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| Peonies in Tequila Bottle, Oil on Panel, 14 by 11 in., https://www.etsy.com/shop/RobertHoldenFineArt |
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| Amaryllis and Tall Chinese Vase, Oil on Canvas, 30 by 24 in., https://www.etsy.com/shop/RobertHoldenFineArt |
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| Three Rustic Potteries, Oil on Canvas, 24 by 30 in., https://www.etsy.com/shop/RobertHoldenFineArt |
Unlike most bloggers who write about painting, drawing and
related subjects, some on an incredible daily basis, I don’t like to clog the digital
airwaves until I have something really important to write about. This, however, is not one of those rare occasions. It’s just a little nudge to get my minimally
functioning brain off standby mode. Sort
of an “I blog therefore I am” thing.
I wish I could control myself and write blog posts without
mentioning any famous names or popular subjects so nobody would ever read them
but me, myself and I (ignore grammar check).
By the way, my minimally functioning grammar check program nearly always
rejects any use of the pronoun “myself,” as it just did. In this instance, it wants me to write, “Me (capitalized),
me and I.” What’s up with that, grammar
check? Whose side are you on? Not the side of myself, obviously. Oh, so that one is OK? Why not tell me to recast the sentence to
“Not my side, obviously.” Go
figure. This has been a test of grammar
check. Regular programming will resume
shortly, I’m sorry to say (ignore grammar check, wants to replace “to say” with
“saying”).
I am well aware of the fact that the merest mention of “so
and so” or “this, that and the other” means I am sure to be visited briefly by Internet
surfers with particular interests within the aforementioned categories. They no doubt savagely hit “close” as soon as
it is apparent that the blog post they have chanced upon is pure drivel. Google should identify and reward with a
medal of valor those few visitors among the aggregate 20,000-plus who
have had the temerity to read all the way to the end of even one of my posts. Having such a justifiably low opinion of the
value of my musings, I perforce shrink from engaging in any dialogue with Internet
surfers or unsolicited social network acquaintances because I’m not man enough
to handle the stress of rebuke or, even worse, praise. Who wants to know what other people think
about your opinions or writing style?
Not me! “Then just keep a
handwritten diary in a dresser drawer and don’t waste precious space on the
Internet bothering the rest of us with your juvenile prattle,” would be an
appropriate retort from the teeming masses drawn inexorably and unwittingly to
the edge of the abyss of Internet inclusion.
Huh?!
Nevertheless, I throw caution to the wind and return to another
glorious episode in my action-packed life – a week spent on vacation in a
little town in Pennsylvania Dutch country,
which will remain nameless to protect the innocent, i.e., me, myself and
I. It was pre-ATM America
when I left New York City years ago,
with very little money in my pocket, no credit card, no car at my disposal and
a plan to do some plein air painting. It almost killed me.
I had viewed the opportunity to house-sit for a week in this
town as a low-cost way to get out of New York City
in August, just like psychiatrists and other normal New Yorkers. I took my half-size French easel with me and
was excited to see the lovely countryside from the windows of the regional
bus on the way to this little town. But
the house I stayed at was a very long walk away from nature’s realm. I ventured to take that walk my second day in
town, but at the end of the road I was confronted by a vast and impenetrable
cornfield. So I trekked back to the
house and never did any plein air painting the entire week, occasionally muttering
the dejected landscape painter’s refrain, “If I only had a car!”
Walking on the sidewalks of this little town to get to Main
Street meant the stranger that was me had to walk past
quite a few private homes. Nobody else
was walking anyplace in the neighborhood and I could sense the curtains being
drawn aside as I sauntered slowly by, smelling the roses on the way. I hadn’t been out of New
York City for awhile, so this was an unsettling
experience, and another reminder of how necessary the automobile is in America’s
small towns. An unexpected pleasure of
my vacation was discovering that the house I stayed at was ideally situated
directly across from the high school football field, so there was plenty of
pre-season practice noise to disturb the peace.
I mostly sat in the house in the evening watching
television. I don’t own a television, so
I spent many hours fiddling with the remote control to check out the hundreds
of cable channels the homeowner subscribed to.
I took a couple of side trips by bus during the day to the closest big
towns of Reading and Allentown
to explore the shops on their main streets.
I don’t remember much about those trips, other than having the elderly
owner of an antiques store tell me how he stopped an embolism from moving up his
left arm by pounding it back down into submission. I still keep his excellent First Aid advice
in mind should the need arise.
The family of a friend who arranged my stay lived in a
neighboring town, and I was picked up to have dinner with them a couple of
times. Cousins of theirs had a vineyard
nearby. Visiting it and sampling some of
the wines on Saturday was perhaps the highlight of my vacation, although I
really can’t say for sure. Hitting the
TV remote was pretty thrilling, too. I
think Club Med is considering this little town for a change of pace vacation
spot. But maybe it was just me. Someone with a more positive outlook would
probably have the time of their life in this little town -- if they have a car to get around.
There were no Chinese take-out places within walking
distance, so eating was a major problem during my week-long retreat, because
preparing meals is not in my DNA. I
didn’t have enough cash with me to eat out at restaurants and I didn’t want to destroy
the homeowner’s kitchen, so I ended up eating mostly red grapes, crackers and
cheese, with disastrous results. I lost
a few pounds on this diet during my vacation.
When I bid a fond farewell to my little town buried deep in the bucolic Pennsylvania Dutch countryside and took the bus back to New York City,
heaving a great sigh of relief, let me tell you, I immediately resumed my
normal diet, which at the time consisted of pizza for lunch and lots of beans
and rice for dinner. The result was a stomach
explosion that set off a month of dramatic weight loss and an intense fear that
I was going to die soon. I bicycled like
mad early in the mornings on the bike path along the Hudson River
to ward off the demons of insanity. The
VA Hospital took tests and said I wouldn’t die just yet. And so I didn’t.
Consequently, I am able to proclaim today, many years later,
that the three words in the English language that best illustrate the abysmal
state of affairs for most traditional realist painters in America
are “Call for Entries.” I myself quickly cross out all the items with those
huckster words and their attendant, non-refundable entry fees listed under “Opportunities”
in the art publications. When I’m done, I
am left with absolutely no opportunities to show my work! Guess I’ll just have to be satisfied with
selling it once in awhile.
