Falling Awake

It is dichotomy. I should be quite clear about that right here at the beginning.  “Falling asleep,” going from consciousness to “un-,”  is very often difficult for me. I wish it were not so. “Falling awake,” leaving my dreamworld and returning to waking, is often relentless and able to resist all my conscious efforts to remain asleep. There, now I think we can go on.

Sleeping has always been one of my favorite activities. Well, OK,  it isn’t really the sleeping that I find entertaining, it is the dreaming. The places you go, the people you meet, the adventures you have! - It is all just amazing! Still, I imagine there are probably as may different different explanations and interpretations of dreams as there are dreamers.  Freud got his hand in early, so a fair number of folks followed the leads he set forth in his landmark book The Interpretation of Dreams, back in 1899.  The read is a bit of a slough. I have a kind of War and Peace relationship with it.  Meaning I distinctly remember starting it several times, but have no clear memory of ever having finished it. Still, I have read about it so often that the illusion that I actually read it could easily have crept in. But that is really beside the point since whatever I “know” about Freud’s take on dreams, read or imagined, doesn’t really align with mine. His seems a little too open to idiosyncratic interpretation.

For example, the guy who originally hired me at NC State back in 1980 was a sweetheart of a guy.  Great big guy, an ex-football player,  played offensive line in college. We would have faculty meetings at his house, after all there were only 8 or 9 of us.  The meetings took place mostly in the kitchen where he would serve homemade pasta with fantastic sauce. His wife was equally welcoming and an amazingly talented watercolorist. Sadly, he died relatively young, and yeah, the idea of pasta and football does come to mind. But that is not the point. 

I mentioned that his wife, Annette, was an excellent artist. Well, she was also one in the arts community who did more than her part to put the “New” in “New Age.”  One manifestation of this mindset was her report that she knew that whenever she dreamed of red meat, she was really dreaming about her deceased husband, who had a message for her. No doubt Freud could get great mileage out of this dream. I could not, and I mention it primarily to discourage you from letting Freud creep into our current look at my affection for dreams.  So let me offer some insights into the dreamworld that I find so attractive.

First, life in my dreamworld is almost always new and unique.  I rarely, if ever, dream about anybody that I actually know. There are people in my dreams, obviously people who are precious to me, and who are tightly woven into my life. But their faces are rather indistinct. Sort of my life before lasik. Upon waking I will try to recall who was in the dream. Maybe her? Maybe him? A bit of frustration here as I often wake, as I’m sure many of us do, just prior to some major reveal in the dream plot.

The uncertainty continues through a consideration of locale.  I do occasionally dream about specific places where I have lived.  And a  recurring locus seems to be meetings in large hotels or conference centers where our professional conferences were held. Not a specific one, but locales in that genre.  Often I am lost.  Yeah, yeah I know, why not be lost if I’ve never been here before.  Still, I am supposed to go somewhere to meet someone or deliver a paper. But I’m not exactly sure who, or where or when. Interestingly, I am not stressed as I wander, lost, through these large venues. I would be in “real life.” But these spaces often unfold in scenic places. Interestingly, Venice gets a lot of “recognizable attention,” as do some other pleasant, but unknown, locales. I need to point out that my dreams are, with only a few rare exceptions, pleasant, fun, and fulfilling. And I think that is central to why I object to “falling awake.”  It seems especially unfair as I often have such trouble “falling asleep.”

Recently I have been encountering a new genre of dreams. I call them “flash dreams.”  They seem to occur rather exclusively after napping, before returning to the obligations and activities that may have been instrumental in my declaring: It’s nap time!  Anyhow, it feels like they cram an incredible amount of content into a very short period of semiconscious time, mere seconds to spin out most of a normal “dream script.”  Furthermore they can occur sequentially - that is really the wrong word. Sequentially might be taken to mean that each dream would be narratively related to the dreams that preceded and followed it.  That isn’t really the case.  “Flash dreams,” as I conceive of them, can “flash” by quickly, back-to-back-to-back-to-back one right after another, but seemingly having no narrative relationship to one another. Though I suppose a Freudian could finagle one out of them. 

Perhaps I ought to be hooked up to an EEG machine before claiming these various characteristics for a phenomenon that may be unique to me.  Yet, the experiences of these “flash dreams” are, to date, unfailing positive, and in one recent example, incredibly long-lived. I believe I have mentioned that, by and large, I do not remember dreams unless I can recount them to someone soon after waking, and even then I am not sure if I am remembering the dream itself or my initial reporting of it.

Anyway in a recent “flash dream” - days ago and I still remember it! - I was running along a path in the Glen Helen Nature Preserve in Yellow Springs, Ohio, a place I used to hang out in my high school days. [Do drop me a line if you know where I am talking about, because you would have to be someone I would be delighted to hear from!].  So, like I said, I’m running along a path in Glen Helen. I can hear the rush of the water fall that I know is just up around the bend. It is screened now by lush summer growth thick enough to muffle bird calls and turn the afternoon daylight to a dappled green. I will come out in the thickets above the falls where I can soften my tread and peek out and see if I am alone. I may have heard voices. I arrive in the thicket, the falls are louder now. I reach out to part the branches and — the dream ends.

Ordinarily I would find this an act of neurological high treason. How could my brain do that to me!?  But for some reason flash dreams end more gently, as though they too seek to Foster Harmony and Enable Beauty.  Flash dreams end like the finale of a fireworks display. They light up the sky for a glorious moment of sight and sound, only to then fade slowly out, carving pastel trails down into black velvet.

Shake It Up Baby!

OK, so my hands shake a little. I wish I could blame it on easing into year 73, but it has been with me for as long as I can remember. Never thought about it. The only time it had any impact on my life was in my years doing theater and I had to do some makeup around my eyes. I don’t know how women do that! I had to go with a two-handed grip, right hand on the brush, left holding the right steady, and I still worried about poking my eye out! Then I went up to New York in 1990 to do a spot on Good Morning, America! when Taming the Wild Tube came out, and somebody else did my makeup!! Whoa, was that cool!

But unfortunately there were several other areas in my life when the two-handed option didn’t work, and most had to do with my forays into the field of music. I will not bore you with the painful details of each, but briefly:

Piano. Fueled no doubt by my mother’s ability to sight read on the instrument. My buddy Dan and I drove our piano teacher, poor Mrs. Stupp to distraction. Our piano music kept blowing out of our bike baskets when we left our lessons to ride over to the Milkstore to get milkshakes. Remember this was late 1950s, no fancy “saddlebags,” just wire baskets. And how could you practice without music? Our lack of progress amazed one and all.

Guitar. Fast forward to high school and the age of folk music and Hootenanny. I believe I mastered Michael Row the Boat Ashore and Greensleeves. Three chords, strumming, no picking.

Saxophone. Many years passed between my guitar gathering dust in one closet or another and my fling with the saxophone. I had finished my PhD and secured my first tenure-track teaching position in the wilds of Stevens Point, Wisconsin. Brrrrrrr. Another story for another time. Anyhow I figured I had “come of age,” by some measure or another and it was time to free my inner Eddie Harris. So I rented a saxophone - the only fleeting bit of sanity in this sad saga - and signed up for lessons. My first lesson consisted mainly of how to hold the sax, drooling on the reed, and stuff like that. No actual blowing into the instrument. I headed home with a throbbing version of “Get on Down” playing in my head. I arrived home. Set up the music stand, figured the reed was still soggy enough, and held the sax as instructed and -- blew into the instrument. I believe the moment is no longer listed as a cold case by the Stevens Point PD, as no evidence was ever recovered supporting the neighbor’s contention that someone or something had been terribly dismembered that day in my apartment. I gazed sadly at my shiny toy. Gently put it back in its case, and drove to the music store, returned the sax, and reclaimed the unused balance of my rental fee.

It was then that I realized that the major problem stemmed from the fact, in addition to my minor shakes, my right hand rarely had any idea what my left hand was doing, and vice-versa. Armed with that insight I have managed to avoid activities that required any sort of extended dual-handed consciousness.  I did briefly master three-ball juggling in a college production of The Madwoman of Chaillot.  I think it was fear of failure that made that possible.

But a new issue has surfaced - and it is completely my fault. I have shared a number of my drawings with you here on the Wall. But I always tried to post a picture of the whole image as completed, or nearly so. That masks the current issue. Below is pic of a portion of the image I am currently working on. As you can see I have committed myself to adding color to portions of the image, dots, little squares, etc., that are a millimeter or so in diameter. OK, OK. I am resigned to the time this adds to completing the image, but I still am amazed at the effort it takes to put color in those tiny spots.

The solution is as much mental as it is physical. Physically I go back to the two-handed grip. Mentally I send myself back to the costuming class that I took as a Theater major at Kalamazoo College, lo’ these 50 years ago. We had to design and construct a costume. I think I made a shirt of some type. Anyhow you had to sew seams. To keep the seams straight, I remember concentrating on watching the needle of the sewing machine go up and down. So now, when adding color to these tiny spots, I watch the pen in my hand. Slowly, carefully, up and down. Dot. Dot. Dot. Color. Color. Change pen. Dot. Dot. Dot. Move to another place on the drawing. Create design. Yikes! More tiny little spaces.

Why do I do this to myself?!!  Hush. Quiet. Think like a sewing machine. Dot. Dot. Dot. 

A Raccoon on Hillsborough Street, 2nd ed.

 [I have mentioned before my envy of my sister’s memory. This is one of those times. I have been asked to find a poem previously published here on The Wall. I remember the incident quite clearly, however, the date and the title escape me. So rather than rail against my inability to recall those vital bits of information I have decided to track the poem down. The silver lining to this particular cloud is that I am rediscovering some golden oldies that I get to share with you again. So if I mark a post “2nd ed.” It means I have looked at the piece again and perhaps made some slight changes. The first few are circa 2004ish, so unless your memory is better than mine they may seem entirely new!]

A Raccoon on Hillsborough Street 2nd ed. circa 10.23.04

 

She was clearly more exasperated than frightened by my intrusion.  Pausing and peering at me, her entire demeanor snapped, “Yes? Is there a problem?”

 

I was certainly not going to dispute her right to the half-eaten apple cradled in an appendage far too clever to be called a paw.   I was simply surprised to see her, and a bit embarrassed to have blundered into her parlor unannounced.  However, upon further reflection it became apparent that we were on the back porch.  She would, no doubt, normally receive guests high up in the towering oak that rose just behind the privet hedge.  And that fact alone would strike me from the guest list.

 

I found it a deflating insight.  The oak is just one of many that punctuates this urban landscape with a parallel universe.  I was enchanted with the notion of an entire community of fur and feather, of chitin and complex eye; involved in intricate negotiations and interactions far more ancient and harmonic than our own.

 

Yet, I could hardly expect her to invite me in for a nightcap.  I was, after all, one of them.  One of those seemingly mindless creatures who lay waste the forest, drowns the grasses in concrete, and fills the meadow with huge, leafless burrows.  I was a danger in her world.  I was a car-driver, a coon-squasher, a tree-killer – one of the demons from beyond.

 

I did so want to lead her away from that perception; to point out how fond I was of the furry folk.  I longed to reveal how much joy I drew from her inquisitive face, busy hands and improbable ringed tail.  How could I share with her my envy of her fearless access to the canopy, her companionship with tree and sky?  Of the isolated comfort of a den set so apart from the paths of men?

 

But a door burst open down the street and a troop of students blustered out onto the bricks; voices raised, cell phones chirping, laughing their way into the night.  The lady took her leave, nimbly ascending branches to her privileged life above, while mundane stairs led me down to the world and work. 

The Artist and The Artwork

You may have noticed I quote a lot of songs, poems, plays, etc. The idea is that if someone has already said what I want to say, but better, it makes no sense trying to “improve” when I can simply quote. I think I have already mentioned that when I come across a particularly excellent sentence in a novel I try to contact the author to simply say “Well done. Thank you!” I have also learned that it is wise to make sure the author is still alive. But that is a story for another day.

The question for today is the extent to which a work of art and the artist who created it are facets of the same entity. Sure, being aware of the effort that goes into finding just the right word and crafting an excellent sentence, I do drop authors an encouraging word to let them know that there is someone out there who is paying attention. But on the other hand that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to be their BFF. Actually it more often works the other way around. I when discover that a friend is a “creative,” author, painter, poet, singer, whatever, I am tempted to ask to see, hear, read, whatever, examples of their work. But there are potential pitfalls on that road. What if I don’t like their efforts? Do I lie? Will they know I am lying? Hopefully, I will find the work as delightful as the person - but there is that element of risk involved.

I was reminded of that risk recently when I asked my wife if she knew the title of a particular song for a John Denver quote I wanted to “borrow” for a piece I was working on and she replied, “I hate his work. He was a terrible man!” We have been married long enough that I knew not to point out that that was not the question I had asked. However, later, her non-answer brought me back to question I hadn’t asked but she had unintentionally answered: What are the critical relationships between an artist and their work? Must I find a Woody Allen film flawed because of questionable decisions he has made in his private life?  Do I deny the talent of Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun’s paintings because her patron, Marie Antoinette, was apparently callously oblivious to the harsh lives of the peasants whose deprivations made her opulent life possible - well, at least for a while. Do we deny Picasso’s place in art history because he seemed to switch his artistic style with the acquisition of each new mistress? 6 or 7 depending on what source you consult.

And that last sentence “depending on which source you consult” is one of the two major reasons I believe we need to separate art and artist in any meaningful evaluation of a particular work.  I never met John Denver, and to my knowledge neither did my wife. Did Marie really respond to the assertion that the people had no bread with, “Let them eat cake!” If Marie really did blithely advocate cake for the poor, did Elisabeth concur?” Did Picasso say “Oh, the blue painting is Olga, the pink one is Francoise?” If we wish to argue that an artist’s work is a direct manifestation of their personal beliefs and philosophy then we need to be quite sure that the sources we consult regarding those beliefs and philosophies are themselves credible. John Denver was a contemporary celebrity, which in its own right, negates anything we might know about his private life. If you have seen someone’s face on a magazine at the grocery checkout, you can be fairly confident that the article within is designed to sell magazines, not reveal “the unvarnished truth” about the celebrities on the cover. On the question did Marie Antoinette really say “Let them eat cake!” we would be well advised to remember that when it comes to history, it is the winners who write the histories. Picasso was, at the time of his death both the most famous and the wealthiest artist in France, who, most sources agree, made his heirs and their representatives frantic by leaving no will, leaving the who, what and why of his copious estate - sources vary but all cluster around 20,000 to 30,000 paintings, sculptures, etchings, etc., - drifting in the wind.

The point is that any attempt to link an artist’s work to their beliefs, attitudes and values is most likely doomed to failure simply because of the difficulty of trying to cobble together an accurate depiction of those beliefs, attitudes and values from secondary or questionable sources. I don’t mean to say that the “truth” about artists lives may not lie somewhere in what journalists, critics and historians have written about them. I am saying that winnowing those kernels of truth from the chaff of the articles, videos, exposes, etc.,  that accompanies those kernels is an almost impossible task. And furthermore I am saying that it really doesn’t matter, because even if we could draw a straight line relationship between a work of art and an artist’s beliefs - as is temptingly possible between Picasso and Guernica, that one painting which Picasso refused to “analyze” - we still cannot hope to define a singular psyche of the creator of perhaps thousands of works.

Artists, perhaps more than the rest of us more normal, less-talented folks, seem to shift “certainty” throughout their lives.  It is something we all do. What was "true" for us at 6, is probably called into doubt at 16, 26, 36, and on until 60 and beyond. But because of their status as “public figures,” artists are often called upon to explain and defend those shifts. Ideally the explanation should be made in person, or if deceased this questionable task is handed off to their heirs, critics, biographers or historians. Artists are not alone in this seeming need we have for them to explain their "waffling" on their work and world view. Republicans who began life as Democrats or vice versa, fire and brimstone TV preachers who “stray,” athletes who use “performance enhancing drugs,” famous quarterbacks who conflate “immunization” and “vaccination.”  These celebrities are all often called upon to explain themselves. To "tell it like it is." Furthermore I sincerely believe they would be unable to provide such an explanation even if they wanted to. It takes the likes of Boswell and McCullough thousands of pages to even attempt such reconstructions, and even their painstaking efforts are questioned by other would be "experts."

A friend of mine once reminded me that “we have all been in rooms where we should not die.”  Meaning we have all done and said things, “true” at the moment, yet perhaps better left unsaid and undone, and certainly unexplained in the broader picture of a life. But our foibles rarely hang on museum walls. We are rarely called upon to knit them all into a rational whole. But we do ask just that of artists. We want them to be able to trace their inner lives as a progression of “truths” as reflected in their art. We want the "reality" of an artist to be all wrapped up neatly with a bow on top. That would, I suppose, be nice, but I doubt that such a package could actually be created. Artists seem to be more intense versions of us, you know, normal folks. More swayed by passion, belief, joy and sadness. No doubt that intensity is reflected in their work, but our desire to fully understand the relationship between an artist's art and the person who created the art is most likely doomed to failure.  No doubt there are, in an artist's oeuvre, works the artist would like to assert represent their "real" self, their best self. the self they aspire to be.  But it is more than likely that other works sprang from their "rooms in which we should not die." Our attempting to discern which is which is no doubt an entertaining yet flawed pastime.

Let us conclude this little ramble down the road of art with a thought experiment. You attend a raffle at a professional meeting of an organization of which you are a member. To your delight you win “first prize” that allows you to choose one of two painting.  Yet, the choice is not as simple as it might seem. The paintings are quite similar. Two landscapes, they are the same size, same palette, done in the style of the romanticism of the Hudson River School which has always been one of your favorites. Neither artist will profit from their artwork being chosen. However before making your choice you are informed that one painting was painted by an inmate from a supermax prison, a psychopathic serial killer. The other by a church choir director who gives free music lessons to underprivileged youth after school.

Would knowing which artist painted which painting influence your choice? There is really no right answer. If the psycho versus the minister is a "dealbreaker" issue for you, then you are simply privileging what you know of the artist over the quality of the specific artwork, which is certainly an option and one which easily leads to something like the simple assertion that we can hate John Denver’s music because we hate the man. To me that seems rather unfair to the music.  And by extension, may deny ourselves a number of wonderful artistic experiences for reasons that have little or nothing to do with the quality of the various artworks themselves.  Remember the second tenet of Distilled Harmony is Enable Beauty, not only enable beauty produced by nice people - like Mr. Rogers.

Paintbox

Paintbox

Jack Frost let me tag along today.

The paintbrush flittered here and there.

It seemed quite effortless,

Touching every tree and bush

That caught our questioning eyes.

In the stately maple by the road

Crimson snared the topmost branches,

Pushing slowly down to a brighter red

Which faded past gold to a pure

Yellow, lighter and lighter

Until streaks of original green 

Peeked through, giving up in places

To russet and, just for a while, to

Brown leaves, clinging steadfast 

Until they flitter down

To finally rest upon the ground.

A patchwork quilt resting quietly 

Waiting for a deeper blanket of snow,

And, months from now, 

A renewed burst of green 

Below them, and in tiny buds

Above.