"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.

"You can imprison a man, but not an idea. You can exile a man, but not an idea. You can kill a man, but not an idea."

-Benazir Bhutto

Painting, n.: The art of protecting flat surfaces from the weather, and exposing them to the critic.

- Ambrose Bierce
Tomorrow morning is the orientation meeting at Trinity for The Artists Among Us show in May. Mary and I will have to be there at 9AM to give dimensions, descriptions and prices for the show. As much as I enjoy presenting, I am not sure anything is truly worth getting up and off by 8:15 on a Saturday morning. But Starbuck's is on the way - always a good carrot in front of my nose.

Of course this would be much simpler if I was a little more organized, and had my works properly photo'd, priced and catalogued as I produce. I am sure there are people who keep such remarkable records - but with me it is a matter of pulling things out of the closets where I have stowed them, and taking the necessary measurements - then computing the sales values. Given the fact my products are assembled from a number of materials and resources, the pricing mechanism is not exactly a simple process - I like to think of it as being rather scientific, but in reality it is more like complex algebra, a subject I was never particularly good with in school. If you have a panel of wood on the side of a car traveling at 30 MPH while you ride blindfolded in the opposite direction on a tricycle at 2MPH and you toss three cans of paint at the wood one after the other, how much would the paint that hits the panel have cost?

Answer; Trick question - depends - had you bought a latte or and Americano at Starbuck's?

Furthermore there is the emotional attachment. I have gotten past my unwillingness to part with each and every piece I complete - although I do still keep detailed photos and diaries on each just in case I might want to re-use a component. But everything I do carries a piece of me in it, in the paint, in the gilding, in the assemblage. So it is hard for me to put a price that does not require the buyer to take out a lien. It is not the Mona Lisa, I have to remind myself, even if it feels like it to me. Which is probably the very reason I should be making production-line art instead of the one-offs that I do. Warhol made millions off of his repeated soup cans and color-tinted photos.

So that may be my next line-up. Icons on Soup Cans. It could work. And I could retail them in grocery stores. Better yet - maybe I can do a line of latte-cups for Starbuck's. Now there's an idea to grow on....

“There's no need to fear the wind if your haystacks are tied down.”

- Irish proverb
St Patrick's Day is an interesting holiday, given it is basically an American tradition, celebrating the fact that for one day everyone has an Irish heritage, commemorating the life of a Saint who was not, by the way, Irish. But then that is what we do, and we celebrate by eating Kosher Corned Beef.

Go figure.

This morning on the news, there was a piece about the dyeing of the river in Chicago - apparently about 40 years back some plumbers who were using a chemical to trace a water leak accidentally stained the Chicago River green - and it has become a tradition every year since. What I found interesting was that it does not seem to take a lot of the brilliant-orange powder they toss into the river and then stir up with the use of an outboard motorboat to taint the water not just green, but a toxic glowing brew. I am sure the color washes downstream and dilutes, but I did actually wonder what it does to the fish. Not to mention, does anyone ever swim in the water downstream? I am envisioning a whole community of people eating green fish, swimming and dying their skin green. It could happen. A decade from now, someone may stumble onto a small town of green people - a discovery similar to the Anasazi - who would no doubt be revered for their coloring.

Nouveaux Leprechauns if you will. Undoubtedly living on a a diet of corned beef and cabbage, swigging green beer. Fortunately we Irishmen and leprechauns all have a wry sense of humor.

I played a lot of tough clubs in my time. Once a guy in one of those clubs wanted to bet me $10 that I was dead. I was afraid to bet

- Henny Youngman

I had one of those moments the other day. You know one of those office moments you'd rather not have had. It all started with my hand on the phone, dialing a call which in this case was long distance so it necessitated the dialing first of a "9 -then a 1"...about that time my Assistant dropped by my desk, and I stopped dialing and hung up. A second later alarms started wailing all over the office. I assumed it was a fire alarm, which since we have numerous false alarms and fire drills - and since my office is on the first floor I really was not all that concerned so proceeded to answer the question. I heard a call from around the corner, someone asking me if I had dialed 911. "No" I said, "of course not".
"Well the system says you did"
Oh oh. I must have dragged my finger over the "1" a second time before I hung up the phone. But it never had time to connect....

So it seems our office is wired straight to a general panic alarm from every phone in the place. Not only does a 911 call signal the usual Fire and Police, but it sets off a series of internal alarms and alerts all the in-house emergency personnel as well. So phones were going off all over the building, all the persons designated to respond were grabbing up their flak jackets, their med kits and the lock popped open on the box on the wall containing the portable Defibrillator. I walked out my door to see a lineup of about ten people all expecting to find me writhing on the floor.

Which all goes to show that the system works. Not that it is necessarily foolproof, as I demonstrated. The only good part of this is that I had hung up the phone before the aid unit was discharged - but the internal alert apparently triggers just by the input of the number. Had I had my wits about me, I should have collapsed to the floor; frankly it would have been significantly less embarrassing than to have to admit that I had just punched in the code and hung up the phone.

I hate technology sometimes. But then I think the Engineer in charge of applying the Defibrillator was the most disappointed of all.

Aio, quantitas magna frumentorum est

- Yes, that is a very large amount of corn

The Oregonian ran a large photo today on the front of its "Living" section, of a young school girl or boy (one can never be too sure) looking disdainfully down at his or her school-lunch tray. There in a side pocket adjacent to a slice of pizza was a dark round splotch, a perfect round dark dot which could have been a perfect hole in the Universe, a Black Hole if you would were it not for the captioning. It was in fact nothing as exciting as a Black Hole, it was in fact a thick slice of freshly boiled beet.

It seems, according to the story accompanying this child's look of desperation, that the Portland School District has decided its students are not getting enough fruits or vegetables in their diets, and therefore have decided to augment the daily fare with a dollop of some local, fresh, organic vegetable. Like it or not. After all, what possibly could be a better compliment to cheese and pepperoni pizza than a squirmy, slimy, red-staining slice of beet.

Anyone knowing me well knows that to me the Beet is a particularly horrifying piece of vegetation best left in the ground. There is no reason to dig some things up, let alone boil them and then put them in your mouth. Beets are for punishment. I do remember sitting at the dining room table with beets on my plate, probably put there by my Dad who believed that everyone should try something once. This despite the fact there were many things Dad would not allow anyplace near his own plate. Nope, I do recall sitting there at the table long after the dining room lights were turned off, and while I have tasted beets a few times over the years just to see if my priorities might have changed, they most certainly had not been changed by that slimy round of boiled root there in the dark.

So I felt a particular affinity toward this child in the picture, standing there with his or her beet staring up like a giant period at the end of a particularly bold statement. I could only imagine what was going through that mind...where can it be hidden, whose plate can I sneak it onto. What kind of trouble would I be in if I hurl it across the lunchroom to skitter across the tables like a skipping-stone leaving a trail of blood-red juice. Hmmm.

The paper did note that very few of the students chose to taste the vegetable accompanying their pizza. I have to wonder how many of the rounds were hurled in a food-fight coup de gras....I would actually have enjoyed seeing the carnage following that bloodly food-fight. It would after all these years seem like true justice for the years of torment the unholy Beet had stained my life.

The President of today is just the postage stamp of tomorrow.

- Gracie Allen

Forgiveness is a virtue of the brave.

- Indira Gandhi

We have spent so much time these past few years in learning how to hate. Wanting to strike back at someone who hits you is a natural response. Kids do it, but they are advised to turn the other cheek. Lashing back only inflames the situation; if the pain is too great to ignore, a measured response dealing a blow to the heart of the true offender can be warrented - after which the adult will step back to await the response. Kennedy learned this during the Cuban Missile crisis. As a people we forget the lessons; we need to re-learn.

We have spent so much time these past few years teaching ourselves to hate. This is not unfamiliar territory to us, we have hated many over the centuries. Hitler hated the Jews who built Europe. Americans hated the Blacks who built this country. We tell ourselves we are above these thoughts any more, but in the dark place we hide, we are not above the hate. There is an attack in New York; the perpetrators speak in a foreign tongue - so we resurrect the hate and focus it on anyone having brown skin.

We have spent so much time these past few years convincing ourselves that this time hate is just. When the World Trade center plummeted and the names were released, there were many there I knew; people I had spoken with on the phone, a few I had met in person. I felt the hatred bubble in me. Who to hit? Who is there to hurt? Over the past years we have mired ourselves destroying the culture of a people we don't know, we can't understand, people who have no interest in world events except for the fact they are being marched on by outsiders who tell them their politics are wrong.

We have spent so much time - forgetting - that acts like this are the brainchild of a relative few; that people act out in hate because they are conditioned to do so. Seeking out the wormy core is just. Hating a race for the sake of hating is not. The adult will step back to await the response.

avunculize!!

- Verb: To act as an Uncle

I stumbled on this word today; I happen to find it intriguing. Inasmuch as Mary and I stopped counting when the neice, nephew and grand-neice/nephew count for us passed the 55 mark, I really like the fact that there is actually a term for the act of uncling. I have failed to find a similar designation for the act of being an Aunt - so I am thinking Mary is just going to have to make her own way known, ala avauntulize.

With all the manuals there are out there in the art of Parenting, I scrutinized Amazon.com to determine what there might be on the arts of Avuculization. Alas, there is nothing to be found. Could it be that this is a lost-funtionality? It just seems to me that in a world where parents are increasingly busy-what with two working parents now the norm as well as the ever-increasing pull of children being called into after-school activities that allow for no down-time, that perhaps a little active avunculization and avauntulization might be called into play. Surely this untapped resource shouldf not be overlooked! At the very least, there should be a manual on the do's and don'ts of avuncling your way through a school play or a friendly lecture at the dinner table. We uncles and aunts are just as good as anybody at finding fault. The gross advantage to it is that we don't get the bill for the bashed car fender or the bad-mouthing at school (since no-one at school would know who we were anyway.) This is a real win-win! Lecture without responsibility or recourse!

It is good to be an Uncle.

Well, art is art, isn't it? Still, on the other hand, water is water! And east is east and west is west and if you take cranberries and stew them like

applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does. Now, uh... now you tell me what you know. - Groucho Marx



I am glad that Art is in the eye of the beholder. I am reading a book Mary gave me for Christmas that pertains to the recovery of art confiscated by the Nazis in WWII, and the way it was treated by Hitler and his cronies. Anything created by Germanic artists in a Realist style was considered good, whereas anything modern or experimental was derided. He put together a traveling show of all the modern art pieces which included the Impressionists and labeled them "degenerate art," clumping them on walls with captions pointing out their "flaws." He considered Van Gogh among the worst, - after all, anyone that saw a sky as green and a meadow as blue had to be a degenerate. The Degenerate Art show was far more popular, it seems, with the public than the "finer" show he put together featuring only approved artists - in fact the crowds were about five to one. So of course he closed the Degenerate show and put the works up for sale as "garbage". In that auction, hundreds of 19th and 20th century masterpieces were sold for a total of $171,000; the only piece fetching anything appreciable was the Van Gogh self portrait at $40,000. Thousands more were burned.

Which all goes to prove that one man's view of art is never more important than another's. I have commented before that there is art in everythig, that it just takes a thoughtful eye to see it; that does not mean that anything slapped together qualifies as good - even in the eyes of its creator, but it is art, and if one man sees it as such then it is accomplished. It is a shame that the art world is occasionally overrun by snobbery, since by its very essence a piece that has been created in the heart and hands is deeply personal to someone. Snobbery - although I am as guilty of it at times as anyone - is nothing more than passing judgement on someone else's brain activity; the Snob himself is the one who is not thinking clearly.

Which brings me to my own work. I know that many of the pieces I have been making recently would be considered peculiar by some. Actually, in my warped sense I hope they are. I try to put some humor in my work, even when the underlying theme is dark. I like to use double entendre - which is just a nicer way of saying I enjoy a good pun. My preference is to have a piece look serious at first, humorous on closer inspection, and telling a story that makes a stiff comment about modern life. I hate being too serious, but I also feel a need to give my opinions. I wish that Groucho was still around; I think he'd get it.

"I'm pretty sure there will be duck-hunting in heaven and I can't wait!"

- Mike Huckabee

Hopefully Huck won't be met at the Pearly Gate by Dick Cheney.

Mary and I were quite involved with the Iowa Caucus last evening, but really for very different reasons. Mary, ever the Political Science major was into it for its historic positioning in the Electoral Process. I on the other hand expressed a feeling that the Caucus process may have seen its day, and that it does not translate well into the modern system where results are calculated moment by moment. We got into a rather lively debate on this topic, neither of us getting a good deal of satisfaction since we both left it pretty much as we had entered. Nevertheless, there was real joy in our ability to tear into the process from different aspects; after all these years together we still do not always agree. I think we are very lucky for that; it must be very boring to spend your life with someone with whom you have everything in common. Healthy debate is the foundation of Democracy - and I think too many people in recent years have forgotten that principle. To stand up and say something is wrong, whether it is the outcome of a pie-eating contest that looked rigged to you, or the nation's export of hundreds of thousands of our youths to land on foreign soil for the sole purpose of forcing principles that are neither understood nor desired, to speak up about that is the very essence of the Constitution.

Debate, even if it involves name-calling and foot stomping, is good. It means we are thinking. And for all that I personally think the Caucus system is outdated, I am quietly glad it remains as a tie to a time before the news media took it over. It gives us something to discuss, and it doesn't have to mean that we will all agree.