Sept. 29, 1959, Esther St., New York, NY

Halloween is here!  Goblins, ghouls, ghosts!  It's that time of year where the temperature begins to cool, the nights become longer, and the creepy-crawly things of the dark emerge.  These days, it's a holiday of fun and frolic where kids and adults alike dress up, masquerade, consume far too much candy, and spend the next couple months trying to eat their way through the mounds of sweets they have procured.  The entire event is shrouded in mystery where the average joe is able to put aside who he or she may be, and become something completely different and hopefully exhilarating. Yet for some, the mask they wore was already in place and won't be removed after.  And as with most holidays, the ideals of the specific event resonate and can easily be used as a catalyst for analyzing life, attitudes, and prosperity.

All too often, folks waltz into Halloween ready to take on a fake persona in relief of the previous one they have been secretly living as for a much longer while.  Fear, doubt, lack of hope, lack of foresight, or an inability to find the good in things places pressure on an individual's psyche forcing a fight-or-flight reaction to which most choose "flight".

I know, this wasn't much of a segway but I hope you get the idea here.


So what do folks really have to hide?  And why do folks even feel the need to hide?

Years ago, I read a book about advancing my self-esteem by boiling all my personal concerns down to the nitty-gritty and working my way back up.  The process took some time for according to the book's instructions, I was to initially spend every night for several nights standing stark-naked in front of a mirror and without angst or disappointment, point out to myself what my physical flaws were.  The assertion was, if I could get to a place where I could begin to accept the things I was unhappy about even if it meant repeatedly pointing them out to myself, then I could begin to let those foibles go when I was around others.  Indeed, most of my life until my late 20s and early 30s was riddled with insecurity and the masks I wore--depending on the situation--were innumerable.

© 2011 Maloof Collection, Ltd. — All Rights Reserved

Sept. 29, 1959, Esther St., New York, NY by Vivian Maier (1926-2009) is one of hundreds of thousands of black and white photographs she took while living the life of a nanny for 40 years (her story is actually quite fascinating and I've included a link to it if you click her name above).  Portrayed is an elderly man in New York seated in a chair along Esther St. while he enjoys a cigarette.  Vivid, dirty, horrendously ugly, the male blows out his latest inhale and stares back at the lens without qualm, without remorse, and without hesitation.  His clothing filthy, his hands riddled with callouses and age, yet his hair is swept neatly and most likely for the moment which Maier captured.

For what does he have to hide?

Immediately, some of you in the recesses of your mind are reflecting upon the implied notions of who this man was and how he lived his life, deducing how you would behave if his attributes were yours.  It's the innate nature of being a human:  Judging others based upon your own precognitive understandings and often times, the reaction is unfair or unnecessary.  Because if you ask me, this man is beautiful!  He is the very embodiment of what it is to be a free citizen, a man open to making his own choices, living his life in as much peace as he can muster and without doubt.  Deep in the craggily folds of his leathery skin and encrusted in the dirt covering his shirt and overalls are the virtues of responsibility.  Yes, responsibility!  Oh, he may be smoking, but he's probably in his 70s and clearly taking a break from earning his keep which he has every right to enjoy.  And to toss insult to injury, it is all capture in a moment where his confident smirk warps his mouth upward and as if to say, "You're darn right I'm alive and well and there is nothing you can do to take this moment away from me!"

He's out there.  He's alive, he's not shy, he's on display for countless pairs of eyes because for him, what is on the minds of others cannot be controlled or become a concern.  He's aged and while that has been beneficial for his maturity and understanding of life, he's a fresh reminder that to try and hide who you truly are is an utter waste of time and energy.  This man is living proof.

Acceptance is an important part of removing your mask.  From something as silly as accepting Halloween is over to something as serious as confronting a need to abuse oneself.  Accepting that you are who you are regardless of circumstance and no matter what.  Do you see a flaw in yourself?  Great!  Confront it, accept that it exists, then get your butt out there and do something about it!  Don't like where you are in life?  Don't cry about it in public or make a scene, the world doesn't give a damn for it is too busy improving its own life!

Find joy!  Find the things you know you're fortunate to have but never, ever lose sight of the fact that what others may presume about you won't change a damned thing about who you really are.  You have to change you on your own terms and time and as long as you're willing to look at your own true face in the mirror, will you begin to be able to sit on that bench yourself and proudly display your uniqueness for all the world to admire without needing a mask.  Exhale your demons and negativity and remember, dressing up as someone else is but for one day a year, the rest is on you to make the best of.

You only get one chance.

Requiescat

 "Excellence is an art won by training and habituation.  We do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have those because we have acted rightly.  We are what we repeatedly do.  Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit."

- Aristotle

There is a strange passion in loyalty to something we desire to accomplish.  A passion that burns inside our very souls, pounding from the depths of our chests wanting to reach out and grasp a goal that seems inevitably and perpetually out of reach.  We strain to find the motivation to keep going but the strain is never an option.  Inside, we can feel our emotions stretching over our limbs like muscles that cling to every joint and refuse to allow us to get that much more forward.  Creases in our face begin to form and fold as the pressure builds, each one like a strip of tight heat across our foreheads and next to our eyes.

I want what I want!  I know I can reach it!  I burn with desire, from head to toe!  Can't you see this means more to me than breathing itself?!  Can't you see, I am worthy of this!  I can have this!  I need this!

This passion is something all of us have whether stretched out over a long period of time in hopes of reaching a professional goal or nearly instantaneous in a moment where life is about to end.  A passion so strong, rooted in sacrifice, it manifests itself with ferocious velocity throughout our bodies.  Physically, we ache inside sometimes literally, almost always emotionally.  And just when you think you've reached a moment of reprieve, you look over at something off in the distance that immediately reminds you of this deep, deep desire and you cannot prevent your emotions from overwhelming you once again.

At this very moment, I can think of two things that drive me the most each nearly as important as the next.  Yet at the same time, I can also sense what it must feel like to have this same passion not for something to come or something inevitable but for something in the here and right now.  I picture the men I trained with during my short time in the Army Infantry and though I could not serve by their sides in war, my mind automatically skips over what could have become of them and I am left ... just missing them.  A whisper of my heart tells me they are gone, having laid the ultimate sacrifice for their nation but my mind does not want to accept this or spend more than a moment thinking about it.  I cannot!  For their passion to serve, their passion to sacrifice, and God-forbid, their need to passionately want to survive--oddly enough--gives me hope and renewed strength.

Requiescat by Briton Rivière (1840-1920) is a painting of a soldier, in full dress armor, lying in repose while his faithful bloodhound waits by the side of his master.  The somber tenderness of this piece is humbling to behold which is centralized and signified the eyes of the hound and the position of his nose next to his master's deceased hand.  Yet detail is just as significant to the entire piece as the canine who idly awaits:  We can see the intricate armor indicating the man's military significance.  He is lying in repose so he was someone important.  The embroidered and tasseled blanket over his bed showing expense was no object in honoring his sacrifice and existence.  And most interestingly, his faithful pet is seated on his haunches yet his upper body is up and ready.  I also appreciate that the dog's head is poised upward yet resting endearingly as if to say, "I'm ready when you are, master, but I sense something is wrong and I will not leave your side."

A heartbreaking painting when you grasp the full magnitude of what is being shared in the incredible detail and implied by the look, the feel, the color, and the emotions of his faithful dog.  Dare I say that there is no direct symbolism here to which we can all relate in terms of relationships.  No, what I see is a man enriched by giving up his own life while being honored more so than any human could have.  It's that honor.  The honor symbolized by his pet that looms patiently by his side as if he were going to get up and continue on.  I honestly cannot relate the symbolism here to humans as it just doesn't seem right nor what any honorable man or woman would want after paying the ultimate sacrifice of death.

What comes with an honorable life and the instinctual desire to sacrifice oneself no matter the end result is true legacy.  Though each of us has a "legacy" to leave behind, the most significant legacies are those left behind by the ones who have given up the most for others.  A deep passion and willingness to fight on, to push forward, to ignore temptation, to follow-through regardless of the oft endured ridicule, ostracizing, and ignorance.  Do any of us know who this man is?  Probably not and there really isn't much written about this piece.  Yet what is portrayed in this work doesn't make me think of any one person who is lofty in what he or she has sacrificed but of all the ones who have received no attention, no honor but have left a wake of influence and a void of quality that once was there.

Requiescat in Pace means "Rest in Peace" in Latin and is far too often misused.  It isn't a statement of hope, but a message of what is--a phrase used to indicate that this beloved person may now enjoy the painless spoils of all he has done.  His life may be over but his legacy will live on.

David

The story goes, in 1949, lightning hit the forest in Mann Gulch about a half an hour North of Helena, Montana.  A fire roared into life and was spotted by a local Ranger.  Calls went out for assistance and after several hours, smokejumpers were dispatched and dropped into the heart of the forest.  Leading them was a foreman named Wagner Dodge who was a seasoned veteran of fires and with the help of a local terrain expert, he assessed the situation.  Gathering up his crew as they finished eating their lunches, he instructed his 14 men to head to the ridge of the gulch and move along its edge so they could flank the presumed fire line from behind.

Dodge took a moment to sit and eat while he discussed his plan of attack with the terrain expert when he noticed smoke filling the sky had gotten much more dense and had shifted.  Sensing imminent trouble, Dodge scrambled up the sloping gulch to meet up with his crew just as they crested the peak.  What stood before them was a wall of flames filling the valley and up and over the ridge line merely a few hundred yards away and roaring towards them with tremendous ferocity.  A not-so-uncommon combination of wind, ecological circumstances, and dry heat set the table for a loud and destructive force and the only option the men had was to turn and run for their lives.

Hitting the bottom slope of the gulch and into a field, Dodge knew their efforts to get to safety were in vain but instructed the men to drop their gear and begin heading up the rocky incline of the gulch.  Looking back and seeing the flames fill the funnel-shaped valley like the barrel of a cannon, Dodge saw they were out of time.  Quickly, he lit a patch of grass to create an "escape fire" (an area of grass that is pre-burned) and as it spread outward, he yelled to the men to get face down.  But the noise, panic, and confusion of the moment prevented many of the crew from hearing their leader's instructions.

David, by Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598-1680), is the life-sized sculpture of David from the Bible as he was about to slay the giant, Goliath.  Breaking from the typical works of the 17th century which displayed many subjects in romantic or poetic poses, Bernini opted to do this particular commissioned piece as if David were frozen in time the very moment he was about to sling the rock.  Moreover, Bernini shows his artistic superiority through the implied psychology that is captured in David's face, body, and movement.

Examining the features of this piece, I am astounded by the realism.  The infamous story of the young man facing off against a giant is timeless and one many Christians and non-Christians are familiar with.  Worth noting is how the story is structured in I Samuel, Chapter 17 removing any doubt of David's fearless acceptance of the giant's challenge to fight.  Looking at the facial expression and body language, I can easily see that the only thought on David's mind is his determination to live up to his proclamation that the LORD would deliver Goliath into his hand.  Ultimately, Bernini has created a masterpiece that is timeless, awe-inspiring, and magnanimous--worthy of being considered one of the greatest sculptures ever created.

Of the 16 men in Mann Gulch that day in 1949, only 3 survived including Dodge.  Two men had luckily found their way through a crevasse in the steep, rocky hillside while Dodge was able to avoid certain death by lying in the escape fire's burned area.  It was later discovered that the men who perished were not overwhelmed by flames, but by the fire's incredible force of sucking the oxygen from the very air around them.  As the valley filled with flames--winds pushing the fire from behind, winds being created by the fire's massive inhale--each man who died suffocated to death before being burned.  Not long after the fire was extinguished, investigators easily located where each smokejumper had died finding body-shaped areas in the charred field where the grass was still alive.

Much like David, Dodge faced an incredible giant and was able to stay alive through confidence, determination, and quick thinking.  While fear and panic led to a terrible travesty, courage and will led to life and a story that has gone on to save countless firefighters from death.  From struggle often comes triumph.  Israel was finally able to fight back the Philistine army based upon the actions of one young man.  Countless firefighters and smokejumpers today are alive and able to confidently fight wildfires based upon the actions of Dodge.

Waiting

Thank you, everyone.  Thank you for all your visits to my blog despite my recent absence.  I've recently moved and now that I'm settled into my new home, I'm ready to get back to releasing my inner need to write.  Thank you for Waiting.

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Class warfare and dividing lines being drawn in the proverbial sand are a daily occurrence.  Shamefully, one side or the other tries to create a swath between their like and others who may be dramatically different.  Rich and poor, gay and straight, single and married, one race and another; if you try hard enough, you can find any particular sect working to alienate their immediate rival.  Yet all of it is ultimately frivolous and petty considering the basics facts of life and needs we all share which seem to be sorely forgotten all too much.

It doesn't take one too long to name someone who is extraordinarily wealthy.  Ask that same person if he or she knows of someone poor and homeless, and you will often get a blank stare or empty pondering.  Taking a look at any inner city climate, and you'll easily find one race pitted against another in something as logically silly as unofficial territory and ownership.  Often riddled in controversy and spiteful anger, one group of people will be taking legal or illegal actions to defame, ridicule, and separate from another when the energy and passion (misguided or not) could be more simply applied elsewhere and for much greater ambitions.

There are no rhetorical ways around it, sometimes being blunt is the only means in which to express truth and I won't dance around for the sake of this point.  The homeless Vet on the corner near Costco bleeds the same color blood, has to evacuate his bowels, and feels the same emotions as does Bill Gates or Oprah Winfrey.  Perhaps the Vet doesn't have the same means to arrive at his ends but nonetheless, the ends for Gates and Winfrey are the same for the Vet.  Boiled down, color, creed, religion, political belief, and everything else mean nothing because the life that lives inside one person is the same that lives inside his or her "polar opposite".  Why can't more people accept this?

Waiting, by Edgar Degas (1834-1917) is the portrait of a young, athletic ballerina seated on a bench which she shares with an older, more drably dressed woman.  Each has her purpose for being seated which this particular painting does not seem to indicate but we can each surmise for ourselves.  There is nothing glamorous or elegant about either woman as they are depicted though Degas took the time to indicate that one woman comes from a glamorous and elegant lifestyle while the other does not.  Dressed properly for the period and for each woman's stature, each is addressing a real life need by being seated on the same bench.

As the ballerina rest wearily on her right arm and rubs her left foot, she appears to be exhausted from efforts just moments ago.  Meanwhile, to her left, the older woman seems lost in thought and awaiting an outcome to something for which she exhibits forced patience due to circumstance.  Each woman is a contrast of the other--one virile and youthful, the other aged and mournful--easily seen in how she dresses, what is implied, and where she may be going.

Degas, with incredible sensitivity and purpose, smoothly displays the surroundings to ensure our eyes are focused tightly on each subject and the bench they share.  The palette and shadows are all subdued in order to ensure we each take more time to evaluate the women and who they are, rather than why. Poignantly, these two contrasting figures utilize the same tool for varying reasons but with the same ends.  One may be waiting for her audition results while the other awaits a taxi yet they are both there for the same outcome.

This piece is an exercise in tolerance.  It stands for something that has existed since the dawn of man and is gracefully displayed with beauty and simplicity.  Each is equally aware of the other yet their needs are being met in mutual fashion and that makes all things right.

So take a seat on the bench.  Relax and await the outcome you seek.  And when someone sits next to you, know that he or she is exercising his or her ability to be a complete and total equal to you.  Strip away the preconceived notions and dividing lines to see that in the end, it is the same ending for you as it is for anyone else.

Road, Near Guymon, Oklahoma, 2009

Desperation is never a comfortable feeling, I've had my fair share of experience.  Many years ago as a kid in elementary school, I was known by most of my classmates and teachers for being restless and a class-clown.  Bear in mind, I still got my school work done and was actually pretty smart, but I was certainly known for being a disruptive child.  That stuck with me for a long time and to no surprise, came back to bite me more than once.

I was in the 5th grade and my teacher--still today one of my all time favorites, Mrs. Corin--was busy at the chalk board.  A wonderfully sweet and charming woman in her mid-50s, her dress tussled back and forth as she scribbled away with her back turned to the classroom.  Like perfect comedic timing, FAHLOO ... SPLAT!  A large spit-wad hit the blackboard not one foot to the right of her head.  I immediately started to snicker and looked around behind me to see it was my classmate, Ed Mitchell, who had turned his Bic pen into a spit-wad shooter.  He grinned at me just before going stoic as Mrs. Corin spun around and demanded to know who did it.

Blushing has always been a weakness for me and can easily overtake my face.  And wouldn't you know it, I could barely hold back the giggling and as my face grew bright red, I was immediately accused of the crime!  After class, I was told I had to take home a parent-teacher meeting form to be signed by both my parents and to confirm a date and time one was to meet with Mrs. Corin and me.  Ugh, my cries of innocence fell on deaf ears both at school and when I got home to show my mom the note.  She was understandably angry and could only mutter that I had to go to my room and wait for my dad to get home.

Well, my pop arrived and after hearing my mother's tale of how badly my day had gone and of the impending parent-teacher conference, he, too, was understandably angry with me.  He scolded, "I've raised you to be better than this!"  Again, I passionately pleaded my innocence and become overwhelmed with emotion.  Yes, I was a class-clown but even I knew my limitations and would never had gone as far as Ed did.  But my parents would not relent in holding me accountable for my actions and my dad, with great calm and a stern eye, looked at me and said, "What did you do to make them think you did it?"

© 2011 Mitch Dobrowner. All Rights Reserved.

Road, Near Guymon, Oklahoma, 2009, by Mitch Dobrowner (19??-) is an awe-inspiring, humbling black and white photograph of a lonely, dirt road in Oklahoma with a menacing storm off in the distance.  Sunlight is masterfully captured leaking through a break in the super-cell illuminating a lone tree as a singular bolt of lightning strikes the ground.  A self proclaimed lover of Ansel Adams, Dobrowner has spent his life refining his craft in an effort to rightfully, gracefully, and humbly capture and evoke what our wonderful planet means to him.

Immediately, my mind is flooded with metaphors about life and how my personal journey from birth to death will travel down symbolic roads such as this one.  Oh yes, there will be moments where my road will be straight and my immediate destination pretty clear.  But there will also be moments where I can sense trouble ahead and the skies become dark and frightening.  Fortunately, I don't have to go it alone and in the midst of any troubling period, a light will shine through.

Echoing in my head for years, "What did I do to make them think I did it?"  These words plagued me for a very long time both in my mind and in the voices of my parents when I would attempt to defend myself out of trouble.  It wasn't until a couple of years after my mother had passed away from cancer that it hit me like a ton of bricks.  As I was headed home traveling Eastbound on the Pasadena Freeway, I began to sob uncontrollably.  Being responsible for my actions!  How could I have gotten through that much life without figuring it out?

My family and I have all had our ups and downs over the years.  Fortunately, our devoted love for each other has fueled our abilities to weather the rough spots and glide right into the good ones.  Life is a long series of bumps, turns, declines and inclines and though things may seem bleak up ahead, the light always breaks through the darkness as I turn to my father.  No matter how disruptive or unorganized I have been in living my life, my dad has stood by me through it all always concerned about my well being and my future.

Though clouds of difficulty and obstacle may continue to line my path, the one person I know I can lean on to help illuminate my outlook on what's to come is always there.  It turns out, this Road I've been on more than I can count has never been a road I had to travel alone.  My mother was there as much as she could be even during her fight with cancer, and equally important, my father has been, too.  I am older and much wiser now thanks to both but I will admit, it pains me deeply to even think of a time when my father won't be around.  But while he's healthy and about 30 miles away, I know I will cherish each moment I get to see him, talk to him, or know he's thinking of me as I continue to travel through life.

Thank you for being my light, Dad.  I love you.

The Virgin of the Rocks

There is something to be said for the one person most of us probably know who is quiet, polite, patient, and never complains.  Sadly, I'm pretty sure I'm not that one person anyone would think of but lately I have begun to examine my own behavior.  A couple years ago after a terrifying episode of anxiety and stress, I realized my life needed to be approached much more passively so I could avoid becoming too emotionally involved and concerned from various experiences.  That's worked out pretty well and lately, I've been trying to examine other areas of my personality that have been lacking.

Frankly, I don't feel I exhibit enough character.  If I'm feeling passionate about something that doesn't seem right, I express that and tend to make it sound as if I'm complaining.  If I'm in traffic and someone mindlessly cuts me off or goes too slow, I assert to myself that he or she is incapable of not being selfish.  And the list of things I do that provide evidence of this self-doubt goes on.  Yet, there are also moments where I refuse to give up my habitual need to express thanks; my need to acknowledge those who do the dirtiest of work; my need to encompass others who are in any similar situation as me when I'm expressing concern or disagreement.  Am I a model citizen for character?  No way!  Will it take much to change for the better?  I don't believe so and it is something I'm working on now.  Some inspiration I've found in exhibiting character is in the following story:

In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a 10-year-old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at a table.  A waitress put a glass of water in front of him.  "How much is an ice cream sundae?" he asked.  "Fifty cents," replied the waitress.  The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied the coins in it.  "Well, how much is a plain dish of ice cream?" he inquired.  By now more people were waiting for a table and the waitress was growing impatient.  "Thirty-five cents," she brusquely replied.  The little boy again counted his coins.  "I'll have the plain ice cream," he said.  The waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the table and walked away.  The boy finished the ice cream, paid the cashier and left.  When the waitress came back, she began to cry as she wiped down the table.  There, placed neatly beside the empty dish were two nickels and five pennies.  For you see, he couldn't have the sundae because he had to have enough money left over to leave her a tip.

The Virgin of the Rocks by Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) is the tale of John the Baptist being introduced to his cousin, Jesus Christ by Mary all accompanied by the Archangel, Gabriel.  The children depicted are clearly in infant stage yet both exhibit their divine nature and character by gesturing to one another.  John, on the left, holds his hands as if praying to show his devotion to his Savior while Christ has His right hand out preparing to bless John.

There are two versions of this painting.  The one displayed here (at the Louvre in Paris) is believed to be the first that da Vinci actually painted himself, while the second (on display at the National Gallery in London) is slightly different and felt to be mostly painted by students and assistants to da Vinci.  Fortunately, the articulation of the implied story isn't under too much controversy since both paintings have received the utmost in respect for what da Vinci was attempting to express.

All expression aside, da Vinci's ability to paint so majestically resounds in the great works of Michelangelo, van Cleave, Massys, Verrocchio, and many other artists of his time. But where the greatest challenge to myself can be found is in the simple, innocent character these two children inherently embody.  Christ, of course, goes on to bless countless lives with His all-knowing wisdom and purity of love.  John, as well, foretold of the coming Messiah and was also known for his teachings and profound devotion to humankind.  These two utterances cannot hold how much each man lived and how much character they had, but through this painting and their lives, I can find encouragement to hold myself to a higher standard.  Why?  Because both men lived their lives without complaining and knowing full well their dedication would mean their demise.  In other words, each had every excuse to give up and to gripe and neither gave in.

Perhaps it is a stretch to compare this masterpiece to the idea of having character.  However, isn't that what each person in this painting exemplifies?  Mary and her devotion to God.  John and his willingness to immediately yield his praise and thanks that Christ has come.  Gabriel and his leadership and guidance for Jesus.  And Christ, with only 32 years left in his life before He would offer up the ultimate sacrifice for every other human.  There is so much more displayed in da Vinci's work but for this one, I wanted to dig deeper and find a more important meaning.  Semantics and emblematic symbolism aside, and the fact that many religious themed paintings can also have a foundational theme of character in them, there was just something about this one piece that got to me.  It could be the gentle nurturing that is evident, it could be the display of two men who would die for their cause.  No matter what, though, the bar has been set and I imagine it will take me the rest of my life to pursue it.

No. 5, 1948

I have grown increasingly wary of those who are all fluff and no substance. You know the type, he or she is riddled with all kinds of empty accusations, likes to point fingers, and avoids admittance of fault at any cost. All of this is a mask, hiding the true, featureless void that this person is at his or her very core. While mincing words and expressing unreachable promises with charisma, seduced viewers and fans are duped into thinking this person can and will do "great" things.

Immediately, I'm sure each one of you reading this has someone in mind, maybe even someone famous. Regardless of seeming implication — and yes, I, too, have a few people in mind — the intent here is to express an emotion that comes with this frustration based upon an individual. Setting aside the person or persons, the root of this emotion in principle remains almost the same when it comes to works of "art" that really aren't work or art. And as I segue into how all of this relates to this week's piece, I make no apologies for those who may be offended. In fact, I expect a few to feel differently than I but certainly hope what is expressed isn't discarded as rubbish or for lack of knowledge.

After all, art is created to be a visual source of entertainment and meaning for anyone who wishes to gaze upon it. The job of the artist is to ensure his or her works evoke an emotion or message that is relative and understandable. And when it is not, then that artist has failed no matter what anyone else may say.

No. 5, 1948 by, Jackson Pollock (1912-1956), is an 8'x4' painted fiberboard drizzled with brown, gray, and yellow paints to create a nest-like appearance. This particular painting is considered the most expensive and valuable art piece in history (at the time of this article being posted) and sold for $140 million US in 2006.

Hmmm . . . what to say? Okay, on one hand, I think about how marvelous this piece would look in a darker, modern-styled interior office or home especially if bordered by harsh grays and metal trim. On the other hand, I'm void of any impression of what is being expressed other than to assume it must mean chaos and thus this relates to a vast array of stimuli that would vary wildly depending on the person viewing it; therefore devoid of any serious message. Yes, as I've stated many times, there are moments in life where things can get extremely hectic and taxing upon one's emotions but I don't sense that with this painting at all.

My efforts to try and find something in this squiggly mess was like bouncing around a rubber room in a straight-jacket. Here is how my thought process developed: A monkey on 4 cups of double espresso and some paint could do this! → Wait, do I see a figure or shape in there? → Man, if I ever buy a fancy home and go modern with the interior design, this would look sweet over the fireplace! → But it's just a bunch of spilled and sloshed strings of paint with seemingly no meaning in motion. Where can I find the evidence that a stiff breeze or a family member bumped into Pollock while he was flinging paint? Would it have looked all that different?

Yet, have I done what art is meant to do? By studying it and expressing what I may or may not feel and sense, aren't I reacting to art as it is meant to be?

Honestly, I'd rather pay off all my bills, buy a fantastic house along the beach, get that dream car, go on a very long vacation to exotic and historical locations, buy my family some spectacular and needed gifts, and then put the rest into investments and savings than fork over $140,000,000.00 for this, but to each their own. Right?

The bottom line is Pollock has created something that is concretely timeless and awe-semi-inspiring.  While I may find it a bit silly on some levels, I am intrigued on other levels, and I suppose — and admitting — perhaps this is an extremely amazing painting that deep down, I wish I could have.

Or should I head to the local store for a fiberboard, some brown and gray and yellow paint, and a monkey?

Don't give me that look! Someone had to say it.