Month: September 2010

– Socrates

This is a book review I do not want to write. In fact, I have put it off for more than six months. Why the delay, you ask. Procrastination? Too busy? Lack of motivation? All of these. And yet none of these. It has nothing to do with the book or its author. For a first novel, the book offers a startling look into the contemporary scene of rural Appalachia. It is clear that Roger Alan Skipper reaches for a story that is close to him like a favorite coffee mug or faded denim jacket or even a place—an old diner where coffee is still served for fifty cents including free refills. The novel is not too complicated, nor too simple, nor too trite to write a review. In a manner of speaking—it is too true to be fiction.

I feel I might be he, Sid, who loves and hates the mountains where he once lived and left—as if the mountains themselves embrace and reject him. I feel that if I write about this book I may be committing myself to its plot. And I am not sure I like how the author left Sid Lore on page 208. The plot is simple and complex like the characters that pass through the pages between the book’s covers. And if I write this review it will be like a rune that once it is carved into stone cannot be withdrawn—the future committed before it arrives—before it is lived. Is that possible?

During the alter call, the girl went forward. A swarm of growed-ups buried her in a mess of sweat and noise. “Give her your Spirit, Lord,” one cherry-faced old bag bellered, and Sid shivered…. She couldn’t get the tongues any better than he could, she said, and in the company of someone just like him, … he’d decided to talk in tongues whether they was the Lord’s or his own, …

The author writes in an authentic voice; placing the reader in a small rural Appalachian mountain town, placing the reader in a small charismatic congregation, placing the reader on a road to tear down the mountain. Sid struggles with his identity, his sense of place and purpose. He sees Janet seeking acceptance in the church and identifies with her desperation, longing, isolation. Sid and his brother try to fit into this community, but Sid feels equally a part of it as he does a stranger to it.

Like the novel’s title, some days I want to “tear down the mountain” in search of a place that has a better job market to match the housing costs. Sid and Janet “tear down the mountain”—a colloquial expression meaning to leave the mountains, not remove them—in a beat up pickup truck with no tags and “FARM USE scrawled on the doors with green spray paint. How were they to know that wasn’t legal outside of West Virginia?”

Once left behind, the mountains change. After fourteen years divorced from the home where Sid and Janet met, they return separately to find the quiet little secluded place in the Appalachians transformed to a tourist getaway.

A sense of the ridiculous swelled as she drove slowly… . Familiar signs that she never expected to see—Perkins and Comfort Inn… made it all a mixed-up dream.

Several themes complicate and populate this novel: personal identity, community, the authentic and superficial attributes of religious life, gender roles in a traditional marriage, and the emotional strain of unemployment in an economically challenged and changing Appalachian town. All these themes resonate with the Asheville, North Carolina experience.

A couple years ago I shared a conversation with an older graphic designer. I asked him how Asheville had changed since he had moved here (because it is rare to find someone in Asheville who actually grew up here). He told me that Asheville resembles Aspen during the 1980s. The older graphic designer had moved from a comercialized Aspen tourist spot to the quiet enclaves of Asheville. This city had the mountain charm and vibe that Aspen had lost. But now Asheville is losing its mountain roots and values—replacing it with tourism. And tourists visit Asheville to see a city on exhibition and do not share the commitment and struggle to maintain a daily mountain lifestyle.

I’ve witnessed families relocate to Asheville, but within 12 to 16 months move to Raleigh or other cities because skilled-labor opportunities (especially for professionals in creative services and high-tech businesses) are rare in this region. Just last week on the bus, Route 13 to be precise, I overheard two women talking about their plans to move to Charlotte because the jobs that pay well don’t exist in Asheville. One of the women said she found a six-bedroom house in Charlotte and a job that can afford the mortgage (i.e. Asheville’s housing is too expensive and the wages too low.) In Tear Down the Mountain, Sid Lore faced the same dilemma.

“May back’s no better. Unless we move where there’s jobs I can do, its up to you. Or we can set here and starve.” [Sid’s] eyelids hung red and water shot like an old hound’s. “You could go to college, learn that stuff.”

Sacrifices must be made if one wants to live in the mountains of Asheville. Sid and Janet decide to move to a city in the valley where there are jobs.

Where Route 50 topped Allegheny Front Sid pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine. “What’s wrong?” Janet said. “You want to give the mountains one last look before we fall off?”
“No man, having put his hand to the plow, and looking back, is fit for the Kingdom of God. The Bible says that.”
Sid laughed … “I didn’t figure it come from the TV Guide …”

At this point in the novel I begin to dislike the story. They left the mountains. I knew before I left page 176 that they could never return to the same mountains they once knew. No one ever does. Once you leave you lose your ground—your roots. You change. The place changes. That is why I do not want to leave Asheville. That is why I sacrifice a lot to stay in this area. That is why a lot of citizens in Asheville accept low wages and high costs of living. They do not want to tear down the mountain. They accept the hardships and ironies of a mountain lifestyle. That is how I would have ended the novel, but that is not the life the author planned for Sid Lore and Janet Holler. Tear Down the Mountain is a tragic Appalachian love story. And Roger Alan Skipper’s debut novel from Soft Skull Press could have no other ending. But it is not my ending.

(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.

Originally published in The Indie, Volume 5, Number 51

It was a cold November night when I entered The Grey Eagle as Deborah Crooks performed her songs for The Traveling Bonfires benefit concert. After taking some photos of her for The Indie, I found a corner spot opposite the bar where I could see half the stage.

I opened my notebook and listened to Deborah finish one of her original songs. She introduced her last song by celebrating that she is a lapsed Catholic, Hindu, Buddhist. Her confession received modest applause from a growing crowd. Deborah closed her set with a prayer for the world.

One of the lines from her last song caught my attention: “Walked alone with all my doubt…” I thought of how heavy doubt can be. The weight of not knowing or not wanting to know or questioning what you already know.

Deborah Crooks finished her prayer for the world and the next act began setting up their musical equipment. More people joined a small gathering in the music hall as others bought drinks at the bar. Over the house speakers a bluegrass number played the lyrics: “bare me away on your snow white wings to my immortal home.”

I noticed Deborah at the bar. She wore a dark brown coat which matched her dark wavy hair and deep brown eyes. She waited for a bit before the bar staff warmed her mug with hot coffee. Slowly she walked back to the “green room” off stage right, retrieved her guitar and again slowly, maybe even meditatively, walked to the back of the music hall and found a seat.

I invited Deborah back to my table and asked her to tell me about the last song she sang. It has quite a history, she told me. It includes the death of her father, a World War II vet, and witnessing the World Trade Centers collapse.

In exploring her roots, Deborah discovered a parallel path between her father’s liberation efforts during W.W.II and her own personal liberation through ashtanga yoga. “Writing and singing is where I find my direction” she told me as she discussed finding faith through the conflicting messages of being in New York City for a yoga event and witnessing the tragedy of 9-11.

Like many fathers and daughters, there were struggles between her and her father which she sought to reconcile before his death. Without out going into personal details she summarized, “The same things that get between people get between countries.”

The next musical act had assembled on stage and begun to belt out their first song. We realized that our discussion about liberation would have to be continued later. She quickly concluded, “We’re all looking for the same thing—a haven, a home.”

(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.

Originally published in The Indie, December 2005

Last year, about this time, I contributed to “Resonance” Art Opening/Multimedia Performance. The Grey Eagle Tavern and Music Hall hosted the event. I read some of my new poems at the time and then Philip (guitarist) and Julie (rock vocalist) joined me with a music/performance set based on my book Late Night Writing. Julie contributed an original song to the set while Philip added an original soundtrack. The collaboration between the three of us was inspiring (to me at least). It was kind of weird hearing Julie sing my poems “Fragile” and “Driftwood” back to me and to the audience. In a way it was a relief to hear someone else claim them, own the words, project the ideas. I miss that. There are a few live bootleg recordings of the three or four gigs we did together. Maybe when I find some server space, I’ll offer them as free downloads.

Three paintings represented me at “Resonance” Art Opening/Multimedia Performance. “Fragile,” named after the poem I wrote, was painted last summer. Previously, I had done a series of four paintings inspired by the poet Kahlil Gibran (which was part of the 2003 “Resonance” art show) with bright, dramatic abstractions using a simple palette of red, yellow and black. With “Fragile,” the colors deepened in order to create a stark, lyrical image. A young poet from South Carolina once confessed he didn’t particularly get into modern art, but he liked “Fragile” because it seemed like a place he would like to visit. The poem I wrote that inspires this work includes these lines: “I am naked/ When truth strips me/ Of a lie.” And later: “I am reborn/ When the old shattered remains/ swept away, replaced with/ a new vessel to contain my soul.”

“Among The Myrtle,” named after a passage from the book of Zechariah, was also painted last summer. Most people who view this painting don’t know the passage that inspires this work. The passage reads:
“In a vision during the night, I saw a man sitting on a red horse that was standing among some myrtle trees in a small valley… I asked the angel who was talking with me, ‘My lord, what are all those horses for?’ ‘I will show you,’ the angel replied. So the man standing among the myrtle trees explained, ‘They are the ones the LORD has sent out to patrol the earth.’ Then the other riders reported to the angel of the LORD, who was standing among the myrtle trees, ‘We have patrolled the earth, and the whole earth is at peace.’

Again, as with the painting “Fragile,” I attempt to present a sparse place for the eye and the mind to roam—a place someone would like to sit and rest and visit often. In a way, I was trying to create a sanctuary were “the whole earth is at peace.”

My son, who was two at the time, painted along side me. We would paint outside, on the front deck on Saturday mornings. It became a weekend ritual. At the time he merely enjoyed mixing the colors on an old canvas I had forsaken. He named one dinosaur and the next weekend he would paint over dinosaur and call it puppy. During the winter we stopped the outdoor painting sessions and he began working with pencil and paper. By springtime he graduated to markers. As spring gave way to summer he had developed a curious visual language that inspired me. He began drawing people with arms and legs that didn’t quite fit and dots and lines representing eyes. The smile became his creative signature—it sliced across the heads as if to say “it is what it is.”

One Saturday, after we resumed our painting ritual, I created “I’m Putting on My Socks” in honor of his drawings. Three other paintings were created that day (which I may post at a later date) and a series of twelve drawings. He told me I needed more gray. I told him gray was not a color I liked to use because it’s too bland. He insisted by adding a few strokes of his own. After moving him back to his canvas, I conceded. Gray became the visual language that supported the red, black, copper and white motifs.

I don’t know if there will be a “Resonance” Art Performance this year. Whether collaborating with adults or children, an artist needs support in order to grow. Hearing a poem or viewing a painting from another perspective opens up a world of opportunity. Irving Stone mused that “Art’s a staple. Like bread or wine or a warm coat in winter… Man’s spirit grows hungry for art in the same way his stomach growls for food.” For those who have supported my growling stomach, I thank you.

* * *

A couple weeks ago I had lunch with a friend and I was amazed (again) by his intellectual prowess. I commented to him that I wish I could have time to read more books. “Better to read deeply than to read extensively,” he said as we stood in line to pay for our meal. Coming from a gentleman who reads deeply and extensively, I think I understand what he means—concentrate on one thing and read it well. Too often I find something interesting to read but it turns out to be more of a distraction than a help for my writing efforts.

The writer studies literature, not the world. He lives in the world; he cannot miss it… He is careful of what he reads, for that is what he will write. He is careful of what he learns, because that is what he will know.

The writer knows his field—what has been done, what could be done, the limits—the way a tennis player knows the court. And…plays the edges.
—Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Examining the books I’m currently reading, (Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry, Come to the Quiet: The Principles of Christian Meditation, An Explanation of America (Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets), Handwriting: Poems, Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters, The Blessing: A Memoir, Don’t Waste Your Life, Job and Hebrews (from the Christian Bible), A Poetry Handbook, Road to Reality, True Spirituality and Can Poetry Matter?: Essays on Poetry and American Culture) it’s safe to say the concentration is in poetry, non-fiction literature and spirituality. Examining the magazines and newspapers I read reveals more diversity, and the blogs I read regularly are even more varied than that. Play the edges and avoid the mire of the middle. That’s the challenge.

* * *

I attended the Writers at Home Series at Malaprop’s Bookstore/Cafe featuring Brenda Flanagan and Robert McGee ()Sunday September 18th.

Brenda Flanagan was a joy to hear as she read two short pieces. Yeah, I was a bit disappointed. I would have liked to read more. Her lyrical quality to prose simply inspires me. And the fact that she introduced her first short fiction section by singing the first couple bars of Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” was the bow on the package.

Robert McGee read from an upcoming book that impressed everyone. It’s a series of short stories based on the personalities in an office. Think “Office Space” without the campy humor. Not that there wasn’t any humor, but the humor was sparsely sardonic—more of an urbane edginess. I look forward to reading his book when it is released.

Afterward: Usually I chat with the authors after the readings or at least thank them for reading their work. But Sunday I felt like I had feasted on the morsels that fell from the table of masters. I didn’t know what to say to them and they seemed to be surrounded by well-wishers or groupies. I couldn’t tell.

I lost myself in between bookshelves trying to figure out what to say, but realized I had nothing to say. Or at least nothing I wanted to say. If I could say or ask something those things had probably already been said and asked: Do you write full-time? Or is it a hobby? Where do you get your inspiration? I love that story you read, but I’ll buy your book online because it’s cheaper than buying here at the bookstore. How can I be just like you? Do you use MS Word to compose your manuscript? Would you autograph my copy of your book?

Idiot, I said to myself in my best Napoleon Dynamite voice. Then I silently left the bookstore.

* * *

What are my goals? Are they in the right priority? Why is there so much clutter? Is blogging a waste of time or an essential part of my life?

I’m glad I’m not the only one considering this. Jennifer Rice of What’s Your Brand Mantra? seems to have re-evaluated her priorities and reinvented her blog.

“After 18 months of writing about branding and marketing, I hit the point of burn-out. So I’m making some changes that I hope will keep me interested and engaged in the blogosphere.”

She drew inspiration from a post by Jack/Zen: “The question about creating simplicity in our life spaces, life styles, relationships, and work is the question: ‘What is the essence of my life?’ “

In the Christian tradition, the essence of life refers to spirituality or spiritual intuition. A Taoist would agree with that. Shen, or essence, refers to the spirit of a man. Yet, the question “What is the essence of my life?” is not complete until the body and soul (mind) are included. Maybe a better question would be “What is the purpose of my life?” In order for the essence to have purpose it must engage the mind (soul). If your mind is anything like mine, it must be disciplined they way the body is disciplined with exercise and diet.

Here’s an example of what I mean. My spirit (essence) is in need of purpose. I read a psalm written by Jeremy Huggins (body in action) that caused meditation (mind in action) which lead to moments of contemplation (spirit in action). As I contemplated (essence) my life and this blog my soul (mind) wandered in many directions. One of those directions lead me to spend almost four hours tonight writing (body).

(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.

Originally published in The Indie, November 2005

The first time I heard the music of U2 was from a double vinyl release of Rattle and Hum. Before cassettes and CDs and iPods there were vinyl records. The black and white grainy photos and reversed out lyrics (white text on black background) created an experience that’s difficult to explain. I listened to it for days if not weeks and months. It expanded how I saw the world and expanded me a bit too. For those older than I, the musicians may have different names: Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen. For me it was the rebel Irish rockers of U2.

I don’t own a television. So, I was delighted the morning after the Grammys to hear NPR broadcast the results. U2 dominated the Grammys with Best Rock Song, Best Rock Album, Song of the Year and Album of the Year (there may have been more but that’s enough for now).

Here’s something NPR did not cover. The previous week Bono spoke at the National Prayer Breakfast. I know. It is very odd indeed and he thought so too. “If you’re wondering what I’m doing here, at a prayer breakfast,” began Bono. “I’m certainly not here as a man of the cloth, unless that cloth is leather.”

He continued his introduction at the National Prayer Breakfast by commenting how “unnatural” it seems to have a rock star behind a “pulpit and preaching at presidents.” After a couple more comments he offered this reflection:

“I avoided religious people most of my life. Maybe it had something to do with having a father who was Protestant and a mother who was Catholic in a country where the line between the two was, quite literally, a battle line. Where the line between church and state was… well, a little blurry, and hard to see.”

He went on to observe how “religion often gets in the way of God” and his general contempt of the “religious establishment.”

“I must confess,” Bono said. “I wanted my MTV. Even though I was a believer. Perhaps because I was a believer.”

I share the same cynicism toward organized religion that Bono confessed in his address. When people are placed in positions of power, whether it be religious or political, there is always the potential for the abuse and perversion of that power. Abraham Lincoln is credited for saying: “Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.”

Bono also presented a topic near to his heart — poverty — by stating that “It’s not a coincidence that in the scriptures, poverty is mentioned more than 2,100 times… ‘As you have done it unto the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me’ (Matthew 25:40).” The Christian Scriptures mention money and possessions over 2,300 times. Heaven is mentioned to over 500 times. I dare say this isn’t something you hear often in an American church service. He concluded his speech at the National Prayer Breakfast on the topic of “a completely avoidable catastrophe” — AIDS in Africa.

I don’t know about you, but I still find it difficult to believe that Bono didn’t drop the f-bomb during his National Prayer Breakfast address. I suppose NPR would have run that story if he had. However, this really got me to think about why I don’t like to go to church. And further, why I still go despite me feelings about it.

Like Bono, I feel disillusioned by organized religion — more specifically, Christianity (or church-ianity). Many Christians become so busy being religious and being political that they completely miss spirituality all together. Also like the stubborn Irish rocker, I’m not going to give up on God even though people can be down right disappointing.

It has been a long spiritual journey for me, and it’s not over yet. I don’t have it all together. I blow it more times than I’d like to admit. Sometimes I think I am more of a curse than a blessing to those around me. But I think that’s exactly why God pursues me. God knows I need help. I guess, like Saint Peter trying to walk on water, God wants me to ask for help and He’s ready to keep me from drowning. I guess that’s why I have a particular interest in Bono’s story. He’s dealing with his Christian spirituality in a very public manner. Sure, he drops the f-bomb more times than is comfortable for television executives. But he’s also known for his intense spirituality and a relationship with the God that listens.

***

It’s difficult explaining to my children why I go to church because sometimes I just don’t want to go. Why should I force them to do something I don’t want to do? Yet, I remind them to brush their teeth and wash their hands and eat wholesome organic foods and vegetables. Should I make them go to church? After all, Christianity is fubar. It’s a like an auto that is well beyond an oil change and the engine has locked up but the gears are still hammering away as if it will still move forward another inch. It’s like you can’t go to a Christian church in America that isn’t pressuring you to be a good little conservative Republican or insisting Democrats are social saviors. American politics is not what it means to be Christian. True spirituality is what it means to be a Christian.

***

Some days I don’t brush my teeth after breakfast, but I should. Some times I sneak over to a downtown café for confectionary goodness though I know full well that a spinach salad would be better for me. In the same manner, I force myself to go a small church up on a hill. There are a lot of really nice people there. They help the poor and sick and they put up with me — unconditionally, I hope. I’m sure I’m one of those people who show up at church and congregates wonder, “Why the hell is he here? If he is here, then I had better find another church.” I explain to my children that I go to church for God not for the people that show up week after week. It’s like going to get me spiritual car refueled from a week’s worth of travel. A friend of mine calls it filling one’s love basket.

One Sunday I was daydreaming during one of those sermons that included a political rabbit trail that totally pissed me off. I dreamt that I was late for the morning service and there was only one seat available which was not quite in the front and not quite near the back and not quite near the end of a row. I had to squeeze in front of nicely-seated people in order to reach that chair. As I nervously approached that single vacancy I noticed the guy near it was wearing a leather jacket and looked a lot like Bono. I sat down abruptly and didn’t notice his Bible on the empty chair.

“Shit,” I said under my breath and hoped no one heard. But it was clear people did hear me for they all looked in my direction with angry eyebrows.

“Are you saving this seat for someone?” I asked as I handed the Bible to the guy who looked a lot like Bono.

“I was saving that seat for you,” he said and sounded a lot like Bono. “It’s about fucking time you showed up.”

I looked at him again, as did other congregates around us, and, oddly, I felt at home. This must be the right place for me. After all, the guy who looked and sounded a lot like Bono had saved me a seat.

“Perfect people don’t come to church,” he said. “Now quit gawking at me and pay attention to the minister. His homely is about not showing partiality to people whether they are rich or poor, clean or foul. It’s from the book of James.”

I guess the sermon that day must have ended shortly after that point in my daydream. Or maybe I actually said “shit” in church recognizing a political rabbit trail was about to take place and buried my eyes in the scriptures hoping nobody heard me and nobody saw me. But the idea from the daydream is still profound. One doesn’t go to an emergency room if one is healthy. So, if I’m spiritually hungry, then wouldn’t it be the perfect place to fill my basket?

***

True spirituality conveys unconditional love. Maybe that’s the hope I have when I go to the small church up on a hill. I hope that if I sit next to some stranger from Asheville or Ireland that I’ll unconditionally love him rather than love him on the condition that he needs to clean up his life to attend church. Maybe that’s one reason why I keep attending that small church up on a hill — people show up just as they are not as they pretend to be or think they should to be.

I go to church because I’m broken, fragile, hurt, abused or just down right rotten. In fact, I’ve shown up at church in a rather fowl mood a time or two or maybe more than I’d like to confess. And there are times I’ve stormed out of church because of one thing or another. I don’t go to church to impress my neighbors. I don’t go to church to impress the congregates. I sure as hell don’t go to impress the minister. I go to church to because I’m spiritually hungry and need to be feed unconditionally even if I don’t like the taste of the sermon. God looks beyond what I’m wearing or what I drove to church. God even looks beyond why I was late for church or why I was daydreaming in church. God looks at my intentions. More importantly, God knows all about me and still listens and still helps and still loves me. People are people and need, as my friend says, their love baskets filled with wholesome, unconditional goodness. It’s a spirit thing not a religious thing.

(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.

Originally published in Blue Sky Asheville, Volume 1, Number 1

A copy of Shakespeare’s collected plays wedges itself between bookends and several issues of literary magazines on the kitchen counter. It’s an odd home for literature, but what better breakfast than iambic pentameter in the morning light?

Did you know you can download the complete works of Shakespeare online–for free? You can download it and place the bits and bytes somewhere on your computer’s hard drive. Small ones and zeros represent some of the greatest verse written in the English language. Compare that micro file taking up a fraction of space on a personal computer to the five-pound black clothed volume trimmed in fading gold leaf collection of comedy and tragedy and history.

I try to live a simple life, but I can’t bear the thought of removing a Shakespeare tome and replacing it with a desktop icon that is smaller than a thumbnail. I can’t flip through a digital file—only scroll down through those never ending windows of copy. Even small books I can’t remove from my library. A hardcover reprint of Gibran’s The Prophet from the 60’s rests underneath a Kenny Wayne Shepherd audio CD and Sylvia Plath’s final collection. Plath’s original hardback seems to smell of its survival of the Kennedy assassination and the Cold War. I wrap myself in the yellowed musty pages of a twenty-five cent copy of Tortilla Flats and enjoy a dollar reprint paperback of Hesse’s Gertrude featuring a Milton Glaser cover design. That silly desktop icon looks so feeble and anemic next to Annie Dillard’s slim copy of The Writing Life.

I know the information is the same in pulp as it is in bites. Its pixeled letters converted from Garamond to electronic on and off switches that splash across a computer’s monitor. But page turning is an activity that warrants laud when the final page has been accomplished.

Words should be handled, pages touched, paperback spines broken, hard covers smashed on a table surface with the weight of its literary value. Throw the book at them? You can’t throw a desktop icon. It just blinks at me from a hard drive, pleading to me of its authenticity. Yes, the electronic clone has words and chapters and line breaks like a book. The digital literature has been authored and represents great stories like a book.

But an e-book can’t feel or smell of being read on a beach during summer vacation—grains of sand falling from the pages as a reminder of the event. It doesn’t have the human stain of being held nor can you place a fallen autumn leaf between the pages of a Hemingway novel. There are no inscriptions on a PDF book’s end pages reading “To my son for Christmas 2004.” Not even the sound of being removed from my canvas bag and thumbed open to where the bookmark (an old gas station receipt) reminds me of last night’s reading. An electronic book can never replace the printed page. The word must be tangible to be loved. The digital icon only reminds me of the lovely manuscript on my kitchen counter.

(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved.

Originally published in The Indie, September 2005

Byzantine paintings were created to as icons depicting the eternal while denying the ephemeral. That’s why many 11th and 12th century wooden panel paintings were gilded with gold backgrounds and exhibited floating figures of the Christ, the Madonna and the saints. These images are what inspired River District artist Ryan Ford. “I’ve always been very intrigued by the aesthetics of religious icon art,” he told me in a recent interview in his studio at The Wedge (one of the many warehouse buildings scattered along the French Broad River District). The work that started it all was his replica of St. Anthony Beaten by Devils.

“It’s a fifteenth century, Sienese painting by Stefano di Giovanni,” Ryan Ford began. “The original was an egg tempera painting. I did this in oil paint,” he gestured to the panel on the wall.

“Interesting story about this one… supposedly the peasants were so moved by the piece that they [would] scratch away the beasts faces and genitalia revealing the under sketching. So, that’s what you’re seeing here.” Ford pointed at the portion of the painting where a beast’s groin revealed gold smudges. “I wouldn’t imagine this painting any other way. It’s one of my favorite paintings in the world. That’s why I did an exact copy of it.” Ford explained, “the Sienese artists… capture an air of inquisitiveness. It’s almost timeless and just for them. They paint very simply. They don’t over do anything. I mean, look at the trees in the background. They’re little mushroom shapes. It’s just got this air of truth and beauty that was just so moving to me.”

Ford hit on something that has been missing in contemporary art for a long time, “truth and beauty.” The formula, in the classical school of thought, was to display truth and beauty. Even disturbing images depicted in Stefano di Giovanni painting held a timeless quality and vocabulary that is lost on young, contemporary artists. In Ford’s work he combines violent and comedic elements that resonate.

He moved passed a huge furry mask hanging from the low ceiling and deeper into his studio to a work in progress. “I’m doing a show coming up in April. That’s what this one is for,” He told me as he stood to the left the unfinished painting on an easel.

“I’ve talked [with] friends that have faced the issue of suicide. So, this is kind of a tribute. You’ll notice the brains coming out of the side of his head I painted in gold. Like your ideas are golden. I had this composition in my head and I’ve [wanted] to do it for awhile. I just started yesterday so I’ve gotten this far. There’s a long way to go on it. This for the next show in April.” Ryan Ford is hosting a show April 30th at the Wedge Gallery. The title of the fine arts show is “All Desperate and Golden.”

Behind Ryan Ford hung a large painting dominating the far wall. Its intensity reminds me of an apocryphal vision. Last April, the Mountain Xpress ran an article by Connie Bostic featuring him and Julie Masaoka. In that article Julie wrote: “Ford, who’s now reading the Bible, says he loves the visions these stories inspire. He’s particularly moved… by the Book of Job.” As we moved deeper into his small studio as he told me of the story behind the painting and within the painting.

“I read the Bible. It took me like eight months to read. I’m not going to act like I know everything about the Bible now, because I’m probably just as confused after reading as I was before reading it. So, I was drawn to Revelation. I mean, I love the way it was written. This,” he paused as he looked at his work. “I took from Revelation. The alpha and omega,” Ford pointed to the creature in the upper right hand corner and then casually shuffled to the left side of the painting. “And the angel descending from the sky is dropping seven stars and seven candles. I forget what they are significant of. I’m mixing Revelation with my own little character. His name is Hot-Pants. He’s kind of like the unsung hero. He’s the everyday person. He’s you and me. He’s running blind through his own life. Just kind of taking it as [it] comes, and he’s getting hit from every direction. But he still has a smile on his paper bag.” Hot-Pants is represented by a figure in a red spandex body suit, a blue cap and a paper bag in place of a mask.

“I’ve got a lot of characters,” Ford continued. “This here is our typical businessman who is made a lot of bad decisions. He fears for his life. He’s got his wings right now, but they’re not going to last.”

We discussed other selections of the Bible. We reflected on vibrant imagery in the Bible such as a passage from Zechariah: “I saw by night, and behold, a man riding on a red horse, and it stood among the myrtle trees in the hollow; and behind him were horses: red, sorrel, and white.”

“Yeah that’s how it is in reading it,” Ford responded. “It’s like pieces of it really just grip me. Like I read fragments and… like whoa, you know, and get blown away. Throughout [my] life English and art teachers always move me the most, you know. Of course, I’m retarded in math. But I had an English teacher who said ‘if you read one book, I definitely suggest reading the Bible. If nothing else for the literary quality’.” He turned back to his painting and continued to explain his vision.

“Another central figure here is a rapper. He’s got the armor piercing lyric logo above him, because he’s kind of like the Christ-figure. He’s using his voice as a weapon. And then Jacob’s ladder connecting heaven and earth. I also put [it] in there because it’s one of my favorite movies.”

“It’s just pieces I put together, you know. Actually a lot of the characters I sketch in there one day but a lot of it kind of grows as I go along. The cloud-eater… like what the hell is that? What does that mean? I don’t know. So, I took a cloud-eater [and] made this little monster that’s attractive to me. I don’t try to explain. It just fits for me. And it’s fun.

“My roommate always makes fun of me, ‘All your stuff is like a kid. You can’t grow up.’ Yeah, well, that’s what’s fun to me. I’ve got reference to Mario Brothers with the little bricks. That’s referencing to childhood… nostalgia also.”

Reesa Grushka, in a recent essay, wrote, “Translation usually makes what is foreign familiar. An inverse translation claims what is familiar as the domain of the foreign.” The creations of Ryan Ford seem to translate ancient themes of truth and beauty into contemporary visual stories. Inversely, his use of pop culture icons woven into early renaissance structure communicates well to the modern audience.

(c) Matthew Mulder. All rights reserved. First published in the April 2004 issue of The Indie