It was a small erector set...mom frequently found secondhand toys for us to play with...but it captured my imagination enough to spend hours creating things. Like most things I had, I can't remember now what happened to it. Now, I'm at the other end of life and learned that men my age need that toy again.
Ain't this place strange and wonderful and confusing and scary? Seems like every day it's more and more. It started for me when I was a boy...and the sky was full of stars and clouds and the moon. Why are they there? Why am I? Many questions and lots of clouds. And then the TV said the President was killed. And my dad beat hell out of mom. And, and, and.... Never stops...every day it's more.
Now I'm 65 and wonder how that is? I'm happy I'm not dead...I think. And don't have answers to the questions that boy asked. There are no answers. Just questions scudding across the blue sky on a fine day to breathe. And some damn fine people to share the air with. And awful people. A lot of awful people.
I am gonna watch those clouds make it to the other side of the sky and those stars fill it up...and share my air.
It seems that almost every day we hear about a death row calamity. More states than I ever remember are trying and failing in their attempt to kill their murderers with a strange brew of expensive chemicals. Apparently the companies that previously sold the killing drugs have gotten out of that business (morality in business?) and left states in a lurch and seemingly unable to put together the right brew. Okay, we hear the methods used to kill criminals have changed over time because they were considered cruel and unusual. Why can't we get creative and also save some of our dwindling and nonexistent public funds? I assume there are - or there should be - stockpiles of heroin in evidence lockers all over the country. And there must be physicians that could tell the states' executioners exactly how much to use to guarantee success. Is there anyone out there that would consider this cruel and unusual? Unless they're against the death penalty (like I am) no matter what? I know...I'm asking the government to succeed with their first attempt at something...silly me.
The vast majority of our citizens are never concerned with the men and women in our military, the daily heroes who risk everything in their desire to improve their own lives and act as the outward face of this country's ideals. Sure, that "face" sometimes reveals the scars and sores of the reality. No one, though, can disagree that these active and veteran service members deserve the respect and honest treatment they were promised. Well, if the news from the Phoenix Veterans Affairs Health Care system is accurate, our heroes are being killed with respect. The link below is CNN's Anderson Cooper's report. "Shame" is not a strong enough word and any punishment will probably be viewed as a hand slap. All those found responsible should lose their careers. Let's hope this Phoenix also rises. Link to CNN's report:
Van Gogh painted his iconic The Starry Night
in 1889, while in an asylum in Saint-Rémy. "One of the most beautiful
things by the painters of this century," he had written to Theo in April
1885, "has been the painting of Darkness that is still COLOR."
(The Museum of Modern Art, New York. Acquired through the Lillie P. Bliss Bequest / Photo John Wronn)
Van Gogh's Night Visions
For Vincent Van Gogh, fantasy and
reality merged after dark in some of his most enduring paintings, as a
new exhibition reminds us
With his bright sunflowers, searing wheat fields and blazing
yellow skies, Vincent van Gogh was fanatic about light. "Oh! that
beautiful midsummer sun here," he wrote to the painter Émile Bernard in
1888 from the south of France. "It beats down on one's head, and I
haven't the slightest doubt that it makes one crazy. But as I was so to
begin with, I only enjoy it."
Van Gogh was also enthralled with night, as he wrote to his
brother Theo that same year: "It often seems to me that the night is
much more alive and richly colored than the day....The problem of
painting night scenes and effects on the spot and actually by night
interests me enormously."
What van Gogh fixed on, by daylight or at night, gave the world many of its most treasured paintings. His 1888 Sunflowers, says critic Robert Hughes, "remains much the most popular still life in the history of art, the botanical answer to the Mona Lisa." And van Gogh's visionary landscape The Starry Night,
done the next year, has long ranked as the most popular painting at New
York City's Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). This inspired the museum, in
collaboration with Amsterdam's Van Gogh Museum, to mount the exhibition
"Van Gogh and the Colors of the Night" (through January 5, 2009). It
will then travel to the Van Gogh Museum (February 13-June 7, 2009).
"The van Gogh we usually think of, that painter of the most
audacious, crazy, passionate, frenzied, unleashed bursts of brushwork,
may be more evident in his daylight paintings," says MoMA's curator for
the show, Joachim Pissarro, great-grandson of the French Impressionist
Camille Pissarro. "But in paintings such as the Arles café at night, his
touch is more restrained and you really see his intelligence at work.
Despite all the mental anguish and depression he experienced, van Gogh
never ceased to enjoy an astonishingly clear self-awareness and
consciousness of what he was doing."
In an essay for the exhibition catalog, Pissarro tries to clear
up some popular mythology: "Contrary to an enduring misconception of van
Gogh as a rough and ready chromomaniac driven by his instincts to
render what he saw almost as quickly as he saw it, the artist's twilight
and night scenes are actually elaborate constructions that also call on
his vast literary knowledge." Van Gogh himself hinted at this in a
letter to his sister Wil, written in 1888 as he was painting his first
starry night canvas. He was inspired, he said, by imagery in the poems
by Walt Whitman he was reading: "He sees...under the great starlit vault
of heaven a something which after all one can only call God—and
eternity in its place above the world."
It seems that van Gogh never dreamed his paintings would become
such fixed stars in the art firmament. In 1890, less than two months
before he ended his life with a pistol shot, he wrote to a Paris
newspaper critic who had praised his work, "It is absolutely certain
that I shall never do important things." He was then 37 years old, had
been painting for less than ten years and had sold next to nothing. In
his last letter to Theo, found on the artist at his death, he had
written: "Well, my own work, I am risking my life for it, and my reason
has half foundered because of it."
Like his paintings, van Gogh's biography has gone into legend. He
was born in 1853 in the Netherlands; his father was a minister, his
uncles, successful art dealers. He was dismissed while working as a
missionary in southwest Belgium for being too zealous and failed as an
art salesman by being too honest. When he took up drawing and painting,
his originality offended his teachers. One student later described the
scene at the Antwerp Academy where van Gogh enrolled: "On that day the
pupils had to paint two wrestlers, who were posed on the platform,
stripped to the waist. Van Gogh started painting feverishly, furiously,
with a rapidity that stupefied his fellow students. He laid on his paint
so thickly that his colors literally dripped from his canvas on to the
floor." He was promptly kicked out of the class.
But alone in a studio or in the fields, van Gogh's discipline was
as firm as his genius was unruly, and he taught himself all the
elements of classical technique with painstaking thoroughness. He
copied and recopied lessons from a standard academic treatise on drawing
until he could draw like the old masters, before letting his own vision
loose in paint. Although he knew he needed the utmost technical skill,
he confessed to an artist friend that he aimed to paint with such
"expressive force" that people would say, "I have no technique."
By the early 1880s, Theo, who was four years younger than
Vincent, was finding success as a Paris art dealer and had begun
supporting his brother with a monthly stipend. Vincent sent Theo his
astonishing canvases, but Theo couldn't sell them. In the spring of 1889
after receiving a shipment of paintings that included the now-famous Sunflowers,
the younger brother tried to reassure the elder: "When we see that the
Pissarros, the Gauguins, the Renoirs, the Guillaumins do not sell, one
ought to be almost glad of not having the public's favor, seeing that
those who have it now will not have it forever, and it is quite
possible that times will change very shortly." But time was running out.
Growing up in the Brabant, the southern region of the
Netherlands, Vincent had absorbed the dark palette of great Dutch
painters such as Frans Hals and Rembrandt. As an art student in Antwerp,
he had the opportunity to visit museums, see the work of his
contemporaries and frequent cafés and performances. In March 1886, he
went to join Theo in Paris. There, having encountered young painters
like Toulouse-Lautrec, Gauguin and Signac, as well as older artists such
as Pissarro, Degas and Monet, he adopted the brighter colors of modern
art. But with his move to Arles, in the south of France, in February
1888, the expressive force he'd been searching for at last erupted.
Alone in the sun-drenched fields and gaslit night cafés of Arles, he
found his own palette of bright yellows and somber blues, gay geranium
oranges and soft lilacs. His skies became yellow, pink and green, with
violet stripes. He painted feverishly, "quick as lightning," he boasted.
And then, just as he achieved a new mastery over brush and pigment, he
lost control of his life. In a fit of hallucinations and anguish in
December 1888, he severed part of his ear and delivered it to a
prostitute at a local brothel.
Gauguin, who had come to Arles to paint with him, fled to Paris,
and van Gogh, after his neighbors petitioned the police, was locked up
in a hospital. From then on, the fits recurred unpredictably, and he
spent most of the last two years of his life in asylums, first in Arles
and then in Saint-Rémy, painting what he could see through the bars of
his window or from the surrounding gardens and fields. "Life passes like
this," he wrote to Theo from Saint-Rémy in September 1889, "time does
not return, but I am dead set on my work, for just this very reason,
that I know the opportunities of working do not return. Especially in my
case, in which a more violent attack may forever destroy my power to
paint."
When the attacks seemed to subside in May 1890, van Gogh left
Saint-Rémy for Auvers-sur-Oise, a small village near Paris where Dr.
Paul Gachet, a local physician and friend to many painters, agreed to
care for him. But van Gogh's paintings proved more successful than the
doctor's treatments. Among the artist's last efforts was the tumultuous Wheatfield with Crows,
in which dark and light, near and far, joy and anguish, all seem bound
together in a frenzy of paint that can only be called apocalyptic. Van
Gogh shot himself soon after painting it and died two days later. He was
buried in a graveyard next to the field.
Theo had been at Vincent's side as the artist died and, according
to Bernard, left the graveyard at Auvers "broken by grief." He never
recovered. He barely had time to present a show of Vincent's paintings
in his Paris apartment. Six months later he, too, died—out of his mind
and incoherent in a clinic in Holland, where he had been taken by his
wife because of his increasingly violent outbursts. (One theory holds
that both Theo and Vincent, and probably their sister Wil, all suffered
from an inherited metabolic disorder that caused their similar physical
and mental symptoms.) He now lies buried next to his brother in Auvers.
Against the backdrop of this poignant biography, the new
exhibition of van Gogh's night pictures at MoMA takes on added
significance. For it was to the night sky, and to the stars, that van
Gogh often looked for solace. The problems of painting night scenes on
the spot held more than a technical interest and challenge for him. When
he looked at the night sky, he wrote to Theo in August 1888, he saw
"the mysterious brightness of a pale star in the infinite." When you are
well, he went on, "you must be able to live on a piece of bread while
you are working all day, and have enough strength to smoke and drink
your glass in the evening....And all the same to feel the stars and the
infinite high and clear above you. Then life is almost enchanted after
all."
Van Gogh saw the night as a period of reflection and meditation
after a day of activity, says MoMA curatorial assistant Jennifer Field,
one of the organizers of the exhibition. "It was also this kind of
metaphor for the cycle of life. And he linked this with the changing of
the seasons."
In Arles, in 1888 and 1889, van Gogh's paintings took on a
mystical, dreamlike quality. Straight lines became wavy, colors
intensified, thick paint became thicker, sometimes squeezed straight
onto the canvas from the tube. Some of these changes were later taken as
a sign of his madness, and even van Gogh feared that "some of my
pictures certainly show traces of having been painted by a sick man."
But there was premeditation and technique behind these distortions, as
he tried to put a sense of life's mysteries into paint. In a letter to
Wil, he explained that "the bizarre lines, purposely selected and
multiplied, meandering all through the picture, may fail to give the
garden a vulgar resemblance, but may present it to our minds as seen in a
dream, depicting its character, and at the same time stranger than it
is in reality."
The artist's focus on the relationship between dreams and
reality—and life and death—had a profound meaning for him, as he had
confided to Theo in a letter a year before his first crisis in Arles.
"Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over
the black dots representing towns and villages on a map. Why, I ask
myself, shouldn't the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the
black dots on the map of France? Just as we take the train to get to
Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star."
His interest in mixing dreams and reality, observation and
imagination, is particularly evident in the night paintings he made in
Arles and Saint-Rémy in 1889 and 1890, in which he not only conquered
the difficulties of using color to depict darkness but also went a long
way toward capturing the spiritual and symbolic meanings that he saw in
the night.
"He lived at night," says Pissarro. "He didn't sleep until three
or four in the morning. He wrote, read, drank, went to see friends,
spent entire nights in cafés ...or meditated over the very rich
associations that he saw in the night. It was during the night hours
that his experiments with imagination and memory went the farthest."
Van Gogh told Theo that in depicting the interior of a night
café, where he had slept among the night prowlers of Arles, "I have
tried to express the terrible passions of humanity by means of red and
green." He stayed up three consecutive nights to paint the "rotten
joint," he said. "Everywhere there is a clash and contrast of the most
disparate reds and greens in the figures of little sleeping hooligans,
in the empty, dreary room...the blood-red and the yellow-green of the
billiard table."
Van Gogh considered it one of the ugliest paintings he'd made,
but also one of the most "real." His first painting of the starry sky,
The Starry Night over the Rhône (1888), was another exercise in
contrasting complementary colors (pairs chosen to heighten each other's
impact). This time, the effect of the painting, with its greenish blue
sky, violet-hued town and yellow gaslight, was more romantic. He wrote
Wil that he had painted it "at night under a gas jet."
Van Gogh considered his now-iconic The Starry Night,
which he painted from his barred window at Saint-Rémy, a failed attempt
at abstraction. Before leaving Saint-Rémy, he wrote to Émile Bernard: "I
have been slaving away on nature the whole year, hardly thinking of
impressionism or of this, that and the other. And yet, once again I let
myself go reaching for stars that are too big—a new failure—and I have
had enough of it."
Theo liked the painting but was worried. He wrote Vincent that
"the expression of your thoughts on nature and living creatures shows
how strongly you are attached to them. But how your brain must have
labored, and how you have risked everything...." Vincent didn't live to
know that in his reaching for the stars, he had created a masterpiece.
New Mexico-based painter and printmaker Paul Trachtman wrote about new figurative painters in the October 2007 issue.
I can not remember another "cool" Pope. I was raised Catholic because dad was Catholic. Mom was a good Protestant woman and took the promise to raise us in the Church to heart. We paid attention to news stories mentioning Popes and the nuns explained who they were and any news from the Vatican in class. I can not remember another "cool" Pope. Of course, as a child of the 60's and not averse to experimentation in altered states, I determined I should be a Buddhist, but first, I became an "Ex-Catholic." Anyone willing to listen could hear rants such as when they declared it was no longer a mortal sin to eat meat on Friday, I angrily called for them to extend forgiveness to all those already sent to hell for eating meat on Friday, of whom they never spoke. But I can not remember another "cool" Pope. So, lately I'm feeling a little more love for the Church...I've gone from an "Ex-Catholic" to a lapsed Catholic. No, I won't be at Sunday Mass, and you won't hear about my 10 hour confession to get right with them. But, I'm checking out Francis and liking what I'm seeing. Remember this?: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Ux3-a9RE1Q
One of the late night comics was talking about the Super Bowl and noted that both teams are from the two states that just legalized marijuana. His idea was that Snoop Dogg should be doing the halftime show. Seems to me that Snoop should be doing a Doobie Duet with Willie Nelson. THAT would be a mellow show.
After living with the same being for over 30 years, conversation takes on certain patterns with little surprise and a degree of expectation and comfort. My wife and I were watching Leon Bibb tell us about Cleveland weather as we watched the snow falling outside our living room window. He explained that some airlines were cancelling flights and that, if we were traveling, we "mightawanta" call and check for delays or cancellations. I repeated the word "mightawanta" and, Ronni, my wife, said "It sounds like a small town." It did. Like Mightawanta, New York...just south of Ithaca in Tompkins County. And it had an American Indian feel to it...a place we all mightawanta visit someday. It's on our bucket list.
