Three Rivers Petroglyphs
Sieirra Blanca
The Jornada Mogollon people lived at the foot of Sierra Blanca in the Tularosa Basin on a stream that flowed year round from the surrounding Sacramento Mountains. They lived there for 500 years until a 2 year drought struck around 1400. The streams that came down from the mountains into the desert dried up never to return. The inhabitants left, perhaps to other Mogollon settlements further west, or joined one of the pueblos on the Rio Grande, or perhaps to Mexico. They never developed a large pueblo complex as many of the other settled farming tribes did, rather, they lived in pit houses, grew their squash, corn, beans and cotton, and gathered and hunted for the rest of their provision.
For 500 years they lived there, had children there, grew old there. For 500 years they also left their images on the rocky hill overlooking their homes, images of turkeys, rabbits, people, hands, geometric abstraction; the things of their world. They sang songs in a language none of us will ever know, they had their dances, their feast days, their high holidays, good days, and bad days. Young men and young women fell in love, and looked at each other the way young lovers do. Children laughed and played. Men went off to work the fields or hunt. Women gathered together to grind the corn, chat, and make the clothes from yucca and cotton; warm blankets from turkey feathers and cotton tail fur. The sounds have all blown away in the wind, the dreamers with their dreams have all gone, but the writing on the rock remains. The images are still there.
At 5000 feet in altitude, and 10 percent humidity, the stars on a moonless night are spectacular. The Milky Way is a cloud of stars. On cold winter nights, Orion’s belt hangs brilliantly, Sirius blazing bright, Betelgeuse is a bright twinkling red , and in the dark the coyotes are talking. I’m told Betelgeuse would fill half of our solar system, and yet on our speck of dust, the wind still blows, sometimes gently, sometimes not.
500 years of dreams, where voices echoed, the voices now are only transient visitors just passing through. They leave and the wind keeps on blowing, scouring out the discordant noise. But the stones still stand and in silence speak to those who have ears.
A 2nd response to the question “What is Avant Garde?”
Coyote was avant garde, quick on his feet, and smarter by far than the rest of us. Being quite clever he always sought new ways to exploit his environment, not for anything all that bad, but for the aesthetic of it, and maybe for food. It wasn’t that Coyote tried to be avant garde; he didn’t really think about it.While others ran well defined and familiar rabbit trails, Coyote would just casually pick up a bit here, a bit there, like a junkyard thief, passing unnoticed, an Egyptian bone, a scrap from Ishtar’s gate, an Etruscan urn, all served up with just a twist of fate.
Like the wild horses that run the other side of the Rio Grande, Raven liked to run with the wind. She rode the updrafts ever higher. She was not known for the quality of her voice; it really wasn’t all that good, mostly just croaks and cawings. Late that night, though, she began singing melodiously, haunting and beautiful, an ancient tune though the words were not, a sweet, sweet song:
“The star tree spreads its branches over fish,
Whose dreams are difficult to catch with bait,
Or webs and pennies tossed out on a wish
That slip from human hands to heaven’s gate.
Bow down the branches; shake the starry fruits;
The fish will pause and rise to taste the air.
Lean on the water, grasping at the roots,
Then bait your bucket with a song and prayer.
The fish you catch will disappear from sight;
The river’s own will snatch your song’s good cheer,
Then fill your dreams with bucketfuls of night,
Of stars and fish lost in the atmosphere.
Then bait your bucket with a song and prayer,
Of stars and fish lost in the atmosphere,
That slip from human hands to heaven’s gate,
That slip from human hands to heaven’s gate.”
Far below her, Raven saw a twinkle on the river bank. Far below her, Coyote saw a small light in the darkened night. As they both drew closer, a small fire burning resolved itself inside a circle of stones on a bank overlooking the river. While no one in particular was looking, Coyote dashed in, grabbed a burning brand and disappeared into the dark trailing a row of embers behind him. Raven rose up following on quiet wings trying to divine the Coyote’s actions.
Coyote was avant garde, and avant garde is a fire. If the fuel is good, it keeps you warm and light, if not, the embers just float off into the night bravely challenging the stars for a moment.
(Poem by Jill Domschot)
After the Flood
After the Flood
In response to the question “What is Avant Garde?”
“Avant Garde.” It has a nice ring to it. Sir Walter Ralegh, the 16th-17th century English poet, writer, explorer, while writing his “History of the World”, said “He who follows truth too closely at the heels might get kicked in the teeth…” so I’ll try not to get too close:
They say that Aphrodite washed up like a Barbie doll on a clam shell on a beach in Cyprus. I would suggest that what really happened was that an Egyptian teenaged guy was carving the proto-Barbie on a piece of wood, got bored, tossed it in the Nile, and watched it float downstream where it entered the sea and ultimately got washed up tangled in seaweed and clam shells on the Cyprus beach. A Greek sailor found it, and from there the story kind of got out of control.
Sandro Botticelli painted the definitive Aphrodite-Venus-Barbie. I did a painting of Sandro B.’s lady, only I dressed her up as a cafe waitress. I was just trying to make her respectable. I realized he must have used a man for the model, and worked hard to feminize the figure. I had to slim her way down to get her into that waitress uniform…
Effect or Affectation?
Rubens’ Venus would have capsized the clam shell. As good a painter as Rubens was, a lot of his rotund people ended up looking a wee bit silly. Manet must have been of somewhat the same opinion. When he painted “Olympia” he took away all the affectation and ended up not with a nude, but a naked lady. This shocked a lot of people at the time. They thought it was just a little vulgar. Maybe if he had dressed her up with just a small amount of affectation, just the slightest casting back of the eyes with moistened and slightly parted lips…
So was Manet being Avant Garde? Olympia certainly has more effect than affectation, and the painting has always been slightly amusing to me.
I wonder what would happen if you used a Mayan hieroglyphic motif to re-translate Olympia what the effect would be? It couldn’t be the end of the world.
Has there ever been a good Avant Garde greeting card?
Luminarias
- My 1st Luminaria
Luminarias, or faralitos are a standard part of a New Mexico Christmas. They are placed on the pathways leading up to your door way to help light the way for the Christ child. This was part of the Las Posadas celebration, where for nine nights before Christmas, Mary and Joseph’s search for lodging is re-enacted, with each night a different house being the house to proclaim they had room;- and food for the weary travelers. The travelers sang carols along the route.
Also called “luminarias” were the bonfires lit to guide people to the church on Christmas Eve. This is still done in some places.
Now, people put the luminarias out as another part of their Christmas decorations.
The 5 paintings shown here I painted for our annual Luminarias on the Plaza Art Walk as part of the town’s celebrations welcoming the start of the Christmas season. This year, we combined forces with the Socorro’s Christmas parade and lighting of the Christmas tree on the Plaza.
The final photo is Socorro’s plaza decked out with the luminarias all lit.
Luminaria 2007
This was used for the 2008 Luminarias on th Plaza. It is a 24 x 34 oil painting.
We used Sam for the 2009 Luminarias on the Plaza Poster
Luminarias 2011
Luminarias on Socorro's Plaza
The Annual Migration
They come to Bosque del Apache every fall to watch the annual migration of photographers who usually arrive at dawn, bundled up in their warmest clothing, and burdened down with massive amounts of camera equipment.
The sandhill cranes chatter a bit among themselves, commenting on the migration, and then fly out, dispersing up and down the Rio Grande valley checking out the corn, chili, and alfalfa fields for breakfast.
The photographers also slowly disperse, usually looking for hot coffee and, perhaps, a breakfast burrito.
Watercolor
I have attempted to come up with some different approaches to presenting sandhill cranes (Grus canadensis). Enjoy & comment.
Watercolor
Watercolor
Watercolor
Colored Pencil
Colored Pencil
Watercolor
Pen & Ink
Pen & Ink
Mixed Media
Watercolor
Burrowing Owl 2
Burrowing Owl
Athene cunicularia, other wise known as borrowing owls. There was a burrowing owl barrio in a dirt bank beneath the creosote in the desert behind where Grandma Mimi lived. They come out in the daytime, and appear to be a gregarious lot. Their talk is more of a “whoo whoo” than a “tu-whit! tu-whoo!”
Drawing the Line
Drawing the Line
You can draw a single line, cross it over as many times as you want, fill the whole page, bring it back to the beginning, and you will be able to make every crossing weave over and under perfectly. I think I figured this out in high school English class, probably during Emily Dickinson (“I never saw a moor, /I never saw the sea;/ Yet know I how the heather looks, /And what a wave must be.”)
It is just 2 lines plus the eye. It started out as meeting notes in a meeting about something important I suppose.
It’s no one in particular, or maybe just the watcher taking it all in, nonsense with the sense, and keeping a placid face to keep the things behind the eyes from showing out. Demure? Maybe. Humble? No. In the end, it’s just 2 lines painted in shades of purple with complements of yellow, plus the blue eye.
But is it art? Heck if I know.
“Here’s looking at you…”
Burrowing Owl
In the desert morning as the sun breaks the eastern edge of the sky, it turns all things golden, purple and red. This lasts for a very short time, for as the sun rises up, the light goes to the white that we know much better. On the far side of the ridge they dig perlite out of the ground, but in other times past, they dug for silver and gold. What was left behind were empty tunnels, and the quiet of the desert wind. The owls were there before the shafts were tunneled into the mountain, and their descendants are still there.
The miners mostly died poor, and their names have mostly blown away never to be gathered again in this life. The riches they dug so hard for are buried away in a vault somewhere I suppose, but that’s the way it goes. The Psalmist wrote that “the meek shall inherit the earth…” Until then the owls will occupy it, dig their own small shafts, raise their young, and never look for the silver and gold because, frankly, they can’t eat it.
Cat Sonnet and “My Cat Jeoffery”
For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry (from Jubilate Agno)
- multi media by a. leon mil
By Christopher Smart 1722-1771
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider’d God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day’s work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he’s a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord’s poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually–Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master’s bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God’s light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.
being too precise
Lady of the Lake
Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoestring, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
I think I would take Mr Herrick’s final line and say that “art is not art when it is too precise in every part.”
Like Chinese calligraphers who know they are good when their work is indistinguishable from the master they are emulating, being too perfect is to lose the sense of the individual and become a most excellent forgery, and where’s the fun in that?
Celtic knot work? Not really. It’s far too imprecise.
