Tag Archives: art

by | January 18, 2016 · 10:00 pm

What’s Within…

We’ve hunkered down for the long cold spell ahead, or at least for the next couple images4DDAQKHDweeks. We are facing some of the harshest weather we’ll likely see all winter. Instinctively, we find comfort in the minute details, the planning, research and review of the past and future events.  Today, my daughter and I spent most of the day in the tiny office of the Trail doing just that. Sheltered by the warmth of the heater nearby, we worked independently of one another on separate projects. Every now and then we’d come up for air and share in the moment, sometimes joking, sometimes peeking at the other’s work.

Outside, the wind chill made the air feel like single digit temperatures.

Many places around the world share these cold, bone-chilling climates, we are not alone.

This time of year, in Triberg Germany, the ancient customs of long, bitter winters have created a global niche; the Coo-Coo Clock capital of the world. Forced to remain indoors for long periods of time in their tiny mountain chalets, the woodworkers of old would turn their talents inward, creating tiny cogs, wheels, and artifacts that would make amazingly entertaining timepieces. Through their one-of-a-kind artistry, their mountain traits, customs, and lifestyles would be portrayed in what they produced; all because they sought to stay warm within their remote mountaintop homes.

Outside I could see the wind blowing the tree branches. Part of me could almost feel the chill run up my spine. I shivered inwardly and returned to my work.

Inside, there was more than the physical warmth, it was a feeling of being with someone you loved, as any parent knows, the unconditional love of a father for his son or daughter. For a few moments today, we were back in the studio of my barn, painting, and drawing on our own artwork. Nearby, the old woodstove provided the woodsy aroma of fire along with the heat that kept the freezing winds outside at bay. My favorite painting music would be softly playing in the background; Alan Jackson, Gibson Brothers, Balsam Range, Mountain Heart, Dailey and Vincent and many more. Outside, in the barnyard, the cows would be working on the latest hay bale, and then finding a warm, comfortable spot to lie down and ruminate. A rooster would crow now and then to remind us of the world beyond as the wind might rattle a loose piece of tin to confirm.

Up in the studio, we’d lost track of time until either our stomachs would remind us of the hour or the day would turn into twilight and we’d have to find the lamps to turn in order to see. Someone would grab another log and pitch into the stove, maintaining the red-hot furnace in the corner of the room. We’d take little breaks and warm our backsides to the heat, waiting until you couldn’t stand it any longer then jumping away before your skin caught fire; a warmth that would reach down into your bones.

There was a gentleness to those memories; too far and few between to come to expect.  Rather, those were once in a great while treasures that were separated by long painful stretches of third shift work that tore my body and mind to pieces, leaving shards of my being along the rocky path. Sometimes, the mere thought of those precious memories were all that kept me going.

Thankfully, the long, arduous, painful stretches of third-shift are over. Once again, we are slowly finding time to be together to revisit those almost forgotten feelings of kindred spirit. Once again, I’m able to be the father that I almost wasn’t.

The Bible speaks of how we are to teach our children in the way, “You shall teach them to your children, speaking of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way when you lie down, and when you rise up.” -Deut. 11:19 But if when we are absent, they are left to seek Him of their own accord. Too many times, they become the victims of our best intentions; to make more money so that we can shower them with all their needs.

Sadly, we lose sight of what they need most, which is precisely what we fail to give them; ourselves.

We still await the sale of that farm and our precious studio loft in the barn.

Meanwhile, we take with us the most precious piece of that experience, …ourselves.

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by | November 30, 2015 · 9:41 pm

He Who Endures…Shall Be Saved…

“Then they will deliver you up to tribulation and kill you, and you will be hated by all nations for My name’s sake.  10 And then many will be offended, will betray one another, and will hate one another.  11 Then many false prophets will rise up and deceive many.  12 And because lawlessness will abound, the love of many will grow cold.  13 But he who endures to the end shall be saved.  14 And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached in all the world as a witness to all the nations, and then the end will come.” – Matthew 24:11-14

I step out, no longer hiding behind the façade of a life that kept me in the shadows. Now, all will know what and who I serve. There is no shame in who I serve, nor why I do this, but there are many that will seek to destroy all we do. Today I took another step closer to the mission for which I was called. One more step toward the evangelistic journey that God continues to lead me toward. From here, I cannot see the future. From here, I cannot tell whether I will walk or crawl to the finish if I’m to ever make it. The only comfort I can find, in this walk toward a darkness that seems to grow deeper with each passing day is that I am not alone. Those of us who seek the truth do so with united purpose. If we hold on until the end, salvation awaits. What we do, we do for Him, so that all the world will know the truth; the whole truth.

This was my first night off in almost a week. The rest was welcome.

In this time repose, I was able to watch a possible distant relative, Valeria Tron, perform on videos recorded in her home country of Italy. A missionary friend had introduced us on FB knowing that we were likely related since she was from the same valley as my ancestors. She had recently awarded a very prestigious honor, none of which I could understand. So, tonight I took some much needed time to watch her perform. There is such a passion and intensity to her singing, although I cannot understand the words, her music is beautiful. I noticed she had like our Tron Family Band page, and then I wondered how he and my own family might sound someday if we were ever able to make music together. From what little I watched, it appears she sings the mournful, soulful traditional folk ballads like I would prefer, even though their rhythm is something new to me; another distant delight to find someday.

I was about to quit out of FB when I noticed our dear friend Jessica Lang had posted a new video of her picking out Salt Creek with some beta strings from D’Addairio. As I watched the talented young lady pick out the melody perfectly, adding her own breaks within the song, I couldn’t be prouder of how much she has grown musically and blossomed into a beautiful young woman.

Yes, time marches on.

Outside a cold rain falls.

It’s that time of year for the Trail where we are open until 9 pm each night thru 12241337_999839180055337_6872093815838088611_nChristmas. We are manning the Christmas Lights at the Trail with help from volunteers, some of which are there now allowing me the time to regroup and fulfill some of my own wishes; to write. There are times I wonder if I will ever pick up a paint brush again. Musically, I’ve been able to add a moment here and there to the schedule. In all, there is little time for the creative juices to flow. Times like these I have to hope there is a reservoir filling, saving up for when there is time to flow.

And time marches on.

The darkness envelopes the world around us as the drops of water fall from the sky, the abyss from above.

As the evening draws to a close, we prepare for tomorrow. Another day, we know not what awaits but we can prepare as we read the Word. For in this book, we can find truth when the world around us seeks to sway us away from the goal, the finish line.

We seek the finish, for, in the end, we know our salvation awaits.

For now, we must take one cherished moment whenever we find them.

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by | April 23, 2015 · 5:07 am

The Comforting Soul of the Barn Studio…

2013-01-03 21.17.25-1It pretty much started back when the late John W. Parsons said to me, “Do you have an out building you can practice in?”

J.W., we called him for short, was referring to me learning how to play the fiddle and that it would be best if I had somewhere to practice, lest I drive my wife crazy with the horrible sounds of a beginner fiddle player in the house.

“No,” I respectfully replied.

“Well, you better build one or you won’t be married long,” he said, and laughed before refocusing on where we had left off in our lesson that evening.

As a matter of fact, I had already begun adding onto the original section of barn I had built years before, unsure of how it might be used. I now had a reason to make part of the new addition somewhere I could get out of the weather and perhaps practice my newfound instrument. So with the purpose of creating a room to play music in, the studio in the barn began to take shape. I purchased ship-lapped poplar from Foster Rives, who had cut it from local lumber and planed it in his own sawmill just down the road from the farm. I installed it after putting up the walls, roof and outer shell of the barn, completing what would be a welcome retreat. Over time, the poplar becamed naturally aged to the golden hue it displays today. The wood stove came later, moved up from the old cabin, making the studio complete.

IMG_20140101_084557The cold rainy days when the farm work had to be put on hold, I would eagerly retreat to the studio. There I would build a fire in the woodstove and soon, the beautiful aromas of coffee brewing in the old percolator pot mixing with that of the hickory in the fire blending with the faint smells of the sweet hay in the hayloft just outside the studio door combined to make an ambiance that would start my creative juices flowing. There in the studio, I once more revisited old talents I had unintentionally left behind; starting to paint once again after years of leaving my paint brushes in the closet. It was here that I also rediscovered my writing, after years of leaving the pen lie dormant, with the occasional story that might rise to the surface, perculating like the coffee in the pot on top of the wood stove. And, of course, I would practice my fiddle, alone and away from ears that might be bothered by the slowly diminishing sour notes that had once been produced in abundance in my early days of learning.

Inside the upstairs room in the barn, strains of music wafted from the CD player. Songs were played according to the activity I was performing which accompanied my subconscious as I worked either on portraits, landscapes, stories for my book or just playing along on the fiddle. This was my home-away-from-home. Outside the windows, the world would present itself as the farm around me lived out its daily routine, regardless of the elements. As the rain pitter-pattered down, the cows might lie lazily underneath the cover of the trees that stood near the chicken coop. The chickens would cluck and crow, scratching the ground paying no mind to the nearby bovine neighbors as they walked about their runs, safe from the world and uncaring of the weather. Their only cares being that they might find a morsel of protein wiggling about in the dark earth.

Inside the comfort of the studio, I watched the seasons pass; winter, spring, summer and fall, safe from their temperature extremes, yet thankful that each were tranquil in their own right. Eventually, when my children were old enough, they would join me in the room up in the barn to paint, play music or just warm themselves by the woodstove if the opportunity presented itself. At times, I would cook meals in the cast iron skillet on the stove top, making the room come alive with smells of fried sausage or bacon. To me, there aren’t any restaurants to which I am aware that can compare to a home cooked meal on an old wood stove. As I would sit back in the easy chair and savor the delectable morsels of food, the air would still linger with the soothing smell of fresh cooked food, wood smoke and hot fresh coffee still bubbling up in the percolator.

Yes, the barn studio is someplace I will miss once we move. It is someplace that the kids will undoubtedly never forget, knowing that it too became a retreat to which they could go to reinvent themselves and become one with their inner person. We all need a place to go where life can be left at the door, where we may once again turn our thoughts inward and be at peace with our soul; giving ourselves to the gifts with which God has blessed us.

May we never forget our studio in the barn.

See how this studio can become a welcome retreat for you by clicking here.

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by | May 17, 2013 · 6:34 am

The Pen is Mightier Than the….

I found myself today heading to the local discount store in Goldston  in order to purchase more of the flex grip gel pens. In the past, once I found a smooth writing pen, I would usually keep the pen and use it until the ink ran out, then discard it and search for another in the desk drawer. However, since I began journaling, I’ve found that the feel of a nice pen on the paper really makes a difference; thus my recent obsession with these gel pens.2013-05-16 22.46.35

It was while I was regarding one of these sweet writing pens in the presence of a math teacher this afternoon that I became aware of how writing utensils can be very persuasive and personable in their use. During my observation, Jenny the math teacher, reflected on how she never liked pens to be used by her students in their math work. I had to agree with her, since I took numerous math classes while attending college at the University of Florida. In fact, I mostly used mechanical pencils while at UF. We both agreed that the mechanical pencil was easily sharpened by just pushing the plunger at the end of the device which would feed more lead into the chamber which holds the material to be applied to the writing surface. She noted that she found herself using the number two pencils in school since they were donated, yet, she found herself constantly going to the sharpener during the course of the day. It seems there is a universal understanding that the feel of a dull number two pencil is akin to the sound of fingernails being scraped across the chalkboard: VERY IRRITATING!!!

Over the years I’ve used everything from art pencils to mechanical pencils in work that I’ve done. Like the pens and pencils that I use, I find various idiosyncrasies that match their use. Art and mechanical pencils are sometimes both for drawing, but both for very diverse reasons; one was for creative artwork, the other for drafting structural steel. The art pencils, unlike the yellow number two pencils are best used when they are not sharp. In fact, most shading techniques require the muted tip of a softened lead, which allows the artist to blend the graphite on the paper smoothly. I rarely used a pencil sharpener to sharpen the art pencils. It was best to regain a semblance of tip by using a knife and whittling it back in shape. Just the act of whittling a wooden pencil, throwing tiny shavings onto the floor, makes one feel as if something special is about to take place; let the drawing begin. Art pencils, like their craft, were meant to be very tactile in nature; unlike the mechanical pencil, which was cold and calculating.

The mechanical pencil not only created a sharp, crisp purposeful line, it was also something that made excellent text for drawing requiring verbal comments or definitions. The mechanical pencil’s use would often be the gateway tool for the ink pen. Since lead can only be a mere gray-tone of color, the black ink pen would become even more of a statement. So it was when I began writing that I sought out the dark line of the black ink pen. With this black ink, I can also include pen and ink drawings using the ever more cross-over tool known as the “Ultra-Point” pen, which takes us back to the artistic side of the equation.

I can remember an art class once that the teacher required us to use only drawing pencils. We could use nothing but the 2B, B, and HB rated pencils. During this class we were required to perform all types of shading and drawing with our reliable “B” pencils. One project I vividly recalled today when thinking back to this time was our job to draw a white and brown egg. Not only were we to draw a shape that looked like an egg, but we were also required to make it so that the viewer could easily discern which egg was brown and which egg was white. The shading had to be just so, so that each egg’s shape could be seen, yet gentle enough to make the brown and whiteness of the shell to be apparent. It was from this feel of shape and hue that I came to know the line that the point of the drawing device could make and what variations to expect based upon what utensil was being used. From this deep learning from feel and sight, I became prepared for what lie ahead based upon which device I held in my fingertips.

Many years later, I had a math professor in college from Romania who would swear to us that, “You learn through our fingertips, up our arm and into your brain,” and that in order to do so, we had to manually write down everything he wrote on the board, then quote it back to him exactly as he had written it on the board, verbatim. At the time, if felt like cruel and unusual punishment. However, as time would pass, I would find that memorization of what I would see was more often reinforced from when it would pass through my fingertips, from the tip of the pen or pencil and eventually into my head.

So today, as we discussed our favorite devices for whichever activity we were performing, it became obvious that the point at which the paper and our chosen utensil met, became the catalyst for what would transpire from thought into reality and back again to thought. And so it goes, in life; we choose our comfort points, our devices of fluidity that allow thought to become real and then and only then does the purpose of living become one with the world around us.

I think I’ll put that down in writing.

But a thought before you leave, “If the pen is mightier than the sword…what is the pencil?”

Blessings…

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