April 27, 2022
Such a beautiful day to open up blogger.com, get my thought bucket in order, then work on understanding this thing called blogging.
Why not? I say, WHY NOT?
I'm just practicing the mechanics, so don't take the content seriously!
A Closer Look at the Author of A Closer Look at Ariel: A Memory of Sylvia Plath
I'd like to know if Steiner wrote other books that I could track down and read. It seems to me a shame — a truly unjust literary loss — that she's not remembered more as a writer of consummate ability.
As I see it, A Closer Look at Ariel was breathtakingly well written, not just for its writerly sophistication but for its powerful insights into Plath, with whom she lived at Smith College for two years before Plath committed suicide at the age of 29. Steiner, whose work we hear very little about today, was also a terrible loss to the world of fiction and poetry, merely by virtue of our many decades of inattention to her.
Plath’s highly praised novel, The Bell Jar, helps us understand just how great were her gifts as a writer. And along with A Closer Look at Ariel, it provides us with a brutally honest look at how her ways of thinking, her emotional fragility, and her self-destructive behaviors finally led her to such a tragic, untimely death.
— Ross Alan Bachelder 3/22/21
THE LIVES WE LIVE: March 12, 2021
Dear Fellow Residents of Wildly Spinning, Climate Impaired, Atrocity Teeming Planet Absurdity,
If as we stand on the precipice of -- thank the God of Your Choice, a TRUMP-LESS spring -- and if you're still mourning the passing of that previous, sorry excuse for a President -- or if you actually believe Biden's just a cardboard cutout and Mr. Pitiful is still the Leader of the Free World -- and Democrats eat babies at the Church Supper -- then TRUST ME, my "friends": this is not the blog for you.
Class is over. You're dismissed! Darth the in-Vader is gone! Mr. Essence-of-Competence ROGERS is in charge now, and he is NOT the weakling those gutless, self-serving ultra-conservatives think he is!
In just 50 joyous, astonishingly productive days, the Biden/Harris team, with the invaluable assistance of the caring, FULLY QUALIFIED appointees inhabiting every nook and cranny of the administration, have accomplished more than spoiled-rotten, silver-spooned Bully-BoyTrump and his grotesque enablers have accomplish-ed in their entire wasted, poisonous, narcissistic, money-grubbing lives.
I'd begun to worry -- quite constantly, really -- that I was destined to kick the proverbial bucket while Trump was still "in charge" of things, spoiling a perfectly good Departure and leaving a VERY BAD TASTE in my frowning, disillusioned, posthumous pie hole.
But NO! It didn't HAPPEN, and I'm beyond elated to announce, this morning, that justice has been done and I expect to check out of this struggling Spherical Nut House with a warm, satisfied smile on my face. Why? Because the Scranton Lone Ranger and his Courageous, magnificently well-qualified California Tontella, have come to the rescue!
Now: I sincerely hope that every one of you -- even those with a very different political mindset from the one I so obviously have -- will seize the moment and take advantage of this wondrous, soul-healing turn of events by bearing down hard on the best and most honorable parts of you and then then showing everyone around you, by the way you conduct yourselves, that you actually CARE for and want the BEST for your fellow humans. Joe and Kamala did it, and SO CAN YOU!
-- Ross Alan Bachelder
The Lives We Live, January 9, 2021
Saturday, January 9, 2021
Good Morning, my fellow Americans.As I begin writing this commentary, Donald J. Trump, whose Twitter account has been mercifully, permanently terminated, lies in the White House bedroom -- probably, God Help Us, in Lincoln's very own bed -- trembling, like a bad bowl of Jell-O, with anger and indignity, fear and foreboding.
Where, he wonders, will he be come January 21st? Will he be languishing in jail? Will he be puking out his beloved diatribes on a brand-new platform, funded by QAnon and his corporate Fat Cats and ardently read by his ragtag army of gun-toting, flag-shaming, bully-brained sycophants?
Perhaps he'll simply be in Solitary Confinement, holed up for All Eternity in Mar-a-Lago, his tastelessly conceived, obscenely opulent bunker down in West Palm Beach, making his daily deposits -- his foul-smelling, trademark articulations -- into his gold-plated porcelain halo. All of this while staring reverently at his beloved, ridiculously pretentious, narcissistic self portrait.
I've faith that we as a country will finally be cleansed of this amoral, culturally illiterate blight on the once-loved, once-admired United States of America. And with any luck, the worst of his cowardly, ass-kissing enablers -- the Millers, the O'Connell's, the Cruz's, the Giuliani's, the Donald Trump, Jr's of the world -- will be flushed down the drain with him, never to be seen or heard from again.
But until we've rid ourselves of Trump and his hideous posse of heartless tyrants, we must remember that we as individuals have work to do -- work that's no less important than the work of purging our Democracy of its poisons, then working tirelessly to hold it together and keep it pure.
We have families to love and care for; aspirations to achieve; dreams to come true; and perhaps most importantly, our own unique, invaluable intellects to nurture. We cannot allow the scourge of the Trump family ethic -- its astonishing greed, self-indulgence, and rank materialism -- to deprive us of our inalienable rights and hard-earned pleasures.
Is there a work of art you've always wanted to paint? Is there a disease you hope to conquer? A class full of students you want to teach? An environment you want desperately to clean up and make livable again?
Don't let the Trumps and Giuliani's of the world stop you! Your intellect and your idealism are as much in need of maintenance as your physical self! You're ultimately responsible for whoever you choose to become -- whatever you wish to accomplish -- so make it a Thing of Beauty!
And while you're at it, my fellow Americans of every kind, color and political conviction, be kind to your friends, your relatives and all of the many people you pass on the street on a given day. And find a way, on every one of those days, to bring dignity and decency to yourself and everyone around you. ◼︎
-- Ross Alan Bachelder, Berwick, Maine
PS: We love you, Mary Trump, for having the extraordinary courage to Tell it Like it Really Is.
Looking for a richly deserved escape from POLITICAL MADNESS & COVID OBSESSION? look HERE!
October, 2020
Berwick, Maine
How about trying REVENGE: Tales Best Read in the Twilight Hours, my recently released collection of twelve dark tales crammed full of gallows humor, colorful characters both odious and delightful, and enough sex, violence, and fictional intrigue to keep you on the edge of your chair--or bed, if that's what you'd prefer--until sunrise!
REVENGE: Tales Best Read in the Twilight Hours is available now on AMAZON and at dartfrogbooks.com, in kindle, paperback, and hardback editions.
My first book, Happy Dawg Walks the Sad Man: The Remarkably Varied Adventures of a Confirmed Arts Multiple -- released in 2016 -- is also available on AMAZON. In it are 20 informal, true-life commentaries on my more than 50 years of immersion in the fine and performing arts; nine whimsical short-short stories; and more than 80 illustrations.
I'm currently working on a third book -- a novel titled Cecelia by Moonlight: The Problem with Intelligence. Set in the mid- to late 60's, it's the story of Cecelia Middling, a precocious, highly sensitive young woman whose immature, self-absorbed parents don't take anything about her seriously. They've failed to recognize her many gifts, making it next to impossible for her to make good on her dreams and aspirations.
I hope you'll have a look at both of my available books, then consider taking them into your life as strong medicine for what ails all of us at this most difficult time in our country's history.
-- Ross Alan Bachelder
Artsmultiple@gmail.com
Dateline 9/5/20: Ross Alan Bachelder's latest book is now available on Amazon, at DartFrog Books in Manchester, Vermont, and at The Freethinker's Corner in Dover, New Hampshire
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| Published by AENE (Artful Endeavors New England) of Berwick, Maine, in coordination with DartFrog Books of Manchester, Vermont |
Ross Alan Bachelder's latest book, Revenge: Tales Best Read in the Twilight Hours--a collection of twelve hard-hitting, dark and yet colorful short stories, laced with joyful wordplay and trenchant humor, is now available--in Kindle, Paperback, and Hardbound editions -- on Amazon and at DartFrog Books in Manchester, Vermont.
"This is unquestionably a collection readers
won't easily forget." -- KIRKUS REVIEWS
"In Revenge, author, artist & musician Ross Alan Bachelder presents his readers with a compelling, deliciously creepy array of stories built to scare,
replete with trenchant humor, and crammed full of insights into the frailties of psyches both animal
and human." -- SARAH PORTER BOUDREAU, Farmer, Environmentalist, and Renaissance Woman, Winslow Farm, Falmouth, Maine
The Paperback edition is also available at The Freethinker's Corner
on Central Avenue in Dover, New Hampshire. Go online for hours and availability.
We hope you'll check out REVENGE, and we can't help thinking
you'll be glad you did! (RB & DartFrog)
VIRTUAL BOOK LAUNCH COMING SOON!
WATCH FREE THINKER'S CORNER (ONLINE)
FOR THIS AND OTHER FINE EVENTS!
A Walk along Penny Pond Trail in Berwick ...
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| Berwick, Maine Public Library: at the corner of Old Pine Hill Road and Sullivan Street. |
It makes sense for me to share a few of my trail-walking observations with you, but first, I want to commend the nature writing class of Kate Gardoqui and Parker Cavallaro at Noble High School for creating the attractively designed, remarkably informative signs you'll see along the trail. It's great to know we have teachers and students in our schools sufficiently trained, motivated, and inspired to bring their enthusiasm for learning out of the classroom and into the community for the enrichment of us all.
To get to Penny Pond Trail, you need only walk out of the library's main entrance, move swiftly across the lawn to the right of the library, and step directly onto Sullivan Street. Walk to the right, and a short way down Sullivan, on the left, you'll see the entrance to the Trail. If you don't stop along the way to explore, you'll be able negotiate the entire length of the Trail in about 15 minutes, following the red-marked trees. If, on the other hand, you decide to make the smart choice and look more closely, you'll easily finish your trek in less than an hour. And whether you explore it or not, the end of the Trail will drop you off between two lovely homes and directly onto Dobson Road. Turn right on Dobson, and you'll soon be in downtown Berwick!
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| One of the informative, attractively designed signs along Penny Pond Trail. |
It may be Spring, but as of March 23, the trails -- including the various ramps, installed not long ago by the local Boy Scout troupe and their leaders to help visitors avoid waterlogged shoes -- are still covered with snow from the little Springtime Surprise that recently blanketed the area. So if you walk Penny Pond Trail now, be sure to wear smart shoes for the occasion. And watch your step!
"Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better." Albert Einstein's inspiring words are a reminder to all of us that our world is a fabulously multi-faceted classroom, and learning occurs wherever we have either the wisdom or the dumb luck to plant our feet and activate our senses. That includes Penny Pond Trail and everywhere else in Berwick. So how, I must ask, can anyone fairly cry "boredom" and claim there's "nothing to do" in our town!
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| The River Runs Through It -- (through Penny Pond Trail, that is!) |
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| The Mystery of Penny Pond Trail: What can it be? |
Penny Pond Trail, I've been told, is only the beginning of an exciting project to establish an ambitious network of trails leading to the rapidly changing downtown area of Berwick. This fact -- along with the prospect of transforming the onetime Prime Tanning facility into an aesthetically appealing cultural and mercantile destination; the dramatic improvements in downtown Somersworth; and the long-anticipated completion of that beautiful bridge between the two neighboring towns -- cannot help but put a smile on the faces and a glow of accomplishment in the hearts of the citizens of Berwick.
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| This Sign Leads to ... Learning! |
In one of the signs you'll find along the Trail, teachers Kate Gardoqui and Parker Cavallaro have recommended an excellent guide to exploring any natural environment, including Penny Pond Trail. It's Reading the Forested Landscape by Tom Wessel, Brian D. Cohen and Ann H. Zwinger. The book is available on Amazon, but check first with your local bookstore or the librarians at BPL. Melissa Saggerer, Lyn Rouff and Co. will be more than pleased to help you with this and other relevant outdoor exploration titles.
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| It's Springtime at Penny Pond! Picnic, anyone? |
And just think: If you wait a few days, you'll be walking a snow-free trail. Along the way, overlooking Penny Pond, you'll find a picnic table, waiting just for you! Bring binoculars, smart shoes, insect repellent, your friends and family, and your very own intellectually curious mind. And once you're done exploring, you can go straight back to Berwick Public Library and borrow even more stimulating, informative books! Call BPL at 207-698-5737 for Hours and Information.
Nothing to do in Berwick? Surely you jest!
-- Essay by Ross Alan Bachelder
March 23, 2016
artsmultiple@gmail.com
My Man Vincent, from the Camera and The Brush...
May 20th, 2014
For the past six weeks I've been writing about one of my most beloved artists, Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890), as the subject of just one of the more than 20 chapters in the book I'm working on, scheduled for publication later this year.
Until recently, I didn't think to look for a photograph of Vincent as a full-blown adult, probably because (1) I don't recall having seen one in any of the books and articles I've read about him over the years, and (2) because I didn't really think a photo of him in his later years actually existed.
So this evening I was delighted and then moved to discover a truly
magnificent photographic portrait of Van Gogh, taken in 1886 by photographer Victor Morin when Van Gogh was 35 years old and just four years away from his tragic death in 1890.
Last month, while researching for the Van Gogh chapter of my book, I had a closer look at yet another irreplaceable treasure from the timeless story of Van Gogh: an oil portrait by John Peter Russell, also created in 1886 and depicting Vincent in all his High Dutch elegance, scowling toward an audience that hardly existed for him, at a time when he was fast approaching the zenith of his powers as an artist.
One can't help wondering if the elegance in that portrait was genuine, or merely an intentionally flattering, grandiose figment of Russell's imagination -- and Van Gogh's, too.
Genuine or not, what a magnificent portrait of him Russell painted! And Morin's photograph is just as powerful and psychologically probing as the painting. Both are full to overflowing with Vincent's unmistakeable melancholy, with his fatalistic view of himself and his prospects as an artist, and with a disturbing sense of his own imminent doom. Both images offer evidence that one can be strikingly handsome -- even noble in demeanor -- while in the throes of terrifying self-doubt and the deepest of depressions. But it's not really possible to hide such suffering entirely from the contemporary viewer -- especially because of the voluminous knowledge we've gained over the years from his letters to Theo and the formidable accumulation of well-researched, highly intelligent books about his life and art.
When looking directly into the eyes of both the photograph and the portrait, I can't help but wish I were sitting across a table from him at some starlit cafe in Paris or London, sipping absinthe (or something considerably less potent, of course) and -- knowing what I and thousands of others know of his creative genius -- reminding him that he really is a gifted artist -- assuring him he really is a good and decent man -- and admonishing him to understand that if he'll only buck it up, ignore his detractors and believe in himself, he'll one day be famous beyond his wildest imagination.
It's really true, Vincent! It really did come to pass. Now we can only hope, in our dreamier moments, that some day there'll be a way for you to learn just how beloved you really have become. Then you can just sit back, take a deep breath, marvel at the sheer volume and surpassing brilliance of your own inimitable accomplishments, and then laugh, loudly and with well-deserved satisfaction, at all those legions of people who didn't think you actually had it in you.
For the past six weeks I've been writing about one of my most beloved artists, Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890), as the subject of just one of the more than 20 chapters in the book I'm working on, scheduled for publication later this year.
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| Vincent Van Gogh, 1886 (Photograph by Victor Morin) |
So this evening I was delighted and then moved to discover a truly
magnificent photographic portrait of Van Gogh, taken in 1886 by photographer Victor Morin when Van Gogh was 35 years old and just four years away from his tragic death in 1890.
Last month, while researching for the Van Gogh chapter of my book, I had a closer look at yet another irreplaceable treasure from the timeless story of Van Gogh: an oil portrait by John Peter Russell, also created in 1886 and depicting Vincent in all his High Dutch elegance, scowling toward an audience that hardly existed for him, at a time when he was fast approaching the zenith of his powers as an artist.
One can't help wondering if the elegance in that portrait was genuine, or merely an intentionally flattering, grandiose figment of Russell's imagination -- and Van Gogh's, too.
 |
| "Portrait of Vincent Van Gogh" by John Peter Russell |
When looking directly into the eyes of both the photograph and the portrait, I can't help but wish I were sitting across a table from him at some starlit cafe in Paris or London, sipping absinthe (or something considerably less potent, of course) and -- knowing what I and thousands of others know of his creative genius -- reminding him that he really is a gifted artist -- assuring him he really is a good and decent man -- and admonishing him to understand that if he'll only buck it up, ignore his detractors and believe in himself, he'll one day be famous beyond his wildest imagination.
It's really true, Vincent! It really did come to pass. Now we can only hope, in our dreamier moments, that some day there'll be a way for you to learn just how beloved you really have become. Then you can just sit back, take a deep breath, marvel at the sheer volume and surpassing brilliance of your own inimitable accomplishments, and then laugh, loudly and with well-deserved satisfaction, at all those legions of people who didn't think you actually had it in you.
Newburyport Lock-up and Other Arcanities...
Like each of us, no city has just one personality.
Take Newburyport, Massachusetts, for instance. They've the sprawling wharf strung along Newburyport Harbor, the bustling post-Victorian downtwon business district, The Fire House Center for the Arts, The Newburyport Art Association, The Screening Room and the recently re-configured Fowle's Restaurant, a treasured local icon.
But have you looked beyond the usual tourist-feeding attributes of this proud, self-consciously trendy city with its street-by-street panorama of sea captain houses and rich nautical history -- beyond the quiet splendor of Maudslay State Park or the intellectual vigor of Plum Island's renowned Joppa Center? One must see the neglected nooks and crannies of a city to fully comprehend and appreciate its esthetic thumbprint.
Think small. Think of long-neglected, out-of-the-way things -- things created not by MFA-driven artists or Chamber of Commerce drum-bangers but by the day-by-day, prosaic warp and woof of a society unselfconsciously maintaining and improving itself -- and you'll have discovered a new and exhilarating way of taking the fullblown pulse of a community -- a place that's always much more than what the slick, profit-hungry travel brochures say it is.
[Commentary in Progress... 11 27 12]
Take Newburyport, Massachusetts, for instance. They've the sprawling wharf strung along Newburyport Harbor, the bustling post-Victorian downtwon business district, The Fire House Center for the Arts, The Newburyport Art Association, The Screening Room and the recently re-configured Fowle's Restaurant, a treasured local icon.
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| "Newburyport Lock-up" Photo by Ross Bachelder, 2012 |
But have you looked beyond the usual tourist-feeding attributes of this proud, self-consciously trendy city with its street-by-street panorama of sea captain houses and rich nautical history -- beyond the quiet splendor of Maudslay State Park or the intellectual vigor of Plum Island's renowned Joppa Center? One must see the neglected nooks and crannies of a city to fully comprehend and appreciate its esthetic thumbprint.
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| "The Shadow" Photo by Ross Bachelder |
[Commentary in Progress... 11 27 12]
My One White Intrepid Flower
There,
High up on the exalted green perimeter
Of the Ornamental Garden,
Stood one white intrepid flower,
Surrounded by her yet-to-be-born sisters,
Blushing at her own unscheduled audacity
While drinking from the warm, sweet reservoir
Of an early summer sun.
Why she,
The one white blossoming flower
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| "Girls with White Flowers and Lanterns" Painting by Singer Sargent |
Chose to be so courageous
While the others kept their distance,
Lacking the necessary resolve,
Is just one more manifestation
Of that Great Unanswered Question,
The Mystery of Life.
Or perhaps
She simply responded,
Without any need for coaching,
To the Siren Call of Being,
Deciding then and there that
One cannot wait for others
Who might not be quite ready
For the flowering of their souls
Or the delicate scent
And ravishing color
Of their own
Inimitable,
Unspeakable,
Irresistible
Beauty.
Ross Bachelder
June 19, 2012
Writing Letters the Old Fashioned Way: Is It Really That Old Fashioned?
Let's talk about letters. No, not letters of the alphabet, but letters that in the early days were written by people who then closed the flap, licked and applied a three cent stamp and walked down the street, where they then slipped them into the slot of that familiar cast iron blue box on a post, after which they were sent to Post Office Central, sorted out by the hands of actual humans, then sent on their way to some happy recipient. Well, not always happy. After all, letters, like the people who write them, cannot all be alike.
We were once a nation of letter writers. For centuries, the art of epistolary expression was an indispensable component of the conduct of our daily business affairs. It was also the well-worn and much-anticipated pathway to the hearts and minds of people in distant lands. Of course, a few scant decades ago, before impatience and speed became the chief characteristics and inalienable right of men and women in the Modern Age, the idea of "distant" could be a mere five miles away, and one depended on the letter to keep in touch -- to hold together the tenuous fabric of a valued relationship.
Using a sheet of fine paper, a cherished fountain pen and the fruits of years of tutoring in the art of writing in cursive, we wrote letters to thank people for kindnesses or to register our anger over some egregious challenge to our sense of fair play and integrity. We wrote them to praise and persuade, to ask favors, to celebrate births and marriages or lament the passing of a loved one. And for centuries, men suffering from fear and loneliness have written letters from the War Front to loved ones desperate for assurance that the writer would make it home alive and well. Today, women serving in wartime or peacetime missions are doing the same thing.
More often, we wrote letters for a more prosaic reason -- merely to fulfill a universal need to keep our friends and family apprised of the sometimes unimpressive machinations of our own unique and yet entirely predictable day-to-day existences.
It all seems like a ghost from the past now. We cheerfully attended to the obligatory pen-to-paper ritual of seating ourselves at a favorite desk, entering an almost meditative, Zen-like state of mind, pouring a fraction of the essence of ourselves onto a blank paper, stuffing our literary opus into an envelope and sending it off with a quiet, unseen flourish and an almost unimpeachable trust that it would never fail to arrive, no matter how long it might take.
But that was then. I suppose it's true that we still write what we nostalgically refer to as letters. But their frequency, their appearance and the very warp and woof of their once carefully crafted sentences has changed dramatically.
Welcome to the Day of the Computer.
Before I talk about what I perceive as the shortcomings of letters written at the computer keyboard -- Wouldn't Mr. Vonnegut be horrified! -- let me assure you that I am not a purist about letter writing. Indeed, I dearly love sitting at my computer late at night, writing copious letters to my friends. I traverse a long and winding, never-ending river of business correspondence at the keyboard of my MacBook Air. And no amount of money could convince me to sacrifice the speed and efficiency of this particular approach to letter writing.
But writing personal letters at a computer keyboard cannot ever hope to replace the multi-sensory delight of writing to a friend, a relative or a lover on pastel colored, textured, aromatic paper, using the treasured writing impliment of one's choice and feeling the gentle, almost musical friction of nib against linen as those carefully chosen words of affection spill rhythmically and urgently from passionate heart onto welcoming paper.
Nor can getting a letter announced with the mechnical "ping" of a heartless, inhumanly punctual, maddeningly efficient PC possibly compare to receiving that same letter quite unexpectedly in the mailbox near your front lawn, ringed with fresh flowers, autumn leaves or a newly fallen blanket of snow.
Note, too, that unlike computer generated letters, a letter written the old-fashioned way does not tend to break down. Nor does it get wiped ignomineously away by the errant brush of a finger against the wrong key, a wrongly chosen command or some inexplicable, unforgivable cyber malfeasance, perpetrated from God knows where by God knows who, out in the preternatural soup of the World Wide Web.
Those of you who have either never written a letter the old-fashioned way -- or who have quite forgotten what a pleasure it was, once upon a time, to write or receive a snail mail letter -- need to kick off your shoes, prepare a cup of tea, pull down the blinds, turn off the drone and sputter of yet another completely forgettable reality show, and just write to someone you care deeply for.
You'll soon discover the difference between the two modes of operation when you get a phone call -- or, if you're lucky, an actual snail mail response -- praising you for having taken the time to actually write -- not type! -- a letter that looked, felt and indeed smelled as if it came from someone who has powerful feelings for you and wanted to express them not merely mechanically but artfully. It will be an aesthetic experience, not the mere completion of a chore. And you'll soon realize that you've been the fortunate recipient of a poignant, precious, lasting work of art.
People tend to keep letters that were written the old-fashioned way. I know that I do! And every few weeks they tend to pull them from a drawer, feel them in their hands, read them again, and put them back with a smile on their face and a very good feeling in their heart. This has been going on since Abelard and Heloise, since John and Abigail Adams, since Robert and Clara Schumann. And with your help it will continue unabated well into a more sensitive, more heartwarming future than computers can ever hope to create.
Think about it! There is simply nothing like reaching into your mailbox-by-the-road and pulling out a hand-written letter, full of those feelings and affirmations your heart has been longing for and thought it might never enjoy again, except in the synthetic, computer-produced way.
Try it. You'll see. And feel. And savor. I predict that you'll soon be hooked on writing letters, once a month or even more frequently, the old-fashioned way. And who knows? Someone may fall in love with you or become your life-long friend because of that letter. Wouldn't that be nice? And is that really old fashioned? I think not.
Now, if you will excuse me, I must shut down this mixed blessing of a machine, go to my late-night desk and pen -- yes, pen -- a letter to a friend. And I guarantee you that I'll sleep better for having done such a thing.
-- Ross Bachelder
June 5th, 2012
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Letters from Ohio, Wisconsin and Glasgow, Scotland, Saved and Trea- sured Remnants of a Disappearing Ritual... |
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| Letter from the American Civil War |
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A Victorian Era Letter, Written Without the Help of Guidelines and Laced With Ribbon and Bow. |
It all seems like a ghost from the past now. We cheerfully attended to the obligatory pen-to-paper ritual of seating ourselves at a favorite desk, entering an almost meditative, Zen-like state of mind, pouring a fraction of the essence of ourselves onto a blank paper, stuffing our literary opus into an envelope and sending it off with a quiet, unseen flourish and an almost unimpeachable trust that it would never fail to arrive, no matter how long it might take.
But that was then. I suppose it's true that we still write what we nostalgically refer to as letters. But their frequency, their appearance and the very warp and woof of their once carefully crafted sentences has changed dramatically.
Welcome to the Day of the Computer.
 |
| A Modern-day Letter, Being Written by An Actual Human Hand. |
But writing personal letters at a computer keyboard cannot ever hope to replace the multi-sensory delight of writing to a friend, a relative or a lover on pastel colored, textured, aromatic paper, using the treasured writing impliment of one's choice and feeling the gentle, almost musical friction of nib against linen as those carefully chosen words of affection spill rhythmically and urgently from passionate heart onto welcoming paper.
Nor can getting a letter announced with the mechnical "ping" of a heartless, inhumanly punctual, maddeningly efficient PC possibly compare to receiving that same letter quite unexpectedly in the mailbox near your front lawn, ringed with fresh flowers, autumn leaves or a newly fallen blanket of snow.
Note, too, that unlike computer generated letters, a letter written the old-fashioned way does not tend to break down. Nor does it get wiped ignomineously away by the errant brush of a finger against the wrong key, a wrongly chosen command or some inexplicable, unforgivable cyber malfeasance, perpetrated from God knows where by God knows who, out in the preternatural soup of the World Wide Web.
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| Woman Writing Letter the Old Fashioned Way -- in the Age of Vermeer |
You'll soon discover the difference between the two modes of operation when you get a phone call -- or, if you're lucky, an actual snail mail response -- praising you for having taken the time to actually write -- not type! -- a letter that looked, felt and indeed smelled as if it came from someone who has powerful feelings for you and wanted to express them not merely mechanically but artfully. It will be an aesthetic experience, not the mere completion of a chore. And you'll soon realize that you've been the fortunate recipient of a poignant, precious, lasting work of art.
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| He Misses the Love of His Life... |
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| Even Felines Fall in Love... |
Try it. You'll see. And feel. And savor. I predict that you'll soon be hooked on writing letters, once a month or even more frequently, the old-fashioned way. And who knows? Someone may fall in love with you or become your life-long friend because of that letter. Wouldn't that be nice? And is that really old fashioned? I think not.
Now, if you will excuse me, I must shut down this mixed blessing of a machine, go to my late-night desk and pen -- yes, pen -- a letter to a friend. And I guarantee you that I'll sleep better for having done such a thing.
-- Ross Bachelder
June 5th, 2012
The Supreme Pleasure of Nothingness
Here this morning,
at a cafe table cluttered with the New York Sunday Times,
A Hostess Fruit Pie wrapper
And the remants of a letter just penned
To a long-gone friend,
I pay my guarded respects
to a warm-and-muggy Sunday
In the Merry Month of May,
With leaves everywhere blushing green
And flowers preparing their tightly folded petals
For a fragrant walk along the Runway --
A dance of spendor in the grass --
As I sit and write --
To you or anyone else who will listen --
And realize that for one sweet evanescent moment
I can think of nothing that worries --
Nothing that terrifies,
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| Chilule: The Supreme Pleasure of Nothingness -- Photo by Ross |
Nothing that disappoints --
Nothing, that is, except
The Godly Warp and Woof
Of my unpredictable existence
In which I wait for the pendulum to swing
Either upward toward Nirvana
Or downward toward the dreaded bowels of Hell --
Resigned to pack up my things,
Suspend the gnashing gears
Of my incessant thinking,
Go off to work
And let Chihule do the talking.
Ross Bachelder
5 20 12
Intimidation: Picasso and Bachelder Together
What on earth has gotten into me?
Whatever has possessed me this morning to have the audacity to put a drawing of mine on the same page with a drawing by Pablo Picasso, one of the 20th Century's most gifted masters of the line?
It's not because I think I've earned the right to belong to Mr. Picasso's legendary Charmed Circle of gifted artists -- not at all. After all, this ridiculously precocious, enormously capable, profusely productive, ever-evolving savant of the imagination has intimidated tens of thousands of aspiring artists -- people who have looked at his several decades of master drawings and yearned to cup the glowing firefly of his fierce creativity in their hand, if even for one magical, ephemeral moment.
I have most emphatically stood among those legions of The Easily Intimidated, blushing inwardly at the crazy incongruity of any sort of proximity to this man of incendiary intellect and protean energy. To even think of myself in context with the man seems an act of utmost absurdity, wrapped in self-denial and cushioned by specious arguments like "If only I had had HIS upbringing!" or "Guys like him, pampered and privileged, had the TIME and MONEY to get where they got!"
And yet...
And yet I must confess that as a proud and devoted disciple of the New England Transcendentalists -- I studied them, passionately and idealistically, in graduate school -- I am required by the laws of decency and proper acknowledgement to live the values they espoused, including the one value I have cherished the most in the years since my immersion in Emerson and his ever so erudite Concord companions: the supremacy of THE INDIVIDUAL over what a modern-day thinker might describe as "groupthink" or a certain crippling conformity to whatever philosophy, including shameless self-indulgence, might reign supreme at a given moment.
Given this rather Utopian stance against the world, why ought I to feel compelled to apologize for hanging one of MY more curious drawings (see attached image) on the same wall with one from the incredible outpouring of the MASTER?
The message I've been so verbosely leading up to is that allowing oneself to be intimidated by the works of more accomplished, more famous, more gifted practitioners of the artform you so lovingly embrace is purely and simply an act of the most self-abasing futility -- and act that can only lead to self-doubt, second guessing and an almost cryogenic freezing of the creative juices coursing through your veins.
A better way to deal with people like Picasso -- or Nevelson or Kandinsky -- is to think of them as Living Churches or Elite Schools, then STUDY them. Your time -- and only a modest amount of that -- would be best spent paying your most profound respects for their gifts, through either the most humble prayer (Dear God, how come THEY do this stuff so damn well?) or ardent academic inquiry (I'm gonna read myself silly -- find out what makes these dudes tick, even if I go blind and it KILLS me!).
Only JUST ENOUGH time, though. That's because in order to become and then continue to BE an artist -- to catch that elusive firefly that lit the way for Picasso and Nevelson and others -- you must ultimately serve YOURSELF and answer to your muse and no other. To do anything less than that will keep you away from your own canvas and those inspired dreams of eloquence that keep you coming back to your studio in the dark of the night, sleepy but wired, full of feelings and in immediate need of expressing them.
Intimidation is a self-imposed, diabolically tailored straight jacket. It has neither the mercy nor the patience to wait for you to believe in yourself. It will hold you in its claustrophobic grip and drain you, Dracula-like, of all of the creative gifts that want and deserve a forum. So have a good look at these luminaries, pay your respects, then close that book and get down to your studio -- even if it's only your kitchen table -- and answer to your muse.
-- Ross Bachelder
May 11, 2012
Whatever has possessed me this morning to have the audacity to put a drawing of mine on the same page with a drawing by Pablo Picasso, one of the 20th Century's most gifted masters of the line?
It's not because I think I've earned the right to belong to Mr. Picasso's legendary Charmed Circle of gifted artists -- not at all. After all, this ridiculously precocious, enormously capable, profusely productive, ever-evolving savant of the imagination has intimidated tens of thousands of aspiring artists -- people who have looked at his several decades of master drawings and yearned to cup the glowing firefly of his fierce creativity in their hand, if even for one magical, ephemeral moment. I have most emphatically stood among those legions of The Easily Intimidated, blushing inwardly at the crazy incongruity of any sort of proximity to this man of incendiary intellect and protean energy. To even think of myself in context with the man seems an act of utmost absurdity, wrapped in self-denial and cushioned by specious arguments like "If only I had had HIS upbringing!" or "Guys like him, pampered and privileged, had the TIME and MONEY to get where they got!"
And yet...
And yet I must confess that as a proud and devoted disciple of the New England Transcendentalists -- I studied them, passionately and idealistically, in graduate school -- I am required by the laws of decency and proper acknowledgement to live the values they espoused, including the one value I have cherished the most in the years since my immersion in Emerson and his ever so erudite Concord companions: the supremacy of THE INDIVIDUAL over what a modern-day thinker might describe as "groupthink" or a certain crippling conformity to whatever philosophy, including shameless self-indulgence, might reign supreme at a given moment.
 |
| "The Headache" by Ross Bachelder |
Given this rather Utopian stance against the world, why ought I to feel compelled to apologize for hanging one of MY more curious drawings (see attached image) on the same wall with one from the incredible outpouring of the MASTER?
The message I've been so verbosely leading up to is that allowing oneself to be intimidated by the works of more accomplished, more famous, more gifted practitioners of the artform you so lovingly embrace is purely and simply an act of the most self-abasing futility -- and act that can only lead to self-doubt, second guessing and an almost cryogenic freezing of the creative juices coursing through your veins.
A better way to deal with people like Picasso -- or Nevelson or Kandinsky -- is to think of them as Living Churches or Elite Schools, then STUDY them. Your time -- and only a modest amount of that -- would be best spent paying your most profound respects for their gifts, through either the most humble prayer (Dear God, how come THEY do this stuff so damn well?) or ardent academic inquiry (I'm gonna read myself silly -- find out what makes these dudes tick, even if I go blind and it KILLS me!).
Only JUST ENOUGH time, though. That's because in order to become and then continue to BE an artist -- to catch that elusive firefly that lit the way for Picasso and Nevelson and others -- you must ultimately serve YOURSELF and answer to your muse and no other. To do anything less than that will keep you away from your own canvas and those inspired dreams of eloquence that keep you coming back to your studio in the dark of the night, sleepy but wired, full of feelings and in immediate need of expressing them.
Intimidation is a self-imposed, diabolically tailored straight jacket. It has neither the mercy nor the patience to wait for you to believe in yourself. It will hold you in its claustrophobic grip and drain you, Dracula-like, of all of the creative gifts that want and deserve a forum. So have a good look at these luminaries, pay your respects, then close that book and get down to your studio -- even if it's only your kitchen table -- and answer to your muse.
-- Ross Bachelder
May 11, 2012
Artists Making Art: Why Do We Do What We Do?
April 5th, 2012, writing from Panera Bread in Dover, New Hampshire: I've been served a modest wedge of care-free Life Pie this morning before reporting to work, and have decided to share it with those of my readers -- including, perhaps, a few fellow artists -- who on occasion find themselves pondering this ageless question: Why do we keep creating art? Or perhaps a more cynical manifestation of the same question is in order. What's in it for us?
A fellow artist once addressed at least a portion of that question to me a few years ago, in an offhand, ruminative moment. "Why do all these people without formal training in art think they're artists? Why do they keep creating?"
I probably don't need to tell you how incensed I was at this question, which to me appears to have been borne of an arrogant presumption that only the credentialed people of the world can possibly have anything meaningful to say about this, our shared earthly experience.
One needs only to review the biographies of a handful of notable artists, both living and dead, to be reminded that some of our finest artists had no formal schooling at all, while some of the worst artists, replete with awards and degrees from All the Right Places, have cheerfully turned out market-motivated, copycat garbage with nary a twinge of conscience, or perhaps even self-awareness, before they surrendered to the sod and were soon forgotten. We all know in our hearts that the world is not an inherently just place to hang one's hat.
There are a great many reasons why, if one pays attention to the Big Time art world as chronicled in the New York Times or Art in America, one might want to avoid creativity altogether. The snobbery -- the noxious fumes of middle to upper class pretention -- rises furtively but ominously from the pages of virtually every issue. The cookie cutter predictability of many of the works depicted in these publications ultimately makes a laughing stock of those in the conventional art world who claim to be indisputably "original" or -- please pass me a barf bag -- "cutting edge."
Darwinism is alive and indeed thriving in the Arts! There is absolutely no certainty that genuine originality, or even technical competence, will be found in the works of people At The Top of the art world. Sure, there are many people who genuinely deserve the adulation of both critics and the public. But there are just as many who by nearly any imaginable measure have gotten into the upper eschelons of the art world not because of any astonishing gift, but because they paid a small fortune for a terminal degree from some renowned school, and were then helped along, every step of the way, by the very publicity-hungry, status-seeking art world enablers they're destined to become.
A truly creative artist eventually learns that looking longingly upward toward those famous people in New York or San Francisco or London is a futile enterprise. No matter where you came from or where you live, if you have art in your gut -- indeed in every one of your waking/sleeping cells, then you go to your easel and paint because, by God, you HAVE to! Painting to become famous is a poor motivation. Painting to become better than you were last year -- or for that matter, yesterday -- is the most authentically rewarding motivation there is.
Two of the most original, unmistakably gifted artists I've ever had the privilege to know live right here in Seacoast New Hampshire: Eduard Langlois of Newmarket -- legendary in northern New England for his gifts as a theatre director, costumier, set designer and visual artist -- and Sharleene Page Hurst of Hampton, whose work is indescribably, soaringly inventive. Neither has studied art formally. Neither has a degree from a "respected' school of art. And yet each of these artists has astonishing gifts, and they've consistently created artworks of enormous energy and imagination.
Sharleene, who many years ago was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, is currently the featured artist for the month of April at the Franklin Gallery, Ben Franklin Crafts in Rochester. Her works are stunningly original, even mesmerizing.
Her special guest artist, 17 year old Garrett Young of Pittsfield, diagnosed several years ago as autistic, has remarkably precocious gifts, including an uncanny ability to draw straight from imagination to paper without any apparent hesitation. His vases of flowers are a quiet tour de force of intertwining, overlapping petals and stems.
That neither Langlois nor Hurst can easily find a home in some of the region's "exclusive" galleries is for them a badge of honor rather than a cause for worry. As for Mr. Young, he is, well, young. His time will come! At any rate, all three of these gifted artists make me proud to be an artist.
There is nothing in the world wrong with wanting to be recognized for one's artistic accomplishments. Nor is there anything wrong with seeking just compensation for the hard, emotionally demanding work of creating really good art. It's OK to want to make serious money in the Arts! What's wrong -- what's demeaning and ultimately self-destructive -- is to paint in ways that you're not proud of -- ways that will get you into a gallery you may not even respect -- in order to to feel "successful."
The only real, lasting success that you as an artist can absolutely count on will come from painting exactly what your heart tells you that you MUST paint, then gleefully thumbing your nose at those who, because of either ignorance or their own particular tastes or myopic vision, choose not to like it.
Genuine art is created by non-conforming, stubbornly independent thinkers, with or without degrees. They often challenge authority and question dogma if they think it needs questioning. They're not sheep! Their work, no matter how lacking in "sophistication" or "technical virtuosity," is beautiful if they and their followers think it is beautiful. It will land where the marketplace wants it to land, and the critics be damned!
When artists trust in the authenticity of their own inimitable vision, good things begin to happen. Those good things may not come quickly, in the form of a fat paycheck, but they're your things, and they're priceless. So hold your most inspired work close to you, sleep well tonight with your integrity fully intact, then get up in the morning and go PAINT something!
-- Ross Bachelder
Berwick, Maine
A fellow artist once addressed at least a portion of that question to me a few years ago, in an offhand, ruminative moment. "Why do all these people without formal training in art think they're artists? Why do they keep creating?"
I probably don't need to tell you how incensed I was at this question, which to me appears to have been borne of an arrogant presumption that only the credentialed people of the world can possibly have anything meaningful to say about this, our shared earthly experience.
One needs only to review the biographies of a handful of notable artists, both living and dead, to be reminded that some of our finest artists had no formal schooling at all, while some of the worst artists, replete with awards and degrees from All the Right Places, have cheerfully turned out market-motivated, copycat garbage with nary a twinge of conscience, or perhaps even self-awareness, before they surrendered to the sod and were soon forgotten. We all know in our hearts that the world is not an inherently just place to hang one's hat.
There are a great many reasons why, if one pays attention to the Big Time art world as chronicled in the New York Times or Art in America, one might want to avoid creativity altogether. The snobbery -- the noxious fumes of middle to upper class pretention -- rises furtively but ominously from the pages of virtually every issue. The cookie cutter predictability of many of the works depicted in these publications ultimately makes a laughing stock of those in the conventional art world who claim to be indisputably "original" or -- please pass me a barf bag -- "cutting edge."
Darwinism is alive and indeed thriving in the Arts! There is absolutely no certainty that genuine originality, or even technical competence, will be found in the works of people At The Top of the art world. Sure, there are many people who genuinely deserve the adulation of both critics and the public. But there are just as many who by nearly any imaginable measure have gotten into the upper eschelons of the art world not because of any astonishing gift, but because they paid a small fortune for a terminal degree from some renowned school, and were then helped along, every step of the way, by the very publicity-hungry, status-seeking art world enablers they're destined to become.
 |
| "Midnight Mischief" by Sharleene Page Hurst |
Two of the most original, unmistakably gifted artists I've ever had the privilege to know live right here in Seacoast New Hampshire: Eduard Langlois of Newmarket -- legendary in northern New England for his gifts as a theatre director, costumier, set designer and visual artist -- and Sharleene Page Hurst of Hampton, whose work is indescribably, soaringly inventive. Neither has studied art formally. Neither has a degree from a "respected' school of art. And yet each of these artists has astonishing gifts, and they've consistently created artworks of enormous energy and imagination.
Sharleene, who many years ago was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, is currently the featured artist for the month of April at the Franklin Gallery, Ben Franklin Crafts in Rochester. Her works are stunningly original, even mesmerizing.
 |
| "Flower Arrangement" by Garrett Young |
That neither Langlois nor Hurst can easily find a home in some of the region's "exclusive" galleries is for them a badge of honor rather than a cause for worry. As for Mr. Young, he is, well, young. His time will come! At any rate, all three of these gifted artists make me proud to be an artist.
There is nothing in the world wrong with wanting to be recognized for one's artistic accomplishments. Nor is there anything wrong with seeking just compensation for the hard, emotionally demanding work of creating really good art. It's OK to want to make serious money in the Arts! What's wrong -- what's demeaning and ultimately self-destructive -- is to paint in ways that you're not proud of -- ways that will get you into a gallery you may not even respect -- in order to to feel "successful."
The only real, lasting success that you as an artist can absolutely count on will come from painting exactly what your heart tells you that you MUST paint, then gleefully thumbing your nose at those who, because of either ignorance or their own particular tastes or myopic vision, choose not to like it.
Genuine art is created by non-conforming, stubbornly independent thinkers, with or without degrees. They often challenge authority and question dogma if they think it needs questioning. They're not sheep! Their work, no matter how lacking in "sophistication" or "technical virtuosity," is beautiful if they and their followers think it is beautiful. It will land where the marketplace wants it to land, and the critics be damned!
When artists trust in the authenticity of their own inimitable vision, good things begin to happen. Those good things may not come quickly, in the form of a fat paycheck, but they're your things, and they're priceless. So hold your most inspired work close to you, sleep well tonight with your integrity fully intact, then get up in the morning and go PAINT something!
-- Ross Bachelder
Berwick, Maine
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
APRIL 1ST
MARKS THE BEGINNING OF...
NATIONAL AUTISM AWARENESS MONTH
ARE YOU AWARE?
CELEBRATE THE PROGRESS!
BECOME INFORMED!
SUPPORT YOUR COMMUNITY’S EFFORTS
TO IMPROVE THE DIAGNOSIS AND TREATMENT OF AUTISM!
H H H H H
AND HERE -- THIS MONTH -- AT THE FRANKLIN GALLERY
FEATURED ARTIST
SHARLEENE PAGE HURST
(ASPERGER’S)
AND SPECIAL GUEST ARTIST
GARRETT YOUNG
(AUTISM)
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