The Scorpion And The Lion

[I]

Poland in the spring of 1940 had a tension that permeated all aspects of life. It hung in the air. Northern Europe is known for weather that is inclement during these months; it typically is overcast and the sky more resembles the color of clay. Resistant, sticky and strangely malleable though inevitably leaving a film on the very hands attempting to fashion it into something better. It was a befitting backdrop for the mindset and condition for the people living in Lipiny at the time.

Humanity couldn’t crumble and even though Nazi occupancy placed a very oppressing weight on the hearts, minds and very bodies of those living in my country, life had to go on. The Polish resisted fiercely, buried their dead, and still maintained a sense of dignity and pride constantly picking up and putting the pieces back together. Women would amass in the town square (ironically named Freedom) gathering around kiosks that would announce the names of identified dead. The news of Katyn laid very heavily on their minds. There was a morbid curiosity to know the truth. Wives wanted to know the whereabouts of their husbands, if they were still alive, if the bond between them and their waiting and praying so hotly would allow them to escape almost certain death. So much was said without speaking. The voice over the megaphone affixed to the kiosk would announce in complete monotone lacking any intonation or affection towards a name. Women would assemble at exact times twice a day. Announcements, periodicals and literature that was so cryptic and rich in order to elude censorship would be updated on the kiosk with the same care as the hanging Christmas ornaments or pristine white curtains.

The vigil would be held in silence, the sound waves had to wash over or be absorbed viscerally. If a familiar name was announced, a woman was walked home by members of the group acting as human pillars for a quivering body allowed to mourn not in public but behind the veil of starched linens. It was a daily routine, business as usual.

Cecilia Matula quickened her pace to get home. Though she acknowledged the usual assembly of anticipated mourners, she had a strange sense of urgency. It was dank and the weather had not made up its mind to be either warm and promising of rebirth or cold with its inclinations hanging in the long shadows of late day. She closed the mercantile shop that she owned with her husband early as to reconvene at home and discuss his day’s dealings with banks, syndics, and the usual black market. Cecilia was always impeccably dressed. She was tall, almost two meters, extremely busty with her very long legs ending in a pair of heals. Her features were chiseled and though her demeanor could be construed as glacial, her deep set eyes always showed warmth. Her hair was assembled in complex braids that would be sculpted into a bun, a basket woven of golden hair. She drank the best Cognac and smoked filterless Galois or Gitanne. “If you smoke, smoke the best. And if you drink, drink the best”, she would often ruminate through a hoarse voice. In that instance she pitched her cigarette to the side and noticed her breath quickening and her heart pounding, audible inside her head. She pulled the lapels of her coat tightly together to resist the bite of the wind and felt the necklace her love gave her fall from her neck, slightly down her shirt, and land between her breasts. The cold of the gold crucifix pressed itself against her heart forcing her to halt with an audible clack against the slick cobbles. It took precedence not to lose it.

What was left of the walk home was of complete non import. Classic architecture, tree lined streets, parks framed with wrought iron fences faded into a grey monotone only accentuated by the dark, black trench coat making haste to number 11 Barlickiego. Cecilia’s heels barely committed to the last step before the front door of her townhouse swung open. Her maid, Mrs. Biegun, had been waiting for her arrival quite anxiously. Mrs. Biegun was typically jovial, rosy cheeked, heavy set and chirping about how busy she was with the house’s affairs now stood before her incapable of speech. Her complexion was that of clay, the same clay the sky was made of.

Cecilia Matula drew the very breath from her paralyzed maid’s lips. ”Roman has been arrested.”

A Million Deadly Spores

Let me get straight to the point, there is nothing more powerful than a woman’s notice. It is profound how so much can be said by saying nothing at all.

"Molly Red and Gold" Oil on Linen 12" x 16"

I have often spoken about the communication that exists between people that are in tune with each other. There are signals, nuances, anticipation of movements before they even occur. Behaviors work in concert with the seamless grace of a ballet. It is very similar to watching acrobats flying thought the air. Nothing needs to be discussed any further, one knows and trusts the other will be there at the exact time, and space to make the catch. Come to think of it, we have been doing this with great success and consistency since our very first days on this planet.

We live in the information age. This is a fact. There are more ways to reach someone at any time through multiple forms of media. It is ironic how impersonal all of THAT has become. We dodge phone calls, hide behind emails, and respond with non committal text messages.

Nothing gets through like this primitive form of communication we have been using since the dawn of time. Nothing has the immediacy and power of lovers’ ancient art.

Great Expectations

I am constantly amazed by this beast, these sets of negotiations, these near misses and blatant collisions referred to as the human condition. I will be honest in saying I have come nowhere near figuring it all out. Like a lab rat that keeps going back to the electroshock, I still have an insatiable fascination.

Clearly, life has taught me lessons. Clearly, there are many that have not stuck. Here is a lesson I learned. One that took several years.

"Breathe" Oil on Linen 18" x 24"

This post is concerned with my process. A process of honesty. A process of self examination. One that spits you out the other side resulting in an undiluted vision; a fearless abandon to take the next steps. One that finally dawned on me.

This image has always been arresting to the people I have shared it with. I could never put my finger on why. To me, the whole thing seemed perfunctory. I did this because I was working towards making a life dream a reality. When I had painted this picture I was at the end of a relationship with someone I was deeply in love with. At this particular point in our lives what we had did not match our expectations.  She appears startled, not comfortable with the situation she is in; for me I guess the same. There is a noticeable tension between the subject and the environment. It is something that happens all the time.

Looking back on it all, it finally dawned on. There is no need to dig for deeper meanings. No need to prove a point or find something to say. It is already there. I have said this so many times (add nauseum) that what makes good art is to depict life. That which is. It doesn’t really work when you find a model and paste a meaning on top of it. It never comes across the same way. I have learned to let go. I have learned to fear less, and dare I say, to want more. I have learned how to tell a story.

So. Jealous.

Are we down for the same cause?
We don’t know what we stand for
When the moments start to crack
You do loose track where your head’s at

- John Frusciante

"Dirty Mind (Red) Graphite Pencil and Oil Paint on Paper 30" x 22"

It is often said that there is nothing new under the sun and most of what we do has already been done. Revolutions come and go, new waves of thinking replace established ideologies only to be replaced inevitably by something else. We form oppositions, a resistance, an under ground. We are bohemians, literati, intelligentsia. One question still has yet to be answered throughout this time honored exercise: Who are we really? Collectively and as individuals?

It is very easy to be against something, we do it all the time. We used to call them sit ins, now we occupy. Once there were hippies, now we have hipsters. Once there was free love, now there is … well… gross.

It seems to be in our DNA to be rebellious and in opposition to power; after all it is the very principle this country was founded on. We have culminated this mind frame inside our borders, perfecting it. Once ready and past the dress rehearsal we broadcast it into the world like a beacon. Our narrative is full of sweeping changes brought on by a spark that ignited a raging fire. History repeats itself.

We live in a time where we no longer have faith in many of our established leaders. We had a credit crisis, Lance Armstrong was stripped of his titles and Bernie made off with the money.

Who are we as Americans right now?

We are adolescents.

We are precocious, too smart for our own good and constantly fighting with our parents. We know everything better but the idea of being out on our own scares us to death. We know who we don’t want to be. We are figuring out who we will be.

We take the utmost care to express ourselves. We adopt new slang, dress in style no matter how ephemeral or capricious it is, and choose music to speak for us. We can be insecure and crave affirmation only to pretend we don’t really need it by adopting a reticent air of superiority. One thing is for certain, we can never be alone. It seems we need a strength in numbers to forge ahead. We are incredulous, insatiable and never satisfied. It seems we are restless and a generation born with wanderlust.

This is the first of a series: the Red, the White and the Blue.

Red for the tremors inside all of us we can not quell.