Moving On...

Sometimes you just need to sit with something. Let it be as Paul sang to us. I think of how far we travelled since walking down to Yasgur's Farm. Is this the Dawn they sang of? We hardly left the Dawning when suddenly soothsayers of all sorts chanted 2012 and the end based on the Mayan Calendar, and who knows what all else. It is entirely possible that the Mayans just thought "you know, perhaps 10,000 years is long enough. Can I just stop recording the future days at 10,000?" It doesn't end Kids, it just changes. Evolves. Evolution is Gods work anyway. You may be ready for it, you may not. You may need to sit by the side of the road and take a breather and let it settle before moving on, but you need to move on. Read books on Kindle now, because that's where it's at. Listen to music on computer, because that's where you can keep all your favorites. Skip commercials all you want to on your DVR because they will still find you when you google search. Anything you ever searched for, or bought online will suddenly pop up in the column to the right, you can't fast forward the shit. It will follow you, so keep up. Keep ahead. Try.
Yeah it's a long way down that dusty road where you first met a Child of God. Joined a rock n roll band. Road cross country on a bus to Altamont, and we all know how that ended. Prescient don't you think?
You can't have the good without the bad I guess. We haven't learned to just accept the good without manifesting a barometer of bad to prove to us that it was. We need to period the sentence with a tragedy? Why is that? What if we could let it be. Don't judge, watch, listen, allow. Detach. Be here. Don't be here. We are stardust, we are golden, we are the garden, and the Earth she turns, and turns, and keeps on turning...rolling along that great gravity wheel. Free ride. Moving on.

The Road and All That Is

Oil on Canvas, Tire, Rope

Dimensions variable based on hang length. 

2005

Simultaneously September, 2001.

I am obsessed with Time. The endless march of it. What it gives you and what it takes away. How it is controlled by the space it inhabits. How it stretches out endlessly corralling all it owns in the vast reaches of space. It is simultaneous. All the Masters tell us All That Is, is simultaneous. It exists, and not, always.

I will never be able to lose sight of the idea, the images, and the stories of those who left the Twin Towers high up in the air before they fell. In my mind they will be forever caught up. I believe they left before their bodies were thrust out of the buildings. I believe they were all caught up, those who stayed inside and those who leapt. I believe that God caught them up, protected them, brought them home. They flew out long before the shell of their bodies ever returned to Earth.

My favorite images of the Twin Towers are from when I would lay down at the base of one of them. Laying down on the pavement, my head up against the foot of the building and then looking skyward at the enormous length of it. The immensity of the Tower running out of the full scope of my vision closest to me and trailing away as if only an idea from my sightline into the sky. The distance incomprehensible even though it is easily measured. 110 stories.
When the Towers were built their future was designed into them. They existed before they were built and will exist forever after. Their creation and construction is a part of what they were to become even though no one knew the outcome of their story. They are simultaneously linked to what they are, what they contained, and what happened. They are a parable for all of our lives. We each contain the story of our outcome within us, even though we don't know what that is, it is also simultaneous. Our memory provides us with the long look back. Our future towers beyond us but is also here right now, corralled by Time and only lays out before us. Closest to our field of vision taking up all that space and then trailing away into the great distance out from us into the beyond. As if you could lay your head at the base of your Life and look up into your future. You know where you are, what you are made of, where you have been, where you are grounded. You know all that came before you in your Life because you experienced it, but what about that long trail that shimmers into the sky? That endless, beautiful ribbon? The part you might have notions of, and the part that is measurable at the end but at this moment is enormous and incomprehensible. The painful beauty of it astounds because our attachments and emotional lives are so intertwined with our experiences but when all is said and done will still come crashing down around us. A ribbon collapsed. A chain un-taut. The DNA of us, of our Life. All that made us up, who we are, were, became, did and died. Simultaneously existing beyond Time and her space, beyond her reach. Caught up by God, protected and held close. All That Is.

These ideas were at the time beyond my comprehension. I was so pained by those who leapt from the Towers, ejected by the force of the heat, the smoke, all of it. I still am. It is enormous and beyond my measure.  So I painted them and waited patiently for time to pass which would allow me to gauge them, and understand what they contained, were made of, and meant. We may never knew the entire story of the Twin Towers, 9/11, what they were and what was lost. We have them collected into our consciousness and Time will slowly reveal their story as she marches on, trailing like a ribbon all they contain for their full expression. What will never be revealed are the people in her story. They were caught up by God. Out of Time's reach. They left before their great collapse and went Home, but are simultaneously linked forever into our memory of what happened. As painful and difficult as that may be, but part of it, and expressed powerfully.

Caught Up

Oil on Canvas

24" x 40"

2003

Deus ex Machina

Oil on Canvas

8' x 6'

2003

Lambda

Oil on Canvas

7' x 5'

2003

Pi

Oil on Canvas

7' x 5'

2003

Ten Years Ago, August

I was living in New York City, on 47th Street. Hells Kitchen. That summer I started having vertigo off and on during the day, sometimes at night. I would move and suddenly the room would move with me. I would have to sit down and collect myself. I wasn't sick, didn't actually have vertigo, but I hate saying "dizzy spells" as it doesn't sound right. In the evenings I was having gentle out of body experiences, not full, but I could feel the expansion that comes with it as I lay down to go to sleep. I used to get these as a kid, started during adolescence if I remember correctly. Laying down in bed I would start to feel like I was growing at an alarming rate. I felt as if I was being gently rocked side to side and then moving at a sudden speed. It used to scare me, but I decided one day that it didn't have to be unpleasant, that I didn't have to fight it. Once I let go and stopped fighting I soon felt a more pleasurable, incredibly overpowering rushing feeling like I was taking off, or out, or somewhere, and then I would usually fall fast asleep. These stopped for years, and didn't return until much later when I was living in N.Y. The summer of 2001 they started up again, this time with a whoosh. These only happened when I was alone, never when next to another body which I always felt a bit curious about. They still don't for the most part. Some nights I try to make it happen, but can't. At any rate, this coupled with the feeling of vertigo during the day didn't sit well with me, and as I recently quit smoking decided that I was experiencing latent withdrawal symptoms. I try to be a big mind over matter kind of guy. When the vertigo would come on I would talk myself out of it and carefully continue navigating whatever task was at hand. At the time I was dressing Michelle Lee in Tale of the Allergist Wife. Frequently I would be backstage and feel this vertigo rush, and be in the middle of changing Ms. Lee, or any number of activities. Internally I felt something was up, something was coming, something was going to change. My dear friend Vita shared with me a Catholic tradition of August 15, the Assumption of the Holy Mother. I understand from her this is a Day of the Water. A day where you would take yourself to the water; lake, stream, ocean, any body of water apparently, and anoint yourself. The Holy Mother would heal you of any affliction. I found this to be such a beautiful idea. I thought of my dizziness, the rushing out of body experiences, the aural buzz I could hear throughout the day (that is another story for another time), which I eventually learned to tune in to but haven't quite grasped deeper information from. I thought of the weird time I felt we were all living in. It all felt like "It" wasn't enough. Like we wanted more, like we were all unsatisfied. I thought of this Holy Angel who would come and heal of us of whatever needed healing. I painted an image of the Angel. On her shoulders she carries a vessel of Healing Water, this gift. Around her waist hung the holy prayer beads. Mala. 108 of them. Our prayers make up the beads hung from her waist. Our prayers bring her to us. She anoints us, heals us. She wraps her long arms around us and holds us safe. She steps out of a holy light into our lives and soothes our pain, heals our heart. She enlightens us.
After I finished this painting I saw that it appears as if she is stepping out of a light bulb. A few weeks later I painted a lightbulb that was burned out, shattered, scattered, fragmented, ruined, destroyed, exploded. Its image a ghostly burn that can never be forgotten.
Later I would paint a combo of these two images, which has remained unfinished to this day. A painting that I began long after midnight but just a few hours before the morning of September 11. I was unable to fall asleep the evening of September 10. I felt sick to my stomach and tremendously anxious, so I got up to paint thinking it would help. Working through feelings when I can't sleep usually helps me relax. Sometimes it is just because I exhaust myself, then my emotions calm, my mind can rest, I can sleep. The painting I created then is of this same angel being held upside down. She is being lowered by others into the vessel of healing water she carried previously. Next to her are two burned out, exploded, shattered, ruined, destroyed lightbulbs. (This unfinished painting I have never photographed or catalogued. Its image won't be seen here).

I've never shown these two paintings. I understand now where they came from, what they represent, and what I was going through physically, emotionally, and spiritually. What I believe we all were going through at the time, and what we were about to experience. I accept all of it and still marvel at the wonder of the unconscious which whispers to us all. All the time. The unconscious which is connected to our Higher Self, and All That Is. That understands all and yearns to communicate with us through any means possible.
Life is precious. Nothing is promised. Love all.

August 15

Watercolor Stick, Wax on Canvas

44" x 61"

2001

Untitled

Graphite, Wax on Watercolor Paper

40" x 60"

2001

Writing, Sandra Bernhard, Fink, and Les Miserables.

So I started writing a book. This was in part brought about as a result of this blog here, and the reason why I haven't blogged in a while. I think I have a lot of stories, but more than that I want to share. That is my job after all, to leave something behind. Writing every night backstage in my office while the 25th Anniversary tour of Les Miserables has its run here. Surrounded by my sketch of Sandra Bernhard, Stevie Knicks, Natalie Maines, and Pink. They are my spiritual angels. Part of a dream I have that I am trying to manifest, and part of my team of muses. Also it is just a great drawing, so I keep them near. Sandra has always been a dynamic inspiration for me, and a beautiful friend. This sketch sits above a Life magazine cover of Gwen Verdon from 1959. Gwen was a friend and dance partner of sorts to my dear friend and dance teacher Eddie Gasper. Eddie was in Sweet Charity with Gwen. Eddie was, among so many more accomplishments, Bob Fosse's assistant for many productions spanning several years.  In this same picture with Gwen is Harvey Evans. I dressed Harvey in Scarlet Pimpernel on Broadway. We were reunited when he was in the cast of Leap of Faith here at the Ahmanson Theatre. He walked into my office and saw the Life magazine cover and told me that the guy on Gwen's right was him.  He told me how the picture was taken at around 2 am after a show. He said the photographer popped open a bottle of champagne before the shoot started, and they had a blast. Harvey has worked on Broadway all his life, and performed with Eddie in the original West Side Story.
The point? It all comes around. The recognition of the connection that is spun in a life lived as consciously as possible. Beautiful, meant, and perfect. These people are like landmarks that remind me I am in the right place. They would be the ones handing me a paper cup of water in the marathon of Life as I ran by. Supporting and encouraging along the way. I like looking at this road, this path I have been on and all the people along the way. Those who were on the bus for just a bit, and those that are here for the ride. The bus driver and all the stops, fits, and starts. I paint about the road, I think about the road, I love the road. I am writing a book about this road of mine because I think it is interesting. After all I have been the backstage privileged eyes and ears to many many moments, events, and people. All worth sharing. All of the stories say more about me really and just like a self portrait, it makes most sense to the viewer. Reader in this instance.
I always need to have some musical gasoline as I paint. I find in writing this book that it is the same as painting. I need specific music to match what it is I am creating. I have listened exclusively to Fink. His latest is Perfect Darkness, and it is perfectly lighting the way for me for some (as of yet unknown) reason. As I write I'm learning things about myself I had not yet discovered, and the enlightenment is revealing in ways I would not have imagined.
Adelaide Laurino was my first employer on Broadway. She was the production wardrobe supervisor for Les Miserables, among countless other shows. She was back supervising Les Miz on Broadway when I last saw her in 2002. I went to see her, to thank her for the opportunities she gave me and all I learned from her. I wanted to say goodbye to her before my move to Los Angeles. I knew then I wouldn't see her again. She passed a year later, but is still with me. I am reminded of her nightly as I work in my office. She is encouraging me along the way also, as the beginnings of this book is about her in so many ways. Another reminder of being in the right place...as One Day More sings in the background.

Sandra Bernhard and friends sketch, study for a woven, and outline painting: 

Michael Gardner

...hanging on wall next to my desk in my office at work

I dreamed the stars moved

...I am home where I grew up in Fargo. The field that used to be next to our house is like it was when I was a kid. Not like it is now, full of homes. It is night, and I am walking through the field down the dusty, car-created road that divides the old farm field in half. I look up into the deep night sky, full of stars. Stars I could only see when I was young. I see the grid of the heavens that aligns all the stars, and see its simple, elegant perfection. The stars before me near the horizon begin to move, and relocate...shifting their positions in an instant. It is beautiful to watch and as they move I am lifted up by an unseen force, flat on my back, about 6 feet off the ground. I am not afraid, I seem to understand that this should happen. I begin to fly forward towards home at amazing speed.
It is a beautiful dream.
I believe we live in a time of instant change. Of instant evolution. I believe we are closer to realizing who and what we are and our limitless potential. I believe the heavens and all its stars will move to support us as we need them to, as we are ready for, as we are clear enough with our highest reality to guide us, as we are fearless and full of love for ourself, and recognize our inseperable connection to All That Is.
The heavens are but a great bird. Flying us to our greatest destiny. A sweep of its unlimited wingspan and oceans of time are flown to another time and place.

The Heavens Flight

(10) triptych self folding cardboard panels @ 70" x 60"

Oil, Oil Stick on cardboard panel

2010

Creating new

...works takes up most of it's time in the creation process due to my need to just look at it. I can spend the afternoon, many noons over and over, just looking at new work.  This becomes especially true when I am working on the next phase in the evolution of my work. Sitting about ten feet away, and staring. Routinely walking away from the piece and then returning. (Something I learned to do when I was a college freshman, with a drawing of mine that looked finished. However I felt every time I glanced at it I saw that it wasn't fully realized. I propped up this drawing at the far end of the den outside my bedroom and stared at it from a distance until I understood what could be done).  If it is the day after I just started a new piece, I make a point upon my return to the studio the following day to not look at the painting until I am fully settled and situated, with a cup of coffee in hand. Then I finally allow myself to face the work and stare at it.  It is as if this new work showed up in my studio and I am seeing it again for the first time. I quiet my mind, and listen to it.
Yes. Listen.
Some of my paintings are much more talkative than others. I have a painting I did several years ago that spoke incessantly to me while I worked on it.

You, Me, God

48" x 54"

Watercolor, graphite on the backside of gessoed canvas

1998

This painting is deeply personal, and unfolded it's purpose of aligning me with myself, where I came from, love and the struggles I face, and how God reveals to me.

Some paintings don't talk to me until much later. Saving their thoughts until I am ready to listen and hear what it is they have to say. Most all of my paintings tell me their name, or title, if I ask. Putting a word in my head that frequently isn't a word I am familiar with, causing me to have to look it up in the dictionary.

Now, I'm not trying to sound all mumbo-jumbo here. Although if you know me, you understand that this is a natural part of the world I inhabit, and is part of the alchemy in my process. My goal is to impart the importance of listening, of looking, of being quiet. Quiet allows me to see something I may not have realized is there. Quiet gives me room to hear what is there if only I just listen. A painting is always like that, and I can look for hours. I must. I encourage all to allow the time to take in a painting in this way. That is why there are always wooden benches in museums placed back from paintings, so you can sit attentively and look and listen. Often I hang a particular painting near my bed so at night it is the last thing I take in. Quieting my mind to listen, opening my eyes to see so when I fall asleep I am open to my unconscious, and all the unseen worlds that my conscious eyes and ears don't connect with during the day. Plus, it gives me the opportunity to check in with a piece and see generally what I am up to. Giving me the option to go further if need be, to reflect, and then the following day when I go to my studio I have that information distilled for me when I work.

My new paintings which I am currently considering as "(The) Space Between" pieces are taking much quiet consideration. I was thinking while I was working on the current studies that I needed a reference from an artist before me, and was trying to think of who or what that was. The name Franz Kline popped into my head. Not an artist I have spent any time considering, nor can I say his work has stuck with me from anything I saw. However I am always trusting of quiet information so I googled images, and there they were. The first remark in this historical line of work (not ultimately 'the first' but first in terms of contemporary art, that reflects this direction for me...I could also site the line drawings of Van Gogh, and Picasso...but then I am not here to do research for you...just ask that you look as well), that gave me encouragement to continue. No artist in any medium works in limbo. To fail to question what came before and not recognize your place in the historical line is to deny your place alongside those that came before, and those who will stand next to you, after. So while I make a point to always work originally, I make another point to know what was done before me. Listening to what others have said too.

Study for (The) Space Between

8" x 12"

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

2011

The Space Between

...is where I/we all seem to be right now. So much dismantling of the land is shaping up. Tornadoes, earthquakes, floods. We have to remember we are on a ball made of rock and water held together by unseen force and floating through space defined by the lack of substance in between objects. So much and so little happen; royal weddings come and go of a privileged class by birth which are media-vomited down our throats as if they were all that mattered, terrorist leaders taking their last stand behind sandy walls, and celebrity children of celebrities selling out Radio City Music Hall on account of bad behavior.
I am reading Life by Keith Richards. He writes of the silent quiet spaces between the chords, the drums, the vocals that become interesting, beautiful.
I think it is the many dazzling facets of ones Life that become the brilliance. The facets. The flat blank spaces between the hard angled ridge in a diamond.
The space.
We are so compelled to fill our lives with constant, that the moment of pause makes one unnerved. Fidgety. Vulnerable.
Keith is right. It is the space that is beautiful. It allows you to recognize where you just came from, and gives clue as to where you may be headed.

Study for (The) Space Between 

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

8" x 12"

Michael Gardner