Sunset, Sunday, 14 June 2009

Stony Point, Albemarle County, Va. Oil on paper, 16 x 20.

Sunset, Saturday, 13 June 2009

Stony Point, Albemarle County, Va. Oil on paper, 16 x 20.Tonight’s painting was carried out under the psychic protection of Paul Rosner, who came out into the back yard with me to brave the bugs. No fewer than 14 found their way into the surface of the paint. Paul, a member of Trees on Fire, was here for dinner with his wife Gillian Shasby and their kids Zoe, Noah, and Graeme. Gillian’s about to journey to Lesotho, to visit her brother and see Africa for the first time.

One of the evening’s conversations revolved (?) around the map of the world in our office, with the southern hemisphere at the top, and whether there is really any ‘up’ or ‘down’ to the earth – for example, if you were approaching it from space. There seemed to be some idea that there was no necessity for any polar orientation, but then there’s magnetism, an axis, and sunsets in the west.

Sunset, Friday, 12 June 2009

Stony Point, Albemarle County, Va. Oil on paper, 16 x 20.As I saw today on the walk with Flint, the wild blackberries are turning red and the smallest wild roses, the little white ones, which came out just behind the blackberry blossoms, have gone and given way to a primitive wild rose, about the size and shape of a dogwood bract except with five petals, magenta pink, everywhere underfoot in the wilder fields. About halfway on the walk I thought to look for ripe wild strawberries – it’s almost time, I think – but, with the rain we’ve been having, maybe they drowned. (Smiley face here.)

Tonight there was one cloud, orange-pink, both darker and brighter than the others. Woods were whitish-green from the rain rising off the fields.

Sunset, Thursday, 11 June 2009

Stony Point, Albemarle County, Va. Oil on paper, 16 x 20.Well, naturally, on the day we tell people about the Daily SUN Times, there ain’t none.

But perhaps that will help establish that these sunsets aren’t just another pretty face – that they’re at least as much about the daily transition, about the times, as about the expected appearance of the sun.

Sunset, Wednesday, 10 June 2009

Stony Point, Albemarle County, Va. Oil on paper, 16 x 20.A furious heavy rain for most of an hour, then this break showed up in the west, while it was still raining here, and lasted ... just long enough to complicate my life! Within ten minutes it was raining hard again, and the horizon was once again completely gray.

The way sudden changes in the weather ‘complicate’ things got me thinking about how this series is very much a species of performance art – except I’ve done performance art before, and it was nothing like this. Usually one gets to pick and choose the work and plan a show carefully.

To give one example, to fill just three or four minutes of a show, I painted very close copies of the trees in “Trees Between Fields” (a painting you can find on the side of the page here) – except instead of being ten inches tall, painted in oil on canvas, these trees were eight feet tall, spray-painted on styrofoam, and carved out to make ‘sculptures’ that I could move around on the stage. (Nasty stuff, styrofoam, to work with on that scale.) The painting itself took perhaps a year – I used to work very gradually, and in one day might add just a few small glazes – and wasn’t done until I felt I had got it just where I wanted it. The cutouts took an intense couple of weeks.

With the sunsets, whatever I can do within the hour – involving maybe 20 to 30 minutes of actual painting – is what we get, and I never know if I’ll have any idea how to approach that night’s sky. I think it’s pretty surprising, after thousands of these, that before two nights ago (the 8th) I don’t think I’d ever painted a sunset with the rain trailing from the clouds.

But then ‘Howard’ says – you may remember Howard from the D-Day anniversary – “When you’ve seen one sunset, haven’t you pretty much seen ’em all?”

Every once in a while, for a moment or two I wish that that were true. Happily, though, in fact, the situation is more difficult, more ... complicated.

Update on Thursday, June 11, 2009 at 08:56AM by BVD

This was the scene as I worked on the painting.

The added element here has to do with the fact that Flint is deathly afraid of thunderstorms, and thinks that staying close to me will afford him some measure of protection. So I was a little bit hindered by the 65-pound foxhound at my feet.

I don’t have any one system or protocol for painting skies – it all depends on the situation. This one was a little unusual in that I had almost completely finished the ‘foreground’ – the gray clouds that had been nearest, above my head – before doing the rest, including the cerulean/gray horizon I’m working on here. I’m painting on an Arches cold-pressed watercolor block, 18 x 24, with margins taped to yield 16 x 20.

And yes, the entire house is filled with sunrise/sunset canvases like those in the background.

The June 9th Primary

As I’m writing this – now, I hope, with enough time to get from start to finish – I realize I should probably recap a couple of background items from other posts, so that everything’s right here in one place. Those who already know these things, please excuse any repetition, but it may help when we get to the heart of my story.

From June 8th:

Tomorrow morning we get up at 4 to go work as county election officers in our precinct, for the Virginia Democratic primary ... and they don’t let us out until after the polls close at 7 and we’ve recorded the votes. These primaries usually mean a very light turnout. So I’ll have some time, and depending on how much sleep I can get, may be able to write and sketch for tomorrow night ...

For all you pollsters whose calls I never picked up, at the moment I’m leaning heavily toward Creigh Deeds.

From the Update:

I might add that that’s exactly the kind of thing I can’t say, breathe, or in any other way indicate, once I’m in the polling place. Something to be thankful for, seriously.

So, indeed, being an election officer on some primary days can be pretty boring, and expectations were that the turnout this time might only be five percent of registered voters. That’s not quite as awful as it sounds, since only the Democrats were holding a primary – to determine candidates for governor and lieutenant governor. But it’s also slightly worse than that sounds, because all voters can vote, people do not register by party in Virginia.

As we always do, we had a friendly little competition to predict our precinct’s turnout. (No prize, unfortunately for me.) We had 1,428 registered voters, so five percent would have been 71. Seventy-one voters in 13 hours – that’s what I mean when I say we were looking at an uneventful day. Laura guessed a turnout of 46; the precinct captain predicted 64; the assistant captain said 73; another officer said 80; and I went with 95. The turnout turned out to be 94. (But then I actually even made a little money as a ‘psychic’ for a brief period. If you wait for more details about that, you might have to wait a while.) (I predict.)

No matter whether there were going to be 46 or 71 or 95 voters, that’s not exactly a stampede, and there would be time. On other election days I’ve actually had fun drawing and writing during slow periods, but this was not a scintillating day for me, for the arts.

In posting these little sketches, I’ve asked myself, do I really want my readers to be as bored by my drawings as I was?

Possibly. I think the sense of tedium may help frame the delirium that broke out around lunchtime, and which is the real reason for this post.

First I sketched the exit sign. Hmm, wonder why I’d do that ...

Then, a Croc worn by our precinct captain. Remarkably, not only was he in bare feet and Crocs, as we sat out in the church hall that is our polling place, I had the opportunity to sketch his left Croc while his foot was not in it.

It may be slightly significant, concerning the incident that occurred later in the day, that these were desert camo Crocs; anyhow, as you can see, I didn’t bother with the desert camo.

Then I sketched what some might understandably call routine random clouds floating by in a blue sky, as I looked out the big windows of the hall.

Finally, or maybe I should say penultimately, a potted palm by the big front windows:

Boring! I did wonder, for a fraction of a second, why a potted palm, which seemed a little decorator-ish for a conservative, evangelical Christian church, then realized – Judea, Palm Sunday, hosanna, etc. Kind of nice.

I think the implied ‘pace,’ or maybe I should say the level of intensity – the low level of intensity – of these drawings may give you an idea of the humdrum rhythm of the day. And in whining so much about boredom and tedium, I should add that as many times as I’ve wanted to quit this gig – which is to say, every time I’ve done it – especially as I’m preparing to get up at 4 – just as many times I’ve gotten a happy sense of satisfaction from doing something to support the process of democracy. In the end, it’s an amazing experience.

Now, in addition to the long day’s routine, there’s the underlying interpersonal and political friction. I should explain that even though voters don’t register by party in Virginia, the two major parties supply the pool of officers to work the polls. Ideally, if there are six officers working a precinct, three of them represent the interests of the Republicans, and three were supplied by the Democrats. I don’t know, but maybe this system came about when someone decided that countervailing interests were more dependable than simply trusting someone to be disinterested. Sounds reasonable to me.

Perhaps because our chief is Republican and the assistant chief has usually also been Republican, and our other longest-serving precinct officer is Republican, our crew has always seemed to have a right-wing slant, accentuated by our polling location in a conservative evangelical church, where one of the officers is a member. (We even had voting in the sanctuary, in the 2008 presidential election – not a very secular atmosphere.) (Obama won handily.) In addition, that officer’s spouse, also a church member and a most vocal conservative Republican, is present throughout the day, bringing her husband food and checking on this and that – when she isn’t out in the parking lot politicking for the GOP ticket.

In none of this is there any real problem, except for the discomfort Laura and I sometimes feel when our colleagues make casual political comments to us or to each other, and except for a certain sense of lonesomeness or disaffection. We’re under strict instructions not to make any political statements or gestures of any kind toward or in the presence of voters during the day, and usually everyone observes this rule, but my feeling is that we should avoid political discussions altogether at the polls, just to keep the atmosphere ‘clean’ of politics.

Heretofore, the political comments have been pretty minimal and harmless, but not this time. This time I felt forced to say something, and since then it’s had me thinking about the nature of right-wing rabidity.

To be strictly fair, it probably would never have happened except for the aforementioned spouse, who is not an election officer. To make this long story as succinct as possible, she, in conversation with the others, simply started going off on President Obama as ‘The Anointed One,’ asking if we’d all heard how Rush Limbaugh had ‘dismantled’ Obama’s Cairo speech, speculating that the partial takeover of GM meant that we were now a ‘communist country,’ repeating the Limbaugh line that Obama was systematically destroying America, etc., etc. One of the chief officers, who had said to Laura and me that he really wanted to ask us what we thought about Obama now, enthusiastically joined in (“Rush Limbaugh is a great American”), as did another, who wound up saying that no one had dared even touch Obama on Jeremiah Wright or Bill Ayers (?!), and who, within two minutes (don’t ask me to explain how we got this far), was saying that Bush’s Air National Guard service didn’t bother him because Bush had flown the most advanced model of fighter plane “that protects this country,” while John Kerry’s Vietnam service was “a fraud.”

It was 2004 all over again, except worse. Actually, it was 1993 (let’s say), 2004, and 2008 all rolled together into one steaming little killer asteroid aimed right at the future.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I broke the personal code of circumspect silence that had gotten me through maybe a dozen similar previous incidents at various public and private functions. I just had to say something. And what I said has to do with what I’m here about to write: It isn’t the positions, the beliefs or the contentions of these people that bother and astonish me, it’s the complete lack of awareness of the social context in which they’re speaking. They truly do not know or care that there are others in the room who would find their comments disturbing or offensive – and that we, the others, would never dream of subjecting them to an unsolicited rant on our opinions and beliefs.

And this lack of awareness, far from being a mere social disability or passing aggravation, has much to tell us about the sources of extremism on the Right and its oddly refractory nature. None of the people in that room was remotely capable of a violent crime, but, to agree with Paul Krugman in his column on “The Big Hate,” and Judith Warner in “The Wages of Hate,” I believe such virulence can promote violence.

I probably wouldn’t have said anything, except that I’d already seen – more than once – grandmothers and aunts and thirty-something businessmen roil the atmosphere at events as innocent as a small child’s birthday party with loud conversations voicing views such as these as if they were facts everyone knows, and as if no one could possibly be offended, even though, in fact, they were sometimes the only diehard Republicans in attendance and would normally have realized this.

When I told the folks at the church that I had heard so many of these conversations that completely ignored the feelings of other people, they hardly blinked. The spouse asked Laura, “Are you an Obama supporter?”

Laura answered, “Yes, I am.”

The immediate response: “I will pray for you.”

And this was taking place right by the pollbook tables in a voting precinct in one of the more cosmopolitan counties in Virginia.

What I think I’ve finally seen about these crypto–talk radio eruptions is that the participants become truly unaware of their social surroundings and instead lock in to each other as if there were no other people of significance. (In the spirit of the 2004 bumpersticker ‘Republicans For Voldemort,’ it’s a little like Death Eaters who have seen each other’s mark. However, Death Eaters would be capable of great discretion, and the followers of Limbaugh are capable of none.) What I believe is that they can’t afford to acknowledge an opposing view, especially as embodied in a real person.

While I was writing this, a friend, Laurence Shatkin (my Hopkins roommate and co-conspirator), posted the following on his Facebook page, in connection with the shooting at the Holocaust Museum:

When I was in college, it was the Left that acted out its violent, paranoid fantasies. It’s an interesting question why they did not return to that during the Reagan/Bush years, while they were in the wilderness as the Right is now. Is it because previous extremes discredited violence? If so, how long will it take for the violence of the Right to discredit itself? Why wasn't Tim McVeigh enough to do that? Or is there something about right-wing extremism that refuses to die?

I believe the answer may be that the source of their extremism is not any ideological idealism, as in the old radicals of the Left, but a deep, desperate grasping for a sense of personal security.

Extremism born of ideals is susceptible to mellowing and change through personal experience and growth. Extremism born of insecurity blocks out the very experiences that could alter it.

Unlike, say, people who were dismayed and angered by Bush while he was President, the Right radicals who stage these spontaneous parlays actually seem to enjoy every single complaint they express. Their eyes glitter with almost a sort of joy, they smile, albeit often with downturned corners of the mouth showing their sarcasm. The heavy sarcasm they voice toward someone like Obama is for them, I believe, pretty much a case of whistling past the graveyard. They’re afraid – too afraid to recognize or accommodate the social landscape in which they’re standing – incapable of the simple adult acts of nuancing their opinions or even lowering their voices.

In our case the storm was over in around five minutes – I don’t remember, maybe an actual voter walked in. The rest of the day was pretty uneventful, and the colleague who had wanted to ask us about Obama decided that he didn’t want to ask.

Polling Place View. Pigment liner pen and watercolor pencil in Moleskine notebook, 3.5 x 5.5.As I’ve mentioned, it was a rather uninspired day for sketches, so that this ‘thang’ represents the best of the lot – the view from the pollbook table in the hall of the church. Bushes, parking lot, light poles, the Southwest Mountains to the ... southeast.

(‘Southwest’ in the southeast is discussed here– oddly enough, in a retrospective post concerning another year on June 9th.)

Creigh Deeds, having won the primary, will now face, in addition to his legitimate opponent and good people who support that opponent, the dragons of extremism.