A Tiny Sun Rises

Recently, I took a trip downtown and visited the Artists on Liberty Building. There were two open galleries, one of which was by a former student of the School of the Arts. Her work was alright, though not terribly original or well-done. The other gallery, however was captivating.

Upon first entering the building, a woman walked out of what appeared to be a heavily decorated office, or perhaps a gift shop (I guess it kind of ended up being both). She was a rather rotund African American woman who smiled widely and laughed joyously at almost everything. She explained that the gallery across the street (which, I imagine she had seen me trying to enter), kept strange hours, but that we were more than welcome to look around here.

Her warmth filled the whole place with a sort of joy.

There didn't seem to be anyone in any of the offices or galleries further back into the building, so I figured I'd try hers. Why not? She was a nice lady.

Bright Caribbean colors covered the walls and some light reggae danced in the background. She told us about the featured artists, Gary Campbell, Howard Chen and Albert Harjo. Each of Gary Campbell's work was made to represent a different country of the Caribbean. There was Cuba, Haiti, The Dominican Republic and many many more. She also had postcards of his work. She said there was some confusion about whether one of his paintings was the United States or Cuba because it was of a man playing a saxophone. She figured we all should just enjoy the music. Campbell also had some abstract work that almost seemed to move it was so full of energy. That was interesting. But, as I listened to her, it was exactly the type of artwork I imagined she would collect. She sounded like any old gallery owner talking about their collection.

But then I noticed a different section of art. A group of tiny paintings (not more than a foot in either dimension) hung with each other along the wall. I stepped toward them and the woman's tone changed just slightly. She said it was artwork by Albert Harjo, a Native American man from Oklahoma who started painting in his sixties. There's some more information about him here and here(these are the only websites with any information about him). He paints using tempera and water color. I wasn't allowed to take a photograph of it myself (and as noted prior, my drawing skills are horrific), but I found some more of his work scattered throughout obscure auction websites.

His work that I find to be most beautiful is Unknown Journey.

Anonymously they walk along the cold white ground. They remind me of being a child. When I thought I could reach up into the sky and pick off a little piece of cloud to hold. Back many years ago when I read of Native Americans in children's stories. I loved them. They played with words in such imagination. Dancing through forests of wheat. Loving one another. The stories' illustrations created characters made of maybe only two or three shades of color, with little gradient between. So solid and stern. Yet they grew soft and smooth through the beauty of the writing.

I could never forget those stories.

This painting immediately sent me back there. Despite the sun's rigidity, I still imagine the softest light from all of time falling from it. Despite the intense empty space and loneliness of the composition, I couldn't help but smile at the warmth of the souls that I imagined inhabited it.

The wind seems to tug at them as if asking to play. But they can't. They must find where they're going. They're heads seem to sink down into their bodies, perhaps retreating from the cold or in shame for something bad they had done. But the sun seems to sit above them, looking down, as if in forgiveness, asking them to hold their heads high, happiness all around.

I imagine that they are returning home from a long journey, ready to fall softly into the comfort of their beds. Or maybe they're going to a village somewhere in desperate waiting for their arrival. Or maybe they've lost their home and anyone to expect them, and they're simply journeying to find a new place where they can be.

I suppose this gives quite a bit to the painting from my own personal history, but I think good art should do evoke enough of a response to entirely recreate meaning through one's past experience.

It reminds me of Chardin's, House of Cards in that they are both so simply and symmetrically composed, without very much detail in the atmosphere of this very odd little place. This, however is where the similarity of their craft ends. Harjo uses such stark, bright, wonderful blues and oranges and reds and browns in a scene that, without my personal injection of joy, is rather melancholy. But Chardin uses a color scheme rooted in soft, drab browns and greens in a scene that is sourly academic with the slightest undertone of excitement.

Though they differ quite a bit in style, they hold the same odd underlying emotion. Both make me happy. Despite the boy's manlike, stoic demeanor, his eyes have just a glimmer of excitement in them. He wants to see the house of cards stand, but he would also love to see it come crashing down in a mish-mash of suits and numbers. He has that same little spark of interest that the sun has in those journeying people. That same intimate connection with what he looks down at, what he loves.

I love Native American Art because it reminds me so of those little storybooks I used to read. That childhood exuberance that they held. I'll always associate the two, for as long as I live. I find myself too nostalgic to let them go.

A Presidential Redux

WARNING: This post is extremely biased. If you can't take the heat... um... don't go near hot places or things.

The world is very different now. It's flatter and closer than ever. The extreme nationalism of the Twentieth Century faded with the end of the Cold War. Anyone can connect to anyone else whenever they want. I can trade stocks on exchanges in Europe and Asia for almost nothing. As a result of this diffusion of borders, world leaders have had to evolve. They must be worldly in a way that was not always the case.

In the United States, the role of the President has also changed.

Once the President was a statesman only. Their portraits reflect this intensely. They stand or sit in ornate rooms full of incredible images of strength and power. They are stoic, sturdy, the pillar of the Nation. Washington even considered his role in government to be undemocratic. It was the Congress, he thought, that was the voice of the President. The people elect him because of his proven character and abilities in working with diplomats and other statesmen, not with garnering public support for bills or kissing babies. That was uncivilized. Presidents often didn't even campaign.

That's Andrew Jackson on the stagecoach.

It wasn't until Andrew Jackson ran for President that support for anything resembling the grassroots campaigns and public appearance that we see today began to grow. The President was, in a way, secluded from common people. He represented his country to the other heads of state, not their citizens.

But now, the President represents this country to the world. What he does reflects entirely upon the view of America in the rest of the world. Holding this position of incredible influence comes also with an incredible responsibility. He is a more public figure now than ever before. Every moment of his life is poked and prodded. We must be sure his character and personality is acceptable to be placed as the essence of what an American is.

When George W. Bush was President (legally elected only once, I might add), we were cowboys.

We shot first and asked questions later. We tortured. We were stupid. We couldn't even speak our perverted "american" english correctly. We lost the world's respect.

But then Hope happened. Barack Obama won the Presidency and suddenly there was a near religious fervor. People danced in the streets. It was time for change, for progress to finally take the reigns after eight years of BS. He was featured on the covers of some of the most prestigious magazines in the world. He was interviewed on the news, on talk shows, on the street. Story upon story upon story poured out of the media about him. His face is recognizable all over the world. He only gave his first national speech in 2004. He only became a national senator in 2004 and didn't even have time to finish a full term. Yet we know his face, his eyes, his smile, his laugh and every tone his voice can make. He is a father, a husband, a statesman, a scholar, an intellectual, a reader, a writer, a speaker, a preacher, a lover, a fighter, a friend, an idea. He became a star to rival Kennedy.

Seductive Swingers Swing Swiftly

I think dance is one of the most beautiful art forms. It comprises the composition of paintings, the dimensionality of sculpture, the intense humanity of theater, the beautiful math of music and the motion of film. It requires rigor in physicality, emotion and intellect. My love for dance likely stems from my roots in it. Both of my parents were professional ballet dancers and now are ballet teachers. It has been infused in my blood. The unfettered beauty of Swan Lake or Harbinger or any number of classical or modern ballets, speaks volumes beyond what any other art could say. They reach into your soul and fill you with what it means to be human. At least good dance does.

Somehow I have found myself rambling. My apologies.

These swinging paintings that we have looked at, in particular Jean-Honore Fragonard's The Swing, captivate a dance-like motion through the air. In The Swing, the woman's foot points toward the man, forming the graceful movement of a ballet dancer's. His hand reaches out to her with inconceivable grace. She seems as if she will fly from the swing and land softly in his outstretched arms.

He will lift her gently into the air so that she may stretch her body into a bow, her arms reaching toward heaven, her feet toward earth.

Then they will fall to the ground and embrace.

Their love is theirs.