Magical Moments

 There is a magic I do not understand. I envy it, but do not understand it.

I have been reading To The Hilt, by Dick Francis (New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1996.) As usual with Francis, the plotline features thoroughbred racing, horses, jockeys and such. Which is befitting for an author who, Wikipedia tells us: "after serving in the RAF, became a full-time jump-jockey, winning over 350 races and becoming champion jockey of the British National Hunt." But in this book, racing is eclipsed by artistry. Painting to be specific.

The protagonist is Alexander Kinloch, the sort of ne'er do well son of a prominent local family. But rather than swain about the countryside as is normal for the younger sons of minor gentry, Alex has taken up residence in a rough outbuilding where he earns a respectable living as an artist. His "money stream" comes from paintings of golfers and golf courses that he markets quite profitably to country clubs in England and the States.

However, he also works quite seriously in portraiture. And Francis devotes an equally serious amount of time describing Alex's work on one particular portrait. I do recommend the novel to you. It is a nice mystery. However, I won't spoil it for you with any discussion of the plot as the magic is in the description of Alex's work on the portrait. I can find no evidence that Francis ever dabbled in painting himself, however several sources credit his wife, Mary Margaret Brenchley, as his primary researcher. If that was her role for this work, she did an incredible job.

We following Alex's work on the through the preparation of the canvas, with gesso, and multiple layers of background color - acrylic, not oil which takes too long to dry - through multiple layers of glazes, preparatory sketches, and finally scratching through the layers of paint and glaze to reveal in the lower layers an effect that reveals the various - gradually aging - faces of the subject. To which the object of the portrait eventually responds "you have made me immortal."

It's not that I am unfamiliar with mysteries that foreground painting. I am currently reading The Bellotto Connection, the 29th book in Estelle Ryan's, entertaining and informative Genevieve Lenard series which features a young woman "on the spectrum" whose special talent is discerning truth, or the lack thereof, from peoples nonverbal cues. In each novel the caper centers around the works of a particular artist. [Yeah, right? 29 different artists some of whom I must admit I'd never heard.] 

Anyhow, in those novels the paintings are often discussed (by the secondary protagonist, a reformed art thief) in detail. But those explanations tend to focus on what is on the canvas - clues and indications of how the images might aid in catching the bad guys. How the artist came to create the images is only a minor consideration.

So I was enthralled with Francis's intricate and thorough description of how Alex came to create his images. Yet I must admit to having also been somewhat chagrined. It has taken me a great deal of time and introspection to assert that my images are "art."

Not so much, the description of Alex's processes would argue. He mixes and blends hues and textures to achieve his desired result. I am restricted to paper and the predetermined colors of my - admitted extensive - collection of markers.

So, I came away from Francis's novel feeling something like a "pretender" wasting hours on images that have no purpose.

But then my natural optimism bubbled to the surface and I remembered what I used to tell my students when they were wrestling with a creative assignment. I asserted that unless they intended to "go pro," and earn their living with their art, they should never compare their own efforts to the current GOATs, or those of history. The Greatest of All Times were not only exceptionally talented, they had, most often, invested years of training at the feet of equally exceptional practitioners to learn their craft.

That was not the objective of the assignments I gave them. Rather, I wanted them to explore what in the creative process expressed their feelings, brought what was inside out, and most importantly made them feel good, made them happy.

So I decided to listen to myself and remember that what is important isn't what the image shows, what it looks like on the page. Rather the value of the creative process is what you put into the exercise. The value for those of us who live, largely, outside the business of selling art, is in what we invest in the creation of our art, and what, in return, it gives to us.

Meet My Invisible Friend

 "Doctors, I've been wrestling with reality for 40 years and I'm happy to say that I've finally won out over it."

Elwood P Dowd in Harvey, by Mary Chase. Pulitzer Prize, 1945.

The title character in Ms. Chase's book, and later in the 1950 film starring Jimmy Stewart, is an invisible 6'3" rabbit who is also a Pooka - from old Celtic mythology - a mischievous fairy spirit in animal form - always very large. Harvey talks to Elwood P. Dowd, Stewart's character, throughout - and Elwood seems to draw great comfort from their dialogues.

I often think about this odd couple when I encounter two kinds of seemingly different, but actually quite similar contemporary social phenomena; my age-mates experiencing a return to spirituality, and adolescents being drawn to chat bots. "No wait," as I used to say to my Media and Society students, "Really. It will make sense. Just wait."

OK. I have one dear friend who joins me in our 7th decade, who has begun to attend not only the Catholic services in which he was raised but also some Saturday services - maybe Unitarian? He jokes about joining a Jewish Temple to give him a weekend trifecta. Another dear friend who has just broken into her 8th decade has converted to Judaism. And I sense they are not outliers. Nor do the various theologies indicate that they are trying to hoard indulgences to smooth their way into some multifaceted hereafter.

No. And I may be completely wrong here, having not broached the question to them, but I think the commonality is prayer. NWIWMS - that's shorthand for "No wait it will make sense."

What generalizations can we make about folks in this - OK, my - demographic cluster, somewhere north of 70? They - er, we - have racked up a lot of very varied experiences. And those experiences have solidified into occasionally quite firm conclusions and beliefs regarding the nature of life, existence, behavior, right and wrong.

And while they/we may occasionally articulate those positions loudly and sometimes inappropriately, in some - I would assert many - cases they/we would prefer to just let the kids (everyone under 65 or so) natter on among themselves. We'll just have another glass of wine and pet the dog. The kids won’t listen anyhow. And that, of course, is the crux of the issue for our two seemingly disparate populations: Nobody, perhaps not even my peers are listening. Or, if they are their "truth" may be at odds with my truth. And I don't want to debate.

So who do you - my demographic - talk to? And why? To paraphrase the title of a book popular among a far younger demographic, "Hello God. Are you there? It's me." Maybe it's not God in a catholic (little c) sense. Maybe it is more like a listening entity. Need not even be an entity who can do anything more than listen. Yet an entity whose experience and insight far outstrips our own. Dialogue is not required. We are not so much looking for answers as we are clarifying questions without the listening entity interrupting with "I know what you mean! My brother/sister/son/daughter/whatever did exactly the same thing and I yadda yadda yadda . . . "

The idea is that as we talk to the le - aka listening entity - about our concerns, uncertainties, wishes, problems, etc., we may come to hear the echoes of, if not answers, at least possibilities regarding our inquiries. You see, so much of today's world, for our demographic niche, falls into the "been there, done that" bucket. So our inquiries with the le look beyond those concerns to the ripples of the strange. Of course we are curious about what comes next, but we are more concerned about those glitches that conflict with our experienced-based worldview:

Why does humanity remain blind? Why does conflict seem unceasing? Why do the patently foolish succeed? How can I foster harmony, enable beauty, distill complexity, and oppose harm? OK, you caught me - those last four are my personal queries. But you get the idea. My cohort is not focused on the next job, the next rung on the ladder, finding success, building to retirement, because - ta, da! We're already there! For better or for worse. But I am nattering on again. Focus.

So, do you need a gathering place to commune with the le? Probably not. Yet throughout the ages from Stonehenge - and possibly earlier gathering spots - through Notre Dame and Gaudi's still unfinished Sagrada Familia to the Hagia Sophia and the Neue Synagogue in Berlin, inspired builders have been creating spaces seemingly in tune with the le, whether for a solitary soul or a significant congregation.

Which does present the additional question; do you need a congregation to talk to the le? There are certainly a raft of theologians and philosophers who would assert that neither a structure nor a congregation is necessary for communion with the le. That nature provides the vista that first inspired spiritual gatherings. Personally I like sacred spaces best when they are empty, just me and the le. On the other hand I can understand the notion that a gathering of other seemingly likeminded folks can affirm one's own spiritual inclination.

Another issue in the whole "me to the le" interaction: do you need a conduit? A rosary? An icon? A prayer rug? A kippah? A crucifix? While mine is an admittedly agnostic view, I would say that these "dressings" are unnecessary trimmings, devised by ecclesiastical structures to keep the faithful in line. On the other, more important, hand, if some sort of conduit makes talking to the le easier, go ahead - certainly can't hurt.

So, to hop back to Harvey for a moment, I don't think it is unacceptable to assert that Harvey was Elwood's listening entity. Of course, Chase had to make Harvey a sympathetic speaking entity as well. Otherwise the book would have been crushing dull and the film unbearable. 

But as stated above, our expecting the le to respond directly is probably a futile exercise. Rather we should listen to ourselves, ferreting out possible answers or clues for behavior in the totality of our questions. So "Hello le. It's me. I was wondering . . . " might be a good way to begin. Or perhaps "Hello Lee. It's me I was wondering . . ." Lee seems like a good noun of address. Seems more natural, is gender non-specific, more comfortable. But I am rambling.

So now let us turn our attention to the adolescents and their chatbots. NWIWMS! NPR reports Children and teenagers are rapidly adopting AI chatbots, with studies showing that 64% to 72% of U.S. teens (ages 13–17) have used AI chatbots. While many use these tools for homework, a significant number—roughly 3 in 10—use them daily for companionship, advice, and emotional support.. "Hi GPTChat. You there? I was wondering. . . ." Hmmmm. [To ramble just a moment - I often think about children who have either an invisible friend, or a special toy who provide "companionship, advice, and emotional support." Maybe another Wall.]

Anyhow, a website dedicated to healthy children and other sources contend that:

"There are documented cases of chatbots failing to properly handle discussions about suicide, with some, in rare cases, even encouraging self-harm or providing dangerous advice. And because chatbots are designed to be "sycophantic" (constantly agreeable) and offer "frictionless" interaction, children may prefer them to real, complex human relationships, leading to isolation."

Yee, gads! There is no way that chatbots for that 30% of teens using chatbots for "companionship, advice, and emotional support" are mirroring the le experience of spiritually questing seniors. 

A couple of salient points:

Chatbots are the creatures of computer software engineers. And so are by definition fallible. My iPad, iPhone and car software systems have all been "upgraded" in the last few weeks. They now "talk" to each other differently than before - and sometimes not at all. The solution is often "Turn off. Restart. Again." Hardly good advice for curious teens!

Teenagers are creatures of determined confusion. Their experiences in, and beliefs about, the "real world" are existentially truncated. Yet many have, since birth, had screens as their constant companions. Look around you at the grocery store, or at the carload of backseat kids next to you at the stoplight. How many of them are being pacified by some screen or another? And when they leave the car they carry their tablets, phones or smart watches with them - tethered to their chatbot buddy. Why should we find it strange that as they grow older and more curious about the complexities of the modern world that they turn to those same screens for the "truth" about issues their parents are too busy or uneasy to discuss?

The teenage utilization of Chatbots is diametrically opposed to senior's spiritual interactions with le - or Lee. With le the human explores possibilities in their questing interactions with the silent, but assumed attentive, le, - questions based on decades of real world experience. With a Chatbot, the teen, also posing questions, is sometimes fed the digital equivalent of emotional fast food - sweet and savory - by a hyperactive, chatty electronic entity prone to errors, falsehoods and deception. Yet from that frothy menu the teen distills something that passes for truth.

So what do we take away from this rambling discourse? Well, first off, even with all the mental challenges and physical maladies in attendance, I'd rather be old than young. And my sympathy for parents attempting to raise children in the current digital environment is immense. My advice to them is to maximize non-screen experience. Experiences their children can touch without keyboards. Pets, sports, learning cursive, writing with it, painting, sculpting, playing an instrument - always utilizing the non-digital option when possible. It is inevitable that life will eventually force them into the increasingly digital world - but they will have the advantage of having known the more gritty processes the digital seeks to imitate. And with that advantage they may ask better questions of real people.

Second, to my aged cohort re-exploring their spirituality - have at it! But take notes. I hate it when I come to an insight while talking to the le during the tiny hours after midnight, but then awake the next morning to discover it has slipped away!

Two Perspectives

OK. Yes it is finally done. And in truth, I am a bit glad. Exhausted, but, well, perhaps more relieved than glad. Sort of like those Olympians we are watching following the end of some grueling event. Putting the "thrill of victory and the agony of defeat" aside, they were all just glad to have completed the task they had set for themselves. So I am glad to have completed this task. And the image is truly one that is best seen live. Or if you are not planning a visit, on as big as screen as possible. Project it to your TV if you have those skills.

Anyhow, here it is:

And no, I really have no preference as to which side defines up and down, left or right. I will probably have to make that decision once I put it up on a wall, assuming I can find space on a wall somewhere that can accept it. Something that is far from certain. It is 40x50 inches.

But simply telling you the dimensions doesn't really describe the size. I have created larger images, some blended images; part hand-drawn, then digitally enhanced and printed top out at 4 x 5 feet. And then there was that image that was wrapped around a city bus in Raleigh - yeah, bus size. But Carriage Ride is the largest pure hand-to-paper piece I have ever done. So here is an ill-advised "selfie" to demonstrate its size:

So as I consider the image, and the guy behind the image, I fall to reflecting on the "narrative" that best describes the evolution - the dénouement of the image if you will.

The earliest evidence I can find of the image is this picture from August 27th of last year:

Which is obviously a painted version of this image:

Which is, strangely, dated a week later. There are then a number of interim images up until Valentines Day 2026, which was when I declared that the image was “finished-finished.”

Which brings us to the first perspective which is the perspective of the artist. And this is where I defer to Rembrandt's assertion, which I have mentioned before, that "a painting is finished when the artist says it is finished." So the creative process of painting Carriage Ride ran from about August 27 of 2025, until Valentine's Day 2026. So let's run the numbers.

That's 176 days. And I figure an average of about two and half hours a day. Some less, some considerably more. Which brings us to somewhere between 400 and 500 hours of flinging myself down and laying on the floor drawing the bits and bobs of the final image. Which brings us to the interesting second perspective: What is a painting worth?

Well, if you use the highest number I ever got for "consulting" back in the day: $500.00 an hour including travel, lodging etc. Using a "dollars per painting hour" scale I would put the value of the painting at about $250,000.00. However, the value an artist places on an image is not the relevant metric here. Rather, the second perspective is that: a painting is worth what someone is willing to pay for it.

So Salvator Mundi, reportedly by Da Vinci, sold for $450 million, purportedly to a mysterious Saudi prince, and Gustav Klimt’s Portrait of Elisabeth Lederer recently topped $236.4 million at Sotheby’s. However, the most expensive Van Gogh painting ever sold is Orchard with Cypresses (Verger avec cyprès) from the collection of Paul Allen, which fetched $117.2 million at a Christie's auction in 2022 . Pretty "spendy" as my kin in South Dakota would say.Yet it was a painting unable to find any buyer during the artist's lifetime.

Which tempts me to quote the King in The King and I : "Tis a puzzlement!"

Personally, neither perspective will drive my consideration for my next image. Rather, I will chose an image appropriately sized to fit on my drawing table - enough floor painting. And I'm thinking of something that reduces white space - rather, something that contrasts color, light  and darkness. A touch of chiaroscuro, which I remember thinking was a Mexican spice. I believe I have a photograph that I took of a streetlight on a bridge between Buda and Pest that might be a good starting point.

I'll keep you posted. :-)

Oh, and if any of you have a spare quarter million you wish to invest in Carriage Ride, I accept cash, checks, credit cards, PayPal, gold, and appraised gems.  But no bitcoin.

 

The Curse of the Third Ball

We have a number of four-legged grandchildren scattered around the country - four up here in Chicagoland. The closest is Birdie - a mostly black lab. Those of us close to her choose to believe she is a lab, she certainly presents as such. However, her parents did have her DNA tested and that revealed a predominantly Labrador critter of mixed heritage. A touch of hound, which may explain those long legs that, in her puppy days, she used to drag around after her, not quite sure to whom they belonged. These days she uses them to bound effortlessly around, clearing the couch - which tries her patience as she moves from kitchen to living room - in a single graceful leap.

And as anyone who knows anything about dogs will tell you, mixed breeds are smarter than their purebred kin. Amazing creatures, dogs. They pad along hospital corridors as therapy dogs, bringing comfort to the afflicted and lonely. They warn their owners of the onset of seizures. They lead rescuers to the lost or trapped. They can detect illicit substances, and now detect and distinguish among various cancers and other diseases! Little wonder that we claim these furry buddies as our best friends.

But although we are confident that Birdie could, if she chose to, execute all these tasks and more, Birdie has decided to hone a skill that we choose to see as unique. Anyone who owns a lab knows that they will chase a tennis ball to the point of exhaustion - and then ask "just a couple more? Huh? Huh? Please?" And here Birdie runs true to the breed. But her exceptional extension is this:

And this:

Yes, Birdie can hold two balls in her mouth at one time! But this seemingly innocent extension of the norm carries a hidden peril: The Curse of the Third Ball. You see when Birdie has those two balls in her mouth, it is simply not enough. She looks at you with pleading eyes, so you toss the third ball.

She rushes to it, and only then realizes that she already has two balls in her mouth. She tries mightily to add the third ball to them  - unsuccessfully. Inevitably as she attempts to collect the third ball one or both of the other balls escape, rolling away. What results is a comic, piteous and futile series of attempts to get all three balls in her mouth at the same time.

You can learn a lot about people by watching dogs. There are those individuals in human society who have mastered the trick of holding two balls in their mouths at the same time. They have, say, money and power. Two balls that many would consider sufficient. But sadly, for them, it is not enough. They look around and see there are more balls out there, seemingly available for the taking.

Money, power, OK. How about acclaim? Having people love you? Maybe you can get a nip of that third ball but careful, one of the other two might slip. How about access to sex? Drop Jeff an email. No wait he's dead. Damn. Oh, wait! Celebrity! Open wide. Oops there went . . . Which ball was that? You get the idea.

In our culture a poisonous uberclass has risen to the surface, like a toxic algae bloom on a polluted pond. They are not content with the balls already secure in their grasp. They want more. Whether the richest man in the world, or the holder of the highest office on the globe, they want more. And they do not care who they harm in pursuit of that 3rd, 4th, 5th, . . . . nth ball.

I have heard tell that some of the top .001 percent are investing heavily in "life extending" technologies. Seemingly not content with amassing as many balls as possible in their natural life, they seek to carry their acquisitions on in some version of an unnatural life. It would be like, it seems, grafting chipmunk's cheeks - which can expand to three times the size of the critter's head - onto Birdie so that she could stuff three, four, or even more balls into her face.

Or perhaps, instead, we could teach her restraint. "No Birdie, I'm not going to throw you this third ball. It will make you crazy. You will try to stuff it in with the other two and may, in that fevered attempt, lose all your balls - or marbles."

Another lesson we could learn from watching our dogs. No more third balls.

So sit Birdie. Stay. Good girl. Two balls is enough. Wanna treat?

 

Scenes, Not Memes

 Again, some thoughts on dreams - which have been elbowing their way into my nocturnal sojourns recently, more insistently than usual. They stay true to form for the most part: technicolor, high definition, a cast most often composed of strangers, yet who seem completely familiar with the primary protagonist - me.

Recently however, as I think I may have mentioned, there have been a few guest appearances by people I know - but I recognize them only after waking; "Hey, I think that was so and so." Also, a recent aberration has been the "to be continued" dream. Those are the ones where you wake up, get a drink of water, go pee, check the weather, something - and go back to sleep. Then, whamo! There you are back in the same dream. This appears to be a phenomenon over which I have no control, since when I want to return to a dream to see how things turnout, it never works.

OK. So what? Well, I have found myself recently thinking about the notion that unlike much of contemporary existence which is crafted by shared, posted, texted, screened, emailed, cell-phoned or reported, expressions; dreams are experiences that are completely private. Oh, we can write about them, or talk about them to friends, lovers, family, therapists, whatever. But those descriptions are mandatorily second-hand. And the insights of those others, no matter how well intentioned, are still intrinsically interpretations from outside the dreamer. The pure experience of the dream is totally internal. Like the pearl within the oyster - the dream in its natural state, is invisible to the world outside.

It is, of course, a common calling of the artist to externalize the dream. And in some ways, all art is an attempt to make the internal insight perceivable to others. And tho' some artists refuse to discuss the meaning in their art - I am among them when it comes to visual art, not because I am being secretive I just don't really know where some of them spring from. I still contend that, whether visual, audible, tactile or some combination thereof, art draws some shy perception out of internal shadows into the sunlight of external examination. And while the meaning of those external examinations may be up for grabs it is, to some extent, the degree to which that artistic reveal is successful that determines the value - and staying power - of the artwork.

But that assertion requires some clarification, and draws into necessary consideration the newly coined notion of the meme. The word was advanced by Richard Dawkins' 1976 work, The Selfish Gene, to describe how cultural information spreads.

So a meme is any sort of cultural item - such as an idea, behavior, image, or video - that spreads rapidly from person to person across the internet, usually through social media platforms. An example of an early meme which is often cited is the ":-)" which many text-based platforms automatically convert to this icon: 🙂. Something called an "emoticon." An icon that conveys an emotion. And they are handy little guys especially for those of us who were raised in the un-evolved environments in which "keyboarding skills" were primarily intended for young women destined to become secretaries. I, a two- sometimes four-fingered typist - use them often myself.

But it is important to remember that emoticons, like many contemporary memes, are a type of communication shorthand. They attempt to "stand for" larger, often more complex communicative messages, structures or systems. I tend to think of them being similar to runes, or cuneiform or hieroglyphics. Writing systems restricted by medium [runes in stone, cuneiform in clay] or specialized skills or social status [hieroglyphics]. But still shorthand.

While watching one of our recent snowfalls I realized that I still remembered all of Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. You know; "Whose woods these are, I think I know . . ." And I wondered how that poem would be constructed with emoticons? I mean think of really old works, Beowulf, The Epic of Gilgamesh? I admit I am intentionally not doing an Internet search for "emoticon poetry." Oh, who am I kidding:

I'm thinking this is supposed to be "Tiger, tiger, burning bright! In the forest of the night." But if I didn't already have some memory of the poem, I doubt I would have been able to translate. My memory is incomplete so the last two "lines" remain a mystery to me.

For me the issue remains that our art seeks to externalize, to reveal the internalized scenes that we contain - we are the oyster, our dreams are the pearls.

Memes and emoticons are the shells.

Michelangelo's Playlist

If the question is "What was on Michelangelo's playlist?" the answer is obvious: nothing. He didn't have a playlist. Or at least not a digital one he could take with him as he clambered up the scaffolds to lie on his back while he painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. For hours everyday. For four years.

Back when I was teaching various creative media courses I would caution my students to avoid comparing their efforts to those of the G.O.A.T.s - contemporary or long past. It could, I opined, stifle their own efforts: "Oh! I could never paint, sing, dance, take photos, make movies, act, etc., . . like whoever!"

I sometimes fail to follow my own advice. I am fascinated by the lives and practices of those Greatest Of All Times. Particularly in the areas in which I dabble or have dabbled - acting, singing, painting, writing, sculpture - artsy stuff. Most of the time I am content to ascribe the vastly elevated nature of their accomplishments to the simple acknowledgment that their abilities far outstripped mine. But there are some things that I simply cannot comprehend. For example, set aside Mike's crazy genius skill level. Forget his youth. How did he lie on his back for countless hours for four years without music!?

Even before personal portable players - remember the Walkman, auto-reverse and mix-tapes? - I have no memory of engaging in any personal creative endeavor without music. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, some of that music was "self-produced." Humming or "whisper-singing" under my breath. But four years for the Sistine Chapel, more than that for The Last Judgment? Whew.

For me music is an integral part of the enjoyment I derive from my art. An alternate title for this post was "I Saw A Shadow Touch A Shadow's Hand." That's a line from the 1964 song Bleeker Street, by Simon and Garfunkel. For me the idea was - is - that when music combines with other art forms - drawing and painting for me these days - the activity becomes transcendent. Takes me to other places and other times, where I walk among shadows that no longer surround me, but obtain an almost tangible nature - hands I can almost touch.

It is an experience over which I have some varying degree of control. Pat Boone [No relation to Daniel for those of you for whom Pat is a historical figure.] had a 1959 hit song titled Twixt 12 and 20 [that he later turned into a book with the same title - no marketing newbie he] that asserts that those "years to remember" are exceptionally formative, and, I would go on to assert, fill that musical part of our brain with links to shadows that we carry around for the rest of our lives. And, I would further venture, there is really nothing entirely unique about that decade. Rather, it seems that all the various stages of our lives come with a soundtrack. All include songs we remember, and the shadows that live therein.

And it is that enduring link between our lives and our music that gives us some control over the shadows that inhabit our artistic-musical synthesis. I choose the soundtrack that I draw to, and hence the shadows I invite to join me. Pick a decade, or a world, grade school, high school, college, first love, favorite place, favorite person, whatever you like, and craft a unique playlist for that place, person or time. All today's digital music worlds - Pandora, Spotify, whatever, let you do this.

Then fire it up, turn up the volume, open the door and let the shadows in. Watch "a shadow touch a shadow's hand."

Which is why I am completely dumbfounded by the idea that Michelangelo had no playlist. Nor did Vermeer, or Titian, or Lebrun. Did they paint without music? Inconceivable! Perhaps it was all internal music?

That's a lot of humming.

Old Hickory

[With apologies to President Andrew Jackson.]

Wall posts get their beginnings from a variety of places; things I see, things I am reading, media intrusions. But strangest of all are posts whose origin is a mystery to me. They just seem to spring up out of some restless fold in the gray matter. Maybe a random crossing of neurons that sparks. I dunno. Anyhow this post began that way; a simile that was suddenly just there in my brain: "It's like trying to carve hickory with a butter knife."

"Of course it is," I thought. "Now what 'it" am I thinking about?"

So I decided to sort of parse the simile. See if the individual pieces might point me to what the mystery neurons were thinking about.

OK. Hickory. "Carving hickory." Don't think I have ever carved hickory, or any kind of wood for that matter. Sculpting is a close as I have ever come to carving, and that was coaxing shapes out of clay. Some use of tools, but gentle shaping as opposed to carving. So consider just "hickory" by itself, no carving. A little more play here. Back when I lived in Albuquerque, we had a wood burning stove, and I occasionally had to split some wood to make kindling. I remembered that hickory was particularly problematic. Very hard, twisty.  My faith in memory has decreased so I researched "characteristics of hickory wood."

Bingo!

Hickory workability: Difficult to machine due to its hardness, often dulling tools and causing tear-out.

So "hickory" would be a lousy choice for carving. Hence, perhaps something difficult, resistant to whatever shape you had in mind.

No research was necessary to determine that a butter knife would be a bad choice of tools to carve any wood, let alone hickory.  So what were my crossed neurons trying to tell me?  The "it" in question had to be something "hard - hickory" to "achieve - carve" with an inefficient tool "butter knife." Think, think, think.

OK, I thought, what tool do I regularly contact that seems to be unsuited to the task at hand? Oh, I thought. The internet. Let me explain. As any of you who read the Wall have undoubtedly discerned my mantra: Foster Harmony, Enable Beauty, Distill Complexity, Oppose Harm, does echo back across the centuries to my father's Mennonite roots and the family's more recent association with the AFSC - American Friends Service Committee - the Quakers.  A gentle, pacifistic heritage. 

Somehow the Internet knows that about me and I get 40 or 50 texts or emails a day from political candidates, environmental organizations, and opportunities to adopt children or foster puppies, asking me to contribute to their causes lest the world as we know it vanish in a puff of autocratic demagoguery. I have very occasionally responded - which undoubtedly increases the digital solicitations.

And yet the next morning brings more news of riots in Iran, continued war in the Ukraine, lethal ICE invasions in democratic cities here at home, "Donroe doctrine" claims to acquire any number of countries or resource caches, and continuing contentious clashes in Gaza. So I'm thinking my brain is telling me that my avalanche of humanely inclined digital solicitations is the butter knife and the hickory is the seemingly increasing autocratic intrusions here at home and around the world.

So, I ask myself, why does the butter knife seem so impotent against the hickory? I think to a significant degree the problem is that the butter knife doesn't understand the hickory. The butter knife frames its arguments in compassionate reason and logic, backed with science-based knowledge. The flaw here is a failure to realize that the hickory is knowledge-phobic.

Autocrats, in The White House, in Iran, in Russia, in Myanmar, in Sudan, wherever, are opposed to any research that uncovers new knowledge in any form. And to whatever extent possible the autocrat creates barriers to the exploration of new knowledge. They fear the uncertainty that new knowledge brings. Instead they mandate policy and actions based on "Private Knowledge" - i.e. "that which they chose to believe is true." 

So here at home wide-ranging policies touching areas from childhood vaccinations, to vaccinations in general, to "bad people weaponizing their cars," to "blue cities" being confronted with federal militant forces, to certain terms being banned in academic research, get implemented. Abroad policies evolve with Iranians being asked to endure a fragmenting economy, to Palestinians being removed from their former lands, to Ukrainians being asked to cede portions of the homeland to Russia, to Venezuelans being told the US now "runs their country",  and on and on. All these stem from an autocratic figure declaring that some version of "their truth" legitimizes their actions. 

Ah, ha! So my brain seems to be telling me that "it" is the attempts to open these autocratic minds to new knowledge that is "like trying to carve hickory with a butter knife." Hmm. Now having tracked my spontaneous simile to its potential insight, what is the answer?

Initially, I don't really have much insight into carving international stands of hickory. They are beyond my ken. Here at home, the digital butter knife may actually be the best option.  Trump can continue to wield an autocracy as long as he is in office and the Congress seems impotent, or at least unwilling to reign in his excesses. So putting opposition candidates in positions of power to curb the autocracy and re-empower democracy is the still preferred framework we put in place some 250 years ago. Although I do take just a smidgen of heart on the recent Congressional action pushing back on Trump's move against the fed. Maybe they will actually find their backbones.

And, come to think of it, that same butter knife driven process might well address some of the international excesses of autocracy. If, by voting out the "Donroe doctrine" advocates, the US may re-establish itself as a global moral compass and not an autocratic international police force, and hence the would-be dictators and autocrats around the world might find themselves in a far lonelier position.

At least I think that is what my brain was trying to tell me.

 

It Only Works When It Wants To

It has always been one of the most difficult of challenges for parents, grandparents, step- or biological. For any caregiver, really, who takes on the mind-bending, heart-twisting, daunting task of easing children into the future: "Sharing some truths, some beliefs, they can lean on as they move through life."

As I begin to wander through my 78th year on this big blue marble - surrounded by the lunacy, greed, arrogance, and naked aggression that still seems to swirl unabated - I continue to cling to my personal mantra: "Foster harmony, Enable beauty, Distill complexity and Oppose harm." And I suppose folks with more than a few decades in the rearview mirror might buy into that worldview. But trot it out for whatever youngsters on the shallow side of thirty are calling themselves these day - maybe "the whatever generation" - and their eyes will roll back under their eyebrows as they respond "whatever. . ." And probably rightfully so, since except for those delightful exceptions, older than their years, my mantra may seem more parental patter without relevance in their everyday life.

So let's go there for a bit - into the lives of the "whatever generation," and increasingly into mine. Into the world of screens, technology and the internet. The world that was my academic speciality for half a century until its nebulous ambiguity helped drive me into the seemingly saner space of retirement and art. But, I suppose, not surprisingly, this new version of my former ivory tower has become infected with those same digital devices that swaddle the "whatever generation." Life "off the grid" is a fiction - even to those seeking a separatist world back in some rural redoubt. They too need space-based technology, if only to keep track of what the world from which they are hiding is up to.

At the moment my advice to the "whatever generation" is to remember that when it comes to the technology on their screens or in their ears, in their pockets, in their cars, on their wrists, and in their glasses only works when it wants to. It isn't that their devices just decide to stop working, it is that the incredibly complex systems of hardware and software aren't always compatible, especially when one underlying system, say Mac, "updates" their operating system without being really really sure that their various partners, say hospitals or air traffic control systems, will be able to adjust to the new operating system.

Those scenarios, along with the nefarious global hacks so popular in techno-thriller videos, are, of course, the extremes. But what about the very real, everyday glitches that make life in the 2020s more complicated instead of easier. [As I type this a little notice has appeared in the upper right corner of my screen telling me that "macOS Sequoia 15.7.3 is available and will be installed later tonight." Doesn't ask. Tells me. And my techie friends tell me I should always update to the latest OS version or bad things may happen! Anyhow, I digress as usual.]

OK, everyday glitches. I'm a Mac guy. Have been since 1990, when I was writing Taming the Wild Tube: A Family's Guide to Television and Video, in Wordstar, [You may need to slip into the WayBack machine for that one. 1979 - 1992.] and Mac came out with a better word processor. And the university finally allowed computers other than UNIX boxes onto the university system. Anyhow, my everyday glitches are usually the result of one Apple product talking to another, or not. I have four. 2 Powerbook laptops, an iPad and an iPhone - one up and running, a new 17 in a box waiting the attention of our Mac midwife.

Most irritating for me is what some system update or another has done with positioning various apps on the iPad screen. It seems to take some sort of perverse pleasure in sticking various apps off to the side of the screen, so you know they are there, but you cannot get to them. Then, occasionally, they let you grab a corner and pull them to the center of the screen - but not full screen. Sort of a 3/4 bubble, which sometimes you can grab a corner of and make full screen. Of course, other times, and with other apps the device works just as it did in the "olden days."

Second is "Car Play" when the phone talks to the GPS screen in the car and also plays music. Most of the time. Except when it choses not to, and then you have to go through 5 steps to "reconnect" the phone to Car Play. Which is a minor thing, except when you are driving. You know you should either continue to your destination - say the grocery store - without music, or pull over and reconnect to Car Play, but you are tempted to wing it while driving - endangering yourself and others. Still, it does charge the phone.

I could go on, but why bother. You all have your own list of irritating glitches, or suggestions as to how I can correct mine - "You just put two fingers on the upper left-hand corner of the screen and then double click while reciting "Mary Had a Little Lamb . . . " But that is not the point. The point is to tell the "whatever generation" that technology is transitory. The newest and greatest will be "same-old, same-old" tomorrow. And it may not work the way you are used to. It may not work at all. So what?

I'm thinking there must be camps that teach kids how to acquire "old skills." Things like writing a letter on paper, putting it in to an envelop, writing an address and a return address. Putting on a stamp. Putting it in a mailbox. Or like reading a paper map, using it to drive to the next town, or the movie theater, or to the grandparents house. Or using and balancing a paper checkbook. Listening to music on a record player - vinyl is coming back! Using their phone to make a voice call. Talk to a friend. More difficult, but perhaps possible at their school or a local art center - learn how to shoot, develop and print pictures from film.

I know it sounds kind of silly. And for the foreseeable future it seems that technology will continue to meet many of these needs, hopefully with increasing reliability. But there are some truths, some experiences I think are worth passing along. I find myself going back to the third part of my mantra - Distill complexity. There is, I believe, value in getting back to basics. I remember changing the oil in my car. Filling notebook after notebook with these ramblings that now live on various digital devices that may soon become obsolete. Lying on my dorm room floor, my head between the two speakers listening to those two new guys with the weird names; Simon and Garfunkel. Cutting and gluing film for my senior project called Scratches on my Favorite Phonograph Records. Sculpting with my hands covered in streaks of terra cotta or porcelain. Touching real stuff, real people.

No batteries required.

Filling Up Sleepy Hollow

Being a card-carrying member of, if not one of the founders of, Insomniacs United I wanted to share a couple of thoughts with you.

First, one of the best ways to reach the state of sleep is to do an Internet search on "sleep" or "insomnia." Read all the articles. Take copious notes. You will soon lose consciousness.

However, one night while chipping around the edges of that massive compendium I came across an interesting little tidbit. The article - the references for which are long since buried in the twists and turns of my grey matter, apologies to the authors - asserted that "going to sleep" as an intentional act, is a myth. Rather, we "fall asleep" when the brain gets tired of being conscious and "falls asleep." Naturally, I lay awake for an hour or two wondering "to where?" Falling implies that one goes from one place to another. So where and what is this place called "sleep" to which we fall? Hmmmm.

Again, the extant literature provides a tsunami of opinions, most of which address the physical state of the brain at particular points in the "sleep cycle." e.g. This from the Cleveland Sleep Clinic: "Sleeping doesn’t mean your brain is totally inactive. While you’re less aware of the world around you, you still have plenty of detectable brain activity. That brain activity has predictable patterns. Experts organized those patterns into stages. The stages fall broadly into two categories: rapid eye movement (REM) sleep and non-REM (NREM) sleep." 

These kinds of definitions do address whether or not we tend to dream during the various sleep stages. But leave ambiguous the question of the origin of these nocturnal dramas that seem as real as waking life, if not more so.

It is the nebulous nature of conclusions drawn from the disciplines of neurology and psychology that leave me to still assert that dreams arise in part, from that place, or places, to which we fall, when falling asleep. Hence, where is this land of dreams? A few personal suppositions about that place:

Dreamland (DL) is unique to each dreamer. While we may encounter, while dreaming "real life" people and locations that we recognize, they do not overlap with those same locations or relationships in "wide-awake-land" (WAL).  i.e. Dreaming that you reconcile with an old antagonist has no effect of your WAL relationship with that individual. Or falling in love with an unattainable other in DL, sadly leaves that relationship unaffected in WAL.

Strangers are more common in DL than people we know in WAL. This may be unique to my DL, but in my DL, I encounter people I know in WAL very, very rarely.  And then often only after waking do I realize "That was so-and-so!" And often I am not certain . . . "Or maybe so-and-so. . . ."

DL seems to be in higher definition than WAL. Again, this may be unique to my DL. But for me, colors are more intense in DL. Visual elements, people and places, are in sharper focus. This may be personal dreaming compensation for the fact that I have worn corrective lenses of one generation or another for as long as I can remember. Who knows?

But, yes, I realize.  These suppositions still only describe the characteristics of Dreamland. They leave unaddressed the central question of where is DL? Where on the cosmic, existential globe of "me" is the continent of Dreamland? Can I plot a course to it? Can I find my way there? Or is it only a place to which sleep allows me to fall, once I cut the cords that bind me to the shores of "Wide-Awake-Land?" Again some personal suppositions:

Dreamland may lie amidst the "many worlds" proposed by quantum mechanics. Google's AI provides a fairly clean definition: "The 'many worlds notion' suggests that every possible outcome of a quantum measurement is physically realized in a different, non-interacting 'world'. This process is often called branching."

Or, as I think about it - every time we select a significant path in our life, the "paths not taken" in our WAL are actually "taken" in one of quantum mechanics' other "many worlds." An alternate WAL.  Hence some other version of our self moves ahead with that life in that world. And while quantum mechanics goes on to assert that "the mechanism of decoherence explains why we only perceive one outcome. When a quantum system interacts with its environment, its different possibilities become entangled and "separate" into independent branches that can no longer interfere with one another."  Or, more plainly, quantum mechanics tells us that the path we choose for our primary WAL must remain separate from all the other "paths not taken."  Maybe. Maybe not.

It behooves us to remember that the "many worlds" aspect of quantum mechanics is but an enchanting notion within an equally fascinating theory. Like the religious, or philosophical notion of some sort of "life after death" we have no data (despite Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's belief to the contrary) that these many worlds exist in a form we can visit or perceive. So it comes down to belief:

I chose to believe that:

First: These many worlds do actually reside somewhere on an existential plane.

Second: While, as stated in quantum mechanics, these worlds are primarily "separate," leakage between the worlds can occur, and,

Third: It is this leakage that seeps into our awareness, influencing - but not totally dominating - the narratives of our unique Dreamland.

So, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it!

Not Crazy After All These Years

There were two possible titles for this post. The one up there and the other which was exactly the same, except that "Still" would replace "Not." Hence, Still Crazy After All These Years. Choosing "Not" was the result of an experiment that was part of our recent 3 day getaway at The Drake hotel in downtown Chicago. The city is particularly lovely this time of year - lots of holiday lights, a Christmas Market we had explored with my father and daughters many years ago, lovely decorations in the restaurants and hotel lobbies. But my experiment had nothing to do with that.

First we need to explore what it means to be crazy. It can be a tendency to believe you are better than everyone else - narcissism, megalomania. Or that you can make something be true simply by saying it is so - delusional disorder. Forgetting what you just said or where you put something, or a host of other "Damn, what did I . . . ?" issues - dementia. But let's forget politics for the moment - I'm talking real "insanity."

A relatively common definition of insanity - which may or may not have been coined by Einstein; who remembers, right? - is that insanity can be defined as "doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result." I was worried.

You see, whenever we go on a trip - big, little, local, domestic, international, doesn't really matter - I always pack my drawing stuff fully intending to "do some drawing." Alas, I never do, never had done.

When I create some foreign scene like Grand Canal:

Or Gondolas:

While there is drawing there, they were both based on photographs I shot on a trip to Venice. But the actual drawing - marker to paper - wasn't done until I got home.

So as we prepared for a little 3 day R&R sojourn to The Drake hotel downtown, I, once again, packed up my drawing materials planning on "doing a little drawing" on the trip. And, amazingly, did so, producing this image:

Counselor 

Now, this is really just a first step - producing a differing result from a previously repeated but never actualized, set of behaviors. Ta Da! I'm not insane! Well, at least not according to this little experiment.

However some clarification is needed:

First, I call this image The Counselor because it reminds me of a non-gender specific entity from the movie The Planet of the Apes.

Second, I don't like it very much and don't know when, or even if, I will spend time adding color. 

But either way, I achieved a differing result from an oft repeated set of behaviors! The notion of liking the result isn't really there in the definition , so "Hooray! For Sane Me!"

Now if I could only remember to address those pesky memory issues!

Curb Thy Tongue, Knave!

Scholars are still fighting over how many unique words can be attributed to Shakespeare. 1700? 1500? And did he make them up or "merely" popularize them? Hmm.

Think about this. His last solely authored work was The Tempest, written around 1611. That was some 415 years ago, and we are still thinking about his use of words. And they are surely worthy of our reflection. I was in The Tempest, as a college freshman - the equivalent of a chorus member in a Greek tragedy. But I loved the words spoken by Prospero - Jim Donaldson, a senior? But I digress, again. Still, you can see why the words echo over 415 years: Miranda - "Oh, brave new world, that has such creatures in it." Huxley was listening.

And don't forget the sonnets. 116 is perhaps the pinnacle of the form:

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand’ring bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error, and upon me proved,

 I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

Compare that to the lyrics of the current top forty. Really!

But then we must remember that Shakespeare also penned these memorable slurs:

"Thou art like a toad; ugly and venomous.” – As You Like It

“I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed.” – Much Ado About Nothing

Which brings me to the theme of this post: "There is nothing more powerful than a deep and wide-ranging vocabulary. But how you use it determines how honorable a "vocabulist" you may be. [A vocabulist is one who uses their vocabulary to achieve social objectives. ed. - and yeah, I just made that up.🙂 Shakespeare would approve.] However, it is imperative to remember that a well-honed vocabulary is a weapon that can cut quite as easily as it can court.

So what might be the rules of behavior that separate a courtly vocabulist from a cad, a knave if you will? Here are some possibilities:

Moderation. When he was Vice President, Theodore Roosevelt said "Speak softly, but carry a big stick." The courtly vocabulist manages the two simultaneously realizing that his/her big stick is their vocabulary, so s/he quietly utilizes their vocabulary to gently, perhaps softly, but firmly, articulate the preferred path to their social objective.

Do no harm. This physician's canon fits a touch awkwardly into the world of the courtly vocabulist. The idea is to obtain a social goal, so the vocabulist is tasked with subverting those concepts that stand in opposition to that goal. In this context the courtly vocabulist confronts the opposing concepts, not the individuals who espouse those alternative. Folks who study this stuff call personal attacks ad hominem attacks, rants that attack their opponent rather than the issue. "He's a bad man!" "They are garbage!" The courtly vocabulist fights fair, avoiding ad hominem attacks. This is a difficult balancing act, and one currently absent in American, and sadly global, political discourse.

The courtly vocabulist realizes the fact that much of contemporary interaction occurs onscreen. That is fine with me. I once played the Clarence Darrow character in the play Inherit the Wind [a fictionalized version of the 1925 Scopes monkey trial regarding the teaching Darwin and evolution in school. Darwin lost - denying any teaching about gender differences. Oops! That's today. Digression again.] The Scopes decision prohibited the teaching of evolution. Anyhow, with a script I was OK with face-to-face debating. It is that way with any scripted drama. "Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue." - Hamlet. The outcome is predetermined. But these days I prefer the online interactions. They can be more thoughtful and actually more refined. No, seriously they can be. Except, it seems, if you have your own online streaming platform. However, the online environment asks the courtly vocabulist to accept additional guidelines:

First, revise and edit, then revise and edit again. First drafts are rarely the best articulation of one's position or a refutation of another's perspective. 

Second. resist the "Oh, yeah? How about this!? Take that - Send!" inclination. This obviously goes hand-in-hand with the first guideline.  Ideally, the courtly vocabulist waits at least 24 hours between the "final draft" and hitting "send."

Both those guidelines should remind us that the Internet is forever. The "delete" key functions only if the message has not yet been sent. There is no "taking it back." on the Internet. You can say you are sorry, that you misspoke, even that you were wrong; but that for which you are apologizing is still out there in cyberspace subject to forwarding, reposting, reformatting, "deep faking," whatever. So read your final draft as if you were the recipient of the post, not its author. Then wait 24 hours. OK, now send.

These guidelines have evolved, sadly, from mistakes I have made. I like to write, and when I find myself in disagreement with a position, policy, person or politician I often find myself going with the cataclysmic compositional flow, forgetting Sonnet 116, getting presidential and straying into the "Thou art like a toad" waters.

Sigh. I know better.