What launch pad lifts us to our fate? What makes us climb above the beach, above the gardens, above the trees? Why are we striving for that pot of gold that always seems out of reach?
Why is what we have achieved never enough? Why must our eyes be fixed on stars beyond the stars when lesser, earthbound men are bound by lowly wars?
Are we giants then, to aspire not to be like other men, clad in grey suits and suitable shirts and ties. Working from nine to five, five days a week, and sometimes six. Fixed hours, yet our hours are ours and never fixed.
Ambition, for us, the coming word, the oncoming stroke of paint, the incomplete picture, much better than the ones we have done of late. No artistic battle is ever won when we sit back and say and now my creative work is done.
Does the left hand know what the right hand is doing?
Does the pencil know where the artist’s hand is going?
Does the artist know the point of arrival before he even sets out and takes his first step on that life-long journey?
Or does he play the music by ear, the paint by eye, the pencil and brush by the deftest of touches that follow a path set long ago in the summer stars and the winter nights of longing and strife?
Only the artist knows: and he might not be telling.
The artist scales Jacob’s ladder, per ardua ad astra, through hardship to the stars.
He discovers a jigsaw puzzle of shattered color and shape, a serpent’s shed skin of paint, battered patterns broken, stripped, dangling, swayed by the wind that washes and renews the world.
What world you ask? The painter’s world. The world that dwells within the meditating mind. The creation that awaits the artist’s touch in order to come alive and beckon us. The secret, sacred world of the artist’s hidden garden, soon to be revealed.
Here there is no in media res. We must begin at the beginning: the inspection, the realization, the determination to ensure that all will be restored and the Garden of Eden rebuilt, here, where it stood before.
The feet that hold no defeat, the hands that will reconstruct the image growing within the artist’s mind, the mind that will determine how the brush will guide, the bright paint slither.
But first the damage must be repaired, the surface cleaned, fresh straw in the manger to signify a readiness for renewal, rebirth, and the continuing cycle.
Shall we begin at the beginning at the water tower’s foot where the itch of dried flaking skin is unbearable?
The earth worm coiled around the tower opens his mouth to devour his tail and the movement of his scales scours old paint in an effort to remove all traces of the former painter’s footprints.
Oh, the defiance of wind, rain, snow, ice, the hot summer sun, and the tower sweating year after year, erasing man’s efforts to control time and space with created beauty.
But now is the time of endless renewal, the sun’s return to renew the infinite cycle of death and rebirth.
I took the e-file to Covey’s, the Printer on Prospect Street, Fredericton, on Monday. On Tuesday, Jared set up the files for printing, and I received the book on Thursday morning – nice and early. What an incredible turn around. The writing time-frame is interesting too. Geoff painted and posted. I wrote. The whole thing came together in less than a month. It just shows what inspiration, collaboration, and hard work can do. Here is a poem (# 17) from the book.
17
This year’s snow is not last year’s snow. Tell me, if you know, where did last year’s snowfall go?
These flowers you paint, they are not last year’s flowers.
Time flows and the world renews itself. It may seem the same, but it’s not. Nor are you the same. How could you be?
You too have renewed yourself, grown, like these flowers you paint, these flowers that will wither and perish to lie buried beneath fresh snow.
You cannot walk in the same river twice. Nor can you paint the same flower once it has withered and gone. The flowers you paint can never be the ones you painted before.
“I work in a match factory.” “Do you put the heads on?” “No. I put the gloves on. They’re boxing matches.”
A golden oldie, still vibrant, from the Goon Show, BBC, 1950’s.
Your gloves are off now and they lie on the table where you work. How long have you had them? Fifteen, twenty years? Like good wine, carefully stored, old friends are better with age.
A second chestnut from the Goon Show: “Have you put the cat out?” “No, dear. It wasn’t on fire.”
And that’s another good reason why the water tower, and its full renovation, is so very, very important.
Bible and Water Tower, hand in glove: “And Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like any of these.”
Comment: A gorgeous photo, colors and textures, light and dark, from my friend, Geoff Slater, the line painter and muralist. He is working on restoring the mural on the water tower in St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, New Brunswick, Canada.
What is it about generic greens, their power of growth, renewal, resurgence? In the Auberge, Moncton’s Hospice for cancer patients, sufferers wore green clothes, shirts, blouses, skirts, trousers. Green for recovery, for hope, for the persistent belief that nature mattered, more, that nature could be omnipotent, ubiquitous, everywhere around us. The patients planted a small garden, almost an allotment. They walked in it, sat beside it, watched the flowers grow, grew their own cells anew, hoped.
Exercises are easier, more fulfilling, when done in green surroundings. Go green for improved moods, better self- esteem, growth beyond the muscles of cold iron pumped indoors by hot, sweating bodies. Never underestimate the healing power of walking barefoot on grass, your toes curling into the early-morning coolness of fresh, new dew.
Focus your attention on the here and now. Forget the past. Let the future take care of itself. Your most important therapeutic tool is this moment of awareness when you and your world are one. Erase loneliness and isolation. Don’t pander to the pandemic. Talk to your plants. You may not think they’re listening, but they are. And you must listen to them too. Learn the languages of tree and shrub, of butterfly and bee, of Coneheads and Cape Daisies. Bask in beauty: sunflowers, hollyhocks. All will be well.
“Verde, que te quiero verde. / Green, how I love you green.” Federico García Lorca (!898-1936).
Comment: I have been discussing Mindfulness with several people recently. Whether it be the Covid-19 outbreaks or the necessity of staying apart from friends and family, some of my seem to have become more isolated and more introverted over the last couple of years. As a result, the theme of mindfulness has arisen, often spontaneously. So, this poem is dedicated to all of us who feel the need to live in the moment and to concentrate on the development of our inner growth and being. It is taken from my book The Nature of Art nd the Art of Nature (pp. 134-35), soon to be available on Amazon and at Cyberwit.net
It’s here and it looks beautiful. The photo does not do the cover justice as Geoff Slater’s painting is just phenomenal. The book holder wishes to announce that the photo does not do him justice either. He is much more good-looking in real life. I don’t have the Amazon / Kindle details yet, but I’ll post them as soon as they arrive. meanwhile, you will all have to make do with one poem. But remember: “A poetry book is a dream you hold in your hands.”
Still Life with Hollyhock Geoff Slater
How do you frame this beaver pond, those paths, those woods? How do you know what to leave, what to choose? Where does light begin and darkness end?
Up and down: two dimensions. Easy. But where does depth come from? Or the tactility, the energy, water’s flow, that rush of breathless movement that transcends the painting’s stillness?
So many questions, so few answers. The hollyhock that blooms in my kitchen is not a real hollyhock. It is the painting of a photo of a genuine flower that once upon a time flourished in my garden.
A still life, then, a nature morte, a dead nature, portrayed in paint and hung alive, on display in this coffin’s wooden frame.
rogermoorepoet 