"He may be a very nice man. But I haven't got the time to figure that out.

All I know is, he's got a uniform and a gun and I have to relate to him that way. That's the only way to relate to him because one of us may have to die."



- James Baldwin (1924-1987) American Novelist, Essayist



The world is an odd place when you think about it. No one is ever going to be satisfied, no one is ever happy with where he is. We want more. We look at someone we don't know and decide we can't trust him - or worse, that we hate him - before we have exchanged a word. Wars are created - they don't just happen; one of us sees something we want or disapprove of, and take it upon our self to make that point known. That is not to say that it is right to sit back and watch injustice - but in voicing an opinion we tend to forget that no matter how educated we think ourselves to be, the one thing we cannot ever understand is the precise view of any other single person. The man on the other side of that wall had his own childhood, his own education, he bred his own takes on religion, politics, food choices, whether he secretly hates the sound of children playing ball too early in the morning, or the smell of lilacs, or reading a novel. He may love opera, but hate ballet. He may work under cars and have grease permanently embedded in his nails, but dream of sitting for an hour in front of a Monet. We all make assumptions - it is human nature; prejudice is something we all have. The trick is to stop before we say or do something really stupid. It's not politics, it is diplomacy.

There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.

~George Carlin


It has been a long time since I made an entry here - I wish I could say it was because I was too busy with fascinating pursuits; there have been many, but that is not the reason. I was lazy. But that aside I also just could not seem to be properly inspired - and that being the case decided not to push it onto my readership. That is behind me now, and I am hot in pursuit of the arcane.


Halloween is upon us. I really did miss most of the summer, and the fact that this first event of the Season of Gluttony is arrived tells me that I need to get into form. Literally. I looked at the scale this morning, and I am at the weight I should be AFTER the Season of Gluttony. I have not even had a Peanut Butter Cup yet.


Mary and I used to give Halloween parties. These tended to be grand, unabashed soirees filled with costumes, dancing and a punch we used to make that consisted of roasted apples and alcohol. All I remember is that it was a lot like drinking thin applesauce, but with a massive kick - which explained a lot of the dancing. Of course, that was in the day when our friends had fewer ties of their own - no children to walk around the neighborhood, and none of them owned houses they felt the need to stay home to protect from roving vandals.


In the course of those parties we often would interrupt the bacchanalia just long enough to require everyone to carve a pumpkin - a dangerous event considering the mixture of implements, apple-punch and sloppy pumpkin guts which all too often we would find months later glued to the ceiling. Over the years the events lessened, but Mary and I do still celebrate - albeit more quietly.


Now the big holiday for us has moved to Thanksgiving - a series of events centered - once again - on a preponderance of food. The fact that this holiday falls in the middle of the Season of Gluttony is better suited to our current lifestyle, as it is less likely to catch us off-guard as has the event of Halloween this year. With a crowd of friends and loved ones, we try to mix the talents and interests to give the best opportunity for lively debate. We do love debate.


Why the world shys from a discussion among people sharing differing views is beyond me - if lines were always so clearly delineated, what a boring and simpleminded world we'd be in. And then all that would be left of the Glorious Season of Gluttony would be the hangover.

How sad.

"we painters take the same liberties as poets and madmen"

- Paolo Veronese

The Accademia in Venice is one of the true high points of a visit there. Across the Grand Canal from San Marco, walking over the Academy Bridge (Ponte dell'Accademia) is itself a moment to remember - as one of only three bridges crossing the GC, this one is still a wood supported structure. It was built in 1985 to replace the prior one built in 1930, which had in turn replaced the original steel. While not old, it is reminiscent of the past. On the North end of the bridge is a cluster of Palazzos, and a bramble of pink roses, in the center of which is a stone lion standing guard. On the South end, there is the bustle of the piazza in front of the Accademia, a port of call for the Vaporetto and a busy collection of tourist booths and food stalls. Entry to the Accademia - once a Monastery - is a time-stamp ticket, controlling carefully the number of visitors; this like so many of the great museums of Italy is not air-conditioned, so the humidity and temperature is monitored, regulating the flow of visitors. The control however is welcoming, allowing for contemplation of the great building; up the stairs and into the first gallery, a large room filled with 15th century Icons, I could not help but be drawn upward to the ceiling, a mesmerizing grid work of gold, with winged cherub faces centering each square against a field of blue - the stuff of Christmas Cards, created in the Renaissance and carefully preserved. Room after room of masterworks, but the one that perhaps stands above the rest is the massive Veronese known as the "Feast in the House of Levi". At almost 18 feet tall by 50 feet long, it is inescapable. Furthermore the painting of stairways and arches demonstrating Veronese's extraordinary sense of perspective invites the viewer to enter the painting - and in fact the near-life size figures virtually breath.

The painting was originally commissioned to replace a large Titian lost in a fire at the Basilica di Santi Giovanni. It was commissioned as "The Last Supper" - a name it originally bore when unveiled in 1573. The painting caused a furor, peopled not just with the Disciples but with dozens of German soldiers, animals, common people and comics and dwarfs. Veronese himself is among the crowd, as a disinterested viewer. The story it told through details and often undecorative, unsavory elements was a thinly guised blast at the Inquisition, and in fact was cause to have Veronese himself pulled in front of the Counter Reformers to explain its meaning. The painting had strayed from the august inference of the disciples - it demonstrated the power of a church-sanctioned circus losing sight of the important central figure. His hearing was carefully poised as a "caution", rather than a punishment; Veronese carefully stepped through the Inquisitors' rings, stating "we painters take the same liberties as poets and madmen" - and by changing the name of the masterwork to a less-sacramental, lesser feast at the House of Levi - wherein the added figures became an ebullient crowd. Veronese and the painting survived; today it hangs as a magnificent reminder that politics and controversy were then as they are today a part of the work's importance.

San Zaccharia

In Venice, we stayed in a hotel on Campo Zaccharia just facing the church of San Zaccharia which was one of the more intriguing points of interest at the beginning of our journey. I say this because the church was far less grand and even somewhat unkempt than the great Renaissance cathedrals we were to encounter along the way, and certainly a pale comparison to San Marco just a few hundred feet away.

The foundations to the church date to the ninth century, and much of the Romanesque structure dated from the tenth. It was rebuilt in 1483 in an odd mixture of Gothic and renaissance styles which adding to the solid Romanesque structure gives it a quality that is far more commanding than many of its counterparts along the Grand Canal. Entering it there is a dusky smell that permeates some of the old structures in Venice, and this one had a number of canvasses and fabrics that had absorbed the centuries of mold spores. It was dark, the electric lighting was placed as conveniently as possible, but it had obviously never had a modern lighting designer come through to highlight the art and architecture. The result was to walk into another time, where light came in through relatively small windows and shot trails though the dusty interior.

The church had been largely paid for by the Doges of Venice, in gratitude for the sale of land in 1200, adjacent to the convent by the nuns - for the expansion of Piazza San Marco. They had given up their pea-patch and gained a patronage that would last for several centuries. In thanks, the Doge would spend Easter services in San Zaccharia, making an annual pilgrimage and procession which sometime in the twelfth century necessitated the construction of a great ambulatory. Eight of the Doges are buried in the crypt, along with the often-questioned remains of Zaccharia, father of John the Baptist.

Once you adjust your vision to the dusty interior, you begin to make out the shapes of a number of Renaissance masterpieces which are often overlooked by the usual Venetian tours. Almost every inch of every wall is covered by paintings, mostly from the seventeenth and eighteenth century, surrounding a 1505 masterwork by Bellini of the Madonna and Four Saints. This piece by itself is incredible, but one of the great novelties of this church as well; by dropping a few coins into a slot, now-ancient and probably highly flammable lighting bursts forth, to illuminate a frame built into the wall which continues on into the Bellini painting as an early form of trompe d'loile. The painting had been looted by Napoleon in the nineteenth century and the frame left behind - a top section missing as it had been cut away but that somehow just adds to the historic ambiance. The effect is tremendous, made even more so as the light goes out with a "pop" and the frame recedes back into the gloom.

The main altar c 1358 has only recently been discovered and restored, a seven panel Predella by Veneziano, the earliest celebrated Venetian artist. It is kept company by two equally great altarpieces "anconas" or composite altarpieces by Vivarani and Alemagna both c. 1443. The Vivarani is dedicated to San Sabine, who is buried beneath it.

On the right wall is a doorway, tightly curtained and up a few steps. It is locked, and when you approach it you are accosted by a tiny monk who looks as if he has been there a good many years, who is looking for the donation that will entice him to turn the key for you. Entering, the door clicking behind you, offers a private pilgrimage inside the Cappella di Sant'Anastasio and behind it the Capella di San Tarasio. Dusty furniture, broken pedestals line the walls, but there in a huge niche is Tintoretto's Birth Of John the Baptist, one of the great masterpieces of Venice. It is unprotected, and the informality of the setting, the fact that you are all alone makes you want to touch it - but in respect you hold back. It is a great rush of emotion to have that moment there in the dusty room with such a piece of history.

Passing through the sacristy, looking at the floor there are holes chipped away to reveal the original mosaics that had been covered over - maybe a project for future restoration. around a corner and without a sign is a tiny staircase downward. Keeping in mind that this is Venice, peering down into its depths is a mystery - not many basements are anticipated . I followed it down, around its curve, the tiny chipped stone stairs leading into a room at the bottom barely lit by a few random light bulbs. The floor was flooded, and small wooden walkways had been set up to pass through the vaulted chamber. I realized that I was beneath the main altar, in the ancient ninth-century crypt; there in the dark recesses was a sarcophagus, surmounted by a statue and reflected in the pool of murky water. It was spooky and wonderful, a fitting last stop in this ancient piece of the city. On the other end of the room was a second tiny stairway leading up to a small room behind the altar. I exited; the monk had once again disappeared into whatever dark corner he kept. The quiet and somber quality of the church was anything but sad, it was a soft reminder of how tiny we are in the centuries that have passed by.

Everyday Icons -

Anyone who knows my recent paintings, knows that I have dedicated myself to bringing an ancient form of art back into everyday life. While I started with classic Icons, my purpose is to make a very wonderful art form into something that is a living, joyful modern experience. When we were in Venice last year, I was very taken with the presence of Icons in every corner-literally. While here in the United States we tend to think of Icons as beautiful but slightly quaint reminders of zealous Church oversight, what came across to me last year was the presence of shrines everywhere. Most major public buildings had a corner dedicated to some Saint, and every courtyard, alleyway and Piazza was incomplete without some form of architecture protecting a painting or or occasionally a statue placed to give comfort or resolve.

These shrines came in all shapes and sizes, the most common were built into the sides of buildings like windows, with the Icon itself behind a grille or glass, and generally they had shutters to protect them against the wind-driven rains off the Adriatic that are common in the winter months. The saints stare out, and like their counterparts lining the insides of the hundreds of churches and cathedrals they have a cold deportment that has softened with the aging of the paint. The eyes always stare straight into yours, and for all the stiffness of the subject, the suffering of the martyr, the despair of the onlookers at their feet, the saint's gaze pierces your heart with a look that gives you a reason to stop. Even a non-believed would have to admit that the expression in those eyes. like a those of a loving mother, gives strength to go forward.

What I found intriguing too, was the fact that these little offerings are very much alive. They are a piece of everyday life there, and commonly have fresh flowers or small tokens left behind. Of course during the day hours most of the people on the streets are tourists just as Mary and I were, but it really is not hard to imagine locals visiting these spots in the morning before the tour boats arrive.

This is my inspiration. Not necessarily to re-create these devotional spots in my artwork, but rather to capture the essence of a dedication to art in an everyday enviornment. Art in this enviornment is alive, even if centuries old. It lives and lurks around every corner. It is not just hidden away in a dusty alcove or hung on a wall above a sofa. It breathes. It is a part of everything we do. When we forget that we become sterile and useless.

If no one ever took risks, Michaelangelo would have painted the Sistine floor.

- Neil Simon
Hard to believe but a year ago this date, Mary and I arrived in Florence. Florence had not only the greatest collection of art, but I think we had some of our best food there - of course to mention the now-famous strawberry sundae which is so ingrained in our memories we'll have to go back for another. Mary found a recipe that suggests that the strawberries may be spiked with a tiny bit of Balsamic Vinegar as well as sugar, and we think that may have been the secret to the incredible intensity of flavor that we enjoyed in Florence. I tried the recipe, but think I overdid the vinegar, lacking the delicate touch of the Florentines. The strawberries were spooned over a bowl of vanilla Gelato -and from there history was made.

Mary's special memories were the Cezanne exhibit there, as well as - of course - the Ferragamo museum. We saw only a small portion of the Pitti Palace, and the grotto was off-tour the day we were there. So much filled our days it is hard to believe how much more there was to see.

Such an adventure. So very unlike us - or maybe so very much like us that it is hard to see. And I am reminded that to take it in, I have to keep looking up. The floor only supports the sky.

In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.

- Mark Twain

It was a very interesting weekend. Mary and I woke up early on Saturday to a brilliantly sunny day. The Oregon gloom had parted and as if by magic, the birds were singing, the cherry trees in bloom, the wisteria bursting and the lilacs showing color on their clustered buds. It was like landing in a Disney movie. All it needed was a rabbit and a fawn. I decided the time was right to get the roof and side-curtains up on the backyard gazebo and haul out the summer furniture. I cut the grass. I tidied up the gardens. I trimmed the grass. I checked the hot tub, clearing away the ant-trail that had begun to invade it (okay, so spraying for ants was not very Disney-esque.) The ants got their come-uppance, as I realized after wading into the tub in my freshly-found summer shorts that I had neglected to take my cell phone out of my pocket before diving in.

Saturday afternoon, we took a long drive, stopping for fish and chips for lunch, then heading out through the Columbia Gorge. The temperature was in the mid 70's, and even for Mary and I who relish the colder weather, it was way overdue. We drove through Troutdale, out the Historic Highway past the waterfalls, and across the Bridge Of The Gods (true name) and over to Stevenson Washington. We shopped, had coffee and drove down toward Camas. By the time we got home we were pretty sated.

Sunday was overcast. Still, it was pleasant, but I was pushing my luck wearing the shorts. The clouds were rolling back into sight. We drove up into the hills to the Pittock Mansion, then had a couple of errands before we stopped for Dim Sum, in my estimation one of the "perfect foods". By the time we got home the weather had turned rather dark, and the cold wind had arrived. By late night, the temp was 39.

Today, it has rained, and hailed, and the wind has blown. Spring, it seems has returned in all its bluster. The sun has peeked through now and then, just long enough to pull me out of the office to get coffee or lunch, just long enough to get me away from under the roof and out in a sudden downpour. I would not doubt that snow is far behind. Disney never showed this.

I don't care. When I get home I am going to put on my shorts again. Eventually the sun will have to come back. The rabbit, fawn and I will be ready.