The opposite to love is not hate, it is indifference..........

In my view, art is a unique ''language'' that often has the ability

to speak to us much more directly than many other

languages.

Somehow, for many of us it seems to have the ability to bypass

 the analytical and pragmatic part of our brain and find 

its way straight to our ''hearts'', our emotional center's.

For the purpose of this post however, I will

focus on the visual arts.(Paintings)

Having taken part in many exhibitions, I have noticed

 there are some comments that keeps popping up.

Such as: ''Nah, I don't like it. I don't even know what

it's supposed to be."

''That's ugly. Isn't art supposed to be beautiful?''

''A child could have done a better job than that.''

''I know what I like and don't like and that's all 

that matters to me.''

OR

''I have no idea what I'm looking at but it's

making me feel all emotional.''

''This is beautiful! I just love the colours.''

''I know that this is an abstract painting but

I don't care because it speaks to me.''

''I have a feeling that it takes a lot of skill

to paint a painting like this so I appreciate

the work for that although it's not really my

cup of tea.''

Human beings, we are told, seek meaning.

We want to understand who we are, why we are here, 

and what the purpose of our life is.

Uncertainty, so says those in the know,

is the bane of mankind.

We much prefer to know stuff, to acquire as much certainty

as we can, because this makes us feel safe

and more secure.

Many of us prefer not to have to deal with abstractions,

the obscure, the esoteric, the 

concepts that are beyond what we can observe 

physically and that does not relate to our every-day lives.

Life is hard enough as it is, right?

So why do some artists feel that they need to add more

 uncertainty and abstraction to life

by painting ''difficult to understand'' paintings?

Or paintings that contain hidden meanings and

messages?

-Why do you paint such sad paintings, she asked.

-Isn't sadness part of the human experience just as

much as joy? I answered.

-I guess, she retorted.

-Let me explain, I see Joy as a friend, Sadness/Pain

as teacher and myself as the eternal student, I continued.

It's been said that ''a picture paints a thousand words'' which

I take to mean that one single painting has the potential to

 convey something quite complex and emotionally charged 

much more effectively than a multitude of words.

(Painting is just one of many different ways that we

can use to communicate with each other.)

During these (in my view) very turbulent times

it can be easy to fall prey to complacency and

compassion fatigue.

Image after image of pain, suffering and misery

 flashes at warp speed before our eyes on our I-thingy's.

Mass media churning out millions of opinion pieces

all sure of that their opinion is the correct one.

We watch live as drones and missiles strike

their targets and disintegrate cities, historic sites,

hospitals, schools, homes, etc. etc. and yes, killing totally

innocent people.

Facing all this can be overwhelming.

So overwhelming that one may ask oneself:

What can I possibly do that will change anything?

You can do whatever good and kind you can 

for those who need it and who exist in your

circle of existence.

The opposite of love is not hate,

it is indifference.

''Great things are done by a series of

small things brought together.''

(Vincent Van Gogh)

about the images: top: Graphite on large paper, 2nd: Graphite

on large paper, 3rd: Graphite on cardboard, 4th: pencil on medium sized

paper

As an artist/painter most of my work has been called ''message art''.

Why do we keep making the same mistakes over and over.............

If asked if we consider ourselves to be rational and sensible beings,

most of us would probably answer: most of the time; yes.

Yet, somehow we keep on making the same mistakes

over and over again.

History in general as well as our personal histories can

attest to that it ''is human to err''.

Not only do we make mistakes, but we keep making

them even though we already know the outcomes

from previous experiences.

Although we are supposed to ''learn from our

mistakes'' so say those in the know,

why do we far too often find ourselves

failing to do so?

According to some research, mistakes that involves

 physical pain we tend to find easier not to repeat

than mistakes that are the result of thinking/behaviour

patterns previously established through life experiences.

Those in the know suggest that we tend to create

''set notions'', templates, that we use in order to simplify

 making decisions, forming opinions and judgements.

However, these templates are often founded on

selective and sparse data/information and tend

to be more ''handy'' than helpful.

Challenging these templates (confirmation bias)

involves a shift of mindset and this demands a

lot more effort than just ''going with the gut''.

Also, sometimes we hang on to a mindset that we

know is or will lead to being a mistake

 because we have invested a

lot of time and effort in making it.

However, if we keep making the same mistake over and over

the brain starts to assume(so says those in the know)

 that what we are doing is the correct way of performing

a task and thus creating a habitual ''mistake pathway''.

Eventually this can become a permanent template

that often makes it hard for us to be able to

consider any other possibilities.

My friend looked at the painting and then asked:

-Where on earth do you get your ideas from??!!

-Hm, I'm not sure. Perhaps my willingness to humiliate

myself by making lots of mistakes allows me the 

freedom of discovery?

-What do you mean?

-Not being scared of making mistakes I feel

uninhibited to explore possibilities.

This morning I stood in front of a big, blank canvas.

So I tried something new. I filled spray-bottles with paint

and then started to spray the canvas.

I put it out in the sun to dry and when it was dry,

I put it back on the easel.

As I was staring at the canvas, 

suddenly I ''saw'' Mickey.

So, I painted him.

(A few hours later an elderly woman suddenly appeared 

in my doorway and asked if she could come in. 

Apparently she had watched me through the

 screen-door painting Mickey. 

She took one look at it and asked if it was

for sale. Sure, I said. Long story short.....I gave her

the painting. And she...gave me a box of delicious

cookies the next day.)

Mistakes, I have now concluded, are not to be feared, but

by using an open mind can be the most formidable

of teachers.

A mistake by definition happens but once,

it isn't planned it's made by mere chance. 

Sometimes we make mistakes that can have bad

ramifications and cause others pain.

Sometimes others make mistakes that can have

bad ramifications and cause us pain.

Sometimes we make mistakes that we don't 

know how to correct.

Sometimes others make mistakes that

they don't know how to correct.

But.

Sometimes we make mistakes that

opens our eyes and expands our minds.

That soften our hearts and of kindness

us reminds.

''Mistakes are a fact of life.

It is the response to error that counts.''

(Nikki Giovanni)

about the images: top: background/screen, acrylic on canvas

Graphite drawing of Teddy's, layered in Elements

Mickey: Acrylic on large canvas

Music is a relationship thing............

-Come on, play the bass, he said.

-What??? I don't know how to, I answered.

-Well, you have to because my fingers are bleeding.

Come, I'll show you, he said and dragged me up

on the stage.

If I had been sober, I would have just refused, alas, 

I was not and so, suddenly I was on stage holding

a double bass. (Upright bass)

-You pluck the strings with your right hand and

make the notes with your left. Here, let me show

you.

I knew the names of the strings so when he showed

me where I could find a 'C' and how to place my

fingers around the neck of the bass, I said to myself:

''Just wing it."

Tentatively I tried a scale and I quickly realized

that I too would have bleeding fingers by the

end of the next set.

Honestly, when the drummer and pianist got up

on the stage and yelled out the key of the song

we were gonna play I just nodded and turned down 

the volume on the amp.

One hour later I had a huge blood blister on my

''plucking finger'' but fortunately for me, the gig was over.

Well, the gig was over but my love affair with playing

the bass had just begun.

I decided that I had to get a double bass and learn 

how to play it properly.

One of the teachers at the conservatorium that I

was attending told me that I could use his upright

bass until I could buy one.

I gratefully took him up on the offer and started

to take bass lessons.

This meant not only plucking strings but also learning

how to use a bow. Which proved to be very difficult

and made a heck of horrible sound. 

But I loved playing the bass and it helped me

to understand harmony on a much deeper level.

Where ever I went I dragged the full sized 1860s 

Russian bass with me. Which was not an easy thing as

I did not have a car and had to catch busses and

the Metro everywhere.

 I mean, the bass was much taller and bigger

then I was so it was definitely a chore.

Slowly my playing progressed and although I had

blood blisters on most of my fingers, I learnt how to

deal with them so that I could keep practicing the instrument.

When you play upright bass you're sort of caressing it

and the vibrations and sound in its big body reverberates

all through yours. You feel it as well as play it.

My last year in the conservatorium however, my piano 

and flute(transverse not recorder)teacher told me that

I had to make a choice between playing the bass or

the piano and flute because the blood blisters were

not compatible with the other instruments.

On my last day at the conservatorium,

 I handed the bass back to its owner.

Many years later in a land ''downunder'',

 I played an upright once again.

But not a lovely full sized Russian,

but a key on a keyboard,

named upright bass,

digital and lifeless,

clumsy no grace.

"Whether we press a key, 

pluck a string, hit a skin or

breathe air in to an opening,

playing an instrument is a deeply

personal and intimate thing."

(Citizen Z)

 

about the image: ''The Bass player''

texters on large paper  

Stop crying with your fists!.......on coping strategies

 The minute he opened the door the smell of stale cheap wine and 

cigarettes flooded all his senses.

Though the house was silent, echoes of loud and hostile

voices rose up within him threatening to bring him to

his knees.

-Deep breaths, deep breaths, he whispered to himself.

After a few minutes of doing some deep breathing he felt his

tense body starting to relax. He hung his jacket on the

hook in the hallway, slung his backpack over the shoulder

 and then entered the ''battlefield''.

-To others this may be the living room, but to me,

this is the battlefield, he thought to himself.

In the corner of the room, hanging over the edge of

 the couch with a pool of vomit on the floor in front of her,

laid his drunken mother.

His heart sunk. Like hundreds of times before.

And like hundreds of times before, his was the job to

clean her up and get her into bed.

Like a well trained nurse he lifted his mother off

the couch and carefully carried her to the bedroom 

and put her in her bed.

The room was in a mess. There were empty wine

 caskets, beer bottles and old greasy and moldy

pizza cartons strewn all over the floor.

He let out a heavy sigh.

Though he knew it was pointless he couldn't

stop himself from whispering ; why mom?

He pulled a blanket over his mother, opened a

window and then closed the door behind him.

Walking through the hallway to the kitchen,

he noticed that the walls had a lot of new holes

in them.

-Still crying with her fists I see, he

said to himself.

As he stepped into the kitchen he was taken aback

 by the stench of rotting food and dirty dishes

and the floor was covered in broken glass and

smashed plates.

Standing there, in the middle of his mother's chaos,

he had a sudden urge to just run.

Run as far away as he could and never come back.

But he didn't, because he still had memories of a

time when his home used to be neat and tidy

and his mother, ... happy.

-Oh, dad, why did you leave, why couldn't you

have helped her?

His mother had always had anger issues but when she

was sober, she seemed to be able to keep her anger under 

control. But, then, when his sister died, everything changed.

Gone was the caring, warm mother he knew. 

While he and his father sobbed, cried and grieved the loss 

of his sister,

his mother buried her feelings. 

She pushed them so 

deep inside of herself that she could no longer

reach them. 

Well, apparently all feelings except for anger and rage

which fueled by alcohol had seemingly

become her way of dealing with her profound

 sense of sadness and loss.

*

Facing difficulties(of varying kinds) most of

us (whether we are aware of it or not), learn to

handle/manage them with the help of our

coping mechanisms/strategies.

There are different ways of defining what a

coping strategy/coping mechanism is, but

my personal definition is this:

It's our ''go-to'' thinking and behavioral method/strategy

that we use when we are faced with internal/emotional

and or external/physical issues.

As far as I can ascertain, our coping strategies often

fall broadly into one of two categories; 

healthy and unhealthy.

Unhealthy as in: it prevents rather than helps us

to resolve issues, it puts our health in danger,

it makes us do things we would never do otherwise,

it hurts other people, and rather than improving our

lives, it makes them worse.

Healthy as in: it helps us to deal with and resolve

difficult issues, it is life-affirming and guides our 

behaviours to fit with our ethics and morals,

it helps us to care about and for others,

and sticking to them, improves our lives.

Some examples of the most common ''bad'' coping strategies

are: substance abuse, denial, avoidance, 

self-harm and negative self-talk(''you're no good, 

you're useless, nobody cares anyway'').

Some examples of common ''good'' coping strategies:

dealing with rather than avoiding difficult issues,

sharing our difficult issues/emotions with someone rather

than suppressing or ignoring them, staying true to

our guiding values and ethics and being open

to view our difficulties and issues from

many perspectives.

When faced with a difficult issue/problem,

perhaps first ask yourself: in the long run,

what I am planning to do about this,

will it make things better or worse?

''Problems are not the problem,

coping is the problem.''

(Virginia Satir)

About the image: graphite on paper

(For those of you who may be wondering where I've

been for the last few weeks....... I've been experiencing

really painful back issues and so not been able to 

write posts as per usual.)

What I really wanted to say.............

In desperation and a moment of feeling as if he

can't breathe....he flings the backdoor open

and start to run. 

Only when he finds himself in the middle of

an open field does he stop.

With his heart pounding and perspiration dripping

down his face he closes his eyes and tries to slow 

down his breathing.

Though it has been a long time since he last felt

the urge to just run away, 

yet here he is, in the middle of a field

with eyes closed and flashback after flashback 

darting through his consciousness.... 

No! I refuse to go back there. I will not let the

past dictate my now. I am here now. Come on,

focus on the now!!! Open your eyes!!

Slowly he opens his eyes, lifts his gaze from the

 ground to the sky.

Once, a long time ago, he would often find comfort

and even a little hope when he allowed his eyes and mind

to get lost in the vastness of the heavens above.

Why do we keep searching the skies for an answer?

And,......should we be given an answer, what kind of 

configuration would such consist of?

As his eyes tries to penetrate and reach beyond

the temporal spheres, a sudden noise behind him

urge him back to earth, back to the ''here and now''.

He turns around and finds himself facing a large 

black bird with piercing blue eyes.

What? Is this an answer? Surely not.

The bird just stands there. Bobbing its head.

Let's take a step closer to the bird and

see what it does.

The bird bobs his head and then takes a step

closer as well.

Geez. Not scared. Is it tame perhaps?

-Hey you, not scared, are you.

-Have you come to tell me something

or........?

As the last word leaves his lips, it dawns

on him that if any one of his friends happened 

to see him standing there in the middle of a

field talking to a big black bird, they would

most assuredly assume that he had lost his mind.

Have I lost my mind? I have heard that grief can 

do strange things to you.

Slowly he takes a few steps towards the bird.

The bird tips its head from side to side,

but doesn't move.

When he is almost within an arm's length of 

the bird, he stops.

The bird still doesn't move.

Having had a very strange dream the night before

in which his friend had ''appeared'' and told him

to ''not grieve as every time he thought of him,

he was there'', he couldn't help but wonder

if the bird may have had something to do with the dream.

Because the bird, somehow, was making him feel calm

and comforted.

Only when it suddenly began to rain did the bird

move. And then,

barely making a sound, it spread its wings

and flew away.

As he stepped inside the front door,

dripping wet and somewhat confused,

he turned on the last recording he had made

with his friend and finally, wept.

What I really wanted to say to you the last

time we talked, was how much I miss you.

*

I still miss you, friend.

Have you ever dreamt that you could fly? I bet so have many a penguin.

Have you ever dreamt that you could fly?

According to those in the know 20 - 40% of

us have done so at least once in our lives.

As I am one of those of us who have done so,

I have often wondered if dreaming one can fly

may have some sort of underlying meaning.

Looking in to it I found that it can be interpreted

in a number of different ways:

Positively, as in symbolically representing feelings

of freedom, transcendence and empowerment.

Negatively, as in symbolically representing a

 desire/need to flee from difficult obstacles, and or to escape 

feelings of anxiety and fear.

Pragmatically, we dream in order to keep us sleeping.

Dreaming gives the part of our brain that stores memory

a chance to inscribe our memories for future reference.

Although there's much written about dream interpretations,

 at this point in time however, it seems dream interpretations 

belong more in the ''theories'' basket rather

than the ''scientifically substantiated knowledge'' basket.

If Penguins possess consciousness, and some say they do,

are they aware of the irony that they have wings

but they can't be used for flying? 

Rather ...... their short, stocky wings are excellent

for...... swimming (??!!).

The fact that penguins can't fly but are good

at diving and swimming, is something that they have

in common with us humans.

Actually, they share a bunch of attributes with us.

They use patterned sounds to communicate with each other,

they use each other's bodies to regulate their body temperature,

they mate for life, they like playing and they walk upright.

And much like us when we live on top of each other,

when they live in large colonies where the distance between 

breeding pairs is very close, skirmishes often take

place.

This morning I woke up and for some unknown

reason I just felt the need to grab my sketch pad

and some ink and brushes, and paint a penguin.

(I have never even tried to draw one before, little

less paint one. Such is the muse. She comes

she goes. It is not for me to question her when

she shows up, alas, only to obey.)

In the midst of the chaos that is my life, I have

discovered that I find it harder and harder to

digest all the terrible and unnecessary suffering

us humans are inflicting on fawn and flora

on this our little blue planet.

As I can no longer play my angst and sorrow away

on the piano due to my rampant bursitis, I now try to 

find some solace by painting small-scale pieces and

posting my scribblings(thoughts) here on the blog.

Example:

 Fairy Wren (Ink/water colour on paper)

A penguins largest threat to its existence is 

not the fact that it can't fly, oh no,

the largest threat to its existence

is another wingless creature,

us.

We can do better, don't you agree?

Not only do I believe we can treat animals and

all that nature gives us, including each other,

better, but we can use our consciousness to

to guide our behaviour and actions mindfully aware

of that all life is precious.

We need to:

''Not hurt our brethren, our sisters, our animals,

as our first duty, nay, to stop there is not enough.

We have a higher mission - to be of service

wherever and whenever they require it.''

(St. Francis of Assisi re-interpreted by me)

about top painting: Ink on paper

Pain can be subdued with the help of a vivid imagination........................

Some say that when we visualize something, the brain

can at times find it hard to distinguish between a vivid 

imagination and that which we experience as reality.

Let me be blunt.

I'm in pain. Mentally and physically.

Have been for years.

Some days are worse than others. 

It was during one

of those really worst of days that I discovered

a way to

escape my pain by utilizing the power

of imagination.

This particular day the pain was so intense that

 I couldn't even get out

of bed to grab some pain-killers.

Even the tiniest of movement and my stomach

would lurch.

Although even the act of mere thinking hurt, 

somehow suddenly

I remembered someone telling me that it is

possible to make the brain/mind ''think/believe'' 

something to be real/actually happening with the help 

of a very vivid imagination.

Stuck there in my bed, unable to move and barely

capable of breathing, I closed my eyes and visualized

myself being an eagle, soaring high above snow

clad mountains. 

I became the eagle.

My eyes viewed the mountains, I heard the

winds, I smelt the ice-cold air, I felt my

wings slowly moving.

Gliding through the air all my attention was

focused on being there, there....in the mind of an

eagle.

I was no longer aware of my pain, I was only

 experiencing a sense of freedom and lightness that

I imagined soaring like an eagle entailed.

As to the amount of time that may have passed while 

I ''was soaring'' I have no idea, but

what I do know is that when I opened my eyes again,

I was able to get out of my bed, slowly walk to

the bathroom and finally

take some over-the counter pain-killers.

With blurry,  bloodshot eyes I looked at my watch.

5:30 am.

I went back to bed.

I went back to being an eagle.

(Since then I have ''soared'' many times.)

Imagination.

''Logic will get you from A to B.

Imagination will take you everywhere.''

(Albert Einstein)

Pain, including chronic pain, due to some

 form of illness, is in my view insidious.

 It tends to be stealthy, obnoxious, crafty

and so on, but worst of all, ....relentless.

If that's not bad enough, pain that is caused

by something not visible to the naked eye,

well, that's worse still. 

Why? Because it can so easily be

dismissed as ''imaginary''.

And as such, in my experience ''imaginary''

pain is often viewed as not

 ''deserving" of neither compassion nor sympathy.

Quandary: Imagination is ''good or bad'' according 

to the ''eyes of the beholder''.

Imagination, in my view is a tool.

It can be used in ways that enhances and

enriches our lives,

or it can be used in ways that diminish

and disparage our lives.

We are the ones using the tool so we must chose

how to use it.

''The man who has no imagination

has no wings.''

(Muhammad Ali)

 

about the image: Ink on paper

Title: ''I will soar like an Eagle''