what I did on my Vacation.

What I did on my vacation.

.I got back from my trip from Gatlinburg, where I had been learning metalworking for a weekl about 9 p.m. on Saturday after being on the road since 9 a.m. Long day, but a strange one. I went up into the Smokies early, hoping to pick up Blue Ridge Pkwy. for a limited scenic drive. The mountains on the south side were completely enveloped in fog and it was getting worse the farther I went, so sightseeing seemed out of the question. I turned around and went back, eventually picking up I- 40 which would lead eventually into I-75 no. I decided to wait until I got to the border between Tenn. & Ky. before having lunch, and stopped at a Wendy’s in Jellico.

Back on the road (being happily entertained by David Sedaris cds) I was north of Berea when I decided to gas up. Pulled into one of those mega-stations where access is endangered by trucks bigger than most houses I’ve lived in. And discovered I didn’t have my purse. In a flash of concise memory, I envisioned my purse sitting on the floor near my chair at the window in Wendy's, and knew with certainty, that I had not picked it up. The exit I had taken offered a Wendy’s, so I went there, asked for the manager and requested that he call the Jellico Wendy’s and see if it had been turned in. It had, however, there was a little problem of gas to get there. The manager wanted me to take $20. he offered out of sheer kindness, but I thought I could make it on the 3/8 tank I had left. I couldn’t. It hit empty at Corbin.

I pulled off and found a quiet place where I could search pockets, cracks in the upholstery, grungy unreachable floor moldings, little crevices with no possible use, in my car hoping to dig up enough to take me the 29 mi. needed to reach my purse. The take came to .51 and a gallon of gas was $2.66. So I pulled into the Love’s station, went inside, along with about 50 teenagers who just disembarked from a bus, explained my situation to the cashier, who got the manager, who gave me a gallon of gas. The little cashier, sporting immense braces, and very shy, had scrounged up a pile of change in the meantime and pushed that toward me. Such kindness. I could not believe. I pulled up to a pump, put in my gallon and actually made it Jellico where they had my purse.

It was really an incredible day. I have a tendency to cynicism. I think it’s a result of having been kicked as many times as I have. But this was such a positive experience, almost a religious experience, finding good people who helped me, a total stranger. I made it a point to remember the exit where I got the gallon of gas and returned the money on my way back. I plan to write letters to both companies commending the kind of people they employ. For a little while, my faith is restored.

And I did send those letters

There are a few obvious elements of Chinese art that intrigue me. (1) the level of art produced given its antiquity, and (2) why it was created. The simplest reason for any Chinese art was to glorify the emperor, considered a deity and therefore, worthy of the best efforts in all arts, just as Western art has been produced for centuries referencing religion.

The quality of the large paintings on silk, some dating back to a millennium B.C. is amazing. And the continuity of the imagery, closely following "party lines" through the successive dynasties tells much about reverence for tradition.

As noted in the didactics accompanying the show, the Chinese did not view mankind as the greatest life form on earth, but simply one of many animals. The imagined qualities of animals and birds were imbued with human the attributes such as courage, grace, justice, knowledge, etc. , which the sitting emperor must be said to have.

Yep! I carefully considered each of these pieces, loving every educational minute. Then I even took time in the Reading Room at the end of the exhibit to do a little independent exploration .

It was not all awe. Check out the Chinese version of bears.

513-755-2294


Wesley Bates Woodengraving Workshop

Dates: Nov. 6, 7 & 8th, 2009

Location: Art Academy of Cincinnati At 12th & Jackson in Over the Rhine Downtown Cincinnati

Time: 9:30 AM - 4:00 PM Nov 6 & 7th 10:30 - 3:00 on Nov 8th.

Fee is $135.00 Please bring fee in check or cash form to workshop. Thanks

Fee includes a practice block and a final print block. All paper for suites of prints will be included in fee. Tools will be provided free. They will also be available for purchase, as well as additional blocks. Complete sets of prints from the workshop members will be provided to all participants. If you have a favorite paper, bring it along.

The Sarasota Kiss

On the big bend that Tamiami Trail takes to circle the Sarasota Bay stands a Kiss. It's two stories high and historically correct depicting a sailor kissing a white uniformed nurse. Perhaps you remember it from the end of WWII as probably the most recognizable photo from that joyous time. The statue of styrofoam stands with only the waterfront and an endless mile of boats, their masts forming a scraggly fence along the docks, as a somehow apt background. The sparseness of intrusive buildings on that site, and the incongruity of it's size truly stops traffic. People often park their cars quickly to have their pictures taken with the plastic couple. But there is a fly in the seaside.

Residents of this beautiful and dignified city aren't taking to incongruity as well as the town visitors. There seems to be quite a bit of resentment in spite of its famous creator, J. Seward Johnson, possibly simply because it's not exactly what the average retired boomer expects to see labeled sculpture. After all, there is the elegant courtyard sprinkled with traditional statuary at the Ringling Museum, a suitable model for what sculpture should be and Mr. Johnson has obviously not chosen to follow this artistic ideal.

Letters to the editor have poured in to the newspaper, luncheons have served as discussion boards, and suddenly art critics are sprouting in every condo on the trail. Opinions, though, are beginning to shift in the wind as more of the contemporary sculpture arrives around town as part of the city-wide display currently taking place. The critics are now faced with art which must be explained to be appreciated, if even then. The letters are pouring in echoing even stronger confusion in the face of the truly twisted images that make the Kiss seem innocuous in comparison.

Witnessing this mental chaos via news media while I visited the area was interesting. This seems to be the pattern of public opinion followed throughout history. Robert Crumm's cartoons have become art not long after parents were horrified by them. The Impressionists were shunned as art pariahs when the movement began and now it's hard to find a more popular style of painting. Still life paintings were considered the bottom rung on the subject matter ladder, but they lend themselves well to traditional living. This, however, was the first time I ever saw such a rapid turn-around from the ever fickle public. Even more amazing was the knowledgeable art terms from both the pros and cons. They may have been stodgy, but their reasoning was well expressed.

I plan to follow the story through to its eventual end via the Sarasota Herald. I believe that as it disappears from public notice, the Kiss will become a beloved part of the Sarasota cultural scene and widely missed if or when it is removed.

http://attractions.uptake.com/blog/valentines-day-kiss-sarasota-florida-2420.html

a luncheon date

His wife had died, but, then,
she had died long ago for him,
a man with many opportunities
few of them ignored. Playing sorrow,
his ears still ringing with her eulogy,
he purred an invitation for lunch to me.
Seduction his avocation,
easily recognized in his voice,
slithering into my ear with audible pleas.
Well, why not? Let's hear his spiel.
Luncheon dates were few and far between.
And free food is good.
"I'm rich," he said, smiling his implant smile.
So many people are, tell me, what else are you?
"I own a home here, another there."
Sounds like a lot of upkeep to me.
"Let me show you my country club condo."
No thanks, I've seen it before.
"Give me your phone number."
It's in the book.

Yet,
he brought me a rose, perfect and pure.
I carried it in the cafe, and into the car, and at home
it curled, cool and fresh on my kitchen table.
I even photographed it in the buttery summer light
knowing it was my last rose.

venice biennale 07

I am always disappointed in the Biennale, and this year is no different. Looking for art beyond: big, noisy, kinetic, indescipherable, sad, aggressive, and depressing, is becoming more difficult with every passing day. Art in America is no different. The articles I wade through, slogging away in search of communication, concern "old" artists who are alway buried in psycho-babble, but at least I know that art still exists somewhere on this universe.

The New York Times is becoming my favorite method of keeping in touch with world art. They have several multimedia sites featuring the Biennale, including a Michael Kimmelman video report. Even Michael, whose reporting I find perhaps the most easily digested on line, had a hard time convincing me that actually attending the event would be rewarding. At best, it may serve to satisfy curiosity.

Since I live in the "belly of American closed minds", Cincinnati, Ohio, where Art Coverage is a dirty word, it takes a little doing to find actualy information on the state of the profession. When artists meet, this dearth of info is a predictable and frequent topic of discussion. The first question is always, "Why?" Why is this large and fairly sophisticated city so determined to completely ignore one of it's finest assets. After all, the prestigious Art Academy of Cincinnati is here, as is DAAP in the University of Cincinnati, and some extraordinary imported shows of acknowledged leaders in contemporary art which are generally ignored by publicity. If no one knows they're there, no one attends and becomes better educated.

It's a sad thing to read of fantastic exhibits hitting the road, and completely bypassing this area. The excuse is nearly always dat ole debbil money. And why does the community seem not to support art? Could it be because they simply don't know it's out there?

16 x

Sometimes paintings just happen. While cutting up a canvas I loathed (1), this piece caught my eye. So I pulled it out of the scraps, dusted it off and framed it. There is a gallery currently handling my work which is way below my standards. Before I pull out completely, and I assuredly will be, I would like to hang this. Alone on a wall. Just because it has a quiet pizzazz.