Lacrimosa

I'm not an overly religious guy. Some might even suggest that I'm more the heathen, a judgement I can understand if I apply a continuum or some such model as it applies to criteria, laws, or, figuratively speaking, scripture.

Still, I am listening to Mozart's requiem in D Minor this morning, not knowing a single word of the text while fully feeling the music.

I was raised with the bonnets, eggs, bunnies and duties of attendance for Easter. Today as well as most other Sundays and major church holidays. This is the only one that stuck.

It's a joy out of suffering thing. Understand and try to embrace this aspect of life as a form of resurrection, and well, friend, the rest is readily manageable. This includes dealing with other people, but to point this out begins to smell of preachy speechifying and, of course, its corollary, hypocrisy, for failure in this goal comes readily.

That incident with the brother-in-law from several months back? A wedge has been placed within the family, and whether one can believe it without full details (not forthcoming), a sledge brought down that finds the wife as the splinter. All suffer save for he who placed the steel; yet all had a hand on the handle.

Oh yes, I am aware the dickhead knows his own version of hell and that each of the others have brought some portion of this on themselves, even this seeming bystander. "Seeming" as one who first chose to stay above the fray and now proceeds as a cautious mediator,  surely a role that will require stitches.

But for the time being, I have moved on to Verdi's Requiem. The Foxwood trip will include a visit to a friend who has recently separated from his wife of twenty years.

ROAD TRIP

Foxwoods at the end of April! Stay tuned.

Timing

The little purple and green swallows have returned from wherever they go during the colder months. They're right about on time, the bluebirds having set up house in the boxes that will soon become untenable for raising a family, let alone setting on the eggs, for they cannot go without eating when defending the nest requires so much energy.

The mallards are back as well, having spent a week or more somewhere else. Or, perhaps the drake made a call on the hen and they were merely having a swim before she climbed back upon her clutch. I have never been able to find her nest after the ducklings hatch, nor know where she goes with her brood after that first day's swim. You'd think she'd stick around, but no.

After all, there's plenty of food in that pond, both greenery and squigglies. I believe we had a record number of frogs this year, the racket made greater than I can remember. Even now, with the bubbles of eggs everywhere, a few males, latecomers to the party call to any of the opposite gender who might still be sitting in the folding chairs along the wall.

As for me, the air temperature and wind velocity was such I managed to get out yesterday and spray. I still have a ways to go, I'd say another 50% of the yard's beds. There was a good breeze this morning as the sun came over the ridge, and should it not die down, then at least the eight-inch tall grass will dry out for the mower.

Rundown

Sparked, no doubt, by my opening this last Saturday, I thought to write a little essay about how art is not like poker. Yet, lest one think me crying over spilt and spoilt, suffice it to say that the show seemed to go over well, compliments abounding, despite no sales early in the run. Not that I would expect there to be, the venue not really known for such. Not like a poker room.

An art opening is a bit like one's wedding: too many guests to give each the time and attention they might receive in another, less hectic setting. Add to this my general dislike of openings, mine or that of someone else it matters not. I had many conversations, little of any retained for mulling.

However, I can tell you the washcloth piece was the hit of the evening. It elicited the most comments, and judging from those, the most associations, which in my opinion is a hallmark of a successful piece of art.

Another thing stands out as well: I was asked innumerable times if I worried about the usual post-opening depression that occurs with many artists. I will admit to having experienced such in the past, especially when I was younger. It is the same high that poker players have to come out of in a gracious and healthy manner — whether it be after a big win or loss, no? My answer was that I am too old for that indulgence. I have new work to make while I can, and the rest of my time is to be spent taking account of what has come before so that I may exit with some grace when that time comes.

That and organizing 30-plus years of art so my kids and wife don't have to.

Yet, I can't hit "publish" without telling you a story.

I have a friend up in the city. We don't see each other as often as I'd like, for she is a wonderful, sensitive and intelligent person (Not what you're thinking, 36.) but she also works a helluva lot harder than I do. She is a professor and a well-known, sought-after art critic. She came to the opening and heads turned because she does not "do" openings nor have I been so crass to drop her name or let it be known to casual acquaintances we are friends.

After taking her time looking at the exhibit, she came up to me and said so many wonderful things that I wish I had a tape recorder. Yes, she went on about the washcloth piece, saying that she will never look at another washcloth again without thinking of that piece. Yet she also spoke to other pieces in the show, how well they worked together and that I had done an excellent job in my selection for the show as well as execution of the work. She even had one somewhat critical remark. The heavens opened.

As I look around my studio right now, I see that I have left a lot of organizational matters undone. There are papers everywhere, some that I will need in the next week or so if I am lucky enough to find them. In the past two days I have hammered out a draft of an essay about another show I saw during my week long stay in the city and I'd like to have it ready by the weekend.

And I'm thinking a trip to Vegas might be a good idea soon. I have to pay for this show somehow.

The artist after a very long week and post-opening.

You saw it here first (again) folks!

The installation is done. The floor is swept, lights adjusted, and unattended details not yet thought of. Siempre mañana.

I've promised and so I walked around the space and shot some quick photos, just for you folks who read this here thing and live so far away.  Nothing fancy, either with the camera or words tonight, as I am exhausted. Tomorrow the wife shows up and so I better go to bed soon for some bright and shiny regardless of how far along she is in packing this evening, which will in turn depend on whether the sun is still up.

Here ya go.

First of all, the reflections from the exterior windows in this space make photography during daylight hours problematic. The reflections. This photo is called "I Ching" and greets viewers as the come in the door.

 

 We''ll be moving counterclockwise through the gallery. Next up is "Coralish 5," a large photo of coral laid out on the lava beds on the Big Island of Hawai'i.

Some of these pieces might be familiar to some of you, either because I posted them or similar pieces in the past. This wall piece is a variation of earlier pieces with the acrylic-hardened wash clothes. It is called "Love Poem."

This piece is made of chewed gum and a composition notebook and is titled, "Maquette for the Title of a Poem Intended to Be read Aloud."

Acrylic and label drawings/paintings called "Studies I - IV" Each 58" wide frame contains 5 drawings.

"Excrete Your" is a small clay sculpture, the pedestal about 14" across.

There is one more photo, which was used to promote the show, and a video, which is a B&W version of this:

0130 hrs

 —What are doin' out here?

— Having a smoke.

— You staying here?
— Yes.

— What's your name?

— Spot. What's yours?

A pause. He looks into the sky.

— Steven.

— You sure?

— Yes. I was trying to decide if I should tell you my name or nickname. Can I get a smoke from you?

— Sure.

— I used to date a lot of people who stayed here. Why you stayin' here? Business?

— Yeah.

— Yeah, I used to date a lot here. Get twenty dollars.

Another pause.

— Twenty bucks will get me a lot. Pack of smokes, some food.

— A place to flop. How long you been on the streets?

— Um, all of my life, really.

— Adulthood?

— What?

— Since you've been an adult.

— Longer. Say, can you give me twenty dollars so I can get a place to sleep?

— I just came out here for a smoke. No money on me.

A lie.

— What's your nickname, Steven?

— Cujo.

— Who gave you that name?

— No one. Me.

— Make people think twice, eh?

— Um, yeah. I like animals. See, I got a tattoo of a panther on my arm.

— Nice. You ever try staying at the Sally?

— The what?

— Salvation Army.

— Yeah, I was there for drug rehab. Hey, I'm gonna walk around now. Night.

— Take care.

Off

I have just fed the animals an hour late, although they were unaware.

When we were kids the time change of today would have gained us an hour of play of an evening. Mom would say, "It's really an hour earlier," with perhaps more of a subtext than we realized, for her day got longer on both ends. And today, when I call her to check in, I can guarantee she will say those five words though she only has herself to manage these days. It'll take her about two weeks to let it go.

The wife lamented last evening about the loss of morning light, but when she wakes today I can assure her that she need not fret, as it is not her custom to rise before 0630. There was light in the sky.

No surprise I couldn't sleep in. I leave today for the city. Bags are packed except for meds and computer, art safely padded and securely arranged in the back of the rig, tank full, tech toys charged. Although I'm not leaving for eight or nine hours.

I'll miss the wife and the frogs while praying that there's no need to return until next Sunday, and time spent on the phone will be in down-time and not for fires either figurative or literal, including duties left undone. I'll want our reunion pleasant.

So goes the fixated mind.

I've been pretty much ready for two weeks now, no last minute, which is not my style and has left me time to fill. I've gone from excited to anxious to doubtful, that last about one piece in particular that I will bring along anyway "just to see."  Attendance numbers too. I will admit to anticipating a greater response to social network announcements even though I should associate the lack with the same void that follows two weeks of work finding insightful comments to make on the efforts other artists presenting their work.

In fact — although "fact" it may not be when so ego-derived — I have expected a little payback, a bit of "let's see what Mr. Opinion can do," an up-to-snuff weigh-in.

Oh, 36, you funny! asking the nigh impossible lest it come in the form of artist's statement, something I indeed have albeit in a rough form from prior pitches of this body of work to funding organizations and deemed unfinished because of further developments to which only I have been privy since last seen outside of the dungeon. Still, in in that I have been asked to give a talk on this work later in its run (I'm thinking PowerPoint), something like what you propose will be forthcoming. The only advantage I have is that I have an inside line, for otherwise I never presume I speak for anyone but myself, even when in the audience or as a viewer.

I dislike hotel rooms. More than being away from home, routine and wife, a general dislike of television and thinking something interesting must wait on the streets, the hourly rate seems steep just for a too-soft mattress. The other furniture is not my couch or desk and chair in the dungeon. Yet, not every hour of my stay is accounted for, so you will most likely see me again before the week is out.

I'll try to bring photos.

A Classic

I was a bit blind-sided by this photo tonight. A cousin sent it.

That's my grandpa, mother's side, at the helm of the old Case. I've written about him before but I cannot find a to link it. I may have used him as a model for a character in a story. Note the big chaw in his left cheek. Five Brothers. It came in a paper wrapper and was dry. He kept several packets in a drawer in the kitchen. Took up chew when working labor at the refineries around St. Louis. Or maybe working in the mines when he was fourteen. I can't exactly remember, but I think the former when he was a bit older. Coffee can by his recliner in the living room, doncha know.

The gaggle in the wagon is two of my cousins, my three sisters, my brother and me. Matters not which of the girls are sisters, at least for here. The girls are up front and someone has told them to hang on, an order all dutifully obey. The boys, subconsciously or not are more casual, perhaps to demonstrate a familiarity with that transport. Even our t-shirts said we belonged there.

Yet at that age we did still play in that bed when it lay idle on weekdays and Grandpa was at work. The next summer would find us stacking bales into it. I fetched, Grandpa bucked and my brother arranged. A boy from town was driving the tractor, he popped the clutch and my brother fell from four bales high off the back and onto the ground. He was unhurt. Probably bounced. The hay was put up in the loft in the background.

That barn. We didn't go in there much. No need. I don't think Grandpa did much either except when we had heifers. Even then, for they were fed out back. At the time this picture was taken, the tub for the planned indoor bathroom was still propped against a wall in there, the toilet sitting next to it, and they would remain there for another few years.

The wife asked if my grandpa was wearing socks. He is but those old thin, white cotton socks had a way of rolling down to the top of his boots. In four years time he and I would wear the same size boot and I was thrilled to wear an old pair of his while tromping around the place.

Runs

It's official: The announcement of my exhibit. You'll have to scroll down a little.

Mind, should you follow the link you'll find that the information provided for the exhibit is rather esoteric. Indeed, I would hope that it sets the mood for what one sees upon entering the installation, for the work itself is abstract; yet, in that most of it has reference points in the world, is approachable and associations can be made.

Now, to get people in the door.

I tried to play a little poker the night before last. Mostly spun my wheels, losing a third of my buy-in with draws and odds but no luck. PLO, don't you know, at an odd table of jam monkeys and min bettors. Position was paramount. This free poker shit is just that and I will blame it for my increasing lack of interest in the game. I was out of there in under an hour.

Whether it was the unacknowledged stress from that short stint, the heavy carb dinner or the couple of hours I spent pruning fruit trees, or a combination of all three, I found myself in bed for the greater part of yesterday. A major step backward in my recovery.

In fact, I think I'll go back to bed now. Next week is going to be brutal.

&

Minutiae today includes a good bill of health for the truck, the front end not out of whack like I thought, or so I was told, both yes it is and no, it isn't. The latter came with a bit of a scowl, which I may write off as what comes with warranty work though my predisposition is that I will be visiting again soon with additional yet similar concerns.

The art is back from the framers. My oh my! One photo in particular stands out, an opinion shared by myself, the framer with seventeen years of experience, and perhaps most notably, the wife. Curiously, this list is in ascending order of critical eye and descending in art snobbery. Additionally, the drawings have a acquired a level of seriousness that was not evident on their own without their grouping into five to a frame.

Were OSHA to have domain over the naturally occurring our pond would be found in violation of a safe level of decibels due to the frogs. Neither the wife or I can remember a year when the numbers are as high as this. No doubt due to our practice of keeping the water levels high enough for the complete metamorphosis of the polywogs and to give the ducks a place to mate, we have also noticed that the latter are remaining scarce this year, perhaps due to the cacophony.

I would also like to take a moment to thank those who so very graciously bother to leave comments. Your graciousness is noted for I also recognize that very little here is particularly noteworthy, something the bots that outnumber readers by a factor of ten do not consider.