All I can do is root around and hope. I’ll either get bitten, or I won’t.
What happened today is that I braved the depths of the storage unit, previously referred to on these pages as the “Time Capsule from Hell,” and retrieved three boxes of slides and photographs I hadn’t laid eyes on since we moved from Maryland 12 years ago. A great deal of this material has remained hidden for much longer than that, however, especially the slides: I have pictures I took in Olympic National Park in the summer of ’62, for example, and who knows what else is in there?
The reason for this archeological dig involves a certain fog that’s lifting. One way to put this is that I’m now occasionally able to turn off the fire hose of self-criticism my parents taught me to aim at myself. About damn time, wouldn’t you say? This happened the other day when I realized that despite never having made a million dollars (yet!), I had actually had one hell of a life so far and haven’t given myself nearly enough credit for all the amazing things I’ve done. Hardly anyone knows I used to be a painter and a sculptor, for example. Some of my works won first place awards in shows and competitions—plenty of glory, if little gold. The fact that I’ve limited my creations to the digital world for the last dozen years or so is more a reflection of a tortured heart than anything else, but like I said, the fog is lifting. I’m remembering how much I liked to work with my hands, back when I made things like this:
The photo above is from a series of kinetic sculptures I produced at my studio by our home in the country outside Chestertown, MD. (Yes, those were my woods.) You’re looking at “Windebeast.” It was over 6 feet tall and turned to face the wind, which then spun the large and dangerous “propeller.” I had these all over the yard at one time. The driftwood I procured from a beach on the Chesapeake Bay about a mile and a half away. This example has a canvas sail, or rudder, and it was quite a thrill to see it come alive.
At the top of this post is “Decoy with a Heart of Nails.” Made of welded steel, bronze, and copper, I intended it as a satirical counterpoint to the regional decoy art favored by tourists and collectors, and it did in fact have a “heart of nails,” not visible in this shot. An “anti-decoy,” if you will. The piece was about two feet long and rather heavy. I gave it to a good friend when we moved, but not before it won 1st prize in a wildlife art show in a gallery in Havre de Grace.
The scorpions, if any there be, may yet sting me as I go through this massive photographic trove. Photos of our old home, for instance, or the many paintings that I’ll never see again—and who knows where they are? But I intend to OWN this past, once and for all…
Soon I’ll have a completely new section here at FarrFeed, my very own gallery. I’m doing this for me, mostly, but I’ll bet you’ll be amazed.
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{ 13 comments… read them below or add one }
looking forward to it!
I can’t wait to see and hear about what you have found! Your Mom’s family (me included) missed out on quite a lot by not having interaction with your family over the years. I remember seeing you at a craft show in Columbia, Md in the 70′s and was thrilled to have made that connection once again. Shame on all of us for not staying connected!
HI Karen! We’ll see what I dig up. BTW & meanwhile, I’ve found some family info my mother wrote down over 30 years ago that fills in most of the blanks. Fascinating stuff.
“the fire hose of self-criticism my parents taught me to aim at myself”…wow, that really nails it on the head for me. My parents, especially my father, taught me the same skill. I struggle with it daily – some days more than others. I never quite measure up in my own mind: too many pounds hanging on the bones, never measure up as a Christian, on and on. I find the unhappiness with myself carries over into frustration and unhappiness with my spouse and even my pets. Of course, walking into the dark kitchen at 6 a.m. and stepping in a puddle of pee doesn’t help. Maybe one of these days I’ll get up the nerve to go get that dragonfly tatoo. but then I’d just kick myself for it.
Looking forward to seeing your art.
Yes, it carries over! And the the world sends it right back in a vicious circle that reinforces the original bashing. This is a tough one but fairly universal. As many paths to wholeness as there are individuals, but bringing origins of guilt into the daylight helps.
Much of my art is pretty spooky and bizarre. If I’d been making it out here all those years ago, it might have been more appreciated.
But the main thing is realizing the deep pleasure it gave and how important it was (is) to me. Measuring art by $$ is always a dead end, even if you’re trying to stay alive.
I don’t doubt for a minute what you and Sherry have to say about the crippling effects of self-criticism that you both experience. But think about the people you know or just casually bump into out there in the world – don’t you think the general run of the species could do with a little less complacency, self-satisfaction and vainglorius overestimation of themselves? Psychological tests have proven over and over again that people overestimate themselves – in virtually every department, from intelligence, to moral righteousness, to little mundane things like being good at something like driving a vehicle. Apparently some 90 per cent of all males (the figure is somewhat less for females) consider themselves to be “a much greater than average driver”. That can’t be right, can it? Not all the children who live in Lake Wobegon can be smarter than average, can they?
This little rant of mine is only to say that self-criticism – if truly meant and honest, not just a posture – can be a wonderful thing. We’ve all got a lot to be humble about, and looking straight and clear at the reality of things is about the noblest thing a human being can do.
But nothing one does is a “mistake.” Every action constellates the entirety of one’s experience. We say, “I wish I’d done such-and-such,” but the person one was at the time couldn’t have done anything else. Guilt is a useless emotion.
Guilt isn’t useless if it’s a reaction to something bad you’ve done and are ashamed of. If you’re not shamed, not guilty, about this bad thing – if you don’t want to reform yourself and stop doing the bad thing – then of course you feel no guilt and just keep on doing it, and maybe you’re not even capable of realizing that what you’re doing is bad. I don’t call that sort of freedom from guilt a good thing, I call it a depraved indifference to good and evil. The dream of living without guilt is like the dream of living in a perfect world. It’s at best a pipedream, at worst an excuse for all one’s most reprehensible actions.
Well , knowing you’ve hurt someone, for example, and feeling guilty for having done so (beating up on yourself are two different things. Surely the latter isn’t required for self-correction.
But that’s not what I’m talking about. Read Sherry’s comment again.
All good things – and self-criticism is generally such a good thing – can be carried too far. There are always plenty of reasons to beat up on oneself, though it can get out of hand and have a life of its own. Sounds to me like that’s what both of you are saying, and, if it is, I agree with you both. I’m just cavilling at the sweepingness of a generalization that says that guilt is always bad and that the goal should be to eliminate it from life (as if that were even possible, much less desirable). No, just tone it down, I say. Use as required.
Caviling is right.
Meanwhile, you missed the whole damn post. What’s different about this one, eh? My wife noticed immediately.
There are lots of lovely things in your post, but my comment picked up quite literally on the little discussion about guilt which started up between you and Sherry, though it was tangential to the post. That discussion was interesting to me. It made me want to weigh in on your propositions that “nothing one does is a mistake” and “guilt is a useless emotion”. And so I did. I like to think about things like that, and clearly you do as well. What’s wrong with a little debate?
Yo, Ken!
No problem. I doubt I’d respond at all if it weren’t you.