Profiles

Here's yet another old piece. I assumed, when I first disinterred it from a pile of ancient doodles, that I drew it for Sarah, perhaps as an illustration for some made-up fairy tale I would tell her at bedtime. The only trouble is the date on the back shows it was drawn when Sarah might have been a bit too old for such tales. So now I'm dubious that there is any reason behind this piece other than just the mere pleasure of taking a pencil for a walk, of letting it rove where it will. Besides, drawing just to draw, "art for art's sake" with no other goal or agenda behind it, is a wonderfully good reason for any drawing's existence. So it seems this drawing was only drawn for the fun of it. And a good thing, too, since I have no idea what story I would have had to come up with to go along with it.

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.

Waiting for the Cue

 I'm going through a moldering pile of drawings I have hidden away. This came from that stack. It was done in 2002. I'm not enthusiastic about it and, as always, earnestly hope I can do better than that now. Like so many other pieces on this site, the reason I'm posting it is that I recall Kathy saying she liked it. And now it's back to the moldering pile for this picture.

Odysseus

I recently disinterred this drawing and was surprised to find I drew it almost a quarter of a century ago. It certainly doesn't feel that long ago. Well, as the saying goes, time flies! And that's the reason I'm posting it now: because one of the ideas behind this piece happens to be the passing of time, alluded to here by the twenty years it took Odysseus to return to his native shore. Although I doubt I'd draw an image similar to this today, its haunting theme of the irretrievable passing of cascading time, be it twenty adventurous years away from home or almost twenty-five years of a quiet life, still occasionally whispers from more recent drawings. Or maybe drawings such as this one only goes to show that, as my overworked friendly neighborhood horologist used to say, I have way too much time on my hands.

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.

Dancer of the Roar (Ahab)

This is an old drawing, done in 2003. Kathy and I recently had an occasion to look at some of my old pieces and she mentioned she liked this one. So, for no other reason than that, I thought I'd post it. I recall this was inspired by Herman Melville's Moby-Dick, but I've long forgotten the details as to the piece's origin and exact meaning.

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!