Beach time. But if youโre old, youโd better wear a coat.

—

—

Geometry
I prove a theorem and the house expands:
the windows jerk free to hover near the ceiling,
the ceiling floats away with a sigh.
As the walls clear themselves of everything
but transparency, the scent of carnations
leaves with them. I am out in the open
and above the windows have hinged into butterflies,
sunlight glinting where theyโve intersected.
They are going to some point true and unproven.
Best to break reality up into tasks, manageable, soluble; pushing us to the edge of one of many circles. After a few days, the dream city appears, glittering again upon the horizon.
A blue and white promise.

—

The Porch over the River
In the dusk of the river, the wind
gone, the trees grow stillโ
the beautiful poise of lightness,
the heavy world pushing toward it.
Beyond, on the face of the water,
lies the reflection of another tree,
inverted, pulsing with the short strokes
of waves the wind has stopped driving.
In a time when men no longer
can imagine the lives of their sons
this is still the worldโ
the world of my time, the grind
of engines marking the country
like an audible map, the high dark
marked by the flight of men,
lights stranger than stars.
The phoebes cross and re-cross
the openings, alert
for what may still be earned
from the light. The whippoorwills
begin, and the frogs. And the dark
falls, again, as it must.
The look of the world withdraws
into the vein of memory.
The mirrored tree, darkening, stirs
with the waterโs inward life. What has
made it so? โa quietness in it
no question can be asked in.
THE DRY SALVAGES
(No. 3 of ‘Four Quartets’)
I
I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown godโsullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in citiesโever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.
His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,
In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,
In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,
And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.
Paterson
(Book 1)
“Paterson lies in the valley under the Passaic Falls
its spent waters forming the outline of his back. He
lies on his right side, head near the thunder
of the waters filling his dreams! Eternally asleep,
his dreams walk about the city where he persists
incognito. Butterflies settle on his stone ear.
Immortal he neither moves nor rouses and is seldom
seen, though he breathes and the subtleties of his machinations
drawing their substance from the noise of the pouring river
animate a thousand automations. Who because they
neither know their sources nor the sills of their
disappointments walk outside their bodies aimlessly
for the most part,
locked and forgot in their desires-unroused.‘
Men At Forty
Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.
At rest on a stair landing,
They feel it moving
Beneath them now like the deck of a ship,
Though the swell is gentle.
And deep in mirrors
They rediscover
The face of the boy as he practises tying
His father’s tie there in secret
And the face of the father,
Still warm with the mystery of lather.
They are more fathers than sons themselves now.
Something is filling them, something
That is like the twilight sound
Of the crickets, immense,
Filling the woods at the foot of the slope
Behind their mortgaged houses.
—

Images 1 and 3 below, especially, read as illustrations to me, while image 2 acts as more of a bridge. As readers know, I tend towards quiet, observational photographs. There is a progression present moving outdoors-in, to a more intimate space.
Click through for more.

—

—

—
Edward Hopper practiced deep color complentarity in his paintings, balancing cool and warm. I first noticed his use of red here, and it got me thinking:
‘Red is powerful. Hopper’s using it with purpose.‘
This got me thinking a little further: ‘How much red is too much?‘
One ‘painterly’ problem: Red attracts the eye quickly, and William Eggleston went boldly red where other man had, perhaps, gone before.
Henri Matisse went full red one time, but there’s much more: Expert lines, curves, and composition (no focal point) make me feel at home. In fact, I think this domestically-minded Frenchman’s put most of his life’s purpose into his painting.
—
What’s the most aggressive, yet soothing, use of red I’ve seen consistently throughout my life?
Probably a Coke can, billboard, or truck. Check out this Arthur Meyerson photo with a Coke truck in context.
Another color problem: Color draws the eye quickly. Color is powerful. It snatches your eye and mind. The original black-and-white photographers thought color photography would distract, vulgarize, and commercialize; away from subject and composition, especially given the camera technology at the time.
It turns out the old guys weren’t entirely wrong, as many advertisers and fashion photographers barf color all over the place. Some expertly upchuck. Others, alas, puke like Brits on holiday in Ibiza.
Kids with crayons and iPads, shock and awe pop-artist and portraitists, movie directors, and even ideologues making their propaganda, use color freely. We’re all being gradually exposed to the newer synthetic AI stuff coming down the pike. We are living, I believe, amidst an information revolution (storage, access, process and attention). I mean, unless you’re color blind, you see the world in color.
Remember that one sunset and her makeup and the city behind her all blended together?
On that note, Dear Reader, this has been one of the best approaches I’ve found so far along my later, more limited, photographic journey in life:
‘Beware of color theories. Theories in color photography are dangerous. The plain fact that there are so many of them proves my point. A color philosophy comes much closer to the truth. Beware of scientific color tests. They are as quickly outdated as a timetable. Their truth is short lived. Most theories are the result of an attempt to bring oneโs practical experiences into a formula. There is no formula. There are only confirmations to formulas which one has already discovered oneself. I myself love to read theories without ever using them when working.‘
Hopefully, I’ve jarred something loose inside your head.
You do the rest.
Harry Gruyaert’s celebrated, but I’d argue he’s still underrated for his mastery of color.
From Kenn Sava, Gruyaert’s not a portraitist, per se:
‘It’s not the person that interests me most. It’s the person in its environment. To me, all the elements are important. I don’t have any particular intention. It’s just what I see.
I think humans have such a great idea about ourselves, but nature is so much more powerful.’
—
According to the interview, American pop-art influenced Gruyaert, potentially freeing him from elements of European formalism (pushing him into some great color work). If you’re interested in seeing fine color, atmospheric and ‘lived-in’ photography, I’d recommend Rivages.
—
As for pop-art, it can often be colorful, innovative, intuitive and non-serious…on the surface.
Frank O’Hara’s mid-century American poems are surprisingly visual. The idea of a wild freedom wrapped within casual conversation; a moment to moment associative intensity is achieved through O’Hara’s form. This is often where we long to be, on the edges of possibilities, living intensely with others (even through memory, sometimes especially through nostalgia and memory).
Also, the poem suggests this freedom as a return to our animal natures; which involves a certain view of Nature, functioning as a Romantically primitive return to Nature. Frankly, it’s a pretty good love poem.
Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth
itโs no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners
the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didnโt need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water
I wouldnโt want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days.’
As for color, perhaps this also doesn’t mean color must be completely abstracted into the ambitious meaning-making mission of Mark Rothko. I mean, the sky is blue, the trees green, and the balloons red and yellow.
‘Mark Rothko sought to make paintings that would bring people to tears. โIโm interested only in expressing basic human emotionsโtragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on,โ he declared. โAnd the fact that a lot of people break down and cry when confronted with my pictures shows that I can communicate those basic human emotionsโฆ.If youโฆare moved only by their color relationships, then you miss the point.โ
Seal the compound…I mean chapel. (come to Houston, land of little zoning, fair pilegrim).
—
Readers will know this blog maintains skepticism for pop-art Neo-dadaism and the consecration of ordinary objects along the Duchamp line (‘American Standard’?). Making Duchampian exceptions rules, even clever rules, can desecrate what’s important.
Everyday people, living right, must keep the important things in view, namely wife/husband/children/parents/death/taxes/health/time; not merely their own impulses nor artistic visions (artists remain acutely aware of such indifference). Meaning is usually to be found within love for another, and this usually means everyday people (& the everyday within us) lives between the sacred and profane: The 9-5 grind and the unexpected conversation about grandma’s death, the enveloping silence afterwards.
Artists, at their best, point towards wisdom, truth and beauty regarding everyday things. All the artists I’m linking to are doing so in one way or another, although ‘how’ and ‘how well’ are endlessly disputed.
I’ve already seen a thousand urinals in my life, Marcel, even a few in my dreams.
The triumph of the conceptual over the actual, the mass-produced over the created; perhaps these aren’t entirely healthy trends. The retreat into (S)elf, and the retreat into irony alongside (A)rt as commodity, perhaps these are dead-ends as much as they are freshly-paved streets. The lamentations of art as (R)eligion could be a leading indicator of a deeper hunger for meaning; a hunger with as many bad as good outcomes for artists and everyday people…
Some food for thought, Dear Reader.
As a contrast, here’s some American art that’s more grounded; some realism with psychological depth, albeit with impressionist influence.
Night Shadows by Edward Hopper:

The black and white was made in 1924.
I think Raymond Chandler’s High Window is among the best of the American detective novel.
Here are some quotations of his, if you’re interested.
“Los Angeles was just a big dry sunny place with ugly homes and no style, but good-hearted and peaceful. It had the climate they yap about now. People used to sleep out on porches. Little groups who thought they were intellectual used to call it the Athens of America.”
Here is the link. It’s been a long time since they just reviewed the book and not the author.
Boy, oh boy, James Ellroy: America’s best current historical crime fiction writer, showing up to entertain, shock and vulgarize:
The poem that most came to mind after looking at Hopper:
Acquainted with the Night
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rainโand back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
The painting is Monet’s ‘Haystack, 1891‘ at the SAM. Full series here.
‘In a series comprised of over 20 paintings, Monet recreated haystacks during varying weather conditions and at different times of day. Here, a single stack of wheat sits in a sundrenched, late-summer field framed by poplars and rolling hills.’

—

Gazing down the wells
of the afternoon,
the sunlight turns silvery-blue.

—
Give me one minute and your mind. 1. Please read the poem aloud. 2. Take a closer look at the photo 3. Play the first 30 seconds of Chopin’s Nocturne in B-flat minor, Op 9, No. 1. (past the 00:26 mark).
The goal: Create a dreamy, contemplative experience before you move on.
Thanks to all.
Chapter One. Chapter Three. Chapter Four.
Who knows how people come to haunt their own lives?
Warner had been in some kind of band, then out wandering the street for fifteen years. He’d emerge from time to time with ideas. Harry noticed three new crosses behind his left ear and a long, purple scar on his right hand.

—
‘It’s free if you guys want it. That’s what I’m saying.’
‘People meet every night. That’s free?’ Harry asked.
‘This ain’t it, Harry’ Wylie said, standing up. ‘You guys want a drink?
‘What I’m giving you. Something’s going on. Guys in Bremerton. The construction guys. Everybody knows.’
‘Knows what?’
‘I can’t tell you all of it. I don’t know. You sit there all night and they give you $75. Thatโs real fuckinโ money.’
‘What I’m tellin’ you is you get $20. For showing up. $50 for the night.’
‘That’s $70. I need a place, Warner. Names.’
‘You smell like shit, Warner. Don’t touch my desk.’ Wylie handed him a Red Bull.
‘I don’t have to be here.’ A long pause. Warner looked down at his feet. โOliveira.’
What’s he look like? Harry asked.
Brown guy. Glasses. Like a banker. Short hair. He speaks German too. Good English.’
‘And you guys work?’ Harry asked.
‘You ask around. You show up but nothing happens. They take one group of guys, and disappear. Like a Penske truck. Illegals. Then it changes.’
‘What changes?’
‘The place. You gotta know someone, then it’s somewhere else. But you gotta know someone.‘ They pay out, man.’
‘German?’ Wylie asked, staring.
‘Yeah, it’s fuckinโ German.’
‘Get me in,’ Harry said.
‘Ronnie’s on 4th near the stadium.‘ $500 now and $500 when we’re done.‘
‘$100′ right now and we talk when it’s done’ Harry said, handing Warner a bill. I’m good for it.
‘Tonight,’ Warner shuffled out staring at Wylie.‘You can’t come, asshole,’
‘Text me, Harry. I got like five phones.‘ He shouted from the hall.

—
‘Oliveira’s Portugese’ Harry said. ‘Popular name.’
‘There are Germans in Brazil. Supermodels.โ Wylie said.
‘Lots of places to learn German’ Kathy was standing in the doorway. ‘I’ll check AI, incarceration, sex offenders, construction companies. Brazilians just replaced my neighbor’s roof’
‘II’ll talk to Skoda. He does data privacy. Maybe he knows something.’ Wylie said.
‘Lots of companies unloading on the Island.’ Harry said. ‘Fifteen million is serious money.’
‘There was a strike last year. Remember the Asian front food company near Georgetown?’ I can’t remember the name….lots of fraud’ Kathy said walking out. ‘My friend knows someone who works delivery. I’ll look that up, too.
‘Who makes money on each shipping container?’ Who touches these containers?’
Who was Oliveira?

Chapter Two.ย Chapter Three. Chapter Four.
This morning, 6:53 am: Harry awoke to the cold.
Iridescent bits of glass covered his lap and hands.
Pain radiated from his cheek. One sliver of window hung awkwardly in the jamb. He stared at the green and white webs; his mind moving in many places.
His right hand fished into his front pants-pocket. The keys were there. Jesus Christ.

—
Three days ago: An email slid across Wylieโs desk and into the basket.
‘This is big. I hope I’m not right. Terminal 105 park 7 pm Fri.’
Two ropes of smoke rose dreamily from Harryโs cigarette towards the ventilation fan.
‘Could be a setup’ Wylie said.
‘Could be. Harry said leaning back. Maybe 20% on that. I’m not hearing much.’
‘You’re full of shit with numbers, Harryโ Wylie said.
Harry realized this was probably true (maybe 80%). The past few weeks had been filling the office with fear and exhilaration:
City politicsโฆHarryโs coffee was cold.
‘Let’s take it. Someoneโs gotta take itโ Harry broke the silence.
‘Your call’ Wylie smiled a small, enigmatic smile, lifting his feet from the floor and placing them back down.
One day ago: Five ties meant bad news. Probably the worst newsโฆ.

From our rather reasonable AI overlords: ‘Common skepticism is a healthy critical attitude towards dubious claims, while philosophical skepticism challenges foundational knowledge and the justification for belief itself, demanding proof for everything, a stance few people adopt in daily life.’
I knew a philosophic skeptic, he was smarter than me & fun, but, man…what an asshole.
Commoners have good reasons to be skeptical when it comes to modern art:
Bananas duct-taped to walls seems like bullshit.
‘Titled Comedian, the humoristic piece can be considered a challenge to the sometimes-absurdist nature of the art market and the art collecting world. โTo me, Comedian was not a joke; it was a sincere commentary and a reflection on what we value,โ said the artist in an interview at the time. โAt art fairs, speed and business reign, so I saw it like this: if I had to be at a fair, I could sell a banana like others sell their paintings. I could play within the system, but with my rules.โ’
Who can forget the transcendent darkness of this photo (the shock-concept and the celebrity overshadowing the skill/visual impact).
‘He immersed a crucifix he bought in an antique shop in his own urine.‘
Fellow commoners, we have as a counterpoint, rather beautiful, innovative classics like Falling Water, by Frank Lloyd Wright. A pain in the ass to maintain, but still a place for the genuine:
As I see the world: We have beliefs, and we’ve usually locked them away beyond critique. So has most everyone else. Some beliefs have more truth in them than others.
We use shared beliefs to form and maintain relationships. We use them to get stuff and give other people stuff. We rely on shared beliefs to organize events/clubs, workplaces, and hierarchies of judgment and knowledge, without killing each other. Shared beliefs regulate and help us navigate our emotions, as well as our personal, interpersonal and social behavior. We outsource much of our thinking to shared beliefs, while forgetting they’re even there. We’re often proudest of passing our beliefs on if we think they’re true, lasting and important.
The rub is the relationship these beliefs have with truth, and knowledge. A modern rationalist might say something like: ‘We have access to enough scientific and economic knowledge to run the government, and effectively plan your life. (M)an is something holy, and we’ve only just begun perfecting (M)an. Go ahead be creative and vote for the $1 billion arts package or else.‘
A typical Catholic might say something like: ‘Let’s check in with Canon Law. The Pope is closest to God, then the Cardinals, then the Archbishops etc.’ We’re only redeemed through Christ. So….that’s what art should be doing. Capiche?
What if a radical questioning of belief becomes the norm, around which people are…still believing?
What, then, do people actually believe?
What do artists, often radically questioning belief while making stuff, actually believe?
Those increasingly ridiculous artist statements? Some curious mix of irony, doom and nihilism all the way down? Modern mysticism?
A digression: Let’s say a kid in bad neighborhood, at a vulnerable age, joins a gang. He gets protection, savage discipline and access to stuff. The gang serves dark masters of the soul of course (in our case: How to rob specific makes/models of cars and sell them for parts, leaving a trail of harm, making the kid violent and dangerous).
Let’s also say the same kid in a bad neighborhood, on weekends, hangs with his uncle. His uncle fixes cars. Our kid learns to honor something within himself, other people, and the world. Like his time with the gang, life unfolds as a series of challenges, struggles and possibilities. Yet, his lifespan probability opens from twenty-two to sixty-four. Much better of parts of the kidโs nature come forwards. People drive their cars away, grumbling over the price and the delays…but, still.
Clearly, one path is better for the kid, the neighborhood and the rest of us?
Surely?
Now, what if, at school, that same kid is particularly talented, smart and sensitive? What if he is guided by someone towards personal self-expression, and even the eventual self-doubt, poverty and emotional rollercoaster of a typical artist’s life?
Shouldn’t the kid at least be taught how to notice things? how to describe how a good painting looks? how to draw? how to draft? how to mix paint?
Surely?
These days, it seems we find ourselves in a โpost, postmodern landscape.โ
What is this curious, Western belief to ‘blank-slate’ everything? How can it be true that the kid’s emotions are a reservoir and his reason a man-made, oppressive dam? That he just needs to make a dark, mixed-media video collage and he’s arrived?
It seems making simple moral judgments in real-world scenarios raises serious questions about the Romantic/Modern/Postmodern projects.
The case for the visual art over the primacy of concept/idea: Lets say youโre looking at John Singer Sargentโs โLady Agnew Of Lochnaw‘ (somewhere between realism/impressionism). Youโre not looking at merely the idea of painting (good paintings already have ideas in them).

—
Maybe you want to touch her skin? How did he paint like that? Look at the color and light. What is the artist saying? This painting took six sittings, but, arguably, a lifetime and maybe the better elements of a civilization to achieve.
A simple case: The Duchamp/Warhol line (concept/idea over visual communication/technical skill) warrants tremendous common-sense skepticism (I’ve gone a little deeper…but you get the point). Enough already.
Bananas duct-taped to walls and crucifixes dunked in piss are not just wasting our time, perhaps they’re harming our imaginations.
There are so many reasons to doubt so much bullshit within modern/postmodern thinking, while at the same time learning from the good.
โ
Tom Wolfe went on the T.V. with William F Buckley (too political for my taste) to discuss his book: ‘The Painted Word.’
At min 5:39 Wolfe argues the following (one part of the art/money/celebrity feedback loop):
โIt’s really a religious thing. One thing I didn’t say in The Painted Word, that I should have said, is that art today, is the religion of the educated classes. I don’t mean that by analogy, it isn’t like being a Baptist in 1870, it is being a Baptist in 1870.’
—
From Art vs Machine: Here is a video making the case that Jackson Pollock achieved something, but it wasn’t really the innovative use of drip-paint.
Maybe it was kinda beautiful in its own way? Romantically Primitive?
—
Also, are Robert Hughes criticisms’ of Andy Warholโs art really blocked by YouTube?
Making a hero of the androgynous anti-hero is orthodoxy these days, but also pretty tired (the Warhol to Bowie line seems over-rated):
—
What came before modernism/postmodernism? Why the below video might be worth listening to (min 34:22):
‘There was a great turn towards emotionalism.โThere was a sudden interest in the primitive and remote; the remote in time and the remote in place. There was a outbreak of craving for the infinite’โ
A movement emerged, about 1760–1840, which has deeply affected our conceptions of the Self, Art, heroes and villains, and most importantly, what makes life worth living.
Isaiah Berlin’s take on Romanticism:
—
Click through for more: https://chrisnavin.smugmug.com/Seattle
More blasts from the past at the link…

Detective Harry: ‘Good light, nice drama. Way too much negative space. Don’t be afraid to put more in.‘
‘Read this poem and come back in a month.’

—
—Whatโs this poem about? What’s this got to do with winter?
‘My tab’s due…time to go.’
—‘Okay, Harry, all right…’

—
Blizzard
Snow falls:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down โ
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes โ
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there โ
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.
I’m getting some photos available as prints, mostly by request.
Imagine you’re in a hotel lobby; your flight boards in two hours. Your pre-brain-chip gaze comes to rest upon this beauty.
‘I never look around. This was a good trip.’ ‘Nice design.’
‘Wait a minute…is that…? Oh yes…I SEE NOW. Yes…oh no…I…..I must change my life.’
‘At least it’s not shit.’
Foreground: Bus-stop etching on dirty glass. Background: Hand-painted cafe wall in early-morning light.

I’ve always been fascinated by light. Whenever I can, I read up and try to understand Feynman diagrams or George Gamow’s ‘The Birth & Death Of The Sun.’ Long ago, we bought laser-pointers and played around with the angle of incidence and the angle of refraction.
Weird.
Painters have to represent light on a 2D surface with geometry, materials and technique. It takes years of experimenting with colors and color-mixing. Most of all, artists have to have some kind of vision.
It can take months to make a single painting…
Photographers ‘find’ instead of ‘make,’ deciding where to stand, and when to click the shutter. If you can’t see it in your mind’s eye, you probably won’t ‘see’ a good photograph.
But, you can always get lucky.
Luck helps.

—
