Page 17

Judith Shea, Chiara,
2000-2002

You want to know why I teach people to resist reading label information before looking at and getting to know a work of art?

My first thought is that she is a bog woman. Her aged, bronze skin and red-blonde hair are the color and texture of those mummies found preserved for a thousand years or more in the peat bogs of Europe. Her eyes seem alive though they are empty. Her hair, cut simply, hangs to just above her shoulders. Her shoulders and chest are of old, beautiful wood. It is cracked but solid. Grained simply and naturally. She could straighten her head and say something ancient to me, at any time, so perfectly composed and preserved is she.

She accepted her fate quietly, and in doing so, was prepared to continue speaking quietly centuries later. She is thoughtful, content, and beautiful.

The color, texture and preservation are of a bog woman. But her contentment and the quiet face suggest something else.

The peat bog mummies I have seen don’t express contentment to me. They are slashed and wounded and strangled and blinded. They make it no secret that they have all died terrible deaths. Violence is in all their stories.

Chiara’s calm expression makes me wonder, and even envy what she is thinking. I can imagine her seeing. She seems to be able to see within herself as well as out at me. She accepts her hair, her old bronze skin, her wooden body. What she sees makes her calm.

The deep cracks in her chest speak of the wearing of time. It is her dress. She is wearing time. She wears time gracefully.

Grace. That is what she says to me.

Her hollow eyes express grace, her thousand year-old skin is graceful, her roughly chopped hair is graceful.

And that is exactly why I wish people could wait; hold off reading label information before looking at and getting to know a work of art.

I’m not Catholic and I don’t speak Italian and so the name and the story of Saint Clare of Assisi as told by the label copy mean little to me. The question is do I need that information to “get it”?

Judith Shea spoke to me of Grace but by a circuitous route laid out by my own observations and associations. Her Catholic upbringing and interest in Renaissance sculpture brought her to a vision of Grace. My reading of age and texture and color, rather, my response to an artist’s masterful use of these tools, brought me to her vision without any of the insider information.

Just looking. I saw a once-and-always beautiful woman, a thousand years old, whose inner peace and grace prepared her for death and preserved her calmly, quietly so she can speak to me today.

Reading the text card later was like talking with a stranger and realizing we shared a common friend or a common cause. I smiled and shook its hand. A discovery was made, and I made it.

And that is the problem with trying to leap to interpretation by reading label information before looking at and getting to know a work of art. It robs people of the chance to make these fantastic discoveries, and dulls the experience of a connection that is made through the eyes, but reaches far deeper.

Peace, love,

d

page 16

The pics you’ve all been waiting for. The other victim is my great friend and neighbor, Steve. It was over beers a couple days earlier that Steve offered to join me. The other, prettier skinhead who joins us to offer his support is another neighbor and friend, Jon. Do I have great friends or what?

Page 15

My recliner is comfortable enough, in an institutional vinyl kind of way. Under the nurses’ counter hang some colored pencil madala designs, made, I suppose, by other patients. PJ Harvey on the headphones makes it easier to forget about the needle in my arm and the chems it’s dripping into me.

I remember a few decades ago, Mike and I talking about Chrissy Hynde being intriguingly frightening-yet-sexy. That’s PJ now. Unlike Mike and I, Chrissy got old. PJ though, “…till somebody told me run on in honey, before somebody blows your god-damn brains out…” Sexysexyscary. Believe it or not, We’ll Float is really a quite beautiful song, in a sexyscary kinda way.

A friend (I’m constantly amazed and thankful) alongside her thoughts, prayers, and cards also left on my door step 3 CDs and a plate of cookies. The cookies she left were delicious. I ate her cookies but haven’t heard the CDs yet. I read the labels and judged the books by their covers. They are apparently beautiful, calming, healing sounds. If she reads this… well, now I really feel bad.
I’m sorry. Why does sexyscary PJ Harvey heal me more than Mandalas and New Age medicine music?

Left to my own devices, I think I probably gravitate toward the recliner of least resistance. Like, when I was a depressed, lethargic teen, and, dammit, Travis the Wonder Dog would bring up a ball or frisbee and ask why we weren’t outside sweating right now? Calmly sitting, introspecting, is something I don’t need encouragement to do. But I love punk rock. I’m lucky enough fall in love with influences that counter my tendencies. Like Maryanna’s tendency to look both ways, while I tend to believe that oncoming traffic will see me and know what to do.

What makes me feel most alive is the edgy, the exciting, the meant-to-be-played-loud. Ethereal and calming is all good and necessary. I need Mark Rothko. I need a celtic ballad I can’t even understand. But what I really need to feel alive is a Songye dance mask, rhythm, movement, Iggy Pop (no, not sexy, but definitely scary). I want my heart to know it’s beating. I believe in meditation. I practice it. I believe all teachers of children should be proficient in relaxation techniques. But I also believe in the sound of the shofar.

The shofar, blown on Rosh Hashannah, is not a celebratory blast. It is an alarm clock.

If you and I have talked for more than an hour, you know my current motto. You know I got it from a bumper sticker I used to see every morning on my way to work. It’s for teachers, it’s for hearers of the shofar, it’s for anyone and everyone who would rather recline: “Comfort the disturbed – Disturb the comfortable”.

A task is noticing which side of that equation you are on.

So, this vinyl chair, the mandalas, the needle, the discomfort I anticipate to feel through the coming week, PJ, Jolie Holland (Amen is one of the most quietly uplifting, affirming, simply beautiful songs I know), cancer, a briar-encrusted bushwack to the top of a steep hill to check out a rock that looks fun to climb (yesterday afternoon with Rob. Why did all those thorns bother me less than this needle prick?) They all have a necessary place on this sliding balance scale by which we can affirm……everything.

peace, love,

d

Page 14 revisited

I should clarify.

I don’t have the fake eye yet. It’s probably about two weeks away.

Oh yeah – the hair. It’s going. Starting last friday, every time I run my hand through my hair it comes out with a tangled thicket thick enough to house a family of rabbits. I’ll probably cut it short tomorrow.  For my plumbing’s sake.

Other than that – doing fine.

Thanks for the thoughts and prayers,

peace, love,

d

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

Page 10

Comrades,

I know, I know, I know…I haven’t updated in a very long while. And the last post was kinda frivolous. That’s because the last couple weeks have been rather scary; distractingly scary. You see, I’ve been waiting for today’s meeting with an oncologist.

I have a carcinoma in my esophagus. It seems that esophageal carcinoma is very, very nasty. There seems to be some spreading into some lymph nodes.

The good news is that, outside of the cancer thing, I’m young, healthy and have great support systems. This means that we can get aggressive with this thing. And aggressive I intend to get.

The bad news is that I can no longer point to my hair, claiming to be younger than my follicularly challenged but similarly middle-aged friends. The chemo will probably take care of that. I’ll probably start the chemo next week.

Other bad news is that Maryanna is making me get back to exercising and intends to change our diet.

So, a student of mine at the museum asked me the other day why I wore an eye patch. I ‘m pretty relaxed about saying I lost my eye to a tumor. When she asked if she could see it (under the patch) I said no, of course. Besides the fact that that would be terribly unprofessional, there are some things I need to keep for myself.; how I look missing an eye for one. I know she meant no disrespect, just a healthy, honest curiosity. Kids come to me to learn how to see. I love that, just as I love having friends that want to empathize, sympathize, support and love.

So I know you mean no discomfort when you ask how I’m doing. I know it is something much more real than idle curiosity or chit-chat to ask for details. However, for now, I want to keep this for myself. Myself and Maryanna. It’s not that I don’t want things to be shared. There just things I don’t personally want to share. If Maryanna wants to talk about things, she is free to. But forgive and please respect her if she doesn’t want to talk too much.

For instance, I know she thinks I’m, like, totally hot with the eye patch, but that’s the kind of thing she keeps to herself. And when I’m skinny and bald, she may not want to talk to you at all.

Seriously, I feel great. I have a nasty cancer, but I feel great. So please go with that. I’d rather talk about football. And I hate football.

You know, I finally got enough of a personal, conceptual grasp of the Hindu belief of Samsara and how it might relate to Hindu sculpture, so that I could talk about it with teens. I was watching and listening to Ravi Shankar jamming with George Harrison. I got the sense that Ravi was truly jamming, improvising, trying his best to listen to George, respond to him while expressing as much grace and love as possible. And I sensed that he never played the same passage the same way more than once, cycling around, listening, learning, responding. Just as, as I understand it (please correct if I’m off), a Hindu learns to lose his ego with each successive trip through life. This is what I feel when I look at the dancing Shiva Nataraja at the Musuem. I see a circular reminder to listen, learn and lose ego.

Really, that is analogous to how I feel about looking at art, except that we are looking, rather than listening. What’s important though, as we look and listen and learn, is to drop preconceptions, drop personal needs to interpret and evaluate, and just look.

Meaning will come, while you are busy looking at other things.

In other words, rather than talking about cancer, you’ll probably learn more about how I’m really feeling by asking me to talk about football.

Peace, love,

d

Page 8

 They lost my friggen’ eye!

The hospital here in KC says they sent it to the hospital in SL on the 24th, xmas eve, and the hospital in SL just called and said they haven’t received it yet.  Today is Tuesday, January friggen’ 8th.

So…

This how I start every first presentation to students, in their school classroom, before their first museum visit to introduce the project they are about to embark on:

They see a photo of a close-up of the hood of a red sports car, not the whole car, just a small part of it that shows some line and shape. Of course they can tell right away it’s a car but I ask them to forget that for a moment and imagine it is just an abstract painting. Now, give me single-word adjectives describing feelings this shape gives you…where, how…? Of course they soon find themselves describing an abstract object in terms of physical responses to elements of art; line, shape space, color, and texture. The objective is to see all designs as naturally and physiologically communicative through the basic visual symbols of art.

Looking at a diagonal line I ask for a volunteer to try to make that line with his body. “I can’t.” Why not? “I fall.” Of course you do. And everytime you see a diagonal line your body feels motion, tension, depth. That’s why perspective lines make you believe you see distance.  Other demonstrations try to get them to realize that the abstract elements of what you see effects you physiologically, and therefore psychically, emotionally, in the gut, in your memory.  That is how art can communicate with you regardless of when, where, or by whom it was made.

I say it communicates WITH you, as opposed to TO you, because this way of looking at art asks you to bring your own memories and psyche to the experience to, in a sense, complete the work.  If a tree falls and no one hears it does it make a sound sound? No.  Because of the technical definition of sound requiring a receiver.  Is art art if no one looks at it? Does it need us?  Do we complete it?

In my book, no, yes, yes.  It’s kind of a quantum mechanical situation;  the state of the thing is dependant on our experience of it.

Unfortunately, this doen’t apply to everything.  Wherever my missing eye is, there is something in it that I need to know about. Wouldn’t it be great if getting lost in the friggen’ mail made the cancer disappear?
peace, love, patience,

d