The computer tale is not the story, however. The technician got me to thinking about our rock collection. My wife was as much culprit as me. Where did the sculpture, paintings, oil, watercolor, and charcoal begin? Where had the seed of an interest in art, and collecting been planted? I was startled at first because I could remember nothing in my childhood, school, or even junior college that might have infected me with a desire to collect rocks and other objects of art. Hell, I did not even collect marbles like every other boy. My best guess was World War II.
The computer tale is not the story, however. The technician got me to thinking about our rock collection. My wife was as much culprit as me. Where did the sculpture, paintings, oil, watercolor, and charcoal begin? Where had the seed of an interest in art, and collecting been planted? I was startled at first because I could remember nothing in my childhood, school, or even junior college that might have infected me with a desire to collect rocks and other objects of art. Hell, I did not even collect marbles like every other boy. My best guess was World War II.
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Overview
The computer tale is not the story, however. The technician got me to thinking about our rock collection. My wife was as much culprit as me. Where did the sculpture, paintings, oil, watercolor, and charcoal begin? Where had the seed of an interest in art, and collecting been planted? I was startled at first because I could remember nothing in my childhood, school, or even junior college that might have infected me with a desire to collect rocks and other objects of art. Hell, I did not even collect marbles like every other boy. My best guess was World War II.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504978842 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 03/16/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 188 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
Read an Excerpt
Anticipation
The Force of Art
By Robert L. Smith, Fran W. Smith
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2016 Robert L. Smith; Fran W. SmithAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-7885-9
CHAPTER 1
Anticipation: the force of art
The technician from Staples was in my office to correct problems with my computer. It wasn't his first visit. We were becoming family. Based on what I had learned in earlier conversations, my computer was a substantial source of the income supporting his wife's graduate work at U.C. Berkeley.
As he came in, he said, "OH, you are the guy who collects rocks and stuff." It was first time I had been identified as a collector of anything. I was surprised at his form of recognition, and would have preferred something more in line with, "you have a nice Eskimo collection of sculpture." He should have said something more important since I was supporting his wife's year of graduate work. But, as I thought about it, he was right, even the room I reserve for my writing has many carved rocks, including an infinitely small jade Chinese carving of a lion, one inch tall, which anchors my computer screen to the desk where I like to think that we both work. He is also my resident "scold" to remind me when I am wasting time asking the computer to help me avoid work.
The sculptures are many and varied. They are carved from rocks, a few precious stones of one form or another, roots of old trees, cement, and even iron in many shapes and colors. He failed to mention paintings, oil, watercolor, or charcoal, and he ignored the porcelain Danish bear lounging on top of the computer and a large sandstone owl by a California sculpture, by Jack Richardson, sitting on my desk. His remark got me to thinking, something that at my age does not come easily, and when it does, requires all the help I can get.
As he tinkered with my computer doing all sorts of things that I did not understand, he revealed sides of the machine I did not know it possessed. He finally concluded his work and said, "Any questions?" Since he had not given me the opportunity to explore the problems that I had called him to fix, and I understood nothing of the conversation he had been having with himself, I said, "No," but I might later on. It seemed like an obvious response since he was already half way to the front door pausing only long enough to give me an invoice for his work. Later, I discovered that I had lots of questions since his fix, had created a whole series of new problems like destroying my contact file, and wiping out one or two other files that I depended upon. Like my small art collection, I looked forward to seeing what the technician had done with anticipation.
* * *
The computer tale is not the story, however. The technician got me to thinking about "our rock collection." My wife was as much culprit as me. Where did the sculpture, paintings, oil, watercolor, and charcoal begin? Where had the seed of an interest in art, and collecting been planted? I was startled at first because I could remember nothing in my child hood, school, or even junior college that might have infected me with a desire to collect rocks and other objects of art. Hell, I did not even collect marbles like every other boy. My best guess was World War II.
As a child and youth, I had no recollection of art, any form of art except books and music at school. We never had pictures or art objects in my home as a child. The closest thing was a cathedral table radio that sat in the living room on a side table and invited the rest of the world into our home. We also had a calendar picture titled "End of the Trail." It was depressing, and appropriate to the depression of the time. Even so, it was difficult to think that this picture of a bronze sculpture by James Earl Fraser, not Frederic Remington as many believed, would trigger a hidden impulse to collect art. The iconic bronze was meant to be viewed as a reverent memorial to a valiant people. It depicted the raw emotion of a single Indian figure with his horse, both exhausted after years of losing battles with the Army and white settlers. Both had reached the end of their trail. Both horse and rider appeared to droop with the Indian's lance pointing to earth near the horse's head. Horse and rider seemed to be stumbling to earth. They had reached their end.
The bronze sculpture was first shown at the Pan-Pacific Exposition in 1915, but later became symbolic to millions of unemployed during the great depression beginning in 1929. Interestingly enough the picture, without the calendar remained the one object of art in our home until 1938. Why it was abandoned I cannot remember because our financial circumstances had not changed that much. I was still permitted to steal fruit and vegetables from the market in the early morning on my paper route, but not acknowledge my deed.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the images and shapes having no utilitarian value had little to do with my life, except, maybe one faded calendar photo of a dying Indian and his horse reaching the end of their trail. It took WWII and my introduction to Europe, and a civilization, rich or poor that paid tribute to a variety of things called art. Foremost there was architecture, destroyed, but still magnificent in the ruins it represented.
No matter how poor the home we invaded in Europe, there were colorful vases, pottery, and dishes displayed with pride on side boards. Oil painting, poor perhaps, but colorful were readily found in homes, restaurants, cafes, and other places where people gathered. You found individuals, and small groups gathered to catch on paper and or canvas a patch of flowers, children playing, or some beautiful piece of architecture, whole, or in pieces. Painting was something people did, and, for the most part, for self-satisfaction and pleasure.
As I thought about it, the images I saw in and after war were familiar, I had seen them as a child in a very used set of Encyclopedia my parents had found money to buy for me in the first or second grade. Somewhere in those dog eared pages I found pictures of things similar to what I was seeing. Ancient images were stirring up memories long forgotten. It reminded me of my first real interest in classical music. It lasted for only a few weeks before my tone deafness, lack of interest, and even greater lack of discipline let me give up my feeble effort to learn to play the violin. It was a decision that pleased virtually everyone, including my teacher.
During my early teens the depression and family problems resulted in my being placed at the Long Beach YMCA where I would have a room, limited cash for dinner, and supervised, more or less by a nearby aunt. My middle brother, considerably older than I was moved me into the YMCA and gave me his portable table radio as company. It was his pride and joy, and a significant gift for him to make. As La Von saw it, he was leaving me with the company of his radio, the only real gift he had ever given me.
Between school, and other things, I was rarely in the room during the week, but on weekend the Texaco Oil Company presented Saturday at the Opera. The program lasted for hours, and I could stretch out on my bed and listen to music I did not understand, but the music comforted me; it was my friend, and helped me avoid being lonely. No matter what the program, I listened every Saturday. Then, more appropriately for a thirteen year old, had lunch at Amos and Andy's across the street (hamburger, bowl of chili, and pie) for fifteen cents before riding my bicycle to the Long Beach Pike and the Rialto Movie Theater. For ten cents I got three cowboy movies and three cartoons which filled my afternoon before going home to the Y and Amos and Andy's for my evening meal, hamburger, bowl of chili, and piece of pie.
* * *
I have no question where my interest in classical music came from, it was Saturday at the Opera. Other interests are not as easy to explain. I thought it might make an interesting adventure to explore the source of interest I had in various forms of art, and our need to collect. I could even try to describe something about the artists who we discovered that shared our home. The story would be a loose and wide-ranging journey of discovery, history, and artistry. I could try to introduce my reader of the value of people who I thought enriched life through art. They were after all, probably the culprits who encouraged collecting, not only "rocks" but objects of beauty. In our case it meant oil and water color paintings, some modern, some classic, and other forms of carving and painting we came to discover in Japan and China. While the journey may be of rediscovery for author, it is my hope that it will encourage the reader to recall his or her own journey to art and all that is beautiful, in your mind, and reality — to reassess, if necessary its value to your life.
* * *
Every story has a beginning, this one begins in 1943, and later with a decision, pressed by both of my parents, and two good friends to finish Junior College, get an Associate Degree in 1947, after getting out of the Army, and then go on to College. It sets a framework for changes that began in war, continued in Junior College, and prepared me to open my mind to new experiences. It has less to do with art than it does learning to use my mind differently, in ways that bring great satisfaction, and pleasure from discoveries long dormant, but waiting to be triggered by opportunity and chance. In trying to reconstruct these forces I was not always happy with the answers I discovered. They included, as I remember them, overcoming obstacles to learning and my ignorance about the subject that is the theme of this book, Insight, discovery, or just plain luck in recognizing my need to be aware and sensitive to all of the things of beauty and art that surround me, that surround us all. I have come to think that we all carry a need to appreciate and create beauty. Exploration and creativity is the key to discovery that requires, interest, and a willingness to see what is not always obvious.
I like to think there is some artist in all of us. It is they who take us to places, and feelings we never dreamed or knew existed. For us, the discovery has frequently been a complete surprise. For example, one of my favorite pieces of sculpture is a fisherman; he is less than one inch high, cost me five cents, and is made of river mud from South China. He is one happy little man whose tiny face shows his pleasure sitting on a small music box on our dresser, catching all of the fish he needs to feed his family. He is fully dressed, straw hat, coat, pants, personal travel bag, and barefoot. Five cents was valuable to the peasant woman who made him in whatever free moments she found in her struggle to survive. His value to me is much greater, in spite of his tiny size, and only being made of mud. The beauty of the dream which guided his creation, and her skill, and artistry is still appreciated, twenty years later.
* * *
My beginning search for understanding of my interest began with a look at historical speculation by authorities about the beginning of art. It was metaphysical in character, and simple in design. It was a surprise to me, but useful in my journey into the origins of beauty as I came to appreciate it.
I ask the reader to indulge me in a brief venture into history before launching into my own account of discovering art, or more properly, the arts. My personal belief is that we all have the power to express anticipation: our forward looking imagination of what we might or could be seeing. It is our mind sorting out the mystery our senses let us experience. In short, it is the way art comes to all of us. We are stimulated by something that may be an image of something yet to happen. I like to think of it as the search for the spirit within the object we wish to carve or paint. The undone dream or object of beauty is in our head which finds the mechanics to bring them into reality. Yes, and it is also the mechanic who studies a door that will not open easily or correctly, thinks about the problem, works out tentative solutions in his imagination with implementation and tests before putting his solution to the problem in action and testing it in practice. It may not be called art, but the mechanic uses the same skills as the artist, anticipation. He works on a different canvas while using his special art skills, It, whatever it's form, that creative force is the unrecognized energy of those who sense a future experience of the uncontrolled force that drives all art - - anticipation, the unexpected, the ability to see what will happen, to see beyond the moment to a time not yet arrived.
That time is the time of art; it is the creative force that drives us all to seek it out, and to appreciate the gifted who make our world more interesting, practical, and certainly more beautiful than it might otherwise be. I plead guilty to wanting such beauty to surround my life. It is not original, but, it is an explanation for why we collect rocks etc.
That time is the time of art. It is the force that drives us all to seek out the gifted who make our world more interesting, and certainly more colorful. It is, I believe, the explanation for why we seek the beautiful and treasure it by collecting. It is humankind's gift to his fellow travelers on the journey we make through time and space. It is the first step in differentiating our behavior from our animal relatives, if only by a tiny margin.
* * *
If the reader is expecting a rich rewarding, informative tome explaining in detail how everyone comes to discover art, forget it. This is why people's exploration about something they love and enjoys, doesn't really understand why, and decided to spend some time answering the questions, not for the ages, the elite, or the informed, but for myself.
I came to only one conclusion, do not ask an artist why he paints, sculpts, or builds anything else that someone thinks is beautiful - - even a rock collector will answer, because he has to do so. And, in the end that is not a bad answer. If you think something is pretty or beautiful, and has value to you – no one else, just you: smile and enjoy your good taste in whatever. No one will know if it is art or not.
CHAPTER 2The Surprise Intrusion of Art
Literature defines different types of art, periods of art, geographic origins, etc., but few gives clues to how or why art, in any form was invented. There are suggestions that it was the result of language, and the invention of symbols for survival, others hint that it was, like religion, a spiritual need born of as humans became involved in cultural adaptation. I always liked a friend's explanation of why I collected art, "It was that damn Indian at the end of the trail hanging there on a wall all by himself. He needed company, pictures, all kinds of pictures, you cannot stand all that blank space and just had to cover it." I should add, he is also my Doctor, not psychiatrist, but urologist. That is why I put some faith in his interpretation. He is not alone however.
The importance of art is its dependence on the development of the group it serves. Families and tribes contributed to the practical development of arts in weapons, equipment for hunting and fishing, etc. But the development of major art advances had to wait for the development of communities, towns if you will, where labor could differentiate itself, and trades having artistic character could develop. A good example is the dependence of archeologists on the remains of pots, and cooking vessels from early communities, places where everyday tools of survival became more decorative and substantive. Put more strongly, the agrarian community permitted the growth of auxiliary tools for living that could be bartered and traded and commerce could demand greater participation in the process. The trend is most noticeable in the growth of towns and cities, witness the epochs or periods associated with the increase in artistic contributions to life even in the earliest days. Decoration and beauty began to have a recognized value.
Homo sapiens began to leave the hand of his mark on earth thirty thousand years ago. At least for a million years, man, in some recognizable form, lived as a forager and hunter. He left none, or few monuments of that immense period of prehistory, spent on the edge of the European ice-sheet. Even so the monuments we do have in the caves of Altamira (and elsewhere in Spain and southern France) he left evidence of what dominated his mind of man the hunter. Cave paintings that are 20,000 plus year old dominated his world and preoccupied him and his view of his culture, like the knowledge of the hunter and the animals he stalked.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Anticipation by Robert L. Smith, Fran W. Smith. Copyright © 2016 Robert L. Smith; Fran W. Smith. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Preface, vii,Anticipation: the force of art, 1,
The Surprise Intrusion of Art, 11,
Art Periods Identified by Scholars, 19,
Stimulation, Interaction, and Imagination, 31,
New Influences, 39,
Changed Lives, 53,
A European Influence, 67,
A New Life Style and Assignment, 83,
A Neighborhood Art Gallery, 95,
Rocks and Whittles, 111,
The Asian Connection, 131,
Collecting Art, 139,
Twenty Illustrations from a Diverse Collection, 145,
About the Authors, 175,