Hundred Faces of Rembrandt

Ruth (Oil 24X30)

When I heard the phrase “One Hundred faces of Rembrandt”, I thought this is a clever concept. Over the years many have adopted this idea in marketing their passion from wars to whatever. I also wondered how I could adapt this concept to fit in one of my projects, and maybe I have already. I have worn a hundred faces -- I just haven’t painted them. I have definitely been my own project.

This idea started with Rembrandt while he was just looking for a willing model to paint, and he found him in the mirror. Over Rembrandt’s lifetime, “he sat before himself” and painted himself in many costumes and characters, in different ways and moments, tones and colors, always capturing the real being beneath the flesh and blood… himself.

He drew his face repeatedly -- serious and smiling, with frightened eyes and whatever he was feeling at that moment. Some portraits showed him young and some old, some free and some tight, but all with the mark of Rembrandt’s soul.

Robert Henri writes in The Art Spirit; “The whole value of art rests in the artist’s ability to see well into what is before him. A model is wonderful in as many ways as there are pairs of eyes to see her. Each view of her is an original view and there is a response in her awaiting each view.

“If the eyes of a Rembrandt are upon her she will rise in response and Rembrandt will draw what he sees, and it will be beautiful. Rembrandt was a man of great understanding. He had the rare power of seeing deep into the significance of things.

“A genius is one who can see. Others can often “draw” remarkably well. Their kind of drawing, however, is not difficult. They can change about. They can make their sight fit the easiest way for their drawing. With the seer it is different. Nothing will do but the most precise statement.”

This separate eye of genius is one of the world’s most precious possessions. Rembrandt was always conscious of his own secret vision. His eye was sensitive to the faintest shadow of change passing over a man’s countenance.

After the death of his children and his wife, it is written, "From this time, while he did much remarkable work, he seemed like a man on a mountain top, looking on one side to sweet meadows filled with flowers and sunlight, and on the other to a desolate landscape over which a clouded sun is setting." When Saskia, his wife died, he made only one more portrait of himself, his one hundredth; and in it he made himself appear a stern and fateful man.

As I pondered this thought, “he sat before himself,” I thought it would have been wonderful to have the drawing and painting talent of Rembrandt, but greater still is to have the eye of understanding which he possessed. What if we had the eye to elevate people to a higher place, giving them a higher respect for themselves?

When he painted himself, his eyes must have drawn the best from himself or he could not have done it for others. An old saying, “You must have respect for yourself before you have respect for others.” It is true.

We all wear different disguises. When we pull the mask from our own face and become honest, we might not like what we see, but it is the place of gaining respect for who we are. Only then we are able to see ourselves more clearly and there is where we give others a margin for error.

Most people fool themselves their entire lives trying to be someone they think they should be or who other’s think they are. Self-acquaintance is a rare condition.

Over the years, I have worn a hundred faces, but who I was in my early days seems far away from who I am today, I don’t recognize her anymore. I am coming out from behind the disguises and am enjoying and accepting who I am and consequently doing the same for others.

Oh that we would have the eyes of Rembrandt when others are in our presence, that they would rise in response, thus having the eye to see the dignity of their own soul and they would be beautiful. This is a true artist.

Final Brushstroke! Self-acquaintance is a rare thing. It takes courage to remove the mask and see the beauty we really possess.

Talk to the Pocket

Four Seasons (Oil 24 X30

This has absolutely nothing to do with art but maybe I can slide it in under the art of listening.


Recently we were spending time with friends. We have all grown older and understand we do not hear as well as we used to. That evening everyone was very serious about the conversation until it became so ridiculous, we couldn’t stop laughing.

My friend was exasperated and her husband was as sincere as he could be. He sat and nodded his head. He didn’t find anything humorous in the conversation but was offended that we didn’t understand him. He was talking about something totally unrelated to the conversation.

“Put on your hearing aid,” my friend shouted to her husband.

“I’ve been working all day, I’ve got a little job,” was his response.

“Do you see what I go through? He doesn’t hear me,” she said to us.

He looked at me for some kind of understanding and said, “I can hear everyone but her. I don’t like to wear my hearing aid because of the beeping.” I’m thinking, he’s asking me to understand. I’ve got to stay neutral; this argument has been going on for a long time and we just entered into their lives, there is no answer.

His feelings were hurt; I could see it in his eyes. His wife was exasperated and she was asking someone to hear what she lives with. Al remembered a joke and said, “Soup will do,” and I was thinking how I could turn this into an article. There were four different conversations going on and no one was hearing, and everyone thought they had something important to say.

The wife looked at his shirt pocket and said, “He has a $5,000 hearing aid in his pocket and he won’t wear it. I guess I am just going to have to speak to his pocket,” and we all laughed.

They say there is a world in every head. So I guess we can say we are all in different worlds. Maybe it is time to get into the other’s head and relate to them.

How many times do we speak to the pocket? I am now communicating with my grandchildren on Face book. “The rents dn’t understnd, awesum dude.” My grandson writes.

I wrote back, “Who’s the rents?”

“My parents, ha, ha, ha, you’re funy grndma,” my grandson writes back. I have chatted with him more than I ever did before, even if it is in quick broken sentences with abbreviated words.

Our family had lunch with an old friend and the conversation came around to how the young people only converse through texting or face book. “They have lost the social skills of speaking to each other,” she made the comment. “How are they going to make it in the business world?”

My son-in-law responded, “Fine, they are all living in the same world and doing the same thing. We are the ones who do not belong.”

“Scary,” I thought, “They can’t even spell and they will be running the world some day, never talking, always texting.”

“Will they do more work or less?” Our friend responded.

Our son-in-law said, “Probably more. They will not be standing around the water cooler or hanging out at another employee’s desk. All the e-mailing and such is keeping the conversations short. People do not want to be on the phones, it takes too much time and too much talk.”

I went out to lunch the other day with a friend and we sat across the room from a table of four women (not girls), and all four were texting, no one was talking, everyone was engaged in their own world. We made the comment, “They haven’t said a word to each other the whole time”, and we surmised they were not really enjoying each other; they were busy looking down at their phones, making conversation with someone else. But maybe this was enjoyment to them.

Who knows? I want eye contact and good rich conversation, no prattling, and I want to look deep into another’s soul. That’s probably really nerve racking to most who do not want to be seen.

A friend came back from a large city where she attended church. She said at the end of the service, “The pastor said, ‘If any one has a prayer request, text me.’” We shake our heads, but isn’t that the way it is in today’s society? Where’s the heart-wrenching cry at the altar?

So how do we learn the art of listening when we are all talking to the pocket? I believe it takes getting into their world, hearing their heart, even if they are not hearing or talking. I am not sure how to do that, but I am trying.

Hopefully, we can be courteous and respectful where they are and they might be respectful where we are. For the young people, how can we condemn them? They know nothing else. They surely can’t appreciate sitting on the front porch swinging or hanging around the post office talking about the weather and saying nothing.

The Final Brushstroke: Don’t discount the world in another’s head; we can learn from them and them from us.

The Imaginery of Love

Spirit through the Valley


The Imaginery of Love - Destino

“Time unfolds you,” is the first line of Redeeming Time – A Tribute to Salvador Dali by Darcy Downing, poet and writer. Those three words could be used to explain a work by Dali which unfolded after his death and is considered one of his best pieces of work.

Salvador Dali, the Spanish surrealistic artist was a master of imagery. I watched a six minute short film several times, wanting more. I asked the man in charge, “Where did it come from? How can I get a copy of it? Why haven’t we seen it before? Why is it hidden from the world?”

Not only the work, but the destiny of the film itself intrigued me. The film by Salvador Dali called Destino – Destiny of Love found its own destiny after a half of a century.

This film is of the image of a burning flame melting the white waxy candle, turning drops of wax into a fluid form of a woman. She flows like a summer breeze in a soft, white, sheer gown towards the trapped man. He is encased in a solid square block unable to move. The image of a bird covers the stoic man’s heart and eventually pulls loose and flies away to look for love leaving a hole in the man’s chest. The fluid flame of the woman is drawn to the cold stone man. She finds her place in his heart and she sets him free.

This scene has many layers, the love between a man and woman, their differences and how they complete each other; it could also easily have a spiritual implication of God’s love and man’s stony heart. It shows that love has no boundaries. It can break down walls, and time can not destroy it. Love will continue it.

Walt Disney’s nephew Roy Edward Disney unearthed the dormant project in 1999 which was hid away in a vault. He decided to bring it to life and the short was completed in 2003.

Production began on this film in 1945, 58 years before its eventual completion. The storyboard by Disney studio artist John Hench and artist Salvador Dali worked for eight months in late 1945 and 1946. Disney ceased production on it because of financial concerns. The Disney Studios was plagued by many financial woes in the World War 11 era. Disney borrowed against his home to keep the studio alive. Destino was not deemed financially viable and it was put on indefinite hiatus.

The project was collaborated by American animator Walt Disney, Spanish painter surrealist Salvador Dali and it features music written by Mexican songwriter Armando Dominguez.

What an odd threesome to bring an exquisite piece of art to life: Disney and his animated childlike characters, Dali with his genius artistry, and Dominguez’s recognizable music in Disney films. The three found a way to bridge their art into a work that quietly explodes in one’s heart. Great things are seldom bright and flashy and intruding, but quiet and unassuming. Destino quietly unearths the treasure in the viewer’s heart by its genius quality.

Bill Desowitz wrote in 2003, “In a dreamlike universe, a man made of stone frees himself from his mooring to go after the woman carved in his heart. In this surreal dance of love, man and woman overcome the natural abyss between them,”

Dali’s signature time piece, the melting clock, is seen in Destino. Many stories come from this image. “Time unfolds you,” Downing writes, “We are God's poetry knowing not the last sentence or phrase”. Dali died before he saw the completion of his masterpiece unfold, not knowing the last sentence written.

“Present and past meet at the window and laugh with relief,” another line of Downing’s poem. When Roy Disney found this work, Destino, he brought the present and past together, and the window that stands between diminishes in the heart of the viewer. Does the world acknowledge this piece of art to be great? No. The world will walk past, but the heart knows its greatness.

The carved woman in the man’s heart completed him. The art and passion in our hearts will play its part to complete us also. Take heart, my dear artist and writer friends, do today what you carry in your heart and it will carry your destiny, the final sentence has not been written. We are still living our story.

The Final Brushstroke! “There are many things in life that will catch your eye, but only a few that will catch your heart. Pursue them.” Anonymous

Turn around is fair play

Since I gave Al such a hard time in a recent column, when I moved his hunting experience out of our bedroom, I thought it would be fun to write Al’s side of the story.

Gitta (Oil on Door)

Artists are passionate, but no more passionate than hunters. So this is for the hunters who read my column and dream all year of that big hunt.

Lady (Oil 24 X 35)

When a man possesses a good hunting dog, not just any old, play-around dog, but I mean one who whines and pulls at her collar at the smell of a bird that’s a good hunting dog.

I knew I had a problem when my precious gave me an ultimatum. Betty said, “I fear for our grandchildren. Gitta is dangerous. I live in constant fear of who Gitta will attack. Either Gitta goes or I go.”

I couldn’t believe my wife disliked my little German Frauline so passionately and insisted that I choose between her and my little cutie with the curly, wiry brown hair.

“Don’t be silly!” I said with authority, “Gitta is not leaving.” And she didn’t and neither did my wife. Gitta lived with us for fourteen years. My wife complained and I just continued to love my Gitta. I couldn’t let go of her any more than my wife could stop painting and writing.

Gitta wasn’t much to look at; quite ugly, in fact, her nose was plastered all over her face, but what a nose! She could sniff out anything, anytime, and anywhere. You can’t describe what goes through a hunter and his dog’s mind at the moment when the gun goes off.

Gitta was bred to hunt; she had a killer instinct lurking in her being, ready to pounce on anything that moved. Gitta vom Kervinshof had been given to me as a gift. She was from a litter of the highest breed, registered Drahthaars. Schooled, certified, papered, you name it, she had the credentials.

Not only that, she had the nose and I had a good shooting eye. We were a perfect match. My shooting eye was still as good as the day I looked down the barrel of my first shotgun - a single shot 410 - when I was just twelve years old.

No hunter wants a hunting dog that runs and hides in the closet when the gun is shot; or a dog you have to tell, “That’s what you are looking for.” Not my Gitta, she knew exactly what she was bred to do. She was fast, full of energy, intent on the “game” of hunting. She was the best hunting dog around and she was mine. She made me proud.

I will admit she was a little boisterous. A trait I had been accused of at times. In the evenings I’d invite her in just for a man-to-dog bonding time. She was not interested in bonding. She stalked the place for anything looking like a bird; she was restless, yes, it was in her, to retrieve.

She hunted with me for many years and she always brought home the game. My precious wife and my Gitta never bonded either. I couldn’t admit there was even a slight defect in my prize hunting dog. So I turned a deaf ear to my precious when she complained about her.

It was a gray day, when Gitta’s gray whiskers poked out around that beautiful big nose, a nose which never lost its sharp instinct for smelling. I held off as long as I could, cancer had eaten a hold clear through Getta’s stomach, and I had to put her to sleep. I loaded her in and out of the van. She could no longer jump into the car as she once did. I too can’t get around like I use to and I understood the pain of slowing down. Gitta and I still yearned for those days of tramping through the countryside looking for birds.

In the last days of Gitta’s life, I had to grieve alone; my wife could not understand my loss. I cried and Betty was jumping up and down in glee. I said, “I can’t live without her. She was the greatest dog I ever owned.”

My precious gave me no sympathy and said, “Thank God I lived through it.”

At the vet’s office, in the last few minutes of Gitta’s life she spotted a high bred wolf dog and in one split second, Gitta pulled at my hold, ready to fight. I yanked back on her collar and she whined with yearnings for one last win; once an alpha, always an alpha dog in heart and mind.

As I have reached this time in my life, I look back and remember when I was ready to take on anything, anytime, and anywhere. I too have been tempered, can’t do the things I used to do, but mention hunting, I’m at the end of my tether. With my gun at my side, my hunting boots on my feet, decked in camouflage from top to bottom, inside out, I’m ready to hunt.

Bright and early every Saturday morning when Turkey Call America or any other such TV show flies into my scope, I take my trusty 12 gauge and aim and for that split second it is that moment of when only a hunter and his hunting dog dream.

The Final Brushstroke: Every dog has his day. Nourish your dreams; they are what you aspire to be.

“We grow great by dreams. All big men are dreamers. They see things in the soft haze of a spring day or in the red fire of a long winter’s evening. Some of us let these great dreams die, but others nourish and protect them; nurse them through bad days till they bring them to the sunshine and light, which comes always to those who sincerely hope that their dreams will come true.” Woodrow T. Wilson

Gentle giants

We are back to looking at the flowers in my garden of hues. We took a little detour to the butterfly garden and the bird feeder and now we are back to looking at flowers. Big red poppies come out the first of July and last two weeks. They are here and then gone. They are so fragile. Their stocks are strong but their blooms are frail. I have painted a bunch of these and I love to paint them in watercolors, oils, and acrylic.

Gentle Giants

This one is a watercolor on 300# paper, half sheet. I painted a large one like this and sold it, so I had to paint another one. Each one has a different look but the same subject. I paint loose and leave a lot of white in my watercolors. To get that loose rendering, most of it is done wet on wet. This means I apply clear water before I start.

I start with wetting down the top part of the paper. I add a little green or blue and on the right side I add a tint of orange. This one doesn't show it, but it feels transparent, (lots of water and a dab of orange) will make sunshine. It can not be opaque or it becomes flat instead of the feeling of  looking through it. You can't see sunshine, you just feel it. While the papr is wet I start with the top flowers, I add alizian Crimson and the wetness of the paper causes the lines to disappear.

Now, this is the trick, throw in coarse salt. When the sheen comes off the paper, add salt. That means the paper is still wet but not ina puddle.  If it is a puddle, then the salt will disappear. The salt will make crystals. Let it dry good before you brush the salt off.

Next step I wet the left side of the vase and do the same thing. This time I will add a little green foliage.  Poppy leaves are ragged fern-like spears. Be careful that when you add the water to the left side, carve around the white base.  The water serves as a boundary. You can drop any color in and let it fuse together, but the color will not go beyond the boundary.

The pot is another trick.  Wet the pot with clean water.  Add a little transparent blue to the right side, drop in a little pink as a  reflection.  You want it to look like white china, but you must put in shadows or the pot will be a flat white surface. Remember, save the whites, it is a white pot.

Basking in the sunshine!

This pot belonged to my Grandmother. It was a water pot with the bowl for washing. It is about 100 years old and is a treasure.