Benched Week 39: marking the mundane

First impressions, a recent study pointed out, are often more accurate than we give them credit for. But they’re incomplete.  A person, or for that matter, a place, is not so easily defined.

Which is why I was glad to come back to Birmingham.

You may remember my first trip, taking me to “Fakerburg Castle,” which had about as much local flavor as a suburban mall.  But this time, I stayed downtown.  I hadn’t even known there was a downtown.



It took me until the end of my stay to grab time for searching out a bench.  I wandered over to the art museum, outside of which was a lovely interplay of fountains and murals.  Inside, the room that invited me the most to sit was full of African pottery – a perfect place to consider repeat visits.



To truly understand something, repetition is helpful, perhaps necessary.  For instance, as this little etching reminded me, Rembrandt spent his whole life revisiting self-portraits.



The investment of time and effort to come at a new idea from a variety of angles pays big dividends.  You can’t wrap your mind around something until you’ve seen it from every side.

But what happens once you’ve seen it enough to truly know it, when it becomes so regular, it is reduced to the level of mundane.



That’s where pots instructed me. 

What’s more mundane that gathering and storing water?  (Or, according to the exhibit notes, story beer, which was what this X-marks-the-spot vessel was for.  I thought it was a Spy vs. Spy armament.)  And yet, at some point in the making of pots, utility broadened to include ornamentation.  For pots, good construction was necessary.  Decoration was not.  But someone decided to add creative touches, turning an everyday item into something expressive.



Ornamentation is, come to think of it, is my current answer to the question of my expression of art.  At least for the moment.  I decorate the side of a letter or the front of a thank-you card.  I use these photos to visually elaborate on my written points.  Ornamentation.  Illustration.  Adding a little extra to the ordinary. Maybe someday, I’ll put it all together to make art that is truly extraordinary. But for now, I’m content putting my mark on such mundane pots.

But that won’t keep me from coming back and looking at this question again.

There are plenty more angles I haven’t seen.

Benched Week 38: under wraps

Dallas disappointed me. Scurrying just ahead of yet another storm front in the Northeast, I expected warmth and color to greet me when I got out of the taxi at the hotel in Plano, Texas.  There was neither.  So I pulled my too-thin jacket tighter and went out in search for them.

I found color on the street and a sign that could be a stand in for the title of this blog.












 













But the cold drove me past the numerous benches along the sidewalk.  I needed shelter.  Then, suddenly, I came to a courtyard, hidden in among the stores on my right with high walls to block the wind and a solitary bench.



As well as the strangest palms I’ve ever seen. 



I’m sure there’s a reason for the wrapping (as sure as I am that one of you will clue me in), but the look grabbed my imagination.  Sitting and listening to the whisper of the dead fronds waving out of the tops of the cocoons, the place had a slightly sad sense of mystery – call it the Courtyard of the Mummy Palms.  Or perhaps it was a visual condensing of Palm Sunday and Good Friday.

The phrase “under wraps” popped into my head.  And it led me to consider once again an inherent tension in the making of art.  As you all know, I had a wonderful piece of news this week – winning two Telly awards – and I wasn’t shy to post it. And I’m not apologetic about hoping lots of people read these blogs.  There’s a great deal of hubris in creating.  When we create, artists are, in a sense, saying, “Look at how I see the world!”  It’s a statement and an invitation blended together.  If such a thing is possible, it’s a self-focused exploration meant for others.

That’s the tension. 



Sometimes at an event – like this past week at the high profile organization I worried about – I feel a great urge to pull someone over and say, “Look at how cool this turned out!” I don’t, usually, because I’m sure it sounds so egotistical.  After all, Solomon admonished, “let another praise you, and not your own mouth.”  But I see such moments as two of us celebrating something delightful that has happened – I tried this and it worked!  I don’t want to stand behind the work and be a recipient of the gaze.  I want to come out front and be a fellow viewer.

Maybe this isn’t unique to art.  It might be the same tension we have in telling of our kids’ triumphs.  Look how cool HE turned out!

So I guess I need to wrap things up here.  But not for long.

Sharing is too much fun!

Benched Week 37: scaring ourselves

Pressed for time, I didn’t really want to find a bench.  But I needed a healthy dose of the Hudson River, calming me with its lazy lapping against the rocky shore.

For tomorrow is a big day.

I’m a bit anxious about tomorrow.

After all, it’s not every day that one of the largest global, governmental bodies asks me to scribe. Add to that my being told, “You’re going to add the pizzazz.”  It’s not that I think I’ll do poorly.  I’m just nervously hoping I meet expectations.

But being slightly scared, it turns out, nicely fits this locale, where the geese sound mournful under a gray sky.

And trees seem to grasp with gnarled fingers for some hint of spring.



A log in the water floats heavily like a cadaver.



And even the melting snow forms the scowl of a sinister apparition.



It is, after all, Irvington, NY.  Right next to Sleepy Hollow.

Yup.  That Irving.

I’ve thought much in the last ten months about what I want to do with my life and art.  It’s funny – when people talk about one’s perfect life endeavor, it’s always framed by doing what one loves.  Never by doing what one fears.  All dream, no nightmare.  But is a little nervousness a bad thing?

Connie Chung once said, “I wanted to be scared again... I wanted to feel unsure again. That's the only way I learn, the only way I feel challenged.”

I think she’s right.  And the drive over the Tappan Zee bridge reminded me of a time, during my college years, a group of us would come up to Nyack to be briefed for a summer abroad – I went to the Philippines -- an experience that was prefaced with a fair amount of trepidation, but epilogued by wisdom learned.



Even after sitting on the bench awhile, the river had no effect.  I still felt the internal, sharp edge of uncertainty about tomorrow.  But I suppose I can live with that.  I won’t let it grow to an Ichabodian fantasy of fear.  I can use the edginess to stay alert and pressing on to doing my best work.

It’s better than waking up one day with regrets for time wasted.

Benched Week 36: think glocally

The main intersection of the little town of Boalsburg, PA, was charming.  Inviting.  Beautifully ornate houses lined both sides of the main street, with a simple log cabin thrown into the mix.



And it was quiet. Unlike many of my more urban sittings, this location had little to listen to.  In the stillness, a small flag softly fluttered next to my bench. It read, “Shop Local.” Grammar aside, the message fit the spirit of the place.  It spoke to the fierce independence that permeates our culture – how we love our Davids defying corporate Goliaths.  This is small-town America, buster.  Take your beaten path elsewhere!



Just then, two women exited the tavern behind me and walked past, talking.  I caught the one woman’s story, mid-stream: “…years ago when she went to Australia, we got her a rolling duffle.  Which she lost.  So we got her one from LL Bean…”

I smiled.  Fact is, we are more connected to the globe than ever before in history.  I suppose I feel this more since I started flying around the country.  But it’s more than just being able to be physically present in far off places, it’s that technology is making the “far off” label obsolete.  In a number of events I’ve scribed, studies have been referenced showing that for the first time in history, there is a generation that is defined not by cultural boundaries but by their common online experiences – which has actually produced similar, definable demographical characteristics, regardless of the country.

Skip the millennial label. Call them the global gen.

But this connectedness is not just for them.  Sure, I am a little less adept at navigating this wireless world, but I’m thrilled that as I think about what I can do with my creativity, I’m not anchored by my location.  In fact, I have a growing desire to find away to use my art in some kind of cross-cultural endeavor.  Perhaps even through the web.  Distant caring opportunities drawn close through drawing?

Just then, my reverie was interrupted by the pealing of church bells.  It was noon.  Chimes followed, playing a hymn.  I recognized the tune, and let the lyrics come to mind, stopping at the line: “Dwellers all in time and space.”

So true.  We are creatures of our time and space.  But what a thrill to be dwelling at a time when that space becomes larger and the world becomes smaller at the same time.

Benched Week 35: monumental decisions

If anyone lived larger than life, it was Theodore Roosevelt.  And here he was, looming over me on an island named after him, tucked in between Washington, D.C. and Arlington.  I had arrived in late afternoon, hastening over the footbridge to try to get a look around while the light lasted.



It’s a popular walking spot, especially on a faux spring day.





There were plenty of benches by T.R.  I chose one and pondered his pose.  It seemed a bit awkward in my eyes.  His brows were set just short of a frown.  His eyes were open slightly more than a squint. 



His hand was raised, not quite clenched. 



I imagined him thundering, “Who in blazes took my glasses!?”



That led me to wonder what pose I’d want to represent my life.  I would hope it wouldn’t be too true to life.  A bronze Bruce hunched over a laptop would make a rather unmemorable memorial.  Ditto for me sitting on a bench.

It’s easier to imagine signature stances for others.  My good friend, Scott, the nature-writer: binoculars raised, standing dramatically on a rock.  My wife, Alison: paused, gesturing in mid-story, surrounded by our smiling kids. My son, Nathan: dressed like Batman.

After a while, I rose and wandered the island.  Clumping along the boardwalk over the wetter areas, I had another question bubble up: can we alter that characteristic pose, even late in life?  Can we get a makeover, like D.C. did, leaving behind its century-old reputation as a fetid swamp?



I’m in a bit of a makeover right now, having initiated a few Do-It-(On)-Yourself projects in the new year. I’m not ready to be set in stone quite yet.

The sun was quickly setting and I knew the park gate closed at dusk, so I headed back to the walk bridge, stopping as I crossed it for shots of the city lights glimmering on the river.



What could be my pose?

Let it be something that captures my desire to share my gifts with the world around me.

You know, one arm reaching skyward and the other outstretched works just fine.

With or without the glasses.

Benched Week 34: in the gloaming

I was looking forward to finding my first bench in Birmingham, Alabama, until I discovered that I was not going to be anywhere near the city center.  Instead, I’d be staying my entire time in a golf resort.

I know.  Tragic.  I’m sensing a palpable lack of empathy.

The resort is impressive, but in a Disneyesque way.  The main building has hints of a Scottish castle.  The grounds are manicured.  It's all so... perfect.



Looking in vain for a bench, I wandered out onto the deserted golf course, discovering a stone building and waterwheel that had a strong feeling of my native Pennsylvania. But as pretty as they are, they’re fake. Carefully constructed to be something they’re not.





I’ve been thinking about narratives a lot lately.  They used to be my life, as I presented to school kids the essence of stories.  Recently, one of the facilitators I work with asked me to help him think through how to teach storytelling to corporate execs.  It felt odd to have those two worlds collide.

But then again, I’ve never really gotten away from stories.

I ferret them out wherever I go – from my colleagues at these events.  From cab drivers.  Fellow plane passengers.  Hotel workers.  Friends I occasionally stop by to visit.

That’s what disappoints me about these resorts.  They’re so sanitized.  Removed from the real world.  I can’t get a sense of a place unless I can walk through the midst of people working and walking and talking and living life.  I had a strong urge to ask the cabdriver to stop and let me out at the little Baptist church we passed before entering the complex.  But there’s not time for that.



Above me, the sun began to set, the first genuine thing I had seen here since I started wandering.

Then the bagpipes started.

I rolled my eyes.  How corny – to pipe bagpipe music over the speakers.  I started back toward the one bench that I had seen to wait it out.



And to my surprise, there was a real person generating the caterwauling.  I sat and listened. After he played, I talked with him for a while. Jim is retired, having grown up in Grove City, PA, and learning the pipes in Pittsburgh, he keeps busy with gigs – this being one of them.  Every night, in the gloaming.

Even at Fakerburg Castle, there are stories to be found.

Benched Week 33: the wisdom of rocks

I had asked my friend, Linda, to find me a bench when I took an extra day this week in Denver to visit her and her family.

She did more than that. She took me to Red Rocks, where a famous amphitheater is dramatically nestled into the foothills of the Rockies.  It had benches in bunches. 



We climbed to the top and chose a dry row, sat and talked. More athletically minded people around us used the stadium for workouts, while a team of shovelers methodically tossed snow to lower levels.  I was thankful that my original concept for this series hadn’t been “Steps.”




After a bit, we went for a walk among the boulder and scrub brushes, dappled with white.
I was struck by the dramatic simplicity of the surroundings.  With its strong shapes and lines and varying textures, it’s a designer’s delight. 



But it’s also an austere landscape, brought home to me by the small herd of mule deer scraping for bits of grass in among the roots of bare bushes.  “Having lived in Pennsylvania where everything grows, this can look like scrubby barrenness,” Linda said.  “But I see the beauty in it now.”



That led our conversation into a more philosophical vein. Linda told me about how a tour guide in the Middle East once explained to her about how the desert is far from the lifeless world it seems at first glance. It can indeed sustain a person, if one knows what to look for.  She likened challenging times in life to such a desert – daunting at first, but potentially full of wisdom to be learned, if one could learn to notice.



We debated this analogy for some time.  Are those desert lessons to be taken with you as you pass through to greener fields? Or are they instructions on how to stay and survive?

To put it another way, when is restlessness a useful catalyst and when is it simply a lack of contentedness?  Thomas Edison once said that restlessness is the starting point for progress.  My impetus for this blog has been and continues to be an internal itching for something more significant to do with the time that’s left to me.  What is that something?  The answer may involve large-scale changes.  But, then, it may be to live more acceptingly.

I’m sure there’s not one answer to that question.  Our conversation certainly didn’t provide any clear Aha! moments.  But it did remind me of a most valuable lesson.

A good friend can make even a bare landscape more welcoming.