Category Archives: time

what goes up

I throw my thoughts up in the air. I do this regularly now, like a seed sower.

I’m either a fool, or a confident investor. Fools say there is no god. Confidence comes from knowing: knowing that He listens, that He adjusts, that He does answer in some kind of time. I do this because things are falling apart, “the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity” as W.B. Yeats said in his poem The Second Coming. That was so last century. It was rough then when he penned this. I do sense it is soon to be worse now. Thomas Cahill writes that artists see ahead so often, better than others somehow. I believe that may be true, though we are all so fallible. Mark Rothko feared that “one day the dark will swallow the red”. I am not afraid. Maybe it is because I know who is really at work.

It’s said that prayer is mystery, and surely that be true. But this I know, I’m moved to do it, so this is what I do.

No Prisoner Be

“No Prisoner be—
Where Liberty—
Himself—abide with Thee”

Emily Dickinson,#720, 1863

My husband and I have a very dear friend who is a Prince of a man: gentle, wise and selfless are just the starting points describing the deep character of this man. My husband taught with him overseas, and labored with this man on the board of our church. Our son and daughter were both treated under his watch-care as an orthopedic surgeon.

Our friend sits right now in Federal prison, having been framed by arrogant and over zealous young prosecutors in a quick show trail. They made much noise to nab a professional over some scam that a group of people tried to pull to gain fraudulent disability payments. The evidence of our friend’s innocence was not even allowed, was apparently not even looked at in appeal. This is the crime.

What used to be called the Justice system is now a mockery to us, from first hand experience. If our friend, maybe the most blameless man we know, could be framed, then none of us are safe here and now, even in innocence.

And this man? Though he once worked as a celebrated leader serving any comers in a clinic for the poor, he now works as a tailor, using a sewing machine to mend prison garb. And he labors to mend hearts there too. He is teaching a small group the words of the great prophet Isaiah; he is mentoring a growing group of Christian leaders in their midst, modeling forgiveness and enduring faith; and, our friend is learning Greek so he can better read the original language of the New Testament.

He is not a prisoner, he is a saint; I made this for him.

expect the unexpected

Working with Chinese inks on plastic paper has been bringing some interesting surprises, the most fun when I am just loosely holding an idea while the inks behave as inks do. There are certain boundaries I set, and then there are outer boundaries at work (like gravity, and viscosity). But the fun comes in the unexpected finish. I am working together in a sort of duet with these materials, and I rarely know what is going to happen next.

I do have a plan. I need to get 17 pieces done for a showing in November. I have been studying through Emily Dickinson’s work for a couple years, just finished. And lately I have been tracking through the emotional journey of another poet and prophet: Jeremiah the Hebrew. Just today I gave a lecture to students about how Michelangelo saw himself as Jeremiah—at least he chose that singular brooding figure on which to place his own resemblance in the Sistine chapel program. And there was a lot about that project that was a huge struggle for Michelangelo. He wrote about the days when his neck hurt and the plaster was all over him, and he doubted his ability. Oh, but the results.

Time moves. It is all ground for more work to be done until that set moment when all the work is done. I love the finish. But I am learning to enjoy the stretched out surprises in time too, and part of my reason is because I am not the one in charge.

hours and hours

In early morning dark, I was driving my friend to a hospital in another city. We’d been given some pretty clear directions and told it was simple, so off we went. Toward the end of our journey, our eyes focused for the landmarks (in the disruption, neither of us had our “devices”). Ok, we passed the Walgreens where we turn. Ok, we’re supposed to go over this bridge. Ok. . . so where is the next turn, did we miss it? We both leaned forward in our seats, the car ambling forward into the dim. Another couple blocks and we saw a blue hospital sign, then down a hill, around a corner and it felt like maybe we were approaching the right vicinity. Soon: lights, cameras, action.

On the way out, hours later, we retraced our route to get back to the interstate. This part is why I am telling the story: the time to travel out was eons shorter than that long and ponderous earlier drive! How could this be? It was the same exact path of streets we took coming in. But our experience of time was completely different in the reverse direction. We both were startled by this and it got me thinking.

Time seems to be an elastic thing, even as it ticks with a measurable rhythm. Sometimes as I lie in bed at night, I can feel and hear in my ears the beat of my own heart in a predictable rhythm that is beyond my control: pump. pump. pump. I can manipulate some variance in the count of those beats: get excited and they move faster, focus on relaxing and they settle down, but I cannot stop the beats, nor do I want to. Time moves like this in a set program; I cannot ultimately change it’s progress or it’s pace. As I move through time however some things feel quick and some things feel terribly, terribly slow. Certainly the moments looking for the hospital as we examined every sign and longed for every turn were experienced by us as LONG. But on the way out, hearts lifted, day shining and mission accomplished—the entrance to the interstate was so quick it was entirely startling.

Here’s why this informs me: I am awaiting the arrival of Jesus, as He promised. I am moving along looking for His signs. He said the way was simple and just ahead. But it is dim out there where I am traveling now. I will keep going forward. His way is sure. It’s the time thing that has me at the edge of my seat.

So, is it my experience in time, awaiting His arrival that makes it seem LONG? Is it the heartstopping events that make the pace seem to stagger, and the exciting parts make it seem to speed up? This much is clear: time may be subjectively experienced, yet it remains a measured finite resource that moves in one direction only. This video I shot was on a blustery afternoon, also just recently. The movement here reminds me of a phrase in a poem by Susan Morrison, (age 11) “Hours are leaves of life, and I am their gardener, each hour falls down slow.”

darkness is a sign

Signs in daily life are indicators. I see a red stop sign; I stop within a few feet. Signs give warning as to what’s ahead, and signs give one time to think and still to choose which way to respond. There’s a little bit of time between seeing the sign and getting my foot soundly on the brake. I am glad for that. So are my riders.

Darkness is a sign; a shaded marker that is showing up everywhere now. Look around, listen, watch. I am just articulating what you already know (maybe don’t want to know, but sense just the same). Darkness is a departure from light. It surrounds, entraps and leaves one cold. You don’t want to be there. There is nothing calming in a place of unarticulated blackness.

Artists work in the arena of making some kind of signs, knowingly or not, coherent or otherwise. All artists are doing representation of some sort, making indicators of something else. For example, even in the arranging of darks and lights, an artist seeks to use these elements toward highlighting some aim. We even talk about “value structure” though we might otherwise insist there is not such a thing as real value indicated at all by our arrangements. Still, handling lights and darks well are basic coins of the realm in visual work. All light in the composition and we are overwhelmed and cannot see. All darkness and there simply is nothing to see. This is basic, and objectively understood.

Handling light and darks well in life is another matter all together. I have worked with both. I am also a current events watcher, a Bible reader, and a concerned friend. I’m noting that dark signs are stacking up faster than I have ever seen in my 4 plus decades of following the words of the prophets. There is some heaviness in all this observing, there is also some significant hope. Think about this (recorded by the first prophet Moses): the Creator came first in the Genesis account. He was primal. He was deliberative. He spoke and then light came into a place that was full of darkness. That place is further described in Genesis, 1st chapter, verse 2, as being a deep and formless void. The light entering there was a jail break, a remake. The light came into the darkness and then started staging a re-creation. And that was just in the beginning.

But there’s a problem, revealed in the story of the rest of the book. There is an imitator of light who lies, and we are all vulnerable to him. He was named by Jesus as “the father of lies”, “the serpent of old”. He entrapped the whole human race early, not long after that re-make. He masquerades as light (or as any number of fascinating imitations). He can only imitate; he cannot Create but he is crafty. Even the most earnest seekers of good get sidetracked by his clever luring. He is luring you if you are unawares. His intentions are the opposite of the Creator’s; the imitator’s intentions are not good. Like the pilgrim in Bunyan’s tale, we are too easily blinded by this one who lies.

“This life’s dim windows of the soul
Distorts the heavens from pole to pole
And leads you to believe a lie
When you see with, not through, the eye.”

And here’s a watchword: it doesn’t have to end this way. Inserted here is a video that might help you see more of the grand story. If God is the originator of the story, then there is a story, and it has a valuable end. (If He is not, then ultimately there is no story.)

poem above by William Blake, 1757-1827
image “Ancient Gates/Satan’s Throne”, monotype by Mary Nees

at an intersection

Trajectories that meet at a single point are called a convergence. Lines become a single point of intersection, and these places are rare. Rare in life, and I think intriguing in art. This image is a detail of an etching I did several years ago. The piece is called “Temporal”. The idea to me was just the wonder in the slowness of time. As things look random, time is what gives us a chance to view the quiet emergence of so much that is important: the blossoming of fruit, the maturing of character, the perfect development of every longed for thing. And in this waiting there can be great mercy as a trajectory moves toward fulfillment.

Right now in the evening sky there is an unusual convergence happening. You can see it at dusk above the western horizon. The planets Venus and Jupiter have been moving in their singular orbits closer and closer toward a meeting as seen from our vantage point on earth. Tonight, June 30th they will be so near as to appear as one large star. The constellations (that is the star clusters that have been identified by several ancient cultures) are a pictorial back drop behind what happens as our solar system keeps moving like a swiss watch. This convergence of two planets in line with our own is happening in front of the constellation Leo. Maybe that means something. Maybe it doesn’t. But, thinking like an artist, I’m paying attention. Something’s happening here.

patterns below

When random sound moves to even a hint of rhythm, instinctively human ears take note to listen more carefully. Patterns alert curiosity, giving clues as to some kind of intention. Imagine being in a deep woods when a distant tapping becomes metered. Anyone might begin to wonder “what is happening here that I maybe need to catch?” Is someone trying to send a signal? Is there some kind of purposeful activity going on up ahead?
Patterns in visual work bring a similar alertness. Our eyes look for the connections, for any relationships that reveal the pattern-maker’s idea. Sometimes even just the suggestion of intention is enough to sharpen the observer’s gaze.
Pattern is inherently interesting. It is curious while also even calming, especially in the midst of much else that appears random. But it is also mysterious and that is maybe also some of the draw.

I think some of our heightened interest is because pattern indicates some kind of promise behind the hints. Pattern then is like a veil that allures, that brings close while leaving us with more that needs investigation.
To observe pattern quite simply necessitates the expectation of more. And this I think is founded (wether we admit to this or not) in some expectation that there must be a pattern maker behind that veil. Crumbs are not left on a path unless there has been bread that has already been broken.
To glimpse the pattern and run without giving time to consider the character and intentions of the pattern maker is a sort of consumerist robbery. It is a grabbing of the gift without considering where it came from or why. One needs to take time and consideration when noting the crumbs and any other signs on the ground. One takes time looking at art because it is presupposed that someone made it with purpose. When observing the veins in a leaf, when listening to a sonata, the senses focus to understand. All of these things and many more quietly inform the observer.

Rhythms indicate a plan and a process. And process takes a measure of time.
We are hardwired, I think, to hunger after a sense of intention underneath the veil. The restfulness of this little video I shot last month is a good example of what I am thinking about still today. I sat and just observed that morning. I made myself take time. Then the gentle ripples seemed to be coalescing in a very quiet, very unified dance right in front of me. It was as if I was being reminded, again, that what is underneath, and what is far above is at work. Constantly.

ascent attempt

The Psalms of Ascent are a particular progression found in Psalm 120-134. Sometimes called the Psalms of Degrees, these 15 declarations were memorized and sung as pilgrims stepped their way up to Jerusalem for the festivals appointed earlier by Moses. I am not Jewish. But I have long been interested in these songs and what they reveal to any God-seeker about significant forward movement in any true spiritual journey.

There are patterns here that are fascinating. The 15 have several groupings in a sure progression. There is a rhythm that continues unabated even through the seeming randomness, and in some cases desperateness of human trial that is spoken of in the Psalmist’s language. The imagery is a rich and meaningful minefield. The collection repeatedly speaks to the past, the present and the future. It is actually a recipe for hope, and a picture of the concerns of an enlarging heart.

Ascent Attempt What I am posting today image-wise is a little embarrassing. I did this in 2002. It is a rather large piece: 3’x2′, laid down originally with acrylic. I was ambitiously hoping to put into imagery what I see happening in this collection of Psalms, but critiquing my own attempt, this is brash looking, really uninteresting visually, too direct. For these reasons and others this piece sat hidden behind much else for the last 13 years.

Thinking about this progression of ascent again however, and studying the Psalms further, I decided I had to rework this attempt–to go right on top of it. Already the piece here viewed is much different (thank goodness–necessity becomes the mother. . .).

I worked on it all day yesterday and I have much more to do before I will show the finish. It is turning into a subtle landscape. I hope to veil the progression, while also making it more vital, hoping to articulate the wonder in these steps of inner and outer ascending. I am committed to it now.

completing

On the first day of the year 2015, in the morning, we finished a puzzle. This was a vexing one. We’d already invested many hours consulting the map that goes with it, checking and rechecking sizes and shapes, colors and markings. “This shouldn’t be so hard!” “This piece must be lost!” “This is ridiculous!” At one point I was sure, “Do you think the manufacturers of these things (National Geographic in this case) leave out a couple pieces just to get you irritated?”

Why do ordinarily useful people get involved in such a time waster? There was something so satisfying about getting a little odd piece of colored cardboard into its perfect spot, more satisfying than on the face of it cardboard deserves. We both love to see things well completed, we both love looking into things carefully, we both love meaning that is mysterious but sure, pretty confident that the manufacturers did not give us a bum puzzle.

I started thinking about the parallels. Our journey with the Great Manufacturer is like this. He has a plan and a map that is somewhat discernible. He has pieces that are not yet in place, but so many now quickly coming into place. We are in the puzzle and working it.

dormancy

The little Maple volunteer, making it’s way toward light from underneath the canoe caught my attention this summer. It was rooted in a place that would not bode well for its survival. So I replanted it in good soil, placed it into a bright spot and it has been a happy little responder, even giving me another set of leaves. Right on schedule though, it changed with the cooler weather.

And I wonder now if I should bring it in. It was 11 degrees this morning. So I did a little reading about these kinds of things. It turns out that if I protect this seedling by sheltering it inside that the tree will die of exhaustion. It needs dormancy. It needs to slowly harden in the colder weather so that it can stay alive. I will need to watch the freezes so the roots can still get some moisture, but mostly this little tree I am training needs me to stay away and let it be as it chills.

This has me thinking about life cycles, about the nature of progression, about renewals that come only after certain periods, about expectations, about what is happening beneath the surface when signs look otherwise.

I cannot make this development happen. I am watching and I am wondering as I think about alot of other things I want to help develop. This little unlikely sprout is a good teacher.

October

I took this quick shot this morning for a friend. Her sweet Mom (now gone) had given me this card table years ago for a wedding present. I hauled it yet another time today along with my display panel and 30 small pieces for a show at the Storytelling festival this weekend in Jonesborough, TN. This is what the set up looks like naked, reminding me of the gift and the giver. These kindnesses are the bones of what has come after.

Maybe later I will post the finished set up, dressed and ready for company as travelers to the festival consider my work and that of other artisans hoping to coax their interest.
It was a stunning day, this October 1st. Here is what Emily (# 1422) had to say about this month, and I thought it good to add:

Summer has two Beginnings–

Beginning once in June–

Beginning in October

Affectingly again–

Without, perhaps, the Riot

But graphicker for Grace–

As finer is a going

Than a remaining Face—

Departing then—forever—

Forever—until May—

Forever is deciduous—

Except to those who die–

Mary Barton Nees

Conceptual Landscape