Scratch

Two of a Kind (scratch board) Oil pastel on inked mat board, 4"x6" 2010.

I have never been the type of artist to hitch my career to any single set of materials or techniques. For me, art is about a way of seeing and I will employ whichever media come to hand or whatever makes the most sense for the project. That approach will be on display in my new show at McGuffey Art Center, in which I explore and re-explore images of my familiar subjects—tree and sky views—through three different media: dry point prints, scratch boards, and photographs.

Untitled dry point. 2" x 2" on 10" x 10.5" Tiepolo paper. Edition of 6. 2009.

Last autumn a friend of mine who is a master printer suggested that I try my hand at dry point, a very simple and direct engraving process wherein the artist scratches lines on a copper plate with a nail or stylus. I began with the expectation that I would feel constrained by the tool’s sharpness and its seeming irreversibility. The opposite happened: I felt completely liberated and in spite of the deferred gratification inherent in the printing process, it felt free and spontaneous. I worked with her to produce the eight small (2”x2”) prints in the exhibition.

There has always been one big limitation to printmaking for me however: the images are black and white (or with a very finite set of colors). I set out to discover a way to combine the dry point’s linear poetry with the kaleidoscopic spectacle that is my visual experience and my scratch boards are the result. I make them by inking a piece of mat board, coloring the background area with luscious Sennelier oil pastels, then scratching through the pastel with a stylus to reveal the dark board underneath. There will be about twenty small scratch boards (approximately 4”x6”) and a few of them reverse the technique by using dark pastel on a bright board.

My creative approach begins with photography—I carry a camera around like a sketchbook to record the ephemeral and visually stunning moments that fill my life. I wanted the exhibit to include at least a glimpse of that part of the process by showing some of my sources. Something larger started to emerge as I arranged the dozens of small Polaroid-like pictures—a few which have been enlarged to reveal details and hidden surprises. The images carry a strong sense of my particular vision of the world and they each stand on their own merits as creative expressions as well as being part of a cohesive whole. They comprise the third and perhaps strongest leg of the show.


Scottsville, VA 2006.

Though the three sets of pictures employ three distinct techniques, all originate from a single library of images. Indeed, some sources appear in two or all three of the groups. A few of them are tributes to artists whose work I admire. The collected works, all created in the past few months, reveal a vision that is specifically my own. They profit from multiple looks and the strengths of multiple approaches, unencumbered by the parameters of any specific technique.

Scratch is on display from June 1 to June 27, with an opening reception Friday, June 4 5:30 to 7:30. McGuffey Art Center is located at 201 Second Street NW Charlottesville, VA. Hours: Monday through Saturday 10 am – 6 pm, Sunday 1-5.

Wet Paint

San Angelo (scratch board). Oil pastel on inked mat board, 4" x 6" 2010.

When I was first getting started as an artist I planned to donate a sculpture to an auction to benefit the homeless of Washington, DC. Unable to decide which piece to give, I asked one of my mentors for advice. His response: “Give your best piece.” It’s always hard for an artist to give up their work, so the idea of giving away my favorite was a bitter pill to swallow.

He was right though: it’s only a donation if the piece actually sells. So if you wish to benefit a cause, you need to make the sacrifice and anyway the business reasons for making the donation redound the most if you put your absolute best foot forward. The desirable audience that attends the gala is impressed with your strong work and the art shows—and moves—well. Everyone comes away happy.

I took his advice and the piece sold and I gained a new patron as well as good karma and a tax deduction; an example of doing well by doing good.

I have that advice in mind as I prepare for this weekend’s Wet Paint gala to benefit the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts (VCCA). VCCA is one of the nation’s most established artist communities and a beacon for the visual arts in Central Virginia. Like so many other artists, VCCA holds a special place in my heart and I made some of my best work while I was there. Much that I have done since was inspired by that magical place.

I wanted to contribute something worthy that would be a response to my residency there. I am proud of the result and you can see it this Saturday night. Buy a ticket, make a bid. The cause is more than worthy and hopefully you’ll walk away with an important and resonant work of art.

Event Info | VCCA Info | VCCA Blog

The Pond

Baker's Branch is an Eden forty-five miles from my front door.

Yesterday I got up early and harvested the first greens from my garden. I was making sandwiches for my father-in-law and myself. We had a special day ahead.

He owns a share of a large and mostly undeveloped piece of land about 45 minutes from town that is divided up like a pie with a pond in the center. The only permanent structure visible from the pond sits on a communally shared tranche. It is a small but beautifully crafted cabin consisting of a porch and a dry sauna.

The routine is always the same: first we heat up and stretch in the wood-stove-heated sauna, then dip in the chilly (though no longer frigid) pond. Afterward we sit on the porch and enjoy the woods, then repeat the cycle four or five times.

The pond occupies a space in my life akin to the Turkish Baths back in New York. We go there to rest and rejuvenate. We sweat out—and I stretch out—the toxins that slowly accumulate in daily life. The pond’s water and its many subtleties inevitably recall Thoroeau. The open spaces, soft treescapes, and primeval purity couldn’t be more different than the delightful skank of the Turkish Bath grotto.

During one of his visits to New York, I took the old man to the Baths and he fully appreciated its many—and consummately urban—charms. Breathing the fresh air and hearing the natural sounds, we reflected on that other place and how we love both places equally well, but in different ways.

Open for Business?

I recently attended a seminar at McGuffey for artists about connecting to the outside world. The speaker placed much emphasis on the notion of being ”open for business.” By that she meant being easy to find and employing transparent and consistent business practices. These themes echoed much of what was said in my “artworld as high school” session, so they have been at the front of my mind of late. During my most recent scouting trip to DC, I witnessed two very good examples: one positive and one negative.

The first place I visited was undergoing installation, which usually means a sign in the window and a locked door. Not here: they had propped the art so to be easily visible and I was welcome—specifically invited—to look around. One of the gallery’s co-owners gave me a quick tour and answered my several questions. Although I didn’t know much about the place before, I left the gallery quite impressed and I would be glad to be a part of what they do in the future.

I knew about the second place from multiple encounters at art fairs and I had long admired their program and their unique approach. Despite the obvious handicap of an off-the-beaten-track location in Anacostia, I was intrigued to see their home base, but would end up flummoxed by horrible customer service.

Two red flags that had me leery should have made me think better. First of all, their web site, which is otherwise quite good, includes only driving directions, even though they are a short walk from the Metro. Of course, it’s not in one of the city’s finest neighborhoods, but to outright discourage pedestrian visitors seems foolish. I was wise enough to call before schlepping out there, but not wise enough realize that the answering machine is never a welcoming receptionist—even if it does say that the gallery is open.

Always a glutton for punishment, I made the trip anyway, and it took about two hours from downtown due to a “medical emergency” in the metro system. It was a long journey and I was pretty cranky when I finally got there and found the place dark. There was a sign on the window that said the gallery was open (oh, really?), with a phone number for admittance, which I called. A woman said she would be right down to let me in, I figured she must have been upstairs or something.

Seriously ten minutes passed before someone who looked to be the super from the building next door took pity on me and called her again and received instruction to let me in. The space—and the art—inside was OK, but nothing too special; certainly not worth the hassle. On the way out, two police men who had seen me waiting asked jokingly if I had figured out the magic word.

Apparently, it was not “Open.”

Written April 6, 2010.

Getting it all down in 150 words

Few prospects are as daunting for an artist—or yield as predictably sub-mediocre results—as writing an artist statement. At one of the #class sessions I attended last month, writer Sarah Schmerler co-crafted a working artist statement for a quasi-volunteer in real-time.

It was an interesting way to lay bare some of the reasons why it can be so difficult, and although there are no easy answers, understanding the obstacles makes them easier to overcome.

Most people reading this blog are aware of my deep appreciation for excellent writing and my consequent disdain for the majority of artist statements, issue of authors who have never studied writing with anywhere near the seriousness of their chosen métiers—if at all.

To be fair though, fixing an artist statement is not just about improving one’s general writing skills. The form is difficult because one must translate into words ideas and emotions that are inherently non-verbal. Writers employ language and artists visuals.

An artist statement must cover a lot of ground. It needs to describe the physical nature of the work, including the size, scale and materials—the what and how. Then it must tackle the more difficult question of why, while placing their specific work in the broader arc of art and civilization.

Every genre has its conventions and an artist statement should really be 150 words or less—far fewer than I have already devoted to this post (we’re currently at the 225 mark). So it is easy to understand why artists are so vexed at the prospect of baring their souls in such a way, and why they understandably fail more often than not.

For my part, I have traditionally ignored the hard word count and simply tried to be relatively concise. Before Sarah and Jen’s session, my statement weighed in around 600 words—four times the recommended length. Clearly I had work to do.

With the goal of creating a more perfect—or at least acceptable—artist statement, I challenged myself to craft something better than before, while being brief enough to honor the 150 word convention. Here’s what I came up with; an ever evolving essay but ready to share.

Comments are always welcome.

My drawings, prints, and scratch boards probe the membrane between Earth and sky, terrestrial life and the vast beyond. Tree canopies, silhouetted treelines, and occasional human interferences such as telephone poles act simultaneously as intermediaries and embodiments of the aspiration toward that infinite mystery.

Ranging in scale from tiny to gigantic, and often designed to be presented high on the wall or on the ceiling, they recall childhood afternoons on the grass, gazing upward through a net of foliage, or a glance toward the darkening horizon when it is time to run home for supper.

Our shared affinity with trees predates history, reaching back to primate ancestors who lived among them. Even still, forests and reforestation hold the key to our species’ survival. I can feel that synergy when I work and I’m glad to be part of an endless chain of precedent that will always be contemporary and relevant.

March Madness

March is a time of emergence and stepping forth. The sun passes over the Equator and will stay with us for a few seasons. Lives that were thriving but hidden under the fallen leaves burst into the open bold and vigorous. Renewal is in the air in the countryside, and in the city too!

Back in old New York, Jen Dalton and Bill Powhida closed the book on their month-long #class extravaganza. They were kind enough to allow me to moderate the discussion on Artworld as High School. My session was fun, but my strongest impression came from the overall experience of being inside the larger exhibition—albeit for a short time.

I needed surprisingly much reflection to settle on the word exhibition to describe #class. Although there was technically some art on display, it was marginalized to a secondary room. #Class was not about the presentation of visual artifacts, as is typical in most gallery shows, but rather the pure exchange of ideas, usually ephemeral, in the larger conference- (or classroom-) configured main gallery.

On the night I was there, it started with a two-our table discussion about similarities between the Art World and a clique-infested school cafeteria. I wore my letter jacket, which I am proud to say still fits and we talked about how to penetrate the small group that inhabits the top of the social pyramid (for sake of discussion, we accepted the metaphor as valid) and the ways that art explodes stratification. It was a very worthwhile conversation, but it was just the beginning.

Following that session, the tables were rearranged and there ensued a 15 minute audience-inclusive performance that linked drawings of genitalia in a gender-crossing way with the names of respected public figures. The presenter took the drawings with her and no questions were accepted.

Immediately after that, the tables were re-shuffled again and an art-critic wrote an artist statement in real time. Poor Jen was shanghaied to be the guinea pig and, as her art is exceptionally personal, the process resembled open-heart surgery. Perhaps open-soul surgery would be a more apt description.

Then everyone left and we downed some much-needed beers in the back room. The three sessions were enough to make the head spin, more for the diversity of their offerings than their individual emotional intensity, which was considerable. I can scarcely imagine how it must have been for Jen and Bill to repeat the cycle every day for a month. I hope they’re able to retreat to rest and reflect for a while. I won’t even ask for their impressions until some time has passed.

Although the show was not visual, musical, lyrical, or many other things one expects from an art exhibit, it was most definitely an exhibition: a putting-on-display of ideas and artistic information in a discombobulating whirlwind that neither artists could have anticipated. A reshuffling of the creative deck in plain sight.

When I got back to Virginia a few days later, head spinning with thoughts about the non-visual things that an exhibit can do, Nature greeted me with gusting winds and torrential squalls. Neither coming nor going, March was behaving more like an indecisive lion than a lamb.

And green shoots were shoving aside Winter’s blanket.

Full #class thread

Primavera

Crocus were just the first salvo in Primavera's surprise conquest of my backyard--and my heart!

I confess to a raging crush on Springtime. When Zephyrus blows the pollen around and the three Graces start dancing in my yard, I just want to run out and join their frolicking.

Bulbs are coming up all over the place, some that I planted, some cached and forgotten by squirrels, and many busting out from under the leaves with purely voluntary enthusiasm. I want to roll around among the crocus and the daffodils and lose myself Emily-Dickenson-style in the living hummus and the perfume and the warm sun.

This is the reason I moved to Virginia. I can throw open my window on a March morning and smell Life bursting from the ground. I can see the Earth sending its woody tendrils toward the sky. I can wear the same thing outside and in. Just a few degrees warmer than New York brings this rapture a full month sooner. I definitely wouldn’t roll on the ground there.

Sadly, as I write this, that’s exactly where I’m headed: northbound on the Regional and I’m watching the gorgeous Piedmont roll by—and away. I won’t be able to welcome the Equinox as I had hoped on the porch of a cabin in the woods by a lake. Equinox means something different in the City and my rites will have to wait.

First a short exile and I will be very glad to see my friends. Sprintime has undeniable charms there but throughout the sojourn I will be thinking about the trees in bud and the many green shoots in my garden. Soon I’ll be back and Primavera will be there and although she won’t wait for me, she will welcome me back to her embrace without reservation.

She’s good that way.

Status Deferred that won't be Denied

I was gathering input for my Art World as High School discussion over coffee the other day with an artist friend of mine when she raised a very interesting point.

She pays a great deal of attention to personality types (as do I). She observed that a great many of her artist friends/colleagues are people who had frustrating high school experiences from a status perspective and are now (over)compensating by seeking the approbation the feel they missed back then. Because they’re trying to make up ground, it is not enough for them that their work be simply good, effective, or respected. It (ergo, they) need to be loved by a large audience.

Unfortunately visual art is not a pathway particularly well suited to broad-based approbation. To say so is not a knock against the quality of a given artist’s output or a dismissal of the public as visually ignorant. Those are weak shortcuts.

Rather, it is simply a question of whether someone can relate to a stranger’s intensely personal message. Perhaps the more leaden a work, the smaller the audience. The result is a maddening tension between a hunger for big-time adoration and a life journey that is paved with small “aha” moments, most of which the artist does not even get to hear.

A better path, to my mind, is to find a way—through meditation or whatever—to be happy with oneself. Torment does not make better art; obsessive, hard work does. Life is too short to spend being unhappy, and art is too important to waste by tilting at chimera left over from who sat where in the high school lunchroom.

But that’s just me.

[View full ThinkTank thread]

Scratch boards

Tufton Avenue. Oil pastel on inked mat board 4" x 6" 2010.

Is it possible to combine the beautiful, varied lines one finds in dry point with the rich painterly color of oil pastel? My new work is a marriage of the two forms--one that I've recently discovered and one that I've long-since mastered and always loved.

I have embarked on a new series of scratch boards, small (4"x6") unique drawings made by inking a piece of mat board, drawing a background with Sennelier oil pastels, then scratching through the pastel with a stylus to reveal the ink underneath.

Detail (magnified 10x) of above image.
I love the decisiveness of the lines--like drawing with a ballpoint pen--but with a vast arsenal of subtle variations obtainable by varying the pressure and angle of the stylus. The line can be micro-thin and nearly invisible, or by turning the tool sideways, I can remove wide swaths of material.

Combine that with the luscious almost juicy quality oil pastel, which can be blended or moved around freely and with rich, saturated colors--the results can be quite gorgeous.

I have nearly completed the first set of twenty images. They will be priced very affordably and will be exhibited, along with my prints and source photos this June at McGuffey.

Here are a few more images to preview. A whole lot more here.
(all images 4" x 6" oil pastel on inked mat board 2010)

My New Camera

I took this shot while walking down my in-laws front walk in the middle of the night, in the middle of the country. No tripod, no **flash**, or anything. I just pulled the camera out of my pocket and shot. Unbelievable.

It was a real setback when I lost my second-generation digital elph a while ago. I try to always carry a camera with me and it was so easy to just slip it into my pocket. Replacing it was a big priority but I wanted to be smart about it.

My friend Briscoe recommended that I try the Canon S90, a performance-oriented successor to the elph. The reviews looked good so I picked one up.

Everything I read turned out to be true but I still cannot believe how well it performs in low-light conditions. It almost never needs a flash (good-bye red-eye!) and allows interior shots with ambient light, which look much more true. Of course, the variety of types of light in indoor settings creates some white-balance issues, but it's a nice problem to have. Some would call that freedom.

The camera truly astonishes in ultra-low light, thanks to an available 3200 ISO and some very smart noise reduction protocols. I have always loved nocturnal photography, which can be very challenging. With the S90, it's much easier and that will open new possibilities.

I also love the manual focus option (which I've never seen in a point-and-shoot), the flexible controls, and the wealth of settings and filters. On the whole I love it and it has already produced some amazing images, and it's always thereL right in my pocket.

Art World as High School

Front portico of my high school, Montgomery Blair--an amazing place I stumbled into and marched out of with a high chin and mortarboard. Image pilfered without apology from a nice article in Open Salon.

When Jen Dalton asked me if I would like to take part in her table discussion “Art World as High School” (March 17) I had misgivings. I felt the description painted high school—and the art world—as a closed environment ruled by cliques, where acceptance and status are all-important and all-consuming.

Not only is this analogy incorrect—the world of art is infinite, as big as the collective imaginations of the millions who make and love art—but that line of thinking is unhelpful in the extreme. It seemed the opposite of helpful, actually.

As one who spends his days on the front lines of the art market, I constantly hear the voices of the excluded sighing predictable fallacies like “If I were an art collector…” “If I had money…” “If I had taste…” as justifications why they could not step deeper into the universe that art has to offer.

The absolute last thing I want to encourage is the idea of art as province of some elite cadre of insiders. That benefits only small-minded people jealously guarding an inflated market, while stifling innovation and depriving the larger world of art’s innumerable benefits. I don't think it's true but the perception is out there and it's devastating and part of me felt that to even debate the topic lends it credence.

Thoughts evolve and the only way to purge a demon is to flush it out into the open, so I decided to join the discussion: is the art world (if we can agree what that is) like high school? If so, is that a good or bad thing?

Let’s start with the profile of an Artworldling; how would they fit into the imagined cafeteria-table system? In my experience, the art world is full of former outcasts—people who were probably not sitting at the “cool” table in high school. They would be pretty nerdy, or natty, sitting with the “creative types.” If that group has morphed into a bunch of exclusionary snobs, it would be pretty depressing. Perhaps it is inevitable but those who have suffered should not make others to suffer at the first opportunity, especially when there’s not even a pretense of redistributive justice. I, for one, will not tolerate that on a personal level. Life is too short.

There is also the idea that those who peaked in high school have probably declined since then—the 20-year reunion phenomenon where the former cheerleaders are fat and the football players are plumbers, and the geek has a great life. While not a universal phenomenon, it does ring true to me. So if the art world is indeed full of closed doors, and the logic holds up, then it’s actually better to be excluded from the clique-du-jour. Those obsessed with status today will be pathetic tomorrow.

Maybe Art World High School is not so bad after all!

There is second way to approach the discussion. Instead of viewing high school from a hypothetical anthropological perspective, what if we look at it in terms of personal development? Then the analogy gets really interesting.

The high school years are a time, terrifying for many, when one begins to make consequential decisions about how to live. What we do not realize at the time, however, is that what we do matters much less than how we do it. Fashion and cool mannerisms are important not because they indicate some Darwinian capacity to keep up with the pack, but because of what it says about our relationship to our fellow humans. Will you follow or will you lead? Indeed, a terrifying choice and few choose the latter.

For me—and I can only speak of my own experience here—high school was a triumphant time, not because I was the most popular kid, but because I came to understand over the course of those four years that I didn’t have to play that game—couldn’t and mustn’t because it wasn’t my path. There are infinitely many ways to live and each person needs to do what works for them. Ultimately, that realization brought a measure of popularity by the end of high school and I’m well situated now with an interesting life, beautiful wife, and the same body I had back then.

That’s what art is for: it’s all about trying to make sense of a mysterious life and putting things together in new ways that somehow just work. So, from the standpoint of personal development, the life of this Artworldling is exactly like high school, and I love that.

The White Tempest

The New York Times description of this weekend's blizzard noted its sharply-defined shoulders. Last entry led with the sundog that announced the storm's coming. Today we see its tail as it roars away to the northeast, leaving Charlottesville cloaked in a thick white blanket.

It is easy to dwell on the hassle created by 20 inches of heavy, wet snow being dumped on our heads in a very short period. It was back-busting just trying to keep up. Many of our friends lost electricity and therefore heat. The sounds I've been hearing on my roof do not set my mind at ease.

I have to say, however, that I am glad about this white tempest in some ways. First of all, it's shockingly beautiful. More on that, and tons of photos, in the next entry. Something about these events brings people together. During this storm and the last, we have really come to know our neighbors quite well, even better than before. Last time around, no one was prepared and we were forced to rely on one another for a few shared shovels and the occasional cup of sugar. Pushing cars and shoveling out the elderly neighbors replaced my usual daily workout.

This time, we were more or less prepared and dealt with the weather more appropriately but the cool thing is that we still seemed to need one another but in a softer, sweeter way. Instead of pushing their marooned Honda Civics through and over snow drifts, we joined with our neighbors in drinking wine or tea, eating yummy treats they made and watching the beautiful storm outside--and speculating about where we would seek refuge if we too lost our heat.

"I think Ivanna has a wood stove. Not sure if she has dry wood. I hope we don't have to burn the furniture!"

Today is bright and beautiful and the lights still turn on. The walk's all shoveled and we're looking forward to a full day of sledding with our fun neighbors. When a 50-meter trudge qualifies as an exhausting workout, it certainly is nice to such great people nearby!

Note to Citymouse: Just because we love our neighbors and praise the comraderie here, it doesn't mean that it wouldn't be like that in New York. We all know that the City has a special spirit that binds people together. Who knows: we might feel even warmer and fuzzier if we were there. So don't get get all indignant about how New Yorkers all pull together in a crunch: we know that. We're just saying that we like having cool neighbors here, like the ones we had back there. It's the only way to live.
-Countrymouse

Regional 171

I always enjoy pushing the limits of my camera phone. This one shot with at the sun, from a moving train, with the "Lola" filter from CamerBag. Many photographers use their cellphones the way they might have used a poloroid. Now they offer an aesthetic that nods very self-consciously in that direction.

The scene inside the café car on the southbound Amtrak 171 Regional service from New York to Lynchburg was animated and bright. I came in to get a coke and shake the lethargy from my legs and decided to sit and look out the big windows at the enclosing winter landscape. A vivid sundog told of ice crystals high in the atmosphere, vanguard to a immense winter storm.

It was a good situation to push the limits of my cameraphone, as I like to do when I travel. The photographic act opened the floodgates of dialog with the fellow café car passengers. The man at the table with me turned out to be filmmaker Patrick Webb, who like me was returning home from a work stint in the City. The guy behind me with the Ricoh was Sebastijan Jemee, formerly of Charlottesville, now coming down from New York leaden with photographs of his own for a show at the Garage. He had a sidekick who I never formally met.

Conversation swirled from table to table and took on the tempo of a Virginia Reel with the advent of a garrulous bank manager from Roanoke, our unofficial M.C. He introduced himself to everyone in the room with a bright smile, and though I do not remember his name, I could recite his itinerary from memory: Philly to Roanoke via Lynchburg, then back to DC then back to Lynchburg and finally home to Roanoke.

A few other guys in the lounge—and they were all men this time around—nodded or injected the occasional insightful comments but largely kept their cards close to their chests. As we zigged and zagged through the Piedmont and cocktails came out, connections were made, business cards exchanged, and human experiences shared.

Travel can be the act of simply getting from one place to another, a tunnel with an entrance and an exit. The train can be that way too, a bubble rocketing through a straw at a hundred miles an hour. But it is a bubble of oxygen; a social space that encourages interaction. On Amtrak there is a unity between people that is quite special and sometimes the journey can be rewarding time well spent, much more than a necessity for reaching a destination.

Love and Cold Water

Plenty of cold water in my neighbor's yard. Actually, this photo is not germane to the post--I just included it because I like it.

A since-departed mentor of mine once told me, “All an artist needs is love and cold water.” That two-part prescription is problematic on both sides of the equation but lets take them in the order they come.

For an artist, appreciation and approbation can be powerful motivators but their pursuit can be ends unto themselves. I actually don’t know too many artists whose ambition is to be wealthy through their art (not much danger of that) but very many would like to be appreciated, influential, respected within their field, remembered after they’re gone. Reasonable enough but when you think about it, those are pretty big requests, beyond the reach of most who are not lucky enough to have a bridge or a park bench named for them.

One blessing artist enjoy is that if they work real hard and are lucky, they create living talismans that alter perspectives and perhaps carry their name into the future. That’s the goal but I am repulsed when someone pushes that agenda too hard—their ego, their need to be loved eclipses the work. That’s just me though: I am much more interested in real, impactful work than keeping track of who’s famous at this moment.

In order to be loved, an artist must love their work in a giving way and love does not carry a quid pro quo: I love thee that I may be loved. The artist needs love but he must give it out, not knowing whether it will redound.

What about the business with the cold water?

There has been a debate through the ages—and I’m not going to answer it on this blog—about whether artists need to suffer to find inspiration. Consuelo didn’t simply tell me that artists need the universal solvent for its life-giving, thirst-quenching properties. She wanted me stay out of my comfort zone, away from complacency. I think she was right: I work best when I’m challenging myself and taking that terrifying leap from bathtub to freezing waterfall.

There’s a second, more sinister interpretation that also holds some sway: that artists should not get paid; that suffering, privation, and tragedy are somehow good for the artist’s work.

Believe me when I say this: my work is not better after a poor night’s sleep. My work is not enhanced by shaking and baking out in the marketplace so the mortgage gets paid—I simply make less art during those periods. Spiritual hunger is good, and perhaps a little gnaw in the belly can get you off the couch but starvation does not yield up good art.

Basic respect and appreciation, subsistence, and the occasional splash on the face—that’s enough to keep most artists going. The good ones find a way to keep going even when those basics are not forthcoming.

Art is a Gift

My mother used to knit hats for the homeless, so I was delighted when I saw that someone is also looking after the cans where they forage and the trees under which they sleep.

UPDATE: Hear about the piece in this NPR report.

My friends Jen and Bill are organizing a series of events and happenings back in New York that explore many aspects of the relationship between art, artist, and society. One big question they are discussing is where art aught to sit on the continuum between gift and commodity. Clearly art can be either or both, but I really love when art is a gift that is freely given. I joined the conversation yesterday and I was very quickly treated to a very fine example.

When I got into the studio this morning, my neighbor Robin asked if I had seen the sleeve on a tree in the nearby park. I had no idea what she meant so I went and investigated. Turns out that someone had knitted or crocheted an arm-warmer for one of the wonderful trees in Lee Park and also a cozy sweater for a nearby trashcan.

None of us could figure out who made them but I'm sure glad they did!

They are scruffily beautiful and possess all kinds of critical merit, such as their commentary on the homeless who spend their days on the nearby benches. They are delightfully absurd and quite unexpected--and "out there" in every sense. They belong to everyone, without even the artist herself coming between the art and the viewer. There is no label, signature, website, artist statement, or gallery to contact.

They sit in a public space where all kinds of people walk, with no velvet rope to pass or white box to penetrate. It will be interesting to see how long they last--Robin says it's been a week so far and everyone I saw seemed to love them.

This is a successful and and unmediated gift, pure and bestowed without reservation, and transformative, like good art should always be. Like many handmade gifts, its greatest virtue is simplicity. If you would like one of your own, go ask your grandmother.

It Starts with Photography

This tree is a strong candidate for my next big drawing. [See full gallery]

When I have a show or accomplish something big like a move or a change of scenery (all of which I've had) I am often beset with a period of artist's block. That's been the case for me during the past week or so. It's a good time to take walks and reflect and not put to much pressure on myself. Inspiration always follows.

This morning I woke up early and took care of my morning chores and a little business before the sun had completely risen and I felt full of life. It was a beautiful and unseasonably warm day following a long, cold and snowy period that will live in collective memory as one of the worst winter storms on record. In short, it was a beautiful day.

Instead of riding my bike to the studio as I usually would, I decided to walk there and take my time, really looking around and taking pictures.

It was a fruitful walk, both in terms of photography and inspiration. I love the place we live and the pedestrian culture is a big part of why we moved here. There is alot of interest to look at, much to photograph.

My camera keeps me grounded in the visual experience and that is where I get my fuel as an artist. One or two of the images I captured may become works of art but most are simply expressions of joy to be alive and visually alert.

View 24 photos from my morning walk.

Feeling the Welcome Vibe

My New Members exhibition at The McGuffey Art Center is beginning well. Many friends turned out for the opening with plenty of well wishes. We've already been reviewed in the Hook and the C-ville Weekly. The Hook review was especially great in fact, a few people have asked me when I met them for the first time, "I enjoyed seeing your work in the paper"

So that's wonderful. The opening started with the president of our association (Judy McLeod) welcoming me and placing a name tag on my chest; it felt like a medal. The evening ended with a band of clowns invading the exhibit and bringing all the mirth you would expect.

I feel like I fit right in.

The exhibit runs through January 31.

The Little Prints

Untitled dry points. 2" x 2" on 10" x 10.5" Tiepolo paper. Edition of 6. 2009.

I have not written about new work for a while but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been happening. In fact I’ve been chomping at the bit to reveal my secret projects and here is one of them.

This set of eight two-inch square prints fits into a hole in my body of work—small, affordable edition work. Printed by master printer Judy Mensch, they’re arresting objects in their own right or could be a complete set; very collectible either way. There are six of each image, a very small edition.



Having started as stone carver, I have the utmost respect for technical mastery of an ancient craft and that is why I have hesitated for so long to start serious printmaking. I did not want my imperfect command of the medium to diminish the impact of my ideas. For some, craft is a end unto itself and for others it is a barrier to entry. In this case I was in the latter group but that’s where Judy comes in.



The experience of working with her has been a liberation from my own limitations. She is an expert on all technical aspects of print-making and while she is an excellent artist in her own right and her work is quite different from mine aesthetically, she has guided me expertly through the drypoint process and her printing has given life to my ideas. She has excellent taste and sound judgement. She couldn’t be easier or more helpful to work with.



The only problem with Judy is that she lives in New York--nobody's perfect, right?--which is not exactly convenient. We’re managing ok so far, but first things first: we must finish this run before I ponder too much what to do in the future. So far five of the planned eight images are ready.



For now, let’s enjoy what we have, far enough along in its gestation that we can speak about it openly.

Preview of what's to come

Here's a quick peek at the remaining three images in the suite. These are artist proofs but they will be printed in the same format as the other five. Enjoy!


Three dry point. 2" x 2" 2009. Artist Proofs. Future edition of six.

McGuffey

Better put some curtains on those big windows...

I couldn’t be happier with my new studio. The possibility of space in McGuffey was a big factor in our decision to move to Charlottesville and I have to say that so far it has definitely met my expectations.

The studio itself is really good and conducive for working. High ceilings, big windows, lots of light, nice floors, easy logistics with an elevator that doesn’t demand bribes…what more could anyone want? Outside of my own little studio, there are plenty of great resources such as a gallery, a classroom, and a little library. The place is spacious, relaxed, and dignified and in a great location, right in the heart of town and a short bike ride or walk from where I live.

Impressive as the facility may be, the community there might be even better. I’ve been in some great studio buildings, been part of artist co-ops, and artist residency programs and McGuffey combines much of those situations. It’s some impressive company and an environment where people really seem to be looking out for one another. It’s a pretty social place; I think the open-door requirement all but assures that it will be that way. Yet we do not need to have our doors open all the time and we can—and do—close them when we really need to concentrate.

My raging studio-crush on McGuffey does not take anything away from the Tree House or anywhere I was before, nor do the other communities suffer in comparison to this one. We’ll simply say that I’m happy where I am and that I’m very glad that I applied and grateful that I was accepted.

The Pink House

Layhill's Last Farm House oil on canvas 30" x 40" 1992.

When I was a child the little subdivision where I lived was an island of suburbia in the middle of the country--or at least it seemed that way. In every direction, fields and forests: a small Eden for a boy to explore and proving ground for a thousand childhood fantasies.

I learned to run crosscountry by chasing deer and I found out that I was fast when I caught one. I helped my father chop wood in the autumn and my mother taught me where to find rare wildflowers in the spring. Sledding was an embarrassment of riches and summer was a toy boat in a bubbling stream. Open space and unstructured play with the many children nearby made me the person I am today.

Passing years could be measured in bulldozer tracks as one farm after another was sold, razed, and replaced my more culs-de-sac until only a few parks remained of what had been a pretty wild place. By the time I was in college, the winding country road was a divided highway and you could walk to the Metro. The Real Estate market even claimed a nearby golf course.

By the time I came back from junior year in Europe (1992), only one farm house remained, and it didn't seem long for this world so I did a painting of it, illustrated above, to keep at least some record of how things were before.

All this time later, the pink house is still there. My brother lives in the house where we both grew up and the painting is hanging on his wall. He emailed me the other day with a link to a blog he had found. It was about the pink house.

It turns out the owners are musicians who are methodically restoring the house after a fire in 2005 (now I'm really glad I did the painting!) and blogging about it. The account is extremely detailed and is links the their other, more personal, blog so I've been able to learn quite alot about the pink house and its residents.

Standing in the tall grass in the hot Washington summer and feeling like a vanGogh/Hopper hybrid (I had just been to Arles) I wondered a lot about the people inside and their lives. When I finished the painting I think I went to show it to them and I don't remember if anyone was home.

Thanks to their blog I was able to learn more about them, and now thanks to my blog, they can see the painting.

A dark and quiet resting place

Photo: Sebastian. No one in this world was nicer to Sebastian or more patient with him. They were good friends.

December 6, 2009.
Creepers always had a flair for the dramatic. For the third time, he went on a water-only fast lasting for weeks and weeks, diminishing his body down to a mere shadow. The first time, we dragged him back from Death’s door at the cost of extraordinary effort and lots of money. The second time, he came back on his own. Something was different this time though; we knew he was serious.

He never withdrew from us emotionally, he was pretty cheerful, even as he refused to eat anything whatsoever—not wet food, tuna, anchovy paste--nothing. The other day, he went out for a walkabout, which is pretty rare as winter is gathering. Without any body fat he had a difficult time maintaining heat even indoors next to the heater, in the sun or under the covers so I gasped when Sebastian told me he had gone out. We looked all around for him as the sleet changed into snow. Now, thirty six hours unsurvivable hours later, the signs do not look promising.

They say that freezing is the best way to die. It’s a strangely warm embrace and painless. As cats usually do, he probably wanted to find a dark cave or hollow to return to the Earth quietly. If he will not to come back home, I hope he found some place peaceful to rest.

PostScriptum (12/9)

This entire blog is dedicated to suffering/thriving in the country/city. Since leaving New York, our cats have taken different paths, not necessarily the ones we had expected. Creepers adjusted well to every previous move and was never prone to the anxiety fits that Beevis had. We thought he would adapt well to a slower paced life, particularly the ability to go outside at will. After all, he rushed out of the apartment at every opportunity.

Yet, he never seemed to fully adjust to the new space and our six months in Charlottesville were a slow decline for him. If I had to finger a single decisive moment, it was when the neighbor’s pit bull escaped from the leash and chased Creepers around his own yard. He was never eager to go out again after that…until the end.

We’ll never really know what was wrong with him. His health problems were undeniable and they began in the City. At the same time, he seemed stricken by a malady of the spirit as much as of the body. When people ask me how I adjust to life in Charlottesville, I know how to answer. They sometimes ask about the cats and my response cannot be as pat as it once was. Beevis likes it better and is calmer and healthier. Creepers’ transition might be not have been so easy.

That Citymouse/Countrymouse dialectic must apply to cats as well. CityCat/CountryCat anyone?

Coach Kiki

Editor's Note: This is part of our occasional series of profiles of people who are finding success through approaches that defy the conventional wisdom.

When I sit on the edge of the track and take my shoes off for a freezing jaunt through the puddles of McCarren Park or to pan-fry the soles of my feet on the same artificial turf in the summer, I'm glad to know I'm not alone, nor the most intense guy out there.

It always cheers me up to run into my friend Coach Kiki, who can very often be found teaching his unique fitness program at the track's high-hurdle starting line. Kiki (Kwesi Morris) is usually surrounded by a diverse group of enthusiastic students who follow his rigorous full-body program that uses only the body itself to build strength, power, and flexibility. “The body is its own machine,” says Kiki who utilizes the body's weight and geometry to generate resistance.

His group runs through a fast-paced series of sprints, lunges, medicine ball passes, stair steps, planks, high-steps, and the like and it is not at all unlike what the top Kenyans do for cross training. Kiki brought the seeds of his innovative yet timeless approach from Africa's opposite coast in his native Ghana but his outlook has a Rasta inflection. In fact, Kiki was a pretty well-known Reggae DJ until his fitness business grew so large that it crowded other things out.

“I had to give up the music because my training requires me to get up very early in the morning,” he said, “so I couldn't stay out late.” Not only does Kiki rise early in the morning, he does much of the workout along-side his clients-over and over all day long. He's zonked when he hits the pillow at night.

I'm pretty sure anyone who works out with Kiki will have very significant results as his program is quite serious, yet available to many thanks to a sliding rate scale. It's great just to be near the guy; he has a force of character that is palpable. His presence there in the park has a very positive effect.

For my part, I always cruise over and shake his hand. I jog away feeling a little bit stronger.

Kiki's Web Site | NYTimes Profile

Closing a chapter

We're all migrants, one way or another.

I’m rolling back up to New York today on a mission to pack and retrieve my studio. It’s a perfect—if chilly—fall day, two days after Thanksgiving and the day after Sebastian’s 6th birthday.

The early hour (I’m on the Starlight Express) plus the exquisite light makes it a perfect day to work on my Starlight photo series but the bus is packed and I’m not by the window, so I’ll have to remember the beauty with my mind instead.

As usual, the trip is fraught with emotion; more than the usual separation anxiety and the oddness of instantly transforming from Countrymouse to Citymouse over and over. I’m stressed about the usual worries of moving (and moving artwork to boot). Too many details are unresolved two days out: haven’t heard from the truck company; don’t know if I’ll have elevator access (long, tiresome story there); not sure if I’ll have anyone to help me. Yikes!

The big thing in the background, though, is that this will finally cap off my move from New York to Charlottesville. Of course I’m sad to give up the studio but I’m totally pumped to get going in my new space, which is great. Most of all, I will be very glad to have definitively completed my move, which has dragged on for six months now, keeping me in limbo and effectively without a base of operations. I am a very nimble guy, but it will be wonderful to finally have my feet on solid ground.

Moving is like breaking up with someone—best to do it decisively and without hanging on to something that’s not there anymore.

But will New York want to be “just friends?”

Getting to know the neighbors

Not our house but one nearby. I love the harmony in the neighborhood between landscape and architecture.

I was talking to a fellow Brooklyn transplant this evening as we were hanging the holiday show at the McGuffey Arts Center. We were comparing notes about why we each left New York and why we picked Charlottesville.

“People always tell me that it must be hard to adjust to life in Charlottesville,” she told me. “I’ve actually found it very easy.”

I think a very big reason is because people here are so welcoming and are very gracious with their hospitality and glad to make lasting connections. They see value in meeting new people and are confident in opening their circle to new people.

There’s a social stinginess in the New York art scene that is quite unpleasant, where people look at each other as resources to be tapped—or potential exploiters to be guarded against. It’s curious to find that attitude in a place where most everyone is an outsider, and outcast or an immigrant.

But that’s precisely the problem: New York is a city of 7 million people who are hungry for something. It is a basic fact of living in New York that you are constantly meeting new people and bombarded with their points of view—wanted or unwanted—and you cannot open yourself to everyone.

The crush of humanity there requires a strategic approach to social networking but there is a razor-thin line between caution and calculus. And insecure, calculating people are so tiresome! It’s too Latin (as in ancient Rome) for me.

This past weekend, we received several spontaneous invitations to cocktails, to coffee, to playdate from various neighbors we hardly knew. These were interesting people too: a writer, a designer, an architect, an economist. Busy people with a lot going on, but somehow able to make time to welcome a new family to the block.

Don’t get me wrong: we have many wonderful generous friends in New York, who are full of grace and whom I admire greatly. Of course you can carve a wonderful life out there, but it will assuredly be a lot of work. We left because basic tenants of a good life are unnecessarily difficult (or expensive) in New York, and they’re mostly easier here

So when people ask me if I’m finding it difficult to adjust to life in Charlottesville, my answer is always the same, though never simple. I’m happy to be here and I miss my friends back there. But almost everything is easier here, even for a new arrival.

Infinite Stakes

Yesterday’s news was full of optimism about the art market as bidding was high at Sotheby’s Fall Contemporary offering. There was some speculation that it heralded the end of the art-market portion of the great recession. I’m not sure if it was related, but bidding was quite animated at the Virginia Art Book Center’s annual Raucous Auction as well. It was a cool event in a very cool place.

VABC, which amusingly shares an acronym with the Virginia bureau of Alcoholic Beverage Control, is a cooperative studio specializing in printmaking and hand-made letterpress. Housed in a former industrial facility within a very easy walk of downtown, the Center is a great resource and very smartly run. They’re not pretentious but they do great work. It’s the virtuous cycle: excellence builds confidence and confidence is cool.

Their fundraiser was the place to be this evening with terrific catered food and wine and a very lively atmosphere. Those ingredients, plus excellent artwork on offer seemed to telekinetically loosen all the purse strings and I was not exempt myself.

There were many prints that I would have loved to add to my own collection, but there was one item that far outshone everything else. A collaboratively-made deck of 45 cards called “Infinite Stakes”, with card each printed by a different artist, was offered in a unique “reverse auction,” where the price is set at a given amount that went down with each commitment to buy another number from the edition. When all fifteen sets were purchased, the price landed at $150, which was an amazing bargain. The room sold out and I'm quite sure it was a successful night for the organizers.

I couldn’t be happier with my purchase except for the fact that it’s $150 that I really don’t have. That’s why credit cards exist: to buy things that we really should not. I’m not sure if the Recession is over or not but there is optimism in the air, quite possibly unwarranted. It [the optimism] is a condition that cannot be easily cured.

For now I’m going to spread my new set of cards on a clean surface and look at them carefully. Maybe they will contain some answers.

Meb!

What a privalege I had, to witness Meb's triumph from up-close on the photo truck. Check back for a cool sequence where Errol Anderson caught Meb's decisive move.
Photo courtesy New York Road Runners.

[Citymouse exhales….]

What an experience! As always, working the ING New York City Marathon was a grueling experience, more exhausting in its way than running. For some reason, subject for a future post, this iteration was harder than any other. Obviously, orchestrating the largest marathon ever held anywhere will be a very taxing experience. Fortunately, something truly special happened on race day, in the person of a certain man with a three-lettered name.

Meb Keflezighi’s victory on the streets of New York was a big deal for American running and it was huge for us at New York Road Runners. Despite his Olympic silver medal, he was not many people’s pick to win the race. He was not even the most heralded American to toe the line. Meb has a huge heart and in the days before the race he was all business. His one-word answers at the pre-race press conference hinted to me that he had big ambitions in mind.

Meb’s a legitimate champion, boasting numerous national records and the afore-mentioned Olympic hardware. Yet he had struggled through a multi-year stretch of injuries and some sub-par performances, leaving many to wonder if, at age 34, he was done. With this year’s string of personal bests, including this huge new triumph, Meb is not ready to hang up the waffles quite yet and he won’t be anyone’s underdog anymore.

It’s not just his underdog status that made him a favorite around the office, however. Meb is a truly beautiful human being, which is quickly apparent to anyone who meets him. Two years ago after a disastrous 20th place finish in the five boroughs, he did something I had never heard of before or since: he bought lunch for the entire Road Runners staff. That’s a hundred people. If you want to measure a man’s quality, look to how he responds to defeat. It’s easy to be graceful in victory, and Meb has certainly met that standard as well in the past week, but his goodness is fueled by something deeper than the circumstance of the moment.

Meb’s victory is a redeeming gift to the sport and to America; it would not be a huge stretch to call it an Athletics equivalent to the ascendancy of Berack Obama. Like with president Obama, the lunatic fringe is wringing its hands about whether Meb Keflezghi, born in Eritrea but an American citizen and resident since early youth, is truly an American.

There should be no doubt however. Only one of the scores of runners lining up for the USA Championship, which took place within the larger marathon, wore the letters USA on his chest, right above the three letters on his name bib. He knows and appreciates better than most what America is all about and as he cruised to the finish line, Meb pointed to the nation’s abbreviation and gave thumbs up. He brought the victory home to all of us, for the first time since another child of immigrants, Alberto Salazar who was born in Cuba, did so way back in 1984.

On Furlough

Countrymouse in Paradise at the Ragged Mountain Reservoir.

A whirlwind trip down to Virginia.

Those less-than-two days were packed with Autumn delights. I carved a pumpkin with a five-year-old--does it get any better than that? I raked leaves, which the same child was only too happy to “smush down.” We hiked through a golden wood and alongside sparkling waters under a pure blue sky. I slept for two nights in my own bed, under my own roof, with my own sweetheart; and it was wonderful. I was like a prisoner on furlough, the kind where he’s sent home for the weekend to breed, except my life in New York is not a prison and I'm no Willie Horton.

More like an exile. (Does that mean that Meredith is under house arrest?)

In a way, it was an example of how lucky I am. I worked like crazy all week in a job that is exhausting but quite interesting. Then I go home and someone paints the mountains all crazy colors and puts pumpkins on all the porches and a smell of autumn on the wind. The art direction was perfect, and everyone was gad to see me.

We were all sad when it was time for me to get back on the bus and head back up to the granite island. It’s fun but I’ll be glad to go back to having just one life at a time.

Kerosene in a Tin Cup

I've spilt gallons of ink in my journal intime trying to understand the attraction I feel to explore the darker parts of my nature. I try to keep that stuff out of my blog because I have a squeaky-clean image to maintain. Still, this one bit seemed worth sharing. Don't worry: no shocking revelations here.

When I talk about the darker parts of my nature, I'm mostly thinking about the compulsions we all feel to do things that are obviously self-destructive. Why drink too much? Why not sleep enough? Why say foolish things that we know will rebound to hurt us in the end? I want to understand the devil that makes me do these things so I can beat it.

I had a little revelation while I was swimming the other day so I paused to write it down:

Brooklyn, October 21

So I'm starting to understand my desire to flirt with the dark side. It's about proving one' fortitude--mostly to oneself. In this book I'm reading (The Third Chimpanzee), Jared Diamond describes a Kung Fu challenge of drinking Kerosene. Quite impressive to your adversaries if you survive to kick their @$$ with that handicap. There's a ritual version of it but the masters also do it when no one is around. Who are they trying to impress? There can only be one answer...

My dad's pancakes

Here's a picture Sebastian caught of my dad and me--and an early tree painting. He was four at the time.

It's difficult being away from Sebastian. This has been a good trip so far, but saying goodbye to him only gets harder. And he's starting to suffer a little bit too.

This past weekend, I met Meredith and him at my parents' house near Washington, DC. While we were there my dad told me that he had to spend a year away from my mom and my two sisters (I was not born yet) while he completed his graduate studies in Saint Louis. Our little struggles are familiar to many, maybe even universal.

That made me feel better. I really respect my dad and it was a great message because it combined sympathy and a gentle reminder that I wouldn't lose Sebastian while I'm away.

To comfort me just a little more on my return to New York, he sent me off with pancakes he had made, each wrapped in wax paper and packed in groups of four into sandwich bags.

Monday morning, I threw those puppies on the griddle and thought about my dad as I had breakfast.

A nice way to start the week.

Up-State state of mind

Enormous thanks to my friend Daphne for letting us stay in her beautiful home, and for providing the porch from which to watch this moonrise. [Photo Gallery]

Last weekend I took a roadtrip with my friend Rachel up the Hudson Valley. Proximity to this magical region is among the greatest pleasures of living in New York City, and one that I will miss the most. It’s also one that is easily neglected in the frenetic life of the City. That feeling of liberation is exactly what makes such a trip so wonderful yet the rush of the City is like the emotional kind of addiction. It seems impossible to simply step away, even for a weekend.

We wrenched ourselves out of the rat race and scurried up the Through Way to the Rondout Valley, between the Gunks and the Catskills and across the Reservoir from Woodstock. That whole mid-Hudson region is a treasure with formidable natural beauty--strange geology, folded glades, mossy rock formations, abundant clean streams, dark woods, and surrounding mountains.

Nature has reclaimed the Nineteenth Century’s crumbling infrastructure (railways, canals, docklands, quarries, millworks, tanneries, and on and on), which adds a whole lot of romance and moss-covered mythical quality. The Hudson River School predisposed us to that way of seeing the world and a veritable army of well-funded conservationists and preservationists have locked it in for us and many future generations of travelers and pilgrims.

Many places are beautiful but the Hudson Valley also happens to be blessed with an absurd cultural abundance as well. There are countless art centers, drama troupes, and musical venues. With just a short two days to explore, Rachel and I focused on the Art of Living and just two towns: one small (Hudson) and one tiny (High Falls).

We walked from shop to shop, each full of beautiful things and so tastefully curated. Not everything will appeal to every eye (although most of it looked good to me). The quality and coherence of the selections were undeniable. I am no materialist but I could really do some damage in the majority of those shops, armed with the right expense account.

High Falls, with a population of about 37 has half a dozen furnishing stores that I could only call top-shelf in terms of quality, though not necessarily price. Our favorite was a slightly-hidden gem called Spruce. Turns out the proprietor lives in Greenpoint. Only figures, right?

The City of Hudson flows down the east side of the Hudson Valley from Olana to the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. The downtown, which must have at one time been devastated by job flight has become a gauntlet of antique stores in lovingly restored storefronts, bank branches, movie, theaters, soda fountains, and other Rockwellesque settings. Surprisingly enough, it seems really cool. There wasn’t any of kitsch, schlock, sentimentalism or cloying tchotchkism you would expect in such a place. Nor was there a smell of decay or feeling of decrepitude. Whoever is doing their scouting and buying has some serious eyes and it’s very consistent from one place to the next.

Again, an expense account would be nice up there as some of the shops are a tad pricey but not outrageous. The merchants were super-friendly, knowledgeable and eager to deal. It couldn’t feel more different than East Hampton, for example, or Santa Fe. It’s a fun, friendly place, not annoying at all and well worth a trip. Even I did not escape empty-handed: I found a nice mirror in great condition at a very fair price; and of course a bag of apples.

We finished our visit with a two-hour ride down the Taconic, with the perfect autumnal lighting of late afternoon. My friend Daphne calls it “the Magic Time.”

Magic time, magic place.