A Look at “The Examined Life”

I finally found a journal — one of the infinite stream of tedium series in my studio called The Examined Life, that’s been worth looking into. It’s from 1999/2000 — 20 years ago. That was the time I began reading Goethe. Goethe is all through that journal, a kind of thought conversation with this amazing man, writer as I discovered things in my reading.

At the beginning, I was in the middle of reading Faust and had not yet delved far into Goethe’s words about his life. But it’s clear from this journal that his work had shown me how to think about my own life with more clarity. I wrote:

Who can say…the passage of time, the chronicle of the stray thought, repeated over the years, the one truth we know and the question for which we find no answer strike the rhythm of our blind dance, the ache of our despair. The glorious morning when we remember — once again — who we are. Over and over and over again, we fight for ourselves with ourselves against ourselves. Life is only part crucible. We are perfected on an anvil with the hammer of our hope. (My words to me at age 48)

Now I think my anvil was hope and the hammer disappointment

2000 was a strange year for me. Among other strange things, in the pursuit of love that had been offered, I went to Italy only to find the man in question wouldn’t even talk to me, but left me in the hands of his family. It was an internal nightmare from which I attempted to awaken by walking the streets of Milan and looking at paintings. It was a fairly successful stragedy and not one everyone has access to. But I was angry and lovesick.

Love has always been problematic for me. I understand why now much more clearly than I did 20 years ago, but it’s always implied the loss of autonomy and a kind of surrender. It is something I wanted desperately (for a long while) and something that terrified me. As witnessed in the infinite volumes of The Examined Life have always searched for it while simultaneously dreading it. In this installment of The Examined Life I record the turning point.

“…That is why I prefer the study of nature which does not allow such sickness to arise. For there we have to do with infinite and eternal truth that immediately rejects anyone who does to proceed neatly and honestly in observing and handling his subject…” Goethe

Goethe had suffered the same love sickness I had. He ultimately gave up on GREAT LOVE, and found someone to spend his life with, but I think it’s different for men than it is for women.

2000 was also the year that I finished the original version of Martin of Gfenn, a 97 page first-person novella. I was pitching it and found an agent for it. Ultimately it didn’t work out — publishers turned it down because it assumed too much knowledge of medieval Zürich on the part of the reader. That was fair. That led me to study, opening a whole world to me.

There is a rejection note of a type we don’t see any more.

This installment of The Examined Life is the first interesting volume so far.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2020/02/04/rdp-tuesday-eggplant/

Martin of Gfenn Goes to Del Norte

When I did my reading at the Rio Grande County Museum on December 7 — first from the China book then from Martin of Gfenn — two women came up to me afterward to talk. One of them was very touched by the tiny bit I read from Martin’s story, a part relevant to Christmas, spoke straight from the section of Luke in which the rich man, Dives, refuses to help the leper, Lazarus. It’s — it seems — a fairly obscure passage for many people, but it is the essential scriptural source for the Knights of St. Lazarus and the leper hospitals of Europe’s Middle Ages. It was not obscure to this woman. She was moved by it in a way maybe every writer hopes his/her writing moves a reader.

I was ready to hand her a book right then and there, but I wasn’t there to give away books. I was there to sell them.

Her younger sister said, “Can we find that book at the library?” I had to explain how libraries weren’t very keen on self-published books, but the library in Alamosa did have my books because it takes local authors seriously. I smiled. Even I think there’s something “less than” about a self-published novel. She was gently outraged. “Why? You’re a good writer. These are good books!”

A few days ago she called. She wanted to buy two copies. One for her older sister, the one with the Bible verses, and one for herself. I was torn about charging them the full price, or any price. But I told myself, “Martha, you live hand to mouth as it is. Earning money from your writing or your art is no crime. What’s your problem?”

So we arranged to meet today in Del Norte where I had a doctor’s appointment. We pulled up in front of the library at the same time. She hopped into my car (the blessed Bella who loves ice and snow) and handed me $32. We chatted for a minute. “I sent my brother the China book,” she said. “I loved it. I think he will, too. He’s in Chino,” a city in California.

As is the way here in the San Luis Valley, I heard the life stories of three remarkable adults — two teachers and a nurse. There’s something about the San Luis Valley that launches some pretty amazing people out into the so-called “larger world.” One thing that is always a little tricky is that here people really DO know each other, but I don’t know everyone. I am here from the outside, but no longer an outsider. In the eyes of many of the people I know, and many I have met in the last year, I just fit into a context with which they are familiar and I have no idea. I’m OK with that. I just learn as I go.

I told her there were cards inside and that the pictures on the cards are scenes I’d drawn from Martin’s life.

It was all lovely. What a wonderful moment to cap this amazing year.

***

Also, since I have some new readers and some people have asked about the geography of where I live, here’s a map. I live in the world’s largest Alpine valley. We are at 7600 feet — that’s about 2300 meters — pretty much all the way across the valley. We are surrounded by mountains, but the valley is pretty flat. That’s about as good as it could possibly be for me. I can always see mountains. Today they are, in words from Martin of Gfenn “Blue and white promises.”

A Few Words in Honor of Rust

A few weeks ago I got some porn in my email. No no no not THAT kind of porn, but PERSONAL porn, the kind that whets my appetite and gets the juices of inspiration flowing. I got advertising from Natural Pigments. Yeah, I know…

You might not know but beginning with Martin of Gfenn I fell in love with pigments. I’ve always loved paints, colors, all that. I even had a dream once in which a bag of ultramarine blue hanging from an awning outside a shop in Venice Beach, CA, was “drugs.” Yes, a dream, but it happened in real life, years and years later. I was driving through Venice Beach with Denis Joseph Francis Callahan and saw — you guessed it — a plastic bag with ultramarine blue pigment hanging from an awning. In the dream I was riding with my dad; in real life I was riding with a guy who looked, talked and acted like my dad.

You figure it out.

ANY-hoooo here was an advertisement for natural pigments like those Martin of Gfenn would have painted with. I was very excited, went to their website, saw that my entire DREAM of painting as they did in medieval times was about to come true if ONLY I had the money… To buy the equipment, raw pigments and tools? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even begin to do it. You see, besides finances, I don’t have a real studio. I have a big room which is ordinarily great but not for a fresco shop…

I kept going back and back and of course, they tracked me and finally I saw a set I could (almost) afford. “Oh shit,” I thought. “I could do that. I could paint with that, those colors.” You see, I’ve seen some of these colors in real life clinging to karst cliffs on the hills north of Verona. I’ve touched them. I have had REAL Verona green on my actual hand.

So after sleeping on it for a few nights I went to their website and put the set of medieval/early Renaissance colors in my “basket.” Then I logged out. I had to sleep on it some more. It was a $60 investment. They sent me an email offering me 15% off if I ordered what was in my basket.

They arrived today. In case you ever wonder what most of the colors early artists (and contemporary landscape artists) paint with are made of I can tell you. They are made of Iron Oxide. They are essentially made of rust. Isn’t that beautiful? Iron is the fourth most abundant metal on earth and is so ubiquitous because of its ability to mix with other elements using air, water, fire — it’s just the nature of iron to color things. Potassium is also one of the elements in these colors — iron and potassium oxide.

Anyway, I have already got a painting in mind for these beautiful things. I can’t wait to open the tubes and see the colors in real life. I’m sure I’ve painted with them already in other paints, but these are made with nothing but the mineral and linseed oil, the old way. I also have a tube of real ultramarine blue paint made from lapis lazuli that I will add to these five tubes.

The Best Library of My Life — St. Gallen Stiftsbibliothek

On a winter’s day in a deep and dark December in 1997 I opened a door way that led into a gaudy rococo structure that housing thousands of books I could never read.

It was the Library at the Abbey of St. Gall in St. Gallen, Switzerland. I had just dipped a toe into my personal medieval period. I’d recently read How the Irish Saved Civilization (which I’d bought because I thought it would be funny…) by Thomas Cahill, and I was excited to learn that a couple of Irish monks — Columbanus and Gall — had crossed the channel in little round boats and carried the Bible (and other books) up the Rhine. Gall got pneumonia at what is now St. Gallen and left Columbanus on his own to journey to Italy. Apparently Columbanus was a irritated with Gall for being such a sissy, but pneumonia is no joke…

Columbanus and Gall on Lake Constanz (dem Bodensee)


Gall set up a hermitage and a small library with a few books and he gathered followers and saved souls. He is the patron Saint of Switzerland. His animal friend is a bear. The story is:

… that once he was travelling in the woods of what is now Switzerland. One evening he was sitting down warming his hands at a fire. A bear emerged from the woods and charged. The holy man rebuked the bear, so awed by his presence it stopped its attack and slunk off to the trees. There it gathered firewood before returning to share the heat of the fire with St Gall. The legend says that for the rest of his days St Gall was followed around by his companion the bear.

At first, the library itself disappointed me. I guess I wanted to open the door and enter the 8th century or something. The current library was built in the 18th century. I find it very difficult to see anything in a baroque room, and the Abbey Library is one step beyond baroque — it’s rococo. It’s so full of embellishments and ornaments that my mind becomes confused.

Main hall of the Library of the Abbey of St. Gall

But once I got used to it — and librarian came to talk to us (we were the only people there) — I stopped trying to see through the gold and stucco and began to see and understand where I was. He showed me a medieval map of the world.

8th or 9th century CE map of the world

You can see that it’s oriented (ha ha) to the East, the rising sun — Christ. All the three continents are surrounded by sea. The map is less for navigating physical space as it is for navigating spiritual space. This is a somewhat unusual medieval map of the world because it doesn’t SAY Jerusalem is the center, but it is. I saw a couple other maps on which cities were drawn, and Jerusalem was always depicted as the largest city and had tall, shining towers. Although I didn’t understand at that moment, having only at that point dipped one toe into the medieval world, that the physical and spiritual worlds overlaid each other and that the physical world was but a metaphor for spiritual space.

Of all the amazing things this man explained about the books in the glass cases, other books on the library’s locked shelves, and books too old and fragile to be touched at all was that there are some written in languages people don’t know any more. Apparently researchers are working on that, but I thought at the time that it is incredibly sad. Here are words written in very difficult circumstances, with oak-gall ink on parchment with quill pens, stories, ideas, beliefs, philosophies, knowledge and experiences that their writers were desperate to transmit to the future. And there the three of us stood — my friend, the librarian and I — discussing how no one could read them.

He took us into a hallway behind the main room — it was modern, gray and white — with doors along it. “All these rooms have people working on this problem.” Just then a young woman wearing white cotton gloves came out of one of the doors and greeted the librarian. I got a vision of busy young people in white gloves behind all those doors struggling to decode old words. I wondered what they would find.

Of all the wonders in the library, though, for me one of the most wonderful was the inscription written in Greek over the entrance which, thanks to Michael J. Preston, I could read on my own.

Medicine Chest for the Soul

I continued to pursue St. Gall in various places in Switzerland that winter, including a trip to Basel to see the Gallus Portal at the cathedral. I learned a lot — not the least of which that ignorance is a wonderful wonderful wonderful thing because once curiosity is awakened, and you chase knowledge, you will get more than you possibly could have imagined.

I didn’t know HALF of what I was looking at that winter, but on my second to last day, my friend’s mom told him to take me to visit a little medieval church near where they lived. The church is in the village of Gfenn, outside Dubendorf, both north of Zürich. And the rest? It’s historical fiction. ❤

Lazariter Kirche im Gfenn

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/09/18/rdp-wednesday-library/

More than Finesse

I like to write and that’s kind of a problem at the moment because the project I have now is nothing but a random collection of vignettes. I don’t see the whole project. I haven’t even figured out (or seen?) who the protagonist is. Of course, it’s set in the dim past about which we don’t have a lot of knowledge. It’s set in the early 13th century, before the beginning of a historical moment that some Kool-aid drinkers call the “Renaissance.” But the more I delve into this historical moment the more convinced I am that there is no such thing as a “Renaissance” and it was just a “Make the Papacy Great Again” thing. In real life, Europe was in a building, painting frenzy long before MPGA, halted, for the moment, by the plague in the 14th century.

The story is set in Verona, Italy, during the time when the REAL Montagues and Capulets were feuding. They aren’t part of my story. Buildings that are now old were new, some unfinished. Imagining the city then is very difficult partly because I haven’t been there in 15 years and, if I were to return now, I would have a hard time finding it under the concretion of time.

But, I know what to do. Keep writing. Something will come clear or it won’t and, as I prepare to “launch” the China book (sort of like a three year old bottle rocket in drizzle) I remember why I write.

I thought of this last night as I was watching — am still watching because I didn’t finish it — a movie called “Morning Glory.” It’s entertaining. Besides two stars from “my” era (Harrison Ford and Diane Keaton), it features a young woman with “dreams.” Early on in the movie she loses her job, and her mom sits her down and does what she can to dispel those dreams. “When you were 8, it was cute. When you were 18, it was inspiring. At 28, it’s just embarrassing. Stop now before it becomes heartrending.” Somewhat of a paraphrase but generally OK. I wanted to slap the mom. Everyone has a right to pursue their dream. Trying to protect someone from failure is cruel.

Plenty of people back in the day tried to talk me out of writing. Why? What in the world did my writing have to do with them? Success or failure, either of them, both of them, belonged to me. People who do this? I figured they’d been talked out of their own dreams and their arguments were nothing more than expressions of bitterness and envy. LIFE is the outcome of following a dream. Success is something else altogether, the confluence between vision, effort and the zeitgeist.
I haven’t always wanted to be a writer. I have always been a writer. I don’t know why. During the Great Purge of 2015, I found early stories I’d “written” (scribbled) and had asked my dad to read to me. He saved some. His last Christmas gift to me was a pen and pencil set. I lost the tag that went with them, but it said, “Keep writing.” The tag in the photo came from the other gift he gave me that year; his copy of the Rubiayat of Omar Khayyam. He died in February, 1972 of complications from Multiple Sclerosis.

Over the years the question of “being a writer” redefined itself. At one point I thought being a writer meant fame, not writing particularly. You write something and you get famous and you’re a writer. Then I read an essay by William S. Burroughs about Kerouac. Burroughs was asked if Kerouac was a writer, meaning real writer like Faulkner or Hemingway or someone in the context of the time.

Well, Kerouac, Kerouac was a writer. That is, he wrote. And many people who call themselves writers and have their names down on book jackets are not writers and they can’t write.

http://ginsbergblog.blogspot.com/2014/09/william-burroughs-on-jack-kerouac-at_14.html


When “being a writer” meant simply writing, my idea changed. Then there was the “so what?” of it, the how. I got my answer to that question from a character in my first novel, Martin of Gfenn when he has to choose between painting over a bad painting (fresco) or scraping it off the wall and starting over. The work itself deserves the best I have to give it even if “nothing” ever happens with it.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/06/25/rdp-tuesday-sub-finesse/

Rainbow

I’m looking at old posts and eliminating those that just don’t have any reason to hang around, taking up space and not being read. But this one? I think it’s worth reposting. It’s based on the old style of Daily Prompts and I’ve included that, too. It was originally posted on my birthday five years ago. 🙂

January 7, 2014 Write about anything you’d like, but make sure that all seven colors of the rainbow — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet — make an appearance in the post, either through word or image.

——————–
“Let the sun stay in my back, unseen!
The waterfall I now behold with growing
Delight as it roars down to the ravine.
From fall to fall a thousand streams are flowing.
A thousand more are plunging, effervescent,
And high up in the air the spray is glowing.
Out of this thunder rises, iridescent,
Enduring through all change the motley bow,
Now painted clearly, now evanescent,
Spreading a fragrant, cooling spray below.
The rainbow mirrors human love and strive:
In many-hued reflection we have life.”
Goethe, Faust II, trans. Walter Kauffman

———————-
m-EkoN8lNLXW1r_M7xjEIgAWe were just girls, nearly women. Young women. It now seems very long ago and very far away. “A secret, fraternal, Masonic organization for girls of teen age.” Love, religion, nature, immortality, fidelity, patriotism and service. The two offices I held during those brief years were Nature (yellow) and Service. Sweet prophecy? I couldn’t know back then, aged fourteen, that love of nature and service to others as a teacher would turn out to be my life.

———————–

Denver's pridefest parade through downtownWe sat on a grassy hillside in Cheeseman Park looking down toward Colfax. We couldn’t see the street, but we could hear the commotion, yelling and music.

“You wouldn’t march in that? Why?”

“It’s ridiculous. If ALL they are is the way they f… then they need more than a parade to save them. I hope I’m more than my ‘sexual preference.’ Preference? Who’d choose this? I’m shut out from the basic, most natural, most common unit of human society. I won’t have a family. I won’t have a wife and a house and all of the things other people take for granted. I’m not ‘proud’ of it.”

I knew this was true. I knew that however much I loved him — or he loved me — that love was not going to change a certain basic and elemental fact of his nature.

“You’re not ashamed of it, are you? That’s…”

“No. What is there to be ashamed of? It’s a simple fact of my existence. I have to make a life around it. Everyone makes a life around something. Come here, life.” He pulled me toward him. “You know those guys marching in that parade? They wouldn’t understand this.” He kissed me long and hard. “It’s all one or the other for them. They’re more narrow minded than straights.”

————————

sspaceRainbow flags hung over balconies with the big word, “Pace” printed on them. Italy was “on our side” in the fracas in Iraq. It didn’t occur to me what that meant until I wandered around the Pinacoteca of the Castello Sforza and found galleries that were open in 2000 were, in 2004, closed.

A scaffold surrounded the cathedral, too, and I wasn’t sure if it was for repair and restoration or for something more sinister. The sanctuary was shut to everyone but people who were there to pray. There was no wandering around its cavernous interior, visiting chapels and looking at paintings, sculptures, reliquaries and puzzling over their makers and the aspirations or sorrows of those who loved them in centuries past. 

I was relegated to the crypt and there I saw the place where St. Ambrose baptized St. Augustine. I tDuomo_di_milano_sivualttarihought about that. In writing Martin of Gfenn I’d developed a kind of friendship with St. Augustine. Martin’s Commander refers to St. Augustine often and the Rule of the Order of the Knights of St. Lazarus is based on St. Augustine’s rule for life in a religious community. I had read St. Augustine’s Confessions and pieces of The City of God and overall I’d come to like him, too. I went down the narrow stone steps to the bottom of the cathedral, the bottom? I was sure that it was not. I was sure that if there were steps I would go down and down and down until I would find myself at the beginning of time.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/03/23/rdp-saturday-tracery/

Good News on the Famous Writer Front

CHAUCER BOOK AWARDS 2017 Short Listers for Historical Fiction pre-1750s

More than $30,000.00 dollars worth of cash and prizes will be awarded to Chanticleer Book Reviews 2017 writing competition winners at the Chanticleer Authors Conference April 21st, 2018!

This is the Official Semi-Finalists List of the Authors and Titles of Works that have been SHORT-LISTED for the Chaucer 2017 Book Awards. These titles will now compete for the First In Category positions.

The Chaucer Awards FIRST IN CATEGORY sub-genres  are:  Pre-Historical Fiction, Ancient Historical Fiction, World/International History (non-western culture historical fiction pre-1750s), Americas-Historical Fiction Pre-1750s, Dark Ages/Medieval, Renaissance, and Elizabethan/Tudor 1600’s.

  • Kenneth W. Meyer – Lion’s Shadow
  • Edward Rickford – The Hawk and the Serpent
  • K.M. Pohlkamp – Apricots and Wolfsbane
  • Richard T. Rook – Tiernan’s Wake
  • DJ Munro – Slave to Fortune
  • Catherine A Wilson and Catherine T Wilson – The Traitor’s Noose: The Lions and Lilies 
  • Crystal King – Feast of Sorrow: A Novel of Ancient Rome
  • Gita Simic/G.T. Sim – Occam’s Razor
  • Lilian Gafni – Flower from Castile: A Safe Haven
  • Elizabeth Crowens – A Pocketful of Lodestones, Time Traveler Professor Series Book 2
  • Val Jon Jensen II – The People’s Crusade
  • Joseph Scott Amis – To Shine with Honor, Book One: Coming of Age
  • Marcia Fine – Hidden Ones: A Veil of Memories
  • Elisabeth Storrs – Call to Juno: A Tale of Ancient Rome
  • Susan E Kaberry – The Good Shepherd and the Last Perfect
  • Brett Savill – The Medici Apprentice 
  • Leigh Grant – Mask of Dreams
  • Susan E Kaberry – The Chatelaine of Montaillou
  • Ken Frazier – Alexander of the Ashanti
  • Prue Batten – Guillaume: Book Two of The Triptych Chronicle
  • Martha Kennedy – Martin of Gfenn
  • Christian Kachel – Spoils of Olympus II: World on Fire

Good Luck to all of the 2017 Chaucer Short-Listers as they compete for the First Place Category positions.

First In Category announcements will be made at the Awards Ceremony. The Chaucer Grand Prize Winner and First Place Category Winners will be announced at the April 21st,  2018 Chanticleer Writing Contests Annual Awards Gala, at the Chanticleer Authors Conference that will be held in Bellingham, Wash. 

***

Sometime early this year I sent in some money and entered this contest. And then (as I have learned is wise) I forgot about it. An announcement showed up on my Facebook Author Page telling me Martin of Gfenn had been short-listed. Still, the short-list is pretty long so it’s probably a good idea to forget about it again. 🙂

Squirrel!

I love paper the way Imelda Marcos loved shoes and in my “art room” there is a pretty good — if small — collection of beautiful handmade papers. Paper is a miraculous thing.

When I started writing Martin of Gfenn, a novel about an artist set in 13th century Zürich, Martin had paper. Then I learned that he could not have had paper because Northern Europe did not have paper and even the exotic, cosmopolitain trading center of Venice had only two or three sheets brought in from Asia. Yep. It was very difficult for me to imagine being an artist without paper, but Martin had to succeed at that and I had to write so no one reading it would feel the absence, would feel — as I felt — that Martin had a big challenge. No one’s challenged by the absence of something that has not yet existed, right? I couldn’t really do it until I acquired my own small piece of parchment. Wow. I have kept it safe for a decade and don’t think I’ll ever do anything worthy of its surface.

THEN I had to consider that every animal back then was skinned and many of the skins were made into something to write on. Squirrel skin was especially prized for parchment. However, squirrel pelts were also highly valued for the linings of rich peoples cloaks… I began to imagine incredibly high prices for dead squirrels, and that led me to imagine a completely different economy. In fact, the problem of paper more than any other thing, awakened me to the fact that the 13th Century was an alien world.

When paper paper took off, the squirrels must have been really, really, really happy about it.

Early paper was made from something plentiful in medieval times — linen rags. There are echoes of this in some papers used for stationary (Classic Laid) and for charcoal drawings in which you can see the “laid,” the way the fibers were pressed. Laid paper was all there was for the first 500 years of European paper making.

I’ve made paper — recycled paper made from, uh, paper, and fibers and leaves. My brother taught me and I made it on my stove, using macaroni and/or rice for binder. It was fun and I did a few paintings with it. I didn’t have a lot of the fancy tools or expertise many other people have. I had only an old silkscreen and pressed the pulp by hand. I am pretty sure everything I made that way has disintegrated by now — I don’t have any of it. I sold the two or three pieces.

There is an art supply store in Denver — Meiningers — that in these days has, of course, branched out to more than one store, that sells more kinds of paper than any place I know, except the vast world of the Internet. I recently bought a selection of papers — and I think the most beautiful papers come from India and Japan. Since I’m not an artist any more, I don’t know what I’ll do with it, but it’s there, safely rolled and cared for.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/paper/

A Raise

When I was teaching, if I got good words from a student (or even a boss, but that was rare as I was a semi-slave and to keep a semi-slave in bondage it’s important not to let them get “uppity” and to make sure they’re grateful to be employed) I called it a “raise.”

Martin of Gfenn got a raise recently and I only learned of it today. It was a real mood-lifter!

Hello Martha,

I truly enjoyed your historical fiction “Martin of Gfenn”.

Since I was born in Switzerland, I was especially interested in your story. My niece lives in the general area of the book. Not too many novels have been written about that time, Switzerland was still in its infancy, barely separated from the Habsburg rule. Zurich joined the Swiss Confederation the first time in 1351, but was expelled and then joined again in 1450. Not too much of this was taught in school.

I felt compelled to send a print book to my brother in Switzerland. He taught latin languages and literature for many years. He just recently retired.

This is what he had to say:

. . . Dir zu danken für das Buch von M. Kennedy, Martin of  Gfenn, das ich vor der Reise nach Andalusien mit grossem Vergnügen gelesen habe. Die Geschichte dieses Martin wird von M. Kennedy grossartig erzählt und die Geschichte an sich ist auch sehr stark. Ich war von diesem Roman begeistert und das kommt nicht alle Tage vor (, obwohl ich nach wie vor viele Bücher lese.)

J S PhD

Translated:

Thank you for the book, written by M. Kennedy, Martin of Gfenn. I read it during my travels to Andalusien with great enthusiasm and enjoyment. The story of Martin is told by M. Kennedy with spellbinding language. The intensity of the story itself is exceptional. I read it with enthusiasm, which is not often the case these days, even though I’m an avid reader.

I thought you ought to know. Hopefully it will brighten your day.

Thank you for a great read.

Art and Life Converge

“In the magical universe there are no coincidences and there are no accidents. Nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen.” William S. Burroughs

In 2006, I went to Fresco School in LA. I had prepared well for this. It was a HUGE experience for me to learn to paint what Martin of Gfenn had painted. I had fallen in love with fresco from writing about it and fallen deeper in love from seeing it in Italy. A few years later, I wrote about it — finding it today, I was stunned and entertained and wanted to share. I was rewriting Martin of Gfenn in 2009 and reached a passage in which Martin’s teacher tries to help Martin understand the difference between a detailed sketch and what will ultimately work on a large wall.

***

January 2009 — Perhaps behind our perception of coincidence is a level of unconsciousness. In my novel, Martin of Gfenn, the protagonist, Martin, faces the moment when he paints his first solo wall-mural fresco. The subject he’s been given to paint is a sequence of panels telling the story of Man’s Fall from the Garden. He begins with the Temptation of Eve, and is guided by his teacher, Michele, to understand that the central symbol of the story is not the serpent, but the apple. Martin decides (correctly) that the apple must be perfectly beautiful and irresistible. When he brings the painted sketch to his teacher…

Michele smiled when Martin showed him the colored sketch of the apple. It was an elegantly colored drawing, rich in detail and intensity, lovely on its own but impossible for its purpose.

“That will never work, Martin. Such intricacy will be lost in a picture of this size. Your strokes, shapes, everything, the colors, must have meaning and these will have no meaning.”

“How can you say that? It is clearly an apple.”

“You are not making fruit, Martin. You are painting fresco! It is an apple NOW, but on that wall it will be confusing, unless everything else you have in mind is of the same pattern. Then it will simply be bad.”

“It should look real if it’s going to be believed, you said that yourself, you said, ‘catch the life within it’.”

“The life within the apple, Martin, is not that it has myriad tiny yellow dots.”

“But it does, Michele. I drew from life; it is an apple.”

“I don’t say that it is not a lovely rendering of an apple. It is just that it will not come to life as an apple on the wall you are painting.”

“But isn’t THIS the center of the picture? Isn’t this the essence of the sin? I think it has to be perfect!”

“Perfect?”

“An apple, a perfect apple, as an apple is perfect. Here,” Martin reached into the pocket of his cassock. “This is it!” The two were virtually identical. “Is that not a perfect apple?”

“All right then. Tell me. Do you want to illustrate books and have your work closed between jeweled covers where only monks will look at them or do you want to paint for people, stories they can see? Decide now.”

“You make no sense! You keep saying, ‘discipline your eye and hand to see what is in front of you’ and I have done that; you yourself say, ‘that is a perfect apple’ so I have disciplined my eye and hand and produced this and you tell me it is wrong. If that discipline is wrong, what is the point?”

“Discipline, Martin, is not only in your eye and hand as you draw from something in front of you. It’s also in the tools, the paint, the walls. You must cooperate with them.”

“But I will be the master, isn’t that right? It is just a wall!”

“A true master surrenders to the imperatives of the craft, of the surface. You must see them as partners, teachers. Someday, God willing, you will understand that is freedom. Go try again, or not, as you choose. It is your wall.”

I have been going through this part of the novel today, making sure all the bits fit together in preparation for another attempt to send it out there. As I read this I remembered something and was amazed I had not thought of it before.

In March 2006 I went to L. A. to The Fresco School. I had spent the whole winter in my freezing, drafty, leaking laundry shed relearning how to paint watercolor (because I had the idea that fresco would be like watercolor) and relearning how to draw. I had no idea what my fresco would be, but I had been told to find a simple subject for the one fresco I would be painting on a 12 x 12 tile. At the store I found an apple; it was absolutely the most beautiful green apple I had ever seen, and completely different from all the other green apples there in the apple bin at Vons. I bought it and three more apples and brought it home. It would be my fresco. I was honestly in love with that apple.

I photographed the bowl with its apples, and drew from the photo since I knew my divine apple would lose some of that perfection through time (or I’d eat it – I never did, though…) and drew a black and white sketch, and a colored pencil sketch, and a grey and black wash drawing, and everything I could think of to get to know that apple as I’d placed it in the bowl with the others. The result was that THE apple appears larger than the others (bigger than life!). I sent it to my fresco teacher who approved the drawing. He liked it!

 

Colored Pencil Drawing of What I Imagined My Fresco Would Be

When the time came, I got in the Scion and drove up to LA, to my sleazebag hotel in Venice Beach (do not ask me why; I had some Bukowski reason or flaky nostalgia or something to account for that choice) and my agonized hip. It was cold and damp and the deteriorated joint made my life very difficult, but I was excited. That night I parked where I had been told, ate my dinner, read my book about Masonic rituals (which I left in the sleazebag hotel) before going to sleep with ear plugs and the two vicodin that made sleep possible. In the morning I headed off to make my fresco dreams come true.

There are many stories of that weekend but this post is to tell the story of what I realized today as I worked on my novel when I realized that my first fresco was the same subject as my protagonist’s first fresco, almost as if I re-enacted his experience in my own. How much do our creations captivate our minds? I think it may be impossible to know.

 

The Hideous Painting that Was My Fresco

I hated my fresco when it was done — not ONLY because it was bad (it was) but because my teacher took over. Two people cannot paint a small painting. He was just so worried that I would fail, or be unhappy with the result, that he took the brush out of my hand, painted the apples and the rocks himself, and stole from me my own glorious opportunity to fail. I drove home frustrated and resentful with another bad painting in the back of my car. There was ONE good part and I took some consolation knowing I painted it all myself. I love the medium and really want to learn it; that I had THIS success was heartening.

The One Good Part — the Wicker Seat

So the question, does art follow life or does life follow art? I don’t know. Is art the future and did I predict in my story what I would do when given the chance? Maybe. Is the protagonist of my novel me? Loosely, I guess, as much as I can be a male, 13th century artist who gets leprosy — certainly in that he is my creation — but I am ready to argue now that I am also his.

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