Studs n Stripes XXYYX

Signing off for now, Henri

"The Night Before Christmas”, a poem written in 1823 by Clement Clarke Moore, heralded Santa Claus in America. Or so the story goes. But centuries before, (280-342 AD) to be exact, Bishop Nicholas of Smyrna in Turkey brought joy to poor children by strewing gifts and goodies their way on his birthday.
That’s the same Sinterklaas (Flemish) and Sint-Nicolaas (Netherlands) we celebrate on the eve of December 5th (or the morning of the 6th), the birth date of the Bishop. And Saint Nicholas as we call him is patron saint of children.
The pilgrims of Holland brought this tradition to America in the 17^th century, also to New York (formerly Nieuw Amsterdam).
From there the Santa Claus morphed into the jolly friendly fellow we know today, continuing to enchant children wherever he goes on his sleigh, the famous sleigh powered by reindeer.
Speaking of which, my favourite Yuletide carol is “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. It is one of the very few with a deeper message and which few seem to realize.
Nobody cared much for Rudolph. He was a laughing-stock and wasn’t allowed to play with the other reindeer. He was ridiculed, mocked or ignored, until Santa recognized great merit in that glowing nose. (Read: as in recognizing his worth and talent.)
Then of course all the other reindeer loved Rudolph. The message in Rudolph’s song isn’t unlike the story by Hans Christian Andersen of the “Ugly Ducking”, who turned out be a swan.
[Just like we all ‘love’ Vincent van Gogh or other artists, now that they’ve been universally recognized, a century or more after they were living and breathing amongst us.]
Getting back to the song, it was Gene Autry, the legendary “singing cowboy”, who made an evergreen recording in 1949. That’s when I heard it, during one of my transatlantic sailings with Holland America Line to the New World, when I worked as a steward in the first-class dining room.
Then, we also heard Gene Autry singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” back home on Radio Luxembourg, broadcast station for the U.S. Army in Europe. (That’s where I learned my first English, through Radio Luxembourg.)
Then, there is the Scandinavian tradition (where the word “Yuletide” originates), with its Festival of Light. Yule has its origin from a Scandinavian word (e.g. in Finnish it’s “Joul”) and means ‘feast’.
Also there is the Norse mythology of Thor, the God of Thunder. He would fly through the sky in a sleigh pulled by magical goats. (And in the American song, the seventh reindeer is named “Donder”, which in my native tongue translates as “Thunder”). Pagan traditions, ancient mythologies and history, all mixed up. More to come on the subject. Signing off, Henri

The club has three professional-quality billiards tables. Snooker requires concentration, awareness, decision-making and mental mathematics, and creates a fellowship amongst other aspects. The aficionados play regularly, not only for the joy of it, but many play to compete in tournaments. (Plus, it’s good exercise, mentally and physically.) Both Single and Double tournaments are held throughout the year.

I am a novice, with a handicap of +25. Recently a friend of ours, a very good billiards player, created a new game called Zen Billiards. Last weekend a visiting club from another city came over for a big annual tournament, Doubles on Saturday and Singles on Sunday. Both tournaments were won by the visiting squad but Victoria put in a fair show. (I was a spectator in the gallery.)

But hold on, we’re getting side-tracked here.

Yesterday when visiting the club, we noticed two sentinels from the Nutcracker Suite standing at the entrance, while indoors more glimpses of the “Ho-ho” season could be found, gnomes sitting atop mantelpieces and other Xmas decor or pixies on shelves. The decorations are elegant, not the usual sort of ‘tinsel’.

No sign of the traditional Big Tree yet, or the neat rows of bright-red poinsettias, stationed neatly on the steps of the main stairwell. Yet, these harbingers signalled loud and clear the Holiday Season is upon us. Following a couple of rounds of snooker, I rested in the spacious reading room, while Natasha did some computer work in the Business Centre. In between resting, slumbering and resting (yes, it’s that kind of Club where in the old days only gentlemen could be found snoozing behind the daily paper, a la “Drone Club” of Wodehouse fame), I was transported in my reveries back to the Caribbean one year ago. At that time I was guest artist aboard an ocean liner, the QE2.

We’d called on Dominica, a beautiful and lush island. It was December, and while exploring the island, we noticed everywhere tall poinsettia trees, glowing with complementary red and green colours.

Throughout the Lesser Antilles, in the sweltering heat and humidity, at each port of call shops were overflowing with ‘snowmen’, Santas with reindeers and snowflake decorations on windows and doors. “Have you ever seen snow?”, I asked one of our guides. No, she hadn’t , but she knew all about mistletoe, holly and that famous reindeer with the red nose, Rudolf.

Not only in the Caribbean, but in December throughout Central and South America in tropical regions, Santa rules.

But what is all this “Ho-ho-ho” all about, which gobbles us all up into commercial temptations and deck halls?

How did those three kings, those three wise men, know a Saviour was born? From the stars, we’re told. Yes, there was the star above Bethlehem. And shepherds, who as the story goes, were told by an angel to go 'towards the bright Star shining in the East, for there in Bethlehem in a stable, the Saviour was born.' All well and good for those wise Men, they were star-gazers, ‘studiers’ of the constellations, or astrology. I wonder when people sing their Xmas carols, if they have any idea what it was that led the three kings to the saviour?

And what about the iconic Christmas tree. Do conifers and pine trees grow in the desert lands? Date palms, yes. Cedars of Lebanon, yes. As most people now, our Christmas tree goes back a long way, to pagan and Druid times. The time of the Winter Solstice, the return of the ‘newborn’ Light. Enough said for now. I’ll just go and wonder, wander and ponder some more. Ho-ho-ho! Henri

We live right at the Pacific Ocean and from our window have an unobstructed view of Juan de Fuca Strait, the Olympic range of Washington, and much of Victoria. When a rainbow appears, we can ‘capture’ it, if alert and ready.
This photo was taken by Natasha with her mobile this morning, November 10 at 10h00 Pacific time. The ‘raincircle’ spectrum hat, I acquired in the Canary Islands from a handicapped woman who crocheted it herself.
When teaching art aboard ship, most recently with venerable QE2. Tomorrow, November 11, she sails on her final voyage, heading ‘into the sunset’ in Dubai.
We give a different theme every day, and the passenger-students have to draw mostly on their imagination. At first this can be quite challenging for many people, however even those with the most difficultly to ignite their imagination, ‘take off’ once they see the theme of the day is: rainbow fantasy. (See here an example of one of my students.) In no time, their efforts are transformed into joyous rainbow colours. Maybe for the first time in a long while, they have connected again with their inner child.
Scientists, thinkers and polymaths have tried for a long time to analyze the phenomena of a rainbow. Poets and artists express their feelings and impressions back to the world. Children always find inspiration and joy in depicting this magic “bow” of colours.
It is the rainbow which teaches (long before the advent of art schools) what happens when you mix the three primary colours (Red, Yellow, Blue): you create the secondary colours (Orange, Green, Violet). I wonder how our “Lucy” ancestors must have felt upon first seeing a rainbow. What were they thinking when witnessing this mysterious and magical arch of colours? How did they feel? Joy? Fear? Wonder? Happiness? Did they utter “Wow”, “Ah”, “Oh”, like we do, or better still, take it in with awe and silence?

Here’s a poem I wrote awhile back. Happy Trails, Henri

“Cry O Sun

Smile O Rain

Cry O Rain

Smile O Sun

Only your union

Creates a Rainbow”

These grey and “early-dark” days of November are once again upon us. All the leaves destined to part from their “tree home” will soon leave bare branches. The conifers - - cypress, pines, junipers, firs and cedars now have more to say and make their presence felt. They tell us without words,
“Look! We’re evergreen.”
No sooner have the yellows, tans, ochres, sienas, reds and umbers of Autumn go, than another Red ‘pops up’ (be it briefly), to be seen on almost everyone’s attire, especially the TV anchor people. Symbol for those soldiers and civilians who gave or lost their lives, so we can all live in ‘freedom’ and ‘peace’. Not only WWI is remembered, but all the wars and killings that followed, to this day, adding ever-more reasons to perpetuate Remembrance Day. [War is called “Regime Change” nowadays.] “Lest We Forget”, all right.
Bob Dylan wrote already in the ‘60s “ . . the answer my friend, is blowin’ in the wind, the answer is blowin’ in the wind” . .. “oh when will they ever learn, oh when will they ever learn?”
What a strange and paradoxical species we are, Homo Sapiens. I saw "the bombs drop", and lived through WWII as a boy.
On the one hand we go out to kill and get killed, both for the same cause of Freedom. Soldiers gave their lives so that we can live free. Yet, our freedom is stealthily being taken away; ‘Big Brother’ has crept up, making Orwell’s book “Brave New World” look like amateurish scribble.
You may recall the classic black and white move “All Quiet on the Western Front”, based on a novel of the same name by German writer Erich Maria Remarque, a ‘realistic and harrowing account’ of WWI slaughter in the trenches and fields of Flanders.
We came across these thoughts from someone in England, on the wearing of poppies and remembering, “ . . how much does it serves to console as much as to mask the terrible reality of death in war. By masking, it is meant that remembrance becomes a ritual used to ‘blot out’ the horrible reality of, in this case war, and the First World War in particular. Naturally, the truth is far too disturbing to continually be exposed, so the ritual of remembrance helps to create a more ‘comfortable’ memory of the deceased. This is most noticeable, for example, on Remembrance (Day), when the wearing of an artificial poppy, and the two-minute silence in recognition of those who gave their lives, saves one from having to dwell on the specific details of the deaths of millions of men killed while serving their country.” (From “A Memorial in Scarlet” by Stacy Chambless.)
But why do poppy flowers flourish in battlefields? I learned the first reference to this was made by a writer during Napoleon’s time. He observed certain fields were barren before a battle but exploded with poppies after the fighting ended.
It’s known that in Flanders and France, the chalk soil became very rich in lime from all the rubble, but after the lime became absorbed, the poppies disappeared. Today many Quakers wear white poppies which they say "is not about insulting the dead, but to honour them by working for an end to war”.
Remember Swift's "Gulliver's Travels"? War because of a song the "Littleputs" argued about? We need a few more Gullivers in the world.

Would it not be something to see a film such as “All Quiet on the Western Front” where everything was in reverse? Then you’d have peace instead of war: bullets shot from rifles would come out of the bodies and return into the rifle barrel. The bayonet plunged into flesh reverses and leaves the body. No wound. Advancing commandos go backward. Shrapnel would re-assemble. Bombers raining their deadly cargo would have the bombs flying upwards back into the hold of the aircraft. Hand grenades would boomerang intact back into the hands that threw them. Cannons nicely receive back their lethal cannon balls, all the carnage ‘undone’.
On the topic of shooting, why do we speak of killing a penalty in hockey or soccer (associated football).Can’t we say ‘ride out’ or ‘weather’ or ‘survive’ a penalty? Or we speak of “a nice shot” in pool or billiards. Our words perpetuate our culture’s killing habits.
But, this November has given us hope and a sigh of relief: the end of a great “error” (which added to the deaths of how many more thousands?), and beginning of a new "Era".
Mahatma Gandhi said, “An eye for an eye, Makes the whole world blind.” Signing off, Henri

And how can we say these works have been done by ‘primitives? Just look at those lines, shapes and colours, the way they made use of the contours of the cave walls and ceilings to enhance their creations.
Surely it took not only great certainty on the part of the painter, but they had to be ‘refined’ minds. The grace and precise coordination between hand, head, soul and heart is stunning.
In later travels to other parts of the world, we witnessed other early forms of art, those of ancient Egypt; in Chichen Itza, Uxmal, Palenque and Tulum in Central America; the San/Bushmen rock paintings in Namibia; aboriginal work in Australia; petroglyphs in North America – none of these are “signed”. What a contrast with art today, where some signatures are often so large or dominating it ruins the composition.
But look at snowflakes, flowers, ocean life, animals, all that grows and blooms --- no signatures. Signatures abound in our documents, papers and our works of art.
What is it with us, that everything we create has to be signed? (Sure, in ancient time there were ‘signet’ rings of the Pharaohs, using scarab designs.) Nowadays, signatures and stamps of authenticity are considered a must. If an artist won’t sign a painting, the dealer will insist upon it. Even this blog is identified.
A signature represents ID, as in “I.D.T. – I Did That.”
Yes, signing denotes authenticity, but signing also resembles a territorial marking. “This is mine”, like the spraying by the cat family. Of course it also represents pride, and in some cases vanity, a ‘copyright within a copyright’?
In 1972 I embarked on “Organiverse”, an opus of one hundred mandalas in pointillism, dot by dot, atom by atom. I never signed one of them. My intent was, and still is, to let the images reveal themselves to the viewer. Evolution without words.
In a sense, Art is silent communication. Viewers in their own way need to connect with a work of art, while in turn the full sum of the artist connects with the viewer through their work. Each of us lives a life, with its own experiences, and reacts to the world accordingly.
Vincent van Gogh signed his paintings and drawings simply “Vincent”. We know from letters to his brother Theo that he left out his surname because he realized people would have problems pronouncing it correctly. How right and compassionate he was. Just listen today how his name is mispronounced in a multitude of variations.
Going back to “Organiverse” (the series of 100 images all done in pointillism), this series was created in 1972. In those days printing technology didn’t have the know-how to reproduce the delicate and lucid “colour-play” of the dots. Now, not unlike the cycle of the Cicada that spends many years underground and then emerges “singing”, Organiverse seems to be morphing and re-awakening. (See organiverse.com)
And guess what else is new? Not only are we expected to sign our work, but in the case of Organiverse people ask for explanations of each one! Please, there are 100 of these mandalas.
What’s then left for personal perception and imagination of the individual viewer, if the artist “explains” what should be silent communication.
Imagination for artists is their ‘breath of life’.
See what we mean? We stand upon the shoulders of our noble ancestors, those pre-historic cave painters - - - whose works of the far-distant past have no signature, but lots of intent, spirit and soul. “Sign-ing” off, Henri

“Wij reizen om te leren,
Door heel het land,
En hebben als wij wederkeren
Ook meer verstand.”

“We travel because we wish to learn.
Then, upon return, we will have gathered more insight and knowledge.”

(An aside, yours truly learned five languages because of all my travels, and ‘being there’.) Returning to the title of today’s post and the subject of dreams and reality:
One blistery Toronto winter morning in 1973, I woke up with a clear dream of teaching Art on ships, later that dream became reality. (Caused indirectly by a rejection I’d received for a grant application.) There is a great difference between making a dream reality, (remember Danny Kaye in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty?”), daydreaming or “self-talk”, where nothing happens. Alot of "baaaaaaaa", but no wool! If an around-the-world sailing is the ‘crown jewel of travel’, then to make a dream-come-true must be a ‘crown-jewel of life’s journey’. Happy trails, Henri