I love art. Especially Twentieth Century Abstract Expressionism. My personal Trinity are Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Willem de Kooning. Their use of brushstrokes and Color Field Theory have made an impression (ha!- pun!) on me since I first started studying art.
I came to Fine Art later than most, I guess. I was never really exposed to visual art until about the age of 22 or 23. That exposure only came because I took a Drawing class at my community college just to hang out with a friend of mine. Being around art and the creation of it was for me like Alice stepping through the looking glass, or the Pevensie kids stepping through the wardrobe. I was exposed to an entirely new world; a new world with different ways of seeing, understanding, discussing, explaining, and appreciating both the mundane and the profound. It is no exaggeration for me to say that it was like tasting colors or smelling sounds. Art for me was like nothing that I had ever experienced before, and I wanted to consume as much as I could, to devour the subject, until I realized that there was just so much, and that like any other buffet, I should pick and choose carefully.
I enjoy photography as well, although I am not as well versed in photographers as I am painters. I get a certain feeling of accomplishment or fulfillment with the "instant gratification" aspect of photography. The composition of the shot, the dead-on accuracy of color in the representational image, and the crispness of the image make photography a nice balance for me to the abstract tendencies I have with brushes, paint, and canvas.
I love to paint, even with the frustrations it brings, and I love to take photos, even with the limitations of expression inherent in them. I love to read about art. I love to go to galleries and museums. I love to talk about art with others, to get into discussions about the relevance or importance of this artist or that artist's spouse or partner, or to discuss their influences, both received and given.
I love to read. About almost anything, as long as it will hold my interest. Books were my first exposure to other worlds, other times, and experiences outside my own. My favorite book is A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean. I've never been to Montana. I've never been fly fishing or had a minister for a father, but his use of language, his very poetry in paragraph form make me feel all of those things. His easy explication of the time, place and events that must have been both incredibly complex and painful to put into words are to me the epitome of the writer's craft. He took the iron and clay of his experience, the gold and soot of his life and made them not only relevant to the rest of use but interesting and entertaining as well. He had a simple grace with language, so much so that his Young Men and Fire, even with its shortcomings of being an essentially unedited rough draft make it a fascinating nonfiction read.
I was an English major in college, only because I saw words as easier to understand than images, and the degree more versatile. I never finished though, because the bloom fell off of the rose quickly. A sure way to kill a subject that you really enjoy is to major in it in college. I didn't so much as "suck the very marrow" out of it as suck the lifeblood out of the pleasure in it. It's my own personal problem, I know. I'm dealing with it.
All of this would be pretty boring to talk about, or blog about (or whatever phraseology I should use), except that I received some rather disheartening news this past Tuesday. I went to see my ophthalmologist, since I am diabetic and hadn't seen him in well, several years. I guess I should be glad I did, since he gave me some upsetting news.
I am in the very early stages of developing diabetic retinopathy in my left eye. I have not had any blood vessels burst yet, but he said that they are hemorrhaging. There is no treatment for this, and it usually gets worse. If the blood vessels burst, then the blood that is released will gradually cloud up and darken the vitreous humor so that no light can pass through and the eye just doesn't see any more. In its way this doesn't matter too much because due to a genetic abnormality I'm functionally blind in my left eye anyway. I have been since about the age of three. The abnormality is astigmatism that, when left untreated like mine was, leads to ambliopia that eventually just causes the eye to stop functioning.
Obviously the treatment for this is better control of my blood sugar. With great control comes retention of vision. Great control comes from better diet and more exercise. Changes in diet and exercise will also help with the other news that he gave me.
I am also in the very early stages of macular degeneration in my right eye. There are treatments for this, usually of the laser eye surgery variety. Having more leafy green veggies in my diet will help to offset it, but there is no reversal.
Macular degeneration occurs primarily in Caucasians in their mid 60s. From the research I have done online, less than 2% of those diagnosed are younger than 62. I will not turn 40 until February. Yes, I guess I am whiny. I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes in my early 20s. I will have had carpal tunnel releases done on both wrists by the end of October. Medicaid is my health insurance.
I have no car, so I have no job. I now have so many pre-existing conditions that I am unlikely to ever be covered by an employer's health insurance provider anyway, and even if they are willing, will I be able to afford the premiums or even the co-pays? Hell, for that matter, how much longer can I expect to work?
I used to be a bit of an optimist. Now I seem so very doom-and-gloomy.
I will gradually lose the center of my field of vision. I can tell you from how the vision in my left eye is that this will mean no more reading, no more painting, and at the very least no way of knowing for sure if the photo turns out the way I want it to turn out. Peripheral vision only. I'll be able to walk through a room unaided. Yay.
The diabetic retinopathy, if not fended off, will eventually develop in my right eye as well, so the macular degeneration will only be compounded.
Let me say again, they are both in their very early stages, so there is not only time, but hope.
I am still scared as hell.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
First of Many
Have you ever had a "feeling" for a place or thing? I mean that intangible vibe or sensation that you can't quite describe or put into words, but you know it's there as well as you know your own name. I think we all have at some point or another in our lives. Maybe it's the familiarity of your grandmother's living room, or the sense memory of a smell that hits you blindside and yet takes you not just to a specific place or time, but to a specific moment. Maybe the moment of your first kiss or the death of your first pet or something as simple and benign as a math test in the sixth grade.
I was coming home the other day from a doctor's appointment or grocery shopping or whatever and a similar feeling hit me, but not quite the same, and I realized that I have felt it before, and have felt it so often that I hardly realize it anymore.
It was a feeling of history, of the past as present, and being all around me.
I live in and am from the north-central part of North Carolina. There is nothing particularly special about the area, except that it's where I'm from so I'm kind of partial to it.
There is a bit of historical significance here. The Battle of Guilford Court House took place here, although I don't think it quite gets the credit it deserves. (Think of it as a variation on the Alamo, except Americans versus Brits instead of Texans versus Mexicans.) The very road that I live on was part of the "escape" route used by Corwallis after the battle.
Going even further back there is the The Battle of Alamance, which, as I was taught in college, was a precursor to the Revolutionary War. Taxation and representation and all that, don't ya know. They lost, but they did not forget.
Growing up we had a school trip to a church cemetery not three miles from my rural elementary school where we were to learn about the people buried there. I remember that some of the grave markers dated to the late 1700's. I remember this because that was one of the main points of the lesson. I also remember my classmates making impressions of the dates with their pencils and paper. We were in the fourth grade, and for them it seemed no big deal. To me the very act seemed disrespectful and macabre.
But the most vivid memory, and the one that has stayed with me the strongest is the memory of walking back, away from the road, down into the woods, and seeing the various fieldstones just lying around in the leaves. This wasn't common, because in those parts agriculture had always been the primary means of income. Yes, the county courthouse was next door, but... These stones would have been removed to make plowing the ground easier. Even right behind a church. They were grave markers for slaves. No name, but a stone to mark the grave. I remember the sudden gravitas of this knowledge. It was real. It was not just something that we read about in books. I also remember the looks on the faces of my black classmates. Appalled doesn't even begin to cover it. The representative from the church even made a point to say how nice and generous it was of the white slave owners to not just let them be buried in that cemetery, but they let them mark the graves too.
Not far into the woods, a short way from the house I grew up in (In which up I grew?) there is a sunken in place in the literal middle of the woods. There is an old stone marking a grave, there is the markings for the foundation of a house that by today's standards might be an oversized closet. If I remember correctly the well is still marked. Trees have grown up all around it. There is no road leading to it, which leads me to believe that it must have been abandoned at least a century ago. I only know of its existence because my childhood friend and I stumbled upon it wandering through the woods one day. The property is owned by my cousin's husband's family (oddly enough his mom was my Kindergarten teacher's assistant), and they know about this old homestead, but they know nothing about the people who lived there.
What do these anecdotes mean? Why am I posting this? I don't really know, except that they are examples of what I mean when I say intangible feeling. They are not nostalgia. Please do not think that. Some of these thoughts and memories I would gladly let go if I could. I am haunted by the past. Not just my own personal past (so many of us are) but the past of all of us, the past that should inform and enlighten, and yet goes unseen by those around me. Haunted? Yes, for they do seem as ghosts sometimes. They never frighten, though. For me they only sadden.
I was coming home the other day from a doctor's appointment or grocery shopping or whatever and a similar feeling hit me, but not quite the same, and I realized that I have felt it before, and have felt it so often that I hardly realize it anymore.
It was a feeling of history, of the past as present, and being all around me.
I live in and am from the north-central part of North Carolina. There is nothing particularly special about the area, except that it's where I'm from so I'm kind of partial to it.
There is a bit of historical significance here. The Battle of Guilford Court House took place here, although I don't think it quite gets the credit it deserves. (Think of it as a variation on the Alamo, except Americans versus Brits instead of Texans versus Mexicans.) The very road that I live on was part of the "escape" route used by Corwallis after the battle.
Going even further back there is the The Battle of Alamance, which, as I was taught in college, was a precursor to the Revolutionary War. Taxation and representation and all that, don't ya know. They lost, but they did not forget.
Growing up we had a school trip to a church cemetery not three miles from my rural elementary school where we were to learn about the people buried there. I remember that some of the grave markers dated to the late 1700's. I remember this because that was one of the main points of the lesson. I also remember my classmates making impressions of the dates with their pencils and paper. We were in the fourth grade, and for them it seemed no big deal. To me the very act seemed disrespectful and macabre.
But the most vivid memory, and the one that has stayed with me the strongest is the memory of walking back, away from the road, down into the woods, and seeing the various fieldstones just lying around in the leaves. This wasn't common, because in those parts agriculture had always been the primary means of income. Yes, the county courthouse was next door, but... These stones would have been removed to make plowing the ground easier. Even right behind a church. They were grave markers for slaves. No name, but a stone to mark the grave. I remember the sudden gravitas of this knowledge. It was real. It was not just something that we read about in books. I also remember the looks on the faces of my black classmates. Appalled doesn't even begin to cover it. The representative from the church even made a point to say how nice and generous it was of the white slave owners to not just let them be buried in that cemetery, but they let them mark the graves too.
Not far into the woods, a short way from the house I grew up in (In which up I grew?) there is a sunken in place in the literal middle of the woods. There is an old stone marking a grave, there is the markings for the foundation of a house that by today's standards might be an oversized closet. If I remember correctly the well is still marked. Trees have grown up all around it. There is no road leading to it, which leads me to believe that it must have been abandoned at least a century ago. I only know of its existence because my childhood friend and I stumbled upon it wandering through the woods one day. The property is owned by my cousin's husband's family (oddly enough his mom was my Kindergarten teacher's assistant), and they know about this old homestead, but they know nothing about the people who lived there.
What do these anecdotes mean? Why am I posting this? I don't really know, except that they are examples of what I mean when I say intangible feeling. They are not nostalgia. Please do not think that. Some of these thoughts and memories I would gladly let go if I could. I am haunted by the past. Not just my own personal past (so many of us are) but the past of all of us, the past that should inform and enlighten, and yet goes unseen by those around me. Haunted? Yes, for they do seem as ghosts sometimes. They never frighten, though. For me they only sadden.
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