Georgetown

After the first day of conference, all talked out from networking and steering lunch and break conversations to topics of interest to me and to the company that sent me, I took a long solitary walk from Dupont Circle to Georgetown, down P Street, and then up 31 and 32 Streets to Dumbarton Oaks. It was closed by then, though I would have loved to have seen the poplars in that garden, but I walked along the outside of the walls, to Wisconsin. Wisconsin is the retail heart of Georgetown.

On Wisconsin I selected my dinner, stopping in the Cafe Bonaparte for this delicious cheese sampler and pate plate. I added a glass of Reisling, and I spent an hour juxtaposing and combining the five cheeses, strawberries, sweet toasted walnuts, and the pate, and tasting or inhaling the aroma of the wine. It’s the intersection and the transitions between all the flavors that is the magic of French food. The slow kaleidoscope of subtle changes in the mouth and nose, and the arrival of the next morsel while the after affects of the previous are still apparent around the edges and back of the tongue. The wait staff smiled at me a lot (I was doing a lot of smiling with my eyes closed), and left me to enjoy myself.

For dessert I went back out on the street and ate the golden light on the long downhill run of storefronts and shops. I was greeted by Reginald Johnson, who did not ask me for money, but instead asked if I would buy him a sandwich. His good humor and straight open gaze into my eyes, made it easy to immediately agree. He's a professional. We walked together to the mall, a block away, and down the escalator to the food court, where the sub shop staff greeted him warmly and said, “Steak Sandwich?” He was a regular, often with a patron along to buy his dinner. He told me he had been on the street for fifteen years. He seemed happy, clean, healthy, and at peace with everyone. Quite different from so many of the other panhandlers I saw frequently throughout the city. I put a number of ones into a number of paper cups.

At the bottom of Wisconsin is a waterfront. This area was a frightening mess, as I recall from trips to DC in the 70s and 80s, but now it is in revival, and very expensive condos and restaurants are being built. The place in this photo was alive with music and the sounds of hundreds of conversations, all soothed and bubbled by the fountains in the middle, and bathed in the last hour of the late summer sun.

Just down the waterfront was yesteryear’s popular waterfront happening spot, now run down, in disrepair, looking dated and ugly, and put up just the day before for auction, with a starting price as low as one million dollars, because it’s estimated that one hundred million will be needed to renovate. Watergate. Half the shops were empty, the others were pretty sad looking and low budget enterprises. Most of the apartments and rooms looked vacant, as well. It had a lost and forgotten feeling, but I could see that forty or fifty years ago this was a big deal; this was a desirable address. So how will that glitzy location in the previous paragraph look in fifty years?

The News

As I walked back to my hotel in DC Tuesday, I saw a proud series of messages through the first floor windows of a plain brown building on my left. They were about news, and the freedom of the press, and the responsibility of and public trust in the media. It was the headquarters of the Washington Post. And as I was passing the entrance, I encountered a line of well dressed people, most of them carrying professional binders, some looking through them to make sure they had their resume and other materials in order. They were there for job openings.

And I wondered, sadly, how many of them had been employed by the Post until recently, when shrinking newspaper budgets caused their jobs to be cut, possibly after years with the paper. And I realized, as I photographed the scene, and many of these people noticed me doing so, that I was doing a little journalism of my own, seeing them and their story as newsworthy, due some attention, some thought.

DC Walk - National Gallery

Conference in DC this week. I got to town in time to walk over to my favorite museums on the Mall, before working in my hotel room into the evening. I wanted, in particular, to visit the Robert Motherwell painting in the modern building. This has been a favorite of mine since I first saw it. I can't decide why. I think it has to do with motion, repetition, and the ratios. It also seems to be escaping its frame, or the internal frame painted lightly around the 10 foot by 30 foot canvas.

And the Calder gallery, with the mobiles and stabiles and their changing shadows on the walls. This room would have pleased him, I think. It's a playful space, and the mobiles are in constant graceful motion. Today I noticed how much they owe to the split and arrangements of branches and leaves on certain species of trees. I am almost certain that's what inspired some of these.

I also had to visit the Matisse paper cutouts. Last time we were in this museum, a little over a year ago, I think, the cutouts were up in the tower by themselves, which gave a reverent, chapel sort of feeling to the exhibit. Now they are in a small gallery downstairs - still by themselves in the space, but not as set apart. I love them - this is the only one I photographed - the larger ones won't be captured.

As I was leaving the modern building, to head for the more traditional building next door, I saw one more little exhibition, of "Small French Paintings." I am so glad I took the time to go in there. They had a small room dedicated to small paintings by Vuillard, Bonnard, and one Odilon Redon. I could have eaten the tiny Redon canvas with a spoon like my favorite flavor of icecream, it was so delicious.

But my favorite in the entire building was the small Vuillard scene of fields in Brittany. If I could have any object in Washington DC, I might choose this little canvas, probably not more than 10 by 12 inches. The little works in that room inspired me all over again to paint.

And I stood for quite a while in front of Whistler's Symphony in White #1. This is probably my favorite of his paintings. The sad thing is that it probably contributed in a major way to his death. The painting is worked all over with the lovely, fat, creamy white he loved best - Flake white - a strong lead pigment. Jimmy Whistler worked with several brushes at once, and, as he switched rapidly between them, he held the extras in his teeth. He died of lead poisoning. Close by the Symphony, is a portrait of Vanderbilt - the first fortune maker, I think - the grandfather of the Vanderbilt who created Biltmore House in NC.

It was a warm day, but not as brutal as July should be in Washington. The walk was long, possibly five miles round trip, but I enjoyed it, and the hot dog with sour kraut I bought from a pushcart on the way. The cityscape, the people on the sidewalks, the light, the shops and restaurants - DC has so much variety. The smells on the streets were also a constant whirl of change, pleasant and unpleasant.

I worked hard today, absorbing an 84 page standards document for tomorrow's session, plus the long drive up here and several hours of answering e-mail. But it was lovely to have a brief chance to get out into this American city, hear snatches of conversation all around me, many in languages I did not recognize, and watch the world rolling by as I strolled through it on my way to absorb some art.

Biking Adventure

Today I spent part of the afternoon visiting Dick's Sporting Goods to get Youngest's bike tuned-up (bought the bike a few months ago, he learned to ride that same day) and getting some replacement tires and handle grips for my old Diamondback. Then, after tire repairs, chain lubricating, and adjustments, given the unusually clear day, and the mid-eighties weather (a reprieve in our NC July), Youngest and I decided to go ahead and take that ride we've been discussing, through the waterfowl impoundment north of Durham. The whole area is closed to cars and it makes a great off-pavement experience. This photo is of the place where the ride began, but I took it on a hike four of us took there in February, a year and a half ago. Picture it all overgrown, with six foot grasses on one side and a field of corn on the other.

We road more than four miles over gravel roads, stone causeways, and overgrown grassy paths. We took a long road I'd never taken on my previous trips, which excited him - the unknown. We never saw another human until we were back at the end. The sun set on the tail end of the trip, when we were driving back. The light was glorious, the riding was fun (even though I will be sore in fifty places tomorrow), and we saw so much wildlife. The place was shaggy, overgrown, and like the back forty of an old semi-abandoned farm. We startled a fox, who ran down the road ahead of us for three or four hundred yards, before ducking into the woods on our left. Later we had a deer bounding across the road in front of us, with tall leaps and several flips from its stunning long white tail. Gold finches flew around us in the fields, bending down the tall heads of redstem grass. We rode in a nearly constant cloud of dragonflies, which rose from the road in front of us. We saw passion flower blooming in one spot, and jewel weed, and jacob's ladder, and huge white hibiscus. The roadway itself was yellow with the small bright blossoms of thread-leaved helenium. Most of the old fields were fallow, but some were sown in corn, which was bearing. Some cobs were here and there left by the road, plundered and eaten by racoons. One section was planted in large sunflowers, just starting to bloom. Tiny toads hopped out of our way as we walked the bikes over the eighth stone causeway.

We ate a picnic dinner in a clear space beneath two old trees, where the large bright green June beetles (cotinus nitida) were buzzing around the ground and up into the branches. I caught one and showed it to Youngest, letting it vibrate loudly up out of my hand, its brilliant deep green back exposed by the elytra spread in flight.

Toward the end of the long ride we walked the bikes through the maintenance area, which was abandoned in the Sunday evening. We passed by one large garage where two heavy old trucks, early 80's vintage, one a Ford and the other a GMC, sat side by side, like old rivals/friends. A little further was an open garage bay, with equipment visible in the gloom within. We were so busy looking at the interior that we both nearly missed the large black animal stretched out on the concrete entryway. My entire body clenched at the sight of such a huge black dog, braced for it to wake up and charge us. Then I realized with even greater fear that it was a black bear. And almost in the same instant I realized it was dead. I have never felt such a rush of relief and sadness both hit me so suddenly together. Youngest had seen it just before I did, and I realized he was asking me about it. It was actually a small bear - but it would have been quite intimidating if it had been alive. We never slowed our walking - both relieved and weirded out by the whole thing. Neither of us wanted a closer look.

The entire ride was like a story, a strange fairy tale, even, full of birds and insects, and animal talismen, with a large dark scary creature dead near the close.

But we had another mile to ride after that, almost all down hill, over a long gently curving gravel road. We rolled along, side by side, and talked as the stones pinged and popped from under our humming wheels. Youngest wants to do more of this. So do I. At the end we put the bikes back in the van, pulled out some home made chocolate chip cookies (Tollhouse), more bottles of water, and walked back into the fields. We sat down in the middle of the gravel road (about half way up that photo above). I stretched, and we ate cookies while watching the slate blue clouds drifting north across a pale western sky. Usually we chatter each other's ears off when the two of us are in the car alone - but this trip home was fairly quiet, each of us full of thoughts and the relaxed contentment that follows an adventure.

The Lure of the Road

I've written before about how roads can take my breath away. This is an unusually beautiful road, in exceptional light. It's one of my favorites, and I've walked it in every mood of sun and shadow, and even in inky darkness. I've tried to photograph it many times, and this shot comes closest to what it means to me.

The desire to linger in this perfect spot, and savor this amazing view. Standing in shadows and looking forward into the brightness to come. The crunch of the gravel underfoot contrasted with the silence of the open space before me. The urge to follow the curves, restless to see more before the light disappears.

Life feels like this, a lot, lately. I feel like everything is larger, stronger, and better lit than ever before. I want to hold all of this, keep it all, and I want to rush on to the next things. I'm hungry for it all, my eyes and heart consume everything before me.

And I'm also old enough to be able to stop, grin, and sit on the side of the road for a while, enjoying those who pass by, knowing that I can get back up any time and walk some more. I no longer feel so rushed. Eager, pulled forward by the desire to see what's next, but not pushed from behind.

I would never go back to my twenties, nor even to my thirties. I have never felt younger or more free, in some ways, than I do now. Everything feels like the open road - this open road, familiar and yet always new.

Art Insights - The Usefulness of Absence

I've been pulled back from my art, and after a while that lends perspective. I'm not saying I was deliberately stepping back for the bigger picture, but I seem to be getting some insights by accident.

1. I realized that I want to push my paintings. I'm not satisfied doing the same thing well - I want to be reaching for more.

2. I'm still excited by color, more than anything else.

3. Certain artists have come into the foreground for me over the last few years. I'm drawn to them. They're my artistic family, with have similarities I can't ignore. Hundertwasser, Nolde, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh, Klee, Cezanne, Bernard, Klimt, Schielle, Munch. These are my guides, somehow.

a. They are not at all afraid of color.
b. They paint recognizable subjects.
c. They let paint be paint, but also make the paint serve the image they are creating.
d. There is a sense of light and place in most of their works.
e. Their paintings are generally beautiful, though the subject matter is not always.
f. Their works are composed, and the compositions are recognizably part of their style.
g. Possibly most of all, there is an immediacy and feeling of exploration in every stroke which feels like their inner child is holding the brush. That child may be hurt, or obsessed with the erotic, but it's still a child that is painting. Their work isn't too polished, either - it has a reality that makes it breath, like a musical recording where you can still hear the fingers move on the strings.

4. I still prefer to strive for a sense of play and a gleeful light to come through the pieces I create. I'm moved by strong, sober paintings when I visit museums, but I would not want to live with them, or spend a lot of time creating them, either. I feel like these preferences are simply choosing the company I keep.

5. I am impatient of spending time painting something I don't care about - something I don't want to paint, something I don't LOVE to paint.

6. I find that my pieces have more meaning for me, and that I'm pushed harder to create the right image, if there is a story. Having something I am striving to illustrate brings more of me into play, and the art shows this, I think. The paintings I created for a friend's poem (she is looking for a publisher) are still among my very best, I feel. And painting them stretched me considerably.

7. I've instinctively been looking for a subject or a poem that drives images. Today I leafed through a book of Cavafy poems. They stirred me, but they didn't seem to be from the right country. I'm looking for the verse or prose that is from the same country as my paintings. I know it exists. I sense it's at the tip of my fingers. It probably in a book right here in the house.

8. Most importantly, regardless of the other ways my creativity is being expressed right now, I miss painting. It fills a part of me. I don't want to live without it. I am enjoying feeling the tug of it on my heart while I'm busy doing other things. The tug is growing stronger.

I spent part of the last few days in bookstores, looking at several artists. Seurat (I like his drawings better than his paintings, which seem over-composed to me). Chagall (I love his colors and the dreamy way his paintings make me feel, but his paintings seem under-composed to me). Toulouse-Lautrec (So much acid green and pink, reds and oranges - I felt like I was looking at the Mannerists, again, who painted after the Italian Renaissance, and who also favored these hot hues and exagerated human figures. I love his drawing - his paintings always work as fine drawings, as well). Cezanne (I bought a small book, and I'm looking forward to reading more about his method - looking at things the way he did. More than most artists, I think his art is about SEEING).

Yesterday Daughter and I were out driving and then spent some time on Ninth Street in Durham. We went to the Regulator bookstore, which was open even on the 4th of July. I could not believe the number of art related magazines on their racks. I looked through more than ten, all with slightly different focus, from the more traditional ArtNews, to some avant garde and "art brut" publications. They made me tired. Some interesting or intriguing things were there, but mostly it felt like trying too hard to impress. I used to be intimidated by these trade rags, and the seriousness of the art they publish - now it just seemed sadly grown up, in a boring way. Some little voice in my head wonders if I'm dodging the challenges implied in the magazines - copping out on trying to create something that relevant - but that makes me grin. Nope. I just think it ought to be more fun than that.

I don't know where this hiatus will end up, but I'm aware that, under all the lack of activity, I'm on a journey. I also know that at some point I have to paint my way along that road, I can't just ride above it all with my brushes standing upside down in jars, clean, dry bristles in the air, and with my face in books.

Painting in the photo above is "Singing the Catfish's Song" - the first painting I sold, on opening night of the gallery we founded in Hillsborough, NC. I left the gallery after a year, but it was a great experience and launched my art again. I visited the Gallery on Friday and was greeted warmly by one of the other founders, Chris Graebner, a talented painter of large, vivid blossoms, and a certified botanical artist. This third year is their best year, even with the recession, and seven of the original 15 artists are still there. It's a co-op, owned by the artists. If you're in Hillsborough, check them out. Hillsborough Gallery of Arts.

Not Back Yet...

I am so completely buried at work I'm breathing through a straw I stuck up through the top of the pile. I have so much to learn and figure out in the next few weeks - I feel like I'm back in college, and taking two semesters worth of classes at once. It's creative, interesting, and real work in a vital field, and I'm delighted to be part of it, in the middle of it, but it is using almost all of my creative energy right now, and most of my waking time, too.

So I haven't been here - in part because of the work, and in part because I moved some hardware around at home and had no connection on this PC until I bought some more gear. And I haven't painted much, either. We had a great vacation - and I'll post some photos of that in a while - but I didn't paint a stroke during that week.

Last weekend I tried and it seemed pretty far away. Then Dearest said maybe I should relax and not work on a painting in progress (they looked to me like something someone else was doing, anyway), but instead to just paint or draw anything at all. So I painted this, in an hour and half, all in one sitting. This is where watercolors thrill me - when you can swoosh things around fast and loose and get something close to the heart. I have always loved these spunky, pouting, bug-eyed little characters. I'm not one to own a dog, really (we're cat people) but if I did, a Boston terrier would be one possibility.

Watercolor - about 10 x 12 inches. Click for larger view.

Off to read a few your blogs (haven't done that in weeks, either) and then bed. Lots more work and a party (and poker) tomorrow. Enough rest is one key to this whole crazy period.