have the final say. The art of today may appear to be all inclusive, but what lasts is yet to be determined.
Posted on 2/20/2012 4:38:41 PM
By Donald Fox
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Mule Deer
Even in the best of circumstances, communication can be challenging. Those in the visual arts might not think that communication is such a major issue. After all, aren’t we mostly communicating through pictures? How can someone misunderstand a piece of fruit or misread a landscape? Isn’t the obvious, well, obvious?
There is a learning curve for anyone tackling painting for the first time. As with any new endeavor, there will be a learning curve, sometimes steep and sometimes protracted. Part of that learning process has to do with learning the language of the discipline. Painting may be a visual art, but there is unique language that also accompanies the learning process, the explanation, and the understanding. Added to this is the visual language, which is more about symbol and metaphor and what might be called the psychological or emotional meaning associated with shape, color, and overall design.
Learning theories abound these days. For example, if someone had to learn a foreign language, many experts would say that total immersion is the best process. See and hear and use the language, even if incorrectly, as often as possible. Don’t translate – think in the new language. Most would find this a daunting process, so wedded are they to their linear thinking. They want one thing to logically follow another. It would be difficult to get back to that childlike state of absorbing new influences from many directions at once.
How about painting? Would you just give someone a brush, some paints, a canvas and say go to it? Do one painting after another. Paint everything that you see and experience. I imagine most people would throw up their hands in frustration and say they couldn’t do it. They’d probably get stuck either with drawing or with color mixing. Some explanation and demonstration will help to ease the transition, but even then understanding the language of painting takes practice as well. What is the difference between lightness and brightness, for example? How does light on a scale comparing light to dark differ from light as a source of illumination?
Those who do painting may think it relatively easy to shift from ordinary observation and understanding that is done every day to that more special and spatial way of observing necessary to work successfully with color and form. They shift easily from left brain/analytical thinking to right brain/ spatial thinking. The difference between verbal language and visual language, however, will make little sense to the novice. I have heard so many struggling beginners say that they had no idea color was so challenging. They had thought it would simply be a matter of putting yellow in one spot and green in another.
As children, of course, we learn as we go without stressing ourselves about the process. We learn from those around us. Our vocabulary grows naturally from what we hear, and as we learn to read, we use reading as a learning tool and the process accelerates. Our understanding is based in language, and unless there is some learning deficit, the process seems to flow organically. Certainly the challenges of painting are many, but studying the language can be a powerful way to deepen the learning experience.
Posted on 2/19/2012 4:46:55 PM
By Donald Fox
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Desert Clouds
A bit under the weather today after a not especially happy weekend. Viewings, funeral services, and receptions all designed to bring closure with the added intention of celebrating a life – one well lived by a loving and much-loved friend. People grieve in different ways and for varying periods of time. Whether the lost one is birth family or chosen family, the grief may not be lessened. This is a time, too, when many resort to clichés because it is so difficult to know what to say. The longer we live, of course, the more likely the losses will increase. I remember my father-in-law saying many years ago that he didn’t mind getting old, but he did mind losing so many good friends.
Perhaps it is our mortality that pushes us in directions that can be creative, loving, supportive, and also destructive. Denial is a powerful force that can give us time to heal or can urge some of us to the abuse and subjugation of others. Shelley’s poem “Ozymandius” should be required reading for all stepping into adulthood. The poem, like so much art, gives voice to the irony of pride, the illusion of power, and the frailty of life. Our lives, our day to day existence can be experienced as it comes, and so we are buffeted by the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” Or, we can be conscious of our choices, understand that many things are beyond our control, and live our lives as though we craft them moment to moment. Certainly I do not do this consistently, but I am aware of the possibility. As the writer Annie Dillard says, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”
Listening to the stories shared by family and friends at the memorial service for my friend, I’m sure we all felt some comfort to know that so many were touched by him. Those of us who shared also gained a cathartic opportunity to express our caring to others we did not know but who knew him. We came together in grief, but we bonded in our mutual caring. Art can also be cathartic and empowering and uplifting. It is a conduit for shared experience and sometimes a pathway for healing and understanding.
Posted on 2/18/2012 7:54:05 PM
By Donald Fox
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May Pond
I read a short article recently about the writer Wallace Stegner who also was a strong proponent back in the 50s of saving wild spaces. He spoke of the importance of us staying connected to the spirit of our ancestors who had created our nation and culture by exploring the wilderness of our vast country. We were formed from those experiences – our character, our morals, and our belief in possibility. One thing in particular that he said struck a chord. Even if we stand at the edge of wilderness and look in, that can be a powerfully nurturing experience in itself.
Many today have no real experience of wild nature other than what may be seen on public television or on channels like Nature or National Geographic. These are wonderful educational experiences that can teach us second hand about places we may never personally get to see. Or, if we do spend time in natural settings, it is most often in groomed areas like certain parts of natural parks or smaller green spaces within cities. A trip to the seashore, a camping trip, or following a hiking trail all can be like standing at the edge of wilderness and looking in. Although we may not explore with the tenacity of earlier explorers, we do still understand the concept of exploring a topic, an idea, a place, or a theme. It is a very different experience, though, to step into nature, to move well past the roads, pathways, or buildings that sometimes border that edge between civilization and the unblemished wild.
An artist standing before a blank canvas or page is not unlike the explorer about to take the first step into an adventure of discovery. How one moves forward is an important part of the journey. Forging ahead without care for what is left behind can be capricious and foolish. Careful planning and preparation can make the journey a successful one. Still, the process may be one of discovery since you’re never quite sure what you’ll find along the way. There will also be many decisions about which way to proceed as the journey progresses and various obstacles are encountered. That sense of wildness in the unexplored can add excitement to the process, and the uncertainty of success or failure may also heighten the experience.
How we each decide to begin, traverse, and complete the journey that is painting, we will stand at various points along the way as though we are at the edge of wilderness looking in. Once we begin the journey, do we also invite the viewer to come along?
Posted on 2/17/2012 10:16:26 PM
By Donald Fox
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Cloud Study
The summer I graduated from high school I got a job working for a local civil engineering firm as part of a survey crew. A friend form school called me and told me about the job. He had been working there for a week when he learned that they needed another worker. We worked on separate crews, so we never actually worked together. I saw him early each day before we left for respective assignments. It was a great summer spent working outdoors in a variety of locations: new neighborhoods within the city, remote locations in the country, and riverside areas for the development of commercial docks. I learned a lot about the early planning stages of construction projects, but mostly I learned about the power of networking. It was my friend, after all, who had called me about the job. My employers became good references.
For several periods of time through the years, I’ve been part of different professional networking groups. Some were breakfast groups and some lunch groups, and these usually met either once a week or several times each month. None of these were specific to artists, and each had particular rules about participation. One, for example, that focused on self-employed individuals only allowed one representative of a specific type of business. The shared interest was being self-employed, and there was no competition among ourselves for business. We all looked out for the interests of the other and gave referrals and support in whatever ways we could. In smaller networking groups there is more opportunity to bond and to develop ongoing relationships. Larger, more fluid groups offer greater opportunity for wide-ranging connections. There’s usually someone who knows someone who meets whatever criteria you might be looking for.
Over the years I’ve created many ongoing business and personal relationships through networking groups. I’ve sold work, received free advertising, gained free business advice, been invited to participate in exhibits, been offered one-man shows, received commissions, new customers, teaching opportunities, and many, many referrals. Plus, I’ve also had the opportunity to support others with their business needs. Even though networking is one of the fundamental ways of doing business and creating business, a lot of artists don’t take advantage of the opportunities available. Check into local business publications or do a simple Google search for your area. Many opportunities await.
Posted on 2/16/2012 4:03:52 PM
By Donald Fox
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Afternoon at Waller
There are times, hopefully not very frequently, when a painting just isn’t working. The hand is too heavy, the drawing is off, the color isn’t harmonious, or the whole thing just sets teeth on edge. Now is the time to stop and start over. To continue in the hopes that something can be salvaged is more than likely a waste of time. Scrape it down and start again.
I’ve seen this happen in drawings (and have done it myself) where someone is thinking, if I just add a bit more shading here or strengthen the outline there – but no. Start again. Get the basics down right. Put everything in place. Watch the spacing and proportion. Make sure the positions create the kind of visual space that is desired. Then those finishing touches can be placed, the shading and shadows and the highlights.
There is no substitute for starting over, and I think this applies to the experienced as well as inexperienced artist. Of course, the more experience one acquires generally the better one understands the process of drawing or painting. Focus is placed in the appropriate areas at the appropriate time so that everything proceeds to produce the desired result. Practice is so important for strengthening the entire process.
I enjoy seeing drawings that leave the construction lines in place, so the viewer has some sense of the artist’s thinking process in developing the piece. Some watercolorists also incorporate pencil drawing or light wash drawing as part of the completed piece. Again the viewer can see how the painting developed. Even oil sketches can give the viewer this same sense of constructive development. More finished paintings or drawings usually remove or paint over the development framework, and when the painting is successful, these lines are not missed.
Painting is not a performing art like dance or music. The artist can stop and re-do or completely begin again without any harm to the process. Performing artists must work out all the problems before the performance in order to create success. The painter can work and re-work, and, when necessary, begin anew based on the lessons of earlier attempts. I don’t think we’re ever admitting failure when we say, “I can do this better. I think I’ll start over.”
Posted on 2/15/2012 7:08:56 PM
By Donald Fox
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In the Park
Sometimes a good idea can pop into the mind at what seems like an inopportune time. Or, we may have a running mental list of things to do or paint or create. Maybe the list is actually written down somewhere, but the daily slings and arrows just don’t allow time for any of those listed items to be enacted. We all hear about prioritizing, scheduling, carving out time, and still we think tomorrow or next week will be soon enough.
I feel fortunate to have a great many friends who are supportive, intelligent, and creative. Quite a few of them are artists – writers, musicians, dancers, painters, photographers, even a couple of filmmakers. Others are professionals in business, law, education, medicine and the healing arts. All of us are busy people, and we may go months without seeing each other or even communicating. Yet our community is strong, and we come together in time of need. Social media has made it easier to maintain contact, at least within the virtual world, and for that I am grateful.
Day before yesterday I lost one of my good friends. We (my wife and his wife) and I have known each other for more than thirty years. We’ve shared many good times with art, music, movies, and food. He was set to retire from his job as an engineer at the end of January on his birthday, but he decided to work an extra month for various reasons. The last time we talked he told me of his retirement plans, especially working more with photography – he was an excellent photographer who did it just for the joy of it. His work far surpassed many professionals I’ve seen. He wanted to do more with landscape photography in particular and to begin to explore black and white imagery. He also was an accomplished amateur astronomer. If ever there were an impending celestial event, we could count on receiving an email detailing what to expect and when. His intelligence, wit, and creative spirit could have given us much artistic expression. That is a loss for us all.
The shock of his passing is still fresh and raw. From past losses I’ve experienced, I know it will take some time to process the grief, the pain, and that gaping hole that has been wrenched in the fabric of life. As I do the normal things in my own daily life, I find memories coming to light of shared experiences. I also hear in my mind many of the clichés that we tend to offer to others about the brevity of life, the importance of doing the important things first, telling each other what is in our hearts, and expressing gratitude in every moment. I have no regrets in this particular relationship. We communicated at a deep level of understanding. What I do feel is very great sadness that my friend didn’t spend the last few months of his life doing the things that gave him so much pleasure and empowerment. Sure, he contributed greatly in the professional arena and that has been acknowledged, but it was that inner artistic voice that was stilled way too soon and had not fully expressed itself.
I have no doubt that my friend will remain with me for the rest of my life. I now have to trust that his spirit will continue to remind me to do those important things now and that what I do going forward will in some small way honor the memory of what we shared and maybe my voice can echo something of his.
Posted on 2/14/2012 4:12:41 PM
By Donald Fox
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Fallen Tree
How does it feel when you make your artwork? Perhaps you’re too involved in the moment to even be aware of your feelings. I’ve heard many students, however, say things like they feel relaxed, calm, excited, engaged, happy, and other responses. Whatever the feelings, these have a way of empowering us and actually reinforcing the desire to do more. Often it was our feelings, our emotional responses, that drew us to art in the first place.
We, as artists, tend to notice things in the world around us. We see and sense shapes, forms, colors, textures – all those things that make up a painting and we utilize in its construction. We tend to see deeper than the usual response to a sunset, for example, as being pretty or spectacular. We tend to notice the interplay of colors, the ambient light and how that light affects surrounding objects. We notice details or lack of details, combinations of shapes and the simultaneous existence of simplicity and complexity within those shapes. Our sensual responses inspire us to creative action.
Each of us certainly responds in different ways and will feel pulled or attracted to different stimuli. This is one aspect of human character that makes art so interesting and varied. We perceive particular colors and shapes to which we respond and that really engage us. This easily illustrates how two artists working from the same subject can create paintings quite different in appearance. The two artists, however, may say similar things about their emotional experience of making the paintings – or not.
Athletes often speak of being in the zone when everything for which they have diligently trained goes well. This is usually a powerful and even exhilarating experience. Psychologists refer to this as a peak experience. Artists also have this type experience as part of the creative process. Neurologists would point out that there are increases in serotonin and endorphin levels during peak experiences, and it is from these that the feeling of well-being or pleasure or perfection may come.
Personally, I am also aware of these feelings when I encounter powerful artwork in a museum or gallery or a friend’s studio. The sense of pleasure and excitement is palpable. I frequently feel inspired to create as well. Should I ever feel in a slump, I know that a trip to the museum will be a guaranteed pick-me-up.
Think about your most recent painting experience. Was it good for you?
Posted on 2/13/2012 4:43:04 PM
By Donald Fox
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Cool Morning
The day before Valentine’s Day and love is definitely in the air. What does it mean, though, when we say we love something? If I say, for example, that I love art and love painting, what am I actually saying? I can’t answer for others, although I suspect most people would say things that are similar, at least in some respects. For me, if I love something, I mean to say that that thing gives me pleasure. If it’s an activity like painting, then it gives me pleasure to do it. I feel connected to it also and want to do that thing and choose that thing over other things. I feel empowered by that thing, person, or activity. I will make it a priority to participate in that activity even at the expense of other activities. The thing that I love is a motivating force in my life.
What I love also gives back to me in ways that are other than pleasurable, or let’s say are pleasurable in more than just feel-good ways. I learn from what I love. I learn about myself and about the object of my affection. I learn to open myself, to be receptive and available and willing to share. I want to give back to what I love, and though I focus strongly on my affection (the object of it, not the feeling itself), I also want to enhance it, support it, and help make it grow. The object of my love is in my mind and heart and being. I could say, as many do, that I can’t live without it, but I recognize that as hyperbole. I could survive without it, but I do everything possible to always include it, to nurture it, and to accept it. As I said before, I choose to be with it, to be one with it. I recognize that we share an essential nature, and that is something to be honored and celebrated.
There are times, of course, that the object of my affection may frustrate me, may seem difficult, obtuse, and closed to my understanding. Perhaps that is natural to any relationship, but this is when it is most important to remember who I am. I must make the effort to reconnect and not hold myself aloof while thinking that it or they must come to me. I can be critical without being judgmental. I have come to recognize that strong relationships with another have to begin with the relationship to self. When I nurture myself, prepare myself, and make myself available, I strengthen the bond that I have created with the other. I am, indeed, in love.
Posted on 2/12/2012 6:15:43 PM
By Donald Fox
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Among the Trees
A large oak tree stands in my back yard. My guess is that it’s probably close to seventy years old judging by its height and girth. It has never been topped like some trees in the neighborhood when neighbors are trying to control growth. It has, though, been trimmed numerous times especially on the east side where it reaches its branches into power lines that feed all the homes on my side of the street. Back in 2008 when Hurricane Ike stormed up I-45 right past my house and through downtown Houston, trees were downed all over the area. This oak tree stood steady as did others in my yard. Several days later the City of Houston called in tree trimmers from as far away as Georgia and Florida to help with clean-up. A crew went behind all houses on my block and trimmed additional limbs away from power lines. They left a mass of cut limbs in every yard saying that they were doing emergency work, and it was the homeowners’ job to carry all the trash to the curb.
The tree has pretty much recovered except for one limb that died. Several times it looked like it might grow new branches, but that never happened. Others that had been trimmed did grow new branches, many of which have now snaked their way among the power lines again. Today I took down the dead limb, which will make good firewood for the remaining months of winter. As I worked on the limb today, it occurred to me that plants are quite resilient, and the oak tree stands as one example of fortitude in the face of manmade and natural onslaughts. It may have lost one limb, but it grew many new ones.
We also are nature, and as thinking nature we redirect ourselves when something stands in the way. We may also find an answer to resolve an issue. We may remove a blockage when possible, or we determine a path around it if it’s immovable. Trees and other plants grow into the light. They spread leaves and limbs to catch as much light as possible while sending their roots deep to access nutrients and moisture for nourishment. We, as artists, seek new arenas, patrons, and ways to utilize our art when traditional means shift or change according to social, cultural, or economic forces. We use creative thinking to market as well as to make the work that we sell. We can learn much from observing the processes of nature that we may also use as subject matter in our paintings. Perhaps what we do is another of nature’s ways of glorifying the planet that we occupy.
Posted on 2/11/2012 8:45:14 PM
By Donald Fox
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Shrimp Boats
From time to time I hear an artist bemoan a rejection from a show or express suffering from the sting of particularly harsh criticism. I assume it’s natural in contemporary feel-good America to expect that any creative expression will be lauded and accepted by everyone. Certainly most of us desire to be recognized for what we do. The truth is, though, that not everyone will respond to what we may do in a positive way. Sometimes the response may be particularly without tact or even downright obnoxious. That can be devastating, especially when the opposite is expected, or when you might think, “but I would never say something like that about someone else’s work.”
We have no real control over what others may think. We do have control over what we do and say and where we do it and say it. What should seem obvious, then, is that whenever we present something publicly, it should be the best presentation in the most appropriate setting. Even then, how others may receive what is shown can vary greatly.
In graduate school, critiques of student work were not tempered. It was expected that students would be working at a certain level of expertise. They were also expected to do their best even when experimenting and then to defend their work. If a student were deemed not to be working up to potential or pursuing some errant path, the criticism could be very harsh indeed. But, just because a student may have received negative feedback doesn’t mean that anyone had withdrawn support. The feedback was support, albeit uncomfortable at times. Part of the idea behind this was to toughen students for the realities of working as professional artists. Even the most lauded artists receive negative criticism from some quarters at some time in their careers. This can be seen in the performing arts as well as the visual arts.
Ideally, an artist learns to critique as well as create. If one critiques well enough, it won’t matter what others may say, for the most truthful criticism has been self-generated. There can be instances where an artist may simply be deluded about personal work, but most often this is among those with lesser experience. Time is a great teacher. It allows for practice, and practice begets experience. That in turn increases self-awareness and confidence. The experienced eye is a critical eye, and the process of learning and developing moves forward. Everyone goes through this at whatever pace is appropriate. When encountering harsh criticism, just get over it and keep working.
Posted on 2/10/2012 11:28:46 PM
By Donald Fox
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One challenge that someone brand new to painting, or drawing for that matter, faces is understanding shapes. All too often their focus is on objects as items that can be named – a bottle, a flower, or a leaf. How early was it when parents or older siblings presented us with individual objects and repeated their names to help us learn to match words with things? This is a natural learning process, but many people never seem to consider or see objects as shapes, for the object is always something recognizable as a thing. It is something with a name. See the object; say the name.
To successfully draw or paint, which includes orchestrating a design, objects in any situation must be considered as shapes, and those shapes interact with surrounding shapes. I can clearly remember the first teacher who taught me to see and think of a whole arrangement (composition, scene, whatever) as a collection of large and small shapes. By focusing on the largest shapes first, I could make the placement, proportion, and relationships of the smaller shapes so much more easily.
Also, if I simplified shapes, it would be much easier to build the complexity. Rather than beginning with the complexity of a flower’s contour (or a person’s or a tree’s), the shape could be simplified. This is somewhat like seeing a simple shape underlying or superimposed – whichever works – onto a more complex shape. Just as a house has a foundation and framework on which the roof, walls, floor, and exterior are built, so would for the purpose of drawing or painting an object or group of objects have a simple shape or frame around which the painting is built.
Once this concept is understood and put into practice, a student will progress more rapidly. However, though the concept may be easily demonstrated, it is not always so easy for many students to put it into practice. They must first let go of the deceptive security of the individual outline. Ironically, focus on the outline obscures the shape. Placing the large, simple shapes first will enable the student to find the outline more easily and accurately. Many master drawings, ones not intended to be finished works, illustrate this idea again and again. The first construction lines that make simple shapes and place them within the picture space are still visible. Everything else is hung on them. All of the detail is useless if it’s not in the proper place or disproportionate. This oversight, seeing the whole and its simplicity of shape, is fundamental for effective drawing and painting.
Posted on 2/9/2012 5:01:17 PM
By Donald Fox
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Blue Crabs by Walter Anderson
Young artists are often counseled to create a unique style that 1) sets them apart from other artists and 2) presents a consistent body of work as representative of that person. There are varying opinions about this that sometimes result in some artists forcing a style just to be different rather than allowing the expression to grow naturally. The latter tends to create a style that is personal and unforced, for it develops over time as the artist matures.
In the long history of art, however, there is a group of artists that are so different from anyone else that it is not a stretch to call their work radical in uniqueness. Many of the names are readily known: Van Gogh, Gauguin, Modigliani, or Toulouse-Lautrec. Others may be less easily recognized: Pascin, Bellmer, Hundertwasser, and the southern American artist Walter Anderson. We could add others to the list, but these are enough to make the point.
In a sense, each of these artists created his own aesthetic, often with a view of the world and of nature that might be described as spiritual, transcendent, elemental, primitive, sensual, and/or inspired. A number of these artists are described as tortured souls, misfits, loners, or even victims. The particulars of individual stories may vary, but there often are eccentricities of behavior or circumstance that set them apart as individuals as well as artists. This we might call the strangeness that tends to grow into myth or legend and obscures the achievements of the person as a dedicated artist. Sometimes the work is dismissed or thought less of because the artist did not succeed in his lifetime either financially or critically.
Walter Anderson was born in New Orleans and lived much of his life in Mississippi. He worked with his brothers at Shearwater Pottery (founded by older brother Peter) as a designer, but his drawings, watercolors, oils, murals, and extensive graphic work place him solidly within contemporary American art. Much of the imagery in his paintings portrays Gulf Coast fauna and flora, and he additionally created illustrated versions of dozens of classical literary works. He also wrote thousands of pages in logbooks and journals about art, his travels (France, Costa Rica, China), and his solitary excursions to Horn Island off the coast of Ocean Springs near Biloxi. Much of his best work can be seen in the Walter Anderson Museum of Art in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. Unfortunately a great deal of unpublished graphic and written work was heavily damaged or lost during Hurricane Katrina.
The paintings are uniquely beautiful expressions of natural life forms rendered in a style that is unlike any other. Even though there is no complete catalog as yet of his work, there have been books and articles written about Anderson, and images are readily available on a variety of internet sites. A trip to the Walter Anderson Museum is well worth the effort and affords an opportunity to experience firsthand the glowing quality of watercolors characteristic of Anderson’s mature style. The eccentricities that may have plagued him in his life and tales of which tend to linger in some circles serve only to make this modern master that much more intriguing. Whatever strangeness may be attributed to him is far exceeded by the quality and uniqueness of the work he produced.
Posted on 2/8/2012 8:59:40 PM
By Donald Fox
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Car Shop
Pop Crowell was a wiry, shrunken man with a beak nose, red face and dancing black eyes, who moved among the rusted metal and cast-off remnants of cars, trucks, appliances, and everything metal like the most efficient filing clerk would thumb through a list of names. Dressed in dirty coveralls and plaid shirt, Pop wore his perennial baseball cap backwards from necessity, forty years before that action would become a statement of cultural pride or adolescent rebellion. The welding goggles perched atop his head only occasionally gave way to the heavy face shield when serious metal cutting was required.
The dilapidated shed that was Pop’s office, tool storage, workroom, and warehouse had been pieced together like an old barn that was in constant need of repair. The flat galvanized roof slanted from front to rear to accommodate rainwater runoff. The sides were part galvanized metal, part plywood and were plastered with cigarette ads, posters for BC powder, movies, shaving cream (which Pop obviously rarely used), old road signs, street signs, outdated license plates, and other cultural icons.
Pop’s whole operation, shed and junkyard included, sat on a single lot near the end of a residential street. A gas station that faced the cross street backed up to Pop’s property. A line of trees and a kudzu-covered fence insulated Pop from his residential neighbor on the other side.
I often accompanied my dad, the relentless tinkerer, on his visits to Pop in his quest for some special piece of metal that had to be cut to specification. There was great mystery in how this little sunburned man would scowl his grizzled face at my dad’s requests, chew briskly on the cigar stub in the corner of his mouth, blink several times, spit to his right, and then say, “Got jest whatcha need.” He would then dig through a pile of weed obscured, rusted remains, pull out some misshapen relic, and after cutting, grinding, welding, and polishing would produce a pristine piece of shiny metal like the most precious and prized jewel of the orient.
My dad was a jack-of-all-trades himself and built, remodeled, refurbished, rebuilt, or designed a vast array of improvements for the house, yard, and cars. But, if he ever got stuck or ran into a problem, Pop Crowell was the man he went to for advice.
For years I passed Pop’s workplace on my way to the barbershop, to pick up some small grocery item from the store around the corner, or to buy some of Pappy Gay’s incredible hot dogs for dinner when mother felt too tired to cook. There would be Pop hunched over some piece of junk, the blue-white glow of his cutting torch shooting orange sparks in all directions like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
After Pop died, the weeds and kudzu took over, but eventually the shed was razed, the lot cleaned up, and a small strip center encroached onto part of the property. There was no sign remaining of this ancient wizard who had quietly plied his trade like some undiscovered master sculptor who never really cared for the work he created but felt the need to keep working, to keep on creating, who might melt down one piece to make way for another in a continuous process of recycling – blending, forming, perfecting, re-thinking, constantly changing, but always the consummate craftsman.
Ironically, none of the monuments remain. I’ve often thought, though, that centuries from now, when all of Wilmington is buried beneath pine straw, weeds and kudzu, a future archeologist will poke through the spot where Pop worked his magic and unearth the most remarkable gem of mid-twentieth century metal fabrication. He may hold it aloft and try to imagine the artistic genius who crafted such a fine example of ritualistic object. Maybe he will even see ‘POP’ etched on its surface and enshrine the forgotten memory, as it properly should be, in some museum. A new mystery will enter the annals of timeless wonder for all to see and appreciate.
Posted on 2/7/2012 3:38:51 PM
By Donald Fox
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The Dove
Cool red-orange fire falls in silken strands pulled casually back from her forehead. She stands, feet apart, one hand thrust into the back pocket of her black jeans. She could be a pony-tailed schoolgirl in a tight red sweater, but the swell of her breast in profile is softly echoed in her rounded belly, the mature afterglow of much earlier births. She intently studies the orange and red painting as she is studied, her improvisational grace the timeless beauty of life in motion. How would Raphael or Rembrandt have traced that profile to create a Madonna, an angel, an every woman-mother-lover-Mary Magdalen-Rebecca-Ruth-Helen-Salome-inspired dance of the brush caressing the skin of canvas, molding the pliable paint in pale imitation of the original maker from mud and dust? Innocence collides with imagination, awe, desire, wisdom, experience, confusion, past, present, and future within an insignificant instant. Isn’t every portrait a picture of the artist who paints it?
Posted on 2/6/2012 5:02:51 PM
By Donald Fox
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Brushes
“Do you mind?” she asked as she plopped the single sketchpad on the counter ahead of my stack of brushes and paint tubes and canvases. It was obvious her mind was already past the answer before I could say it. “No, I don’t mind.”
But, in truth I do mind – no, not about the sketchpad or the presumption and the discourteous assumption of courtesy. What I mind is everything, for I have practiced being mindful since discovering that very often others are not so. My own presumption is that mindfulness is a natural state of being, that everyone notices the lavender light of early morning, dewdrops on blades of grass, tiny spiders that live abundantly in the corners of untended rooms, the play of light through the window across the floor over and around the furniture and the magazines and the sleeping cat, or simply notices that others might rather be somewhere besides standing in line.
Of course, there may be lapses, or one may experience the simple truth that one thing is overlooked while focus is held on another. The internal perception may supercede the external. But this is merely a matter of the conscious mind deciding where to place its awareness and energy.
We are also in continual dialogue between the individual and the collective. Whatever group or groups to which we give our allegiance are not necessarily the defining factors of who we are or choose to be. Life is a journey and, hopefully, reason is the guide for that journey. Not to think, to give that up to some other, for good or ill, is to relinquish an important aspect of our capacity as human beings. We may not reason through every challenge, but we cannot resolve anything by avoidance. Other forms of knowing may come into play – emotion, intuition, or some as yet undetermined ability that generates insight and creative thinking.
I was once accused of being too much in my mind. The implication was that I identified my essence with thinking awareness, with my ego. The irony of the accusation was that it was sourced by a disembodied mind of a long ‘dead’ physician from the sixteenth century who was channeled through a trance medium. To voice his thoughts, he needed a human instrument; thus, the channeling. My only questions were, to have thoughts isn’t it necessary to have a mind? Isn’t the point of having a mind to use it? But my self-evident questions were, apparently, too flippant.
Through a variety of friends on disparate spiritual journeys, I met many souls who were more seriously concerned about their previous lifetimes than the present one. Somehow, knowing the details of past existences and, presumably, whatever karma was created then, would assist them in breaking the birth-death cycle and allow them to ascend to some higher plane of existence – not unlike the disembodied doctor who visited various human vessels in order to dispense his otherworldly wisdom. Oddly, I met several individuals who claimed to have been Cleopatra, others Melchezedek, or some other noted figure, historical or literary, in past lives (was there more than one Queen of Egypt named Cleopatra?). Each of these beings had apparently transgressed in the past and was karmically relegated to 20th century slumming until enlightened to his/her true self, would thus become a teacher and healer and would then be ready to break the cycle when the appropriate penance was served or an unspecified number of fellow fallen souls were brought to enlightenment, and ascendance was attained for all. Pity the poor cow or cockroach that has no means of communicating and would simply have to live through its present cycle unredeemed.
My own fate, apparently, is to be trapped by my ego and bound to the cyclical convolutions of rational thought. There is no logical way out of this philosophical conundrum except to slay the ego, or for the more faint-hearted, to transcend the ego and unite with the universal mind. I wouldn’t mind this at all since there are aspects of my ego I don’t particularly like anyway. Then again, there are aspects of the universal mind that, as represented by various self-proclaimed gurus, are more outrageous and bizarre than any minor infraction my modest ego could distort from reality. But, what is reality? Ah, here we go again.
“Please, you go ahead. You only have one item, and I have all these karmic goods to deal with.”
Posted on 2/5/2012 5:07:35 PM
By Donald Fox
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Mirrored
In Christian tradition the prime example of the pragmatic, evidence-based addiction is, of course, the apostle Thomas. He must not only see the resurrected Christ, but he must touch the wounds in order to believe that the miraculous has transpired. Does he also question how it is possible for his lord to be walking about in physical form with holes in his hands and feet and a gaping hole in his side? Would Jesus have still been bleeding profusely or long ago have bled out but now appear physically whole with a mortal wound that no longer bleeds? How does this appear to Thomas exactly? We don’t know. We’re told that he believes by seeing and touching. He is transformed into a believer by his sensory experience whereas Mary Magdalene was transformed by her belief, and she saw her lord as whole, transcendent, and triumphant.
Years ago I worked for a time as an emergency room orderly. A patient came in one day who had accidentally cut his thigh with a chain saw. The saw blade had chewed the flesh down to the bone. Amazingly, there was little bleeding. I marveled at the pink, curdled flesh on either side of the ragged cut. The tissue looked like light red cottage cheese. At other times I witnessed severe injuries with little or no bleeding as well as minor wounds that bled profusely.
What Thomas witnessed, within the context of the time and circumstance, was sufficient to jolt his pragmatic mindset from ordinary perception to extraordinary perception. We could say he shifted from belief in the world of the flesh to belief in the world of spirit. Can one hold both beliefs at the same time? Pragmatism, surely, is a profoundly strong belief system. It runs deep in the American character and experience. It runs deep in the history and development of science. Metaphysical/spiritual belief is also profoundly strong and may even be more ancient than pragmatism. We can only conjecture about which may have come first. We could argue for one or the other. It would certainly have been pragmatic to search for food and to develop necessary means of survival. One survival mechanism may well have been a metaphysical response to a threatening environment. This may also have been quite pragmatic for early humans.
Perhaps the mundane and the transcendent are just two sides of the same coin. In the Demon Haunted World, Carl Sagan argues eloquently for scientific pragmatism over the limitations of superstition that have haunted our world since the struggle within our evolving brains began. Many equate spiritual experience with delusion, self-deception, mass hypnosis, neurosis, or worse. Is it not possible, though, for pragmatic agreement to also be delusional, a kind of folie à trois? Modern theoretical physics approaches realms of understanding that seem based more on belief than proof, faith rather than pragmatism. String theory, multiverses, and other theorized concepts may likely never be proven. Scientists begin to sound like shaman as they spin their interpretations of the physical universe.
Art is not opposed to science; some aspects of art even depend on science and technology. The artist, though, continually working with metaphor and symbol as part of expressive language, is not bound by pragmatic explication. The artist can often more easily straddle the divide of faith and reason, emotion and logic. Art also frequently expresses or at least addresses some aspect of spiritual experience. There is a long tradition of this in many cultures. There is room in art for the doubting Thomas and the faithful follower.
Posted on 2/4/2012 11:27:07 PM
By Donald Fox
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Queen Butterfly
Impractical – not wise to put into or to keep in practice. Since I was at least five years old, I wanted to learn about painting. After we moved from the garage apartment we had lived in, the only home that I could remember, I met an older boy who lived about a block away. His father was a judge, and Val was to live a life of some privilege. Already at the age of twelve, he was involved in a wide variety of extracurricular activities. He was in Little League, took dance classes, swam and played at the Y, went to camp every summer, hunted with relatives, was a member of Boy Scouts, and, most interesting to me, he had been taking painting lessons for several years. I was greatly impressed by the many small paintings he had done of a variety of wildlife. I wanted to take lessons too. But for me it was impractical. At least that’s what my dad said.
Since my dad was the alpha male with a capital A, what could a five-year-old do to convince him otherwise? My dad was very practical. He understood the utility of mechanical skills. He was very adept in the use of his hands, had been trained as an electrician, had a background in car mechanics, had learned to fly and became a professional pilot, understood navigation and aerodynamics, but he had very little imaginative skill. His basic philosophy was it was his way or the highway. This he instilled in his kids at a very early age.
In his defense, my dad had grown up dirt poor in rural South Carolina, one of the youngest of eleven kids, all of whom worked around the farm from the time they were toddlers. There were no privileges except clothes to wear, mostly hand-me-downs or hand-made, and meals to eat. Practical survival skills were also handed down from parent to children and from older siblings to younger. The only pictures that graced the walls were old family photos, badly painted illustrations of biblical stories from the local church or salvaged from an old bible, and scripted bible verses left over from some itinerant revival. The notion of art as an embellishment, much less an essential, to life was inconceivable.
My child’s mind, however, had other notions. Whether I had been fed by another child’s interest in stamp collecting, a kid who lived in our previous neighborhood and was the same age as my older brother, or whether some aberrant gene expressed itself through generations of recessive impatience, I felt drawn to images and the possibilities of art.
The stamps had greatly impressed me. Another child of some means, the young collector had an amazing array of stamps, many in complete sets, from all over the world. From him I learned more about the Second World War than most high school kids ever knew. He gave me addresses of stamp companies, and I also scoured the back pages of comic books for the ever-present ads for free stamps on approval. At four years of age I was writing to numerous companies requesting their free stamps. What a great game. Several times a week I would receive packages of wonderfully colored miniature pictures of exotic landscapes, bombers over Britain, the early U.S. presidents, scores of unknown persons of great importance – great enough at least to have been pictured on stamps, the ubiquitous king or queen of England who showed up on stamps from Canada to Somalia, the severe mustachioed face of Adolph Hitler, the twisted cross of Nazi Germany, or the most bizarre looking creatures from the far reaches of the earth.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long before the stamp companies were asking for payment for the approvals that had been sent. I didn’t fully understand the concept, but my mother made me return most of the stamps I had received. Within a few days my collection dwindled from several thousand to just a few hundred. I did get to keep the promised free stamps for trying the approval services. Not a bad haul for someone whose reading skills were only what he had learned from his older brother.
What I quickly learned, however, was that pictures could teach amazing things about places I didn’t even know existed. I secretly began to write to other stamp companies, and learned to check the mail before my mother to avoid detection. This practice I followed for many years. Sometimes I tried to copy those small stamp images using crayons and pencils. Whenever possible I would persuade my mother to drop a set of watercolors or colored pencils into the shopping cart at the grocery store. I branched out my search for images into copying ads from magazines or pictures from the encyclopedia. We had bought a set of Compton’s Family Encyclopedia one volume at a time from the supermarket.
Eventually I discovered the public library. I could ride the bus downtown and spend undisturbed hours among the many art books that sat idly on the shelves. I knew nothing about form and color or the techniques involved with different media, things I could easily have learned from a patient teacher. I did know that painting wasn’t as easy as it looked all complete and polished on the printed page. I was pretty good at making things proportioned; I seemed to have an eye for that. But I didn’t understand how to manipulate the tools very effectively. In the library I began to see that there were many different ideas about how this was done.
Drawing books attracted me first. I found it amusing that an oval could turn into the body of a dog, or that a series of linked sausages could become fingers on a hand. Another artist might begin with boxes that stacked on other boxes to create a figure. Still another would begin with swirls and spirals or curving lines that in stages would produce a running figure or someone climbing stairs. Each was intriguing and a bit confusing, although gradually I began to realize that everything could be seen in simplified form, that always there was some kind of underlying structure to the ordinary things we perceived in the world around us. To me this was eminently practical.
One day I discovered a room in the library that contained a variety of one-volume encyclopedias on many different subjects. Some were picture travel books far more enticing than the most colorful stamps. Others were period histories that divided up the past into neat categories of time. I was especially drawn to the books that pictured the devastation and conflict of World War II. This, after all, was a time my parents had lived through and still obliquely referred to in conversation, particularly if it were to discourage the innocent request of one child for something that to my parents’ eyes might seem extravagant. “During the war everything was rationed,” I would be reminded. “We couldn’t get sugar or coffee. We made most of our own clothes. And you want what?” I did like sugar, but I didn’t care about coffee. I didn’t think much about clothes. Occasionally we might receive a package from a relative with outgrown clothes that had
belonged to an obscure cousin. I thought that was pretty neat to get clothes in the mail, but beyond that clothes were just something you put on every day.
However, in the picture books at the library I could see men in uniform, pilots standing beside their planes dressed much like my father must have looked wearing the uniform that hung in the hall closet along with the heavy leather fleece-lined flight jacket designed to protect pilots from the freezing temperatures of high altitudes. Page after page the black and white images told a story that even a child could understand, that war was not about glory and honor but death and destruction and unspeakable horror. Several images have remained in my mind. They seem especially poignant in that when I saw them (and frequently returned to them), it was prior to the violent images that became so prevalent on television and in the movies that began in the sixties and intensified with the Vietnam era. One was a photograph from Poland that must have been shot from a second floor window since the raised angle of sight was well above the street. German soldiers were herding a group of naked women identified as nuns through the street. The women were dodging rubble and debris as they ran. One had fallen down, and a soldier was lunging at her with his fixed-bayonet rifle.
The other photograph was from the Pacific Theater, shot on some nameless atoll by a war correspondent. Marines had landed and retaken the island from the Japanese. The preceding page showed a marine firing his flamethrower at a bunker. The next photo showed a dead Japanese soldier half way out of a foxhole where he had been hit by a spray of ignited gases and incinerated. His half body was literally fused with the ground, his mouth agape in surprise or horror or the most incredible if brief anguish. These images were hypnotic and drew me back to that room again and again. The agony and perversity of those incidents had been captured and frozen in time and exist on the shelf to this day well over fifty years after they occurred. The questions they raise, however, have yet to be answered.
Since that time, I have discovered the art of Bosch and Brueghel, both of whom centuries before commented pictorially on the savagery of man’s imagination and lust for destruction. Though each painted from within the Christian conception of Hell and damnation, they also spoke of the inhumane treatment of the stronger over the weaker in their vivid depictions of nightmare visions that all too often have become reality. Sometimes the perpetrator is the State, sometimes the Church, sometimes the Dictator, but always Power and Corruption over Truth and Justice. And even when Truth and Justice may prevail, frequently there is the dehumanizing demon that persists within the victor.
In the seventh grade I had my first formal art class in school. Unfortunately, there was a high turnover of teachers that year and that, coupled with being a teenager, conspired to limit my learning. The first teacher was a sweet, pretty young woman all the boys fantasized about. She encouraged me after I made a papier-maché dinosaur that she secretly entered in a contest and for which I won a prize. She got married early in the year and left school. I don’t even remember her name.
The pretty young teacher was followed by Mr. Bissett, a rather severe man who wore a goatee and spoke in the most obscure artistic language. He had discipline problems with the students and was always saying, “There’s going to be some serious trouble here.” He drew lots of diagrams on the board of how to draw the human head and body. He emphasized proportion and creating figures accordingly. I had seen these diagrams in many library books. Students took great joy in snickering behind his back or throwing papier-maché spitballs.
Mr. Bissett didn’t last the entire year. He was replaced by Miss Austin, a very tall, attractive blonde woman. She drove a small Austin-Healy sports car and wore her long hair swooped up in a French twist. Discipline was not a problem for her. Since she towered over the boys, we all felt quite intimidated although many of us secretly lusted after her. She remained the art teacher for many years, even after she married a local attorney. But that year was the beginning and the end of my formal art training, at least for some time to come. My thoughts turned increasingly to airplanes and engineering. For the moment, the practical had outweighed the impractical.
Posted on 2/3/2012 8:53:11 PM
By Donald Fox
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Cook's Meadow
When I was a kid we lived in a small house that my parents bought at the far edge of a not too old neighborhood. I was about five years old and still full of memories of the garage apartment we had occupied for as long as I could remember. The two bedroom one bath house seemed quite large at the time, but in reality it was a small box. Some years later we added another bedroom, bath, a breezeway, and a two-car garage. This made the house quite livable as our family continued to grow.
The neighborhood stopped at our house. East of us was completely undeveloped and still largely wooded. My dad had also purchased the lot behind us because it had an odd shape, and he feared someone might build a house on it that would encroach on our back yard space. He refused many offers of purchase the entire time we lived there.
My dad was a doer; he worked on project after project to improve the house. To the sandy yard he added truckloads of dirt, shaped sloping banks to the elevated yard and its eroded edges. He transplanted two oak trees – not just little ones. These were fifteen foot trees that required a backhoe to dig their holes. My older brother and I were tasked with planting St. Augustine grass strand by strand over the entire yard, a full summer’s project and then some. My dad put in a well, a pump, and a sprinkler system to water the newly bedded grass. Unfortunately, the well water contained iron that discolored the white clapboard sides of the house. This created another project for my brother and me, scrub the house clean of stains. In addition, we were expected to pull weeds from the lot behind our house. We could have cut them with a sling blade or simply mowed the lot, but my dad didn’t want to risk seeds spreading from the weeds into our yard. Besides, all those tasks would keep us out of trouble.
One summer my brother and I created a vegetable garden in one section of the lot. We didn’t mind weeding the garden area, which made perfect sense, and that gradually took more of our time. Weeding not only made space for the vegetable plants, but it also loosened the soil, which made for easier planting and stronger roots for the plants. Other gardens in ensuing years always benefitted from careful weeding. Also, if done early and often, the process was nowhere near the chore of those weedings in the sandy lot.
I began to look at onerous tasks, particularly those that if not done would exact undesired consequences at often inopportune times, as opportunities for growth. The concept was easily applied to business and creative efforts. Whether cleaning the studio, making phone calls, doing managerial tasks for planning and marketing, by completing these in a timely manner, it became easier to set aside blocks of time for the important creative endeavors. Just as a clear garden grew healthier, more abundant crops, so did completed tasks allow space for creative ideas and expression. Clearing out the weeds allowed the good things to grow properly.
Posted on 2/2/2012 5:26:01 PM
By Donald Fox
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Step Falls Study
As an undergraduate at the University of North Carolina, I heard the popular Russian poet, Yevgeny Yevtushnko read some of his poems one evening in Charmichael Auditorium. In this same venue Dean Smith and his Tar Heels built a basketball legacy that spanned many years and spawned heroes like Charlie Scott and Michael Jordan. Bob Hope once entertained for an irreverent evening of one liners, and the laughter, cheers, and applause no doubt still rings from the rafters.
A packed auditorium awaited Yevtushenko’s reading. Krushchev was long gone, and Brezhnev was the driving force behind the still chilly machinery of the Soviet bloc. Yevtushenko, though, was on fire. A young Shakespearean stage actor of limited reputation had been hired to read the English translations for each of the poet’s magnificently orchestral performances in Russian.
Abuzz with collegiate energy, the audience rumbled as the sound system was double-checked. The actor stepped up to the microphone and recited lines from Shakespeare that boomed like a thousand basketballs against clear fiberglass backboards. The crowd whooped and hollered as if the Christians were being devoured by hungry lions. Everyone was primed. Even Jesse Helms would have found the atmosphere stimulating.
This last reference is an inside joke. Only those familiar with the once senior senator from North Carolina’s earlier days would catch the allusion. Helms began his career with WRAL television in Raleigh as a conservative commentator. He nightly attacked whatever ‘liberal’ extravagance he perceived within the state and the country as he steadily built his base of supporters who one day would send him to the Senate for numerous successive terms. He blasted the National Council of Churches for its left-leaning bias because it supported foreign aid to third world countries. He vilified the Congress for not granting money to supplement North Carolina tobacco farmers – an odd stance for a conservative, but this is politics. The University of North Carolina caught the bulk of his wrath, for he saw the school as the seedbed of liberalism within the state. His most famous rantings, which went on for months, involved the hapless young professor who had assigned his freshman English class to write an essay on seduction after reading Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress.” That a poet from a communist state should also speak on campus was only further evidence of the university’s radical indoctrination of North Carolina youth.
With each poem, Yevtushenko, a tall man by any measure, appeared to grow in stature and power as he held the audience spellbound though only a handful could actually understand his words. The young actor’s follow-up readings in English were like legible echoes that sustained the energy of the mellifluous Cyrillic rhythms. At the end of the reading, Yevtushenko said a few lines in English about our two countries swimming the ocean that divided us to unite on a common shore. He scooped the air with his long arms as though he were breast-stroking across the Atlantic. The music and artistry of language was indeed a uniting force that night.
Years later I sat in the audience at the Moscow Circus as the head clown, who also served as ringmaster and chief spokesperson, roused his international audience with an impassioned speech peppered with chants of “Mir! Mir!” – “Peace! Peace!” Everyone rose in a standing ovation for this emotional display of world brotherhood.
That journey to the Soviet Union inspired a series of abstract paintings, which I later exhibited at the central campus of Houston Community College. To the opening of the exhibit I had entitled East Meets West, a friend of mine brought a Russian woman who was visiting a friend of hers in Houston. I eagerly conversed with the woman, but in English since my Russian is sorely limited. She politely asked about my inspiration for the paintings. I told her of my recent visit to her country and of several experiences that stood out in my mind. One of these was the night at the circus. She smiled, I thought, at my exuberance as I told her of the rousing speech. Matter of factly she asked, “Do you speak Russian?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Then how do you know what he said?”
“He kept repeating the word for peace in a very impassioned way,” I said in defense.
“He’s a performer. He’s paid to say that. He’s paid to get audiences excited while extolling the ideas of the state. He could have been talking about invading Germany or Finland in order to achieve peace.” She stopped and looked around at my paintings.
“Your paintings are very colorful, though.”
Posted on 2/1/2012 7:56:03 PM
By Donald Fox
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Roseland Club
I teach writing more often than I teach painting. This is a singularly difficult and often frustrating task whose primary reward for me is a great deal of practice in clarifying my own use of words. Some writing teachers tell students to “just write like you speak,” hoping, I suppose, to guide them away from stilted language or overblown expressions that make their thoughts sound like prostrate penitents or flagellating fakirs. What struck me recently, though, is that most students do write like they speak – in fits and spurts of words, often incomplete phrases, fragments of thoughts that may be completed in silence or through the amplified gesture of a hand or other moving body part. Facial expressions and pitch of the voice also play a large part in communicating the spoken idea but leave gaping holes on the page since the physical action doesn’t make it into words unless the author consciously incorporates that into the writing. This might be like a painter trying to paint without any paint on the brush.
Because many students do not plan what they are going to say in writing before they actually write it, what they do write is either incomplete, not well organized, or does not clearly state what they intend to say. Several frequent complaints are derived directly from this lack of planning. Students might say they don’t know how to start. Usually this is the result of trying to write from the beginning without knowing where they are headed. They don’t have an overview of the topic. They simply want to charge right in and get it over with. But there need to be ideas to support the topic or else there is nothing to say. This takes brainstorming, gathering information if enough is not known, and then organizing that information in a sensible way. Only then will the writing make sense to a reader.
Students also tend not to make corrections in what they have written. As mentioned, they put down their first thoughts, but those may not be their best thoughts or the ones most clearly stated. Painters often have better results by first doing sketches, whether thumbnail sketches to work out a composition or larger drawings to figure out the specifics of certain parts. Successful painters are also open to making adjustments as they go, lightening or darkening specific areas to bring out details with contrast or to lessen contrast in order to suppress unimportant parts. We can say that painters orchestrate or structure their paintings for best effect. Writers should do the same.
The process of writing and the process of painting may seem quite different because of the tools and medium of each. However, the processes are quite similar when considered according to several guiding boundaries: what is being said, what is necessary to know in order to say it, how it should be organized, and how the point can be clearly made. One process focuses on using words to express ideas, and the other focuses on color and shape to create visual statements. The end result of both can be engaging, clearly expressed, emotionally expressive, organized, thought provoking, and powerfully communicated. The reader or viewer will relate most fully to the work that has been properly prepared by the creator. Whether writing or painting, first understand the nature of the process, make certain of the purpose in mind, think of what the audience may need, and follow the process for maximum result. Your audience will thank you.
