Humpty Dumpty, Again

For reasons obscure even to me, I occasionally become fixated on anthropomorphic eggs falling off walls. However, if memory serves, this is the first one where I attempted (not very successfully) to have the character look like he's actually starting to slip off the wall instead of being firmly ensconced atop it. The reason he seems either unaware of his plight or is indifferent to it is because it's hard to decipher the emotions of an egg. It's even harder to refrain from making puns about how hardboiled and scrambled his personality and thoughts must be, even though he is only a shell of his former self. Still, I'll refrain from writing such rotten puns, although the baser part of my nature keeps egging me on.

In Memory of Bazille

The companions reached the gully and paused. Quasimodo calculated its width and said, "With a little effort we should be able to clear it. Ready?" Receiving no reply, he studied the hill on the other side of the divide. "It's steep, but I don't think it's too steep. And it's ivy-covered. We should be able to scale our way up. Onward and upward, you know. So, again, are you ready, Iago?"

He was met by silence. Turning, he found Iago standing motionless as though at attention, staring intently at nothing.

Quasimodo sighed. "He's lost in reverie again," he thought, "and once he snaps out of it he'll be compelled to lecture me about something obvious that he thinks is a revelation. Ah well! There's nothing for it but to wait for him to come to himself."

Several minutes later Iago did indeed rouse himself as if from a trance and turned to his companion. "You know," he said, "my father was a poet, and I hold a very fine one, albeit I might be a tad prejudiced. He penned many a fine poem, but his greatest poem wasn't in words; it was when he held my hand. The most beautiful poem a man can compose is when he reaches out and holds another's hand. My poet-father gave me life, old friend, and, poetically speaking, if you will, so have you ... many, many times."

"Pardon?" Quasimodo asked in unfeigned amazement.

"I'm in earnest," Iago said. "These woods ... lost in these uncanny woods ... if I had been alone, without you ... I don't believe I'd be alive now. In a way, you have given me life, over and over. I ... I have taken a great deal from you, if you will, and I owe you a great deal."

Quasimodo stared at his companion, an indecipherable look on his face, and quietly replied, "You're wrong, you old scoundrel; it is I who owe you. You see, with a friend, it doesn't matter how much you give, you'll always end up taking more."

They stared awkwardly at each other, but only for a few seconds. Then, not speaking, for there was no reason to speak, they jumped the gully and ascended the hill.

The Understudy

They had been married for such a long time and she still loved him, not with youthful ardor but with something better; with the deep warmth of her soul. She thought, "We're two and yet one. And after being together all these years I'd be terribly lost without him, as if I'd only be half of me. How does the Good Book describe it? Oh yes! 'The two shall become one.' That's us, and that's not a bad thing!" She smiled and nestled her head on his shoulder. "Everything is so wonderful," she thought, "except ... "

"Dear?" she cooed. He grunted. "Dear," she said, "I know before we met that you worked in the government for a while."  "Hmm," he replied. "And you asked me to never ask you why you left the civil service. Still, we've been married so long, surely you can tell me now."

"Well," he sighed, a long, deep sigh, "well, I didn't quit. I ... I was fired."

"What?! How could that happen? Why would anyone ever let you go?"

He sighed again. "I'm afraid if I tell you that you ... well ... you might want a divorce."

Her eyes grew wide and she stared up at him in absolute amazement. "Honey! Don't be silly! How can you even think that?  I love you! I will never, never, never, ever want a divorce! You hear me?"

He hesitated. "All right, I'll tell you. You know how information is often leaked to the press by an anonymous source?"

"Sure, honey."

"Well, part of my job description was to be one of those unnamed sources. See, if we wanted information released but it would be inappropriate or awkward to release it officially, my job was to leak it to the press. Naturally, all this had to be coordinated with my superiors. You can understand that it was vitally important to keep them in the loop."

"Of course, dear."

"Well, one time ... the last time ... the information was so big, I was so excited, that I leaked it without seeking complete prior approval from above. Huge mistake! I caused a lot of damage by not keeping my superiors in the loop. Heads rolled, and one of them, of course, was mine."

"Oh," she cried, "my poor angel! My poor, poor angel!"

"Well," he said, "that was so long ago. Still, I guess it just goes to show that the old adage is true."

She stared into his face with sympathy and love. "What adage is that, my dear?"

He smiled at her and said, "That I should loop before I leak."

She kept her word. She did not file for divorce. Instead, one day weeks later, as they strolled hand in hand beneath a gorgeous blue sky, serenaded by the chirring of cicadas, she reached up, gently kissed his cheek, and shoved him over a cliff.

Homeward

He stood there, gazing at the sky, his thoughts caught in a silent seance of dreams forever perished. It had been a long journey, a difficult journey, and he still had far to go to reach his home. "But why need I go on anyway?" he thought. "After all, you cannot lose yourself by walking away, and you cannot find yourself anywhere but where you are. And besides, maybe home is no particular place at all. Maybe home is anywhere where you have a sense of peace, where you're not forever and fully on guard. Or maybe everywhere is home; maybe it all depends on one's particular point of view at one particular point in time." He smiled, amused at his own pretentiousness. "Or maybe home is merely the place where dead dreams cease their haunting and one can hear new dreams, whispering and alive, just beyond the horizon. Still, the wind is rising and I guess I should seek some shelter." And with that, he smiled once more and continued on his journey.

The Cave Dweller

"My friend here," said Iago, tilting his head toward Quasimodo, "my friend and I  have wandered these woods for a very long time." The faun slightly nodded, but said nothing. Iago cleared his throat and continued. "We've been caught in many downpours, some terribly brutal ... with hail and everything."

"And the storm clouds are gathering?" asked the faun.

"Quite dark," replied Quasimodo, "and quite, quite heavy. It's going to be a big storm."

"We didn't realize this cave was already tenanted," said Iago. "We mean no harm. We're merely seeking shelter from the approaching storm."

The two men could tell by his eyes that the faun's thoughts had turned inward, a million miles inward, as they listened to the approaching thunder and felt the wind slashing at their backs. The faun stayed lost in contemplation for several minutes, then sighed. "The laws of hospitality, gentlemen, are what they are, and who am I to break them?" He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "Please, enter. At least for the duration of this storm, my cave is your cave."

The two companions entered timidly and nestled in a corner of the cave, facing the entrance, and silently watched the wind coursing through the vegetation as the sky grew dark.

"What is it like out there?" asked the faun.

"Pardon?" said Iago.

"I mean out there, in the woods. It's been a very long time since I stepped hoof out of this cave ... lifetimes. Are the woods as they were?"

"As they were since when?" asked Quasimodo. "How long have you dwelt in this cave?"

"Long ... long. It was inhabited by an ancient people when I first came here ... ancient and odd. Generation after generation they never faced the mouth of the cave. Indeed, they didn't know the cave had a mouth, and their only concept of reality was the shadows of clouds and animals thrown on the cave's walls. Then some Greek philosopher came along, I forget his name, and convinced them to turn around. They were amazed, as you might suppose, at the new reality, a reality that was the cause of their ancient reality; the light and the solid things were the source of their reality of shadows. They left here to explore the there. I, however, as you see, stayed here. They left me alone. They never returned. It's been a very long time."

Iago shrugged. "Once one sees a reality perhaps one is disinclined to return to the shadows."

"But what a reality," said the faun. "A reality I knew well! Teeming with savage beasts, cliffs, monsters ... and the storms, the terrible, terrible storms!"

"And that's why you never left here?" asked Quasimodo.

"The cave is safe, while the surrounding woods are ... well, the woods."

    

All three shuddered.

    

"True," said Quasimodo after a long pause, "the realities may well be more frightening than the shadows. I've seen monsters and storms. But I suspect there's another reality even beyond them, that they are but its shadows."

The faun knitted his brow. "A reality greater than storms and monsters? It is too tremendous to comprehend. And so I remain here. I am safe here."

    

It was now Quasimodo's turn to seem to be looking deep inside himself. "Yet, even when caught in a torrent, I swear I can hear some still, small voice, as it were, a voice even more real than the rain."

    

"Oh?" said Iago, arching an eyebrow, "and what, pray tell, does this voice say?"

    

"Well, it's hard for me to put into my own words, but it's ... oh ... like, 'Yes, there are monsters and there are storms; nevertheless, open you mind, open your heart and explore, explore it all with me.'"

    

The faun stared at the mouth of the cave and then at the two companions. "You know, I must confess that I have grown weary of this cave ... after all this time. I've not been caught in a storm, but I've also not felt the morning dew. Maybe ... shadows ... reality ... to explore again! Maybe, once this storm has passed, maybe I should leave this cave."

   

Iago smiled. "We passed a hillside covered with poison ivy on our way here."

    

The faun returned the smile. "I remember it always tasted best after a rain."

    

Quasimodo leaned back against the cave wall and stared dreamily at the now raging storm. "Then I suggest, while waiting out this storm, that we pass the time by chewing the fat."

    

"Or chewing the cud, as the case may be," said Iago.

    

But no one talked. They only sat, watching the storm, each lost in his own thoughts, and each with a smile on his lips.

Nadine

It had been a harsh and bitter year for her. All the ghosts she stored in glass flasks in the cellar had freed themselves. Then the monsters she kept manacled in the attic also managed to burst free. It wasn't long until both groups had clawed their way through every locked door, taking almost full possession of her house. They crowded, shoved and overwhelmed her from one room to the next until she only had one room left that she could call her own. And it was in this room, in the late hours of the night, to drown out the sound of scratching at the door, that she would debate with her favorite mask as to which of them was the real person and which the disguise. Her mask often chided her that their argument would be unimportant once the ghosts and monsters clawed their way in. "Your sole hope," the mask would whisper, "is to destroy them before they break in; and you know the sole way to do that is to rip down your window's curtains and let in the light. The light alone can overcome them." "Yes," she muttered, "I knew that from the first room they conquered and I know it now. But that light behind my curtain, that strong, unyielding light, it frightens me even more than those things outside the door. For what shall I do if that awful, absolute light, that awful, absolute truth, should devour all the confusing shadows and reveal the dead things and grotesqueries aren't outside the door but in my own mind, in my own heart?" "What of it?" asked the mask. "The light would still dispel them and render you, at last, truly real." And with that she reached a trembling hand toward the curtain. 

The Journey Home

For all the ones we have had to say goodbye to. As long as you are in our hearts you will never be gone. And you are ever in our hearts.

Rumpelstiltskin

Here's another old painting, done in 2005. Along with the skeletons and sad-eyed, emaciated ghosts whispering their mournful laments, it's surprising what all else one may stumble upon when cleaning an attic. There's not a great deal I can say about this piece. Obviously, this painting was done just for the fun of it.

In The Grasslands

An old piece recently disinterred. It was done in 2008. The colors in the painting are less pronounced and bright than in this reproduction (photography is not my forte). In fact, aside from the white feather and some of the reds, the colors are drab, even sullen, and, apart from the yellow, without highlights. The somber colors remind me of how the light often looks before a storm. Maybe that's what I was trying to capture... that is, if I was trying to capture anything at all. After all these years, your guess is as good as mine. So I'll just assume I wasn't trying to capture any effect of light and that this was simply something fun to paint and let it go at that.

A Winter Heart

I'm just showing this one because Kathy liked it enough to frame it. It was done in 2003. I'm appallingly ignorant about Oriental culture and history. Kathy, however, lived in Japan for some time and fell in love with the country, so I did this picture for her. In my complete ignorance, this is merely how I imagined a woman from some vague past might have looked.

Herodias

Here is an image created in 2005. There's a small and uninteresting story about the origin of this piece and it's odd that I should remember it so vividly. I was in the attic one afternoon when the receding sunlight, playing upon a wall, made a transitory and haunting image of a woman's face in profile. I tried copying that face before it disappeared and later used that copy as a guide for the face of Herodias. The painting may not be much to look at, especially in reproduction since I'm so terrible at photographing my works, and even though I can't take credit for it since all I did was copy old Sol's artistic effort, I have to confess that even after all these years I still like the effect of that profile.

A Good Egg, All in All

Here's a piece done in 2006. Sarah would have been too old for fairy tales then, so I don't know what led me to paint what is supposed to be Humpty Dumpty. I doubt even all the king's horses and all the king's men would know either.

When He Returns

This painting was done in 2007 and is based on a photograph by my sister-in-law, Barb Stork. It shows a young Sarah with a dog named Patches. The photograph, like all of Barb's images, is striking, which is one reason Kathy wanted me to make a painting of it. As for the painting itself, for some reason I can't comprehend, there's something about it (maybe the light?) that reminds me of John Singer Sargent, even though this piece is woefully beneath his awe-inspiring abilities. As I told Kathy when we stumbled upon this long-forgotten work in the attic, it looks like something Sargent might have painted if Sargent didn't know how to paint. Still, as previously mentioned, the Barb Stork photograph it's based on is impressive. You can see some of Barb's work by visiting her website at www.barbstork.com. You'll be glad you did!

Four Days After

I haven't painted in what feels like ages, so I disinterred an old piece of canvas and started daubing oil paints on it with no idea or plan in mind. Unlike doodling with a pencil, one cannot take oil paints for a casual ramble and let them completely lead the way and go where they will, otherwise I'd blame the paints for the colors being too sweet. Since I'm not a very good photographer, the colors in this post are more candy-colored than the original, but even the original's colors are a bit over the top. Still, it was wonderful just holding a paintbrush again and I hope to do another painting before this century ends.