Ink, Black, On the River- Last Light

Drawing, on the river.

Way out at the end of a trail I used to walk on, and fish. A bowl and curve in the river, so pretty, so beautiful, that you get your breath taken away in just glancing up. And there's this one shot- one view, where all the curves and lines and shadows come together into this shape that makes sense, seems right,  that suddenly- I have a motif. Though in fact, its the same motif as always.

A river. Shadows. Curves. Lines intersecting, and the boundless convexity of curves that grow- that describe life- and how it bulges out in green and gold curves, always convexity- and somehow, this means something, to me.

My friend and adviser, Kim, with deep insight, remarks that I respond to green, and to these things, for a reason. Actually, I can't right now recall her point- its Jungian. But regardless, I agree. I dial in on this one thing, again and again.

Of the two things I like to paint and draw, rivers, and the female figure, its the river that speaks most. Odd, I know. But the female figure gets so mixed up in other things- and the river- well, it pure sinuous, pure flat, pure shaping its way though a plain, or valley, and taking in both light, and darkness- sometimes a glint, sometimes the blackest black in the whole picture. And if you get it right- the way it appears, in the distance, and swells, in the foreground, and departs- if you get it right, well, that's much. Because there's infinite interest in all aspects- the way the blue sky is deeper, more profound, the way the divits and swells make sense, have logic= but of such fractal complexity and motion- that it is amazing to me, that any pre-photographic painter, could capture this.  So if I do, in muddling, without much training, well, I feel I have like scratched into that thing they sent to Jupiter-something that might survive me.

The world seems crazy with football, and cars, and wars, and dammit, the phone and all it entails-and its this intense swirl of complication, that for God's sake, I hope the smart looking 20 years behind me in this bar understand, and can control- because to me- the Genii is way way out of the bottle, and I, personally, know that I have this very tiny tiny circle that I can barely manage, and though I'd like to help, I only feel pleasure at the edge of a river.  A metaphor, of course, the river. But all non-river places, interest, but mystify, me.

Of course, this week, they begin shooting things at the edge of the river. Pheasant Season. You surprise a bird, it flies up, your shoot it down. Your dog runs out and gets it. Good dog. Reload.

Re-Beginning

A writer writes, a painter paints, etc.  The point is, a painter doesn't write (much?), and visa versa. Unless you're Henry Miller. He gets to.

My love is painting, not writing, it just so happens, I can write. Or, I do write. And so, its a bit of a crime to write about painting when in fact, I am not.

In my studio, an open paint box, ready to go. Metal box- beckoning. A perfect thing- a typewriter of painting- barely 10 paints laid out in cubicles- and brushes, and some solvent- and an old palette. Ready to go. Go. Paint.

Yet days go by- and I walk by it- and then a week, then a month. Now, a few years. Of course, there's dust.

Side story: I have a stack of guitars. Cheap old Stellas, Harmonys, etc. But they sit in cases. And the law- my law- of guitars is that if they are to be played, they can't be in a case. Just that single step- open the case-and options flow. Ideas. Most of all: feelings. Which we don't lack, but are confused about. Opening a case allows the whole mechanism- playing a guitar, painting, the whole flow of it- to be an open gate- a hinged door, the secret garden we walk into, alone, and then we get to experience something far beyond our simple selves..  A case: Never opened- is a wilting flower.

Pretty basic, but as I have both guitar cases, and paint boxes- maybe I know this better than you.

What I lack- when I think of it- and its like the whole damn thing- is a motif. MoTEEF. Not motive- that's a murder thing. Motif. Its a Cezanne thing (the WORST PAINTER EVER whom I love).

My friend, Kim, who is using my work, as dim and hapless as it is, in her own work-suggest to me, in an email, that my Motif, or one of them, is Green. And a river. Something else- I can't recall,

What she says true ( if I could recall it all?)- its what seems to work for me, but I can't see why- I grew up NEAR, not on, a lake. In dark woods. Why a river? Green?

So on my to do list- I write "find Motif". Like its a code word. Actually, find a new one. Something that sings to me- something that is above, beyond, something to hang a hat on, something timeless? Is there such a thing? Something that means something.

Right now the best I can think of is this swirl of a road, below this wooded hill, and nothing much going on, but this untouched valley, and beyond, blue mountains. There's tall grass, and Cottonwoods with long shadows, and fields that go on and on- and the heat of summer-now Fall- bearing down.

Its State game farm land- with dogs and shooters, and orange vests- and that's a motif? Explain.