(What’s so Funny About) Sincerity?

Ani DiFranco, Sister Rosetta Sharpe, and Jeff Mueller

People who don’t particularly care for gospel music still feel moved by it. Why?

People of faith will say it is because of the power of the words. Scholars of rock music will assert that rock ‘n’ roll didn’t really become rock ‘n’ roll until aspects of gospel music were infused in it. Perhaps both assertions point to the real appeal of gospel music: its sincerity.

Opera singers can instill enough emotion into an aria to make you cry. Is it sincere? Is the diva really feeling the death of her lover? Does it matter?

Does good music need sincerity to be good?

Wave after wave of musical styles and genres have come and gone in the Western World over the last century. Most of them spawned talk about how the new style is “ours” because it addressed the concerns of a given subgroup of society. That subgroup has often been young people. Sometimes it is even narrower, singling out the disenfranchised, or those with hippie-like attitudes, or urban anger, or love of God and pickup truck, or dance-centric joy. Across all the genres and styles, one trait is usually held above almost all: authenticity. Questions always swirl around who decides what authentic means and who has it. Ask REM about the accusations of selling out, some coming right after their first EP! Ask the white groups like the Beastie Boys or 3rd Bass if the doors to the rap kingdom were easy for them to walk through, and how they were challenged in regard to their authenticity. (Don’t ask if 3rd Bass’s music holds up over time.) See what Sam Bush says about when his progressive bluegrass band New Grass Revival first gained popularity and traditionalists screamed about the amplifiers and long hair and rock sensibilities in the group.

Caveman Ugg banged on a big hollow log. The sound carried for a mile. It was noted and reported to Ugg, perhaps. Could it be used as a signal? Somehow, sound became communication, beyond vocalizations. Was it creative? Was it sincere?

Does music hold communication as its main goal?

Must all communication be sincere? That could quickly get tedious. What about levity? Does anybody remember laughter?

It’s hard for this Westerner to think of music’s distant past without it receding into a religious mist. So much of what I perceive as the earliest music was liturgical or religious chanting. Yet clearly, some of the earliest singing was meant to communicate ideas from other subjects. We know that The Odyssey, attributed to Homer, was recited or sung by traveling troubadours. This continued through the Middle Ages—think Beowulf. It continued into the Renaissance, yielding songs that still are sung, such as “Scarborough Fair” and “Greensleeves.” The secular and the religious diverged. Question: Considering how vital the role of gods and goddesses are to The Odyssey, should it really be considered a strictly secular piece of art?

Anyway.

It’s likely that the troubadour who was singing Beowulf was embodying the roles in the story to some extent. I always imagine the singing portion of these performances to be most similar to the sound and approach of recitative in opera. Sung to a simple melody, repeated phrasing, expository. It’s impossible not to visualize the troubadour not using his body to act like Grendel in the telling. There must have been some acting in the performance. So, is Dylan being an actor when he sings “Positively 4th Street”? It sure sounds like he means every pointed jab in the lyrics. Has Ozzy been acting all along? Alice Cooper, who golfs with Trump? Marilyn Manson or Glenn Danzig—actors all? Does this make them fake? Or just good performers?

Could Marilyn Manson be teasing a new album with this cryptic message?
Marilyn Manson

A friend of mine was in a band full of theater veterans, actors mostly, and they showcased one year at the South by Southwest arts conference in Austin. He remembers one of his bandmates being struck by a group that seemed different. “Paul said, ‘This is strange watching them, because I am an actor and I recognize the work of acting, and this whole band is acting,'” my friend recalls. “He was absolutely right.”

How grievous of a crime was this performance? Surely one shouldn’t expect Joni Mitchell to relive the intense grief she felt giving up her baby daughter every time she sang “Green,” or Dylan to revisit his divorce during each performance of “Tangled Up in Blue.”

Jeff Mueller, best known as a traditional printmaker and as a primary element in the bands Rodan and June of 44, toured Italy in 2018 after having not played June of 44 songs with the rest of the band for years. He didn’t know how he was going to sing and play those songs, considering how much had changed in his life. “Once we finally got back together, being together wasn’t a problem at all. We are all dads and relaxed, and learning the songs again wasn’t hard. But putting my head into the music in a way that brought some kind of sincerity to the songs we were going to play was harder—not just playing for the sake of performing them. I had to dial myself back into Louisville situations, to where was I psychologically back then. [June of 44 was born while Mueller was living in Louisville, KY, in 1994.] I had to think about what it meant 20 years ago, what I was feeling of at the time the music was conceived. That was the hardest part of it. I didn’t want to be in a cover band, playing my own songs. I always wanted just a feeling to be conveyed, whatever that feeling was—frustration, beauty, anger, I want that emotion, and when that comes across in a song, it’s important to me. So I just sat for many hours with those songs, listening to them and practicing them. I would look at them and pull myself back into that headspace. What was I doing in 1997? How broke was I? What were the headlines then? What was the genesis of those songs?”

Mueller is still a revered figure in the alternative rock world, and he is still making music and visual art, along with growing a fine family. He escaped the dangers of sincerity (and lack thereof) in an often horrifying music industry. Not everyone does.

Charlie Hunter, a fine-art painter who has booked concerts and managed musicians over the years, has seen too many souls get crushed by the requirements of the job of being a musical artist. Much of the pain comes from the star-making machine, but plenty is allowed in by the artists themselves. He describes two successful self-confessional musicians—Aimee Mann and Shawn Colvin—as “both smart and very calculating…well-armored individuals. So they have a much better shot at surviving than the genuinely fragile souls. They also may have fragile souls, but they are fully armored.” Hunter goes on to point out that while ballads of past centuries told stories often true, songwriters today can be confessional or could be creating composites from many people they have met. There’s a truth in that, a sincerity in that. Right?

When people are embarking on a career in music—and we are talking about popular music here, because classical and religious musics have different challenges altogether—the artist starts out doing it for love of music and attention from others. They work on their songs, often for years, before their “big break” happens. This could mean simply graduating from coffeeshops to mid-sized venues, or it could mean signing with a label. They end up with a strong set of tried and tested songs. That gets them to the next level…where many are crushed. Signed acts are worked hard by the record industry. You go on the road. You fly into a random city for a radio promo, then fly to another place for a TV appearance, then to a festival, then to a small gig…. How is a musician supposed to keep imbuing every song with the utmost energy, day after day, hour after hour? The Hollywood cliché of a performer giving his or her all and feeling subsequently empty is a cliché based in truth. Enter drugs, or burnout, or, more mundanely, a lack of inspiration. “If you can portray opening a vein without actually doing it, you are much better off,” Hunter states.

The argument is often put forth that much of today’s popular music would not exist without the core influence of African-Americans and their roots in the Caribbean and in Africa. I don’t disagree. The banjo, a staple in traditional country, in bluegrass, and in the mostly lily-white acoustic music scene, came from Africa, in the process showing just how easily a music form can be co-opted by the ruling majority. Slaves were forced to perform for their white “masters,” and slaves also played for their own community. Louisville, KY, where I grew up, has been a party town since its founding. The city formed almost entirely because of the Falls of the Ohio, a shallow stretch of river that boats laden with goods could not traverse. The freight had to be unloaded, ported around the falls using horses, and reloaded past the falls. It meant spending a night in town, and spending money enjoying that night in town. Music, adult beverages, and enterprising ladies separated rivermen from their pay. The music was often minstrel. Jug bands, mostly consisting of black musicians, provided entertainment. What did these jug bands play? How could they be sincere to their experience, while pleasing the white audience sufficiently enough to get tips?

The Ballard Chefs, Louisville, KY (With images) | Jazz band
The Ballard Chefs, a Louisville jug band, in 1929

“They were playing to different audiences in the jug band era,” explains Michael L. Jones, the author of Louisville Jug Music: from Earl McDonald to the National Jubilee. “White audiences could expect one thing, and then for black audiences there was a little bit of code switching going on in the music. Black audience would get some of the references, but whites would not. The musicians couldn’t always express what they wanted to say. They couldn’t talk about actual circumstances, so they talked about their woman getting them down. But mostly, jug band music is the happiest music in the world—especially Louisville jug bands, which leaned more toward jazz, especially Dixieland.”

Plenty of the early blues musicians had a “right” to sing the blues, based on their biographies. But did Sonny Boy Williamson actually carry a black cat bone around with him? Likely not. The songs were stories—exaggerated stories with a kernel of truth, perhaps. The blues musician channeled the pain of life into joyful music. The blues musician took on the pain of the audience and transformed it into empathy, bravado, strength. How could one possibly judge the blues as authentic or not? We all know that is a favorite activity of many blues fans. Why? What is fiction, when emotion is communicated? “We wouldn’t dismiss Updike for writing fiction, would we?” Hunter asks. “We wouldn’t say he isn’t sincere. I think audiences are very good at figuring out if someone is bullshitting them.”

So is sincerity tangible at all? Is it like Supreme Court justice Potter Stewart’s famous quote on obscenity, “I know it when I see it”?

Sincerity is valued above technical ability by many listeners. Just consider the trumped-up comparison some jazz fans still engage in regarding who is “better,” Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald. Ella had technique for days, but people loved Billie. In fact, Miles Davis said, “Everybody loves Billie.” Early in her career, she was only allowed to record songs rejected by white singers, and the material was accordingly weak. But Billie could turn dross into gold. When she began singing some stronger songs, such as “Lover Man” in 1941 and especially the heartbreaking “Strange Fruit” in 1939, the world found out the amount of emotion Holiday could pour into a tune. She channeled some of the pain in her life into her art. Like an actor would.

“It is acting to some extent,” agrees Hunter. “You couldn’t always be feeling the level of grief that is in a really good heartbreak song. If you really were so lonesome you could cry, you would be a basket case by the end of the tour. Performers have to muster the approximation of the emotion surrounding the narrator of the song. It becomes what they do for a living. We don’t object if an actor isn’t feeling everything they are doing on stage; we accept that isn’t the real life of the actor. We don’t extend that same courtesy to a singer-songwriter. Who knows why? Why must it be sincere, rather than just a really good act? That seems pretty unfair to me.”

Some of the strong emotion present in a musical performance may be exaggeration of a very real feeling. Does anyone really know if Prince was every bit the sex-crazed enigma he presented to the world? How could anyone pin down David Bowie’s real self, and, therefore, how do we know he wasn’t Aladdin Sane, or Ziggy Stardust? And wasn’t Major Tom a metaphor… or was Bowie a psychonaut?

Consider Little Richard. He didn’t become famous worldwide by focusing on his black audience. But how could a gay (or at least non-heterosexual) black man honestly express his experience to the white establishment of the mid-1950s? It appears that more than anything, more than expressing what it means to be sexually different or black in America, Little Richard wanted to be acknowledged as being utterly unique and impossible to pigeonhole. “In his autobiography, Little Richard says he did not want someone like Pat Boone to be able to cover his music,” says Jones. “He wanted to be the original, Little Richard. He was trying to do things that white performers could not do. You can see the same thing when you go back to the minstrel shows. They amounted to accidental vehicles of black culture. The minstrels were usually white northerners—they were the first whites to master the banjo… and they were looking at what black performers were doing. Eventually the audience wanted to hear real black people doing it—the real thing. That’s when you get black vaudeville and the chitlin circuit coming around.”

Little Richard dead at 87: The rock and roll king who scared — and changed  — America
Little Richard

Little Richard wanted to be the best. He was confident—confident enough to have reportedly taught Paul McCartney how to do some of his trademark vocalizations when the Beatles opened for him in Europe on a few dates in 1962. McCartney utilized the master’s well-known “hooooo!” very effectively live and on a few studio recordings, but he was no Richard Wayne Penniman. Little Richard made sure he was impossible to duplicate, effectively preventing white—or any other—musicians from trying to bite his style.

Another hero of the Beatles, Bob Dylan, offers a different kind of challenge when considering the artist’s sincerity in writing and performing. In protest songs like “Masters of War,” the listener can positively hear Dylan seethe as he spits out the lyrics indicting war hawks, and his anger toward a lost love in “Idiot Wind” is a bucket of ice water in the face. And yet, Dylan squirmed whenever anyone tried to define him or pin down his thoughts and beliefs on half the topics in the world. John Lennon was paying attention. The legend is that Lennon wrote “I Am the Walrus” specifically to stymie efforts of Beatles fans to parse out the meaning in Beatles songs. Is it sincere to purposefully mislead the audience, to intentionally sing nonsense? It’s an honesty of another kind, perhaps.

Punk’s idea of sincerity amounted to angrily pointing out the ills of the world, even as the primary message was one approaching—if not living in—nihilism. New wave added more irony. Sincerity slipped. Hair bands nearly killed sincerity completely, although I do believe that many of the ’80s hair bands were very sincere in their dedication to sex and drugs and what they felt was rock ‘n’ roll. How much different is it for some spandexed LA band to sing about “cherry pie” and early rap’s fixation on the ladies and the Benjamins?

But soon, singer-songwriters such as Billy Bragg and Ani DiFranco reminded us what deep sincerity is, and Public Enemy meant every rhyme they spat. Even with performers like them, who are almost universally considered to be sincere, it is questionable that they are feeling every word of every pointed lyric. Says Hunter, “The technical aspect of performance is what’s going on while what looks like the storytelling is going on. I would posit that when you are seeing a performer in concert, they are not feeling the actual lyrics. They are mostly thinking about all the technical aspects of their performance. If the performer is good at his or her craft, the convincing delivery of the music is part of that. If the backing band is simpatico, the band becomes one beast. And that is totally sincere, but more on a technical level rather than in terms of lyrical content.”

In short, the performance is earnest, with real sweat and tears (and occasionally blood) flowing from a concerted effort at delivering effective music. The lyrics give shape to the music but aren’t the whole of it, much like

“If you can fake sincerity, you can fake anything,” Hunter adds. “As George Burns said, ‘Sincerity…if you can fake that, you’ve got made.'” Ω

YourOpinionThatIsOfNoConsequenceAtAll

Radiohead - OK Computer - Amazon.com Music

On September 26, 1995, I formed a very negative view of a band that many of my friends adored.

On that day, I traveled to Noblesville, Indiana with Ray Rizzo to see REM in concert. REM was aggressively mediocre in that performance, but the opener was downright dreadful. It was an English band named Radiohead.

I knew who they were. Their song “Creep” had been on the radio. To me, they sounded like an even mopier and whinier version of Nirvana. They utilized the “soft verse/loud chorus” effect that Nirvana made mad bank with. Their singer, Thom Yorke, sounded like a tortured cat. As the opener their mix was mud. The stage show was better suited for a club. It just didn’t work. (Even allowing the second-tier sound and stage show that openers are forced to endure in deference to the headliners.)

Radiohead was touring behind their second album, “The Bends,” but the only song hitting me from the radio from that platter was “High and Dry,” which was…fine. I focused my listening hours elsewhere.

In 1997, I moved to NYC. It was a distracting year. I still wrote about music for the daily back home, but much less. I was looking for a job writing about music in the Big Apple. I didn’t get a bite—at least not a bite that paid the bills. When my money ran out, I took a job copyediting for a national jewelry trade publication. In other news, Radiohead released an album called “OK Computer.”

I didn’t care. Radiohead was that shitty band I saw open up for REM, the group that had that trendy song “Creep.”

Because of my love of music and my past gig as a music writer, I’ve had friends who are musicians ever since I was in high school. It seemed like every other time I talked to a musician friend, they asked if I’d listened to “OK Computer.” Even Ray, who was with me when Radiohead drained all the excitement out of Deer Creek Music Center in Noblesville that hot September day in ’95, was talking up that record.

No.

No. I was like Bartleby the Scrivener. “I would prefer not to.”

One day, Brad Cates had had enough. Brad was a singer in a band in which several of my friends played. I knew from many conversations with him that he could see inside songs to find good things. I didn’t and don’t have the same taste as him, but I learned to respect his big ears—he heard music better than me, for sure—likely still does. He burned a copy of “OK Computer” and mailed it to me.

I gave in. I listened. If someone feels strongly enough about an album that they would burn a copy and snailmail it 800 miles, it deserves a spin. The first cut, “Airbag,” had a heaviness to it that offered a doorway in. It was moody and atmospheric, like a restrained Led Zeppelin and a tighter Pink Floyd, updated for the times. And then, “Paranoid Android” changed my expectations for ALL rock music, from that first listen until today.

Can I keep this brief? Probably not. The song isn’t brief. Here goes…

“Paranoid Android” starts with some picked acoustic guitar that is punctuated by a descending guitar figure and some percussion. Yorke enters with a narrative that sketches a depressed, angry misfit wanting people to leave him alone. Keyboard textures provide a bed for the eerie and unsettling vocals and guitars. It’s dark and brooding, and there’s a computerized voice somewhat buried in the mix. That robotic voice is meant to evoke Marvin the Paranoid Android, a sad-sack character in Douglas Adams’ book The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a humorous social commentary. Radiohead is playing with us. They invite us to find all the doom and gloom funny.

About two minutes into this 6:23 song, a bass line by Colin Greenwood takes center stage. The song begins to reveal itself as a piece with several sections. Percussion continues to tinkle and drive the tempo, locked in with the elaborate guitar parts. (One critic called the tune “a titanic guitar opera.”) Things get louder, with a screaming Jonny Greenwood electric guitar solo roaring forward, then yielding to an elegiac, wordless, legato vocal chant around the four-minute mark. Yorke enters with lyrics asking rain to fall “from a great height.” Another layer of Yorke vocals sketch out a vegetarian nightmare with “the crackle of pigskin” and what seems like an indictment of God or the beliefs of some people regarding God’s purported wishes and feelings for “his children.” The droning background vocals and Yorke’s list of short phrases then suddenly yield to a full-blown guitar freakout that is equally met by some high-energy drumming from Philip Selway. Guitars take us out, with a frantic shaker edging to the front of the mix…and then abruptly it is over.

Thematically, it’s hard to argue that the song isn’t about alienation and mistrust of technology. The paranoid android that “speaks” during the song seems to mistrust his own existence. The concerns about technology made more sense back in 1997; all our concerns about technology seem now to be buried under absolute and unbreakable bonds of servitude to our electronic devices. It’s too late to mistrust technology now.

I became friends with a graphic designer and rock musician named Chris Bracco while I worked at National Jeweler magazine. I was working my way up the masthead and he was assiduously staying in place as assistant art director—he didn’t want any more from his day job than necessary, because rock was his love. We talked obsessively about “OK Computer.” I can remember several occasions when we were standing on a subway platform or riding a train and dissecting every single note from every movement in every song from the album. I mean, totally geeking out, along the lines of, “yes! And then Jonny comes in with that descending guitar motif!” It was wonderfully excessive.

I listened to “OK Computer” through headphones. I listened to it on an iShuffle (remember those?). I listened to it LOUD on my stereo.

The rest of the album maintains the high quality of “Paranoid Android.” “Exit Music (for a Film), a dirge with incredible weight, accomplishes the nearly impossible: It effectively distills one of Shakespeare’s plays (Romeo and Juliet) into a 4:25 pop song. Radiohead wrote and recorded it for the movie “Romeo + Juliet,” and the filmmakers didn’t use it in the film. (That makes me wonder about the sanity of Hollywood, or at least the director Baz Lurhmann.) The song is as intimate as a lover’s breath, then a big blob of guitar and keyboard weight suffocates the song’s characters in dread. The song ends with sounds that make me think of a flock of starlings singing and flying backwards.

“Let Down” is the best sad-day song I know. When I want to sit in a fetal position in a depression among brambles and vines on a rainy day in the woods, in a deer’s napping spot, contemplating the raindrops running down my forehead, this is the soundtrack for it. “Karma Police” was a hit, and it perfectly expresses the anger of someone who wishes the world would just wake up and be the way the narrator thinks it should be. And at the end, Yorke casts all of the sentiment in doubt as he repeats “Whew, for a minute there/I lost myself.” “Climbing Up the Walls” foreshadows some of the thick, almost monochromatic texture of subsequent Radiohead songs on further albums, with Yorke’s vocals modified almost to the point of utter illegibility. “Electioneering” begins with a tambourine (or sleigh bells?) that reveals itself to be more like the warning of a rattlesnake than a sassy shake of a percussion instrument, then an unholy racket of guitars, bass, and drums subsequently surges behind Yorke’s lyrics about corrupt politicians.

Exclusive: Thom Yorke and Radiohead on 'OK Computer' - Rolling Stone

But “OK Computer” is more than all of this. Ignore the lyrics, look past the mood, and hear the music.

Jonny Greenwood’s lead guitar work makes it all perpetually interesting. He is the kind of guitarist who seeks out the widest possible variety of sounds from his instrument. The riff that obliterates the choral section in “Paranoid Android” reportedly had been hanging out in the back of Greenwood’s brain for a while before the perfect application for it came along. He is a guitar nut, with an ear for sweeping sounds and surprising elements. He spikes the punch. (Consider that the amorphous, staccato grunts from his Telecaster at the beginning of the chorus on “Creep” was an intentional disruptor. He reportedly thought the song lacked energy and was too pretty.) As much as Yorke seems to epitomize Radiohead, Jonny Greenwood is likely the architect of the band’s music. His guitar chimes prettily, moves quickly, growls menacingly, and provides mammoth riffs worthy of a rock ‘n’ roll band. That’s him on keys, too.

Is it the message or the music? Something I witnessed in a now-defunct Irish bar in Astoria, Queens suggests the latter. “Paranoid Android” was on the jukebox at Gibney’s, and I heard it there every time I visited (which was often). One night, I was passing away the hours and the brain cells with a friend at a table and the song came on. After the choral passage arrived in “Paranoid Android” and gave way to some guitar squall, Selway’s drum fill/short solo burst through the speakers, and one of two beefy Queens guys at a table in front of me played air drums ABSOLUTELY PERFECTLY in sync with the record. When the drum part was over, he acted like he had never flailed about with invisible sticks at all. z

Recent Paintings

Recent Paintings

I was fortunate enough to spend another week with the Nanatuck Group, a loose group of painters gathered by Mary Erickson that live for a week at a time in a rented house on the St. George peninsula on Maine’s mid-coast. Here are some of my pieces. (I also interviewed two artists for feature articles and finished up my book on art in the Wind River Mountains during my week there.)

Paint Inwood, a New Event

There’s no place like home, is there?

A friend of mine here in Inwood, Elissa Gore, put together a plein air event in the neighborhood. It was low stakes–no prizes, no rules, and just enough structure to give it shape. About a dozen plein air artists found their way to what we call Upstate Manhattan and painted last weekend at the inaugural Paint Inwood event.

The first day, Friday, I met up with Elissa and about four others on the peninsula in Inwood Hill Park for an afternoon painting. I aimed for an abstract depiction of the Henry Hudson Bridge, but the painting decided it wanted to go elsewhere. But at least that little spit of land that was catching the sun so nicely stayed the focal point!

“Lit Spit of Land” 2019, acrylic, 9×12

That evening, the painters gathered around an outdoor piano at the corner of Seaman Ave and Isham to tackle a nocturne. I forgot the nifty hat that illuminates one’s palette and working surface, so I had to set up under a street lamp with a decidedly warm cast to its light. Between that color temperature effect and the feeble moon, I couldn’t see well. OK, I could barely see anything. I decided it was an experiment in exploring how well I know my palette. Like a good boy, I always place my colors in the same order so I can think less about where a color is and more on what color I need and how to mix it. Nevertheless, for the majority of the painting session, I could not be sure what color was showing up on my painting. Ironically, although we all know cameras lie, the camera on my phone was giving me good guidance, seeing colors in my piece that my human eye at that light level could not. It was a struggle, and it was fun, and a skunk hung out right beside me for a while, eating slugs or ticks or whatever was on the menu that evening, and the fact that I didn’t get sprayed I took as a sign that my painting wasn’t offensively bad to skunks. And it turns out that this dicey nocturne was the piece most people looking at my work liked the best!

“Baseball Nocturne” 2019, acrylic, 16×20

I had been looking forward to Saturday and the chance to paint with a couple of friends. Sarah Baptist and Robin Kappy joined me at the southern end of Inwood Hill Park for the chance to fill a couple of canvases. Robin and I only finished one, from a vantage point on the pedestrian bridge over the Amtrak tracks at the entrance to Dyckman Fields. Sarah, who is a bit of a painting machine, nailed an urban scene under the overpasses by La Marina, then she did an intriguing scene at the foot of the Henry Hudson Bridge. It was hot and I got tired, and a break on some park benches with Robin, overlooking the salt marsh and all the busy birds finding food in the water and sky above the marsh, was delightful.

“Amtrak Clouds” 2019, acrylic, 24×12

Sarah and I got started earlier on Sunday. We walked down Broadway and had a substantial Tres Golpes (con magú) breakfast at Albert’s House of Mofongo, and we were seated right in the windows for some of the best people watching in Manhattan. The A train was disengorging folks carrying tents, tables, food, and summer accoutrement of all stripes, heading toward one of the parks. There were people dressed to the nines on their way to church. Clubgoers were stumbling out into the blinding sunlight. Food carts were finally packing it in after a fruitful night. Sarah and I were planning.

I chose to paint the grocery store Fine Fare, which helpfully features enormous sculptures of two cows and a chicken on its roof. Truth in marketing! Sarah painted the Inwood Library, a much-used and beloved Inwood institution that is losing its home amid local politics (<cough> corruption).

“What We Sell” 2019, acrylic 12×24

The event ended with a display of everyone’s paintings at the RING Garden, located at Broadway and Dyckman. Ω

To purchase any painting, please contact me at babahr@gmail.com.

Sitting in the RING Garden with my weekend’s work
Sucked in by a Good Story

Sucked in by a Good Story

We’ve all met people who are amazingly kind and generous. You feel good around them. You want to celebrate them. Well, in the process of researching my forthcoming book on the history of visual art in the Wind River Mountains (Taking Root in Rocky Soil), I came to know Mary and Joe Back. It started something.

Sadly, I did not meet them personally. This was mostly through their archives, which are stored in an upstairs room in Headwaters Arts & Conference Center, in Dubois, Wyoming. Joe died in 1986; Mary died in 1991. I came to them through their life story, not their personalities. And let me tell you, their lives bordered on the epic.

charcoal sketch by Mary Back for a now destroyed mural depicting Wind River Mountain history

Joe grew up in Missouri but ran away from home after 8th Grade when a mischievous drawing of his teacher earned him expulsion from school and additional wrath from his stepfather. He found work as a chore boy on a ranch outside of Douglas, Wyoming. Meanwhile, Mary was growing up in Vermont under better circumstances. She attended Berea College in Kentucky, then earned a slot at the Art Institute of Chicago. Back in Wyoming, Joe was working on a dude ranch near Togwotee Pass, and sketching in idle moments. A visitor with connections got him into the Art Institute of Chicago, and he bumped into Mary while she was sketching a grizzly bear in the Field Museum of Natural History. That was it for them. She named her pet crow after him, they got engaged, and sooner rather than later, they made their way out to Wyoming.

The Backs ran the Lava Creek Ranch before World War II pulled them to the West Coast for a bit of war-effort work in factories. Once back in Wyoming after VJ Day, they continued with the ranch until age and declining health suggested a calmer lifestyle. They sold the ranch and bought some land east of Dubois right on Highway 26, and built a roadside gallery and a house and studio a little ways off he road. That’s when Mary ramped up her efforts in art … and perhaps more importantly, art education.

typical view of the Wind River near the Lava Creek Ranch

Mary traveled across the better part of Wyoming teaching art on the Wind River Reservation and in other locales. Her efforts earned her awards and honors from the governor and a host of other admirers. In Dubois, the Backs were much loved, and a visit to the Back home meant long, lively conversations and an inevitable sketch or two. Mary was the Johnny Appleseed of painting and drawing in the Winds, and Joe was the real deal: A bona fide cowboy artist, with tales to tell.

How could I resist writing a book on them?

Actually, I will mostly be editing their writings and retelling their story, which is covered quite well by Mary’s niece, Ruth Mary Lamb, in her book, Mary’s Way. My book will be a companion piece, with unpublished short stories by Mary and Joe, interviews with friends and family, quotes from old letters, and other tidbits I have uncovered. It will be my second book with a focus on Wyoming, but it feels more like a second book focusing on the indomitable art spirit.

I spent 11 days in Wyoming in April gathering material for the as-yet-untitled book, and now I am truly on fire to start. While there, I didn’t get much painting done, but that was almost to be expected. It snows in April in Wyoming, and the wind is ever blowing. I’m no plein air hero.

But I am a big fan of Mary and Joe Back. And I feel like I might be able to do them justice with a book. So off I go… Ω

Paintings From April ’19 Trip to Wyoming

It was a dark and stormy night.

Actually, it was trip filled with stormy nights, plenty of wind, rain, snow, and plenty of wind. Plus, it was windy.

Although I spent 11 days in Wyoming, I only came home with three paintings. I was there to do research, so the challenging weather was actually sort of a good thing in terms of keeping me on task.

Anyway, here they be. As usual, I focused on painting on unstretched canvas that I taped to a board.

Homage to Philip (Again), 2019, acrylic, 8×10

Torrey Creek in April, 2019, acrylic, 8×10

Lek-like, 2019, acrylic, 6×15

I painted this painting below when I got home based on a photo and experience I had one morning while eating breakfast. I’m not done yet–I’m not satisfied with one of the tree trunks, I want more yellow/orange/brown in parts of the grass, and there needs to be some very light grey texture in the background to signify the bare branches of the cottonwoods. I may lighten the doe as well.

Walk Me Out in the Morning, Doe, 2019, acrylic, 12×12 (in progress)

I have more photos from the trip that will inspire additional paintings. Ω

Wise Counsel

Through plague and
purifying smoke
the lax drag on,
the proud puff chests.

some have heated seats.
They cut back on their meat
and wean their hunger with milk
made from beans.

Wise counsel suggests
that crocus break soil
despite the cold wind.

Jut your chins. Jut your chins!
The day is yours.

In sooty rooms
the educated brood,
the papers pile,
the poems mold.
Wake ears hear the goings on,
the treble static of patrons with thin pride
buying bottles tableside
down the street from a shut library.
Wise counsel suggests
that the prudent cut their wine
with tap water and contaminants
easing the disease
so it can feed in peace.

grass blades grow erect
songbirds grow bolder,
grey snow gives way
to new life.

Precious now,
as we make last arrangements
for the changes.

Ω

Malta

When I lived in Astoria, Queens, I passed an ornate (for Queens) building with a handsomely engraved sign saying “Maltese Center,” everyday on my way to the subway. I loved it, because it reminded me that I lived in a global city that has enough immigrants from a tiny country 11 hours away by plane to justify having its own center.

Then one morning, as I walked past, I noticed (how could I not?) that the sidewalk was spraypainted, with two-foot letters declaring “FUCK MALTA.” Now I realized that NYC was so big and global that not only could it sustain a Maltese Center, but it could also sustain an active anti-Maltese faction.

This was the extent of my thoughts on Malta until about four years ago, when I became acquainted with two painters in Malta, Andrew Borg and Anthony Weitz. Both became Facebook friends of mine, with Weitz becoming quite a familiar person to me. I enjoyed both of them as people, and I admired both of their work. (They know each other but I don’t think they are close.) As a curious journalist, I did some superficial research on Malta and liked what I found. Malta is currently on my bucket list.

In December, Borg contacted me because he wanted a quote from me on a poster advertising an exhibition of his work. I was happy to comply. The poster is above. LONG LIVE MALTA! Ω

Hidden in Dubois, WY

One of the most remarkable persons I have met is an art teacher in Dubois, Wyoming. Dubois is considered by some to be the most isolated town of reasonable size in the Lower 48. Its population is about 975 people. It is a great town. But it is small. And the weather and terrain is tough. Here’s what kind of person that attracts and forms.

The teacher’s name is Danita Sayers. She is a smart cookie. She hunts for her own meat. She knows several grizzly bears personally (and warily). She knows what plants cure what ills. This topic, call it what you like–herbal medicine, ethnobotany (much of Sayers’ knowledge comes from area tribes), naturopathy, simple common sense–is what my latest article is about.

In September 2018, at the Susan Kathleen Black Foundation’s Artists Rendezvous & Workshop, Sayers took the stage for a presentation that came in well under her 30-minute timeslot, and she covered 30 times what some people do in 4 times as much time. So add succinctness to her skills.

Now that the numbers are out of the way, I’mma give you the link to the article. But first, a few more words about Danita.

Danita looks on in horror at my unmitigated praise

She is physically striking, with a very small frame and very long brown hair. Her mind is always turning and you can see it happening, but she is patient in answering questions and helping people. Her students absolutely dominate the statewide arts competitions, and they admire and respect her. To get to work, Danita sometimes has to use a combination of walking, ATVing, and driving, down from the grizzly criss-crossed top of one of the Wind River Mountains just west of town. Her stories will make you cry with laughter.

I heard she was planning on writing a book about her experiences with grizzlies. I presumptuously offered to help. She shared a two-page excerpt of her manuscript, and I quickly realized that she needed no help. Her prose sings.

I have no doubt Danita Sayers would be prized in any community (even as she seems to remain a mystery to more than a few Duboisites). She could take Manhattan, rock LA, intoxicate New Orleans and straighten up Philadelphia. She will do none of those things. Danita likes it just where she is. So perhaps one of the most remarkable things about Danita is that her pride is seemingly reined in to the perfect balancing point of self-assurance and utter indifference toward recognition, praise, fame. Ω

Here’s the link.

Eye Docs, Jackalopes, Nubile Eyeballs, and One Made Up Word

“Togwotee Willows,” 2018, acrylic, 12×16

“Torrey Twilight,” 2018, acrylic, 12×16

My last two paintings have been higher key than my usual paintings. The colors are brighter and a bit more saturated. I think I know why. I wore sunglasses during the block-in stage for both of them.

It was an experiment prompted by two forces. One, I had noticed that the cheap sunglasses I had bought at the Jackalope Gas station made colors look more intense. I wondered what would happen if I painted while wearing them. Two, about a month ago I was painting in Maine and I set up facing the sun, because the crazy glare on the ocean was so cool looking. I painted right into the sun, and yeah, it gave me a headache. I’m lucky it didn’t snowblind me. I posted about this on Facebook, and within hours, I received an email from my optometrist insisting that I promise to never do that again.

He’s not your typical optometrist. Macular degeneration runs in my family, so my eyes most likely are especially susceptible to damaging UV rays. So he had good reason to rattle my cage. But the email also made sense because he and I do not have a typical patient-doctor relationship.

On my first visit to his practice, I asked him a few questions about his job. That’s typical; I’m curious how other occupations are. Anyway, he was doing that doctor thing they do at the beginning of an appointment—getting things out, turning things on, reading papers, making notes. I asked him if his floor was bamboo. He said no. Then he asked me why I asked. I told him that I had noticed long lines running down the wood, so I thought maybe it was bamboo. He smirked, sat back, and said the floor looked that way because it was installed incorrectly. He had contacted Home Depot and paid for a consultant to come to the office, examine the rooms and halls, and recommend flooring. He purchased the recommended flooring, and continued on to hire the installation team at Home Depot. The installers arrived, looked at the flooring that had arrived at the jobsite, and told my eye doctor that this flooring was absolutely the wrong thing for the office, and they were going to have to remove the previous flooring to put this kind down, and it was going to cost and take time.

It took even more time when they found asbestos under that old flooring.

Meanwhile, he was audited by one of the insurance companies. Who knew this was a thing? The insurance company didn’t believe something about one of his claims and opened up the investigation to include all claims filed by my dear optometrist. That insurance company was my insurance company. I can’t remember the name. That’s not my fault. The name of the insurance company is so incredibly generic, it does not deserve any capitalization. One shouldn’t capitalize generic terms. I’m not joking—the name of the company is something like Vision Care.

So vision care or whatever audited my poor poor optometrist and he almost just shut down the whole practice. Or commit suicide. I think and I hope he was joking about that last part.

Anyway, so that was my first visit. About 20 minutes of discussion regarding optometric office management, and 20 minutes of determining how out of focus my eyeballs are.

The second visit ended in confrontation.

We were talking about macular degeneration, and discussing the efficacy of some of the OTC drugs/supplements that are designed to address it. (He agreed with my choice.) He reiterated that I should always protect my eyes outdoors. I asked if I could wear a hat instead of wearing sunglasses, and he said sure. I told him I wondered because of bounce light. After all, isn’t snowblindess caused by bounce light? He refused to acknowledge the existence of bounce light. He became indignant. I dropped it.

The last time I went, we discussed contact lenses. My prescription wasn’t a problem, but the shape of the contacts—well, of one of the contacts—was unusual, possibly a special order. Doc explained that most eyeballs are similar. One unit of measurement is the axis of the eyeball. He told me I have crazy axes. I said what. He said that they are shaped weirdly, almost nubile. Nubile eyeballs.

I was sort of at a loss for words at that point, and the appointment was wrapping up. I told him that I thought maybe Crazy Axes would be a good prison name for me. He was startled, stumbled backward slightly. He asked if I planned on going to prison. I responded that I had no desire or plan to go to prison, but I feel better about the whole thing now that I have a prison name, should I need it.

Doc was perturbed. That was the last time I saw him, but after that I did get the email. Which prompted the sunglasses today. Which explains the high key of my paintings. Ω