Page 14

This is weirding me out more than the loss of my eye; the wearing of, and presenting to my family and the public a fake eye. It’s not my real eye, but I want you all to pretend it is?

I have one eye. That is the truth. You all know it is the truth. Wearing a patch does not deny that truth. It merely shields you from having to look at a disagreeable emptiness to the right of my nose. My right, your left. But really what I’m talking about is your right. Stoopid pun. Your right to not be expected to believe a lie. I have a severe dislike for dishonesty.

Those alterier influences and motives I wrote about earlier lead to a certain dishonesty too. They even lead one to be dishonest with oneself, without even knowing it. To view the world or a work of art without letting go of preconceptions or motives is to view it through filtering lenses, be they blinders or rose-colored glasses. True, some degree of discrimination is a good, even necessary thing. “Leaves of three, let it be,” I know what poison ivy looks like and I avoid anything that even looks like it might look like it.

Again, as Becket said, “The danger lies in the neatness of identification.”

But really, what Becket means is that we often miss the point by trying too hard to identify. “Is his right eye the same as his left one? Is that real? Which one should I look at when I talk to him?” “Damn, I forgot to listen to what he was saying.”

“This painting is too strange. I don’t get it, and the longer I stand here the more obvious it is that I don’t get it.”

Damn… You forgot to listen to what the painting was saying. Shut up and listen – - to the painting. There’s nothing untrue there. Listen…what do you see? It’s all just paint — real paint. Even the fake stuff, like Wesselman’s Still Life corn cob, is real fake stuff. The museum put it in a plexi case because people want to touch it, like they can’t believe it’s really fake. It’s a four-foot long corn cob made of shiny plastic. But people want to make sure. Meanwhile they forget to look at it. And smile at it.

“Damn, that’s a sexy eye-patch that guy’s wearing. I’d better listen to him. And smile at him.”

Just keepin’ it real…

peace, love,

d

Page 13

I’m thinking of a word.

Actually I’m usually thinking of some word.  It’s part of being a Jew.  Jews are awed by and extremely careful about using the power of words.  One of my favorite Jewish proverbs (proverb with a small “p”), not terribly pc but provoking: A translated poem is like a beautiful woman.  The more beautiful it is, the less faithful.  The more faithful, the less beautiful.

Choosing the right words to reflect the meaning of other carefully chosen words. 

Choosing the right words to express a reaction to art is probably much, much easier (sorry, paid critics).  All it takes is time, honesty, and lack of intent.  Those three rules are the rules for finding decriptors to what is seen.  Just describing; no rush, no alterier influences, no alterior motives.  Then you can know what you see, and how you are really reacting to it.  Now that it’s (what you see) inside of you, you can decide how you react to it.  Not how to react, just how you react.  When this happens, something happens.  When you realize how you react, a connection is made.

That is understanding the dance of the Shiva and the vaccuum of the Rothko, and the mystery of the Rouault and the proud danger of the Kline (see earlier posts).  But be very careful of that word, understanding.  Don’t think you are understanding Franz or Georges or Mark or the 500 year-old Indian sculptor.  What you have an understanding of is the work of art.  You have a connection with it. And to “get it” you must lose some alterior motives and influences.  You must lose the constant feeling that YOU NEED TO GET IT.  You lose some of ego, some of yourself.  You give something of yourself up to the process of pulling something else in close.

Robbie’s (my son, the Bar Mitzvah) sermon for his service is about the role of sacrifice for the ancients in bringing God closer.  He mentions that the Hebrew word for scarifice actually translates as, “to draw close”.  He mentions that God doesn’t really need us to draw close.  It is we who feel the need to draw close.  And to do so we need to give something of ourselves up.  Then do we feel connection, closeness. 

And that, maybe, is why so many people find it challenging or even frightening to look at art.  Especially ambiguous art.  We are not used to the idea of attaining something through letting something go.  There are probably a thousand other problems this can be applied to: marriage, career, foreign policy…

Sacrifice to us means giving something up.  Nah, it just means realxing our grip on a thing enough that it can come or go as is necessary, to make room for something else.

So that’s the word for the day.  Sacrifice.

When I look to my goals, my job, my future, it means letting go, relaxing a little bit of the daily bits of discomfort. 

I totaled my truck yesterday.  I was spending too much on gas anyway.

 peace, love,

d

page 12

I’m two days into the meds now.

I feel like…well I can’t say it, out of respect for my friends with the more delicate constitutions. I knew we were going to hit this thing hard. It turns out I’m taking a combo, the ol’ 1, 2, 3, punch. Maryanna and and I went in for our first counseling/instruction/get-ready-’cause-here-it-comes session Tuesday. The nice lady laid out a whole page of side affects for each of the three meds. I think she forgot to mention a few.

After the info session I went in for a 3-hour intravenous treatment. I’ll go back for that once every three weeks, plus take a couple pills every day. It’s nothing I can’t get through though; just a little tired/achy/tingly/nauseous/and I can’t go outside without my throat closing up so I can’t breath. They figure it’ll take about 6 months. They also say some of the effects should cool down over time.

But let’s get real. Maryanna reminded me of the litany of effects we (she) were warned about going through pregnancy. Basically every strange ache, pain, hallucination, growing of odd limbs, and head rotating 360 degrees and infinitely more effects were possible. Every book and magazine we read listed more possibilities.

The hair hasn’t started moving yet.

Let’s see, can I think of some witty or profound connection to art here?

Nope. I feel like shit.

Peace, love,

d

Page 11

Untitled No. 11 Mark Rothko

The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art

Monday I start chemo. It could have been Friday, but I want to feel good for this weekend’s camp out. Robbie and I will go out Friday night, ahead of the rest of the Boy Scout troop who will be out next morning. I think it’s important, this trip.

Insurance gods willing, I will be taking chemo as a daily pill, rather than the various injection schemes which will take me out of work more and have more concentrated side effects. You all know the strength I get from my job. It’s a gift I hate to waste.

I found out today we have a one-eyed curator here.

You know what’s bothering me most right now? The hair thing. Not the loss; it’ll grow back. It’s the shock. I’m trying to prepare the people around me for the coming of the going of the hair.

I should try to notice and keep track of the responses of the surprised. “What happened to your hair!?!” versus, “What did you do to your hair!?!” Is it something I did? or something that happened to me from the outside? That’s a question I ask a lot about this whole disease. Is it something I did? or something god did to me? The Doctors are all a bit baffled by me (join the party docs). I don’t have the behaviors, other symptoms or age that usually lead to this sort of thing. Is the reason within me or outside of me?

Of course, the Dancing Shiva.

He keeps dancing, life goes on and I am reminded that the healthiest thing to do is take myself out of the equation, by seeing no need for the equation. It simply is. The only direction is forward. Ego wants me to look backward.

That’s why I love abstract art. It is healthiest when I take myself out of the equation by realizing there is no equation and letting it be what it is, and do what it does. That’s when I become truly involved in it, and it in me.

That’s why Rothko’s Untitled No. 11 completely baffles so many people, yet completely engulfs others. It not only requires a loss of ego to enter, it inspires the viewer to leave himself and his questions behind.

Come on in, look around, explore. Check your ego at the door. (poetry unintended but I like it.)

peace, love,

d