2 February 1996,
Terre Haute
On Retiring
and
A Final Exhibition
The following were the "Artist's Remarks" verbally presented prior to the opening reception of my last exhibition, a dual exhibition. The collegue who preceded me spoke, ad naseum for nearly an hour! Thank God, mine lasted but ten minutes!
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dies irae, Dies illa,
Gloria artis
Requiem in Pace
Remembrances of things past and yet to come.
Explications:
elegy: a poem of lament and praise for the dead --
V.W.
Virginia Wolf --
so much for the suite.
I tend to work in suites.
My work is unabashedly paphian.
J’aime le vit.
Confutatis maledictis--
J’adore le con.
Recodardae--
J’honore la cul.
Tuba mirum--
Fottiamci anima mia,
Fottiamci presto.
Ingemisco, tamquam reus--
Mettimi un ditto in cul,
caro vecchione,
Dammi la lingua.
What is before you is obvious to the mind’s eye --
let it see the joy of man’s desiring.
Un si solenne cazzo,
Una bella potta.
I don’t want to clarify.
What you see--
what you hear is what you get.
All animals are aware.
All animals associate.
Only man creates for the soul.
Creativity --
it cannot be taught,
but,
it can be honed.
It can be fostered,
and,
likewise,
it can be stifled.
It is without causes,
but,
with cause.
Causes are for politicians--
little minds in great trousers --
who are the jock-straps of civilization.
As intuition,
creativity is passive,
noetic,
transient and
ineffable.
Things created must not only appeal to the senses,
but,
more importantly,
to the mind.
Creativity is the mother--
Nay!
the demanding mistress of all associations.
To deal with things creative,
narrow,
focused intelligence is not demanded,
but,
eternal questioning is absolutely required.
The art of art.
Art is elitist.
It demands intelligence,
It demands mental gymnastics of both the left and right --
It demands climbing the south face of the Eiger,
maybe even K-2.
For those who aim for the masses,
they wallow in swill--
putrefied fodder of culture vultures.
The artist--
öbermensche
Combinations,
contrasts,
dichotomies,
associations of the past and the present.
They are the stuff of which dreams are made,
sweet confusions,
confectioned salt.
Icy, limpid crystals,
and,
warm honey.
Diamond lingas
(rex tremendae majestatis),
and,
ruby yonis
(libera me de morte aeterna).
Sweet champagne and beluga.
Elizabeth the First
(semper virgo,
semper meretrix),
and,
Antinous,
fountainhead of Hadrian.
The Lord Buddha,
and,
the Lord Christ,
frater familias.
Catherine, Imperitrix tremenda,
and,
Alexander of the Sun.
Feodor of the soul,
and,
Greta gisante.
Richard Coeur de Lion,
loins of cream,
and,
Tsu-Tse Pregnant Regnant.
Jean-Nicholas,
and,
Paul,
leaves of grass,
twins of Walt.
Elizabeth T (Turandot),
who’s afraid of her?
Living, breathing silver,
and
cold, dead gold.
Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna--
Lux aeterna luceat eis--
Ohm mane padme Um.
Lauds--
Damn exclusivity,
Ave inclusivity.
Damn separateness,
Ave conjugality.
Damn specialization,
Ave eclecticism.
Words and other things,
Words are the second greatest visual art.
They should be heard,
but,
also,
they must be seen -- in the mind’s eye.
Words are to be played with in love,
but,
out of love,
they must be worked with in earnest,
and,
with diligence.
Art should never be one’s life,
rather,
life should be one’s art.
The joy of life is in its diversity,
its confusion,
its obfuscations,
its delicious pain,
and,
le petit morte of the great and the small.
Life can never be confuted.
Mistakes in life are its fuel.
Mistakes are made in the bedroom,
never in the kitchen.
This is the last--
Requiem.
This is the end--
Requiem aeternam
There ain’t no more!
Requiem aeternam,
Tremens factus sum ego
Deus de morte.
Memoirs of things past,
and,
Memoirs of things yet to come--
Ohm mane padme Um.
Amin
Quod dixi,
dixi. . .
DIXI.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Rekoleksi
March 1959,
Rome
It's interesting how things happen. Sometimes you're in the right place at the right time. I found myself in that position in 1959. I was stationed in St. Jean d'Angely, Charante Maritime, France and took a two week leave to Italy with two of my friends--Patrick La Tour from Louisiana and Charles Corcoran from Virginia.
We arrived in Rome via train from Pisa at about 7:30 pm. Our Michelin Guide told of a "hostel" converted from some monastic order, near the Vatican and within the very limited price range of three privates. We boarded a bus and some time later, after passing the entrance to the Piazza S. Pietro, realized that we had missed our stop.
A young priest also got off the bus at the same stop, walked up to us and asked if he could be of assistance. Obviously the three of us appeared lost and somewhat concerned (none of us had gown up in a big city and we three were really naive, and knew it). Luckily, the priest was from Dublin and spoke English. He told us that this wasn't a very safe street holding the home of the head of the Communist Party in Rome. Mind you, those were the days when Communism was something to be reckoned with. He kindly and hurriedly escorted us through a maze of streets to a place where we could see the hostel. By then it was 9:00 pm. We thanked him, and he said, "See you around." Fat chance in Rome!
Well the next afternoon, while walking around in the vast Piazza S. Pietro, we heard, "Hey, G.I.'s!" It was him--the priest. We were mildly surprised. He invited us up to his room "for drinks." "For drinks?" Sure!
An aside: I had been raised in a small town--Wisconsin, Hudson, to be exact. My family was quite religious, staunchly Protestant, of the fundamental variety, and until I attended college, I didn't smoke, drink, go to movies or dance--all were verboten. To say that we were anti-Papist would have been incorrect, but we considered the Roman Catholics as mildly idolatrous and rather free and easy living people. Hudson, more specifically North Hudson, where we lived, was mostly Italian, and, of course, Catholic. Priests, especially, were looked upon with something akin to scorn. We knew none, nor had I ever met one. There were constantly rather lurid stories circulating amongst the my Protestant friends centering around priests--those unnatural creatures!
Well Pat and Chuck said, "Sure." They were both Catholics--as a matter of fact Pat's military duty was as the Catholic Chaplain's Assistant. I thought, or maybe I prayed, "Dear God, help me." We passed through the massive arch opening to the left of the facade of S. Pietro, were saluted by one of the Swiss Guards, and entered an old building. We passed through a rather large room and the priest (I don't remember his name) said, "This is our refectory. It was in use before Columbus discovered the Americas." Well, that caught my attention and I stopped reciting the 23rd Psalm long enough to gaze around.
After going through a warren of rooms, corridors, up and down stairs, we had arrived at his room deep in the German College. I had expected a small, dark, sparsely furnished cell. After all, isn't that what priests or monks (in my mind they were the same) live in? To my astonishment, his room was rather large, airy, bright and the walls were covered with pictures and posters, including Marilyn Monroe. I was dumbfounded!
"What would you like to drink?" By that time in my life, I did. I don't know what Pat and Chuck said, but I said, "A martini." He looked in a cabinet and said, "Damn, I'm out of vermouth. Excuse me a minute," and he left the room. That made me really nervous.
"He's getting reinforcements," I thought. In a couple of minutes he returned carrying a bottle of vermouth.
"Got this from Bishop (I don't remember the name)'s room. You know everything we have belongs to the Church and therefore to all of us." This he stated with a smile tinged with irony.
Well the upshot of the whole situation was that I had martini's in the Vatican! Nothing more. My fervent prayers were obviously answered!
- - - - - - - - - -
The next day we went to a public audience in the Vatican. If I was surprised the day before, it was nothing compared to The Audience.
We climbed the impressive Scala Reggia and turned to the left, entering a massive room that ran the whole width of the facade of the basilica, above the entrance doors, and maybe 30 - 40 feet wide. It was HUGE, and magnificent. Down the center of this long room ran a red carpet flanked with a wooden railing. We walked to the left, being relatively early, we were able to get to within 40 feet or so of the throne. I stood against the railing with the massive windows to my back.
What was I going to do? "Certainly, I will not cross myself!" I thought. "I will not genuflect, either. Maybe I'll just bow my head out of respect when he (the Pope) passes."
We waited about 45 minutes. The hall became packed. Right behind me was a young Italian mother holding a baby while a toddler clung to her skirts. I asked her if she would like me to hold the toddler, letting her stand on the railing so she could see the Pope better? That was difficult, since I didn't speak Italian, but its a wonder what pantomime can do. She nodded, "Yes." Just as I lifted the child up, the Pope entered.
There have been few things in my life for which I have been totally unprepared. This was one of them! Here we were in one of the major churches of Christendom, a sacred place to millions where thousands come daily in reverence to pray. Well, you would have thought that some basketball star, or movie star had entered the room. Pope John XXIII was born aloft on his portable throne, ever so slowly carried down that long carpeted way midst the host screaming, waving, throwing their hats in the air, waving flags, and most shouting "Viva il Papa" (I think that was the phrase). But, I was too shocked to remember anything.
By the time he got to where I was standing,, a full four minutes, I had been so swept away by the drama and emotion of the situation that I forgot to bow my head. Instead I screamed to the top of my voice, "HI POPE!" He looked at me, belly laughed, leaned towards me and made the sign of the cross close to my head.
Afterwards, Pat La Tour, the Catholic Chaplain's Assistant, bemused, saying, "The only damned Protestant there, and he gets a personal blessing!" The right place at the right time. After that experience, I totally revamped my opinion of the priesthood.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
WELL that was years ago, about 50, I think. My opinion has changed as is seen in a group e-mail I sent out today:
"I think I am going to start a new line of e-mails entitled: "Does he have his head up his a_ _???!!!"
"I am referring to the Pope! Within a week he not only reinstated excommunicated English bishop Richard Williamson who denies the Holocaust stating that only "200,000 to 300,000 Jews died in concentration camps" and that gas chambers never existed!
"
But, then he elevated the Austrian parish priest to the level of a bishop. Gerhard Maria Wagner was the fool who stated that Hurricane Katrina was God's retribution for the sinfulness of New Orleans!
"Thank God Hitler didn't have children or they might be elevated to a Cardinal!"
Rome
It's interesting how things happen. Sometimes you're in the right place at the right time. I found myself in that position in 1959. I was stationed in St. Jean d'Angely, Charante Maritime, France and took a two week leave to Italy with two of my friends--Patrick La Tour from Louisiana and Charles Corcoran from Virginia.
We arrived in Rome via train from Pisa at about 7:30 pm. Our Michelin Guide told of a "hostel" converted from some monastic order, near the Vatican and within the very limited price range of three privates. We boarded a bus and some time later, after passing the entrance to the Piazza S. Pietro, realized that we had missed our stop.
A young priest also got off the bus at the same stop, walked up to us and asked if he could be of assistance. Obviously the three of us appeared lost and somewhat concerned (none of us had gown up in a big city and we three were really naive, and knew it). Luckily, the priest was from Dublin and spoke English. He told us that this wasn't a very safe street holding the home of the head of the Communist Party in Rome. Mind you, those were the days when Communism was something to be reckoned with. He kindly and hurriedly escorted us through a maze of streets to a place where we could see the hostel. By then it was 9:00 pm. We thanked him, and he said, "See you around." Fat chance in Rome!
Well the next afternoon, while walking around in the vast Piazza S. Pietro, we heard, "Hey, G.I.'s!" It was him--the priest. We were mildly surprised. He invited us up to his room "for drinks." "For drinks?" Sure!
An aside: I had been raised in a small town--Wisconsin, Hudson, to be exact. My family was quite religious, staunchly Protestant, of the fundamental variety, and until I attended college, I didn't smoke, drink, go to movies or dance--all were verboten. To say that we were anti-Papist would have been incorrect, but we considered the Roman Catholics as mildly idolatrous and rather free and easy living people. Hudson, more specifically North Hudson, where we lived, was mostly Italian, and, of course, Catholic. Priests, especially, were looked upon with something akin to scorn. We knew none, nor had I ever met one. There were constantly rather lurid stories circulating amongst the my Protestant friends centering around priests--those unnatural creatures!
Well Pat and Chuck said, "Sure." They were both Catholics--as a matter of fact Pat's military duty was as the Catholic Chaplain's Assistant. I thought, or maybe I prayed, "Dear God, help me." We passed through the massive arch opening to the left of the facade of S. Pietro, were saluted by one of the Swiss Guards, and entered an old building. We passed through a rather large room and the priest (I don't remember his name) said, "This is our refectory. It was in use before Columbus discovered the Americas." Well, that caught my attention and I stopped reciting the 23rd Psalm long enough to gaze around.
After going through a warren of rooms, corridors, up and down stairs, we had arrived at his room deep in the German College. I had expected a small, dark, sparsely furnished cell. After all, isn't that what priests or monks (in my mind they were the same) live in? To my astonishment, his room was rather large, airy, bright and the walls were covered with pictures and posters, including Marilyn Monroe. I was dumbfounded!
"What would you like to drink?" By that time in my life, I did. I don't know what Pat and Chuck said, but I said, "A martini." He looked in a cabinet and said, "Damn, I'm out of vermouth. Excuse me a minute," and he left the room. That made me really nervous.
"He's getting reinforcements," I thought. In a couple of minutes he returned carrying a bottle of vermouth.
"Got this from Bishop (I don't remember the name)'s room. You know everything we have belongs to the Church and therefore to all of us." This he stated with a smile tinged with irony.
Well the upshot of the whole situation was that I had martini's in the Vatican! Nothing more. My fervent prayers were obviously answered!
- - - - - - - - - -
The next day we went to a public audience in the Vatican. If I was surprised the day before, it was nothing compared to The Audience.
We climbed the impressive Scala Reggia and turned to the left, entering a massive room that ran the whole width of the facade of the basilica, above the entrance doors, and maybe 30 - 40 feet wide. It was HUGE, and magnificent. Down the center of this long room ran a red carpet flanked with a wooden railing. We walked to the left, being relatively early, we were able to get to within 40 feet or so of the throne. I stood against the railing with the massive windows to my back.
What was I going to do? "Certainly, I will not cross myself!" I thought. "I will not genuflect, either. Maybe I'll just bow my head out of respect when he (the Pope) passes."
We waited about 45 minutes. The hall became packed. Right behind me was a young Italian mother holding a baby while a toddler clung to her skirts. I asked her if she would like me to hold the toddler, letting her stand on the railing so she could see the Pope better? That was difficult, since I didn't speak Italian, but its a wonder what pantomime can do. She nodded, "Yes." Just as I lifted the child up, the Pope entered.
There have been few things in my life for which I have been totally unprepared. This was one of them! Here we were in one of the major churches of Christendom, a sacred place to millions where thousands come daily in reverence to pray. Well, you would have thought that some basketball star, or movie star had entered the room. Pope John XXIII was born aloft on his portable throne, ever so slowly carried down that long carpeted way midst the host screaming, waving, throwing their hats in the air, waving flags, and most shouting "Viva il Papa" (I think that was the phrase). But, I was too shocked to remember anything.
By the time he got to where I was standing,, a full four minutes, I had been so swept away by the drama and emotion of the situation that I forgot to bow my head. Instead I screamed to the top of my voice, "HI POPE!" He looked at me, belly laughed, leaned towards me and made the sign of the cross close to my head.
Afterwards, Pat La Tour, the Catholic Chaplain's Assistant, bemused, saying, "The only damned Protestant there, and he gets a personal blessing!" The right place at the right time. After that experience, I totally revamped my opinion of the priesthood.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
WELL that was years ago, about 50, I think. My opinion has changed as is seen in a group e-mail I sent out today:
"I think I am going to start a new line of e-mails entitled: "Does he have his head up his a_ _???!!!"
"I am referring to the Pope! Within a week he not only reinstated excommunicated English bishop Richard Williamson who denies the Holocaust stating that only "200,000 to 300,000 Jews died in concentration camps" and that gas chambers never existed!
"
But, then he elevated the Austrian parish priest to the level of a bishop. Gerhard Maria Wagner was the fool who stated that Hurricane Katrina was God's retribution for the sinfulness of New Orleans!
"Thank God Hitler didn't have children or they might be elevated to a Cardinal!"
Observasi dan Rekoleksi
Observasi dan Rekoleksi (Observations and Recollections) is the Malaysian spelling of the parenthetic terms. I choose to use the Malaysian (style) spelling. American/English spelling is so anomalous. It’s a wonder that Americans haven’t followed the French and completely revised spelling/pronunciation. A case in point: ughoetia, if one applies aberrant pronunciation, is fish (thanks to Tony Randall). Nonetheless, these are observations and recollections.
"Journal (jury´nil) 1. a daily record of happenings, as a diary." Obviously, this is not. However, I prefer to refer to it as thus. This is not a memoir. Nowadays they have become synonymous with scandal, revelation and outing. This is a series of observations and recollections.
Why does one keep a journal, write down in black and white their observations and recollections? Is it for one’s own amusement, edification, explication, communication or perhaps a monstrous ego trip? Take your choice. And, still I do it.
I did have the audacity to attempt poetry, in my younger days. Happily, only two lines remain in my mind’s eye--"flat-coated dogs in hungry searches press" and "the Whore of Babylon entered this life of mine, and struck to dust my reason’s rigid spine." What pretense! Do what you do best. I have been trained visually to see, to observe, to perceive and distinguish relationships. At my age, the mental and emotional relicts that I have amassed allow me to perceive, however dimly, however fleeting, some answers.
I have been raised with words, the beauty of words assembled, the elegance of precise expression, the joy of apt phrases in the proper place, civilized conversation and barbed repartée. As a boy of twelve, I knew the meaning of and could employ the word "facetious." However, I must admit, I thought that it was spelled "vacitious!" Thank the God for "Spell Check" on my computer! I blame my less than adequate spelling ability on the fact that I was taught to read by word recognition rather than phonics as well as a state of mild dyslexia.
Words are precise, and the variations (variation: nuance, degree, distinction, enhancement, shade, subtlety, touch, trace) especially within the American language is remarkable. Modern American has undergone some quite astounding mutations, even in my lifetime--e.g., in common usage, the shift of the word "queer" from "peculiar " or "bizarre" to mean "homosexual;" or "groovy" from something which possesses grooves or furrows to mean "highly satisfactory" or "very pleasing.;" and the inclusion of words like: "ain't" or "shit" in a civilized dictionary (horror of horrors!).
It was impressed upon me that an extensive, active vocabulary was the mark of intelligence, if not education. Although I must admit that education does not always insure a dynamic vocabulary or even correct pronunciation--e.g., I was amused, almost to the point of horrification when an American TV newscaster mispronounced both Chopin (chop-in) and Bach (botch).
There was always a dictionary in my parents’ home, and there has always been one in my home. It is the one publication that is the most worn.
Therefore, this pseudo-journal in reality becomes an "Apologia" in the fullest sense of the word--an explication, an exegesis, a commentary, an agama--and an expression. The joy of life and the pain of living. The exaltation of reaching a goal and the excruciating labor in the process. Maybe, this finally the removal of a small light from under the basket. Ah, the joys and sorrows of being a "late bloomer."
"Journal (jury´nil) 1. a daily record of happenings, as a diary." Obviously, this is not. However, I prefer to refer to it as thus. This is not a memoir. Nowadays they have become synonymous with scandal, revelation and outing. This is a series of observations and recollections.
Why does one keep a journal, write down in black and white their observations and recollections? Is it for one’s own amusement, edification, explication, communication or perhaps a monstrous ego trip? Take your choice. And, still I do it.
I did have the audacity to attempt poetry, in my younger days. Happily, only two lines remain in my mind’s eye--"flat-coated dogs in hungry searches press" and "the Whore of Babylon entered this life of mine, and struck to dust my reason’s rigid spine." What pretense! Do what you do best. I have been trained visually to see, to observe, to perceive and distinguish relationships. At my age, the mental and emotional relicts that I have amassed allow me to perceive, however dimly, however fleeting, some answers.
I have been raised with words, the beauty of words assembled, the elegance of precise expression, the joy of apt phrases in the proper place, civilized conversation and barbed repartée. As a boy of twelve, I knew the meaning of and could employ the word "facetious." However, I must admit, I thought that it was spelled "vacitious!" Thank the God for "Spell Check" on my computer! I blame my less than adequate spelling ability on the fact that I was taught to read by word recognition rather than phonics as well as a state of mild dyslexia.
Words are precise, and the variations (variation: nuance, degree, distinction, enhancement, shade, subtlety, touch, trace) especially within the American language is remarkable. Modern American has undergone some quite astounding mutations, even in my lifetime--e.g., in common usage, the shift of the word "queer" from "peculiar " or "bizarre" to mean "homosexual;" or "groovy" from something which possesses grooves or furrows to mean "highly satisfactory" or "very pleasing.;" and the inclusion of words like: "ain't" or "shit" in a civilized dictionary (horror of horrors!).
It was impressed upon me that an extensive, active vocabulary was the mark of intelligence, if not education. Although I must admit that education does not always insure a dynamic vocabulary or even correct pronunciation--e.g., I was amused, almost to the point of horrification when an American TV newscaster mispronounced both Chopin (chop-in) and Bach (botch).
There was always a dictionary in my parents’ home, and there has always been one in my home. It is the one publication that is the most worn.
Therefore, this pseudo-journal in reality becomes an "Apologia" in the fullest sense of the word--an explication, an exegesis, a commentary, an agama--and an expression. The joy of life and the pain of living. The exaltation of reaching a goal and the excruciating labor in the process. Maybe, this finally the removal of a small light from under the basket. Ah, the joys and sorrows of being a "late bloomer."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)