He is pounding out riffs on his guitar. A 45 year old Gibson my mother got from a man who used to paddle his canoe standing up. On the flat sections of the James or Staunton in Virginia, he guided us to whitewater adventure while standing up, looking for the right way. Now my son plays his guitar, my mom’s guitar. I dare say though that this guitar hasn’t had as much fun in its whole life. No practiced covers on the strings any longer. Pure improvisation and original orchestrations from the way my child lives make the pic strike in ways that can’t be found in shortcut guide books that imitate the ways of others. The chords he makes up stick in my head all day long and I find myself humming them.
She is writing a critique requested by a local restaurateur. An Indian place. She is also direly struck with perfection….like her brother before her. The title takes precedence as the content she already knows to write falls out of her memory. It takes 15 minutes. Then the question of where the title should be placed upon the page, and which font to use…my goodness. Can there be a being who will teach more patience than this? What appears to be a detriment is the mind of an artist, a slow and meticulous crafter who will never feel good about haste…never make peace with destinations. She is pure process and nothing else matters. An ill fit for the world around her of wayward goal oriented unhappiness. I hope they follow her lead and never the other way around. We sat with the owner and she just asked my daughter to write a review. My daughter, is a writer, among other things she loves. She is so excited and dedicated to the art. At this moment she is studying their menu online, memorizing the ingredients for the dishes that were sampled last eve. The owner says that she will put the review on the walls of her establishment. I think I shall laminate them first.
And me? My art is keeping the space safe. Holding the environment for these people to be people and not ‘things’. Upon the canvas there is a man holding the doors open for them to enter through, when they wish. They are bombarded with a culture and a people that has largely forgotten how to listen to their insides. I have less time to answer the call of my own, while holding this door open for them. I leave behind the call to live in caves steeped in meditation and yoga and dance, to just sit at home and hold this door for them….until they may hold it open for themselves. Until they need no reminders that there is more than what appears in the tangible. And that is the difference between a higher calling and doing what feels good. I do what feels good as a father first, and for myself second. Though the cave calls to me quite loudly and I could easily do nothing but live in silence, spinning out poetry, living in the forest…it feels good to give my kids this grounding in the memory of what is behind the dominant edifice of “reality” in America. So, my art is to find balance while staying here with them. And part of that balance is of course to still find ways to answer my calling in other ways.
The book ASANA is on the way to my house now from the photographer. She has given it the final stamp of approval. Hardcovered 7X7 and 12X12…versions for the Ipad and iPod…softcover. I feel so good about this book. Once I have it in my hands I will give it a last once over myself and then finally make it public through my Blurb account for purchase. Also I will be setting up the option for people to buy individual prints from the book, poster sized large ones. It is an interesting life, living with your kids while also being a nude artist and model of a book about spiritual awakening and spontaneous yoga postures. But, they have adjusted well. They seem ready as they can be for strange looks I may receive while out in public. Mostly though, I hope that people walk up and shake my hand and say “thank you”. That would be ideal.
