Benched Week 42: the stark park

The little park looked so inviting.  I could see it across the street through the high windows of the ballroom where I was working in downtown Dallas.  In the sunshine, it looked like a small, shady oasis in an urban desert.

When I finally carved out a half hour for bench sitting on the last evening of the event, the sun was still bright and hot.  I peeked into the park.  Under the shade of the trees, there wasn’t much: a small cascade of water surrounded by cement walls.  No grass. The only benches looked stern.  There was a slight mustiness about it -- or was that the scent of loneliness?







Disappointed, I lit out for another park I knew about, a few blocks away.  Recently built, it was an expanse of grass lined with small trees and tables and a few benches.  This was everything the other park was not: sunny, open, filled with people – and loud.  In the middle of the field, a hard-core aerobics class followed the pounding beat and loud commands of the instructor. 



I sat on a bench for a bit, but couldn’t concentrate in the midst of such militant enthusiasm.  If the first park had reminded me of a spinster’s house, this place was like a beach condo on spring break. 

Today, I preferred the spinster’s place.



It took a full ten minutes after returning to the ascetic park before I understood its charms.  The concrete walls, so severe at first, acted as a sound buffer.  The constant splashing of the water covered over what remained of the traffic noise.  And the stones under my feet? They forced me to look up and appreciate the verdant trees above me.  I was wrong.  It wasn’t a spinster’s house.  It was the secret corner of the attic.  The blanket fort.  The crawl space under arching bushes in my neighbor’s yard where I liked to hide as a child.

And, after another day of (literally) drawing conclusions during the conversations of a room full of people, this is exactly what I needed: quiet contemplation.



It seems like much of life is spent either looking for a crowd or escaping from one.  The same holds true for my art.  I enjoy The Show that comes with scribing.  But I need the quieter moments to see if there is a small voice inside with ideas of my own.

So, here’s to those still, austere places – and moments – that force us to be quiet.  And to those stony grounds that, gratefully, make us look up.

Benched Week 41: carrying on

Forty one posts into my bench obsession, I have not picked one in an airport.  Until now. 

Seems like the right time. I’m in Atlanta, passing through an airport on steroids.  This trip starts a dizzying string of corporate events in the coming month.  A visual of roller bags seems appropriate. 

Even if the bench itself was uninviting.



Watching people collect their luggage at the carousel makes me glad that I’ve learned how to pack expertly.  Of course, I had to learn the hard way – four times in two years, airlines lost my checked bag.



Here is my carry on. Inside this small suitcase are 80 markers, 13 bottles of marker refill fluid, 16 wax blocks, four days of clothes, toiletries, a pair of shoes and a large camera.  Unfortunately, there is also one ruined shirt from a leak of orange marker fluid.  One of the risks of packing tightly, I guess.

The lesson I’ve learned is: life is easier when traveling lightly.

That’s a lesson Alison and I are applying to our house. We are in the midst of lightening the load of flotsam and jetsam that the years have washed into our home. (Note the deft deflection of blame: time’s fault.)  Closets are being ruthlessly raked.  Bookshelves are thinned.  We’ve turned a cold, realistic eye even toward the catch-all drawers and the baking pan cabinet.  Watch out, dish-towels – we’re coming for you!

It feels good to get trimmer.

But today, when I started going through folders from my career, it got trickier.  Hidden among the easily trashed papers is art that I don’t know what to do with.  Line drawings, sketches, undeveloped ideas – like these little pigs I drew for an animation I once created for my site.



Do I keep things like this, chuck them, give them away?  Like a favorite book, old drawings like this remain because of the way they wrap a memory around themselves like a comforter.  Not enough, mind you, to make me want to revisit them.  But just enough to keep them cluttering up my life.

There is a place for keeping something for the pleasure it brings.  But there’s pleasure in letting go of stuff. 

And wisdom in giving oneself a smaller suitcase in life.

Not to mention putting liquids in zip-lock bags.

Benched Week 40: the far view

My son lives in Pittsburgh. Yesterday, on a sunny, spring day, we came to visit, to spend Easter with him – and to get him to take us up The Incline.

On previous trips, he had dismissed the landmark as too touristy.  It’s just two cable cars in which people can ride up and down a steep hill, overlooking the city.  But it’s a popular destination.  Alison prevailed, as moms often can, and he guided us there, where we met his girlfriend and rode up.

The view from the top was spectacular, taking in the whole of the city.  I could see why it was a popular place to visit.  Along the walkway at the top, hundreds of people strolled, stopping to snap themselves with Pittsburgh in the background.  The reflecting sun on the glass high-rises made it seem like the city was smiling for each click.



I found what I consider to be one of the least impressive benches in my journeys and we all sat. They chatted.  I did my usual listening and jotting of notes.  After a while, I asked Nathan and Christina what they best about living here.  They said that they liked the small-town feeling combined with the big city amenities.

This was something I had noticed.  Pittsburgh is broken up by the three rivers and frequent bridges into a collection of neighborhoods.  It’s a city defined by its distinctive pieces.  I find the whole geography of the place confusing, but I recognize its appeal.

Christina then said, “I hadn’t realized how beautiful a city it is until I flew back into it recently and saw all of it at once.”



That’s a statement that could be true for much of our lives.  We live in a series of little parts – segments of time, repeating duties, circles of friends – which we cobble together into another passing year. Those individual pieces may be enjoyable (or quite challenging) but we live them out with little thought to the whole. We sew each piece of fabric together and hardly wonder how crazy the quilt might be.  Sometimes, we need a view from above.

And taking a step back, that’s the real meaning of Easter. We get a far view on life. What we thought was the whole story turns out to be just a simple phrase – a mere sentence part – in a never ending epic that promises to grow richer and more fulfilling as it unfolds. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

Just before we got up from the bench to ride the cable car down, a couple passed by.  He was wearing sunglasses and carrying a white cane – the one used by the visually impaired.  I caught only a sentence of their dialogue.  Referencing the apartment buildings behind us that overlooked the city, he said, “If I could live over here, I’d want to be in one of those!”

Exactly.  Even through a glass darkly, the far view is worth having.

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.