De Los Corvidae
There’s a spider in my kitchen sink. I’ve been very careful not to wash him down the drain when rinsing out my cup from morning tea. I notice I’m doing my best to pretend I don’t see him there. Ridiculous. He’s trapped, and can’t get out without help. On just about any other day of my life I’d get a scrap of paper, urge him onto it, and carry him outdoors. Though he’s got a right to life, right now I just don’t want to rescue him. I worked hard yesterday. I’m tired, even though I slept well, and I don’t want to take care of one more damn thing. Clearly, I’m feeling sorry for myself.
In this moment I want the fantasy to come true in a flash that somehow all of my labor will be rewarded. I am imagining that the usual demands the world makes, and I willingly respond to, will disappear. I can picture them all marching into one of those vertical boxes at a magic show. A silence falls over the crowd as the magician speaks some incomprehensible incantation. Then with a dramatic wave of his wand he opens the door, and . . . Poof, all my concerns and cares gone. Nice fantasy, and I know it isn’t going to happen.
What isn’t fantasy is that it’s time to let go of my resistance to the way it is this morning, and go rescue the spider. I am aware that this tiny little thing is occupying a good part of my mental space and energy at the moment--much more energy than the simple act of removing him to the out of doors would require. Enter the tragedy . . . I get up to refill tea, tear off a piece of paper towel to gently scoop him up . . . and I see that the spider is now dead. Somebody in the house had squished him dead in the interval between my two trips to the kitchen. Of course it’s their choice not to have the same ethic I do around insects. I’m not upset with anyone else. I’m disconcerted with my choice to walk blindly past my ethical commitment to do no harm . . . and instead, to do as much for good will as possible.
Corvid Savagery
In the grand scheme of things, it’s just a spider, right? That is one perspective. It is not, however, mine. I aspire to live this simple philosophy . . . How we do SMALL things is how we do ALL things. Furthermore, having lived within the parameters of this belief for some time now, I’m convinced that judging the relative importance of things and events according to quantity and size is a serious blunder. A blunder we in North America appear to be obsessed with.
Our forebears harnessed an immense frontier with oxen, plow, and wills of iron. As they claimed vast tracts of land, they created empires by virtue of nothing more than their presence and complete disregard for any pre-existing inhabitants, human and animal. For example, they all but decimated the bison, largely for sport, and thereby changed forever the lives of the native population.
It doesn’t take genius to observe that our short-sighted consumptive culture of entitlement has deep roots. No matter how hard we try to behave otherwise, we’re all infected. We tend to gravitate toward consumption of more for the sake of more while overlooking that which we judge as insignificant, the small things . . . and yet, the small things can be a good place to put your attention. To live in this level of conscious awareness can change your relationship with yourself, your work, family, community, spirituality, and the cosmos.
Try an experiment--pay attention to the seemingly insignificant things in your life . . . Things like; how you react to someone cutting in line in front of you, where your thoughts go when you drive pass a homeless person with a sign asking for money, what you’re thinking just before you drift off to sleep, or at the moment you awake. Look for those little things that occupy your thoughts in the middle of the night like a sliver under your fingernail. If a small sliver of wood can create an enormous black hole for our attention, what might a nagging little thought be draining from our capacity to dream and create the lives we really want? It could be anything from a tax form we’re procrastinating sending in, or a conversation with a friend about wanting to change some plans, or putting off cleaning the bathroom, or some errands in town . . . It could be as simple as walking by a spider stranded in the sink.
All these ‘little’ things add up to a dam of mental chatter blocking countless avenues for presence. The small stuff informs our lives, gives us insight into who we really are . . . and who we REALLY are, REALLY matters. I let myself down this morning, while some would laugh and most would probably say it isn’t tragic, it IS a reminder to me of what I care about.
I care to extend value to life independent of size or economic worth. I care for the simple reason that under that care is a strong commitment to the value of all life on this planet. I believe that the well being of one species depends on the well being of all others, no matter where they are on the food chain. Being on the top doesn’t mean that we have independence from those at the bottom. We are only on the top because of those on the bottom. We exist in a system of living things that all have a place. By recognizing that a healthy system is dependent on all parts operating in harmony with each other, we honor the importance of all . . . We bring respect and dignity to ourselves and all other life.
What’s this got to do with art? Everything. Try thinking of a piece of art, perhaps a painting, as a world unto itself, like an aquarium. An aquarium is a ‘mini-world,’ requiring balanced levels of PH in the water, light, specific temperature, a diversity of fish and plant life. Particular colors and textures give interest and narrative to the creation of a world dynamic, a living system under water. Inside the glass walls is an environment like the complex eco-systems we live in every day of our lives. Paintings are not so very different.
A painting is a world unto itself where balancing interaction with light, color, and form creates something living, a dynamic work of art that expresses my vision as an artist in the world I encounter each day. Everything I paint reflects my human concerns; the emotional, physical & spiritual geography of my life. On my canvas, it all matters . . . Every brush stroke, color choice, form, line, canvas shape, and title are chosen consciously just as individual plants and fish are chosen with great care for the health of an aquarium. My paintings are thriving, functioning artistic systems where every little thing matters as it does in every moment, of every day, in what we call ‘ordinary’ life.
I am keenly aware when something is out of harmony in a painting. I sense an unquiet friction of imbalance like dying plants indicate something is amiss in an aquarium. I will keep at a piece as long as it takes, with whatever it takes to resolve the disharmony. When that happens I hear the painting ‘exhale,’ and breath a dynamic resolution, I know then that it is complete.
The dead spider in the sink is an alarm of disharmony as well. I can forgive myself for walking by the spider this morning, and by doing so, allow the memory to further deepen my commitment to being true to myself. This means that I pay attention to what we might call small things, revealing how I live with all things . . . and, it’s all of value.
That’s what this artist is thinking about today . . .
About the paintings . . . These two are a part of a triptych inspired by my favorite family of birds, the corvids; jays, magpies, crows and ravens. I’ve tuned into and paid attention to these birds for many years. I admire the gutsy, bold life they inhabit, whether in the air displaying stunningly agile aerial ballets or adapting to the ways of humankind with their extraordinary cunning. I’ve watched them patiently and systematically teach their young to eat for themselves, and figure out how to wake me up to get some peanuts in the feeder by dropping round, hollowed-out marrow bones on the roof above my bedroom in the very early morning. They are masters of vocalization. In their varied calls I hear many narratives involving flight, territory, pairing up, roosting, delight, and fight for survival in relationship to a world ever-changing by the impact of human kind. These paintings, “De Los Corvidae,” and “Corvid Savagery,” are a tribute to the bold, clever lives of these stunning creatures . . . We could, and I do, learn a lot from these seemingly ordinary birds.
“If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows.”
Henry Beecher