reviews – Notes of A Native Son

Post Cards From Rabbit Lane

In the spirit of gratitude, I write with a renewed sense of purpose. At this juncture of Juneteenth, the summer solstice, and my bEARTHday, I feel both the warmth of a new sun and the lull of evening’s tide. For this southern born artist, life is a color palette spread out on all sides. Although I am not immune to the rage of life’s realities, I live with the joy that the hues never fade. At least not for long.

I am often asked, as artist, who was my early inspiration to live as a creative. I can never cite a person from the onset. Before any character emerged from the plethora of paintslingers and wordsmiths, there was Mother Nature with her omnipresent bowl of colors, shapes, forms, and values set in a space of splendor that transcended time and drew no lines. She was my first, my present and my always. She nurtured my childhood curiosity causing crawdads to dart backwards and hummingbirds to hover in midair. The colors of the rainbow set ablaze on the sun-kissed backs of fish, the wings of Japanese beetles, and dewdrop misted morning leaves. She showed me all her colors and called me home to myself. I would sit in stillness soaking up her fragrance between whispers of wind and bird and frog symphonies. All that I do, in all of my effort is but a shadow of the her divine masterpiece.

Some time ago, I began to capture sunsets and rises on my phone. On long days, heading home I would debrief through golden wheat fields, oceans of soybeans, and corn that seemed to stand up in paise. Upon my arrival, the evening sun would wash the front lawn in a warm glow. I made a conscious decision that I would one day share those photos. Beauty, like love, should not be kept to oneself. The title came simple and immediate. Postcards From Rabbit Lane. They are not only visual notes about what I’ve seen, they are messages about what we can be, and how we can be, in this vast nature painted landscape. We get to choose our role and how we manipulate the elements to create what we will. At one point, I did not realize we had been entrusted with such power. Nature got my attention in more than one of her seductive ways and reminded me who I am, and whose I am. In all that I am, my goal is to honor my full purpose here on the planet. In that I find a peace that passes understanding. The divine lens puts everything in perspective. That makes for a pretty good picture.

And The GOAT Said To The Kid…Finale

I slept well for about 45minutes or so, got up, grabbed a bite to eat, and headed on out. The walk was only about a mile and some change to the Art Institute Auditorium from where I was living at the time. Right down in the loop, everything was pretty close. As I approached the building I saw the line to get in stretched to the corner. My anxiety kicked in. That was a long line and a lot of humans. What if I couldn’t get in? Would they run out of seats if I was at the end. I shushed the voices in my head and hit the back of the line. I was this close, yet it seemed so far. It was a bit too early for the line to move forward so it just grew, backwards.

Isn’t it crazy sometimes how when we get right up on what we say we want, the reverse gear feels so good in our hands. I’m thinking that may be a fear of success or our own light. Doubt starts creeping in like roots from some foreign species threatening to choke out our garden of dreams. Do something before they get too deep. Jar yourself outta that space however you have to. Action has a bit of magic in it. Looking around, I began to think about being inside the auditorium. Then a little voice in my head prompted me to head toward the door.

“Why…?” I countered. I couldn’t just go strolling past all these other people waiting in this stationary line. That would be rude. My Mama taught me better. Some had been there longer than me. Who was I to go traipsing to the front of the line? It was finally about time to go in. The line was still. If I moved, I couldn’t just reclaim my space again. “Excuse me, I had these big dreams but they didn’t work out. Could you let me cut line back in front of you?” If I left this safe space, it was all the way forward and in or all the way back. I peeled myself from my spot in line and began the walk toward the door. I could feel the yes on me. I didn’t stop ’til I was inside the double doors. The air was cool and inviting with no real smell. The low nap carpet muffled my footsteps. A woman walked over and asked if she could help me. I told her my name, and what the director had said. She turned, went to a table, came back and asked me to follow her. I was expecting to go to the door where people were gathered. Instead she lead me to a side door to our right away from the crowd. She pointed toward the front of the auditorium. “Anywhere down there if fine.”

“Anywhere..?” I repeated with a little disbelief and enthusiasm. “Anywhere.” She affirmed.

I stepped right down to the front row of the auditorium and sat down like I owned it. After taking in my surroundings, I called the friend and told her where I was in the auditorium. She couldn’t believe it. And to boot, the lady standing over me whose purse kept hitting my shoulder, was playwright and director, Cheryl Lynn Bruce – the wife of Kerry James Marshall. I stood up and joined the conversation, introducing myself like I was the speaker. We exchanged cards, had a laugh, and took our seats. I caught a glimpse of the other professor in the back; the one who told me there were no more tickets. My partner in crime soon joined me and we enjoyed the presentation to the fullest. A key message to the crowd, then to me specifically as KJM and I connected as Alabama native sons, was to continue and don’t be deterred.

Afterwards we chatted it up with Kerry James Marshall, Cheryl Lynn Bruce, and John White, son of Charles White. Our conversation lasted out the door into the tepid Chicago night air. The evening had gone even better than expected. Kerry’s words to me hit fertile ground. It was an honor to stand in the presence of an artist who has gained his level of accomplishment, holding true to his practice, and doing it on his message. I consider him the GOAT in that arena. He, in turn was taught and inspired by Charles White, a GOAT before him. It was one of those times when there was no doubt in my mind, what was possible, and where I am going. The kid eventually grows up. Stay the course, each step is a stroke toward your shine.

And The Goat Said To The Kid…

A few years ago, I had the honor of meeting and investing time with Kerry James Marshall, inspiration, fellow Alabama native son, luminary, and artist extraordinaire. Stay close with me now, because there are layers to this…

How I came to the meeting is a story all its own. When I arrived just before summer in Chicago that year, I intended to find and meet Kerry James Marshall. A day or so later, a friend shared with me that he would be speaking at the Art Institute of Chicago on June 21. At that moment, I knew I was in. I had already spoken and would consequently bear witness to the manifestation of my intent. Just go online, book my ticket and boom, done, ha.

That night, I settled in front of my computer musing over the fact that what I wanted had come so effortlessly and quickly. I followed the link only to find, at my dismay, large words across the screen that read – SOLD OUT. No, no, no I thought. I’m supposed to be there. I asked for it and the door opened. I’m supposed to walk right through. What is trying to be going on here. I felt anxiety mounting to frustration. Then I checked myself and found calm in the idea of just asking the program director or a professor about comp tickets. There had to be some…right.

The following morning I approached a professor and inquired about a ticket to the event. He was a major league gallery director, he had to have some horsepower. I saw his lips move but didn’t want to hear the words that came out of his face. After telling me what I already knew about Kerry James Marshall’s rock star status, he went on to tell me that there were no comp tickets. They had sold out in record time. No more tickets. My head spun a minute, then that thing kicked in. You know that thing in your gut that says, I hear you but… All I knew was that I was getting in. I’d called it. It had come. I was not going to miss out.

For the next few days I shared my resolve with everyone who would listen. I told a group of my cohorts that I was getting in even if I had to sweep the floors backstage or carry out their chairs. I was going to be in that auditorium, and it was no secret. And I kept saying it, every chance I got.

It was Wednesday, my bEARTHday, the day before the Kerry James Marshall presentation was to take place. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that he would be talking about another one of my favorite artists, Charles White, who in fact was my first inspiration in undergrad. Charles White’s 100 year retrospective exhibit was on view at the institute and his son was going to be on the panel. Man, If I didn’t get in… I hadn’t fully fleshed out my plan on how I would storm the Bastille. I just knew, by hook or crook, I was going to be in that building. I showed up early at the weekly Wednesday night artist talk and made my way down the center isle toward my usual second row from the front, to the left, middle of the row, seat. That generally put me square in front of the podium. At this late date and time, feelings of defeat were tugging at the hem of my faith. Tomorrow was the day…

TO BE CONTINUED…