Entry - 12.11.21

 

Philip Guston - The Studio - 1969

I was leafing through the December 2020 issue of ARTFORUM when I came across an article by Steve Locke which addressed the art of Philip Guston.  In this article, Locke describes an experience he had while enrolled in an MFA program back in 1999. During one of his classes, the instructor was showing slides of a variety of images from art history and was briefly discussing them. When he displayed Philip Guston's The Studio, which presents an artist dressed in Klan-like robes painting a self portrait, Locke, the only African-American in the class, was shocked.

I hear my teacher say, "Philip Guston, 1969, The Studio, about six by six feet, oil on canvas."

"Why are you showing us this?" I ask. Everyone looks at me.

"This painting is the beginning of Guston's departure from abstraction and return to a new kind of figuration."

"And was he in the Klan?" I ask.

"No," my professor says. "Although he uses this figure as an alter ego."

"He's white?"

"Yes. And Jewish. There was a lot of controversy about Guston. You should examine it. Next slide."

I scribble down the name. An alter ego? A Jewish artist painting himself as a Klansman? I am not able to pay attention to the other artists in the slide presentation. The Guston picture is all I can think about. I feel certain that my classmates can smell my anger.

-Steve Locke, "Guston, Whiteness and the Unfinished Business of the Vile World", ARTFORUM December 2020

After that class, Locke investigated Guston's oeuvre and personal history and concluded that Guston's painting wasn't an attempt to promote the Ku Klux Klan but to recognize within himself the vestiges of racism. Locke believes that Guston actually confronted his own “whiteness” and the inherent complicity to which silence regarding race issues naturally attests. By the end of the article, Locke determines that in incorporating Klan imagery in his painting Guston wished to expose the undercurrents of racism, hidden and preferred to be ignored by many in America, that continues to assert a powerful and degenerative influence on our society and concludes that Guston had taken the first steps toward “accountability”.

I found several aspects of Locke's article admirable. The courage he exhibits in challenging his professor before his (I assume) all-white classmates is laudable. I honestly doubt that I would have had the grit to do that. And when disturbed by Guston's image, he does something which is seldom done in our modern era: he performs research to learn more about the artist's intentions. Ultimately, he arrives at a conclusion that is in direct opposition to his initial impression. To me, that is evident of an objectivity and intellectual curiosity that is truly rare.

But the article also raised some disturbing questions for me. Shouldn't an artwork be able to function independently as an expression of the artist's intent without the intrusion of supporting documentation, personal history and critical assessment? If The Studio was parachuted into a community of isolated folk with no knowledge of art history or America's checkered past, would the Klansman persona portrayed in the work be viewed as appealing? Could the painting be conceived as a recruitment advertisement for the Klan?

Apparently, a lot of people would have trouble answering these questions.

In 2020, a retrospective exhibit of Guston's work including 125 paintings and 70 drawings was scheduled to open at the National Gallery of Art, after which the exhibit would move on to the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, the Tate Museum in London and the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. However, due to the COVID pandemic, the opening was delayed until 2021. Then, in September 2020, all four museums announced in a joint statement that the exhibit would not happen until 2024, that they were”postponing the exhibition until a time at which we think the powerful message of social and racial justice that is at the center of Philip Guston's work can be more clearly interpreted”. Obviously, after the May 25^th murder of George Floyd and a summer of heated protests (which unfortunately included incidents of arson, rioting and looting), these four museums were apprehensive about the reception that an exhibition that included Guston's Klan imagery might receive. Would museum goers understand Guston's message? Maybe not. Could the exhibit itself spark rioting? That seems a reasonable prospect. Is it possible that Guston's Klan paintings could be damaged or destroyed in response to their public display? It certainly seemed plausible at that time.

So... Was the postponement of the exhibition an act of cowardly submission or the judicious acknowledgment of a risk that the museums could not justify taking? I believe a look at Guston's oeuvre and an exploration of contemporary censorship might offer some insight.

I studied art many years before Steve Locke did and cannot recall any instructor either in my undergrad or grad school classes addressing Guston's work. There are probably several reasons for this. Guston was a “first generation” member of the Abstract Expressionism movement in New York City. His paintings, at that time, usually consisted of a clot of colors applied in impasto brushstrokes positioned at the center of a canvas. These paintings are difficult and display none of the energy and virtuosity embodied in the work of, let's say, Pollock or de Kooning. In these paintings, Guston was deliberately restricting his artistic vocabulary, forcing his audience to assess paint itself and reexamine what can be construed as “beautiful”. There is a misleading sameness to them which makes it hard to discuss specific works or distinguish an arc of development. Dissecting compositional elements, technical methodologies or historic influences becomes nearly impossible.

Philip Guston - Zone - 1953

Philip Guston - For M - 1955

Philip Guston - Prague - 1956

I didn't know of these works until years after I had become familiar with Guston's later figurative paintings. His abstract work didn't interest me. It was too limited and homogeneous, and I dismissed it. Only recently have I been able to look at these paintings and appreciate, to some degree, their beauty and lyricism.

His later representational work, though initially reviled for being reactionary, was more interesting to me. But, I want to be clear, reverting back to representational imagery at that time (the late 60's) wasn't really that radical. Almost two decades earlier, de Kooning had shocked his fellow Abstract Expressionists by reintroducing the figure in his work, but de Kooning, as did Richard Diebenkorn and the Bay Area artists, retained his Expressionist “vocabulary” while addressing representational imagery. Guston's break with Abstract Expressionism was more extreme.

Guston's representational paintings discarded the technical process and objectives of his earlier work. While the abstract work was lyrical and romantic, the new work was brutal, clumsy and blunt. The colors were dirty, commonly infused with grays, and his palette was extremely limited. Guston adopted cartoon imagery, not the slick commercial replications of the Pop Art artists but an invented catalog of recurring, personal symbols that hearkened back to the crude comic strips of the early twentieth century. The representational paintings are neither pretty nor easily accessible. They offend the viewer's aesthetic acumen. They defy his or her expectation of “craft”.

Philip Guston - Paintbrushes - 1978

Philip Guston - Pittore - 1973

Philip Guston - Studio Landscape - 1975

Philip Guston - The Ladder - 1978

Philip Guston - Head and Bottle - 1975

Philip Guston - Painting, Smoking, Eating - 1972

Convinced that all that I wrote above about this work is true, I must also state that these paintings provide a visual response that is truly seductive. After years of creating and looking at art, Guston has grasped the visual fundamentals and rewards that entice the viewer into looking at an image and has reduced them to a coarse, cartoony concentrate. His images play with perspective in a Cezanne-like fashion both exaggerating and defying its impact on figures and objects. Paintbrushes, shoes, pastries and various other items are artlessly and excessively stacked and overlap one another. The folds, wrinkles and stitching in cloth are overstated; the brads and sutures on the soles of shoes are too evident. Objects extend above the horizon-line or peek over it. Shadows are emphasized, often painted in flat blacks or bright reds. Paint is applied thickly, clumsily, almost haphazardly with very limited modulation of tonality, but there is a real sensitivity and balance to the brushwork all the same. These paintings enhance the pleasure the viewer experiences through visual perception, which is essentially the manner by which the eye deciphers form.

I would say that the vast majority of these paintings are self-portraits documenting the artist's physical decline and his neglected personal appearance. Guston reveals a solitary existence of limited possibilities and pleasures. He indulges in a smoke, a drink, sweets... his bed offering the sole refuge from the demands of the studio. These works are intended to be funny. They offer a playfully exaggerated commentary on the twilight years of a respected artist. I'm not sure if I Ioved these images the first time I saw them, but I do know that I quickly came to enjoy and admire them and believe them to represent an important contribution to the post-abstract idiom.

Early on in his foray into representational imagery, Guston introduced Klansmen characters into his paintings. I had trouble accepting these works. I found the inclusion of Klansmen to be a reference too specific for the type of painting Guston was producing at that time, an approach that addressed a very pared-down reality consisting of a small handful of mundane, emblematic personae and objects and employed an extremely painterly, aesthetically-weighted technical means. Inserting Klan imagery edged Guston's paintings toward the pedantic... the morally edifying. Such imagery contradicted the universality of his other representational work and instead chronicled a paradigm evocative of a specific place, time and social movement. The Klan paintings seemed at odds with Guston's other work and could be conceived to be at cross-purposes with his technical aims. Apparently, while living through the late 60's/early 70's, a time of great upheaval and radical social change in America, Guston felt compelled to participate in the contemporary discourse. Making images heavily invested in a purely aesthetic approach would not be sufficient to assuage his desire to assert his own perspective of current developments and to convey his personal experience of American hypocrisy. When I first saw these works, I was dissatisfied with them; I feel the same today.

Philip Guston - Alone - 1969

Philip Guston - Untitled, Hooded Figures Driving

Philip Guston - Open Window II - 1969

Philip Guston - Scared Stiff - 1970

Philip Guston - City Limits - 1969

But my unhappiness with the Klansmen paintings was about objectives and aesthetics. I was never confused about Guston's attitude toward the hooded figures depicted in his art. The Klansmen are not appealing or admirable. Their robes are stitched together from rags and are often splattered with red splotches (what I assume to be blood). Commonly, the hands of these Klansman are colored a deep red, suggesting their culpability in the murder of numerous victims. The square of stitching at the back of each hood proposes that the wearer may have undergone some kind of hemispherectomy or lobotomy leaving him or her too impaired to evaluate reality rationally. In many works, the Klansmen are crowded compactly into very small cars, triggering associations with the Keystone Kops. Comically, these Klansmen invariably possess cigarettes, somehow finding access to their mouths through their cloth headgear. Guston is ridiculing his Klansmen. They are buffoons.

Some people might argue that, regardless of Guston's intent, simply presenting images of Klansmen in his work is offensive and shouldn't be tolerated, but I would counter that intent should not only be considered but must be of primary importance when evaluating the integrity and worth of art.

Quite a few years ago, I had my own personal episode during which I had to make a judgment call on whether intent is more important than ostensible appearance.

Back then, when our family was still quite young, I always read bedtime stories to the kids... as I would assume most parents continue to do even in this twenty first century. As our children grew older, I did not give up this nightly ritual and instead said a sad farewell to Beatrix Potter, Maurice Sendak, Dr. Seuss, Astrid Lindgren and the Brothers Grimm and adopted more advanced material. My reasoning was simple. Our children were free to choose whatever books they wanted to read and, not surprisingly, commonly turned to easily digestible contemporary literature, showing a clear preference for extensive series that presented a recurring cast of characters and repetitive themes. We had no problem with this, thinking it wonderful that the kids were enthusiastic readers who rapidly pored over reams of written material each day. During this time, each of our children was also assigned a piece of classic literature to tackle on his own, and, during our nightly communal readings, I would select some pretty heavy tomes, always deliberately aiming to find something challenging... usually slightly above their immediate comprehension level. I wanted to be sure that the kids developed a taste for serious literature and attained an extensive vocabulary that included words not regularly pronounced on TV shows or included in popular literature. So together we read the works of Hawthorne, Kipling, Wharton, Camus, Tolstoy, Alcott, Spyri, Conan Doyle, Stevenson, Barrie, Tolkien, London, Fenimore Cooper and Steinbeck, just to name a few, and we, at least I believe, really enjoyed the experience.

To be frugal, I would order books through a catalog company that offered overstocked and out-of-print material at significantly reduced prices. Often, I was able to purchase exquisitely bound and beautifully illustrated hardcover books for a pittance. The downside was I had to spend quite a while leafing through pages and pages of listings to find anything of worth and of course my selections were limited to whatever happened to be available that month. So while perusing the catalog, whenever I came across a classic piece of literature suitable for the children, it would be added to my order form, and, every couple of months or so, I would receive a large cardboard box full of books afloat in a sea of styrofoam peanuts. And hence, in our evenings, the kids and I would gather in the living room, with me situated under a bright lamp and the boys scattered about helter skelter on floor and furniture, to work our way through the backlog of books I had most recently purchased.

Thus it came about that Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was slated to become our next nightly selection. I had read this novel for an American Lit class while an undergraduate in college. I recall that the course's professor had a penchant for Twain, and we read a lot of his writings that semester, including some of his lesser-known later pieces. I was particularly impacted by The Mysterious Stranger, an unfinished novel that presents a very dark, bleak perception of the human condition, as being extremely uncharacteristic within Twain's oeuvre. Huckleberry Finn made much less of an impression on me.

As we started to work our way through Huckleberry Finn, I quickly became aware that this book was very different from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, a novel we had read at least a year earlier. While Tom Sawyer is a light, humorous tale exploring the whimsical conduct of children, Huckleberry Finn addresses very serious issues. In the later book, Twain exposes the blatant racism that infects antebellum plantation culture, lampooning the supposedly upstanding institutions that white society most esteemed. As was especially appreciated in nineteenth century literary assessment, Twain specializes in accurately capturing the specific dialects, accents and vocabulary of his characters. Huck, the story's narrator, employs a casual Southern child's vernacular, while Jim, an escaped captive, uses the language common to uneducated, enslaved Africans during the 1800's. We see the world through Huck's eyes. He is the innocent struggling to make sense of the flawed civilization in which he exists, while Jim represents the moral and compassionate ideal, the true embodiment of the high and revered virtues that plantation culture claims to embrace.

As we made our way through this novel, I became uneasy. My two oldest sons, just then on the cusp of adolescence, were my audience for this reading. Being homeschooled, they were insulated from the vast majority of the most contentious issues impacting American society at that time. They associated with a fairly diverse group of friends and fellow homeschoolers, and, to the best of my knowledge, their interactions were natural and unsullied by bias. I was fearful that Twain's frank depiction of racial injustice in antebellum America might impact on their relations with other children. I wasn't concerned that my sons would be transformed into racists, but I was troubled at the thought that such reading could introduce into their consciousnesses the concept of “the other”, a recognition that, though we are all human, our perceptions, attitudes, emotions and experiences are uniquely shaped by factors like gender, ethnicity and racial identity. Obviously, this period of utopian innocence could not last forever, but I hoped to extend it for as long as possible. I admit my objectives were a bit naive and idealistic.

Equally disturbing for me was Twain's regular use of the word “nigger” in his book. I understand that the author desired to accurately reflect the repugnant vocabulary of his characters and relished assaulting his white audience with its repeated intonation over and over again. But I'm pretty sure that my children had never heard this word before, and I didn't want it introduced into their lexicons. I seriously considered surreptitiously replacing the word “nigger” with “scoundrel” or “lowlife” or “drudge” whenever it appeared.

I am dead set against censorship. When I was growing up, the issue of censorship was hotly debated. Serious literature that depicted sexual activity openly and honestly had been banned from publication in the USA for many years, and this suppression was being challenged in the courts in the early 60's. Promiscuity, adultery, premarital sex, prostitution and homosexuality were considered topics too risque and noxious to be consumed by the general public. The Hays Code, which strictly prohibited the inclusion of nude scenes in movies, was being violated by a new generation of film directors. Comedians who included four-letter words in their routines were charged with obscenity. Lyrics that referred, even obliquely, to drug culture were often revised for television and radio broadcast. Content that didn't support the Vietnam War was considered unpatriotic and was vulnerable to censorship, and material that threatened organized religion or promoted atheism was prohibited. I recall seeing repeatedly on the TV news, clips from courtrooms across the nation showing decrepit, hoary-headed male judges passing sentence on and bitterly remonstrating many a celebrity culprit for violating the high and mighty moral code of the United States of America. At the time, I thought that these proponents of censorship were simply representative of a bygone generation, too inculcated in a long-ago discarded way of thinking to recognize that our society was progressing toward a more reasonable, mature and equitable approach to self-evaluation. The battle against censorship was fiercely and unremittingly fought. I still believe it was a moral struggle, one that secured a sacred freedom for all Americans.

So when I considered putting aside The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn or making adjustments to its language, I was naturally conflicted. Ultimately, I determined that I would trust Twain, as one more skilled and intelligent than I, to effectively communicate his message, one which deplored bias and condemned those individuals who promoted intolerance and prejudice. I decided that “intent” was more important than “content”, that my children would benefit from and be enlightened by Twain's words.

I've always embraced the conviction (falsely attributed to Voltaire) that “I may disagree with what you say, but I shall defend, to death, your right to say it.” I believe that shallow and insupportable concepts will always be discredited in open debate, that base lies will be exposed should a factual examination of their foundations be performed. I want to hear a multitude of opinions, no matter how outlandish they may sometimes seem, and arrive at my own decision as to what is credible or ridiculous or abhorrent. I unequivocally value intellectual investigation over emotional knee-jerk reaction. And I fervently hope that as a people we can make an effort to appreciate that words and images and deeds are complex things that merit fair evaluation and should not be dismissed upon a cursory perusal.

It's pretty ironic that Philip Guston is being reappraised now as a possible bigot, that his art is considered too controversial to be exhibited not by conservatives and racists but by liberals and progressives. I would hope that Guston could find the humor in this. Philip Guston was born in Canada in 1913 to Jewish parents who had fled pogroms in Russia. His family eventually emigrated to California where they hoped to find greater economic opportunity. In America, they were confronted with a rise in persecution resulting from the growth of the Klan, and it has been suggested that the suicide of his father, when Guston was just ten years old, may be partially attributed to his despair over the intolerance he endured in the US. As he developed into an artist, Guston was influenced by the Social Realists, Regionalists and Mexican muralists. Much of his early representational work promotes progressive social change and expresses a desire for a more equitable and humane culture... some of his imagery directly addressing the scourge of the Klan. An early mural, executed by him and fellow artist, Reuben Kadish, was intended to raise money for the defense of the Scottsboro Boys, nine black teens falsely accused of rape, but that work was defaced by LA police (incidentally never held accountable for their actions). When many years later he returned to representational imagery, he didn't shy away from the themes that obsessed him in his youth; instead he chose to look deep within himself to find the unacknowledged racist that resides in each of us.

It came as a surprise to me when the Guston retrospective was postponed. I never thought that his art could be construed as “racist” and simply assumed that Guston's presentation of Klansmen as comic figures, clumsy, moronic buffoons stumbling along through the shadowy periphery of society, must have offended the new generation of pundits and arbiters who could find nothing vaguely humorous in these individuals. I was wrong. I should have understood that, in a time of extremely high emotions, paintings that present controversial imagery, even the well-intentioned work of an unquestionably progressive artist, would be deemed too incendiary to be exhibited publicly.

As always, I encourage readers to comment here. If you would prefer to comment privately, you can email me at gerardwickham@gmail.com.

Entry - 7.17.21

 

As I advised in May's post, this new blog entry consists entirely of a piece of my recent fiction. Though I've produced many short stories since my childhood days, I've very rarely attempted (always unsuccessfully) to get published. Consequently I get very little feedback on my efforts. So if you take the time to read this short piece and are so inclined, a few words of criticism would be appreciated. Be harsh. I'm seeking illumination, not affirmation.

As always, I encourage readers to comment here. If you would prefer to comment privately, you can email me at gerardwickham@gmail.com.

Francis Bacon, Head VI, Oil on Canvas, 1949

Crisis

Click. Click. Click.

Elizabeth was in her mother's kitchen fiddling with the stove she was forbidden to touch. She wasn't certain why she was violating the long-established prohibition, and she felt vaguely confused and uneasy.

Click. Click. Click.

Though the igniter was clicking away, the burner did not light and gas continued to collect at the stove top. She knew she should shut off the valve and wait for the gas to dissipate but was determined to get a flame.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

The clicking seemed to be getting louder and more insistent. This was taking way too long, and far too much gas had flowed into the burner. Now it was inevitable that the flame would ignite in a blinding flash, the kind that singes eyebrows and rattles pots and pans. A substantial explosion seemed a real possibility. She started to panic.

Upon opening her eyes, she was unable to determine her location. She was seated, her back stiff and aching. The glass that surrounded her was glazed with condensation permitting only a dull gray light to permeate the interior. A thick blanket, tucked about her chin, concealed her limbs. A feeling of cold, probably the most extreme she had yet to experience in her lifetime, gripped her body, and a miasma enveloped her mind. Where the hell was she?

Click. Click. Click.

She turned to her left. A key ring grasped tightly in a fist was beating at the window, a muffled voice brayed urgently, and, through the clouded glass, she made out an indistinct face. She lowered the window just a crack.

“Liz! Don't tell me...”

“What?” Elizabeth rubbed her swollen eyes. “No, Ann, I'm just...”

“You can't. This is impossible.”

“Can't what? I'm just taking a break.”

“Bullshit!” Ann objected.

“Really. I had only a few hours between shifts. It wasn't worth the trip home.”

“God. You're living out of your car. This is madness.”

Elizabeth exhaled in surrender. “I considered setting up a tent in our yard, but there's still snow on the ground. This is fine.”

“You'll freeze to death.”

“No. I'm fine. Just gotta get out of there for awhile, or I'll go mad.”

“I understand. Really I do. But... this isn't reasonable.”

“Listen, Ann. This thing is bad... real bad. Did you hear Dr. Zalesny died over the weekend? I can't risk bringing it home to my family.”

Her brow furrowed with concern, Ann studied Elizabeth's weary features. “Okay. You'll be staying with me. Definitely not luxury accommodations, but I live alone and, let's face it, we're both equally at risk.”

“I couldn't ask that of you.”

“You're not. I'm insisting.”

Her face was a map etched with the lines of highways and rivers, entire zones tinted in hues of red and purple. A cluster of acne had blossomed beneath her nose, a flashback to her teen years, and a cold sore crowned her upper lip. There was a sheen to her flesh as if she had applied a coat of petroleum jelly to her face. Despite her improvised band-aid cushion, the bridge of her nose, where the goggles rested, was bruised and conspicuously discolored. She gratefully observed that several hanks of her greasy hair were draped over her features veiling the ugliness somewhat.

The image in the mirror shocked and repulsed her. She froze, gaping into the glass. Though never a knockout, Elizabeth had always looked after herself, hygiene and orderliness being of paramount importance to her. She wanted to look fresh and attractive, not flawless or hot. This stranger in the mirror confronted her, asserting a version of herself that violated the boundaries of her every expectation. She was absolutely disgusted.

At the same time, she felt elated to have the protective gear off, to touch surfaces unfiltered by a layer of latex, to breathe cool, unrecycled air. Though inured somewhat to the discomfit, the stifling warmth and the suffocating mask, she still relished the relief of being free, of experiencing sensations normally.

Exhaustion crept upon her and rapidly suppressed all of the emotions that had swelled within her mind just a few moments ago. Elizabeth knew she ought to prepare some hot, nutritious food. If she wanted to stay healthy and fulfill the absurdly demanding requirements of her job, she had to take care of herself... to eat well... to permit herself to relax... to escape the dark reality of work... to seek the solace of distractions. The image of a plateful of stir-fried vegetables strewn over a hill of brown rice materialized tangibly in her imagination, the aroma of sauteed greens filling her nostrils. Merely the thought of quietly reading a book while curled up on a comfortable chair consoled her. Of course it made sense to satisfy a few basic wants.

But her limbs were leaden, her mind submerged in a sea of fog and from time to time her eyelids closed of their own accord... only for a second or two surely. Her body was stating firmly that it could offer nothing more, that willpower must eventually succumb to physical necessity. “Just for twenty minutes or so,” she thought while unfolding the blanket draped across Ann's sofa back; however she knew that inevitably in just a few hours she would be roused from her sleep by her phone's alarm and begin preparing in the weak, blue light of dawn for another day of work.

“So can I leave now?” he rasped at her.

“Didn't they make it clear to you, Mr. Carbone? You're being admitted.” Elizabeth scanned his chart.

“That's ridiculous. I'm fine.”

Through the scratched plastic of her goggles, she examined her patient: the impeccably cropped salt and pepper hair, the aquiline nose, the freshly shaven jawline and the slim, muscular torso.

“You do know you tested positive? You're actually pretty sick.”

“Nonsense. I've got a stubborn cold.” He gasped then coughed uncontrollably for a while. Clearly choking back the cough, he brushed the tears from his eyes and composed himself. “Went to my doctor to get some pills and the nitwit sent me here. Never should have listened to him.”

“He did the right thing, Mr Carbone. You have all the classic symptoms.”

“Lou.”

“Excuse me?” She looked up from her paperwork.

“It's Lou.” He smiled at her almost devilishly. “You can call me, Lou.”

Good-naturedly, she scoffed at his flirtation. “Right, Mr. Carbone. I'll make a note of that.”

“Okay. I'll tell you what. You can keep me here a day or two, poke and prod me... siphon off my blood, if that's what floats your boat. But then I've got a trip to prepare for.”

“A trip?” Elizabeth was incredulous.

“Been set up for months. Going skiing with my posse next week.”

She referred to his chart again. Her patient was in his early sixties. “Seems a little late in the season for that.”

“It's peak in Utah now. Warm weather, clear skies and perfect snow. And the crowds are gone too. Been doing it every spring for nearly thirty years now.” He added confidentially, “Keep this from my ex, but it's always been the highlight of the year for me. I've already got my plane tickets and hotel reservation, so don't tell me a silly cold is going to put the kibosh on my plans.”

Elizabeth smiled lamely behind her mask. “We'll see what we can do.”

Her husband's image edged out of the frame and was replaced by a blurry, backlit shadow. She stared intently at the screen while the camera struggled to focus, then recognized her daughter's distorted features. She gulped.

“Mommy. Is that you?”

“Of course it's me, darling.”

“What happened to your face?”

“Nothing, dear. Can't you see me?” Elizabeth was confused for a moment, then it dawned upon her. “Oh, Charlie. Mommy's being very careful. I wear all sorts of things to keep me safe... kind of like a knight's suit of armor. It's really very, very good, but it makes my skin a little bit sore. The marks go away very quickly. Please don't worry, honey.”

“So you're not hurt?”

“No, Charlie, I'm fine.”

“Where are you then?”

Elizabeth hesitated a moment. “I'm actually very close to you. Not far at all.”

The child's eyes glistened. “Then why don't you come home?”

Elizabeth fought back the tears. She didn't want her daughter to see her crying. “I can't just yet, darling.”

“Why not? I miss you, Mommy.” One thin, glistening line appeared on her daughter's cheek.

Her husband's stern voice intruded from a distance. “Charlotte, we talked about this. You know your mother's taking care of sick people who need her help. She can't be with us now.”

“But I need her too, Daddy. I need her more than they do.”

Elizabeth felt her daughter's anguish. She heard the panic in the pitch of her words.

Her husband's exasperated sigh rasped through the speakers. “Remember you were going to be strong, Charlotte. You don't want to make your mother sad, do you?” he admonished her from off-camera.

“Charlie!” she exclaimed brightly. “Where's Iris? I need to see her too.”

“Can't,” the child answered.

“And why not?”

Her husband intervened again. “Sorry, Liz. She conked out right after dinner. I tried, but she was exhausted.”

Elizabeth did her best to hide her disappointment. “That's alright. I'll catch her next call.”

“Charlotte. It's time to say goodbye to Mommy,” he instructed her.

“But I just got on,” she sobbed.

“We'll talk again real soon, honey.” She smiled at her daughter.

“Promise?”

“Absolutely.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Soon.”

“You better. 'Cause Mandy never gets my hair right. Not ever.”

She felt the blood rush to her head. “Okay, honey. Now I need to talk to Daddy a second. Could you give us a little private time?” When she was sure her daughter had left the room, she cried out angrily, “Are you kidding me, Bill? Using a babysitter at a time like this?”

He reentered the frame. “Didn't have a choice, Liz. They wanted me in the office a couple days each week, and I got them to agree to one day every week or so.”

“You shouldn't be in the office at all!”

“Not if I want to keep my job. And it's not safe to bring the girls grocery shopping with me. Do you know Iris absolutely refuses to wear a mask? Just pulls it off.”

She couldn't accept this. “No, Bill. You don't realize how serious this is. Lots of people are dying.”

“I watch the news,” he objected.

“No. You don't understand. We're completely overrun. I've never seen anything like this.”

“I really do get it. But the schools are closed. Iris' daycare shut down two weeks ago. I don't have many options.”

“How could you make a decision like this without consulting me? Here I am exiled from my own family and you're bringing outsiders into our home. What's the point?”

“First of all, do you realize that you're impossible to reach? And I'm dealing with a situation here that I never could have imagined. Cut me a little slack. And Amanda isn't a stranger. She's been babysitting for us since Charlotte was just a baby.”

“Nothing against Mandy, but every time you allow a person into our home you're exposing yourself and the kids to everybody that person's been in contact with. Who knows what Mandy's been up to... how careful she's being? I imagine her campus is the perfect breeding ground for the virus.”

“Her college closed weeks ago. All the classes are online now. She was able to get tested and came up negative. And we're it. She doesn't babysit for any other families, and she wears a mask at our home. For Christ's sake! Have a little faith in me.”

She could hear in his tone of voice that he was getting worked up. “Okay, Bill. But please don't let your guard down.”

Lou smiled brightly as she entered the room. “Ah, the most beautiful nurse on the ward is paying me a visit.”

Elizabeth glowered at him in mock irritation. “Flattery won't get you out of here any sooner.”

“Honestly. If only I could turn back the clock...”

She studied his chart. “Hey, Lou. I need to talk with you.”

“Uh oh. Here's where she drops the hammer.”

She smiled sadly at him. “Your oxygenation level continues to drop... even with the nose piece. I think the ski trip won't be happening this year.”

He wheezed, then started coughing a dry, rasping cough. “Yeah. I sorta figured that out on my own.”

“Your lungs aren't able to pull in enough air. And you're still quite feverish.”

“It's one hell of a cold, but, don't you worry, I've gotten over worse.”

“It's pretty serious, Lou. I need you to understand that.”

“When I'm all better, I'm going to take you out for a nice dinner. Some place fancy and real expensive. Just to say thanks.”

A nonstop concert of the convulsive gasping of ventilators, the beeping of heart monitors and the ringing of alarms accompanied all of her activities throughout the workday. This was nothing new for a hospital, but now there were more machines and critical patients than she had ever known before. The noise was deafening. When absolutely overwhelmed, she would retreat to the semi-private room Lou had miraculously secured upon being admitted. He wasn't one of the kind of people with whom she usually associated. Elizabeth came from common, plain-speaking stock, and Lou was a character, the sort of colorful persona she couldn't understand and naturally mistrusted. His exaggerated talk and casual romancing would ordinarily have offended her, but, during those strange days, she craved the human connection that his bold familiarity provided. They had many intimate conversations. One evening, she even slipped into disclosing a litany of flaws she had discovered in her husband once they had married, a betrayal she would normally never have permitted herself. She was a little troubled. She had learned years ago that, while it's a good thing to care about a patient's welfare, it's disastrous to become too intensely attached. That would only lead to depression and burnout.

As she entered the room that afternoon, Elizabeth noticed a distinct change in Lou's appearance. The orbits of his eyes were clearly defined and shadowed with a dark, bruised, greenish discoloration. His features were sagging, his impeccably coiffed hair was now oily and disheveled, and his breathing was extremely labored.

“Hey Lou, are you getting enough air?”

Unaware of her presence, he started. “Oh, Liz. Don't sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry, Lou. I don't think you're getting enough oxygen. I see you working hard to pull in breaths, but your lungs are so compromised they're unable to take in enough air. I'm becoming very concerned.”

“I'm fine,” he rasped.

“You're not fine, Lou. It's definitely in your lung tissue. Now it's a question of how your immune system is going to respond. I'm worried.”

He croaked out a chuckle. “Lies of the biased media.”

“What are you talking about?” she almost cried.

“Just a bunch of propaganda. I'm not scared.”

“Well, you should be.”

She stormed angrily out of the room.

“That's impossible!” she scolded.

“It's not impossible,” he responded. “It's reality.”

“So you're actually going to get on a plane?”

“I have no choice.”

“Of course, you have a choice. You can quit.”

Bill exhaled audibly. “Come on, Liz. We can't make ends meet on just your salary. You know that.”

“I'd rather we were broke and homeless than you and the kids get this thing. People are dropping like flies, Bill. They're talking about bringing in a refrigerated truck.”

“Let's not get overdramatic here. I'll be taking every precaution.” She pshawed in disgust. “We knew this was going to happen sooner or later. My company can't just leave its clients hanging. Some locations are in the middle of implementation...”

“How long?” she interrupted him.

“Not more than a week.”

“Are you kidding me? What about the girls?”

“I've got that all figured out. Amanda's going to stay here.”

“You can't ask her to do that.”

“I didn't. When I told her about your concerns, she offered. Said she and her parents are at each other's throats and our wi-fi's much better than theirs. Acted like we'd be doing her a favor. Honest!”

“I don't know, Bill. How can this possibly work?”

“The girls are thrilled to be doubling up. Amanda'll take Charlotte's bedroom.”

“I thought we agreed that you were going to stop making decisions solo.”

As she crossed the room's threshold, Elizabeth was hit with a tsunami of sound. The television's volume was turned way up. She glanced at the screen and saw, tucked behind a long, colorful counter, a group of individuals angrily ranting about some apparently pressing topic. Turning to Lou, she observed that his eyes were closed, seemingly in sleep.

“Poor Lou,” she mumbled under her breath. “Not only are you sick but now you have to be assaulted with that nonsense.”

She reached up to turn off the television, and his eyes popped open.

“Leave it on!” he commanded.

“How can you stand that, Lou? It's deafening.”

“Truth,” he wheezed.

She folded her arms and stared sorrowfully at him.

“I'm glad you're awake, Lou. I need to talk with you.”

A faint smile lit up his gaunt features as he struggled to speak. “Shoot, gorgeous.”

“I'm sorry to say your condition is worsening. Your immune system isn't beating this thing, and just working to breathe is exhausting you. You really should be on a ventilator at this point, but we have a problem. Our hospital never anticipated needing so many of these machines, so, for the time being, we're experiencing an extreme shortage. There are simply not enough ventilators to go around, and our administrators have determined to prioritize younger patients over older ones. Considering your excellent physical fitness, I think you would respond well if you just got a little help, but right now that isn't happening. This policy is absolutely ridiculous and I'm going to continue fighting on your behalf, but I believe you have a right to be informed of the situation.”

His face expressed such confusion that she wondered if he had understood a word she had said. He patted her hand reassuringly.

“Of course,” he said with real empathy, “You must take care of the young people first.” He panted momentarily. “And I'm really not that sick. Really.”

The weeks that followed were strange in that time seemed to slow to a crawl and yet passed in a blur of routine. Her work was so demanding that she seldom paused a moment to consider the scope of the catastrophe that was unfolding around her. One completed task offered no comfort but the call to move on to another. Although she attempted to pace herself through her workday, the critical needs of her patients imposed a sense of urgency upon her, culminating in a mad frenzy by her shift's end. Gurneys lined the hallways. Every available square foot was used to board patients. Now she flitted from bed to bed, jotting down information, making quick adjustments to equipment, replacing IVs and ensuring that airways remained clear. For most of her career, the death of a single patient during a shift was a significant occurrence; throughout the current crisis, it was uncommon for an hour to pass without losing at least one charge. People were slipping away all around her without family or friends to comfort them. She tried to fill that void, but the obligations of her work didn't permit her the flexibility to spend much time with individual patients. The situation was intolerable.

Making matters worse, she often volunteered to work extra shifts – not that she wanted the extra pay or believed that even in her extreme exhaustion she had that much to offer, but because she felt like an intruder in Ann's apartment and didn't want to exploit her kindness. Her life had devolved into the nightmare of the unanchored and the dispossessed.

For a period of a few days, Lou's condition appeared to stabilize. Even though he showed no evidence of improvement, Elizabeth was optimistic. Many of her patients had descended to a dire plateau only to rally within a few days and begin the slow climb to recovery. She had seen it happen often.

One morning while changing his IV, Elizabeth noticed Lou studying her activities.

“Good to see you more alert. Did they tell you that your numbers have been stationary for some time now? I think it's a good sign.”

“Of course,” he wheezed. “What I've been telling you all along. I'm doing great.”

She pursed her lips and drew them to the side. “I don't get it, Lou. Why can't you admit that you're terribly ill?”

“Because I'm not a puppet. They can't just pull my strings and make me dance.”

“Who are these people pulling your strings?”

“Reporters... and the eggheads... but mostly the politicians.”

“I admit I don't pay as much attention to current events as I should, but I can't see the connection between politics and your health.”

“It's all a show to make us think the sky is falling. They just want to shake people up... make them believe we're in a crisis, so everyone'll panic and grasp at straws.”

She paused for a moment to consider this. “So you don't believe this is real?”

“Not for a second. And I'm proud to say I never wore a mask... not once.”

A wave of pity flowed over her. “Oh, Lou. How could you?”

After that, Lou's condition deteriorated rapidly. The doctors believed that his immune system had gone into overdrive. Besides attacking healthy lung tissue, it apparently was targeting his kidneys and possibly his liver too. One of the hospital's physicians advised her that, if the heart became infected, the battle would be over very quickly.

One afternoon when she stopped by to visit, Elizabeth found Lou lying on his side, eyes open yet taking nothing in. She deliberately stepped into his line of vision, stooping to bring her face closer to his, but there was no glimmer of recognition. He was clearly exhausted, unable to connect with the surrounding world any longer. Elizabeth could only adjust his nose piece which had been tugged askew and monitor his vitals. She checked his IVs to be sure all was in order. Hesitant to leave his side, she lingered in the room, feeling completely ineffectual. The desire to penetrate his fog, establish a connection and assure him that he wasn't alone engulfed her, nearly crippling her.

For a day or two, he sank deeper into a nearly catatonic state. It became clear that Lou wasn't going to make a miraculous recovery, and Elizabeth tracked his status tirelessly to ensure that she would be at his side when his time came.

One morning while just starting her shift, she was pulled aside by her supervisor.

“He went into arrest twice and was resuscitated each time, late last night and again early this morning,” she informed her.

Elizabeth gasped.

“We won't do it again. It's just cruel at this point.”

Elizabeth started to argue, then reined herself in. She knew that this was the most humane course of action.

Even though she was needed elsewhere, Elizabeth remained in Lou's room throughout the morning. He looked terrible, almost as if he had been beaten. Scattered about the room were the remnants of the staff's earlier efforts to revive him: syringes, tubes of conductive gels, bloodstained bandages, masks, paper gowns and all kinds of packaging. A defibrillator stood by his bedside. His respiration was so shallow that several times she placed a stethoscope on his chest to persuade herself that he was still breathing. His pulse was weak and irregular.

Unwittingly, tears fell from her eyes. She could taste their salt on her lips. Butted by a wave of frustration and despair, she lamented, “I'm so, so sorry, Lou. This virus is a demon.”

She was shocked to see his eyes open momentarily. While focusing on her, he struggled to speak, mouthing his words more than voicing them.

“Just a cold,” he asserted.

Within minutes he was gone.

Something broke inside her. Almost immediately, she was glutted with anger: anger at the physical discomfit she suffered every day... anger at the sacrifices she was forced to make... anger at the risks to her own life she reluctantly accepted as a professional responsibility... anger at being separated from her family... anger at holding steadfast while all those around her tried to undermine her efforts... anger at the multitudes who were choosing to embrace lunacy over reason.

“You fucking ignorant old bastard!” she shrieked.

Appalled by her outburst, Elizabeth froze and looked through the glass partition that separated Lou's room from the central treatment area. She expected to see doctors and orderlies rushing to restrain her, but everyone was oblivious to her transgression - simply going through their customary routines.

Sensing she was losing her balance, she stumbled out of the room and fled down a corridor. Huddling beside a vending machine, she pulled her phone from her pocket and frantically dialed home.

“I really need to talk with you. I think I'm losing it,” she blurted out.

“Excuse me. Bill stepped out for a moment. Can I take a message?”

Her head was swimming. “Mandy?”

“Oh, Mrs. Conway. I'm sorry I didn't recognize your voice. He should be back in...”

Elizabeth ended the call without saying another word, feeling more lost than ever. With no plan in mind, she let her feet carry her toward the glaring light at the end of the corridor. Under her breath, she muttered phrases like “I've had it!” and “I'm through with this shit!” as she marched down the hallway, passing an administrator, two nurses, an orderly and one elderly janitor mopping up a puddle of brown fluid on the floor. No one seemed to take any notice of her. However one teen-aged candy striper stared wide-eyed as she crossed her path, grumbling, “This is just bullshit!”. Elizabeth pushed open the red handled emergency door, setting off a loud alarm, and exited into the cool sunshine.

The landscape flowed by her in a blur as she drove home. She wasn't sure what she would do once she arrived, but she knew she had to reclaim her life. She was through with the hospital. It was an insane place filled with insane people. It made demands of her that were unreasonable, putting everything that mattered most to her at risk. That was over.

Her heart pounded wildly, and she was panting to catch her breath. She was so lightheaded that she feared she might veer off the road. Elizabeth felt that the world was no longer real, that it was crumbling... dissolving into nothingness. Everything she had faith in... every principle that had steered the course of her life no longer applied.

As the car came to a stop at a traffic light, she peered through the windshield unsure of what she would see. It wouldn't have surprised her to witness a comet plummeting to earth or a host of golden armored angels, some blowing clarions, others clutching upraised swords, surmounting the distant ridgeline. But she was stunned to observe an ordinary late spring day. The sky was cloudless, granting the brilliant sun unchallenged dominion over the landscape. Scattered throughout a field of lush grass, an array of stately oaks, crowned with clusters of bright green leaves, swayed in the gentle breeze. An elderly man carrying a bag of groceries shuffled along the sidewalk. A groundskeeper pushed a spluttering mower back and forth across the lawn. In the park, a mother and her toddler sat upon a blanket in the shade, their laughter invading the car's interior... shredding the conception of reality she had embraced just a moment earlier.

When the light changed, she pulled through the intersection and stopped her car at the curbside. Her hands still grasping the steering wheel, she rested her head on the hot, molded plastic and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She wept over the grotesque inequity of her situation. Her tears rushed to the bridge of her nose then fell to the floor mat. Her nose began to run, and she sniffled repeatedly. Her head throbbed. For quite some time, she was unable to move, paralyzed by the emotions coursing through her mind. Restraining a powerful desire to let out a wail of frustration, she lifted her head and wiped her eyes and nose on her shirtsleeve.

Then she started her car and made the U-turn that would point her back toward the hospital.

© 2021 by Gerard Wickham

Entry - 5.29.21

 

Unless you are a CPA or a savant, I wouldn't expect you to know that this is my fiftieth blog entry... but it is. I started writing my blog, From the Studio, eight years ago. I suspect that if it were printed in book form it would fill over 500 pages... if illustrations were included, multiply that by five. So if I've accomplished nothing else here, I can at least take pride in the fact that I've demonstrated a talent for unrestrained verbosity. I recall an occasion several years ago when a friend at work made his first visit to my site while at the office with me looking on over his shoulder. Without reading a single sentence, he scrolled through screen after screen of densely packed wording, then let out a groan of disgust. “Good god, I would never subject myself to this!” I couldn't help but laugh heartily in sympathetic agreement. Years earlier when I had first begun communicating on the internet via social media and art sharing sites, my oldest son tried to gently clue me in. “Dad, you write too much. Nobody will read your entries.” I knew he was right. We live in an age of cursory examination and instant gratification. The kind of investment required to slog through one of my entries is a thing of the past. Though all of these observations are true, this stubborn, old egomaniac also recognized that, if I were going to embark on this enterprise, I had to do it my way. A few embarrassing confessions might help to somewhat explain my aberrant behavior: 1) I actually read the instructions before plugging in or constructing new merchandise, 2) I flip out when news anchors use poor grammar, 3) I double space between sentences, 4) I actually enjoy watching foreign movies and TV shows with subtitles, and 5) I've read both War and Peace and Anna Karenina twice and hope to relish that pleasure a couple more times before my exit from this world. So obviously I'm a relic of the distant past and cannot be held responsible for my excesses. Let me offer here the first of what may end up being several apologies.

I displayed the image above on my first blog entry. It's simply the stump of one of a number of healthy trees I was saddened to discover our local park had chosen to remove (for reasons I'm still unable to fathom) that spring. When I noticed the trees were gone, I approached their former location and was surprised to observe that the stumps, cut nearly level with the ground, were really quite handsome. The photograph I took of one of the stumps became for me a metaphor for a kind of beauty found in unexpected places. I thought it was the perfect emblem for a site that proposed to provide a space to present and evaluate the artwork of little known artists (including myself), and it was displayed in the upper right corner of my blog for many years (until I recently replaced it with my own image and added a profile identifying myself and explaining my intentions).

For this 50^th entry, I thought it would be fun to return to the park and document that same stump's condition eight years later. Unfortunately, I found that during subsequent activity in the area the stump had been ground down and completely eradicated, a stretch of green lawn occupying that same spot today. However while meandering in the general area, I was able to find the remnants of a number of trees that were also sacrificed during that spring purge many years ago and I took several photographs which I will share below. The warm siennas of the wood have turned to cool umbers, but even the decayed vestiges of those trees retain a certain abstract beauty. So I guess images (and words) worthy of consideration may still be found in unexpected places.

As I have probably stated too many times, the goal of my blog, initially, was to introduce to a mostly lay audience artists and artwork that do not receive a lot of attention, provide analysis and observations about specific work and general trends in art history and afford myself the opportunity to display my own work – both current and from the past. My sincere desire was to use readily understandable language, to engage in substantive deliberation that would be significant to most readers, whatever their background, and to avoid becoming pretentious, technical or ethereal in my writing. My early entries were a bit academic, though I made an effort to introduce a personal component in most of my narratives. I can't assert that I ever introduced a completely original observation in any of my posts, but I can guarantee that the concepts are my own, the organization of my articles springs from my own idiosyncratic way of thinking and whatever material I present is done so with conviction. I recognize that I studied art history for so long, have read an infinite number of books and magazines about art and have both read and watched many interviews provided by artists themselves that it is impossible for long established concepts not to infiltrate my perceptions. Perhaps the exercise of writing this blog encourages me to organize and prioritize the various streams of thought in my head and filter out voices that I find invalid or biased. I don't aim to shock or provoke in my writing, though on occasion an entry may spark a spirited debate with a reader. That, truly, is a rare occurrence. I must confess that it is far more likely that my words will bore my audience than offend it. At times, I'll read one of my old posts and find it a trial to get through. I genuinely hope that my reaction results from being overly familiar with the material, both my phrasing and the ideas presented, but I have my doubts. So again I humbly beg your pardon.

On the other hand, there are some entries with which I am actually quite satisfied. Occasionally, my thoughts coalesce, the words flow effortlessly, my associations and observations are spot-on and I find just the right tone to effectively enhance my delivery. When that happens, the experience is absolutely magical.

Without any conscious intention, the thrust of my entries has evolved over the years. I am much more likely now to introduce personal tidbits or family history into my writings than I was earlier on. I do this because I find addressing such topics to be appealing to me and suspect that my readers may deem the material more entertaining. I definitely discover as I grow older that my interest in recording and interpreting my own past intensifies. My thinking in making such material public is that all people share some essential commonality and will take an interest in the experiences of another individual if the material is presented in an authentic and aesthetically pleasing manner. But if delving into the particulars of one unremarkable fellow world citizen isn't appetizing to you, I offer my sincere regrets.

I'm not sure, but I believe there is something about myself that I haven't touched upon in any of my previous blog entries. It is nothing momentous, salacious, disturbing or embarrassing, so don't get your hopes up. It's simply that at one time I thought of myself as a writer. In fact, when I started my undergraduate studies, my primary goal was to attain the knowledge and expertise that would assist me in becoming a successful writer of fiction. Even while still attending grade school, I had devoted years to hunkering down in isolation and generating reams and reams of prose (written in script with a BIC pen on loose-leaf paper), much of which, mercifully, was never shared with another soul. Throughout my pre-college schooling, many of my instructors recognized that I had a certain ability and encouraged me to pursue this interest of mine, and it was only natural that, when beginning my university studies, my focus was on earning an English degree.

Art was something I had only explored independently... at least until my senior year in high school when I decided that I deserved a break from the rigors of my usually packed schedule of academic studies. I took two actions: I arranged my schedule to allow me to exit school at lunchtime, and I registered for an art class. Though my fellow students were mostly a motley collection of dope fiends and flunkies hoping to score a few easy credits, the art class was incredible, providing a solid foundation of color theory and the application of perspective that exceeded by far my expectations. I was surprised to learn when summoned to meet with my guidance counselor that Mr. Riley, the kind and capable teacher of the class, had met with him to discuss my talent and suggest that I should consider studying art in college. Over four decades later, I can't say for certain what was the determining factor in my decision to tackle a double major at SUNY Stony Brook, but Mr. Riley's generous deed was definitely a contributing influence.

At college, the patterns familiar to me in my previous schooling were reversed. My art courses were demanding, provided hands-on instruction and required students to create a body of work that exhibited a consistent, personal perspective. The objective of my studio courses was to make the students actually produce art. Conversely, the thrust of my English classes was to have the students read good literature, learn to analyze it and then generate well-crafted essays that communicated successfully the results of that analysis. Not a single credit for any creative writing course offered by the university was applicable toward fulfilling the requirements of my English major. (Huh?) Having two distinct majors with no overlapping requirements meant that I always had a hectic schedule, often maxing out on the number of credits a matriculated student could earn in a single semester. Even then, I had to take summer courses and stay for an extra semester at school. Under the circumstances, there was absolutely no possibility of my squeezing in a creative writing course that would not contribute toward attaining my degree. So, while I spent my four and a half years of university study producing art and undergoing regular critiques of my artwork, the opportunity to write fiction, hone my creative writing skills and receive evaluation from my professors was denied me. Inevitably, at the time of my graduation, I emerged as a fine artist and went on to earn an MFA in drawing and painting from Brooklyn College.

I do not regret getting that English degree. The ability to write in clear, flowing, grammatically correct language is an extremely rare skill these days. Throughout my tenure with state government, I discovered that I could write business letters and emails and generate regulatory instruction that effectively conveyed real meaning. It was almost akin to having a superpower. During my last decade of employment, I was responsible for publishing all of my unit's instructions, directives and other information on our agency's website. Supposedly, my sole obligation was to take the material I was given by my coworkers and insert it on the correct page, while establishing links with other appropriate documents or pages on our site. The quality of the material shared with me was often so poor that I couldn't in good conscience make it public, so I felt obliged to edit and rewrite many submissions before posting them on our site. Doing this was time consuming and really not my responsibility, but I believed that our agency's reputation would be damaged if we published shoddy, unintelligible posts. (On the other hand, some of my coworkers might say that I was too meticulous and lethargic to function productively in our modern, fast-paced world, and I must concede they could have a valid point.) Anyway, I truly believe that, even in this twenty-first century, there is a critical need for individuals who can write coherent, concise and painless prose, and I encourage all the budding English majors out there to pursue their dream.

You might be wondering what happened to the creative writing. Well, throughout my years of employment, I continued to write fiction, periodically producing short pieces that are sometimes shared with a small group of friends... but more often simply stuffed into a leather-bound notebook for safekeeping. Every now and then, I'll browse through this material and read through an entire story. Most of my stories are terribly flawed, ill-conceived and poorly crafted, but, occasionally, I'll read through one with which I'm pretty satisfied. Undaunted by the inconsistent results of my efforts, I continue to produce short fiction even during my post-retirement days – though I must admit that finding the discipline to sit still for hours and construct strings of coherent sentences is more challenging now that I'm no longer imprisoned in a train car for fifteen hours of commutation each week. Despite my diminished output, the idea recently occurred to me (and, incidentally, this is what all of the previous blather is leading up to) that my blog would be a suitable vehicle on which to introduce every so often a bit of my short fiction. (In fact, I've already been working for weeks on a story that, if brought successfully to a gratifying conclusion, could very likely end up being my next blog entry.) Therefore consider yourself forewarned. And, of course, I apologize in advance for any discomfort my inept forays into authorship might cause my readers.

Looking toward the future, I intend to continue writing about art but also hope to further broaden the scope of my entries. My belief is, if I explore a wide variety of topics that excite and interest me personally, the resulting entries cannot help but become more imaginative, entertaining and polished.

I want to thank the individuals who have consistently read my blog over the past eight years - especially those who have offered encouragement, comment and criticism in the past. And, needless to say, I welcome any new readers who may stumble across my “message in a bottle” while cruising the expansive waters of today's internet.

As always, I encourage readers to comment here. If you would prefer to comment privately, you can email me at gerardwickham@gmail.com.