The Art of Giving Back

The large exhibition space was already full of well-heeled New Yorkers when I arrived, just fifteen minutes after the opening of the Art of Giving Back event, for the UNCF, at the School of Visual Arts Gallery, on West 26th Street. Dressed in the looks of the moment, the crowd peered at an array of artworks that spanned time, taste and style. The list of contributing artists, curated by Natalie Jones, read like a Who's Who in the African American panoply of creative visual arts. Legends like Romare Bearden, Richard Mayhew, Lois Maillou Jones, Norman Lewis and Faith Ringold shared space with emergent Ramona Candy, Paul Goodnight, Leroy Henderson, Philemona Williamson and Glenn Tunstull.

The benefit's goal of raising money to support the multitude of national programs the United Negro College Fund has in place, assisting African American student achievement, was a worthy one pursued by many that night. The crowd was filled with some that I recognized and some who remained incognito. A number of my collectors were there lending me great support, well wishes and hope.

The inclusion in the exhibition represented a long held dream of being included within the ranks of such noted artists as listed above. I met a few of the mentioned artists as indicated in photos below. As my works filled a large wall in the main room they seemed complementary in this stellar lineup.

Dancing in the Dark

As I escaped along the FDR Drive, through the crush of New York's noisy and congested traffic, the highway eventually gave way to the open country roads, with the first drifts of falling leaves, floating about like the soft shimmer of a dancer's gown on a breezy afternoon. Playing repeatedly on the stereo was the wafting rhythms of string and woodwind instruments and the lilting voice of Diana Krall in her version of "Dancing in the Dark".

The sounds had placed me in a peaceful mood, as I relaxed into the two hour drive that seemed to be condensed in time through the musical wave I found myself on. The sultry lyrics spoke of seduction and survival, the inescapable twins of existence, that fortified my spirit as I edged closer to home and Joe, who awaited me there.

As I left the pressure of the city for the fresh air and open spaces of nature, I still carried the responsibilities of the week. At times the only way to confront the challenges we face is to dance into them...in the rhythm that suits us best. As Diana sings in the song, "We can face the music...twooo...getherrrrr."

Dancing in the dark, of unknown futures, we move forward...on the breeze of steps we have taken, with hopes and wishes wrapped in the music of our lives...facing movements and moments that explain "why we're here." The time melted away on my drive home, just as easily as the years have grown, and in that moment, floating softly on the warm emotions of the notes in the song, I knew I could go on dancing in the dark...

The Magic box

The day unfolded like a circus act, with friends arriving early in the day and continuing throughout until it was time to make our way to the gallery. “It’s your day” was the tag line so many uttered when offering me encouragement for a good day and great show. Like from a magic box that holds unseen wonders, beach chairs, umbrellas, music, food and drinks appeared in amounts unimagined moments before. A constant influx of friends arriving on island for the show descended on the house turning it into a full-fledged beach party. The wonder of it all was that it was completely unplanned. Because many artists suffer from anxiety on opening nights, my friends sought to make sure that it was minimized for me by celebrating our lives together all day.

As a result, when I walked in and saw the colorful paintings arrayed about the gallery it was a continuation of the fun, light and color that had been my life for the last year. The festive colorations worn by so many of the guests, suggested by the shows title, Vineyard Colors, filled the rooms and overflowed onto the outside garden and street. Color radiated from friends like Connie and Preston Williams and later the McLaurin family that had just returned from meeting with President Obama, wearing that inevitable glow that comes from proximity to the pinnacles of power and celebrity. Zita Cousen wore the same luminosity for the same reason, as she graciously greeted me at the front door.

The many faces of friends warmed me as they shared abbreviated conversations, well wishes and admiration for the new work. Stories of how, where and when they became collectors allowed me to see more clearly how welcomed the work has been over the years. These created children of my mind and spirit had found homes that they were loved in and somehow, for some, begged for new siblings to share wall space with. It is hard to let go of your children but one must, for by giving them the gift of life you give them the power to enhance other lives and spread your influence further than if you did it alone. To touch a life with love, is all we need aspire to, for a happy life.

At the end of the night as the last person walked out the gallery, and we said good night to Zita and her wonderful husband Michael Brown, the circus of light, fun and love, magically went back into the box, but the memories remain.

A respite of activity

Returning to our place, from the beach, on the second crystal clear day since the rains, we rushed outside to wave to the helicopter, flying along the route of the lagoon out back, bearing our President's arrival to the island. The discussion all day on the sandy beach had been about when the Obamas would finally arrive, with people reading the tea leaves of parked vans, helicoptors, secret service movements, etc - divining his imminent arrival amidst reports of last minute scheduled economic meetings and redundant right wing objections to his vacation. On an island of otherwise nonplussed residents, the frenzy, albeit much calmer, could still be felt. Though some of the enthusiasm has been dampened by decisions made and on-going challenges on the financial and global scene, the support for him and hope for the change he represents still exist, though with a more realistic awareness of what's capable by one man and one branch of government. Universally agreed, however, was the fact that he needed a break for regeneration as much as any other person.

Having dropped off my work to the Cousen Rose Gallery for the show earlier in the day, I was relieved of anymore responsibility regarding it. A sort of floating on freedom sensation took over momentarily. I don't know if it was not having something to do or no longer having my creations around me, who have kept me company for the past year, with their individual demands for attention. With this emptiness in mind we made our way to the opening of Jeanine Primm Jones' portraits at the Featherstone Gallery. Her reception was well attended by her subjects, soon to be subjects and the culturally heeled residents of our community here.

Since arriving five days ago, it has been a nonstop flurry of events that started with Myrna Morris' modern dance themed paintings that opened the day we arrived, and the Faith Ringgold presentation of her famous quilted artworks at the gallery next door, and Carole Simpson signing her new book, News Lady, that same evening, as we spoke of a painting I had started of her. Though the heavy rains dampened outdoor activity for a couple of days, it was back with a vengeance with the Illumination Night celebration in the campgrounds that brought thousands of people out to ogle at the lit lanterns festooned along the bric-a brac detailed Victorian cottages. Starting with a crew from Bill and Brenda Cavette's BBQ we made our way through the festivities to Wesley and Judy's annual party. Everyone seemed to be warmed by the nostalgic impression of a bygone time when summer evenings glowed by candlelit porches and happy greetings from passer-bys. The Disneyland like atmosphere of this experience today, however, only allows for the dimmest idea of what it once was.

Leading up to my show on Saturday has been yoga and beach visits, meeting many friends, like Nancy Boxill and Dennis Thompson from Atlanta, a bid-whist party we threw and going to the Charles Ogletree panel discussion on race and the media that started with a tribute to Berry Gordy at the local high school, along with Amy Goldson, and my partner Joe Steele in tow. Adrienne Childs was astonishing the jewelry loving women on the island with her original creations, among her many talents, at a trunk show she held at Cousen Rose Gallery.

Notwithstanding a few road blocks for the Presidential caravans that are likely to occur, we are venturing out for the many other events that will culminate in my own show on Saturday. Forging ahead with confidence in a future we collectively build one by one, on the wings of ancestoral dreams - today will be even brighter tomorrow.

Today is my birthday (7/29)

Today is my birthday. (7/29) As a child looking forward to that day each year when things were set aside to celebrate ME, I grew to associate those numbers with everything good, and because it wasn’t a national holiday and unlike being a twin, I didn’t have to share the date, either. Since then a countdown begins the week before, with a subtle excitement that builds toward the day, that still hasn’t left me. I rarely have parties any longer but the celebrations continue with wonderful well wishes and greetings from friends and family. The desire to make it special with little kindnesses is deeply ingrained, though the impulse to take the day off, travel to far off destinations or buy absurdly expensive gifts for myself are indulgences I've outgrown.

That one day of the year that we hold special and is ours for no other reason than we were born on it, is an amalgamation of numbers that we unwittingly possess throughout the year, and, consciously or not, we are reminded of on calendars, clocks, room numbers, license plates, promotions, receipts, phone numbers and addresses. Those two to four numeric combinations trigger a response that attaches the time, place or thing to us in a deeply memorable way, as if that thing is part of us too. How often have we committed to memory a cell number or address because it’s composed of our birth dates? A locker combination, password or email address is often infused with that combination that spells out who we are, just as much as our names.

In the study of numerology, the vibrations of numeric compositions cast a fate and quality of life that perpetually repeats itself throughout. Life paths numbers (the adding up of your birth date and reduced to a single digit) and significant figures often correspond with uncanny recurrences in our lives. My own life path is a 6 and it symbolizes things and relationships that increase in value. These symbols are affixed to us in a guiding and protective way that assists us in making choices. Their vibration, like our voice, is unique and stands as a distinguishing element of our individual existence. However, we can all relate to others who share our special dates, like some type of cosmic twin, always with the hope that they exemplify the qualities we like to see in ourselves.

Everyone’s birthday is a cause for celebration, whether they want to admit it or not, and we honor them and ourselves when we do so.

Rose Dawn 36" x 36" oil on canvas

Dabs of turquoise...

Five in the morning finds me dabbing strokes of turquoise across a large canvas of a woman at peace with the sea. The early morning of quiet reflection is induced by the songs of birds awakening to a new day and the early light filtering in through a window over my shoulder. The woman breathes before me in tandem with the swirl of aquatic movement that suggest summer on the Vineyard. More and more my mind turns toward the moment I will be there among nature, friends and family sharing new memories to come.

As I look about at the paintings that have been created this year I see moments shared in each, like notes of time marking what we have been through together, and like friends I want to hold them closer. The strokes that work and didn't work, the colors that fit and didn't fit, conspire in the unknowable dance of opportunity within each dab of color. Like everything in life, it is not knowing that gives it the spark of excitement, that spurs us on to another day.

As this early morning brightens into this day I look forward to what I don't know about the next dab of turquoise.

Below is a mention of the show in the latest issue of Art Collector magazine.

Giving and Receiving

The cooler mornings that give way to warmer afternoons followed by cool evenings are a welcome relief this week as I spend it in the Hudson Valley away from my classes in the city. The summer session was one of the most exciting times I ever had. The energy from working with such eager students has infused my own painting projects for my show. The desire to be better is all an instructor needs, to have them give the world to a student, and it is all I needed to take my efforts to the next level. The next few days are filled with painting watercolors, oils and gardening before I begin a new summer session next Monday.

As I prepare for the show opening on August 20th at Cousen Rose Gallery, I am mindful of the many friends I have that has helped me get here today. I am currently writing a book that bring many of you who are reading this into my heartfelt memories. Some of you have turned the wheels of my life into the direction I now flow. A word or gesture is all it takes sometimes to aid a person's journey. Sometimes much more, like letting someone move in with you, paying for a college course or liking their love interest, which may seem small to the person giving it, but can make the difference in whether someone chooses to survive or not. We have all given and we have all received. Take a moment to remember those that gave and asked for nothing in return.

As my students from all over the world departed this past week, I was thankful for the rich cultural experience they gave me without even knowing it. In a classroom setting, who is the teacher and who is the student, is always the question of the moment.