This last Friday morning Andrew Wyeth died at the age of 91. Several years ago I took up studying this artist in great depth. In fact I consider myself kind of a Wyeth scholar. I've always been intrigued by his use of a "realistic" approach to painting with muted earth tones and often dark themes embedded in pastoral landscapes and portraits. There has never been a more profound American artist. When the art world was ranting and raving over abstract expressionism with the likes of Jackson Pollock, Willem DeKooning, Barnett Newman, Isamu Noguchi, etc. (all of whom I admire on many levels as well, and all of whom have enhanced diverse artistic traditions in their own right), Wyeth stuck to his guns, so to speak. While looking at many of his works I'm struck by a level of surrealism that surprises, all the while bringing an unspoken narrative along with him.

Wyeth has imagination that looked deeply into the mundane and everyday. Perhaps that's why M. Night Shyamalan was inspired by the artist when he built the set for his film The Village, of course many others have as well. This imagination led to his disappointment with the "real" Sherwood Forest he visited decades after growing up dreaming and pretending to be Robin Hood. This imagination offers validity to Baudrillard's theories about simulacra and the hyper-real, calling into question whether or not there ever was something real in the first place. Or is one's imagination the reality, again a fairly reasonable case could be made for that as well. Ahhh, the blessing and curse of great imagination. In fact it was this great imagination that led me to name our third child, our second son, Wyeth who is now 5 years old . . . a constant reminder to me and to him of a great story of a great man.

Several years ago, after reading Richard Meryman's biography of the artist entitled Andrew Wyeth: A Secret Life, I was moved to write him. I've never written a letter to anyone of renown in my life really, growing up it was always athletes like Walter Payton whom I admired but never ventured so far as to actually write to. But something compelled me to write a letter (the precise content of which still escapes me) to this frail little old man, I think he was in his early 80's at the time. So I write my letter to Wyeth, then write an accompanying letter to Richard Meryman at the publishing house where A Secret Life was published hoping that just maybe "America's Painter" will read it one day.

Well, I was stunned the day a hand-written letter arrived that said:

Dear Edward Traub -

As you see, I have received your letter and your wonderful, moving sentiments. I am going down to see Wyeth next week and will deliver your letter by hand. I know he will be very touched and pleased.

Richard Meryman

Dear Mr. Traub

As promised, I delivered your letter to Andrew Wyeth, and he read it on the spot. His firsts words were, "interesting," and he smiled which meant to me he was pleased. Then looking thoughtful, he said, "I just hope he has the courage." The he said something classically AW: "He has to be on his knees . . . and chin himself."

He means, I am sure, that you must be on your knees to your art, to your subject matter, while hauling yourself with a mighty effort as high as possible - chinning yourself on the bar of your loftiest expectations of yourself.

So you should be well satisfied - and I applaud your sentiments.

Warm regards,

Richard Meryman

Now that I'm looking at the date on the letters, that was just over 10 years ago that those letters were exchanged. I wish I could say that those words worked some miracle in my own work as an artist. And indeed as far as production and exhibitions and sales, not much has happened (although I do sell and exhibit); however, his words continue to compel me to consider my "art" in whatever form it takes. The reality is that I've actually sought to sacrafice my work as an artist on some philosphical altar a number of times but it continues to gnaw at me and say that it is indeed worth everything to make art that really means something, even if no one else "gets it."

I'd like to think that perhaps a micro-second of memory flashed through Wyeth's mind and heart in the years since regarding my letter. He has and always will be the one who led me to take my art seriously. Many others have followed suit as mentors and heroes, but never will I forget this great man who chose to devote himself almost completely to the discipline of painting.

My sympathies go out to his wife, Betsy, and the rest of his extended family . . .

"When I paint an open field or the inside of a building with lonliness implied, it's not concocted. Perhaps I dream of more lonliness in a thing than is actually there. But I'm not trying to be dramatic; it's natural for me. Have we lost the art of being alone? I think we have."

From Richard Meryman's Andrew Wyeth: A Secret Life, pp. 183-184.

But it was the idea of "possible body" that lingers still. It seems to me a double entendre for sacred activism.

May we remember well . . .

And so she set out. She went and started gleaning in a field, following in the wake of the harvesters. Eventually she ended up in the part of the field owned by Boaz, her father-in-law Elimelech's relative. A little later Boaz came out from Bethlehem, greeting his harvesters, "God be with you!" They replied, "And God bless you!"

Boaz asked his young servant who was foreman over the farm hands, "Who is this young woman? Where did she come from?"

The foreman said, "Why, that's the Moabite girl, the one who came with Naomi from the country of Moab. She asked permission. 'Let me glean,' she said, 'and gather among the sheaves following after your harvesters.' She's been at it steady ever since, from early morning until now, without so much as a break."

Then Boaz spoke to Ruth: "Listen, my daughter. From now on don't go to any other field to glean—stay right here in this one. And stay close to my young women. Watch where they are harvesting and follow them. And don't worry about a thing; I've given orders to my servants not to harass you. When you get thirsty, feel free to go and drink from the water buckets that the servants have filled."

She dropped to her knees, then bowed her face to the ground. "How does this happen that you should pick me out and treat me so kindly—me, a foreigner?"

Boaz answered her, "I've heard all about you—heard about the way you treated your mother-in-law after the death of her husband, and how you left your father and mother and the land of your birth and have come to live among a bunch of total strangers. God reward you well for what you've done—and with a generous bonus besides from God, to whom you've come seeking protection under his wings."

She said, "Oh sir, such grace, such kindness—I don't deserve it. You've touched my heart, treated me like one of your own. And I don't even belong here!"

At the lunch break, Boaz said to her, "Come over here; eat some bread. Dip it in the wine."

So she joined the harvesters. Boaz passed the roasted grain to her. She ate her fill and even had some left over.

When she got up to go back to work, Boaz ordered his servants: "Let her glean where there's still plenty of grain on the ground—make it easy for her. Better yet, pull some of the good stuff out and leave it for her to glean. Give her special treatment."

Ruth gleaned in the field until evening. When she threshed out what she had gathered, she ended up with nearly a full sack of barley! She gathered up her gleanings, went back to town, and showed her mother-in-law the results of her day's work; she also gave her the leftovers from her lunch.

Naomi asked her, "So where did you glean today? Whose field? God bless whoever it was who took such good care of you!"

Ruth told her mother-in-law, "The man with whom I worked today? His name is Boaz."

Naomi said to her daughter-in-law, "Why, God bless that man! God hasn't quite walked out on us after all! He still loves us, in bad times as well as good!"

Naomi went on, "That man, Ruth, is one of our circle of covenant redeemers, a close relative of ours!"

Ruth the Moabitess said, "Well, listen to this: He also told me, 'Stick with my workers until my harvesting is finished.'"

Naomi said to Ruth, "That's wonderful, dear daughter! Do that! You'll be safe in the company of his young women; no danger now of being raped in some stranger's field."

So Ruth did it—she stuck close to Boaz's young women, gleaning in the fields daily until both the barley and wheat harvesting were finished. And she continued living with her mother-in-law.

From Eugene Peterson's translation of Ruth 2, The Message

Okay, I can't resist including another shot from the attic. This one shows another work in progress.

My studio (aka the attic).

This piece was motivated by the death of Wyeth's father, the famous illustrator, N.C. (Newell Convers) Wyeth. I've heard Wyeth comment that the hill felt to him like the barrell chest of his loving but often imposing father. A fascinating piece and one I immediately thought of while watching Khadak.

Check out the film for your self and then look back at this work of art . . . let me know what you think.

It has been far too long since I posted here. However, this evening I watched one of the best films I've seen in a while. Khadak has blown me away! In every way moving, even when I wasn't sure what exactly was going on . . . one must "feel it" just as one of the lead characters, Bagi, would say with his very few words. It brings a stunning mix of cinematography, music, visual texts and contexts, and implied narratives all of which drew me into the absurd and beautiful which arises out of the tragic and mundane.

At times the visuals reminded me, ironically, of a famous painting by Andrew Wyeth called Winter, 1946,
only this story takes place in Mongolia in winter. I lost track of time, and was struck by how aware/unaware I was of my perceptions of time solely by my visual interactions. Ultimately it's a film about universal themes such as one's search for meaning, the sanity of what we might perceive as insane; and then more particularly profound issues around the glory and tragedy of the prophetic lifestyle and ensuing revolution!

I find that I'm most often moved by those few films that sparingly use verbal language to convey meaning. The first film that did this to me was Never Cry Wolf (and now as I write that I'm thinking perhaps it's the winter weather in the film . . . just kidding). Or maybe it is the winter, maybe it is the starkness of winters that inspires me. Certainly winter is a metaphor for the paring down of the things that at first appear "beautiful," and in Khadak I felt winter. I'm remembering earth tones with white flecks of snow, ugly apartment buildings standing out on the plain like a sore thumb, the contrasting images of transitory yurts and a nomadic life with the brutality and loneliness of industry, the sublime sensations when a life is saved, and then the tiny bursts of color (red particularly) that remind me of warm flesh.

I'm only able to put words to a small portion of what the movie has caused in me. However, it worked enough magic in me to force my "re-entry" into the blogging world, a place I've been avoiding for a while . . . let's call it a sabbatical of sorts.

It should be noted, though, to all 3 of you who read this blog that in just a few days (and I really do think it's going to happen) my website will be up and running, fully functioning, and a delight to look at. I will be updating the blog with some visuals of my own work, but one can always check out new stuff every few months on the website as I attempt to make art that means to others even a fraction of what films like Khadak mean to me.

This coming Sunday I'll be speaking about Justice and Race at our church. The irony of my being caucasian and the church itself being primarily caucasian is humbling. In my attempt to wade into this torrent of thought and theology I came across this image of a Jacob Lawrence piece. In the meantime, I've been reading Cornel West's Prophesy Deliverance! which is West's manifesto revitalizing Black liberation theology through the social analysis of what he calls progressive Marxist thought.

But it has not just been the work of African-American thinkers and artists but various others like Maya Lin, John Sobrino, and Miroslav Volf who've been my companions in this journey that I hope will begin a conversation and proactive movement toward a more authentic vision and realization of what the Kingdom of God is meant to be.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach the good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to se at liberty those who are oppressed.

- Luke 4:18

What I've found as an artist is that the glamorous stereotype usually associated with the artist's life is a complete farce. It's an ongoing struggle between life and work and work that one calls art. Sadly, the non-utilitarian nature of art (not that I believe it to be that...) sometimes forces me to work in spurts to finally put into a painting or drawing what has been rolling around in my mind for many months.

The ink painting above is part of a new series of works on paper that will be opening tomorrow night (Oct. 13) at Folktown Counseling in the Ballard neighborhood, Seattle. This one is titled "Prostrate."

I don't have alot of words to ascribe to these pieces, I've simply been visualizing them for quite a while. They do reflect my ongoing obsession with lanscape and figurative work, the "human landscape" as I like to call it.

* Also, now that I finally have some works I feel good about from this last winter and this month you can look for my website to take on a whole new look very soon.

Just finished reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I was completely engrossed in what was, on the surface, a "post-apocalyptic" novel about an unspecified time in history when an un-named man and his son journeyed through a gray, utterly mundane wasteland in order simply to survive. But it was even more about the man and the boy and the love-bond existing between them. The best novel I've read in a long time.

Interestingly, I began reading it on our aforementioned roadtrip of all things. During that time, while staying with my parents in Illinois, I asked to keep a copy of a photo of my own dad with his dad from back in the 60's (judging by the car in the background). I kept the picture as a bookmark while reading The Road. My own dad and I have a good relationship, we love and respect one another as father and son should. But reading this story in the context of the photo and considering my own journey, I've begun to revisit what it means to be a son and a father. Fascinating how a book can do that, or any fine art for that matter.

The pastor who performed our wedding defines marriage as "a lifelong working out of incompatabilities." A definition that gets extended to our own children. Today I got put into a "time-out" by my wife for yelling at my kids...I'm ashamed to admit it...then later asked the kids what kind of consequence I deserved and so I got soap in my mouth! It really lingered for quite some time, and really made me regret my tantrum earlier (no matter how justified it may have been). It was one of those deals where on kid took some toys from his siblings without asking, and for like half the day neither of the other kids noticed...but when they did, it was like war. My younger son, who took the toys (and was really playing quite well with them, doing no harm at all), screamed (his typical response in cases like this), and then left me at a loss because I didn't want to reward him for screaming but also realized that he wasn't doing anyone any harm. The other kids started grabbing the toys (another no-no) and hell broke loose. No one was right and no one was absolutely wrong either! I was at a loss and thus the yelling, time-out, contrition, hugs, and, of course, soap...

...I've found it fascinating how those the closest to us can be the victim of our worst and yet we would die for those folks all in the same breath. That's the way it is with my kids. I hope to, and plan to (ha, ha), never yell again; but in case I just happen to lose it, my kids can always give me soap.

Thus we journey on...

They were all day on the long black road, stopping in the afternoon to eat sparingly from their meager supplies. The boy took his truck from the pack and shaped roads in the ash with a stick. The truck tooled along slowly. The made truck noises. The day seemed warm and they slept in the leaves with their packs under their heads . . .

. . . Something woke him. He turned on his side and lay listening. He raised his head slowly, the pistol in his hand. He looke down at the boy and when he looked back toward the road the first of them were already coming into view. God, he whispered.

From The Road