Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Vermeer's The Geographer, painted 1668-1669



Background

 Scholarship on Johannes Vermeer includes a lot of speculation and conjecture. He lived and worked 350 years ago, he was not famous in his own time, and he only painted about forty pictures. The records are skimpy. The Geographer was painted in 1668 and 1669 when he would have been 36. It is one of the few paintings that he signed and dated. Beyond that we are in the territory of subjective analysis.
At the time the painting was done, there were three men who shared the same birth year -1632 - living in a seven-mile radius: Vermeer, Anthony Van Leeuwenhoek, and Baruch Spinoza. Besides their birth year and geographic proximity, the three men shared an interest in lenses. Spinoza ground glass into lenses for both microscopes and telescopes. He was also one of the most influential thinkers the world has ever seen. Vermeer probably used lenses and some sort of camera obscura setup to get the incredible realism and perspective in his paintings.  Vermeer may have used Spinoza’s lenses. Van Leeuwenhoek was well known for his discoveries with the microscope but was also described as being skilled in "navigation, astronomy, mathematics, philosophy and natural sciences.” He may have used Spinoza’s lenses. He may have been the model for The Geographer. He may have commissioned the painting and advised Vermeer on the right kind of instruments, maps, and globes to include in it. There is no historical proof for any of these possible connections.
What is clear is that these three men were living in a time and place where people were beginning to understand the world in a new way. The Netherlands were relatively tolerant and a place where artists, scientists, and philosophers could strike out into new territory. Whether they knew each other or not, they were in the vanguard of The Enlightenment, The Age of Reason.
As a point of reference, in 1632 – the same year Vermeer, Van Leeuwenhoek, and Spinoza were born – Galileo published Dialogue explaining the reasons to believe that the sun, and not the earth, was the center of the universe. Galileo had been hounded and threatened with torture for heresy for most of his life. When he published Dialogue, he was tried, found guilty, and imprisoned by the Inquisition. He was never again a free man.

 
The Geographer by Johannes Vermeer 1668-1669

I take the measure of things.
I calculate and triangulate.
I hypothesize and investigate.
I want to know the size, shape, weight, distance
Of… everything.
Others get by on faith.
They believe what they believe because they believe it.
When I wake, my head is a buzz with questions.
Certainty flies out the window,
Leaving behind doubts, hopes, ideas, dreams.
They won’t leave me in peace. Thank God.

I bear the believers no ill will,
Even though they sit and wait for me to go too far.
They quote me the bible:
“…blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”
I am a doubting Thomas!
If the risen Christ stood before me,
I would put my finger in his side.
I would touch his stigmata!
I’d put his blood under my microscope.
I don’t even want to know.
I just want to find out.

I can breathe and stretch in Delft. Thank God.
In other times and places,
I would have danced in red-hot shoes,
Inhaled water instead of air,
Knelt in the sand waiting to feel the sword on my neck.
They ask me if I have no beliefs.
I shrug and move on,
But, I think, “Yes. I believe in progress.”
I believe soon free thought will be taken for granted.
I believe soon no one will die
Or face torture
For understanding the world in a different way.
Thanks God.




Wednesday, January 4, 2012

A Poem and a Painting for my Grandson Simon Devol


Advise to My Grandson


If you’re a man,

Even the tight, green bud of a man,

You’ve got to love the snake

And embrace the skull.

You’ve got to check into

The Motel Diablo,

Shoot craps at the crossroads,

And light a candle for El Maximo.

Whisper in San Simon’s pink plaster ear,

“No tengo miedo, cabron, No tengo miedo.”

Blow cigar smoke in his face.

Leave him a tumbler of Havana Club.


If you’re a man,

Even the tight, green bud of a man,

You gotta fight the devil everyday.

Let me Polonify your skinny ass.

Remember, "The soft and the pliable will defeat the hard and strong."

If you fight him head on,

You’ll get hog tied, up a creek, flat on your back.

T’ia chi the fucker,

Yin and then yang his shiny red behind.

High five him, buy him a beer, put an arm around his shoulder.

You call the shots.

Then,

Then,

Walk away.


If you’re a man,

Even the tight green bud of a man,

Then,

Then,

You can walk the dog,

Rock the cradle,

Go round the world,

Learn to dance in three languages.

Kiss your best buddy smack on the lips.

Play air guitar like Johnny B. Good and Jumping Jack Flash.

Let your heart break while singing,

“I couldn’t sleep a wink for trying.

I saw the rising of the sun.

All night long my heart was crying

You’re the one, You’re the one, You’re the one.”

And then…

Monday, October 31, 2011

When Artists Go Bad

When Artists Go Bad

While passing through

The Albuquerque airport

I saw Dale Chihuly in chains;

Thick ones on his wrists,

Thin ones that tinkled

Around his ankles

Checking his stride as he walked.

He was being transported

By federal marshals.

One was muscular, handsome, Hispanic.

The other wore a Hawaiian shirt

And an expression

That said

To maintain law and order

Murder is always justified.

In this context

Dale’s eye patch

Seemed somewhat sinister.

So did the tears tattooed

In the corner

Of his visible eye,

And the spider web on his elbow.

The artist and his two guards

Were given special handling

At security.

I lost sight of them.

But later they were seated

On stools at the counter of

All Aboard Noodles.

Dale was seated in the middle

Eating from a steamy glass bowl

With a porcelain spoon,

Slices of pink pork

Like poker chips

Floating in golden broth

White noodles looped

Like calligraphy.

Tying not to stare

I passed them by.

When first class was called

For my flight to DC

I made a last minute trip

To the bathroom.

Dale stood at the urinal

Dick in manacled hands

Pissing loudly.

The Hispanic marshal

Stood one step behind him

A respectful distance

But within easy arm’s reach.

They spoke like

Business acquaintances

Which I suppose they were.

“When we woke up this morning

I had to scrape the ice off

The fucking windshield.”

“Where did you guys

Stay last night, Los Alamos?”

“I don’t know where the hell we were.

He was driving.”

The marshal spoke perfect English,

But Dale had a heavy Spanish accent.

Strange I thought at the time

For a one-eyed glassblower

From Tacoma.

I wanted to say,

“Mr. Chihuly,

Over the years

Your art has given me

So much pleasure.

Thank you for creating

All that beauty.”

I wanted to say

“That bowl of noodles

Made my mouth water.”

Under the circumstances –

The US marshal,

The chains,

Dale vigorously shaking his dick –

I said nothing.

They walked out together

Law enforcement holding the elbow

Of a ground breaking artist

Gone bad.

I was filled with regret

For gratitude unspoken.

For passing on the noodles.


(I did spot Dale Chihuly in an airport recently, but it was Newark not Albuquerque and he was not in chains. I do regret not having spoken to him.)