From God's Forehead to
City
About five years ago,
when it became fairly obvious that I would not, immediately anyways,
win the Nobel Prize for
Poetry or, for that matter not even get published, or possibly never even yet
past that puzzled stare coming in my direction from the latest of a few
selected readers (friends) of what I referred to as "my manuscript",
I decided that perhaps a change of media,
to something less
thoughtful and more visual, would be a more productive way to spend my time.
Deciding to become a painter, I strode into Scrantoms, bold-step, and purchased
my first $100 worth of oil paints, canvas, brushes, drawing tablets, and a few
"how to" books, and with an optimistic outlook headed of to the
corner of Raines and Birr to begin my efforts as a painter. Little did I know,
nor could I ever have been prepared for the affect this decision had upon my
life.
Sitting now, with 23
photographs of my work, taken last weekend, covering approximately
two years, with slides
to match, and readied for submission to galleries for display upon acceptance,
hey, about all I can say is "it's along ways from then to now".
Paint, brushstrokes, and
people have flowed in, as well as out of my life and I once again turn to words
in the hope that the descriptions describe the direction.
Now, Raines and Birr was
a one bedroom apartment, and it's difficult to describe how badly a one bedroom
apartment smells when a person starts painting in oils. As usual I dove into
the
process and in a short
period of time had started, and scrubbed (the process of removing oil paint
with turpentine and paper towels) up to no less than six 20" by 30”
paintings. In my enthusiasm, the constant threat of explosion or fire never did
occur to me. I'm sure my neighbors had that same mysterious head aches as I did
and have come to the conclusion
that fumes such as these
are probably not good for your person, but at least in my case, they were good
for my soul.
After a week or so, I
finally did manage to keep my removal technique away from several paintings and
was rewarded with my initial effort, which I called Time Arrows. It was a
painting of a poem, Cycles
(first section of Awareness, At the Edge of the End of it all) which I remember
showing to that same selected group of friends I'd mentioned earlier, and guess
what, that same puzzled, quizzical look. Anyways, the media had changed, it was
early in the effort and an era of excitement was evident. It was then that I
made my first mistake as a painter, the first of many I'd hasten to add. It was
a simple mistake. Alexis said "Do you think you could paint a picture of a
rainbow?" Well, of course I could paint a rainbow.
Some earth, some sky,
and a bright, magnificent arch of colors travelling across the picture, and so,
off to Raines and Birr I did go, and with what seemed a rather easy topic leapt
into the painting.
A nice green earth and a
pure blue sky, done with a few thick strokes, and now, a simple rainbow. Some
yellow, red, pink, blue, in an arch over the green earth and across the deep
blue sky.
Painting is a learning
thing, by the way, and I should have known better had I been some- thing other than
a beginner, because in little less than half an hour (as I'd started my rainbow
with yellow across the blue sky), GREEN covered the canvas. No amount of wine
or cigarettes
,or additional yellow
could solve the problem, and as a matter of fact, it grew much worse.
GREEN is a powerful
color as I came to find out.
By the time I'd finished
my nights work on “he project” the world of the abstract painter had made its
presence known to me.
In trying to get the
green under control, I'd put enough yellow and red into the painting that if
you stood back, and I mean way back, and turned the picture sideways, an almost
excellent
rendering of what looked
to me to be a piece of "God's Forehead" could be seen.
I could see that with
half a dozen other paintings of different pieces of "God's Forehead"
something could be made of the puzzle that now belonged to me.
I went to sleep that
night knowing commission work was not for me, and comfortable with myself as an
abstractionist. I’ve gone through this
description because, under the painting CITY rests GOD’s FOREHEAD. How that
transformation occurred is as follows.
The evolution of the
painting CITY:
God's Forehead stayed
with me for quite some time, as it did appear abstract enough to fit into
my,then current, modes of abstract, as well as expressionist. Beginning with a
series of black
and white sketches
(Dance of the Black and White Sketches from Acceptance), and continuing on with
several water colors done during the time I lived with Alexis, displaying my
paintings in public was the next, a mostly logical step to add to the readings
"for, and
of the
public". I was, during these few
years, a sort of multi-media entertainment event for a small group of people whom,
as I've described earlier, perceived me as a food of some
sort. And me, absorbed
in me, and in writing and now painting was, well, about as unaware as unaware
can be of the coming pressures and collapse lurking, just around the corner.
I did my first birthday
display of abstracts at Muldoon’s in January of 1982 and it was, for me, the
absolute best and worst moments. All the group was there as it was an
“art” event, where way
to much was drunk, as usual. Alexis brought her new lover, rather better said,
she invited him, to what I thought was an event, staged by the two
of us. I remember taking
a painting from the wall, driving home in a stupor, and walking on the beach
the following morning, my 37th birthday, in a fog again, at the edge of the end
of my life. She came home the next morning, but it was really over from then
on.
GOD’s FOREHEAD became
CITY around that time as I, moving more from words to paint, took out my hurts
with a pallet knife, and after about ten tubes of various colors of paint,
out came CITY. It
represents, at least to me, my struggles with the forces coming at me.
Literally, it IS a view of Rochester, painted from the "balcony" of
A11K, with a very large HB signature, which I’m sure a Psychiatrist would have
a field day with but again, I felt like I was dying, taking my stance, this
time, with a pallet knife.
This painting is still
with me (this is the second edit of this phase, it IS June 25th, 1998) through
significant travels and
is the beginning of a five year journey into painting, and away from the
evil forces I'd
unleashed. My father told me a long time ago that "I’d have to learn
everything the hard way", and he was right.
Perhaps a most
interesting aspect of the remaining shows at Muldoon’s, and there were several,
mostly ending the same way, different people, different situations, same
results, was that during my abstract phase nobody said a word about the
paintings (same reaction as to the poems).
I began using the phrase
“you know, they even give a lump of sugar to an old horse they’re taking to the
glue factory, you know, they do that, you know”, as the audience began to mean
more, to me, than they should.
I picked up on William
Alexander, a lovely fellow who paints on television, and began writing the book
GIVING. It also became possible, or at least for me, required, to revisit the
life, and works of my old friend, Vincent VanGogh.
When the world tries to
kill you it can be held at bay,
captured in slashes on
the safety of canvas,
it’s being allows for
tomorrows.
