WISHING WELL MANIA...
Long ago, while driving home from work, I created and then self-administered a one-man survey. I'd been silent witness to the bizarre proliferation of wishing wells in the front yards of people, in and far beyond my neighorbhood, and I had begun to wonder: just how many wishing wells there might be per acre in the town I live in?
The result of that survey, taken nearly two decades ago, was astonishing: Along my six-mile commute from the town center to my home in the country, I counted no fewer than 26 wishing wells, standing like proud, inoperative sentinals on the well-manicured lawns of the residents who either built or purchased them for display.
This phenomenon befuddles me. I suppose I should wish them well, but I find that I simply cannot. To me, the wells -- well, not REALLY wells, just oddly designed pretenders to that designation -- seem like utterly senseless monuments to a long-gone past. If they actually worked, I would understand. But what good is a wishing well whose practicality one can only wish for? What are we to learn from the presence of these contraptions, popping up like mushrooms on steroids on the lawns of hard-working Americans, not just in New England but from Sea to Shining Sea?
Of course, a wishing well is mighty swell if you like having one, and I'm fully aware that it is our constitutionally guaranteed right, barring municipal laws against them, to have 50 of them waterless little buggers on our lawns if that's what will tickle our fancy. And in a part of the country where zoning is often seen as Public Enemy No. One, I can assure you that the wells are here to stay, probably for more centuries than I care to think about. Indeed, I have no doubt that visitors from distant, yet-to-be-discovered planets will study them and try to understand them.
Some communities are far less tolerant of such practices. There are suburbs in America whose residents are so upset about the intrusion of certain objects in their midst -- laundry actually hanging on clotheslines, for instance (tsk-tsk: I hung mine out just this morning!) -- that they've mandated government appointed lawn-and-laundry cops who travel about in funny little vehicles, lights spinning in distress, and actually levy fines on the miscreants for failure to honor the local statutes.
Now, having to live with that kind of municipal anality in any community would in my opinion be a dreadful development. I'm philosophically dead-set against the encroachment of such foolish, control-freak thinking into any neighborhood.
Indeed, I want the people in my town to be happy in every way that doesn't compromise either my rights or theirs. So bring on whole wooden armies of those wells if that's what lights your fire!
But consider the possible reasons for this inexplicable eruption of wishing wells across our fair country. One can only theorize, and I have done that on many occasions.
Possibility One: What a resident sees in a lawn-and-garden book becomes what he or she wants for her lawn. It may be a matter of keeping up with the Joneses. It looks so charming! The neighbors will love it!
Possibility Two: It reminds one of a simpler, more agrarian life, with less stress, less regimentation and more time to ... well ... lay in a hammock and admire all of the necessary monuments, so well designed and so delightfully reliable, performing their critical duties entirely on their own bucolic initiative.
But a wishing well that does nothing? I wish I understood why they're so popular. Sure, it's all well and good to have a wishing well, but then what? Just what is the appeal? There's the mystery, and I don't expect it will ever be solved.
Possibility Three: For the resident who covets a wishing well, it may very well be a work of art -- a found object of supreme beauty, bereft of any obligation whatsoever to explain itself, to be of any practical use, to justify its existence or to adhere to any extant theories of what constitutes beauty.
Now THAT argument I'm hearing, loud and clear!
For my money, though, one can only be thankful that someone has yet to ignite a craze for failed refrigerators -- or perhaps porcelain-deficient commodes -- planted majestically in their front lawns as the crown jewel of proud Queens in their Castles.
When one considers those possibilities, then a few wishing wells here and there -- perhaps sharing the lawn with a sprinkling of those plywood farm women, bending over to pick up God knows what from their yards, their solid wood husbands beside them proudly puffing on their imaginary pipes (sounds dangerous, doesn't it?) -- seems a harmless enough fetish for the culturally fulfilled.
I'm seeing fewer wishing wells now in my travels. Perhaps their diminution is telling me something. Might this be a sign that another, equally befuddling front yard fad is just around the corner?
I think I need to look on the bright side. What's coming soon at your favorite front yard might just be a fad that I'll fall head-over-wishing well in love with, and the neighbors be damned! One must find his happiness, and if that is a wishing well that doesn't work -- or a six-foot high plywood woodpecker or a parade of 13-inch plastic bears with cubs running behind them into the woods -- who can complain? The purpose of life is to experience pleasure, and there are infinite, entirely harmless ways to achieve that state of affairs.
You know what? I think I'll just stick with my trees and flowers, my birds and raccoons, and the poetic glint of a setting sun on the well-less little patch of lawn I call home. It's all well. And it's all good.
What's on My Mind Today...
Many years ago, while working as a free-lance magazine writer, I traveled to Philadephia and interviewed Buckminster Fuller, the philosopher, inventor, architect and visionary. My article was accepted by a newly created magazine in Maine, but the magazine folded before my article ever reached the press. The article lies buried in a manila folder now, but my memories of my encounter with Fuller have continued to inspire and influence my thinking ever since that interview.
Bucky Fuller, who invented the geodesic dome, the tetrahedronal truss and the Dymaxion car among his astonishing array of creations, wrote a great many books in which he offered both brilliant insights and sage advice.
I especially treasure one particular piece of advice he gave me both in his writings and during my interview with him. "Many people see naps as a sign of indolence and even laziness," he said. "But that's not necessarily true. I am a firm believer in the power of napping to clear the mind -- as if one had just wiped the writing from a chalk board -- and make room for fresh ideas. I actually nap several times a day. If you're in the middle of a problem and cannot find a solution, I strongly recommend that you take a nap. I've often solved the most difficult problems right after awakening from one of my naps."
Incidentally, after I had finished my hour with Fuller, I confessed that like anyone else, I was a fan -- not just a writer -- and would welcome a chance to have his autograph. I said that my daughter, who at the time was in the 6th grade, had written a paper about him and would especially enjoy having an autograph of one of her favorite creative thinkers.
He said, "What is your daughter's name?"
"Amy," I said.
He then grabbed a sheet of lined notebook paper and three pens, each with a different color ink. Hunched over his desk, intensely focused, he drew a freehand but wonderfully precise geodesic dome, signed it with a flourish, then handed it to me.
On the drawing he had written, "Once in love with Amy, Always in love with Amy -- that's me! -- R. Buckminster Fuller."
That wonderful drawing is now in my daughter's home in Cincinnati.
And when the drawing was complete, Mr. R. Buckminster Fuller stood up and said, "Well, I've got to pee, so this interview is over!"
And I went back to Maine with the drawing and the article notes in hand, forever changed by that momentous encounter.
Here, you have a stellar example of the power of sharing your gifts with others -- and of napping. Do both regularly, and you'll be better for it. And so will the people around you.
Ross Bachelder -- 12 5 10
Bucky Fuller, who invented the geodesic dome, the tetrahedronal truss and the Dymaxion car among his astonishing array of creations, wrote a great many books in which he offered both brilliant insights and sage advice.
I especially treasure one particular piece of advice he gave me both in his writings and during my interview with him. "Many people see naps as a sign of indolence and even laziness," he said. "But that's not necessarily true. I am a firm believer in the power of napping to clear the mind -- as if one had just wiped the writing from a chalk board -- and make room for fresh ideas. I actually nap several times a day. If you're in the middle of a problem and cannot find a solution, I strongly recommend that you take a nap. I've often solved the most difficult problems right after awakening from one of my naps."
Incidentally, after I had finished my hour with Fuller, I confessed that like anyone else, I was a fan -- not just a writer -- and would welcome a chance to have his autograph. I said that my daughter, who at the time was in the 6th grade, had written a paper about him and would especially enjoy having an autograph of one of her favorite creative thinkers.
He said, "What is your daughter's name?"
"Amy," I said.
He then grabbed a sheet of lined notebook paper and three pens, each with a different color ink. Hunched over his desk, intensely focused, he drew a freehand but wonderfully precise geodesic dome, signed it with a flourish, then handed it to me.
On the drawing he had written, "Once in love with Amy, Always in love with Amy -- that's me! -- R. Buckminster Fuller."
That wonderful drawing is now in my daughter's home in Cincinnati.
And when the drawing was complete, Mr. R. Buckminster Fuller stood up and said, "Well, I've got to pee, so this interview is over!"
And I went back to Maine with the drawing and the article notes in hand, forever changed by that momentous encounter.
Here, you have a stellar example of the power of sharing your gifts with others -- and of napping. Do both regularly, and you'll be better for it. And so will the people around you.
Ross Bachelder -- 12 5 10
The Privilege of Creativity...
For me, initiative, daring and drive, believing implicitly in the authenticity of my thoughts and emotions and trusting my creative instincts – while having the courage to question my own assumptions – are at the heart of the creative process.
Credentials can be very important as one navigates the sometimes treacherous waters of one’s particular discipline, but for me they’ll never be proof positive, either of one’s potential in a given endeavor or the quality of his work.
It is important, I think, to acknowledge that not everyone was meant to be credentialed, and that some of the finest minds in history have had no real credentials at all. What they DID have, however, was the energy and intellectual curiosity to drive them to ever higher levels of artistic expression. With or without the credentials I’ve acquired, I have always concentrated, not on claims of what I can do if given an opportunity, but on productivity – on diving headlong into my creative endeavors and getting things done.
The Arts provide all of us with a marvelous opportunity to express our reverence for life through words, music, images and movement. They also bless us with a uniquely human ability to share that reverence with people around the world, from every walk of life.
It is a distinct privilege to have gotten the training, and then the decades-long seasoning, to become another creative voice within the world-wide community of artists – a transmitter of all things beautiful. We can then proudly wear that artistry, like fine jewels or elegant clothing, as we travel about the globe, leaving our creative imprint on the hearts and souls of anyone who cares to see, to listen, and to absorb our message.
Me, The Writer...
Me, the Writer
I’ve traveled many unexpected roads as an artist and musician. The same has been abundantly true for me as a writer.
In high school I enjoyed writing as much as I enjoyed music, and with the help of teachers here and there I began to believe in my competence as a writer. As a college undergraduate I studied music formally and earned a degree in music with a performance emphasis, but continued to read and read in subjects far beyond the realm of music.
Occasionally I found opportunities other than in the classroom to express myself in words. By the time I was a sophomore in college, I had declared a minor in English and American literature while continuing to study the flute as a performance major. For this decision to study writing more formally, I had my music scholarships taken away from me – the first time I realized I could actually be punished for refusing to be a specialist in a world dominated by specialists.
So strong was my desire to read extensively and increase my competence as a writer, that instead of entering graduate school as a music major I became a graduate teaching fellow and earned a Master of Arts degree in English literature while continuing private, graduate-level instruction on the flute at the same university.
Since graduate school I’ve taught creative writing in three colleges. I’ve written tens of thousands of words in many different genres, demonstrating that I cannot be pinned down as a writer any more than I can be compartmentalized as an artist or musician. I’ve published magazine articles and poetry, reviewed plays, concerts and art exhibits for the Portsmouth Herald in New Hampshire, written and published essays, and written, produced and directed eight musical comedies and the more than 60 songs that went with them. I’ve also written columns for local newspapers, business proposals for creative people, thousands of press releases, and Arts-related documents too numerous and too varied to describe here. For me, writing in one genre or another – meeting all challenges as a writer as they present themselves – has been the happiest of compulsions.
I’ve traveled many unexpected roads as an artist and musician. The same has been abundantly true for me as a writer.
In high school I enjoyed writing as much as I enjoyed music, and with the help of teachers here and there I began to believe in my competence as a writer. As a college undergraduate I studied music formally and earned a degree in music with a performance emphasis, but continued to read and read in subjects far beyond the realm of music.
Occasionally I found opportunities other than in the classroom to express myself in words. By the time I was a sophomore in college, I had declared a minor in English and American literature while continuing to study the flute as a performance major. For this decision to study writing more formally, I had my music scholarships taken away from me – the first time I realized I could actually be punished for refusing to be a specialist in a world dominated by specialists.
So strong was my desire to read extensively and increase my competence as a writer, that instead of entering graduate school as a music major I became a graduate teaching fellow and earned a Master of Arts degree in English literature while continuing private, graduate-level instruction on the flute at the same university.
Since graduate school I’ve taught creative writing in three colleges. I’ve written tens of thousands of words in many different genres, demonstrating that I cannot be pinned down as a writer any more than I can be compartmentalized as an artist or musician. I’ve published magazine articles and poetry, reviewed plays, concerts and art exhibits for the Portsmouth Herald in New Hampshire, written and published essays, and written, produced and directed eight musical comedies and the more than 60 songs that went with them. I’ve also written columns for local newspapers, business proposals for creative people, thousands of press releases, and Arts-related documents too numerous and too varied to describe here. For me, writing in one genre or another – meeting all challenges as a writer as they present themselves – has been the happiest of compulsions.
Me, the Visual Artist
I’ve been painting and exhibiting only for about twelve years now. It didn’t take very long for me to realize that I was never going to be a specialist in the visual arts. I quickly discovered that I wanted to explore everything I could find the time and technique to explore as an artist.
Just as I mix musical genres when performing as the Flute Guy, I mix media in the majority of my art exhibits. I nearly always include drawings, paintings, photographs and found object assemblages in my shows. The mix of genres has become a portion of my signature as an artist, and while some galleries don’t approve of that approach to art, I am more than happy to include what I hope is a stimulating and thought-provoking potpourri of styles and genres in my exhibits.
As I see it, the perceived differences between abstract and figurative art have been greatly overblown. The debate over whether the two are more different than they are similar has raged for decades now, but one thing that binds the two approaches together is hard to deny: even a photograph or a super-realist painting is ultimately no more than a carefully calculated, often ingenious accumulation of shapes, volumes and textures, designed to trick the eye into to thinking we’re seeing the real thing, or at least its essence, which is probably more important.
Indeed, all art is ultimately no more than an immensely playful, finely tuned exercise in deception – of glorious make-believe – even as it is a grand human pilgrimage, an intellectually demanding adventure whose destination is discovery, illumination and understanding.
Like music, dance, literature and poetry, the visual Arts have the innate and incredible power to humanize the people they touch – to make of them creators rather than destroyers, builders rather than dismantlers, forces for kindness rather than forces for hurt. When we bring the Arts to bear on the lives of young children, we are helping prepare them to be thoughtful, considerate, sensitive, caring people – decent people who have the courage to question the presumptions of others – and themselves – while seeking excellence in everything they do.
Arts Multiple Explained...
The world needs and depends on both specialists and generalists in every intellectual endeavor, including the fine and performing Arts. Since my earliest years I seemed destined to be deeply involved in the Arts, but it has become increasingly clear to me – and to the people who know me well – that I was never born to be a specialist.
Temperamentally, I’m unusually well-suited for immersion in many art forms. I love to explore the connections between them. For me, the fine and performing Arts are an immeasurably vast, magical playground for those of us who cannot help but express our lives through music, the visual Arts and the written word. After many months of pondering over the dilemma of how I might more accurately describe my wide-ranging work in the Arts, I finally settled just last year on the term “arts multiple” as a way to describe myself to publicists and other people involved in or interested in the Arts community. I employ the term not in conversation but in writing. For me it offers a more positive, more constructive counterpoint to that pervasive, often pejorative idea that someone like me is little more than “a jack of all trades but master of none.” People who don’t specialize in any one endeavor are often thought to be “all over the place.” We don’t appear to be capable of “settling down” and “finding our destiny” in any one activity. Intellectually, it may appear on the surface of things that we have yet to “grow up,” either intellectually or creatively.
For some of us, the process of growing up intellectually and creatively can be a dangerous path that may very well lead to creative stasis. Even worse, it can lead us to work from a certain smug presumption that we’ve “arrived” and “learned everything there is to know” about our particular discipline. If that’s what growing up means, then I am thankful that I’ve yet to reach that maddeningly elusive goal.
I’ve been a free-lancer in the fine and performing Arts for as long as I can remember. For many years I’ve listened as people allude to me as a “Renaissance Man.” It started in earnest after I moved from the Midwest to New England, degrees in music and English literature in hand, without either formal employment or connections of any kind. Being quite incapable of remaining idle for more than a few minutes, I immediately found ways to be active as a writer, actor, musician and public speaker.
I wrote a weekly column for a local newspaper, addressing various social issues and reviewing books. I joined the pit orchestra of a local playhouse, acted in plays in Maine and New Hampshire and founded my own teen theater for which I wrote, produced and directed the musical comedies.
In the mid 1980s I founded Artful Endeavors, a consulting service for creative people in all walks of life. Since then I’ve gotten even more active in my creative work. In 1995 I became a professional picture framer, and four years later I founded an art gallery, the Franklin Gallery, adjacent to the frame shop I manage.
In that same year I got serious as an artist and began exhibiting my works in several media – drawings, paintings, photographs and found object assemblages – in galleries in Maine, New Hampshire and Massachusetts. Since then I’ve been exhibiting my art in group and solo shows ten or eleven months a year.
I’m active in art associations in Newburyport, Massachusetts (where I coordinated the abstract artists’ group in 2010) and Kittery, Maine (where I’ve founded a similar abstract and experimental artists’ group, the Seacoast Moderns, to serve southern Maine and Seacoast New Hampshire).
Temperamentally, I’m unusually well-suited for immersion in many art forms. I love to explore the connections between them. For me, the fine and performing Arts are an immeasurably vast, magical playground for those of us who cannot help but express our lives through music, the visual Arts and the written word. After many months of pondering over the dilemma of how I might more accurately describe my wide-ranging work in the Arts, I finally settled just last year on the term “arts multiple” as a way to describe myself to publicists and other people involved in or interested in the Arts community. I employ the term not in conversation but in writing. For me it offers a more positive, more constructive counterpoint to that pervasive, often pejorative idea that someone like me is little more than “a jack of all trades but master of none.” People who don’t specialize in any one endeavor are often thought to be “all over the place.” We don’t appear to be capable of “settling down” and “finding our destiny” in any one activity. Intellectually, it may appear on the surface of things that we have yet to “grow up,” either intellectually or creatively.
For some of us, the process of growing up intellectually and creatively can be a dangerous path that may very well lead to creative stasis. Even worse, it can lead us to work from a certain smug presumption that we’ve “arrived” and “learned everything there is to know” about our particular discipline. If that’s what growing up means, then I am thankful that I’ve yet to reach that maddeningly elusive goal.
I’ve been a free-lancer in the fine and performing Arts for as long as I can remember. For many years I’ve listened as people allude to me as a “Renaissance Man.” It started in earnest after I moved from the Midwest to New England, degrees in music and English literature in hand, without either formal employment or connections of any kind. Being quite incapable of remaining idle for more than a few minutes, I immediately found ways to be active as a writer, actor, musician and public speaker.
I wrote a weekly column for a local newspaper, addressing various social issues and reviewing books. I joined the pit orchestra of a local playhouse, acted in plays in Maine and New Hampshire and founded my own teen theater for which I wrote, produced and directed the musical comedies.
In the mid 1980s I founded Artful Endeavors, a consulting service for creative people in all walks of life. Since then I’ve gotten even more active in my creative work. In 1995 I became a professional picture framer, and four years later I founded an art gallery, the Franklin Gallery, adjacent to the frame shop I manage.
In that same year I got serious as an artist and began exhibiting my works in several media – drawings, paintings, photographs and found object assemblages – in galleries in Maine, New Hampshire and Massachusetts. Since then I’ve been exhibiting my art in group and solo shows ten or eleven months a year.
I’m active in art associations in Newburyport, Massachusetts (where I coordinated the abstract artists’ group in 2010) and Kittery, Maine (where I’ve founded a similar abstract and experimental artists’ group, the Seacoast Moderns, to serve southern Maine and Seacoast New Hampshire).
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