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 50th 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.
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.
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