Origins of the Wildman

I spent much of August outside of the studio. The morning after my opening at Gallery 360, I headed up north to Mallard Island on Rainy Lake for two weeks. I slept, swam and enjoyed relaxing with just a handful of people.  While there I worked on four still-lifes for the exhibit at the Landmark Center. There are thousands of books on the island. I was looking for an image of Saturn Eating His Son by Goya to put into a painting but instead found the book Wild Men in the Middle Ages by Richard Bernheimer, 1952. It was a fascinating read about the European myth of the wild man who lives in the woods. These men started as the mentally ill who could not live within society and ended up living in the woods outside of towns and villages. Soon, stories circulated about their "wildness" in order to scare children and keep polite society in line. These myths eventually blossomed into many local legends and eventually evolved into the harlequin of French culture, the monsters of Grimm's fairy tales and even our modern stories about yeti's and Sasquatch. 

Many festivals arose to pay tribute to the Wild Man. During these festivals, men dressed as animals and fantastic beasts would enter people's homes stealing their food. The Wild Man, generally a very large man, protected the other animal-men by threatening anyone who tried to stop them. Soon, it became very popular to establish secret societies of wild men, similar to today's more benign Saint Paul Minnesota's Winter Carnival Vulcans. One story has it that a French King, Charles VI, wanted to participate in a Wild Man festival. He dressed up as a Wild Man and, with others, invaded the queen's quarters. Unable to recognize the king, he was soundly beaten by the queen's guard. Not having learned his lesson, the next year, 1393, he wanted to have a wild man event again. The queen convinced him to hold a masquerade ball, the Bal des Sauvages. With an organized event he could not get beat up by her guards, or anyone else.

That evening, with everyone in costume, the king entered chained to four other top officials dressed as wild men and proceeded to perform a dance. Unfortunately, an onlooker carrying a torch accidentally set one of the dancers on fire. Soon all five dancers, being chained together, were aflame. The four officials died while the king was only saved because a woman in a costume with a large train covered him with her dress and smothered the flames.

As I read the book I began to recognize the Wild Man in many of today's stories: that character that is out of control, unsophisticated, only interested in the moment and his own needs while at odds with society and progress. Sometimes the character becomes a part of society only to eventually revert back to the woods. Characters like Shrek, The Joker, Frankenstein and The Beast from Beauty and the Beast come to mind. In movies, the Wild Man is often layered over the personality of murderers and serial killers. I couldn't help but notice in contemporary political storytelling, the red state rural followers of Trump are presented in this manner. The urban Democrats are presented as the cultured sophisticated elite. It is a powerful myth that reaches into our deepest feelings and reflexes.

The Wild Man eventually made it into one of the paintings I was creating while on the island (see the above Feature Painting). I love the myth of the Wild Man and think he will be appearing again in my art, in concept if not actually in person.

Eye Can See!

 

Today, with my left eye, I was able to read letters on an eye chart for the first time in a year and a half. Six surgeries after my retina detached my eye is finally stabilizing and beginning to act normal.  Though I am beginning to have sight again, the doctors tell me it will not be 20/20 or even close to what I can see with my right eye. Still, I feel blessed that I can see anything out of that eye. Next week the doctor will shoot lasers in my eye for about three minutes to resolve an issue and then I will need one more surgery to remove some scar tissue on my retina. That will happen in September. Then I will have what I will have. Apparently, I will reach my best vision six to eight months after the surgeries are complete. I will have decent peripheral vision which helps tremendously with my depth perception and driving. I will have to wait to find out what my straight-ahead vision will be as that is where the worst of the scarring is. In this crazy tumultuous year, I am at least, literally, seeing some good news.

A New Answer to an Old Question

I have had several visitors to my studio this month. Some shoppers, a dealer and friends. Someone asked me if I have a hard time when a painting is purchased and taken from my studio, never for me to see again. I have been asked this question several times over the years but gave a different answer this time. The answer I gave helped me to see my own growth in the last few years.

Previously, I would answer this question by saying something, like, "No, I make my paintings to sell," or "No, if people enjoy them, I'm happy for them to have them."  These answers were, and are, true. But this last week I answered "No, any individual painting is small compared to what I am developing: my visual language and my perceptions on artmaking and life."  Ultimately, my art practice has become more about my own personal development and ability than the paintings created. It is an exciting place to be.

  

I am a good Minnesotan: I try not to talk about myself too much, I digress to other people's opinions, and have a self-deprecating sense of humor. But, I realized several years ago, if I am going to get anywhere with my art it has to be about me. This is a literal and non-literal statement. My art doesn't have to be self-portraits or represent real events in my life, but my art has to be grounded in how I think, how I feel and how I experience life.

The journey is the Muse. My own way of interpreting (my art practice) is the venue. The outcome is a better me. What I gain from my practice of making art is of more value than the byproduct - the paintings. Selling a painting has become an act that adds more depth and satisfaction to this process instead of being the goal. To know that someone has been moved by my work, has sacrificed something to have it, and welcomed it into their life let's me be more confident in my practice, helps me understand myself differently.

I have no idea where being focused on my own personal development, as lived-out in my art practice, will lead. At the moment, it seems right and all the external indicators continue to point me in this direction. It is heart-warming to have hope in one's own future. It is exhilarating to not know what the future holds. It is happiness to have a purpose - a reason to get up every day to make discoveries. 

As I stated at the beginning of this newsletter, I am privileged. The simple act of living in this society is not hard for me. I have mental and physical space for pursuing what some would consider an esoteric endeavor. But I do see an art practice as being foundational to who I am and what it means to be a human. The response by artists and communities to the recent violence in my cities, Minneapolis and Saint Paul, only reaffirms this understanding - to be human is to create. To be human is to develop one's own language for life. To be human is to toil for years creating a better world only to determine that it isn't good enough, tear down what you have done, and be excited to wake up the next day and make new discoveries.

Making Art in a Time of Virus

 Uff-dah! What a month. March started with my opening at the Phipps Center for the Arts and then ended with everybody hiding in their homes. In some respects, life has become more dystopian. In some respects, little has changed. I still spend a lot of time in my art studio, isolated from others. I am an introvert and have been enjoying my time being sequestered away. I am in my fourth week of teleworking. I see my neighbors when we walk our dogs, but otherwise I don't see anybody in person. I would like to see others, but for now I'm okay with the self-isolation. An artist friend of mine joked last week that nothing has changed for him because he has spent the last 35 years in one room. He will continue to work in his studio through the pandemic.
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Today, I was texting with a young man who lives in a refugee camp in Kenya. Coronavirus is starting to spread in the camp and people are very fearful because the government will do little to protect them. Most of the refugees are from the civil war in Sudan.  At the root of his situation is Tribalism in Sudan, where one brother is pitted against another because of thin divisions that have been fanned into flames over the decades. This week I also read my family members yelling at each other on social media over the leadership, or lack there of, by our current president. Again, thin divisions that have been fanned into flames over the last few decades. 

My daughter, who is currently stranded in Scotland, asked me last year how climate-change will alter the planet. Basically, wondering if there still will be a livable planet. Unfortunately, I had to share my thoughts that millions of people will be dying in the next several decades. The only bright side is that she is a white woman in a wealthy society in the Northern hemisphere which means she will see less of the destruction and chaos than many. And yet, this week I see reports about how pollution has toppled once countries started requiring their citizens to shelter-in-place (in India air-borne particulate matter is down 71%). There have been many reports of wildlife coming back into cities with less activity to scare them away. So many people are spending time walking outdoors that parks are becoming too crowded for people to stay the recommended 6 feet apart.  .

We are in very difficult times and, I am afraid, it is only going to get worse before it gets better. But, in the midst of this cleaving and fracturing of the old world, the seeds of the new world are evident. One of the transformations that needs to happen is that we, as a world, need to do less. We need to move around less, buy less, and build less, We need to be able to sit still and feel satisfied instead of pushing at the world to form it to our liking. We need to be quiet and let the world come to us - allow the earth to seep back into our bones so that we can feel at home.

We now know that our identity, and society, cannot be based on money. The more we base our self-worth on money, the less resource we actually have. Unchecked capitalist systems, if they are run by greedy people, are cruel, heartless and just as much a tool for harm as any other form of economy. We need to base our identity as a country and a world on something other than the accomplishments of the wealthy.

We also need a world that heals the divisions between us. All people are about 95% similar, but we focus on the 5% of difference. It is sad, it makes my heart weep. Coming through this pandemic and the economic hardships that are coming, we need to lift people up. We need to see our differences and weaknesses with compassion and not try to find ways to weaponize them. In essence, we need to love - something our holy books and art have been telling us for centuries. But our holy books and art also tell us that we don't listen very well. It is a struggle.

After every night there is a day. After every pandemic there is life. I pray that we all can watch out for each other now and when this is over.  I am already planning for a better future. Please join me.

Work at Gallery 360

I currently have two paintings on display at Gallery 360 in the Linden Hills neighborhood of Minneapolis. One is this monster of an eight foot long painting, Winter Evening. I couldn't quite fit it into my Prius. The other painting is Tree Island, which has not been featured in my newsletter, nor is it on my website. Pop on down to see it and, while you are there, the gallery has a lot of really nice art and handcrafted gifts.

Exploring Cezanne

I am continuing to explore Cezanne still life paintings. The current one I am working on has had an American flag incorporated into it - stay tuned.

Stories of Dodd

I've just completed reading a book of the American artist Lois Dodd. Lois was a teacher of mine in graduate school at the City University of New York at Brooklyn College. She was born in 1927 and was instrumental in the post-war New York art scene as a Minimalist. Her contemporaries were Alex Katz and Faifield Porter.

 Lois is now 93 years old and still painting. I had the great pleasure of spending a good amount of time with her as a graduate student. I was part of the college's work-study program and worked as a darkroom assistant in the Brooklyn College art department. I had to do some work in the photolab, but also spent a lot of time in the teacher's offices talking with them. Lois was my favorite. She would be in her office preparing for a class or having her lunch and I would enter and we would talk. She never shooed me away and often stopped what she was doing to talk about anything. I made her laugh quite a bit and can vividly remember the way she would lean back, crinkle her eyes and laugh quietly.

Shed Window, Lois Dodd 

I had the great honor of visiting her apartment/studio on 2nd Avenue in the East Village of Manhattan. Her apartment was mostly studio. She had storage racks of paintings and, off to the side, a mat on the floor. This was her bed. She slept on the floor. She was a very simplified person. I had the occasion to help her fix-up her studio. We were painting the walls with white paint. She had one wall where a large window used to be but had been filled in with plywood. She complained to me that there was cold air coming through a crack at the edge of the plywood and wondered what to do. Before I could suggest filling it with caulk or insulation, she wandered over to her desk, grabbed a piece of white office paper, primed the wall around the crack, covered the crack with the paper and painted over it. "There," she said and moved on to paint the rest of the wall. It was then that I noticed she had used this technique repeatedly around the piece of plywood and in other places on the walls to keep out the cold.

Maine Woods, Small, Lois Dodd

She lived near the Amato Opera House and would arrange for her students to visit an opera every year. Amato was a small opera house with a very small stage. But the stage was deep and the scenery was always layered, dreamlike and complex. There was a very funny, short, older bald singer who was the comedy relief in every play. I was a young graduate student living in a very tough mid-1980's New York City. It was great fun and magical to find such a world in a very rough part of town, then to walk unconcerned through the cold winter's night, snow drifting down from the tall buildings above, to enter into this unique woman's home to share hot cider with class mates.

Lois Dodd 

At this point in time I couldn't tell you what classes Lois taught when I attended Brooklyn College. But I do remember what I learned from her. Minimalism is more than a style of painting. There is an art to being quiet and to not getting knocked off center even in the biggest baddest city on earth. That your art will be about you - always. And sometimes the most unconventional thing you can do is to do the same thing over and over again.