The Temple of my Mother

My mom would want me to take my camera along on my voyage of remembrance and I'm glad I did! I was channeling something that day and I can't wait to share more of the results.

When the news of my mother’s passing went out, we received many encouraging words and offers of support. It feels really good to know that I am the opposite of alone: I have many friends who would gladly do anything I ask, no matter the reason.

There was one invitation I especially could not resist: James’ cabin in the Goshen Pass, the seat of many joyful memories, a place of terrific beauty, and not least a place where I could spend some quiet time with a very dear friend, talking over weighty (and weightless) matters.

With my family’s blessing I threw my sleeping bag and a cooler in the car and raced over the Blue Ridge with an elated spirit. Knowing I would arrive about an hour before James, I resolved to go for a run and I knew just where I wanted go: a trail called Laurel Run that follows a lovely side canyon along a mossy and steep-falling brook into the heart of the mountains. I just wanted to stretch my legs but I got more than I expected.

After climbing a few miles, the trail petered out into a secluded glen high in a sheltered amphitheater on the mountain’s shoulder. The ground was mossy damp and open, with mighty oaks soaring up to support a green canopy high above. There were no human sounds and a quiet that is not typical in Virginia—just a few crickets, distant birdsong, and the sound of acorns falling.

I had strode unexpectedly into a cathedral, of the kind my mother had often spoken longingly and there could be no better place to remember her. I walked through the trees feeling completely invigorated and in touch with all lives, both current and disappeared or even forgotten. I thought about her presence in this place, within me and everywhere.

At a moment when I was receiving encouraging notes and gifts, this was the mightiest of them all. I am grateful for whatever force called me to that particular place. Whether it was a benevolent voice from my mother or from within me or simple chance that took me there, it was exactly what I needed.

After some remembrance and contemplation, I flew down the mountain and back to the cabin, ready to celebrate. I picked up some of that bumper crop of acorns. I will plant one in my yard to remember my mother, who taught me how to walk with the trees.

Postscript

I stored the acorns in a little plastic cup on my side porch. Meredith reports that some squirrels raided the place and spirited the acorns away. It looks like the job of planting them is now out of my hands. One can only hope that the squirrels buried the nuts in spots with plenty of light and that they forget a few of them, as they often do. It's an absurdity that my mom would appreciate. Meantime, I'll be on the lookout for tiny seedlings with alternate-lobed leaves.

57N

Where I once carved marble statuary now sits a crate full of toilet-paper and towel rack fixtures. The dust is familiar though.

On a hot afternoon visit to DC, I undertook to visit my old studio at 57 N Street. I knew it would be different--all the old places have changed. I still wasn't prepared for what I found.

I didn't think I would be able to go inside. The fancy condos I expected are not usually welcoming to sentimental artists. That's been my experience with my other ex-studios. They don't want to be friends.

This time, the door was open and I went inside.

Now the place is warehouse (open to the public) for an architectural salvage store. The space was opened up and stuffed full of old doors, mantlepieces, tile fragments, clawfoot tubs, and the like. Without the warren of plywood walls that defined the old spaces, I was able to walk about freely and I was actually able to appreciate the old building's industrial past a little better.

I had to concede that this is an appropriate use for the facility, not really that different from the way we used it. I was a little sad to see the art gone but it would be unjust to cry "gentrification" in this case and that fact left me oddly chagrined.

All of the spaces in the building we had inhabited so intensively--the gallery, the printing room, the roof garden, my studio, my friends' lofts--were all being used for something quite different, but honorable. There was a strange dissonance between my very real memories, which were replaying in the present tense, and the objective, undeniable reality in front of me.

The real eye-opener came on my way out. I stopped at the counter and explained who I was, how I was an artist there and how we transformed the building. The clerk did not even look up. "Yeah, ok," was all he said. Buh-bye.

Time waits for no one.

postscriptum

Having made my primary point, I'll indulge in one gratuitous yarn about how much things have changed--and how much harder life was for me than the current whippersnapper tenants.

Although Shaw still has its rough edges, like all of DC it's slightly less gritty there. In my temporal dissonance I was reminded just how bad it was when I was there. The present-day entrance to the warehouse is made of wood and glass without any discernible gate or bars. That would have been ridiculous back in the day; I'll never forget the time when someone tried to force entry by ramming their car into our medieval style loading dock gate.

Time does march on.

Feeling the Love

I didn't re-rock the Boston Marathon as I had vowed (travel schedule conflict) but I ran well in the Charlottesville Half. Fifth place and a huge personal best on a very challenging course. Very satisfactory.

Here's what made it great though. First of all several people who love me helped out from Toots' awesome pasta dinner and chocolate breakfast bites that fueled the run to Meredith and Sebastian waiting at the finish line. They certainly made me feel like a winner. The other thing I'll always remember is the dream I had the night before. After the usual pre-race tossing and turning I drifted into a deep sleep and dreamt that I ran super-well, took third place and picked up some prize money. It was like an angel leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Relax: you got this."

I'm surrounded by people who love me and I have a second reservoir of love coming from the inside. That's the result of good parenting and the one love cannot really be separated from the other.

Dreams from My Grandmother-in-law

Something about this place gives my dreams extraordinary vividness...

For the first time since her passing, I dreamed of Margery last night. She was ancient and needed help down a winding staircase--so much so that I practically carried her. It would have been easier for our combined ungainliness nearly caused us to tumble more than once teetering on the brink. Whe we reached the bottom I set her gently down on a stone floor but she was folded like a heap.

Her sigh that closed the dream are imprinted on my mind: "Oh the burning..."

Sweetbriar Seriously Sweet

VCCA is even more wonderful than I had expected. I have a great studio. Great studio—big, sky-lit and well-appointed. Nice cozy room with plenty of books and a shower/bathroom I share with just one other guy. Beautiful grounds, couldn’t be more typically Virginia: big hills, hay fields, horses, shockingly much boxwood. Hot and steamy but everything is air conditioned. Then there's the old-style and surprisingly deep pool. It’s all very beautiful and refreshing for the soul.

So I’m looking forward some serious productivity and the usual Krebsian journeys of personal discovery.

More on that soon!

Monsters and Metaphors

The paths inward are alot scarier than those that lead outward.

In my dreams of ancestors, I imagine patrolling the remote pathways of some dark untamed forest, making them safe for travelers and abandoned orphans who lose themselves there.

As the years have passed, I’ve learned that it’s more complicated because the lost souls actually carry the wolves and witches and dragons within themselves. We’re both villains and victims. And we pose a greater danger to the forest than it does to us. The real danger then is not the darkness around us, but the darkness within.

When I was a kid, I used to like to chase the deer I sometimes encountered while playing in the woods. One time I actually caught one; cornered it in a thicket. I was completely unprepared for what happened next. Instead of fighting, she surrendered. I could have killed with a knife or, I suppose, my teeth. But the hopeless and terrified look in her eyes sent me staggering backward. All sport was gone and I realized how terrifyingly powerful I am. Suffering results when we underestimate our potency.

That was also when I realized that I’m a pretty decent runner.

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I just saw the new Beowulf movie. It's horrid but fun. I think we can all agree that the visual effects are just ridiculous—the ultimate expression (so far) of what the motion-capture technique can do. It is however a thoroughly contemporary take on the seed tale of English literature and it doesn't let historical reverence interfere with straightforward story-telling. In spite of myself. I could not help but nod when the old king verbalized exactly what I had been thinking, "The age of heroes and monsters is ended. Now we are the monsters."

Hollywood truism? No doubt, but one that bears repeating over and over, lest we lose the world as we dream complacency and imagine that we are somehow victims.

Out of Body

Image stolen from Wired New York.
Note that on this day, it was not snowy and the bridge was stuffed with traffic.

Ready for my surreal moment of the week? I was bombing (i.e. running real fast) though Old Calvary Cemetery (you might even say I was running like the Old Cavalry through Old Calvary) on a perfect clear afternoon. The light was perfect, photographic. When I really get rolling, time seems to stand still and my mind separates from my body. On easy days, I purposely slow my self down, but on my real workout days, I just let myself go to an "out of body" state where I feel nothing and my conscious mind goes to its own little place while my body does its thing. Like sleeping. That's when I run really fast and well and this was one of those days, fueled, no doubt by the three cups of coffee I had just consumed.

So I was cruising through the hills feeling all blissed out, when I looked up at the Kosciuszko Bridge, which looms overhead and to the south. I've crawled across that bridge a number of times on the way home from the beach, or just about every time I've driven on the BQE for that matter. But this time, the cars totally stopped. In fact, when I came around for my second lap (a mile and a half later), the cars were in the exact same positions. It was as if time was standing still. Combined with the runners high (who needs drugs, right?) and the beauty of the day, the effect was eerie. Not in an "oooooooooooo...spookey: we're in a graveyard" way (although I was) but in a Twighlight Zone way that made me look around for the inevitable Martian landers.

Then I headed home, changed clothes, picked Sebastian up from school, took him to the playground and enjoyed the nice day. Wonderful way to spend an afternoon in February.

Confronting the Sublime: J. M. Turner at the National Gallery

"He did great work in the trees! [..and the skies!]"
-heard in the exhibit hall.
Image: J.M. Turner, "The Junction of the Thames and the Medway", 1807, National Gallery of Art)

"Contemplation of an infinite and powerful nature was thought to be not only exhilarating but also enlightening—leading to thoughts of transcendence and man’s insignificance in the face of the vast universe." –Wall text

Well, that’s part of what I’m after, but I don’t think Man is insignificant—would that he were! I think all beings are very much a part of the grandiosity that surrounds us all. Still, I love that reverence and his pictorial ideas are very relevant to my own work—especially those relating to vegetation and treatment of the sky. This is a major retrospective and I’m glad I saw it—especially as prologue to the Hudson River show tomorrow. Here are a few impressions:

• His skies are some of the most turbulent and dynamic in all of painting.
• His sky theatrics are motivated by the horrible haze and pollution of 19th C. London.
• His skies divide into three types: wrath-of-God turbulence; smog; untroubled blues of purer and more primitive places, including Italy; and serene yellows of late life.
• He REALLY could not draw the figure. Whey the British so revere such a pathetic draftsman is beyond me.
• He executed small sketches on site, then rushed to the studio and did quick watercolors from memory. Then he did more refined watercolors that he used as models for much larger oils.

Exhibit Info
Reviews:
Washington Post
DCist

American Traditions

So psyched to be back in DC... People are politically aware,

the place is so spacious and clean... and I'm a step faster

than everyone else... (-citymouse)

I’m writing this on a New Century "Dragon" bus to DC. I’m going there for a few meetings, to see a few friends, and to see some shows. I want to see the Hopper show (one of my earliest faves) at the National Gallery and the Hudson River School at the newly-renovated National Museum of American Art. My work is a direct descendant from the American Romantics who sought the face of God in Nature. John describes my naturalism as "mediated," which is spot-on and very much in the same spirit as Durand and company. I’ll stop at the Corcoran to see the Ansel Adams show (for reasons which should now be obvious) and for the ultimate purpose of my trip, to see Jeremy Blake’s retrospective. This will be a sort of pilgrimage and a chance to pay my last respects.

So this trip is about more than seeing art. It’s about clearing my head and Art’s healing powers. Big respect to Meredith for her understanding and allowing me a few days away for this restorative. Big thanks to Evelyn for letting me crash in her posh hotel room.

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Today is the 3rd of January, and the Iowa caucus is the opening shot of what looks to be the most lively election season in recent memory. The stakes are huge: America stands at a potential turning point...or we could let the moment slip away into hopelessness, depending on whether we are guided by our aspirations or our fears.

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A side note while we’re on the subject of popular democracy. I’m sitting in the back of the bus because I was late and that’s all that was left. It kind of sucks (no light and right next to the bathroom) but it’s not the end of the world. What I find very striking is that I’m the only white person in the back third of the bus. Everyone else is black. The front two-thirds are mostly Chinese, with some white people mixed in.

Now maybe the Chinese are familiar enough with the bus to know that they should arrive early (as I clearly did not). It’s crowded up there and maybe the Chinese are used to having billions of people around. Most folks back here are stretched out snoozing (though it’s not yet 8:00). Maybe blacks (and artists) just want more space or are more used to bathroom smells.

But I do find it interesting—from a purely observational perspective—that the bus-riding patterns are so similar to what they were in Rosa Parks’ day. Now people may have options that they did not have before, but does everyone actually live better than they did back then? Certainly, in many ways. But in many ways, I think not.

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Postscript: When the bus stopped in Washington, all the sleepy black people stayed onboard, continuing on to Richmond. That explains why they were in the back... easier to get some shut-eye on a long trip. Or perhaps not...

One more thing, not unrelated to race. It's immediately clear: DC is Barack country. The metro was alive with chatter about his strong victory in Iowa. 49 more states to go!