A Special Day

View from my Studio Eidolons

When the early morning light quietly

grows above the mountains . . . .

The world’s darkening never reaches

to the light of Being. . . .

To think is to confine yourself to a

single thought that one day stands

still like a star in the world’s sky.

Martin Heidegger, “The Thinker as Poet”

The pups woke me at 6:20, so the day seemed like most others at its beginning, except . . . Facebook greetings came pouring in. My Birthday. At age 67, I confess that for several years birthdays have tended to sneak up on me; I just don’t look forward to them as I did while younger. But I don’t mean to sound morose; my life in the past few years has been better than ever before, and I wish it could go on for another 67 years. But I have to say this: greetings from friends truly mean much more in these senior years than actual gift-wrapped presents received in earlier times.

After feeding pups and French-pressing my favorite New Mexico Pinon coffee, I found a nice comfy chair next to a window and opened my Heidegger volume to read what I was thinking as I waited for the coffee and looked out the kitchen window at the lovely light of this lovely day.

I am a sucker for antiquarian book stores. I found one in Palestine, a couple of blocks from our gallery. This morning I opened my recent purchase of a collection of Alexander Pope’s poems, the volume was published in 1876. I took a few moments to read the first page of his “Essay on Man.”

Let us (since life can little more supply

Than just to look about us, and to die)

Expatiate free o’er all this scene of man;

A mighty maze, but not without a plan.

The first two lines didn’t really “do it” for me, but Wow, the final pair! I feel that this sentiment will abide throughout this day. Birthdays probably make me more introspective and retrospective than other days (and that is saying plenty!). Though I have a huge stack of work in front of me, I believe I’ll find a way to think over this extensive gift of life and adventure that has been granted me.

This weekend I will be in Booth #71 at the Dallas Arboretum for Artscape 2021. I have a ton of new work I am packaging for display and sale. Below are a couple of the more than 100 new greeting cards I have created. They are 5 x 7″ and I sell them for $5 each or 5 for $20. My art is on the front, text on the back, and they are blank inside.

I hate to close this so quickly, but I am going to be extremely busy the next three days preparing for the weekend art festival. Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

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The Emotional and the Technical: Balancing the Art Equation

Opportunity to Read and Reflect while the Restaurant is Busy

The man who has great emotions might burst into tears–but that is as far as he will get if he has no practical side. The artist must have the emotional side first, the primal cause of his being an artist, but he must also have an excellent mind, which he must command and use as a tool for the expression of his emotions.

The idea, which is the primal thing for a picture, is all in the air; the expression on canvas is a case of absolute science as it deals with materials. A great artist is both a great imaginer and a great employer of practical science. First there must be the man, then the technique.

Robert Henri, The Art Spirit

The day has been long as Sandi and I have culled out of the gallery my pieces to hang in next weekend’s festival at the Dallas Arboretum. The dinner hour has arrived, and the Saturday night crowd now fills the Queen Street Grille across the lobby from our Gallery at Redlands. It is possible later that patrons after dinner will flow across the hall and into this gallery to have a look. Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the waning western light glowing through the large windows of the gallery as well as the general quiet of the lobby. (Prom pictures were being taken this afternoon. The noise, ugh!)

My pulse quickens every time I read of the life of Robert Henri as he gathered The Eight around him in Philadelphia. Henri was truly a prophet, drawing a young group of newspaper illustrators around him in his apartment at 806 Walnut Street. He read to them from Emerson, Whitman and Tolstoy to fire up their imagination and then instructed them in the proper techniques for sketching and illustration. The group went on to become known as The Ashcan School, moving to New York City and sketching live the scenes that enveloped their day-to-day lives. Later on, The Eight expanded to include a young Edward Hopper, one of my favorite American artists of all time.

The quote above engages me directly, as I look back over my earlier years when I sought training to improve my art techniques, but didn’t really feel the fire in my belly till I was finishing up grad school, enriched by theology, literature and philosophy. Returning to the pencil and brush, I was surprised that I actually had something more to say through drawing and painting than I had thought in my earlier years. Thus my newly discovered passion was easily engrafted onto the skills I had been taught while working on my art degree.

Throughout my later years, I have come up with several ways to look at this bifurcation of emotion and technique. In philosophy, I learned from Friedrich Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy that Greek actors on the stage sought to display to the audience the two competing forces in human life–Dionysus, the god of passion and turbulence struggling against Apollo, the god of reason and discipline. As an artist I have known for decades those two competing forces.

In art history, I have seen countless examples of those clashing tendencies. Neo-Classical art focused on the disciplines of drawing and composition. In reaction, Romanticism sprung up, crying out for passion and experimentation in art. In my own artistic endeavors, I have been told by my earlier instructors that I was too tight, too controlling, too orderly in my work, lacking in feeling, freedom and spontaneity. I am still aware of that in my current work.

I hope that before too much longer The Twelve will have opportunity to gather and talk about these matters that drive our artistic endeavors. Meanwhile I’ll just continue reading, thinking, writing, and hopefully applying what I’m discovering.

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Saturday Thoughts from The Gallery at Redlands

Will probably let the watercolor rest a few days . . .

Change is the nursery of music, joy, life and eternity.

John Donne

Sitting in the gallery this morning with some quiet around me, I find myself arrested while reading some of the works of John Donne (I recently bought from an antiquarian book dealer here in Palestine a lovely old copy of Donne). I know what we generally read and share about change and how it spawns anxiety. I generally agree with that sentiment. But now, shaking my head in wonder at my own retirement odyssey, I realize that in taking over The Gallery at Redlands, I suddenly changed a lifestyle to which I had become comfortably accustomed. There of course was some initial anxiety, but now there is just a sense of wonder at this new scenario.

Every week since we took over the gallery, we have travelled to Palestine to open the gallery Thursday through Saturday while paying Cecilia Bramhall (one of The Twelve) to keep the gallery open for lunch on Tuesday 11:00-2:00. We have been happy to keep the hours consistent. Now, we are happy to announce that the hours will remain the same next week though Sandi and I will be at the Dallas Arboretum for Artscape 2021. Cecilia will open the gallery Tuesday 11:00-2:00, Thursday 11:30-2:30, and Friday and Saturday 5:00-9:00.

“Change is the nursery of music, joy, life and eternity.” I am going to hold onto that one, trusting that changes throughout the retirement years will prevent us from becoming hardened, stiff and intolerant to diversity. As the winds continue to shift and swirl about me, I am trying to keep my focus on what’s ahead, but also trying to keep my morning habit of reading for the purpose of reflection and cultivation of new ideas and approaches to what we are doing here.

Artscape 2021 will be held in the Pecan Grove section of the Dallas Arboretum next weekend. Saturday and Sunday hours will be 9:00-5:00 and Sandi and I will greet you from our Booth #71. Eight-five juried artists will be on the premises. This has been my biggest show of the year, and I’m so glad it’s returned after last year’s cancellation due to the pandemic. We hope you will come out to see us and enjoy the lovely environment.

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

A late night in the gallery, with Henry Miller keeping me company…

For the record, I am not a surrealist. But my, oh my! Can Henry Miller soar into the stratosphere when he writes about the act of painting!

Surrealism is not a mode, a technique, an invention, a club, or an atelier, or a platform, or a fine sounding phrase. It is five minutes of eternity. Five minutes with the Holy Ghost. It is a little this side of Peru, or maybe three inches nearer. The square inch of the water color that you do with fever and intensity, unconsciously, accidentally, bravo and braggart, and humble son of God at the same time, all in one.

The ecstasy I feel when a watercolor is looking good under my gaze–I’ve never been able to speak or write adequately about how that feels. But Henry Miller encapsulated it while discussing surrealism. I just choose to file this under “ecstasy while making art.”

I spend too much time on the blog talking about how much this “clean, well-lighted place” (Hemingway) inspires me. I have not adequately informed interested readers that this lovely space has been thought out, organized and implemented by Sandi Jones, the better half of me. I’m just a painter and dreamer, with no clue of how to create space that the Danes describe as hygge. Sandi does that. My friends know that. It is past time for the readers to know it too. She also designed Studio Eidolons in our remodeled home. None of this would be happening without her.

The night has drawn quiet, as I now try and figure out whether I want to paint or continue to read and swoon over the writings of Henry Miller’s To Paint is to Love Again. Tough choice.

Thanks always for reading.

Serene Friday Evening Moments at the Gallery at Redlands

Friday evening work in progress

Some day I am going to own a few feet of earth somewhere and put a house over it. Just one big room will do, with a stove and a basin of water, a huge desk, a bookcase and an easel. Then life can go rolling by, and what floats in through my door will be sufficient for me.

I have seen enough. I want to express, to realize, henceforth. All the riches crowding into my brain day after day, and only little strings of sausage meat coming forth.

Henry Miller

This evening, while I worked on the watercolor, I received word from Stacy Campbell (one of The Twelve) that she is clearing everything out of her bedroom to create her own unique space, a muse-ic room. Stacy is a poet, musician and painter, and has come to the realization that she needs her own creative working space. I am vicariously enjoying her labor of love. As for me, my own Studio Eidolons at home two hours away is very special to me, and I miss it. But the space, lighting and vibe of The Gallery at Redlands makes creating here very special too. Thanks to the drafting table given by Tim and Patty, I have a special place to work here in Palestine.

Having said all of this, I laugh at those times when even the loveliest of creative spaces do not help us come forth with something of value. The second block quote above from Henry Miller made me laugh out loud. How many times do I find myself creating crap in my studio spaces and feeling unworthy of the rooms? I honestly think sometimes that there are hundreds of creative spirits in the neighborhood more deserving of such spaces. But I’ll still accept the spaces and try to do better!

By now, readers might be growing weary of seeing this ghost sign watercolor slowly, slowly materializing. Truth be told, I’m continually getting stuck on how exactly to proceed. Today has been mostly bare trees to the right and a long block of bricks down below. I always enjoy the process of making art, but oftentimes, like now, get a little tense when I feel something special may be eluding my grasp. We’ll see how this one comes along. If it doesn’t work out, there will be other chances.

Sandi and I will be here in the gallery till Sunday. A special shout-out to Paula Cadle, the potter among The Twelve–three of her new pieces brought in yesterday have found new homes! The gallery already misses their bright presence.

Thanks for reading.

I make art to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Friday Morning Greetings from The Gallery at Redlands

A Quiet, Rainy Friday Morning in The Gallery at Redlands

I am going to astonish Paris with an apple.

Paul Cezanne

. . . through me Paris will live again, a little more, a little brigher.

Henry Miller

Through our efforts, may Palestine and East Texas find more enrichment in the arts.

The Twelve and the Dogwood Arts Council

Outside, Palestine is a cool 57 degrees, dark and trying to rain. Inside The Gallery at Redlands, all is quiet–a perfect morning for reading and painting. I’ll return to the watercolor soon. But for now, my head is buzzing from yesterday evening’s meeting in the gallery with the Dogwood Arts Council. The energy flowing through the council, along with stimulating ideas from local sculptor Dewane Hughes filled the gallery space with the light of enthusiasm and anticipation of better days ahead for visual artists and musicians.

About the time Sandi and I assumed the ownership of The Gallery at Redlands, I was re-reading New Art City and sopping up like a sponge the excitement of the New York City art groups that combined to put New York in the center of the global art market where it remains today. Gathering The Twelve (gallery artists) around me these days, and joining the circle of the Dogwood Arts Council, I feel an electricity generating, something in the air that could very well improve the art culture in this part of our world. Stay tuned for events forthcoming, now in the early planning stages.

Next weekend I will be in Booth #71 at the Dallas Aroboretum Artscape 2021. Because of the pandemic, I haven’t gathered with this group for two years, and we are more than ready to set up in the beautiful Pecan Grove of the Arboretum. Hours for the general public will be 9-5:00 Saturday and Sunday, April 24-25. Friday night, 6-8 is reserved for the VIPs who hold membership in the Arboretum. The festival will feature 85 juried artists.

The last Artscape — 2019

The Work Continues on the Ghost Signs from Hot Springs, Arkansas

It appears we could experience rain throughout this afternoon. In that case, I should be painting.

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Sunday Morning Musings from Studio Eidolons

Glad to be back in the Studio for some Quiet Restoration

. . . finding you were able to make something up; to create truly enough so that it made you happy to read it; and to do this every day you worked was something that gave a greater pleasure than any I had ever known.

Ernest Hemingway

Today is restoration day. Sandi and I received our second COVID vaccine shots yesterday and are happy to experience no unpleasant symptoms. We’ve just been on the go for several days and are glad now to stop for awhile.

I’ve resumed reading Carlos Baker’s Hemingway: The Writer as Artist. I love the quote above, and that general sentiment of the artist–creating something out of the void. My life has been enriched in recent years by a mix of painting and writing. Last weekend while in The Gallery at Redlands, I met an author who invited me to join their writers’ group that meets once a month. The next one won’t be until May, but I am already leaning forward with enthusiasm to gathering with these writers and finding ways to sharpen my own vision of what to do with my own practice.

My latest watercolor has laid dormant on my drafting table for twenty-four hours, and I intend today to give it my next push. I’ve gotten bogged down with the bricks and ghost signage, so I may decide to return to work on the trees awhile. We’ll see.

Planning today to return to the Ghost Sign watercolor

I look forward to participating in Artscape 2021 at the Dallas Aroboretum April 23-25. Last year was canceled due to COVID, but I understand that there will be 80+ artists participating this year. This festival has been one of the highlights of my annual art schedule before last year’s cancellations. I am excited to bring out quite a stack of framed watercolors that have not yet been seen by the public. I guess that’s one positive to address concerning the lost year during COVID.

A new Greeting Card for my Inventory

Hank Under Oklahoma Stars

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Walt Whitman, “When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer”

Reclining against his backpack, Hank savored the warmth of the fire that neutralized the chill of the October night. He had left Turvey’s Corner just this morning, but thanks to a pair of truckers, had managed to put nearly twelve hours between himself and the town he just left. Finding wide open plains west of the town of Vinita, he now rested his stiff body and gazed in wonder at the millions of stars filling the deep night sky.

The back of the Greeting Card (blank inside)

I have allowed my greeting card inventory to dwindle over the past couple of years. In The Gallery at Redlands, as well as my festival tent, I sell 5 x 7″ cards (blank inside) with my artwork on front and a descriptive text on back. They sell for $5 each, five for $20, and come with the proper envelope. A protective plastic envelope encases the assembly. Above is an example of one of my newest ones printed last week. Materials just arrived to print 250 new cards, so I’m excited to create new editions as well as replenish the ones sold out. Above is an example of one of my newest cards; below is a photo of another spread out.

(Cards are blank inside)

I’m ready to paint again. Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Stop the Static

Dark, cool morning in Palestine, Texas

“Stop listening to the static. . . . everything in the world is like this transmission making its way across the dark. But everything–death, life, everything–it’s all completely suffused with static. But if you listen to the static too much it f*cks you up.”

As a television viewer, I am far behind the times, often choosing to binge watch a series created years ago. A few days ago, I finished watching “Six Feet Under”, a deeply moving experience for me on many levels. In the final episode, one of the deceased appeared to his sister whose life was in turmoil, and he advised her that she must find a way to “stop the static”; there was far too much anxiety roiling her inner world and she needed to find a way to stop it. She was an artist, and the advice of course was quite sound.

For several days now, that inner voice has resonated with me. Stop the static. We live in an age of anxiety, much of it of our own making. I know a number of individuals in my art circles who cannot seem to find peace in their lives. Of course, the caricature of the temperamental artist continues to play out in our days, along with the depressed artist, the repressed artist, etc. But a number of my artistic friends seem to spend more time spewing negativity on Facebook. I can’t help but wonder what is stirring them up–too much time in front of the daily news cycle? Too much time reading others’ negative comments on social media? What exactly is stirring them up, preventing them from making art?

For me personally, retirement in 2017 slowed my inner world down considerably, and even though daily life details have multiplied in the past couple of months of gallery ownership, I still appreciate a quieter inner world for myself. No doubt much of it is due to a targeted avoidance of the daily news cycle and toxic remarks on social media. Life is too short to swim in the sewers of negativity. And as for the accelerated lifestyle of our current world, I purposely choose to seek out the quiet spots and sweet solitude. My mornings (and most of the day actually) avoid social commentary on Facebook, as well as tuning in to the television to listen to the daily news (mostly negative). I have far too many books with affirming observations and exciting visions for contributing to a better world. I will never get around to reading them all, but my excuses will not include the admission of fiddle-farting on the Internet, stuffing my mind and psyche with someone else’s venom. Stop the static.

Without an alarm, I somehow woke at 4:50 this morning, ideas visiting me in great abundance, but not disturbing ones, not negative thoughts. I chose to get up and scribble in my journal the fresh ideas, grateful for the visitation. By 7:00 I was in the gallery for coffee, reading, and now am ready to go back to the drafting table and visit my watercolor from the night before, viewing it in this lovely morning light, remembering the precious words from Henry Miller:

To get up at the crack of dawn in order to take a peek at the water colors one did the day before, or even a few hours before, is like stealing a look at the beloved while she sleeps. The thrill is even greater if one has first to draw back the curtains. How they glow in the cold light of early dawn!

I sense my watercolor whispering to me from across the gallery. It’s time to step into the fresh light and see if I can create something worthy of these positive sentiments.

Thanks for reading.

I paint in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I bog to remind myself I am not alone.

Thoughts in the Night While Painting in The Gallery at Redlands

After a four-day hiatus, it’s good to be working on this painting again

The celebrated biographies give us the sufferings and hardships of the great. But the sufferings and hardships of the unknown are often more eloquent. The tribulations of fate weave a mantle of unsuspected heroism about these lesser figures. To win through by sheer force of genius is one thing; to survive and continue to create when every last door is slammed in one’s face is another. Nobody acquires genius: it is God-given. But one can acquire patience, fortitude, wisdom, understanding. Perhaps the gretest gift the little men have to offer us is this ability to accept the conditions which life imposes, accept one’s own limitations, in other words. Or, to put it another way–to love what one does whether it causes a stir or not. Of the highest men Vivekananda once said: “They make no stir in the world. They are calm, silent, unknown.”

Henry Miller, To Paint is to Love Again

As the hour approaches 9 p.m., The Gallery at Redlands is quieter. My eyes are tired from working on the watercolor at the drafting table (bless you, Tim and Patty for that wonderful gift!). Sitting now at the desk I’ve taken up my continued reading of this beautiful volume from Henry Miller (bless you, Stacy and Leigh for that gift–I still cry when I think of opening the wrapping paper that night!)

I want to dedicate this blog entry to the Unknown Artist, the One who continues to work faithfully on his/her craft day after day, even when no one seems to notice. I salute the artist who realizes the world doesn’t need his/her creative effort; if the artist quits, the world will continue on its way. I still shudder at the memories, the Angst I knew in the 80’s and 90’s. I still remember those nights of sadness when I couldn’t sleep because I was mired in all that self-doubt that arose because of a general lack of recognition or appreciation for my artistic efforts.

The art world has changed profoundly for me since those days. Not that I consider myself successful or widely-known in the art world. I think what it boils down to is the reality that I worked a job for twenty-eight years, earned a pension and retired. Once my job supported my lifestyle around the turn of the millenium, I suddenly realized that I did not need the income for art sales, and I no longer expected to become famous. That turned out to be liberating. As I recall, somewhere around the year 2000, I found myself happy in the act of creating instead of fretting over marketing details or standards of success.

But our world remains filled with artistic, creative, driven souls who suffer, either because they cannot make a living and/or they create without any measure of success or recognition. I don’t know which is worse. All I know is that when an artist is unhappy, I feel guilty because my life has turned in such a way that I have the ability to make art, and love the work, and don’t have to depend on selling it.

I am still surprised to own a gallery now. It has been over two months since we turned that corner, and it is still quite new and quite surprising for me. As for The Twelve in The Gallery at Redlands, I just want them to be successful, and I want them to be happy in their creative work. I want them to know the bliss and fulfillment of having the strength and wellness to pursue their bliss.

I am turned off by art blogs that tell us how to become millionaires, how to market our work, especially the ones who solicit money from us for their packaged programs that guarantee financial fortune. I despise the unwritten sentiment that if we are not financially successful then we are just mediocre or lazy artists. From my perspective, this gathering of The Twelve in our gallery has shown me more love and compassion than I believe I’ve ever seen in social gatherings from my past. There is a wonderful vibe among this community. Something is in the air. And I truly believe that Palestine and east Texas are on the verge of artistic enrichment. I truly believe that The Twelve are committed to improving our community by celebrating art, by delighting in the act of creation. And I am proud to be numbered among them.

Thanks for reading.

I make art in order to discover.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.

Early Sunday Morning

Working slowly on my ghost sign composition from Hot Springs, Arkansas

Usually the artist has two life-long companions, neither of his own choosing. I mean–poverty and loneliness. To have a friend who understands and appreciates your work, one who never lets you down but who becomes more devoted, more reverent, as the years go by, that is a rare experience. It takes only one friend, if he is a man of faith, to work miracles. How distressing it is to hear young painters talking about dealers, shows, newspaper reviews, rich patrons, and so on. All that comes with time–or will never come. But first one must make friends, create them through one’s work. What sustains the artist is the look of love in the eyes of the beholder. Not money, not the right connections, not exhibitions, not flattering reviews.

Henry Miller, To Paint is to Love Again

Saturday was a slow day in the gallery–dark, rainy and overcast outdoors with very few people coming in. The result was an excellent day for painting, reading, scribbling in the journal, and finding my center again. When patrons did come to the gallery, I found myself much more open to visiting and exchanging good words. And then of course, many of my new friends came in and the night glowed with companionship.

The words from Henry Miller rolled across the page at just the right moment this morning as I was reflecting over the watercolor that has kept me company the past couple of days. I am probably going to include the word “palimpsest” in the title of my new work, because of how the layers of billboard on the side of the building correspond to the layers of my personal memories that keep blistering to the surface of my consciousness.

As I read Henry’s words of the struggling artist and look at my painting, the past comes pouring through my soul. The year 1988 was utterly bleak. I now look out the window of our gallery down the street, across a vacant parking lot to the distant railyards. And I recall those Sunday mornings walking along West Berry Street in Fort Worth toward Texas Christian University. I worked as a dispatcher for Campus Police, unsure of what kind of future employment I would land, but committed to a life as an artist. The squalor of Berry Street alongside with the beauty of the morning sun on the old business facades reminded me of Edward Hopper’s honest urban works, and I wondered then if I could ever land in an environment where I could practice my art of rendering such scenes and somehow live comfortably as well.

In those days my friends were very few, and none of them shared my artistic vision or interest. Sandi would not come into my life for another decade, but I held on to the belief that friendship would eventually arrive, and perhaps a stability to life as an artist. Now, more than thirty years later, the artful life has arrived, and my heart swells in gratitude for love, for friendship, and for a caring environment. I knew the life of the struggling artist, and am glad now that the struggle only involves attempts to improve my craft and my business associations. But I am so grateful for a circle of artistic friends. The Twelve have enriched me in ways I could never adequately put into words. And to everyone still struggling to establish his/her artistic lifestyle I just urge you not to give up. Believe. Trust your vision. Never apologize for your authenticity. Keep practicing your art. And never cut yourself off from other visionaries seeking companionship and conversation. Your vision and talents are the genuine life blood that could heal our society. There is not enough beauty in this world. We need your inspiration.

Early Sunday Morning Peek into the Gallery at Redlands from the Lobby of Redlands Hotel

Lovely Work from Deanna Pickett Frye and Elaine Cash Jary in our Front Window

From where I sit . . .

Thanks always for reading.

I make art in order to remember.

I journal when I feel alone.

I blog to remind myself I am not alone.