Daedalus

The old man sat down next to me on the dune. We watched in silence as the waves lapped the shore and I hoped he would not break the spell by talking. Alas, it was not to be.

"It was near here," he sighed, "that I watched my son soar too near to the sun, saw the beeswax dripping from his wings, saw him flailing as he fell ... just as I saw my nephew fall when I hurled him down the cliff in a fit of jealous rage. Perhaps helplessly seeing Icarus die this way was a sort of poetic retribution. I don't know. After all these years, does it even matter?

"But as I say, I watched Icarus spiraling down, down, down. I watched the sea waves rising. I will swear to this day they were rising -- monstrous waves surging up to grab him, to swallow him up in the sea's ravenous, pitiless maw. I cried his name. It was all I could do, even though I knew he couldn't hear me above his own shrieks. And even if I could have reached him, his added weight would have been too much for my wings: we both would have plunged into the wine-dark sea -- we both would die.

"At that time, in that horrible moment, my eyes encompassed everything even though my mind comprehended nothing. I saw in the distance a quaintly garbed plowman cutting a furrow. Closer to the shore was a shepherd who seemed to be studying the sky, but in the opposite direction from my son. Oh, and there was also a fisherman who was also oblivious, or uncaring, to the fatal drama. None of the three gave the least notice to the spectacle above them. Later, in the sleepless nights, I would recall those peasants and somehow, I can't explain how, but somehow their very presence, their common, dull activities, made my Icarus and his whole adventure seen trivial, even absurd." And the old man bowed his head and fell silent.

I waited a respectful interval before replying. "I've heard of a man, perhaps you've heard of him also. His name is something like Pieter Brueghel. A fine man, or so I've been led to believe. It's certainly not my place to speak for him, but what I've heard of him makes me think he might be one to draw a lesson from your tale. Maybe its moral, if it indeed has one, is that the pretentious inevitably gives way to the real, and the high and mighty always seem risibly transitory when confronted by the common and lowly. After all, it is the poor in spirit who possess the Kingdom and the meek who will inherit the earth."

The old man gave no reply, but after several minutes he smiled. Then, without a word, he rose and walked along the shore of the wine-dark sea until he was lost to sight.

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.

Synopsis

Happy New Year!

And yet another drawing done many years ago. With every new entry on this site I grow more doubtful that I'll ever post anything else, so this may be the last of its race. The sketch isn't much, but I guess I said what I wanted to say with it way back when, so I'll be content if this does turn out to be the last image. I just wanted to post something to celebrate the new year, and since I didn't have any recent doodles on hand I disinterred this one. I don't know if you can see it, but it has some water damage. I assume that means it will decay far faster than its sisters so I wanted to post it before it disintegrates. But all that is neither here nor there. All that really needs to be said about this piece is that I hope it brings you a smile. And, once more, Happy New Year! May this coming year bring you both many more smiles and very much laughter.

Mnemosyne

"This place," I brooded, "all these people... forgotten, all forgotten." The cemetery stretched before me. There were countless fallen tombstones that, by nature's wry sense of either humor or poetic justice, were themselves all but buried beneath matted weeds. And the few monuments yet standing, pockmarked and lichen-encrusted, tottered at crazy angles, their epitaphs long ago eroded into illegibility. Wrapping my cloak more tightly about me as the dead leaves spiraled in the wind, I lifted my eyes from a fallen gravestone and saw the ghost gliding toward me.

"You look like someone lost in grave contemplation," he said with a smile.

I sighed. "Why is it," I thought, "that the worse a ghost is as a comedian, the more it wants one's attention?"

"Oh," I replied, more politely than I wanted to, "my thoughts are not too solemn, not really. But, after all, it is October, when the skies are 'ashen and sober' and the leaves are 'withering and sere,' so a certain small degree of wistfulness isn't to be unexpected. Still, my thoughts are far from melancholy."

His smile betrayed that he didn't believe me. "Even so, one mustn't forget that a time such as this, a place such as this, do seem to sadden one's thoughts."

"Yet you smile."

My attempted barb only made the dead thing chuckle. "Surely you do not think me an irreverent revenant?" 

I sighed again. "He has no intention of letting me rest in peace," I thought, and so I changed the subject to something I found quite curious. "What," I asked, "is that structure over that grave? It looks like a cage."

"Oh, that's a mortsafe."

"'Mortsafe'? What is that?"

"Ah! It's been obsolete for some time, so I guess it might be forgotten. Basically, it's a construction to prevent grave robbers from plying their trade. They were somewhat popular in the 1800s."

"The 19th century! But it's only a little rusted. Is it new?"

"Well," smiled the specter, "since its original unsavory purpose is forgotten, it does serve a new function, at least in this place, so it's still being made. Don't you remember?"

"Remember? Remember what?"

Now it was the dead thing's turn to sigh. "You don't remember. They never remember! As I said, originally the mortsafe was a sort of barricade meant to deter the living from defiling the dead. Now, here, it keeps us dead from defiling the living."

"'Us'?" I repeated numbly. "'Dead'?"

"But of course! You, me: the dead. Don't you remember what you are?"

"I... I'm... I don't..."

He took me by the hand and led me to the grave. "You," he said, "are a memory, only a memory now. Your survivors, if they recall you at all, should recall you in sweet memories. Instead, you relentlessly haunt them, my friend. You give them no rest, no peace. You keep digging yourself up and rob them of their present. Instead of being a sweet memory you are a suffocating obsession; and you know that's not right. After all, in memoriam in moderation."

I tried to understand, to remember. "So this structure once protected my body from others, but now..."

"But now?"

My confusion dissipated as all became wonderfully clear. "But now it protects others from me... well, from a morbid clinging to memories of me. It is my time, my place to be only an occasional memory to those on their side of the veil. I remember now!" 

And with that realization I climbed on top of the mortsafe and bade the ghost goodbye. He gave me one last smile as I wafted down through the iron grating, down through the heavy iron plate and down into the cold and comforting earth.

A Wanderer Grown Old

I casually tipped my cap to him as we passed each other on the narrow path in the woods. He smiled and whispered, "When I was young I explored mountains. Now that I am old I explore my soul. And I have discovered, after so many years, that they are, each in their own way, among the most mysterious and most majestic of all God's works." Then, without another word, he went on his way. I watched him until the path turned and he disappeared into the forest, and I, more respectfully than before, tipped my cap to him again.

The Foreigner

"By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

On a black throne reigns upright, 

I have wandered home but newly

From this ultimate dim Thule."

-- Edgar A. Poe, "Dream-land"

There's nothing much to this piece, nothing really worth mentioning. It's just a stranger nearing the end of his travels. As I mentioned before, I'm doubtful I'll continue adding images to this site. I may still have one or two more drawings in me, so this sketch may not be the end of the journey. But just in case it is, then I must say that this little blogsite afforded me a happy walkabout. I'm glad I rambled through it and I hope you also found your roaming through it amusing. Now, just in case this is the end of the journey, I want to take this occasion to thank a certain individual from France who, since 2018 and more often than not, faithfully accompanied me through this site's thick brambles and muddy paths. It means a lot to me that someone from France, where, I imagine, all roads lead to great art, made a point to stroll through my humble, little sketches. So, to that person and to everyone else who chanced upon this little byway in their wanderings, I just want to say a heartfelt merci and a possible adieu. Thanks for walking with me through these strange woods!

Broken Bridges

"No wise man ever wished to be younger." -- Jonathan Swift

Once upon a time there was a little boy who, after many and many a misadventure, achieved his dream. He found himself as free to roam as a dried leaf in the wind, unencumbered by memory, responsibility and regret. And he lived happily ever after.

Study of a Man

He has made everything beautiful in its time; also He has put eternity into man's mind... (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

Kept Lessons

The first image posted on this site, back in 2017, was that of a young satyr. Thus it seems appropriate that the possible last image should be that of an old one. I say "possible" since I may still occasionally post something: I'm just doubtful that I'll be posting on a regular basis. But in case this does turn out to be the last one, I want to say I hope you had as much fun visiting this site as I did in adding things to it. So, until we meet again, if we meet again, God bless, try to smile once a day and thank you for visiting.

Thoughts in the Rain

They sat at the entrance of the cave as the rain poured down, Iago chewing on some fennel and Quasimodo absently tapping his fingers on his leg. "Well," Quasimodo finally said, "you must admit we needed the rain; the woods were getting pretty dry."

Iago let out a deep, long sigh. "Rain or no, I don't think it makes any difference. These woods, these indescribable woods, I don't think they need rain or sun or... or anything. I think these woods are self-sustaining, complete onto themselves. They'll survive, unchanged, long after we're nothing but rodent-gnawed bones. I tell you this, too: sometimes I think this forest is sentient... a conscious organism always watching us... maybe even laughing at us. The sun, this rain, even you and I, maybe we're all just ephemeral, transitory amusements to this eternal forest... all, all of us... just a joke, a momentary smile on the face of eternity."

"Well, even I have to admit that it seems we've been wandering these woods for eons. But there's no need to become morose about it. You have to admit the woods are beautiful, so beautiful I doubt they'd maliciously laugh at us, risible as we may deem we be."

Iago smiled at his friend. "You know I'm always morose. Sure, I'll admit the woods do have some beauty to them, but that's only because most mysteries, by their very nature, have an intrinsic beauty to them. Even you and I may have some beauty to us, if one only knew how to look."

Quasimodo laughed. "Well, I may have some discoverable beauty, some well-hidden allure even. But you?"

"Well, maybe once upon a time, long ago. Or at least grant me I at once had the potential for beauty."

"Indeed, my friend! We all do... or did. But can leopards such as us ever change out spots? Can our old souls ever reclaim our long-lost innate beauty? Can we ever even hope?"

Iago stared up at the sky, at the falling rain, a puzzling expression on his face. "Maybe," he whispered, "the cleansing rain from above can cleanse the dirty things of the earth, might wash off the grime, might... restore what was lost." He stood up and turned to Quasimodo and smiled in spite of himself. "You old scalawag, you! Do you think it's worth a try?"

Quasimodo also rose. "Even in eternity," he smiled, "there's no time like the present." And so, arm in arm, they walked out into the rain and back into the endless woods.

A Moment's Respite

The acrobat stood on his perch, his left hand firmly grasping the trapeze bar. He stared down at the awful abyss below him. It was about a yard wide, eight feet long and six feet deep. He thought he heard voices coming from it. Some were soft and soothing, but not all. He also thought he could hear his own voice whispering from out of that void. At least he imagined he heard distant, whispering voices, some familiar, and all rising up like vapor. But, if so, try as he might, he could not quite decipher what the voices were saying. And although the abyss wasn't deep, it was blanketed in a gloom, a darkness his straining eyes could not penetrate. All he could see was dust leisurely rising up from the tenebrous void and then gently swirling back into it. Yet there was a rhythm to the dust's ascent and descent that, for reasons he could not explain, charmed him and comforted him. He stared into the mysterious recess for some time, not really thinking about anything, just passively observing; so he could not state when he first noticed it. He knew only that, once having seen it, he could not take his eyes off of it. It was a light, a still, small light that seemed to shine from beyond the depth of the abyss. It was then he noticed the dust that rose on that beam of light did not descend again into the dark. So, smiling, he grasped the trapeze bar with both hands and swung from off his perch.

And My Father Always Called Me His Little Flower

There's really nothing to say about this piece since the title fully explains it. However, this drawing was not originally crafted with any theme in mind. Indeed, the title and apparent idea were arbitrarily added after the fact since this was just another doodle where the pencil wandered where it would and the only part I actively played in the whole execution was to try to keep said pencil from wandering off the page.

The Wanderer

 Upon a finite shore he waits for his Pilot to bear him to his infinite home since, in this life, there is always hope. Happy New Year!

The Aged Faun

    Night was coming on fast by the time I reached the mountain crest. The gentle winds carried the scent of decay and the swaying vegetation, what little there was, was stunted and dry. The old faun was near the mouth of a cave, resting in the growing shadows. I tipped my hat. "Nice place."

You May as Well Know, Timothy

This drawing was done twenty years ago. That amount of elapsed time amazes me. It certainly does not seem that long ago that I drew this. As is obvious, part of the idea of this picture has to do with the remorseless passing of time. Death steals upon the saint and the sinner, the doer and the idler. It is impartial and universal, so all one can do is try to make the noblest use of whatever time one is blessed to have in this life. I know it's been some time since I posted anything new, or since I've even had anything new to post. It's not that I've been oh-so-busy as that I've been oh-so-lazy. But now this drawing, done so many heartbeats ago, brings home that I might well be in the last mile of my journey here, and that if I want to try to produce anything worthwhile, then I better start right away. So, it is now my ambition to start producing new work... starting maybe tomorrow.

They Were Happy Times

This was done way back in 2003. You can tell by the faded images and the creases in the paper that it's old. It's supposed to be a family portrait. Kathy and Sarah have changed a bit over the intervening years, naturally. I, unnaturally, have not aged one second. Sometimes it pays to be friends with Dorian Gray.

The Player

I confess I never heard of Pierino da Vinci until I read his biography in Vasari's Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects. Just in case your memory is a little faulty at present or if, like me, you hadn't heard of him, he was the nephew of  Leonardo da Vinci. Per Vasari, Pierino seemed destined to follow in his uncle's footsteps, being blessed with "a most beautiful countenance," "great grace in every movement," and "a quickness of intelligence that was marvelous." He was also a wonderful sculptor whose genius, again according to Vasari, was "admired by all." So, with all those attributes, why isn't he as famous as his uncle? The answer is death. He died "not having yet reached the age of twenty-three." Fortunately for art-lovers, even though he did not reach his maturity, he was industrious and so left behind some completed works.

And now I'm going to use poor Pierino as an excuse to start preaching the obvious. We are all allotted only a few breaths in this life, but we do not know the number. Whether it be a 16th century plague or a 21st century one, whether by accident or nature or whatever, death falls upon us all. Let's hope we don't waste the brief opportunity and squander our limited time, be it as short as Pierino's or as long as Picasso's. We may not be able to produce works like Leonardo or Pierino, but we can create something unique that will make the world a bit more beautiful, or at least a bit more interesting. And that ranting memento mori, trite and obvious as it is, is all I have to say. 

For Bluebell

Bluebell was my daughter Sarah's cat from the summer of 2003 until today. This drawing is not a very good likeness of the cat... such as, for one thing, she had longer ears. And I also couldn't get the scanner to reproduce the colors too well (Bluebell was gray, not blue). I drew this in 2015 to accompany a book Sarah self-published titled Mystic Dreaming: A Book of Poetry. If you're interested, you can find a copy at Amazon.com. I think Sarah is a gifted poet, but then, I am extremely biased.  Anyway, this is the poem Sarah wrote about Bluebell way back in 2015:

Bluebell

(For my she-cat)

She is gray as storm clouds,

Striped with darker fur.

Her eyes are sage green.

Her fur is soft and thick.

She walks on silent paws.

Her ears are pricked high.

Her nose is darker gray.

Her purr brings calm and peace.

After a long, contented and, until just a few day ago, a healthy life, Bluebell quietly passed away today. Rest in peace, old friend. You were always quite the charming character.

The Conversation

There's not much to this. It's just a small representation of a universal reality.

Poe

"The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crisped and sere --

The leaves they were withering and sere:

It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year..."

-- "Ulalume: A Ballad"

On October 7, 1849, Edgar A. Poe, wearily whispering, "Lord, help my poor soul," slipped from his life's short story and into the mystery of eternity. As every schoolchild has thought, how sadly fitting that he should take his leave in the month of Halloween and lengthening nights, at the time when the colors of autumn begin to turn gray, the vegetation withers beneath a canopy of massive, monstrous clouds and the whole earth seems to be solemnly slipping into the cold shroud of winter. Like countless others, Poe had a sad, short life; but his art has endured... and what better fate could any artist have?