What’s an artist to do?

            What do artists, poets, and musicians talk about when they get together in coffee shops? Perhaps not what you might think. Many are involved in an important but overlooked aspect of our local economy. Every time the newspaper carries the event listings for the latest benefit auctions, the artists are involved. They contribute to Eureka Springs’ very own version of catastrophic health insurance-- people getting together to solve their own problems, without relying solely on the help of government programs, that in many cases are inadequate or nonexistent. We are told that the key to our future survival is local economic sustainability. Well, this is it, folks. The artists and musicians, who often struggle for their own economic survival, are engaged in the time-honored Eureka Springs’ tradition of helping others who are also struggling.

            With artists, it’s always about the art—but equally about the deep need to share the work with others. Often plagued with the dilemma of balancing the joy of creation with the making of a reasonable living, artists can offer valuable services to their communities.

            Three friends, Ann Carter, Jody Stephenson, and Ron Lutz, decided they wanted to do what they could to give back to their beloved town of Eureka Springs. Instead of traditional philanthropy, they devised a way to use their artistic gifts to the most advantage to help a worthy cause. Ron had volunteered at the ECHO Clinic for the first two years of its existence, so he was familiar with the impact of the work being done there. 

   Ann Carter compiled her life’s work of poetry into a beautiful volume entitled, Sweetness: Collected Poems 1974-2009, and dedicated all profits from book sales to go to ECHO. Her book is available at the ECHO bookstore and at Studio 62.

            Jody Stephenson and Ron Lutz of Studio 62 were inspired by Ann’s example. After they toured ECHO’s  new facility and saw the expanse of warm yellow blank walls, they prepared a collection of Jody’s paintings to help beautify the space. Knowing what a significant difference the presence of original art makes to any home or public space, they decided to start the ball rolling with the donation of a collection of 41 paintings—hoping that other artists might be inspired to join in this worthy community project.

            This is not the first time that Ron and Jody have donated a large body of art work to a worthy cause. When Jody’s home town of Greensburg, Kansas, was hit by a massive tornado, the couple had an exhibit of 50 works at the 5.4.7. Arts Center designated to go to the tornado survivors, and any donations received went solely to benefit the art center’s work.

            The ECHO Clinic has received a lot of press coverage and has brought Eureka Springs national attention for being a town that cares. That, in itself, is a great accomplishment—as is the great work the clinic does in helping the well-being of the community. It’s a privilege to live and work in such a town as Eureka Springs.

 

         Since I go to the First United Methodist Church of Eureka Springs nearly every Sunday, I thought I might blog about it—at least my experience of it. This morning, February 7, was cold and dreary with the threat of more snow tonight. Church has been cancelled 2 out of the last 5 Sundays due to the weather so we were all glad to be there. Our little Sunday school class is almost like a family. Always glad to see each other, we share life stories, local news and jokes until our teacher, Virginia, arrives. Her lesson today focuses on the option we have to “not worry.” We can choose to tune into the worldly channel of false hype, commercialism and doom, or we can listen to heaven’s whisperings whose resounding chorus is: “Don’t worry, God is in control. There’s no reason to live in fear.” It’s a timely message that we all need. We close with prayer and then head over to the church building.

            The foyer is a mass of people talking, greeting, hugging, scurrying about, drinking coffee and eating treats, before going into the sanctuary for the morning worship service. After we are all seated, prayer requests are announced: people who lost loved ones, those struggling with illnesses and facing surgeries, and those embarking on travel plans. Announcements ensue: the upcoming UMW chili supper, a fundraiser for the monastery that burned down last year, and a benefit for the local nursing home. Tickets are available for all. Tragedies and joys are interwoven—paving the narrow path we walk between despair and joy.

            Our wonderful local physician, Dr. Bell, leads us in a prayer of confession, reorienting us to a position of faith and forgiveness. The elements of the Lord’s Supper wait for us at the altar. The offering is taken by the ushers, reminding us of our true position as dependent creatures on the providence of God to sustain our fragile lives. The woman in the pew behind me taps me on the shoulder and comments on my crazy socks, asking me where I got them. I’m wearing a sweater knitted by a friend who is sitting a few pews ahead. She looks back at me and gives me the thumbs up. It reminds me of how we are knitted together by love and care in ways we don’t even realize. It’s the magic of the local church body that in the midst of all this, we are partaking of a greater reality then we can currently comprehend. It’s much too subtle for us to feel its full effects.

            The gospel reading is from Luke 5:1-11, the passage about Jesus teaching the crowds from the boat, then the miraculous catch of fish, then the disciples leaving their fishing business to follow Christ. Stan jokes that the only miracle Jesus couldn’t seem to pull off was that of getting away from big crowds. People followed him everywhere. In the story, the disciples have fished all night and caught nothing so they are just standing around with their hands in their pockets. Jesus tells them to go back out and try again. A miracle happens. Two boat loads full of fish. In an instant, they have achieved sudden financial solvency. But instead of setting up a bigger office, they leave everything to follow the Lord of the miracle.

            Stan continues: Experiencing the living God is what it’s all about. We feel God, and then we decide to follow Jesus. That’s how this thing works. Stan has shared with us over the years the people who have helped him find God. Today he related his great dreams fresh out of seminary of building a congregation. He immediately went to work, studying census statistics and demographics to prepare his strategies for church growth, all the while maintaining his normal pastoral work. Visiting Edna, one of the church widows, was a duty that turned out to be life-altering. Through her 14 faithful years of church attendance and exemplary lifestyle, her skeptical husband was finally converted. Watching this kind of modern miracle put Stan’s preacherly plans in proper perspective. He realized then and there the impact that others have on our lives is the profound means of grace that Wesley was talking about. From there he smoothly transitioned us into another means of grace: Holy Communion which Methodists perform once a month. Stan says it won’t stir or overwhelm us every time (I don’t agree) but there are enough times when we have felt the living God there that we want to follow Jesus. Stan closes his sermon as always, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” It gives weight to the words that precede it.

            Methodists believe in an open communion service, welcoming anyone no matter where they are in their journey of faith. This we do in remembrance of Christ until we feast with him in the heavenly banquet. “The body and blood of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ given for you, may it keep you unto eternal life.” Over and over, like a mantra, the pastor repeats this phrase. Each time it gains in power and momentum—like the engine of a train carrying us into the great beyond. “Go in peace to love and serve God and your neighbor in all that you do.” The ushers choreograph us through the orderly ritual as the weight of the solemn ceremony crushes down upon us. I gaze over the people kneeling at the communion rail, most I know by name. It is a dear sight to see them there as I have so many times before. Jesus said to remember him—this we do here and now. I try to ponder his great sacrifice as I kneel there. The sweetest part for me personally is when a fellow church member hands me the communion bread and then the plastic cup of juice—especially if they call me by name and look me in the eyes. After it’s over, the members cough in a scattered collective chorus, perhaps choked on the sweetness of the undeserved grace we have just received. The pastor gravely covers the remains of the communion elements with white cloths. We sing the closing hymn: “Fill my cup, Lord.” The candles are extinguished by two lovely young girls, one of them the pastor’s daughter.

            Another week done. Stan gives us the benediction and we depart in peace. The solemnity is over. Immediately the roar of talking and laughter fills the sanctuary. This too is a solemn and sacred rite—people exchanging their own taste of grace with each other in their jokes and stories and questions of concern. It’s not what they say, but the shared love and intensity of the exchange. Most file through the double doors to have their turn at shaking the pastor’s hand. Some of us duck out the side door, grabbing the last two chocolates left from the fellowship coffee—the most wonderful chocolates I’ve ever had. They seemed like sweet life-giving communion bread--filling my soul with happiness as we walked to the car. Back home--to life, to business, to chores and responsibilities. May the body and blood of the Lord Jesus Christ keep me unto eternal life.

           Blog, blog, blog. What if everyone had their own blog? Who would be left to read them all? The longer I blog, the more I doubt the validity of this activity. But if I question this, I would have to assess the relative merits of the rest of the things I do. And one thing I’m sure of: I don’t know which of the things I do are meaningful in the true sense of the word.

 

 

           A co-worker of mine once said something profound while I was questioning the validity of our seemingly mundane work preparing a bulk mail-out. She said: “If this is meaningless, then everything is meaningless.”  I’ve never forgotten those words. All of our lives and activities are interrelated, never as closely as now. We don’t always know what the important things are. Sometimes the least little comment we make can be life-changing to someone else. We do not know the ultimate impact we have on others--so we have to keep on trying, keep on believing, and keep on doing art. God will sort it all out in the end.

         I worked some more on the bone piles—trying to bring the pastels up to speed. Once again, I don’t know if I succeeded or not. I need to constantly remind myself: It's a privilege to paint, a great honor to be an artist, no matter what happens on the ladder of success. The worst thing would be to get to the top of the ladder and find out it was leaning on the wrong building. 

        My friend Julie used to call her stack of paintings in the basement, “the old bone pile.” Every artist has got one: a pile of paintings that you always meant to finish but lost interest in, or works that are finished but unframed, or those uncooperative paintings that you just couldn’t solve.

 

 

 

    Today I faced one of my piles. I got out some oil pastels that I had never quite finished to my satisfaction. Since hopefully my skills are at a higher level a year later, I attempted to improve on what I had left for dead.

 

            So that is how I spent the afternoon. It was rainy, snowy, sleety, dreary, chilly, and just downright wintery today—a good day to be in the studio. I started in with full resolve. Surely I can do something great, I thought.

 

 

 

      Fast forward to the end of the day, and all I can say is that I did what I could—to the best of my ability and concentration on this wintery day. I’m not convinced that any great work was achieved, but I tried.

I was having chai tea at my favorite place in Rogers: Borders at Pinnacle Promenade. I gathered up a batch of current art magazines to peruse while sipping. I was flabbergasted at the number of excellent new artists that I had not previously even heard of. I try to keep up on who's who in the realm of art that interests me: contemporary impressionistic semi-realism. (I guess that's a category.) I love the work of Kevin MacPherson, Walt Gonske, Doug Higgins, Steven Charles Shortridge, Ted Goerschner, Mark Daily, Camille Przewodek, Doug Dawson, Duane Wakeham, and John Axton. Those are just a few names that I can actually remember, but there are many more whom I admire. 

Well, now there are dozens, even hundreds, of new names on the scene, that are equally as good. I don't know whether to be inspired or depressed. Looking at the work itself is thrilling for its own sake. But when I find out that a body of beautiful mature work has been painted by a 20-something-year-old newcomer, my inspiration comes to a crashing halt. To know that there are many artists better than me who are 30 years younger is somewhat hard to take. I honestly believe that there is no real competition in painting, that every artist has their own style, and that is what is important--even though there are gazillions of painting competitions to prove me wrong.

The best advice I can give after spending most of my life painting is this: Use what you have to the best of your creativity, ingenuity, and motivation. Give it all you've got with all your heart. It's a great life just to do it, even if you never make money or achieve fame of any kind. I guess it's enough to know that there is an awesome crop of new painters for the world to enjoy, that painting has not been replaced by the computer as some predicted it might, and that people still love to paint no matter what the outcome of their individual struggles with it.

         My mom says that my paintings are like tribbles; they just keep multiplying. As Captain Kirk quickly discovered, the trouble with tribbles is that you have to find somewhere to put them or they eat you out of house and home. For self-preservation, you resort to desperate measures like secretly beaming them aboard the Klingons’ ship.

 

         Instead of that, I started hanging my small paintings in our gallery, taking down a lot of the big expensive paintings. It felt good to get a new look going. It’s always a boost to change things, to improve and update the place. Now all we need is for the weather to please cooperate so we could get some tourists to come to Eureka Springs.

 

        Not much time in the studio today. More little paintings that needed tended to. I guess you could call it “processing.” A lot of chores needed done. People came by this afternoon for tea. Writers group met tonight. That takes time to prepare for. That group has become a very important part of our lives. Meeting once a week for nearly four years now is a significant investment in each other’s lives. Together we’ve seen a lot of creative work accomplished—books and articles written and published, skills developed, hearts opened, pilgrims progressing. It’s a very good thing.

 

 

         After writers group, I am more aware of the craft of writing, and of the awesome responsibility of saying something. Then there is the fear of presumption, which begs the question: Should I fill up cyber-space with my little thoughts? Do I have anything worthwhile to say? 

 

 

            I am trying to focus this blog on art. But even when I reflect on my art, I wonder if I have much worth saying about it. I am too close to it. Perhaps someone more objective would be better able to discern what I am doing. Maybe a neutral observer would assume that I have very deliberate intentions, and that I direct all my efforts towards fulfilling those goals, and that what I’m doing is somehow important. Sometimes it feels like I’m just floundering around, and that I rarely, if ever, accomplish what I hope I will.  

            My painting teacher in Ft. Collins, Barb Marquardt, used to say that you work and work, and then you look at art, and then you work some more and then you look at some more art, and then you work some more, and then you look at more art. Through constant immersion in the looking and the doing, you push the envelope and move to the next level of progress. I hope she is right, because that is exactly what I am doing.

           

           Artists are eternal optimists.

            Everyday we go into the studio and think, “Today is the day that I am going to paint the perfect painting.” Each painting is started with great hope, adequate courage and absolute resolve. 

       Each painting is its own world. It seems to impose its own laws of structure. Each succeeding decision is affected by the previous one. It you put a certain color or shape down, the next own has to relate to the previous one. It’s like constructing a sentence.

The subject has to relate to the predicate—the noun to the verb. Then come the adverbs, the connecting words, and the punctuation. After that, comes the rewriting for better effect, the correcting and perfecting of what’s there. It’s a process that is different each time.

      Each painting is a world to be explored, a spiritual place to be nurtured and built. Sometimes it’s pure magic to paint.

It seems to flow off the brush. You can do no wrong. These are the periods of pure concentration when all the work and training that have gone before this moment are suddenly available to draw upon. 

 

 Those are the times an artist lives for. But they don’t happen all the time, or even very often. When they do, it’s enough to keep you going for another month--or at least the rest of the day. So I am still cranking out small paintings, cocooned in my little world of warmth, while outside piles of snow are starting to melt. It's a good life. Thank you, God!

 

 

 

 

           The snow has fallen continually for 14 hours so far today. It sleeted and snowed through the night but I don’t know if it was constant or intermittent. All the peasants rejoiced because we didn’t lose power this time. Yeah! There is barely any traffic on the highway—only a few pick-ups, semis and an occasional plow. So it was a good day to be in the studio.

  

 

    I worked on more small paintings. It’s becoming easier to break down a complex visual image into its basic components, i.e., to simplify. Forcing myself to work within a smaller space requires a different kind of concentration. I am also learning that small paintings can have as great an impact as big paintings.

 The question of the day would have to be: How can I get George Clooney to fall into one of my paintings?  I was listening to NPR this morning and the talking heads were speculating on the possible scenario that if George Clooney had fallen into the $80 million Picasso at the Met, it would not devalue it at all. In fact, it might even raise its value. But alas, it was just some clumsy no-name that tripped into the painting and damaged it. I sure hope her art student insurance covers such things. You just never know when you are going to have an intense encounter with some art. I wonder who will be the first to try and get the movie rights.        

 

            I listened to Public Radio all morning while I painted, trying to hear updates about the impending storm. I heard the droning rehash of the State of the Union speech. It all started to fade into a big mishmash after a while. Personally I thought it sounded a lot like a campaign speech. I truly hope Obama can accomplish all he wants to. We should really pray for him.

He has a huge weight on his shoulders: us.

Today I painted more small paintings. It’s fun.

The trick is to not over paint them. Just simplify the big shapes. Suggest, don’t delineate. Less is truly more when working so small. Keep it simple, smarty.