Thoughts After a Needed Thanksgiving Rest

 I’m not exactly sure when it hit me, but I think it was a direct result of being physically away from the stress and uncertainty that seems to unremittingly permeate every moment of the move from the North Carolina house into the Pine Tree Lane house in Illinois. It was a respite for which I owe my sister-in-law, Sandy, and her husband Wayne, an incredible debt of gratitude.

Anyway, after just a few days in their Wisconsin home over Thanksgiving, it struck me that while 2023 seemed like stepping into the ring with Mike Tyson, there remains a life beyond broken bones, funerals, cardboard boxes and artwork that has yet to find its place. The “it” was the realization that I still have important things to accomplish that are completely discrete from the stress of those aforementioned dark realities.

No, I do not know exactly what “they” are, but the simple realization that they are out there was a significant relief. As to those nagging questions related to figuring out just what they are; I think I will toss the job of answering those questions back into the lap of the universe and try to get better at listening for the answers. If that sounds like a wish and a prayer it is because it is both.

In the meantime I will continue my attempts to Foster Harmony, Enable Beauty, Distill Complexity and Oppose Harm. Every day a little bit. 

So enjoy whatever holidays still lie before you, and know we will be sending good wishes your way as we gleefully boot 2023 out the door!

Art and Fantasy

 One version of the “many worlds” view of quantum mechanics envisions a kind of existential cloning in which significant decisions in our “right now reality” generate parallel worlds based upon the “roads not chosen” in that moment of significant choice - taking that job, marrying that partner, joining that group of believers - those kinds of choices. Those “roads not taken” worlds spin off in other corners of the universe. It is such a strange concept that while I can understand it from a “the universe is infinite and hence all things are possible” perspective, it stretches even my wildly flexible imagination.

But, interestingly, I am less bothered by my personal conviction that fantasy, creativity, and curiosity are all often fostered by a kind of “leakage” from those “roads not taken” existences into our “right now reality.” It seems that in the arts, philosophy and the sciences world altering changes appear seemingly from nowhere. 

There is a lot of chatter right now in publications across disciplines that artistic expression may have predated not only homo sapiens, but all hominids. Where did that come from? On the scientific side CRISPER and other gene editing tools let us create, recreate, invent all manner of living entities. Our machines are pushing the boundaries of space and the depths of our fragile planet. Again, where did that come from?

At some point and at some time, I believe, they all started as fantasies, as dreams, as the conscious, subconscious or unconscious musings on the general narrative theme of “wouldn’t it be (awesome, cool, wonderful- chose the descriptor you use or were raised with) if we could . . .”

These fantasies obviously live in the same building as curiosity, but in slightly different apartments. Curiosity lives in a “wondering about” apartment, while Fantasy lives in an apartment that houses a reality, where the “awesome, cool, and wonderful” really exists. You can touch it, see it, feel it. You believe it.

So what does that mean for artists? Which, you are not surprised to realize, is where I was heading. The important point, I believe, is to allow fantasy a more flexible place in our lives. Some of the examples I gave above were fantasies that became realities. Fantasies that moved in with curiosities and eventually gave birth to realities. And that is glorious. It is the process that drives humanity forward, that has allowed the species to achieve the unimaginable. And hopefully the process will continue to allow us address and solve the significant issues that confront us.

But that is not necessarily the role of fantasy for artists. Fantasy need not always lead to curiosity and reality; processes, products, businesses, or employment. Sometimes, oftentimes, the contribution of the artist is to simply articulate the fantasy, in visual modes, musical constructions, literature, whatever. This seemingly picky redefinition of fantasy is of particular importance to artists in that it frees them in a couple of important ways.

First, it answers the question often posed to artists by the broader culture - and almost always by parents - what are you going to do with that? Answer: Maybe nothing, or perhaps - wait for it - simply Foster Harmony and Enable Beauty.

Second, but related to the first, it frees the artist from the necessity of, or the expectation of, being the “actual creator” of the fantasy vision. Too old, too young, too poor, too weak, to play the central protagonist in the fantasy? No problem. Actualizing the fantasy is not the artist’s obligation. The job of the artist is to articulate that which, beyond the boundaries of “reality,” is possible in the imagination.

I do realize that this kind of job driven by Fantasy rarely pays the bills and so is often restricted to the retired - like me - or the  wealthy, or the classic “starving artist.” But perhaps a kind of compromise is possible for folks outside those categories. And the compromise is to seek a life path, if not dominated by the expression of Fantasy, is at least tolerant of it.

When I entered the job market 50 odd years ago those kinds of opportunities existed primarily in academia and so I followed my father’s footprints into the university classroom. And while I might have done some things differently - maybe design instead of Communication and media - it was a good choice. I have not followed the job market for many a year now, however some online videos - check out Curiosity Stream - seem to indicate that corporate America has become more friendly to folks with artistic, creative inclinations. Could be that today’s artists might find worlds more tolerant of Fantasy that could actually pay the rent. Probably worth the search. There will always be attics available for starving artists 🤪.

Messing Around with Poetry

I was reading about the Japanese poetic form Haiku in a recent National Geographic. The article informed me that, “In their purist form, each haiku must comprise three lines of five, seven and five syllables, and include a kireji – a “cutting word” that lends the verse contrast, and, crucially, a kigo, or seasonal reference.”

*There seems to be a debate as to whether haikus have titles. One source says flat out “No!” Another as adamantly affirms “Yes!” But quibbles a bit by saying that if a specific “title” is not provided the first line of the haiku fulfills that function.

Anyhow the article reminded me of The Proestry Project that I undertook and published here on The Wall back in 2005. I defined it thus:

Prosetry is a literary genre.  It is primarily prose, but too short to fall into genres with which I am familiar.  Also it shares a variety of characteristics with poetry.  It is softer, more subtle and ephemeral than prose; yet still lacks the formal structure of either the lofty Haiku or the grittier limerick.  The lexicon is, of course, cloned from poetry, hence prosetry for the genre and proem for the individual unit.  They are proving to be one sentence constructions, but broken out of a single line with conscious intent.  Perhaps a nod to ee cummings’s use of space upon the page.  Also, I am resisting the idea of titles since, as our English teachers always said; a single sentence should convey a complete thought.  Hence the content of the proem subsumes the function of a title.  

Naturally I obsessed over these two notion’s separated by 18 years. So they kept me up into the little hours for a couple of nights resulting in:

First, a haiku I composed for today’s sky, trying to follow the rules NG reported. The title - if my software retains it - is in a smaller font as a nod to the title/no title controversy.

  

Flight

Cutting autumn sky

Wings sweep clouds from morning light

Catch cranes ascension 

Second, I went back and played with a couple of proems from the Prosetry Project and discovered that with only minor edits the proems could take on the haiku form. I have left them without titles because, as noted above, proems universally do not have titles.

Proem Number 34

You’d think these midnight

Muses might once acknowledge 

Dawns obligations 

Proem Number 33

Though not a poet

Still I might have been one if

I had had less time

Foster Harmony v. Enable Beauty

They are the first, and therefore dominant, tenets of Distilled Harmony - my template for living life. They seem so mutually supportive it is hard to imagine them coming into conflict. However, I now realize such a conflict is possible, and like everything these days, the insight emerges from packing crates. But let me begin at the beginning.

We have - to use the most generic, but perhaps the least descriptive, definition - somewhere between 150 and 250 pieces of “hanging wall art.” To clarify, by “hanging wall art,” I mean a work composed with artistic intent that is intended to be displayed by hanging it on a wall. Our various pieces run the gamut from large - 5 x 6 ft - frameless digital pieces, through 4 x 5 ft ornately framed oil paintings of sea battles and reclining nudes, all the way down to precious little postcard-sized street scenes dwarfed by their gilded frames. And no, I really had no idea we had so many, and such different kinds of  “hanging wall art,” until we were faced with the task of unpacking them. We are currently trying to move pictures of the pictures around in a weird tetras way - I'll stick an image in here if my tech cooperates. However, understanding how all this stuff can place Enable Beauty and Foster Harmony at odds requires a couple of divergences.

OK, some context. First, I turned 75 today on the 15th of November. Christine is a few years younger. This often puts us in social situations where the discussion of the longevity of marital bliss often comes up:

Maude:  “Oh, yes. Harold and I been together for 48 years.”

I respond: “Christine and I have been married for more than 50 years! (Pause, pause,) Just not to each other!”

It usually gets a good laugh - but more importantly it explains how all those bits of “hanging wall art” came to reside in the same house. Having spent more of our adult years apart than together, our individual efforts to Enable Beauty resulted in a blended grouping - collected and created in different times and places - that strikes sometimes very different chords.

Second, to illustrate how different those chords can sometimes be, I will share, again I realize, the tale of taking Dad to the art gallery in Long Grove. Dad, to set the chronology of events, lived to 100. This trip probably took place when he was in his late 80s or early 90s. At that time Long Grove, IL was a neat collection of galleries, restaurants, and little specialty shops; apples, candy, etc., sort of like little beach towns along North Carolina’s Outer Banks, but without the tourists, surf shops, or the ocean.

Anyhow, we took Dad into one of the nicer galleries. A variety of works, paintings, sculpture, weaving. It was one of those places where one spoke in quiet, modulated tones. And where, somehow it seemed, children under ten had been checked into an invisible quiet room somewhere.  But then, into the midst of all this calm and quiet gentility, Dad’s voice rang from across the room: “Why, I wouldn’t hang that in my toilet!”

We all managed a well-modulated retreat, embarrassment eventually replaced by laughter. But the point for this post is to illustrate that one person’s beauty is another’s banality.  Which is why buying art for someone is like buying them a puppy. In doing so you intrude on what is an intensely personal process.

So we currently find ourselves in the midst of a plethora of art, all of which was acquired to Enable Beauty - but beauty in the eyes of two different beholders. And therein lies the potential friction in the dominant tenets of Distilled Harmony: That which was acquired to Enable Beauty does not always, in the present moment, Enable Harmony.

I have chosen - at this particular moment - to apply different criteria - differentiating between Pleasurable and Interesting. Those images that I prefer, that for me Enable Beauty, I define as "Pleasurable." Those which Christine choses that make me want to holler "I wouldn't hang that in my toilet" - of which, truthfully there is only one - I will deem as "Interesting." And in a delightful demonstration of Enabling Harmony, she, without my overt input, has chosen to hang that specific image in her toilet!

So we continue to sort through this stuff and will reach, if not total agreement, at least acceptable compromise. Which unfortunately bring us to out next problem: where to hang it all. You see even those sorted images will far outpace the available wall space. Again creativity will have to guide us. I'm thinking of the garage as containing "hidden wall space" that in one way becomes a potential "pride of place" consideration, since it will be regularly viewed - well, once all the boxes have been unpacked and trashed.

I'll let you know how that works out. Until then find something to be thankful for and celebrate the day!

Zen Mystery from the Annals of Unpacking

 It was packed in a sandwich size zip lock baggie. Other tech cords and connectors were in the same box.

A masking tape label was wrapped around the cord. Black sharpie, my handwriting.

The label read “heated glover recharge cord.” Nothing else. All she wrote. Nada.

May 6 inches long. A USB plug on one end, two thunderbolt plugs on the other. I have absolutely no idea.

I edited “glover” to “gloves.” Seemed logical even if spellcheck missed it. I still had no idea. No recollection of ever having possessed heated gloves. 

Only frigid possibility would have been teaching in Stevens Point, Wisconsin. But my tenure there in 1975 pre-dates PCs, USB and thunderbolt ports.

I inserted a hyphen “g-lover.” Gay? Garlic? Gallic? Maybe my puerile French girlfriend, 6th grade. 1960?  See tech mismatch above, even more so.

Could be the cord was intended to recharge an artisan who made gloves in an unheated garret?  An unheated garret requiring USB and thunderbolt ports?

“Perhaps all of the above, Grasshopper, perhaps none of them.”