Oils vs. Watercolors: Baby Dog Highchair II

Baby Dog Highchair II

I painted a watercolor called “Baby Dog Highchair” a few months ago, an abstraction based on the interaction between my granddaughter and two dogs during meal times. Judy and I spent a month in northeastern Tennessee sharing an Airbnb with my daughter’s family. I had plenty of time to watch the dogs clustering near Ava’s high chair during and after meals. She dropped bounty from above to canine sycophants below.

I was fairly happy with the first painting but wondered whether I could get more out of the subject. I started an oil variation two months ago. I finished it earlier this week after struggling to resolve patterns of shapes and colors into a rhythmic whole.

When I look at the two paintings, I can see changes in palette and composition. The watercolor adhered more faithfully to the colors of our surroundings at the rental. The oil digresses into sharper contrasts in color and tone. The second painting’s greater complexity and variety in textures shows the flexibility of oil and the opportunities the medium gives to reconsider and revise.

I also notice that the watercolor gives me a happier, lighter feeling. The oil looks more brooding. The flying bits of food debris in the latter are playful, but the darker gray colors create an almost ominous vibe. It could be that a change in surroundings affected the creative process when I worked on the oil. I didn’t have daily exposure to a carefree baby to brighten my mood, and anxieties associated with the recent presidential election and concurrent Covid spike may have crept into the paint.

Are We There Yet? Yes Kids, We Are. Almost.

I looked at election updates since Tuesday. Feverish anticipation and anxiety marked the first few days after Election Night. I gradually exhausted my stress response and settled into the dull misery experienced by kids trapped in a car en route to a distant vacation destination. “Are we there yet?”

My wife turned on the news today at noon and found out that Biden had been declared the winner in Pennsylvania. We watched a news report from Philadelphia showing celebrants gathering in the streets. My wife started to cry with relief. I felt the weight of the last four years lift off my chest.

Halleluiah.

I still believe that we’re in for two and half months of uncertainty as the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue finishes his term. Trump’s erratic behavior may spin further out of control now that he has nothing left to lose.

And I doubt that many of his backers will ever accept the results of the election. I remember the outpouring of scorn on my Facebook page from his acolytes after 45 won the election in 2016. God knows what it will be like now.

I also expect Trump to snipe from the sidelines once he exits office. He and his followers will promote conspiracy theories and invent false controversies. I hope that the majority of Americans will finally tune him out, but nearly half of the country voted for the man. Some of them must still be true believers…

One of my favorite moments from this week happened during a press conference with an election official in Nevada. A Trump backer interrupted by shouting barely intelligible ravings about vote count cheating. The ranter eventually tired and wandered off. The official turned back to the reporters and calmly asked, “Where was I?”

I think that he modeled the most appropriate response to the upcoming storm of misinformation and invective. Let the screamers scream until they run out of gas, then go about your business.

So kids, we’re almost there. I can see the campsite up ahead, and you’ll soon be able to get out of the car and run around beneath the trees. But remember, kids, there are bears in the woods. Watch out.

Work, Exercise, Meditate, Booze

I’ve got a survival plan worked out to help me through the closing days of the election.  I stole the idea from “Eat, Pray, Love”.  My version is: work, exercise, meditate, booze.

Instead of binging on political news and commentary to feed my adrenaline addiction, I’m going to focus on work. Getting things done eases the nagging feeling of burden that builds during the week. Crossing items off a to-do list creates an illusion of control during a chaotic time. 

My classes are all on-line, however. Working on the computer involves remembering how to upload videos, send e-mails with content embedded within documents, take and edit pictures of demonstration drawings, etc.  These activities tax my patience and test my confidence. 

Exercise relieves some the negative effects brought on by work.  I do a set of stretches and isometric exercises recommended by the Indian guru, Yogananda.  These clear my head and rearrange kinks in my spine.  Yardwork helps also.  Pulling cat’s claw and skunk vines, trimming bushes, and digging up invasive camphor seedlings provides an outlet for aggression.  The battle never ends in Florida:  there’s never a time when my property nears a manicured presentation.

Meditation takes me further toward a peaceful attitude.  I can accurately read my stress level during initial stages of quiet centering.  Representations of buried irritations, of bad memories, and of the cumulative weight of daily responsibilities parade across the mind’s eye.  The procession eventually runs out of floats.  The tinny music lingers sometimes but gets fainter and fainter.  Then a sense of calm and well-being descends.  For a few minutes, I can let go and commune with a deeper presence.  I view my worries with a better sense of proportion.

Meditation doesn’t always take me far enough.  I’m not that adept.  Agitation and tension remain only partially relieved.  And failure to take enough time to come out of a deep meditation sends me into a sensitized state where minor annoyances magnify, and the subconscious muck stirred to the surface during beginning stages returns to torment me with the manic insistence of a carload of evil clowns.  A traditional remedy calls to me then.

A bottle of whiskey, like a glass-enclosed fire alarm, can be broken into during emergencies.  Coping isn’t the therapeutic strategy at this point.  Anesthetization is.  I prefer a Russian stout for initial treatment.  Bourbon or Irish whiskey is applied to deeper wounds. Truly desperate times call for the addition of a cigar.   

If you pass my house and see me seated beneath a magnolia tree, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigar in other hand, do not attempt to engage me in friendly conversation. If communication is absolutely necessary, approach with caution.  Tobacco smoke is my defensive force field. The stink is your official warning.

Waiting for Tomorrow

I’ve heard varying estimates for the arrival and dispersal of a Covid vaccine. It sounds like the earliest we could return to some semblance of normalcy is next fall. One year.

My wife and I dropped off our ballots at the Seminole County Supervisor of Elections office last week. No one, thank God, stood near the door shouting and waving signs…We watched five minutes of the last debate this Thursday. The mental abuse suffered while watching the first left us with no stamina for the more civilized second…The phone rings and rings with calls from strangers who would assure us, if we picked up, that the world will end if we vote for the wrong candidate. Every other TV ad shows a candidate looking majestically toward the future while hugging a kid. The rest of the ads paint a dark future if any of the gray-faced, slack-jawed, economy-killing incompetents listed on the ballot get elected. And Election Day is nine days away. Nine days.

My wife and I keep looking forward to a better future, a future that has some resemblance even to 2019. 2019 had plenty of strife and worry, but I can’t name one burning issue from that year that kept me awake at night. I’m sure there were some, but what I recall seems like a hazy memory of a childhood nightmare.

I sometimes marvel at old shows and movies showing people casually hanging out in crowds. Even old political controversies seem quaint now. I disliked George H.W. Bush’s policies back in the early 90s, but now he seems like a supreme model for a civil, intelligent, competent executive. I could live with another president like that.

I long for a dream world. In this existence, things still suck in the traditional ways that life on this planet sucks. But in my utopia, no one lies about the suckage. No one blames anyone else for their own shortcomings. No one spins facts and events for the benefit of corrupt overlords. Up is up, and down is down. And everyone, while still enjoying a great deal of freedom, considers the consequences of their speech and action on others.

I know that heaven will never descend to earth, that present “difficulties” will not magically vanish. Hoping for the dawn of a Golden Age is an exercise in foolish expectation. So, for now I resign myself to seeing loved ones at widely spaced intervals. I acknowledge that going to church and teaching in a classroom will most likely have to wait until next fall. I go through my daily routine and remember to shave, change the sheets on my bed, and wash the dishes. And I try not to waste time waiting for tomorrow.

“Politics,” I Thought

I heard a bird cry out. I turned toward the sound and saw a red-shouldered hawk gliding to land on a branch high up in the neighbor’s pine. Then crows cawed loudly nearby. I saw two of them standing at attention near the top of a dead maple. They directed their objections to the hawk. He pretended to ignore them but occasionally replied with a piercing call.

The crows disliked his intrusion on their territory. The hawk asserted his right to go wherever he pleased. The stand off continued for several minutes until the hawk decided that he had made his point long enough. He flew south toward the drainage ditch. The crows jeered at his retreat.

All the participants claimed victory. “Politics,” I thought.

I attempted to speak at a church committee meeting. A woman interrupted my first sentence and ran on and on. I tried again, but she talked over the top of me once more. I raised my hand, gave her a look and said, “I’d like a chance to speak.” She replied as if to a child, “You know, the women in this church are the ones who really run things.” Power politics.

I helped set up tables for a church meeting at the direction of the interim pastor. Deacon candidates would be seated at a U configuration of long tables where they would be called upon to describe their spiritual journeys. An elder pulled the pastor to one side for a private confab. He listened intently and nodded in agreement several times. He turned to me and said with a sheepish grin, “I guess I’ve got this all mixed up. Rhoda tells me that there are too many people here for my scheme to work. We’ll have to rearrange the tables.” No note of frustration tinged his speech. He made no attempt to reassert his authority.

His goals were efficiency, clarity and service. No politics.

Just Enough, Never Too Much

I’ve been avoiding the news lately and shunning political commentary.  I’ve realized that a good portion of this agitated chatter is about sales.  Even if I agree with a journalist, he or she is peddling an interpretation, a viewpoint.  A straightforward news report may be factual, but the presentation influences my perception of the depicted events.  I am not experiencing directly but seeing through filters set up by editors and programmers.

I’m trying to better understand what Paul means by, “For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face…” (1 Corinthians 13:12).  How does my personal history alter my discernment of day to day reality?  Of the Divine?  Paul seems to be saying that the lenses in our minds only allow dim sparks of God’s magnificence to shine.

Our hunger for communion with God is whetted, perhaps, by the glimpses we receive.  We get a taste and greedily want more. 

My son encountered ice cream for the first time when he was about nine months old.  He made a face (the ice cream felt uncomfortably cold in his mouth), but then his eyes popped open.  The flavor had struck.  He squealed in anticipation when Judy raised the next spoonful.

He was less enthusiastic when we fed him boiled chicken and mashed peas.  But as responsible parents, we couldn’t give him ice cream at every meal.  And its sweet delight would have faded and become common place.

Perhaps God gives us the amount of light, peace and comfort we can profitably absorb.  Too much too often wouldn’t be useful or good.  Instead, moments of insight are reminders that there is more to life than the daily worries plaguing us.

The news may be tinted, and our experiences further color our perceptions.  We see darkly.  But grace gives us the reassurance that we will eventually know not in part but in whole. 

That promise gives me hope.

Could’ve Skipped That

Dropped off the Honda at the local mechanic, an honest guy with a friendly smile. Walked a mile home on a hot morning. Felt a little vertigo (tight shoulders and neck, slight veering to the left), and the hips creaked with each step. Approached a middle school bus stop and saw two punks staring at me. One smirked to the other. They laughed up their sleeves as I came closer. Glared at them, but the bigger kid smirked again, whispered to his buddy and drew a laugh. Leaned in and barked, “Something must be real funny.” Silence.

Could have skipped that. Who cares what 13-year-olds think?

Ate breakfast, worked on the screened-in-porch door. Made lunch for Judy and me. Assembled the door. Glued and stapled the sections together.

Called the mechanic and walked back to the garage. Felt woozy as I got near. Had to cross Aloma ( a busy four-lane road). Vertigo came back as I stood on the median. Spread my feet wide apart to brace myself as traffic wooshed by in front and behind me. Considered sitting down. Could have skipped that.

Made it to the mechanic’s, and he offered me a cold drink. Must have looked wrung out from the heat.

The man had time to talk. We discussed fly-by-night service companies in Orlando. Agreed that we’d avoid any company sporting a Christian symbol on their ads. They’re usually the worst. Said, “Hey, Hitler was a Catholic, just not a good one.”

The mechanic said, “Speaking of Hitler, what about Trump?”

“You don’t like Trump?” I asked.

“Oh, I do,” the mechanic answered.

The conversation turned into a political debate. The mechanic’s assistant spouted conspiracy theories. Blamed Obama for Russian election interference. The mechanic floated the idea that Trump was a better choice than a career politician for defending social security. Business men manage money better. Trump is a business man.

Made a few counterpoints. The assistant identified me as a liberal moron, sneered, fell back on smug indignation. The mechanic enjoyed the debate, laughed frequently. (He must enjoy starting political fights when things get slow.)

Could’ve skipped that.

The Contrary Generation

Tom Brokaw dubbed my father-in-law’s compatriots the greatest generation. They grew up during the Great Depression and fought WWII. They believed in sacrifice for the greater good and love of country. They worked hard, persevered against long odds, and fought harder after getting knocked down.

They also spawned the Baby Boomers.

I’ve been wondering what moniker pundits will give to my generation. Some of the early Boomers protested the Vietnam War, participated in the free speech and free love movements, took drugs, formed communes, refused to conform to the demands of the free market system. Then, in the eighties, Yippies evolved into Yuppies. They swerved to the right and pledged allegiance to capitalism, greed. Yuppies became neo-cons in the late 90s and early 2000s. They believed in the United States’ right to use military power to intervene in the Middle East, to depose governments and install American-leaning democracies. Now a significant percentage of the Boomers believe in Trump, the great Big Daddy. They pray that he’ll use charisma, loud-mouthed bullying and cut-throat bargaining to secure the tattered remnants of white privilege. So much for peace, love, nonconformity and power to the people (uh huh).

We are the contrary generation.

Of course, not all the boomers swayed to the tune of every passing fad and bowed down to every commercial campaign. Not all sold out. Some tried to make their portions of the world better. But I had hoped that the abundant youthful idealism of the 60s would have produced more positive action over the long haul.

The 60s were a party. The 70s a hangover. The 80s a redirection. Every year from 1992 on has been part of a fitful thrashing about, a search for solid ground. I understand why the millennials look at us in disbelief.

But the Boomers are human. Current and future generations can look at us as a cautionary tale. The Millennial and I-Generation’s assumption that they won’t fall into the same traps leads to identical behavior. The Boomers, once upon a time, thought they were better than the Greatest Generation. They thought they were special. Look how that turned out.

Mad Lord Punt

Mad Lord Punt, oil/canvas, 11×14″

Mad Lord Punt woke from a nap,

drew on a map, and

told the storm where to go.

He huffed to the east and blew to the west

and stemmed its windy flow.

Punt slicked his hair and puffed out his chest,

said “Look here, look here at me!”

He had bested the rest and reminded them lest

they forgot his chivalry.

Mad Lord Punt promised this, swore that,

and it all came true in a way.

He protected guns and his favorite chums

and never let Dems win the day.

He might have lied but just a few died,

and they didn’t count anyway.

His legend stayed shiny,

though he sounded quite whiny

as the idol’s feet turned to clay.

Mad Lord Punt sits on his gold.

Yellow ore warms his bum.

He can’t ever be told

that his lover’s grown cold.

But mourners are beating a drum.

His middle’s grown fatter and

the world’s bigly sadder

now that the crowds have long gone.

But he never did anything wrong, no sir.

He never did anything wrong.

Summit

(Summit, Oil/Canvas, 30×40″)

Two leaders meet to resolve conflicts, personal and international. They stare solemnly into each other’s eyes as they shake hands. Intertwined flags representing the pride and ideals of two nations serve as their backdrop. The flags remind the powerful men that deliberations carry weight, that the negotiators-in-chief must pay the price of power by shouldering the heavy burdens of office.

The two retire to a super secret conference room with their translators and lawyers. The meeting stretches long into the night, and the only word coming out of the palace is that lackeys served refreshments after the fifth hour passed.

The world waits breathlessly for word of the results of their intense negotiations. What will they say? What new policies have been chosen? How will their decisions affect the lives of millions?

The curtains part. Two middle-aged men solemnly tread a burgundy carpet toward twin lecterns. The first man taps his mike, leans forward and says, “Beer is good.” The other nods and adds, “We like beer.”

Reporters erupt with questions: what kind of beer? do you favor lagers over stouts? how do you explain the unfathomable popularity of IPAs? will there be an agreement for tariff-free beer exchange between countries? is this the budding moment of a suds-détente?

One leader waves his hands to quiet the crowd. The other leans toward the mike during a lull in the shouting, smiles sadly and says, “We like beer.”