I know you are, but what am I?

On National Coming Out Day

I never really had the chance to come out, since I never really had the "opportunity" to be in; some of us are more obvious than others. Obvious as what, though, hasn't always been so clear.

If you look at my life at all, and specifically my love life - slim file that it is - it gets confusing. Gay, straight, bi, some sort of transgender? How would I be labeled? Human consciousness and behavior isn't much subtler than that of other animals: we want to eat, have sex and, no matter how much we bellow and squawk, we're afraid of nearly everything. Our fear breeds our need to codify and label, to reassure ourselves with an illusory clarity. I've spent much of my life trying to find and fit a label for myself, discovering things about myself that felt definitive at the time, and then making declarations of "this is what I am". Only to realize soon after that, no, that didn't really explain it. Didn't explain me. I've never been a close fit with any of the clearly established categories of sexuality/gender, never really felt fully in synch with any of those groups. That's always been a cause of sadness and frustration for me; we all want to belong. (Especially when you're one of society's oddballs, and you don't even seem to fit in with any of the other oddballs.) But as you get older, if you're lucky, you stop struggling with things as much. Which often makes it easier to see what your particular truth is. And I've come to realize that I'm all of those things and none of them.

And knowing that helps me to recognize that, when it comes to sexuality and gender, most people are blended to some degree. Whether they know it or not, I don't believe anyone is 100% anything. Again, even if we're not aware of it, we also all make choices about how we present ourselves to the people we know and love, how we present ourselves in the world. I don't know if anyone is completely aware of their sexual response, completely integrated in their gender identity. So can anyone be completely honest about it?

Coming out - if you can, if you will - is about so much more than personal honesty, though. So much more than a brave act, a claiming of dignity and freedom. It's just as much a gift. A necessary and loving gift of expansion. To those who don't recognize anything other than their own preconceptions, and to those of us who fool ourselves into thinking we're fairly free of those things. When someone comes out - as grand or small a gesture as it may be - it gives all of us the opportunity to expand our feeble understanding of truth and reality. It's a reminder that all of us need to remember that nothing is ever really as simple as it seems. The world is incredibly complex - more than we can comprehend - and so are we. Each individual of us. I am me. You are you. They are them. And each of us is incredibly - perfectly - specific, just as one blade of grass is different from every other blade of grass.

New interview

I'm very happy to have been invited by novelist Laura Stanfill to be interviewed for her ongoing "Seven Questions" blog series. I really enjoyed answering the smart questions and, as I do more interviews where I'm asked to talk about my work, I'm getting a lot clearer, myself, as to why I do what I do. It's quite a privilege and a wonderful opportunity for me to be able to ponder my creative process. My focus is always on "production" - making the next painting - so it's great to just step back and observe what I'm actually doing. Thanks, Laura!

Post-Apocalyptic mutual admiration

We had a lovely time on Sunday evening, drinking champagne with two good friends - one of whom we'd never even met.

We'd met the other one, Rolfe, when he gave us a personal tour of one the penthouses that was part of 2009's Street of Dreams. He was one of the designers and had chosen a painting of mine as part of the decor. The apartment was wonderful; the response of color to the natural light was especially beautiful. I was so happy to have my work included in it, and Rolfe was charming and really very sweet to us, showing us around. After seeing his work and having some idea of his "eye", it didn't come as too much of a surprise that the house he and his husband, Stephen, assembled is amazing. I say "assembled" because that's really what it is: a rich blending of texture and patina, disparate, often salvaged, objects brought together and communicating in unexpected ways. Constantly evolving. Subtle and droll and very beautiful.

Just this year I started following Stephen's blog, Post Apocalyptic Bohemian. I can't actually recall how I found my way to it. But I've found it addictive. It's just my kind of thing: A blend of the very personal and social/historical commentary. And there's a lot of "born on this day in gay history", which I really love. I'm certainly no slouch in the history department, but Stephen always finds fascinating people to write about that are either new to me, or ones that he gives a new depth to. And often a lot of the enjoyment comes merely from knowing there are people out there in our silly, crude world who respond to and honor those things that are perhaps deeper and richer and more beautiful, the way Stephen does. And by writing about them, he's a sort of guardian, doing what he can so that the world doesn't forget. Doesn't forget our particular history, doesn't forget the artists who've given the world so much. And in a very real way, I believe that the way that Rolfe and Stephen live their lives, and the beauty they make and share as they go along, continues the line. Their example is so important to the nurturing and preservation of these often intangible things. Things that aren't any more than memory and sensibility and inspiration but that are, I believe, completely necessary to the health of our world.

Their house is relatively small and, even though their garden is, too, they've made a nice little paradise in the back. Perfectly chosen shrubs and flowers surround "the boy's fort", a continually evolving fair-weather nest, made of salvaged doors and shutters and old window frames. When we visited - last Sunday evening was lovely and warm - we sat out there and drank champagne. When we were leaving, Stephen grabbed some shears and cut exactly five stems of various things in the garden. The picture at the top of the page is those five in a vase - they arranged themselves - just the simplest, most elegant thing....

A day of birthday.

Yesterday was my birthday. Happy to say I didn't really have the hideous run-up depression I usually get every year as the day approaches; I just slid into this one. After hemming and hawing about whether I should call out, I went to work like I would any Friday morning - though I did wear a nicer shirt than normal; tea-colored linen. G and I walked together and talked and talked. (on Friday mornings we get to walk to work together, now; it's the only time in our workweek when we start at the same time.) During the day I did my work, my phone buzzing in pocket all day from all the lovely birthday greetings I was getting on Facebook.

(Say what you will about Facebook - and it is quite capable of sucking out huge segments of your daily life - the ease with which we can all be kind to each other there is a pretty damned lovely thing. And as much as I wrestle with my evil birthdays, if I were honest, I'd have to admit that I really do want a right regular outpouring of affection on that particular day. I do want to get that rush of knowing I'm appreciated or even loved. And then being able to send that affection and show of appreciation in the other direction, too. As childish as it is to wait until that 365th day of the year to tell someone they're special, I really do enjoy wishing someone a happy birthday. Saying, I really like and/or love you - thank God you were born, eh? And I don't think the ease of doing that on Facebook cheapens the gesture at all. With all of that said, after the much-appreciated love-fest of yesterday's birthday greetings, I'm practically jonesing today; doesn't anyone love me today?!)

When G and I got home, I puréed the strawberries we got at the farmer's market the day before, poured the gorgeous ruby-red mixture into glasses, and topped it with good champagne. Then I got to open my cards and my wee presents from G. (We aren't really supposed to give each other b-day presents, but I already broke the rules at her birthday, last month, so....) G's pretty lousy at keeping a secret, so I'd already guessed what my gift would be.

A few weeks ago, we bought up a large number of DVDs from a video store that was closing. We had brought in a list ahead of time - at their suggestion - and got almost all that we'd asked for. One of the few we didn't was Fellini's "8 1/2", and I vocally lamented that fact. So, when it became obvious what variety of present was coming - G said to ignore a package if it came and, when it did come, I found the Amazon box at the mailbox - I was pretty sure I knew what it was. But yesterday, there were two little wrapped, DVD-shaped presents. I had guessed right about "8 1/2" - yay! - but the other was a total surprise. "Babette's Feast", a movie we both adore but hadn't remembered to put on that list until it was too late. As our best, most frequent entertainment is watching movies in bed while eating yummies, what movie could be better? An inspired surprise, G!

Then we went across the street, sat outside, and had a lovely dinner. I won't go into all the evening's entertainments but, later - too late, as it turned out - I wanted to play with one of my new toys, as it were, and we decided to watch "8 1/2". About half-way through we both started to droop and drowse. Even the intervention of the chocolate dessert we'd brought home from the restaurant didn't help. We're both very ashamed of ourselves, but we had to turn in and go to sleep. (Oh, how we hate it when that happens!) We have seen it before, several times, but still we owe a big scusi to Fellini and his masterpiece.

[That was not exactly the most dramatic tale - fairly dull to read, I'm guessing - but I certainly enjoyed living it. My day. My life.]

Spring on the hill

Just got back from my first-of-the-season hike up in Forest Park. Beautiful. I was rather worried about how I'd fare; I haven't been to the gym in a few months, and the only exercise I've had has been when I could put down the paintbrush long enough for a brief, manful prance about the neighborhood. But I did very well. I accomplished that first, all-uphill mile with goat-y elan.

I got out much earlier than I did last year. I was able to negotiate the muddy bits well enough - I loathe mud - and there were still lots of dainty flowers blooming. Really too late for the trillium - I always miss them; it's the mud issue, don't you know - but there were a few latecomers, including one beautiful white one: small, precise, elegant. It appears I didn't require my inter-cranial Muzak, today. No Reynaldo Hahn waltzes, no moaning Bessie Smith - well, not until half-way through when "I used to be your sweet mama, sweet papa, but now I'm just as sour as can be" wedged itself, sideways, into my feeble dome. And it looped.... Until then, the sound of all the birds singing, and the tinkle of thin rivulets careening down the hillside was more than enough to make me a very contented fellow.

I saw very few people - which is always nice - but when I do, I find it interesting to see who will greet me and who won't. At least not unless I do it first. Men almost always do, running or walking. Women are harder to figure, though. Sometimes they will, sometimes they won't. It doesn't appear to be related to age or fitness level or apparent economic stature. But it does get easier to predict if they have a dog with them. Yes. I've done an exhaustive study and, after much data analysis, I've discovered that the more attractive the dog, the more likely its female owner is to say hello to me first. I don't know why this. But just today, I had additional proof.

On the return loop of my hike I passed a woman with a pretty little Cocker Spaniel. She smiled at me quite warmly and said hello. Just previous to that, I encountered two women with two really appalling looking dogs. I love mutts - prefer them - but these were the kind of dogs who looked put together from spare parts, who didn't so much have coats, but furry Cubist quilts. I'm sure they were very sweet dogs, but their owners had rather a different aspect. One glowered at me, while the other averted her eyes nervously. When I passed them and said hello, the glowering one garbled out the same back at me, through gritted teeth. It will take a bit more research, of course, but I begin to think there is a more specific connection: The less good-looking a women's dog, the more likely she is to see me as some sort of sexual sadist, or someone equally unfortunate to encounter in the forest.

Toward the end of my hike I saw, coming toward me, a handsome young fellow wearing nothing but small black shorts. He was only walking, but I'm aware that there is a trend right now for running barefoot, so I'm thinking that had something to do with his ostentatiously spare wardrobe. Pale skinned, with hair almost as dark as his shorts, the only other item attached to him was a small pack. Fastened at the chest - right under his pecs - rather than the waist. The pack itself must have been in the back, because the thin strap was all that was visible from the front. As he walked toward me, it looked like nothing more than that his black brassiere had slipped down, exposing his tiny nipples. He looked very calm and content - dreamy, even - loosely putting down one bare foot, then the next. The sun was in his eyes, but when he got close, he looked up and gave me a breathy, languorous "hi-i-i-i...." Fun.

I hope the weather continues like this a bit longer.

***

Note to mother-in-law: I had my phone. Mwah!

At the Ballet

Gigi and I went to the ballet the other night. We get in a fair amount of live performance, though dance isn't something we see very often. But we attended the opening night of Song and Dance, a program of four pieces put on by our own Oregon Ballet Theatre. A classic Balanchine piece, two contemporary pieces, including one set to rap and hip-hop, and the last piece choreographed to Cole Porter songs. As someone who is very "classical" in all things, it was a surprise that the two more traditional dances left me a bit cold, while I thought the "modern" ones were amazing.

Balanchine, of course, was the great God of twentieth-century ballet. Few, if any, are still more respected. My actual knowledge of dance is extremely limited, but my understanding is that the great respect - reverence - shown to Balanchine most often relates to the extreme purity of his choreography. Clean, cold, naked in its precise line. He set a lot of dance in a very long career; his earliest great work was with Diaghilev. I don't know how Square Dance rates in his oeuvre, but I have to say I couldn't really appreciate it. Set to Vivaldi and Corelli with a square dance caller, it seemed as though it should have been cheekily delightful - the caller certainly was - but it just wouldn't come together for me. Aside from one elegant solo by OBT principal Chauncey Parsons, most of the piece seemed like a strained-for joke. Nothing wrong with the company or performance, I just didn't care for the concept. Or the choreography - God help me for saying so!

The final piece, Eyes on You, was exactly what I suppose it was designed to be: a crowd pleaser. Set by the company's artistic director, Christopher Stowell, it was beautiful to look at. Limiting the "set design" to almost nothing but lighting - in a perfectly judged choice of alternating red, yellow, and blue - with nicely textured, thirties-style, all-white costumes - which was something far better than the cheesy pastiche period costuming one so often sees - it was a smart and attractive production. The dancing was well done, but I feel the choreography could have been sharper. This sort of number easily falls into "too cute" unless the choreography is really smart. Especially in dealing with the larger groups, there were several lost opportunities for patterning that could have taken this endeavor to a higher level. Grouped movement that began well, looked as though it was developing into...and then it didn't. I wonder why, so often in dance, the most exciting parts are the solos and duos; bring everyone on stage and things often go flat. Maybe choreographers should take a look at (non-dance-trained) Busby Berkeley's notebook on how to stage large-scale groups; it might not be "pure", but it might be a lot more effective. And how appropriate his exhilarating sort of patterning could be in something just like this, set in the thirties as it is.

The other two works of the evening I enjoyed immensely. Speak was two short, related pieces created by Trey McIntyre, a very hot property in the dance world. Blank stage, rap/hip-hop style costumes - I guess you'd call them that; what do I know? - a solo and a duo, it was just delightful. I don't pretend to understand how it worked, any more than I "get" the music used. But it was so obviously smart, funny, unexpected - and beautiful - that any understanding beyond the recognition of those qualities isn't really necessary, I think. It's so good, that that is enough. You get it.

The big highlight of the evening for me was Left Unsaid, an amazing piece for six dancers set to music for solo violin by Bach. Made up of vignettes that faded in and out - solos, duos, many different combinations of dancers - it was created by Nicolo Fonte, certainly a world-class choreographer, certainly a world-class piece. Very abstract, very spare, monochromatic, dimly lit - all things that I might find off-putting - I was simply overwhelmed by the beauty of it. Three chairs, three men's jackets, a screen at the back of the stage that went up and down slightly. That was the "set design". And the dancing was fantastic. Everyone. Exceptional dancing.



I don't know enough of choreography to be able to really explain what I experienced but, stepping away from the plain wonder of what the dancers were accomplishing, I kept thinking how fluid and un-repetitive it all seemed. So much dance - great or not - seems to have repetitive movement: strike a pose and repeat, strike a pose and repeat. And so many ta-da moments that seem designed to call attention to themselves. This was completely fluid, every movement led from one to the next and never seemed to repeat. Never called attention to itself. Even when it was dramatic or exceptionally beautiful each movement was completely integrated to the whole. At the same time, the choreography was often so incredibly intricate, the transitions and positions so unexpected, that I found myself holding my breath. From plain excitement.



And one of the biggest surprises for me, watching this very abstract, minimal work of art, was how moved I was by it. It really got to me. There was a feeling of story in the choreography, even if there wasn't one. And an expression of emotion in the movement - not at all acted out - that was accessed in the most subconscious way. It was so moving, and inexplicable in delivering the gift of that emotion. I love it when a work of art knocks me flat, and I don't even know how I got there!



As I understand it, the choreography is influenced by Fonte's practice of Iyengar yoga and takes some inspiration from the novel The Golden Compass. Neither of those elements is familiar to me. And are, honestly, totally unimportant to my experience. As I said of Speak, I don't think I needed to understand anything about this work. I just let it wash over me. And this performance of Left Unsaid was some of the best, most satisfying dance I've ever been fortunate to witness.

***

It wasn't until we got home and I read more of the program did I realize that principal Anne Mueller would be retiring as a dancer at the conclusion of this run. She danced in three of the four pieces we saw. All three incredibly different. And she was superb in them all. I don't know how old she is, but she's been with the company for fifteen years. And a still-young person can be a very-old dancer. But how do you give up something like that? Something that she's been living every day since she was a child, I'm sure. How do you just say, I'll stop now?

I can't imagine what it's like to be so attuned to one's body, to understand and be able to calibrate its exact placement in space. As someone who has such poor balance, who's so completely out of touch with his body - if you said to me, "quick, where's your left elbow!", it might take me a shockingly long time to come up with an answer - I just have to marvel at the amazing control and sensitivity a great dancer has in communion with his or her body. The language of movement, the language spoken by the body of a dancer is something I'll never be able to comprehend. And when I see really great dancing its beauty is almost terrifying to me. Which is a rather odd thing to say, I suppose. But there's always something for me about watching a great dancer in action - on stage or on film, classical ballet or Fred Astaire - that makes me think I could dance, too. The perfection of it and the seeming effortlessness somehow put the perverse belief into me that I could actually do that: the music swells and I elegantly rise and fling myself into glorious, effortless dancing. All around the room. Or down the street, like they do in the movies. I always have to struggle to tamp down this madness because, if I ever let loose and threw my real weight behind my incautious imagining, my ignorant body could really hurt itself.

Reprieve

I've been on a month-long leave from the day job; today was the day I was supposed to return. I took it so that I could spend a good chunk of time painting, to try and get a little bit ahead with my work. But the composition of my Tacoma Art Museum symposium talk took way, way more time than I expected. It was worth it in the long run - it went very well - but it took up three-quarters of my time off. So I asked my supervisors at work if I could have two more weeks, and they thankfully said yes. So now begins the two more weeks.

Besides just wanting to get more time to paint, the other reason for taking the leave was to try and figure out what it would be like to be a full-time artist, the life-style of the thing. I don't know that I'm really all that near to making that transition, but I still wanted to see how much work I could really produce if I didn't have to go to another job. And, maybe more importantly, to see if I could get an idea of the balance I could strike with art-making and non-art-making time. No artist can just sit and make art all the time. Even without having to break to go to a day job, you still have a life that needs to be integrated with the time used for art-making. And if I spent all my time painting, I'd just go nuts. So what would a balance look like? I hope to get some sense of that in the next two weeks.

Hugh

My uncle Hugh died this morning. My father was the eldest of the four boys. Hugh was the youngest; his brothers always called him "Baby Hughie". He was a talented baseball player in his youth, and played professionally for a time. But for almost his entire adult life he suffered from untreated mental illness. I don't know if he was ever actually diagnosed, but he was almost certainly schizophrenic. His particular "mania" was a far-beyond-conservative Catholicism. He was always quiet, self-effacing but engaged within the family group. For years he picketed outside the "abortion clinic" at NW 24th and Lovejoy. It appears he did that quietly as well. At least he never got into any trouble that I know of. And because he didn't cause any actual trouble - to himself or others - there was nothing the family could do to get him help; you actually have to make some sort of disturbance or endangerment in order for the authorities to intervene. No one in the family had been able to get him to seek help, himself.

A college graduate, for years he worked at menial jobs - I think he was a dishwasher at Good Samaritan for a long time - but, as I understand it, he would make people uncomfortable with his talk about religion, and had difficulty keeping a job. I believe that for the last several years he wasn't working; his brothers helped him out financially, and I think he may have been getting disability. Sometimes he would show up at family events, other times not. His clothes were always pretty ragged. And we were disturbed by how unhealthy he looked. I have no idea how he spent his days.

I never knew Hugh, really. While I was growing up, we only rarely lived near the rest of our extended family. And when I finally moved back to Portland, he was too far lost to his illness. I hadn't felt any real connection to him, so I didn't make any effort to get to know him better and maybe involve myself with his life or problems. Honestly, no one in my immediate family got very involved with the situation. We left it to his brothers - including my dad, before his death - to worry about.

My mom called on Monday evening to tell me that she'd just found out that Hugh was in the hospital and wasn't expected to live much longer. It seems he'd had untreated prostate cancer for years, and it had spread throughout his body. She went to visit yesterday and told me today that he'd been just barely still hanging on, so she wasn't surprised to hear, this morning, that he'd died. I want to say that he lived a sad, wasted life, and that's it's some sort of blessing that he's at peace now, but what do I really know about it? I think he probably wasn't happy, but what would he have said? It's not my question to answer. But I can say that the way he left his life helps deepen my perspective on the way his big brother did so.

Ever since my father's death, all of us in my immediate family have agreed that the way he died - instantly, unexpectedly, with none of us there - was the way he would have chosen. That he wouldn't have been able to bear being sick and incapacitated, and - as he would have seen it - a burden on any of us. And it would have been horrible for us to see him suffering that way. If we, in any way, choose an accidental death, he chose his. He was happy, having a fun bike ride with his friends, and then he was gone. As hard as the loss has been, knowing that has been a big comfort to us all.

Seeing Hugh after my father's death was difficult for me and, especially, my mom. Because Hugh looked so much like my dad. To see him ravaged the way he was was really disturbing; it was like seeing my father that way, too. When my mother saw Hugh at the hospital yesterday, she was really struck by the resemblance again. She said it was like she watching my dad dying. And she said to me over the phone today that it made her so grateful that my dad never had to go through that, was spared the indignity of it. That since he had to die - and we agreed that we're all headed there, sooner than we'd like - she was actually glad that it happened as it did.

There was a lightness in her voice, talking about it, that was different from what it's been in the almost four years since my dad's been gone. She seemed so much more sure of the unexpected rightness of this thing that has utterly changed her life and caused her such pain, seemed so much more healed. In my way, I feel the same. I'm my father's son, not his wife, so it's a very different map of progress. And as time goes on, I miss him more, not less. But I'm still surer of the blessing of the way he died. And I want to thank my uncle Hugh for helping us to be sure.

Finished and ready to roll

I think I'm finally done pulling at and tweaking my presentation for this Sunday's symposium, The Figure in Contemporary Art, at the Tacoma Art Museum. Approximately forty minutes and one-hundred and eighty some powerpoint images in length, putting this together has nearly done me in. I've been saying, maybe if I had gone to art school - any college, really - I might have had to put together this sort of thing, learned how it works. But I came to this completely unprepared and ignorant.

How to you tell everything you think about your art? How you developed as an artist? Your feelings and thoughts about art, in general? I've taken a month-long leave from work to get ahead with my painting and here I am, three weeks in, and all I've been working on is this presentation. Working on it day and night. Not sleeping very well. Alright, I'm obsessive.

I mentioned to G the other night that I'd been thinking recently about how weird it would be if either one of us was with someone who wasn't as obsessed with their work as both of us are. Someone who wouldn't work and work until they finally felt they'd got it right, like we do. Someone who said, "Oh, that's good enough", when it wasn't, really. "No sweat." "It doesn't really matter." I can't imagine. In a lot of ways, it would probably be much healthier to not be so fixated on "getting it right". But what G and I both work at isn't a group effort, where the individual isn't always crucial to the end product. If you're writing something or painting something that only you can do, that is so personal and singular that, in a way, it says who you are, how do you find an easy place to compromise?

Well, anyway, I think I've got this thing together as best I can. G has been an enormous help, reading and listening and watching. She even skipped class last week so she could help me edit. She's been wonderfully tough, and I've made almost every single cut she suggested - and very happy for it, too. She'll sit again, tonight, while I run through the whole thing once more; it might be the last time before the actual event. It feels good to be on this side of the process. I'm nervous, of course, but I'm looking forward to Sunday.

And, now, what I really need is a manicure!

Writing women and the generous community

I'm married to a writer. I never knew writers before. And now I get to be around them a lot. I'm an artist, of course, but I've never really socialized much with other artists; never actually felt part of the "tribe". So it's been a revelation to experience the warmth and camaraderie that I routinely witness within the writing community here in Portland. I don't know how other writing communities are; maybe Portland is the exception. Here, writers come out to hear writers read, big or small readings. I see well-established authors, with multiple books published, and relative novices at the same events. Often reading at the same events. Sharing contacts, happy to put in a good word with an agent or publisher for someone trying to get ahead. Sadly, a lot of the people who've "made it" in their careers are afraid of others getting too much success in the same field. But I never see that here. And I see very little sign of hierarchy. But I see such generosity, always.

I've read a lot lately on the status of women in the Arts. It's shocking how they get published less, performed less, shown less. Ironically, the vast majority of the writers - and published writers - I know or are acquainted with are women. Such fantastic writers. As supportive as the writing community is, here in Portland, the writing women are maybe even more so. They are so kind to each other, they give each other time and smart advice, they are so amazingly available to each other. I'm afraid - as a man, after all - to muddle my way into speaking about the nurturing natures of women, but that's what I see so much of, honestly. The writing women who have been published, wanting so much for those who haven't been to have that, too. There isn't a feeling of scarcity; there's enough for everyone. "Here, look, I made this beautiful cake. It's so damned good! Have a piece; I'll give you the recipe."