My New Cloister Mate

...Dr. Strangelove, a.k.a. Big B, 9 years old, male...at least for the summer. He has taken possession of the Muse's chair.

There's a Reason Why I Refer to Myself as the American Primitive

So, last night - a good night if you measure it by the number of beautiful redheaded women whose company you enjoy - I got into a discussion, actually it was more of a lecture by someone who knows me through someone else...although this person did not know me at all.

I was told that he had seen a couple of paintings I had done for someone and then went and looked at others and came to the conclusion that my pieces lacked depth, the eyes did not work, and some other stuff which I either could not hear or tuned out due to a state of partying which I had found myself. At least that is what I recalled.

Needless to say, at the time I was a bit annoyed. Not by the fact that someone thought my art lacked depth...of course it lacks depth! I'm new at this, unschooled, barbaric, etc. I have time to work on it. No, I was more put out by the fact that someone would think that I would not know this about my work, that I lacked the self-reflection or self-criticism to make any constructive assessment.

Personally, I like my stuff, and unless they are all lying because they feel bad for me or just want to encourage me to paint, I know others who like my stuff, and a few pieces have actually hung in a gallery.

So why do I bring this up?

Painting to me, the act of painting itself, is a process, a therapy almost, a liberating process through which I have escaped a bit of an emotional hell and downward slide in the fall of 2007, after returning from Chicago. I was in a state, off the fluoxetine (a small dosage, but enough to keep me uncranky and less broody), thinking that there were those in my life whom I loved and for whom I cared would simply abandon me - especially when times got tough. It was not a good time.

But like the protagonist in the Velvet Underground, I was set free by the act of painting, by the linking of the physical and the spiritual and the intellectual, from mind to heart to hand to brush to canvas. Or to push the envelop on VU songs, I listened to that fine fine music and my life was saved, metaphorically speaking, by rock and roll.

So perhaps I was annoyed because something I thought was a positive thing was criticized - that would be the external approach.

Internally, I was more bothered that someone who does not know me decided to judge me and tell me what he thought, not thinking that I was aware - if not more critical of my own flaws.

Of course, this person was probably drunk too, and I guess slightly adds some amusement to it all.

So this primitive will move forward playing with the fire he just discovered and do his paintings on cave walls, whatever the outcome. And will continue to feel free...if not, perhaps, a bit deluded.

I didn't even know this was here...

My daughter at the Holocaust Memorial at Albany Rural Cemetary, this morning.

I told her the story of Auschwitz; in the memorial is a brick from the death camp at Auschwitz.

How do you tell a six year old that there are people in the world so evil as to want to see the elimination of their fellow human beings, by virtue of their faith or race or sexual orientation?

Screenwriting

I think I have found a medium through which to write, to convey the issues and to confront the demons that still haunt me: the screenplay.

As it is, when I write, I think of what the image, the scene, the movie would look like...I pick up my metaphorical viewfinder and frame the scene, and my descriptive pieces already read like directions to an actor or for a camera.

So, why not make the leap?

And I have...a four part screenplay...or four different movies, a quartet, part of an epic. Currently on page 95 of The Painter, which was originally called "Pornography." 112 pages of screen time. Three others to follow, the opening scenes for which have already been penned:

- American Primitive, Part One: Psychiatric;
- American Primitive, Part Two: Paradise; and
- American Primitive, Part Four: Pints.

Pints will likely be the next one I tackle in full...the celebration of my love affair with the bar wench!

Why avoid it? Why run from it? Just embrace it!

Should be fun.