Art Copy

For the last few months, I’ve been engaged in exercises making relatively simple copies of my old sketches onto new small drawings with ink and pastel. It has allowed me to regain some technical facility, engage in quality time in a rough winter, and – lately – ponder philosophical questions .

First, of course, is what was the purpose of the original sketch? It is not a copy of what I see – a photograph does that much better. It is rather an active comment of my momentary existence, leaving a lot out, rearranging as I please, constrained by my abilities and completed in a reasonable amount of time. When doing it, I am almost in an enchanted trance state .

To copy THAT to another media is totally different. I categorize the activity as more “inspired by” than “reproduce”. I have more lingering choices of how to do it, what to accent, what to redo. And never slavish reproduction. More time to plan, more chance to react. Alas, still greatly constrained by ability. Less of a trance, more of artisanship .

Copies of art have always been artistically in style. Until recently, only a painter could give a true replication of a painting, although engravers could produce the essence. Patrons often paid, but artists probably enjoyed what they were doing .

Unlike “real art,” copies do not try to amaze, shock, or change the world. As pleasant as a good meal, with just as few long-term consequences .

Millions

My dental hygieneist tries to scare me into flossing better by saying “there are MILLIONS” of bacteria on your teeth. I am not impressed. All numbers are relative, and this is a little like exclaiming “that brick is chipped!” when viewing a high brick wall a mile long.

“Millions” of bacteria, after all, are not the same as “millions of harmful bacteria”. And there are just as many or more body cells dealing with them. A minor thing that we have evolved to handle.

And, in context, millions doesn’t mean all that much. After all, I have over 30 TRILLION cells, and an almost equal number of quiet or symbiotic bacteria, not even mentioning viruses. A few on my teeth – relatively well-defended against as part of my outer membrane – hardly much to worry about .

We are an alarmist culture, always looking for “news” which is naturally not “ordinary”. We take for granted how well adapted we are for “normal” life. We worry as soon as some obscure tidbit is brought to our attention. This has become a culture with very little perspective .

I know that things can go wrong. I may get sick. At some point I shall certainly die. But I’ve learned it hardly serves my sanity to be alarmed all the time, often about things of very little immediate consequence .

Like those millions of tiny creatures in my mouth .

Tao-Chi

Or Shitao – translations are imperfect and names often change with careers. A Chinese painter contemporary with Reubens and Rembrandt who could not be more different. I’ve never really enjoyed Rubens, but I adore Rembrandt as a free spirit. Shitao is much more modern and kin to John Marin .

Whatever visual art may be in its many forms naturally reflects on its culture. Much of the Renaissance work now seems pretty boring in light of cinema, photography, AI, and slick advertising. The “shocking” impressionists are easily imitated by ubiquitous computer programs. What is a painter to do ?

I’ve gone my own way. I accept my various handicaps as part of what makes me unique. I try to correct a few things, work on fluidity and spontaneousness, be creative but not lose touch with the real world as I experience it .

There’s a great satisfaction in that. It’s why I’ve always admired the “literati” tradition. Although often observed in the breach, the ideal was of gentlemen of means who made pictures in their spare time and did not need to sell them. With a bit of philosophy thrown in .

So periodically I pull out my library volumes and admire some nearly life-size color reproductions. It truly helps me relax and create on my own blank sheets of mulberry paper .

A Pound of Prevention

Everyone knows “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure”. Another one of those wise sayings that seem less useful when applied to your own life .

Oh it’s good to be prepared, and to try to avoid horrible later problems by planning for them and even taking some action to avoid the worst. As a first approximation, it’s hardly bad advice. Filling the gas tank before a long trip across the desert avoids pain and expense .

But these days, there’s a little too much prevention available, and much of that only haphazardly connected to avoiding cures. If you follow every bit of internet advice on diet, for example, no good is likely to result. Much “prevention” rests on flimsy evidence. And genuine “cures” are not all that hard to come by. Pounds of (possible) prevention are hardly worth carrying around to avoid an ounce of cure .

One of the biggest problems, of course, is that advice for the future is based on past experience. In rapidly changing times, the past is hardly the best guide to what will be. Even when we think we are following tradition, the chicken soup we eat today may scarcely resemble that of our ancestors. And honestly, we live in a much different environment from them .

Common sense old proverbs have therefore become suspect. Even though they may sound comforting .

Glad I’m Me

Some mornings I wake up simply thrilled to be me, alive and conscious in this time and place. I once had a colleague who described life as “a vacation from eternity”. Today I would agree with him .

Like most of our evaluations, I suppose this attitude is simply an illusion. Nothing rational about it. Logic can always pick out problems – past present and future. But from my current perspective, the illusion is more real and meaningful than logic. I cherish it .

No doubt many others would mock my happiness as simply the advancing incapacity of old age. Our facilities weaken, so we wallow in imaginary nostalgia, thinking our sorry lives were rich and meaningful. Fortunately, I rarely care what others – especially the pessimists and gloomers – think about me. They are free to frolic in their depressing visions – which I tend to believe are also illusions .

Nah, I’m not that far around the bend. I know the world has problems. I’m aware I have my own. But on some days, as the sunshine streams in the window, I can just forget all that and happily play in the enchanting glory of being alive here at this exact moment.

Snowstorm

In this colder than normal winter, another large snowstorm has covered the area. It gives me a chance to reflect on my luck in living when and where I do .

Aboriginal inhabitants of America are often pictured in summer, and described as inhabiting Eden. Early colonists are shown as snug in log cabins. But in fact there was illness and famine, rarely enough heat, and little to do but wait out the season and hope for spring. Even a hundred years or so back there was often no electricity .

I now inhabit paradise. I expect there to be constant warmth, light, entertainment. Too much food, always fresh fruit and vegetables. Medical aid reliably available. People think it’s a great inconvenience to be “stuck at home” for even a day .

Until ten years or so ago I had to shovel a large driveway, but now I just walk behind my machine .

It’s always good to appreciate the best times, the finest weather. But perhaps it is more appropriate to give thanks for our technology and civilization when the natural world is less kindly. This morning I certainly do so .