“Windows”, 40” x 30”, mixed media/canvas
Available at Paragon Fine Arts, Lewisburg, WV

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

​
​They offer just enough privacy to help us feel secure in our homes, with that peculiar luxury of seeing but not participating in the wild world beyond.  I can assess the climate and scope things out before committing to directly engage.

It’s also fun to take advantage of their limited veiling. Walking in the evenings in a neighborhood lets me glimpse into interiors and for an instant gain a peek into how others arrange their homes—the wall colors, the lighting, the art, the furnishings. Is their taste spartan or flamboyant? Antique or sleek styles, focused or eclectic? I never noticed that piano…

Even the simplest window humbly embodies near magical, multi-sensory options beyond sight. Safely perched in our room they let sun or moonlight flow in, keep snow out and retain warmth during chilly seasons, can gift us with sweet birdsongs in the morning, and cool fresh breezes on hot evenings. 

I love how from the street view the interior light glows through the panes. Blinds or curtains can intensify the contrasting tones. The dynamic is further influenced by the sunrise or sunset, the street lights, the shadowing of the trees, and the lay of the land. 

The windows of a cabin nestled in a hillside radiate a wholly different effect from those of a home reflected across a lake or an inner city penthouse on a snowy evening. Broken windows in any setting evoke an unconscious pathos or concern in us. Like a broken mug, something useful we’ve all enjoyed has been rendered unusable. Worse than a mug, there’s an implication a violation has occurred.

"To thee I do commend my watchful soul, Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes," ~ from “Richard III” by Wm. Shakespeare. 

Smudged and soiled windows suggest a lack of care and make us uneasy.  Clean windows, like clear eyes, feel “honest,” maybe because nothing is hidden.  Although made of the same elements, just as a glance can be chilling or kind, a clean window can generate coldness or warmth depending on how it presents itself to us. 

Windows are a unique portal, a passage through which we don’t physically trespass, yet they generate a felt experience within, through our intellectual and emotional selves. 

I’ve always responded to color. It moves me without thought. Like eyes may “flash”, glow, or absorb us, I’m intrigued by the way certain chromatic tones affect us. It’s challenging to articulate the visceral way I respond to color. I suspect we all may have a predisposition to lean toward certain harmonies and arrangements. 

I have a set of 1500 paint color samples, each on an 8” x 10” sheet. They’re pure chromatic “tastings” and at a rudimentary level, seen independently, they all glow and not one of them feels “ugly.” To proclaim a color ugly to me seems akin to a musician claiming a lone note, experienced on its own as dissonant. Disharmony is entirely related to context—the dynamic with other notes, their varying intensities, how much of each, the overlay, the arrangement, even the environment in which they are experienced. 

How much am I influenced by the accumulated noise of views that are not based on my direct experience? Can I keep my being free from thinking, stay open to all those souls I encounter? Recognize there can be immense depth felt in even instantaneous exchanges through the window of each other’s eyes? In my daily encounters, can I refrain from judging the color of a soul “ugly” or “righteous”, and instead look to feel and understand its presence in context, as one tiny piece in this grand, infinite mosaic? 

Rather than staying falsely separate and insisting on keeping distant, can I unlock some of my own boundaries, allow the presence of others to flow in a safe exchange? Are my own windows free of accumulated dirt, are they clear, warm and welcoming? Am I using the window of Awareness, this mysterious gift of being and profound portal, to nurture the glow of our connection to one another and all life? 

Here’s to keeping our windows clean and open in the year ahead. 

Life has a way of provoking us into Awareness by disrupting our routines. 

I was hard at it on the job, keeping track of the overlapping coats of stain I was brushing with my 4” brush as the sun neared the horizon. It can be challenging when seasons are shifting: the wind was blowing twigs and debris atop the deck. One has to work in an efficient and considered way, maintaining a wet edge yet not creating puddles nor leaving sloppy drips. 

The second coat adds to the durability of the protective covering, extending the life of the wood. We’re keen to keep our homes looking good, and our investment in them secure. I like to think maintaining a home isn’t entirely about vanity, nor investment, but also a desire to care for and preserve places that have nurtured us. 

We were in the last days of warm fall weather. Amid the noise of constant gusts of wind, I was trying to sustain my focus as I brushed stain on the large deck. Oak leaves rustled in the trees overhead and then again as they dragged across my work surface. The fierce winds released them ahead of schedule from the grand trees nearby.

A loud thump on the glass startled me; I knew my clients were not home. I turned to the sound in time to see a small bird roll onto its back and twitch. For a moment I was hopeful it might just be knocked numb, and recover, as I’d occasionally seen other birds do. Within seconds a stream of blood poured from behind its neck, and a small pool formed on the deck. Its feet clenched a few times, then sadly, it lay still. 

I retreived my hammer, clawed a small hole in the soil, and found a few large pieces of bark. Crouching next to it, I couldn’t help notice the elegance of the subtle taupe and gray tones on the feathers of this no longer alive cedar wax wing, named for the tips of yellow on its wingtips. I gently collected it in the bark, and carried it down the steps, placed it in the crude hole, and pushed the soil over it.  

It rattled me for a bit and guided my ponderings the rest of the day. In our culture, we rarely witness this most profound of transitions, life into death. But is such wording accurate? Over the years, admittedly with some effort and not without grief and sorrow, I’ve come to understand these “events”, aka Death, as a small process within a vast cycle. 

In the moment I felt a pang of sadness. Then later wondered, where does this emotional tug come from? Why should this small bird elicit concern, while I barely regard the millions of life forms that died the same day, or even the same instant elsewhere on the planet, including thousands of humans? What amount of sadness is “appropriate?” Can we measure outpourings that spontaneously flow from our hearts? Should we? Where does “life” begin and end? Where do species or individuals start and stop?

Recently I’ve been reading about fungi and lichens. It seems clear our scientific boundaries defining “species” and distinctions between life forms, while helpful for us to name, categorize, and sort out the incredible complexity of life on earth, have a tradeoff. In the quest for accuracy and order, our carefully defined data may blind us to the larger unfolding. We tend to “see” and focus upon details and tune out the rest. Our minds literally work by tuning out sensory input lest we’d be overwhelmed in an instant. Helpful in many ways, yet we can forget that we all find what we are looking for and rarely open our vision up to take in a broader view. 

Social media makes shrewd use of this useful, instinctive tendency. Helping cement our insecurities by encouraging echo-chambers, vilifying those different than ourselves, selling us all forms of “protection,” and when we’re overwhelmed by the onslaught, offering distractions. 

We follow the lead of our language, which defines all as subjects and objects. Heads down, with an intense focus on singular “things” we can acquire information within the spotlight of our view, but often miss the overall dynamic. We end up imagining life is a cluster of nouns when in reality it is a verb. We identify discreet objects but ignore their ephemeral nature and temporary role in the flow. Not only do we tend to pay less attention to the flow, we often fail to recognize that we are not outside entities documenting, but are also participants within the current of life. And short-lived ones at that. 

Our labels enable us to assign and arrange lots of information, but they don’t necessarily engender understanding about life nor the experience of being alive. Can lists of data convey the feeling of flying? Can heart monitor readings and realtime brain scans really record what a much-needed warm hug offers our being? Can the most advanced AI analysis define and quantify the affect of a loved one’s kiss?
   
I read recently that many serious thinkers feel it’s likely we’ll soon have the technological capacity to keep a human alive for well over a hundred years. Corporations are racing to figure out how by replacing parts, adding infusions or catalysts that will enhance or renew worn organs, systems, and tissue, we may be able to do this “infinitely.” The marketplace of our consumer culture and capitalism are potent addictive distractions from the flow. 

We’re focused on one-off, mechanical cause and effect. Especially regarding technological “advances” and “progress” it seems to me we don’t ask “why?” often enough. Increased convenience is a lazy rational. When do we consider the longterm consequences, the uncertain, emergent results beyond the parameters of our projects? All life is connected. To paraphrase John Muir, tug at any one thread in nature and one finds it is connected to all else.

Bring back a dire wolf or woolly mammoth? Cool! Bravo! How exciting! Think of the gaps we’ll fill in our understanding of these lost species by doing this! Plus the irresistible attraction to seeing a mammoth — imagine the profit it’ll generate! But if we inadvertently bring alive an extinct virus from their world that kills other existing species (or say, the majority of mammals) who no longer needed the resistant genes, well, oops! That’s the risk of progress, there’s profit to be had! Inject a protein that will self-generate to conquer a newly spawned virus, great! Consider the longterm effects on bodies as it carries on in its host post-virus— not so much. 

Wood rots, oak leaves stop absorbing carbon dioxide and let go, the intricate beings that are waxwings and humans stop breathing and expire. Even though life is a process of continuous change, it seems our selfish society often promotes ways to control because we so fear change. I’m in the club. While I agree with the Buddha that most of our discomfort in life is related to resistance, I’m still learning to let go: whether simple frustrations I feel when folks dont meet MY expectations, or deeper sorrows when people abuse others or the earth, or when loved ones change form.

The sadness I felt as the bird died was not entirely about resistance. It wasn’t entirely about clinging or wishing against fate. I wasn’t attempting to will the waxwing alive, or sad because it felt unjust. It somehow touched a deep aspect of my being. Even though it was instantaneous and brief, it was a more profound. 

Maybe such moments are a brief engagement in the fullness of being alive — what we might call “Communion.” In this sense, the compassion I felt, maybe all genuine compassion, is not necessarily sadness (or joy). These are fleeting emotions that come and go with the wind. I liken it more to opening an energy conduit, a momentary shift that revealed the usually veiled connection to another seemingly separate life form. A hint of Awareness of the larger view. 

What is it about our culture that wants to insist we’re not part of the flow? At what cost to the life on earth do we make “technological advances” happen? How can we not consider the effects of any economic goals on the global ecosystems, the real “banks” that we ignore and yet rely upon and which harbor all life? They’re already on the brink of cascading into turbulent changes—how can so many in our era ignore this?! When did our society become incapable of reflection? 

Our arrogant, modern dysfunctional lifestyle falsely assumes it’s separate from the cycle of life. The web of AI can’t exist outside of the universal web of life. In pursuing purely intellectual “knowledge”, detached from the heart of wisdom, we keep seeking more distractions to avoid facing the insecurities our screens cultivate. Now we’re supercharging our desperate quest via ever more “techno-solutions”. It strikes me as pathetic. 

Is this really the path we want to embrace? Can we even find the courage to reclaim our fuller humanity, our Communion within life on Earth while living within this culture? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I recently had the honor to travel with a friend to her parent’s gravesite. It’s in a beautiful wooded landscape, surrounded by an intentional community of homesteads. Her parents happened to be Muslim, and my friend attends a mosque and considers herself Muslim. She appreciates and respects rituals but is not confined by one set of them; rather, she is guided by her heart.

Inspiringly, she also attends other places of worship, including lately a fundamentalist Baptist church — “mostly because I love how committed they are to doing community work in our area!” In another exchange she explained: “Yes, I’m a Muslim, but first, I am a Sufi.” Sufism openly embraces the notion all life is One, and is not restricted by names, labels, forms or categories.  

As we strolled the grounds, we passed squirrels, donkeys, and ducks, each being instantly eliciting soft coos toward them from my friend. In the graveyard, as a few deer passed, I realized she wasn’t just making sweet sounds, but saying something: “Jun, jun, junam.” She explained it was Farsi (the native language of her homeland, Persia). It essentially meant “life.” “It’s a thing we Sufis say as an acknowledgement and reminder.” Implying indirectly, they (the animals) and we are all part of this wondrous, ongoing Circle.

A local resident came to visit. We sat together on a small bench and talked quietly as my friend lovingly washed the headstones. As she cleaned, she spoke about her parents and shed a few tears. When she finished her task, she came to join us but the bench afforded no room. Rather than sit on the wet grass, she unselfish-consciously sat on her own grave marker. I smiled. The contrast with our death-defying culture was too striking to not recognize. She laughed and with her permission I took a photo. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was working on that deck, despite my attempts to focus on my brushing, I was forced to be aware of the unfolding beyond my self, first the wind, then the trees, then their leaves floating past me in the gusts. I could only smile as some inevitably landed in the fresh stain on the deck. They came from centuries-old oaks that had grown to majestic heights. Ancients that thrived through the complementary support of minerals and fungi and topsoil from previous oaks that had come and gone for eons, and sunshine and water and all manner of animation and expiration. At first I imagined it would be hard on the trees letting leaves go so early (oaks usually retain them into the winter).

But then I recognized not all were released, and the variations each year increased their capacity to adapt. The leaves also blanketed the forest floor. There they’ll contribute to harboring other life. Ever so slowly these leaves as well as the waxwing (feathers, blood, flesh and bone) will continue to transform and in doing so will vitalize the topsoil. They ensure it will be teeming with microscopic activity, paying forward a network of processes on a scale we humans can barely comprehend. Steadily, quietly, rejuvenating our world. Maybe there is no “life” nor “death” but simply continuous changes in form. 

Our intellect can miss or tune out what our hearts feel profoundly. The compassionate connection we sense when we open our hearts is always accessible. But it’s routinely covered by the limitations of a life in a culture that’s come to be ruled by our intellect and distracting surface emotions. I want to cultivate a balance of heart and head that enables my being to access and absorb an understanding larger than the sum of either. 

It seems to me we’d all benefit from more openness and acceptance of our role in the larger-than-human scheme — embracing and appreciating our purpose in sustaining this grand cycle of life — including both tears and smiling, amid the wonder of it all.

Notes in a Forgotten Language, mixed media on board, 7” x 7”
​

​​Early sunsets and cool nights have me spending more time indoors. Which has me noticing all the projects I aimed to do in my living spaces in the warmer months. Several boxes of small paintings caught my attention. 

Making art objects offers the opportunity to look at physical things over time and (hopefully) see one’s growth. It’s part of the appeal of the discipline. I routinely paint over what isn’t successful; occasionally I tweak paintings from years before. I try to only hang onto work that has achieved an inherent harmony. 

I’m fortunate to have a substantial body of work in a couple of galleries. The paintings shown were on view at Paragon Fine Arts in Lewisburg, WV (albiet shown here without the crucial sense of scale, screens being a barely recognized distortion of direct experience—one of these paintings fits in my hand, another is as wide as the reach of my arms). 

Yet even with dozens of works in galleries, paintings seem to pile up. I suspect this happens to most art makers who stay active. I was just considering what to do with the paintings accumulated in my home. These contentious and troublesome socio/political times have me wondering if making paintings is an appropriate way to apply my limited free time.  

~~~~~

It’s a peculiar thing, tuning inward, in a discipline driven by personal growth, but then being obliged to share with others the record of the path one takes for the cycle of creativity to flow forward. 

Art making pushes me to stay aware, open, and objective. It feels important to explore and embrace all aspects of life and death. I like to consider concepts of beauty, what conveys it, and how. This has led me to challenging myself. Years ago moving from painting the view before me to imagery that has steadily let go of narrative story-telling. For decades I’ve been intrigued by the power of wordless and object-less paintings, eager to discover their emotive potential. 

The rhythms, tones, textures, and harmonies of music without words move us all, especially when we stop seeking the “story” and allow ourselves to be touched in a non-intellectualized way. A walk in the woods can often be more satisfying and touch something deeper in my being when I cease cataloguing the species on the trail. I want folks to experience my paintings with the same attitude. In modern society this can be challenging due to the incessant literal-minded focus of our educational system and culture. Can we appreciate the bird’s song without trying to identify the type of bird? It’s hard to tune out a habit we barely realize we have. 

I can still very much appreciate art that is narrative and tells stories through imagery. I don’t like censorship, “art police,” or placing Puritanical limitations on what can be made or shared. Everyone should be free to express themselves and enjoy our world as suits their unique experience and perspective. 

Sincere experimentation is one of the hallmarks of creativity. For me a challenging work of art isn’t necessarily the same as art whose primary purpose is to shock or provoke fear. I try to recognize each has a place. And to consider that works may encompass several aims. 

Some art strikes me like a billboard—one or two viewings and I no longer gain from re-visiting it. Something that catches my eye isn’t necessarily something I want to repeatedly give my attention. 

We’re hardwired to notice things that are disturbing because noticing a lion mauling a companion once aided human survival. Our modern world is full of media aimed toward this end, in our “consumerist world” largely to manipulate us in some way. Plenty of art made and sold also takes advantage of this ancient instinct. 

Such an approach has little attraction for me; it smacks of “Garbage in, garbage out” as Thich Nhat Hahn and others put it. I like the notion that rather than consumption, the purpose of art is Communion. Yet we live in a society where nearly every aspect is focused on the former. 

~~~

Exhibitions allow artists to share their work, but it’s momentary; at most we spend a few minutes taking in the art on view in galleries. My goal is to enable something to come into being that’s sustaining and life-affirming longterm. So I prefer my paintings are in someone’s home, where they can reward viewing slowly, over months and years. 

It takes practice to learn to turn off our ingrained “what’s it supposed to be?” lenses. It took me years. So I accept that only a minority of viewers appreciate non-narrative work. Still less are able and willing to compensate one for the energy invested in the study and making of paintings that don’t instantly offer a storyline.

Hence the boxes full of paintings. When I pull them out, each in their own way is a trail-marker of sorts, along my wandering path exploring these creative woods. 

Every so often a connection occurs, someone shares in the delights I was fortunate to help reveal. Then the joy of discovery and the circle of creation are fulfilled. When a patron purchases a painting, I like to think of it as a unique sort of investment, one that’s not exactly transactional. 

They offer their congealed energy (money) to the myriad energies that brought the work into being. But It’s also a commitment, a support of the arts as a concept of communion, hopefully not just to me, but to the broader concept of our shared connection with all life.

It encourages me to keep at it, verifying that even in these fraught times, there’s something essential and affirming about the mysterious and connective power of beauty. 

So, a belated thank you to Joshua Adamo (gallery owner) and the supportive patron who recently purchased the three paintings shown from his Paragon Fine Arts Gallery in Lewisburg, WV. I’m honored and very grateful for the chance to participate, in a small way, in our shared communion.

Reverie, 46” x 57”, mixed media on board/ panel 

“This Rich and Precious Earth” 46” x 46” (framed), mixed media/panel


I’m very grateful to Joshua Adamo, owner/director of Paragon Fine Arts Gallery in Lewisburg, WV for his support. About a year ago, Josh gave me the opportunity to share my paintings at his beautiful space. It’s fulfilling to share my art in public. A wonderful bonus is that he’s secured several sales, most recently, these two paintings. 

It’s restorative for me to create things. I like to use the process of painting to wordlessly  reveal feelings and sort things out I may not be able to articulate. For 45 years it’s been a way to better understand and center myself. Making art balances my intuition and rationality. 

The psychiatrist and neuroscientist Dr. Iain McGilchrist speaks about the unhealthy and unsustainable dominance of our left hemisphere-oriented society. They’re deeply interwoven, each plays a crucial role in affecting our lives, and to a degree they overlap guiding our behavior. The key difference is in the lenses they offer to interpret life, and perspectives they generate, which then reflect how we experience the world. 

Both have been essential to our survival. The left leans toward labels and control; it’s very good at narrow focus, discerning discreet parts, categorizing. It’s view is incremental, mechanistic, linear. He postulates it evolved to aid us in “acquiring things” — like food, materials for warmth, or plants to heal. 

Our right hemisphere offers a broad overview, less the parts and more the whole. It’s fluid, recognizes patterns, and senses emotions and the energy of relationships. It “reads the room” and takes in the ambiance of situations or places.  

Given how I approach painting, I don’t like to claim full credit for what emerges. I try (in the “Zen” sense — that is, without applying effort) to be open to what unfolds. I aim to be a “rider” as much as the “driver” and don’t know the destination beforehand.  A degree of logic and intellectual consideration inevitably comes in, but in the successful, most vital works its role is lessened. 

I’m guided by an intuitive sense,  responding to the materials with minimal conscious thought, allowing things to flow. My loose aim is to “take a painting to its point of maximum ripeness,” as Picasso said, and to do so in a harmonious way. Through painting I’m trying to retool my awareness by offering room to “listen” to my right hemisphere. 

Modern industrialized society is driven mostly by the left hemisphere. We’ve blissfully and ignorantly ignored the larger view of the interrelationships of which humans are a part. We’ve clearly pushed the balance of the Earth’s ecological systems to a brink.

The earth will go on, but we’ve initiated a collapse of the ecosystem balances established over millions of years. We’re radically altering the world we’ve always known. The earth will adjust, restructuring of these systems will happen, but not in our human lifetimes.  

Essentially, the foolish notion we’re separate from “nature” and each other has put us in a broken relationship with life on this planet. The grand irony is we may not be part of the life that survives.

It’s hard to hold disparate points of view without having a compromise at hand. I live within this materialist culture, make use of its unsustainable conveniences, and the paintings I make are also objects for sale in an extractive consumer society. And I study and can sense the tragedy unfolding because of our domineering beliefs, societal ways, and disconnected relationship to the earth. I’m trying to live the questions toward my own harmonious resolution. 

I doubt there’s a simple rational “answer.” I’m deeply affected by my relationships, with people, animals, and all life forms with which I engage. Painting is a way for me to gently probe all this indirectly, without necessarily following a logical linear path. 

At times it offers me a way to “ask” unformed questions. Looking at the paintings upon completion, I like to allow a title to come forward in response to what they reveal or suggest in that moment of my life. 

“This Rich and Precious Earth” felt like it was at once addressing the deep beauty of our wondrous world, the terrible storms we’ve unleashed, and the current losses and pending changes on the horizon. The ongoing drama of Death begetting Life.

“Her Warm Embrace Parted the Clouds of My Winter” was completed not long after the ending of a brief and sweet friendship. Its closure was the result of an unexpected rupture. It too, was a death of sorts. 

But in the months after, I came to recognize how that short yet potent relationship had nudged me beyond a previously safe, falsely stoic mindset that I’d adopted for security. It reawakened me to a more vulnerable, more fully engaged life. 

Change is challenging for most of us. Yet mystery, openness and spontaneity (all of which our culture abhors) are also what gives life richness and vitality.

I’m always honored when others find resonance in things to which I’ve applied my energies. Purchasing a work takes that one notch further. For me, in a way it reveals and validates our unseen, unspoken, undocumented connections. Especially in these frazzled times, seems we all could use more trustworthy connections.


“Her Warm Embrace Parted the Clouds of My Winter”, 38” x 38” (framed) mixed media/panel .

Life is always full of joys and challenges. The world can seem tilted toward the disturbing when our experience of it is based on what’s projected at us via media. It seems an unhealthy diet, designed to agitate us and cause concern. There’s a grand illusion screens can fulfill all our social needs. I don’t buy into it. 

We live in a culture of conveniences and exciting distractions and dopamine hits, that avoids direct human interaction. We’ve built incredible technologies and immensely powerful weapons, yet we still deny that our lives are interwoven within the Earth’s systems. The gratifications are speedy, the trade-offs seldom considered. Our societal patience has atrophied and our ability to focus is fractured, even as so much that makes us human is being starved.

It may not garner a thousand followers or a million likes, but I feel how I act among the people directly within my sphere has the most impact. A simple genuine shared smile is far more nourishing to my soul than a popular post on some forgettable platform. It’s not always easy to allow ourselves to be vulnerable, and more complex in person. I still blunder and make mistakes, at times even hurting with my friends. But in my experience, those miscues, when addressed with sincerity, can be the foundational glue that builds trust.

I mostly work with my hands, but a primary benefit of my work life is the opportunity to meet and interact with clients. Occasionally, extraordinary encounters happen, often from the least expected directions. Maybe that adds to their potency. 

Recently I’ve been painting a large set of built-in bookcases. To my clients’ credit, they’ve changed things up in a gutsy way, switching the off-white color to a handsome grassy green. This obliged a bit more discussion. It’s crucial to try to understand what we’re aiming toward even when we may not be able to articulate it. 

We all like to think our words are fully understood. Texting reinforces this falsehood. Even in person, discussing something as simple as a color choice, requires slow conversation and lots of questions to clarify we all mean the same thing.

We snuck up on selecting the tone (they set a client record for sample colors—over a dozen variations of green!) but it was worth it. Courage and patience pay off. The result speaks for itself. It’s been a fun project, transforming what was a comfortable large room into a stunning new space that’s not too formal yet vital and elegant. 

They’re a young family and it’s been a pleasure to get to know them all. The three kids (five months old, three yrs., and four yrs.) are all wonderful, kind, and fun, just like their parents. Truman, the amiable large dog (who takes his family guardianship seriously) and I are becoming acquainted. After a recent sweaty afternoon, I enjoyed some nice licks after my workday. 

The first few days on the job the elder kids were occupied at camp so our paths barely crossed. Apparently they’d looked for me though. The day I finally was still working when they got home, the eldest, a boy, raced to find me. Wherever I am, if a child is interested in chatting and I’m able to offer a bit of friendly interaction, I want to do so. I’ve found simply meeting kids where they are, gently going with their interest in the moment, quickly minimizes barriers. (Actually the same’s been true for all ages and species.)

I was wrapping up my work, doing nothing special and he was, of course, completely fascinated by everything I was doing. I fielded at least half dozen inquiries in about two minutes. To catch my breath, I tossed a few at him: What did you learn about at camp today? “Bodies and Skeletons!” Oh wow, thats exciting! “Yep! And they’re underneath in all of us!” Really?! “Yep. Even sometimes in,” (stammering a bit from excitement) “sometimes in dogs!” No kidding! “Uh huh,” nodding with solemnity appropriate to the miracle we are, but most of us old folks fail to give it.
 
On we went for a few more minutes as I packed up my wet brush, closed up my toolbox, and grabbed my water and backpack. His parents came to check on the day’s progress (and subtly make sure I was not bothered by their inquisitive child). “How old are you?” I asked him. “My birthday is September 23!” he said proudly. Oh that’s soon! “Uh huh. I’m four and a half and three quarters!” “Almost five,” I said, barely stifling a laugh. 

I was carrying my backpack and water bottle, about to ascend the steps to head home. “Are you leaving?” “Yep, heading home.” I saw his eyes darting between my tool box (which I’d left behind), and me. “What about your toolbox?” he asked. “I’m leaving it here tonight.” But I sensed his real question. “I have a feeling you asked because you wanted to help me carry it.” His eyes answered. “Oh that’s so nice of you but this is all I have to take tonight!”

When I reached the top of the stairs, my new friend and earnest helper suddenly wrapped his arms about my legs (he’s all of 36”) and with a squeeze and utter sincerity said “I love you.” Touched and flustered, I mustered a thank you, and said “I love you too.” (Really, what else can one respond?) As I walked to the car he hovered closely, attempting to hold up my backpack from the bottom. Luckily I had one small bag of shelf brackets I could hand him, easing his desire to assist me on the short walk to my car.

~~~

In my off hours I’ve been hanging out with a friend and her son, he’s twice the youngin’s age mentioned above. Amid this fear-filled world he’s also somehow managed to retain an open-heart. When his mother and he taught me how to play Skip-Bo a few weeks ago, as the game began, his comment was “I really hope you win!” His unprovoked generosity reveals itself all the time. 

On a playground a last week, a three year old rushed him to see the yo-yo he was spinning. Without hesitation he gave it to him to play with it. Recognizing the young one’s mother may not have wanted her son to have it, it required a bit of gentle persuasion to nudge the nine year old to collect it again when we were departing several minutes later. “I really would be ok to just let him have it.”

~~~

The mom’s of each of these kids expressed the same concerns. Their worry that the uncaring, competitive world will rebuff them and may eat these genuine, sweet, open-hearted kids alive. It’s an understandable fear, and relatable desire to protect those we love. For sure they’ll have a few illusions shattered, inevitably have to absorb some brusk treatment, and learn some harsh lessons here and there. But we can’t totally prevent any of these random situations (even online!). And it’s a very delicate trick to “caution them” against such an instinctive (and sincere) desire, or to temper their generous hearts. 

We agree it seems best to guide them to be aware that sometimes others are not of the same mindset. We all want all kids safe from harm. However, contrary to the bias of our time, rather than see their kindness as a danger for me it feels critical to nurture and help them cultivate it. I want to strengthen their resolve to where they can grasp that being sensitive to others need not stifle their earnest intentions. We can learn to apply restraint as needed, but still honor our true nature. (Good friends have made me aware I still have to work on this myself!) 

For me, even if we may sometimes need to temporarily compromise the connection, these kids reveal an unspoken, instinctive awareness that at the core there’s not really “us” and “others”, but life is just “we.” 

They’ll have challenges, but I really think they’ll move beyond any hurdles. They’re each coming from supportive households where they’re cherished for who they are. They’re both bright beyond their years, and already in tune with their hearts. I see the latter as a profoundly powerful skill we can help them cultivate: living love. 

Our extractive, competitive transactional culture may thrive on and promote the opposite, but whether acknowledged or not, Mother Nature has made clear we can’t sustain it much longer. It’s a reality more conspicuous to me every day. Far more crucial than achieving high grades, status, or influence, for me these two (and all the others of their generation like them) are beacons of Light. Sustaining their glow against the prevailing winds seems far more important to our shared communal future within Life’s web.

They’re already changing the paradigm, learning how to connect rather than divide, respecting differences yet treating all with kindness. They are precious in every sense of the word. We have a role in guiding them, but I also feel they’ll continue to teach us by example. As I see it, they’re already the leaders of the world to come.

​The hanging plants and flowers boxes on my front porch help create my slightly-removed sanctuary. I can sit in any of three rocking chairs and observe the world from my perch. It’s just high enough, two flights of stairs above the street and sidewalk, that most passersby don’t notice me. Dogs walking their owners, kids excitedly racing bikes, parents I know with strollers, retired couples chatting, joggers sweating stress, a teacher on his phone sorting out students’ issues—they all parade past. I can choose whether to engage with them or just watch; at once private yet can be communal. A delightful space to be alone or with guests, sharing in life’s nourishments, concerns, and joys. 

The last couple of mornings have been cool, and a wonderful array of birds has also made their presence known, rejoicing with sweet songs before our neighborhood is fully awake. Today I saw goldfinch alight on a not-yet-blossomed cone flower poking for seeds. You have to give it some time, I whispered to myself, it needs room to grow and blossom. It pecked a few times then zipped away.

I enjoy watching things grow. I plant veggies and have a “wild” yard — a mix of wildflowers and whatever else is in season. It’s been fun to watch the cycles of what sprouts or blossoms when, and as much, what’s edible. Many city critters feast upon my veggie beds (primarily rabbits, groundhogs, and deer, with occasional sampling by skunks, birds, raccoons and possum) usually before anything’s had time to ripen. I’ve noticed the way “weeds” grow so well without any care and don’t seem to be on the hungry critters’ menu. It has me wondering if I should be fighting these battles or simply alter what I enjoy eating. Especially when the “weeds” are more nutritious! 

So often when I stop to reflect on what and how we do things in our culture, it feels like we are off-course, resisting the current, or using an approach that costs more (time, energy, money), and human or natural resources! Innovation and convenience aren’t bad things, but recognizing when to control and when to be patient, as well as the trade-offs seems crucial.

About a month ago, while I gently watered one of the hanging ferns on my porch two house finches abruptly popped out of the center! I discovered a nest in it.  Very soon after, the nest cradled four eggs. In a few weeks there were fuzzy hatchlings, the epitome of cute. They were amazingly self-disciplined about keeping silent as I watered each day, even as their folks were raising a harsh chirping alert from branches within eyeshot. This went on a couple of weeks. Eventually becoming a high-pitched, incessant, cheeeep,-cheeeep! I’d watch the parents dutifully fly over, again and again, endlessly trying to keep four gaping mouths attached to bottomless baby bird bellies satiated.

Lately I’ve had the great pleasure to spend time with an adolescent and his mom. We often share dinners and it’s similarly surprising how a four foot tall kid can put away a plateful equivalent to an adult. He also routinely melts my heart as effortlessly as those tweeting birds piled atop one another in their ever-smaller nest as they grow. For the most part, he’s brimming with physical energy, intermixed with creativity and curiosity. Sensitivity and kindness naturally radiate from him. 

Naturally there’s occasional squawking as this youngin tests boundaries and a worn mom has to assert her own. It brings back fond memories of my own son’s coming of age, and even at times mine. The rare bits of tension don’t phase me at all. I’m not sure if I’ve mellowed or matured, regardless why, these days I simply smile and find myself sincerely savoring all my time with them.

I was having dinner with the mom above on my porch and the wind was fierce. The gusts were potent enough that all the hanging plants were swaying. In the same moment, we were discussing a previous moment of lost patience. She was trying to convince me that past circumstances and responses to her verified she wasn’t very kind. I could only offer I hadn’t seen it, and disagreed on the sentiment. As if on cue, unaware of the irony, she pointed out her great concern for the fledgling finches whose home was swaying like a pendulum. Before we left the porch, her compassion had nudged me into securing it with bungee cords. 

We’re all works in progress. I seem to be less troubled by situations that years back might have had me wound up for a long while. Maybe I’ve grown a bit in some ways as well. 

I’m certainly no unflappable saint nor ego-less yogi. The other day as I attempted to order a subscription online, it got flagged by my bank, and in sorting it out, my debit card was not put on hold, but cancelled outright. When I found out I let loose with several choice words that might have burned a saint’s ears. I did catch myself in time to apologize to the utterly innocent recipient, the bank’s customer service rep on the line with me. But I’d like to get to where I could more quickly turn such frustration into an stress-relieving laugh at the absurdity of allowing such things to bother me instead. 

The same day, as I was watering my porch plants, and gingerly pour some onto the fern with the nest, an explosion of four birds shot out in different directions! One remained, looking a bit comical. I’m not sure who was more bewildered, the slow one left behind or me! By the following day, all the fledglings had flown and the nest was bare and silent.

It was inevitable, and clearly on the horizon. As I ate a quiet breakfast on my porch that morning, I thought about the amazing dedication of the parents of those finches. And of my friend, a single mom I’ve already witnessed growing so much through her own challenges, even while raising a bright and big-hearted son. 

And the many other parents I’ve known (including my own), who literally keep reaching deep down into those inner reserves to hold it together, keep their homes steady, get the kids fed, make those little nests work, enable them to keep growing. They get them cleaned up, rested, and then are back up and at it again, day after day. 

I thought about my own long-empty nest…and how nice it feels now, directly helping others grow, if only in a small way, and to recognize that through participating with others rather than safely keeping a distance, I grow as well.

The rhythm of this dance of life has counterpoints and shifts that insist on constant adjustments and flexibility. Life is often bewildering. To be rigid seems to me to invite suffering. To leave our safe nest is scary—getting involved takes a leap, is a risk, and makes us vulnerable. Yet to not be engaged in order to avoid potential pain truncates life’s joys and stifles our own blossoming. 

It seems the trick is in finding that sweet spot; navigating a balance between floating with the changing currents yet at times steering our kayaks (or guiding another’s) just enough to avoid the rocks yet not resist the inevitable flow. No matter what path we select before we’re gone, we’re all being swept along in the stream. These days I prefer making the trip with hearty company.

​This is the same flower, both photographs taken within seconds. One a study in elegantly controlled geometry, the other a seemingly wild expression of unfurling ecstasy. 

It was pointed out to me recently that when I’m thinking I don’t look happy. This wasn’t news, I’ve heard it before. Although aware it happens, I’ve not yet been able to prevent it. So it goes with contrast between impressions we make, and those we perceive. 

Last week some friends and I had a fun time  walking with a “plawking group.” A retired friend — who put in a career with the EPA (doing invaluable work to keep us and our precious Earth healthy, work that’s now being demonized as over-burdensome and “expendable”) — has helped organize a regular informal gaggle of local do-gooders. They go around collecting trash off neighborhood sidewalks and street edges. To his great credit, he makes it fun, bringing along his beagle pup, welcoming kids, and it’s as convenient as possible, as he supplies trash bags, gloves, and even several sets of “grabbers” or plawkers. 

We’ve likely all seen folks in orange garb on highways doing this, usually with a rifle toting overseer. That always leaves an impression on me, much as I don’t know the reasons these people were incarcerated or committed to “community service” it somehow harkens a vague sense of chain gangs and righteousness. 

So conversing and walking with friends (and former strangers who then become friends) in a shared task of helping temporarily clean-up a slice of our city modified some of those feelings. Plus it’s great to accomplish a small bit of beautification. I’m also aware it’s been documented that when a neighborhood appears clean, it tends to be self-promoting in lessening the amount of litter mindlessly tossed. 

Another friend was considering joining us but declined, admitting he was burned out on picking up trash. For years he dutifully volunteered as a Trail Maintainer on the Appalachian Trail, a constant job in need of helpers. Embarrassingly, until he described his efforts, despite my years of hiking I never even realized the amount of work and effort required to enable the rest of us to have a pleasant hike! So in between hauling chainsaws, gas, all manner of heavy tools and equipment, food and  water (sometimes several miles before even beginning the work of say, cutting and re-laying stone steps or clearing fallen trees, on a regular basis, he and others would collect bagfuls of “city trash” ignorantly dropped by hikers. For sure, many of us have had a gorgeous outdoor scene scarred by plastic chip bags or bottles screaming for our attention. 

How we see affects what we see, even our selves. For all of us, as a good friend who’s a massage therapist told me years ago, “stress manifests in the flesh.” We can read it on our faces, in our bodies, even in how we walk and move. 

I have a dear friend under a lot of pressure to hold things together in her very full life, obliged to juggle parenting, work, her health and several other balls at once. Regrettably, I’ve heard self-deprecating comments; understandably they’re a self-conscious coping mechanism. Happily, recently a few of us have made room to go out together. So it was especially sweet the other night when I sat across from her, to recognize how radiant she looked, in a way that clearly revealed she’d been able to let go of just a bit of the weight she’s been carrying. 

I read recently studies have begun to be able to measure the impact of humans hugging trees — often mentioned for its impact on our health, but now we have technology that’s begun to be able document the positive impact on the trees that were hugged by humans for several weeks! It boggles my mind (and at times pains me) to consider what we have been missing in our relationships with the more-than-human world. 

What our culture has focused upon is what has contributed to the current state of this world, and what we give our attention to now will help define the world we offer to life beyond us. 

The challenge of course, like my own pensive look, is to be aware. Of the wonders large and tiny in this world, and of our selves. And importantly, in a deeper, communal way, to have sincere friends who will honestly and compassionately share with us the impressions we make upon them. Not surface judgments of us that don’t matter, but in the sense that we can learn from what others are receiving from us. 

Especially, owning the self-fulfilling impact of this miraculous embodiment of being that we are — and that how we radiate and what we take in are both intimately interconnected with all else, in a continuous reciprocal exchange. 

See the incredible beauty we are and life is, and be the beauty we wish to see.

A painting from Van Gogh’s later years, “The Sower” is an extraordinary image even today. The symbolism of rebirth and man’s link to nature was very important to Van Gogh. The bright colors and severe composition were radical in his time and reveal his awareness of Japanese prints and the expressive use of color initiated by the Impressionists and carried further by his friend Gauguin and Emile Bernard. But before he achieved such courageous designs, for years his art reflected the earthen, muddy tones of his homeland. 

​I chose to go overseas this year for relief, but also given the recklessness of the current US politics and the shrinking resources on our finite planet, I’ve become uncertain how much overseas travel is in my future. So my choice to visit Amsterdam was very intentional: I wanted to directly experience works by two artists I deeply respect and admire as people, Rembrandt Harmenzoon van Rijn and Vincent Van Gogh. Both lived through turbulent social times and experienced great personal challenges. I visited the Rijksmuseum, and the following day the Van Gogh Museum. 

As a former art museum educator and exhibit designer, I felt the Van Gogh Museum presented his story brilliantly. The large, appropriately understated building has four floors, and each had one or two themes, interweaving his biography, artistic development, and influences in an informative and clear way.  In addition to his famous works, there were dozens of examples of his studies and lesser known sketches and paintings, as well as numerous paintings by his many artist friends. 

It minimized romantic falsehoods of “artistic giftedness” and emphasized his years of study, rigorous effort and unceasing quest to learn from the past as well as from innovators of his time. He had an inquisitive and deep intellect, was very well-read, understood several languages, and in contrast to his heavy-handed art, was wonderfully articulate and eloquent.

Through all of this Van Gogh’s intense devotion to beauty and humanity shines. He floundered for years as he sought a respectable career in the eyes of his family of naval, artistic, and religious forefathers. Always pouring himself into endeavors with obsessive zeal, he struggled to “fit in” to the emerging market-based society. IE: when he a took on ministry, in a typical big-hearted way, he shared his small living stipend for food with others “living as Christ would.” Always sensitive to all life, he wrote his brother of sharing scraps of his meager meals even with the mice that found their way into his simple abode.

When he finally began to settle into a career in the arts, he didn’t just dive into making art—early in he studied art history, connoisseurship, collecting and framing with other family members as a trade. From the outset he always had immense empathy for others, and so was naturally drawn to the artists of the era who were depicting those on the lower end of the economic system. He especially appreciated art depicting simple peasants, who the rapidly changing industrializing world of his time mostly was leaving behind. 

But his voracious mind always pushed him to seek deeper understanding. His younger brother Theo, his unflagging supporter, best friend, and intellectual and emotional confidante, had become a modestly successful framer and dealer in Paris. The famed intensity of Vincent’s efforts are valid, he only began serious study refining his crude studio skills in the 1880’s when he was 28, and died within a decade at 37, yet produced over 2,100 works (paintings, drawings, and prints). 

His work “The Potato Eaters” was his attempt to create a major work expressing his desire to ennoble the hard-working and earnest peasants he lived near. He admired a similar painting by his more accomplished artist friend, Anthon Van Rappard, “The Tile Painters.” But from the outset Vincent was determined to wed the form and style of his work to the content in his paintings. Hence his “Potato Eaters” was intentionally rough and crude; he repainted their flesh to have the look “of very dusty potatoes.” He wanted it to have a sacramental feel, but retain the harsh simplicity of their lifestyle.  To me this marked him as a modernist thinker even before he engaged with more radical contemporary artists. 

His brightly-colored late works are the most well-known but he spent years painting in earthen tones common to the lands of his youth. His voracious appetite to understand, coupled with his brother’s connections to the fast-changing art scene in Paris steadily offered him new ideas. It’s easy to forget how works we know as quaint and pretty Impressionists paintings were very radical in their day, mocked by the establishment, and only appreciated by a few. Theo was on the cutting edge encouraging their popular acceptance, and Vincent began befriending those who were building upon the freedoms their work initiated.

Vincent moved to Paris and eagerly conspired with other great innovators of the day. I’ve always loved the pastel image of him by the skilled hand of the always perceptive Toulouse Lautrec, drawn on the spot in a cafe. You can feel Van Gogh’s intensity in his posture, leaning into the conversation, revealing also the striking contrast of his shabby, peasant attire in the fashionable metropolis. Vincent’s paintings of these years reveal his exponential growth from constant interaction with the most avant-garde artists, as his ideas about art and life began to crystallize into a coherent direction.  

He blossomed through diligent study of contemporaries like Degas, Cezanne, Pissarro and Monet, and directly knew Lautrec, Emile Bernard, Seurat, Gauguin.  Eventually he recognized the simple life of brighter sunny southern regions of France better suited him and his ideals than the big city. Intertwined with his expansive artistic advances, he’d begun to more frequently have “episodes”: disabling headaches, depressive periods, mood swings and spasms, the cause of which remain uncertain. Some doctors diagnosed them as epilepsy, but regrettably there were only simplistic or crude treatments. 

Even as his art was reflecting his profound joy in nature and a deepening understanding of life, he was spending time in asylums, often consigned to live in spare settings with others with all manner of untreatable mental health ailments. It’s hard to imagine the personal fortitude it took to find one’s own peace with little understanding of the causes of your suffering, in such a time and place. Although he was in the more “advanced, humane” care of the leading specialist of the region, today we’d see these as prison-like settings, patients usually confined (sometimes physically) to their rooms or the grounds of the “hospital.” 

The tragic episode with Gauguin where Vincent mutilated his own ear is well-documented. As is his death—but I find it questionable it was a suicide. I generally agree with the recent Schnable movie that suggests he was shot and protected the shooter by not acknowledging it, which feels more akin to his character and beliefs. Less emphasized is the great sincerity and courage he displayed in facing his undefined malady which had no cause nor cure. Yet throughout all this he poured his soul into expressing his heart publicly through his art, and his innermost thoughts to his brother Theo in their correspondence. His work had begun to influence dozens of others and continues to broaden creative possibilities and understanding for us all today. 

Even to one very familiar with much of his life and art, for me the museum offered the fuller story behind several already touching works. His writings to Theo filled out the backstory about a beautiful landscape of wheat fields. It’s a striking example of what makes him so special. 

He was suffering from his attacks, and in an asylum/treatment facility at the time he painted it. Fortunately his primary doctor saw how art gave him purpose and allowed him to keep working. Often he was confined on the grounds or in his room “for his safety.” Though he was in a room that literally had iron bars on the windows, Vincent chose to look beyond these and paint this stunning image. A lush landscape with the added symbolism of harvesting wheat, a personal and universal spiritual metaphor in many traditions about the culling of human life and the benefits to the future of one’s life efforts. 

For me, studying his life, on and off across decades of my own, he remains an extraordinary model of integrity. He’s still incredibly inspiring, both creatively and as a profoundly compassionate person. The noble efforts of Vincent and Theo stayed were carried forward through their lineage: the museum (and the preservation and our awareness of Vincent’s work) exists largely through the amazing dedication of his sister in law, Jo. Theo died — perhaps heart-broken — soon after Vincent, and though a single mother in a very patriarchal society, Jo persevered in caretaking his vast creative output. As did her son, Vincent, Jr. after her passing. Their tireless work promoting and preserving his art and ideals kept his legacy intact. 

The experience literally sensing his “touch” on delicate drawings or paintings, feeling his passion about beauty, recognizing his faith in our common humanity—despite his “outsider” status—often moved me to tears. I feel so fortunate to have wandered among so many of his works, to feel his presence through his art, and indirectly be able to share time with him. Vincent embodied sensitivity and compassion. His open-heart, sincere passion to see beauty, and insistence on embracing all aspects of life is in stark contrast to our avoidance of issues, eagerness to find distractions, and current views of “success.” Fortunately his art endures to remind us of what’s real and important and guide us to the best in our selves.

Above: One of dozens of self-portraits that act as both a diary and public record of Vincent’s steady growth as an artist and his constant courageous introspection. Above left & below: One of his many small still-lifes that celebrate the small miracles of life. Always aware of the larger view, Van Gogh was equally committed to recognizing the cycles of the seasons, human lives, and even the cosmos.

Above: This is the remarkable painting Vincent did while looking through the bars of his window while being “treated” in an asylum. Always self-aware, he wrote his brother and appreciated the dark humor, irony and inherent symbolism of the ephemeral nature of life depicted by such a scene.
​

Above: fields with cleansing rains, done in the final months of his life. At this point Vincent was completing several paintings each week. Contrary to romantic myths, the famed image of crows over a field was not his final work, and he did several joyful, life-affirming works before he passed. Below: a blossoming almond tree, which he did in his final weeks to celebrate the birth of his brother’s only child, Vincent, Jr., a painting treasured by his sister in law Jo, and his only heir for the rest of their lives.

A slight delay in arrival meant I only had two full days in Amsterdam, so I focused on art. Still I had to be selective, and chose as my first stop the grand old Rijksmuseum which I’d heard about since my first art classes 45 years ago. It was a fascinating surprise to discover the huge building has a street running through it! The ceiling of the spanning passage is a wonderful array of arches. I got my ticket, stowed my backpack in a locker and began making my way through the fecund history of the Netherlands. The Rijksmuseum focuses mainly on the last 400 years, with all manner of cultural objects, from goblets and glass (for which they were early innovators, to ship models to jewelry, coins and weaponry. Their boats and optical technology, advanced their international trade and financial industry, paving the way to global power. ​

Before they became a state, several decades of wars between crowns and nobility and the Catholic church vying for control eventually led to the separation of the former royal region into Catholic Belgium in the south, and the Protestant Netherlands (north lands). Even this wasn’t entirely secure for a few generations, as governance shifted via violent disputes. Still, many acknowledge 17th c. Netherlands as birthing the first middle-class society in modern western culture. 

This new group gained a status above peasantry, which then enabled them to own a few nice things beyond what was practical and essential. In particular this spurred the market for paintings, because for the first time successful “average” folks (that is, not just nobility, royalty or churches) could afford to own art. It radically changed everything because suddenly the content of what was depicted could include “common folk” and their interests. To this day “regular people” in our culture hang paintings in our homes. It was during this evolution, the Golden Age of Dutch Painting, that Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Fran Hals were born. 

I’ve learned to not try to look at everything in museums, and especially given a tight time-frame, instead give full attention to a few things. There were many highlights for me in this vast archive of objects. Since painting is my own discipline, I aimed there. 

It’s a rare delight to find three Vermeers in one small gallery. His paintings of figures in interiors get most of the attention, deservedly, as they’re as appealing as any paintings I’ve seen. However, a lesser known street scene by him captivated me just as much. As with all his works, there’s something haunting in the stillness. In this one I felt a subtle tension between the static, rooted buildings and the floating clouds and then, allowing more time to take it in, the people going about their daily tasks. 

There’s nothing “dramatic” depicted here, but I felt the soft drama of daily life. It’s as if time itself is one of the themes: the extreme detail in the worn brick and weather-beaten paint and rooftop, human creations vying to stay fresh, upright, and solid against age; the sky and the conspicuous fleeting ever-shifting nature of clouds and weather suggesting both renewing rains, impermanence and cycles. More cycles in the few women working, quietly, naturally resolute in their humble chores as as if there were no other possible thing they might be doing; the kids playing, similarly engaged in a way that feels utterly unforced. It’s a simple snapshot yet somehow it holds me as if an image of unspoken universal truths, at once holding up the solidity of our physical experience and the ephemeral reality of being alive.

I came upon two portraits of Rembrandt, one by his close companion Jan Lievens and the other a self-portrait. Each revealed different aspects of the future master. The gifted duo had only a few years before left their hometown of Leiden as young men and struck out to the bustling metropolis of Amsterdam to make it big in their brave new art world. They were both ambitious, driven, and they were beginning to gain a foothold. Lievens utilized some of his buddy’s devices: adding a lively head-turn and emulating some of his painting techniques adding to the illusion of texture by physically scratching into the painted surface. 

But more notably, I sense in the image a determined passion in the young Rembrandt. His piercing glance catches me off-guard. There’s a sort of “aha” in the slight rise Rembrandt’s left eyebrow, as if he’s just had an insight, likely a familiar expression to someone who knew him well. To Jan’s credit, he also depicted a hint of softness behind that strong gaze. Even early on Rembrandt had a profound sensitivity to and compassion for others, something that must have been palpable to Jan, one of his closest friends. 

In the wonderful shadowy self-portrait, young Rembrandt is already pushing the boundaries on what he can do in this exciting new medium. He’s playing with painting the illusion of textures and adding his trademark scratching of real textures— essentially telling me he’s self-aware that making images is a tool, not to be confused with reality. Again he adds a slight sense of the head turning toward us, a subtle bit of movement that makes adds so much to this little (10” x 7”) image. 

He’s probably copying some of what he’s seen in prints and other’s painted copies of Caravaggio’s work in Italy, and to a degree his more nearby hero, Rubens. He’s playing with dramatic lighting and the way it affects or evokes emotions, like an actor practicing gestures in rehearsal. Using these tools or elements was crucial to the story-making in his commissioned and popular history paintings, etchings, and later contributed to his revolutionary methods for adding vitality to formal portraits. He’s also learning how to engage viewers, and how to evoke curiosity to mystery. Leaving just enough visible to draw us in, he entices us to look harder to see the face of this “man in the shadows..” And his painted expression carries just a bit of surprise, as if by looking in the mirror even he’s sharing our own response to the painting of his own familiar face, saying “Oh wow, it’s just you!”