They say that it's always darkest before the dawn. - and - On Wings Of Hope

                                                        On Wings Of Hope
                                                        An original acrylic painting, on canvas panel
                                                        16" X 20", unframed

                                                                    ( click on image to enlarge )

     Last December, in my New Year's posting for this blog, titled On Wings Of Hope,
I said that the painting of that title had not yet been photographed.  I had a recent
reminder that I had still not shown the painting, so I am correcting that lapse today.
I only wish that I had something more encouraging to say about the state of the world
and our nation, than I could see ahead for us last December.  I know that there are
always those optimists who always see the cup as half full rather than half empty,
but considering the regressive ignorance constantly emanating from our nation's
executive mansion these days, I can only see the cup as half empty, and dropping
lower by the hour.  If a brighter dawn is coming, let that truth shine through soon.
But for now, again, on our fragile wings of hope, good luck to all of us.

                                                                               Eugene P. McNerney

                                    Exhibition note:
          This painting will be on view at the Buttonwood Art Space in Kansas City, Mo.
    from July 5th to September 26th, 2019.

Fair Reminders and Fond Memories

                                               The Chipmunk's Lunch-break
                                               An original acrylic painting, on canvas panel
                                               9 X 12", unframed

                                                   ( click on image to enlarge )

     Recently I received an Email reminder that I have not yet signed up to participate in the
art-fair, which has been a tradition for me each fall.  Last September I did a posting on this
blog, in which I said that I had probably done my last outdoor show.  That decision is not
set in concrete, but unless I develop some fresh new reserve of energy to undertake the
task, my participation is still questionable.
     In that same posting, I mentioned that the location of that fair, in the cultural heart of
the city, brought me full circle from my days as a very young, aspiring artist.  I also
mentioned that there was a little painting which needed to be photographed and posted,
as an old memory that place, in those early days.  I believe this is the little painting which
I had in mind, but anyone who is reading this, must be wondering what a chipmunk has
to do with that particular circle of life, so I will try to explain.

     The area which now contains such venerable cultural institutions as the University Of
Missouri, and Conservatory Of Music, the Kansas City Art Institute, and The Nelson-Atkins
Art Gallery and Museum, are all located in an area which was developed by William
Rockhill Nelson, the newspaper tycoon,  in the last quarter of the nineteenth century.
Nelson was a believer in the City Beautiful movement, and he lined his streets with trees
and miles of rock walls, paralleling the sidewalks, including around his own, grand, thirty
acre estate, so that the entire area became known as The Rockhill District.  Nelson's great
mansion, Oak Hall, was demolished and replaced by the great art-museum which bares
his name, all before I was born, but his, wonderful, old stone walls still remained.

     When I was in elementary school and junior high, I was awarded some very nice
scholarships for Saturday art classes and summer art classes at the art institute, which is
located on the estate of another generous, benefactor of the city, adjacent to the grounds
of the Nelson-Atkins Museum.  Oftentimes, when I was on my way to those classes in
the morning, as I was walking along the sidewalks, beside those old walls, I would catch
glimpses of movement among the stones.  Then, if I would stand still in the shade of the
ancient oak trees, which towered up behind the walls, I could enjoy watching the
antics of a busy chipmunk or two, scampering along on the walls, in search of more
acorns to add to the larder.  There always seemed to be something a bit magical,
about the spirited appearance of the little creatures, on those ultra-quiet, still mornings;
while they were darting in and out of sight, it was almost as if they were playing a game
of peek-a-boo with me.

     The park where the art fair is held, is also located just across the street from the
grounds of the art museum, and it also still has a perimeter of the old rock walls. That is
why I said that being there was like coming full circle to those days long gone, when the
world seemed to be full of so many possibilities.  I sometimes wonder if any descendants
of those happy chipmunks I used to see so long ago, still inhabit those old walls, or if
thoughtless people and their pets made it impossible for the little creatures to survive
all of the increased, human activity there.

   

The folly of painting, and the painting of The Folly

                                              The Folly's Fading Light
                                              An original oil painting, on stretched canvas
                                              30 X 24", unframed

                                                          ( click on image to enlarge )

     When people reach my age, they tend to spend some time reflecting back on the
choices they have made in life, and sometimes questioning what it has all been about.
For artists the question becomes whether or not it has been worth the struggle to have
a career in the fine arts.  Most young people who choose to become artists, are not
blind to the fact that art is not usually the pathway to great financial reward, so there
must be something else which is the compelling need to be satisfied, by making that
choice, and continuing the pursuit.  Perhaps that motivation could be described as the
ongoing quest to achieve the expression of a personal vision or visions, in a some
presentable and concrete form.

     The same questions might be asked about the subjects some artists choose to paint.
For example, this scene of a gloomy, rainy evening, showing a once grand old, theater
building, which sank into an advanced state of crumbling decay and abandonment, is not
likely to be the kind of subject matter which most people would appreciate as art for
their homes.  So again, that subject is a choice of the artist, with no expectation of an
immediate monetary gain, but still to satisfy some other personal interest or experimental
exploration of the theme or the techniques used to achieve the desired results.

     I hadn't thought about this particular work for years, but I was reminded of it by a
recent, gallery request to show paintings of Kansas City history.   It must have been
over four decades ago that I did a number of sketches and drawings of this old theater
building, because demolition seemed inevitable at that time.  Later on, those sketches
proved useful in doing paintings such as this, of a forgotten time in this city.  Before the
mid-twentieth century, Kansas City was a major hub of railway passenger traffic, and a
primary stop on the theatrical circuit.  The touring performers, actors and vaudevillians
all strode the stages of our grand old theaters.  When I was a child, every block in the
commercial heart of the city had at least one and sometimes two, theaters or extravagant
movie palaces, along with the numerous, elaborate department stores which dotted the
central business district.  And, all of that activity was served by an efficient, streetcar,
rail system.  But all of that was about to change, as the American way of life was
undergoing a revolution.

     After World War Two, automobiles and rapid suburban expansion, with convenient
outlying shopping centers, along with the advent of television, combined to drain all of
the life blood from the heart of the city.  The economical and efficient transit system was
killed off by General Motors; the department stores shriveled and then closed, and the
theaters were boarded up and abandoned.  That led the way to something they called
"urban renewal", during which dozens of beautiful, historic buildings were demolished
to make way for things as hideously uninspiring as parking structures, and thus further
reducing human presence on the streets of the central city.

     But history does not always have a completely unhappy ending.  Fortunately for the
theater in this painting, it was saved from demolition, and beautifully restored, largely
through the efforts of one woman, who was determined to save at least one of the city's
historic theaters from the wrecking ball.  When this building first opened, in the year 1900,
it was called The Century Theater, and then over the following decades the name
changed to fit the theatrical circuit's use, such as when it was known as the Schubert
Theater.  The Folly was the name that was in use when the theater was finally closed,
before the restoration, so that was the name that stuck.  But the efforts which went
into preserving that wonderful old gem were a very worthy quest, and certainly not folly.



   

Don't forget to stop and smell the flowers.

     For anyone who may have been wondering if I am still alive, I'm glad to say 

that I am still here.  I have recently had another of those uncomfortable reminders

that we are all here on borrowed time, and at my stage of life, those precious, 

borrowed days and hours are dwindling away, ever more rapidly.  My reminder

of the transitory nature of life, was a severe case of the flu, which evolved into a

persistent battle with bronchitis.  All in all, I have been out of commission for a 

couple of months, but I will try to post more art to my blog soon, now that I'm 

on the mend.  

     The brighter and warmer days of April are helping to lift the spirits of many 

of us, here in the center of the country.  February and March were unusually

cold and snowy.  Ice and snow were on the ground for so many days that it was

hazardous to try and get out and walk around, and being house-bound does not 

contribute to improving one's health or mood.  

     

      As so frequently happens here, where Mother Nature is so fickle and untrustworthy, 

the sudden, warm weather has tricked the flowering trees and spring bulbs to burst 

out into full bloom, before the danger of a freeze is over.   Now our weather 

forecasters are saying that a freeze is coming before this weekend.  So, when Saturday

morning arrives, the spectacular magnolia and daffodil blossoms will have been 

reduced to spoiled, brown decay-matter.  That will be yet another reminder for all of us,

to follow the poet's advice, and "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.", both literally

and figuratively.

     

Sitting on a wall can lead to a fall.

( click on image to enlarge )

     Very old, nursery rhymes can sometimes acquire some unexpected, coincidental
relevance to our currant events.   For many frustrated and angry Americans, the
children's rhyme about Humpty Dumpty and his illogical wall, has come to mind again,
during this Trump, government shutdown of the last several weeks.
     That enduring, popular little rhyme dates clear back to the mid fifteenth century,
but its exact reference to a specific person or event has been lost to history.  Over
the passing years, Humpty came to be thought of, and portrayed as a self-obsessed
egg.  Lewis Carroll wrote of him as a character which can be seen as being uncannily
similar to the currant occupant of the White House.  In his Through The Looking 
Glass stories, from 1872, ( with classic illustrations by John Tenniel ) Alice encounters
Humpty Dumpty seated on his wall, and she soon discovers that he has a closed mind,
and that he thinks the truth is whatever he says it is.

             "When I use a word" Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone,
     "it means just what I choose it to mean ---neither more nor less."
             "The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so
     many different things."
             "The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master -- that's all."


     For over two years now, Humpty Trumpty has been vowing to make America
backwards again, and doing his best to carry out that vow.   If Lewis Carroll were
alive today, he might be tempted to write a new version of little Alice's strange visit to
Wonderland.  In this modern rewrite, he might tell of the adventures of a new heroine
named Nancy, stepping through the looking glass, into Backwardland, to lead the way
forward to a path of progress.  He would probably write that Humpty will have to
take the offer of Nancy's hand, in order save himself from the fatal fall, off of his castle
wall.


     The illustration of Humpty Tumpty, above, is my adaptation of an illustration by
 John Tenniel, for Lewis Carroll's Through The Looking Glass. 



   

On Wings Of Hope

     As we bid goodbye to another weary year and try to predict what kinds
of difficulties are lying ahead for us, in the next twelve months, there always
remains our one, unfulfilled, universal wish, for this year, and for every new
year.  That wish which never comes true is, of course, the age-old longing
for world peace: peace between nations and peace between all peoples.

     A couple of thousand years ago, there was a teacher and reformer who
gave us the simple but truthful formula to achieve genuine brotherhood and
peace; he said that all we have to do is treat everyone else as we ourselves
want to be treated.  But that message has been conscripted and then ignored
by many, monolithic, religious organizations, all of which see themselves as
the one true religion.   They all declare that anyone who does not agree
with them, is of a non-believing sect, and therefore perhaps subhuman and
unworthy of life on this earth.

     We have learned by their examples, that lasting peace can not be achieved
until we have universal education, based on science and truth, rather than on
rote indoctrination and mythology.  That is a goal which seems evermore
impossible to achieve in all of the many, impoverished, third-world countries
on our planet.  And now, even in our own country, we have the example of
a modern democracy with a currant administration promoting xenophobia,
fear, hatred and ignorance of scientific truth.

     So, where does that leave us in our quest for lasting peace?  We either
have to be optimistic or pessimistic, as to whether peace can ever be achieved,
let alone whether it can be achieved at any time in this century.  The older we
get and the more we see of the world, the more we are forced to lean
evermore toward pessimism.   But to be totally pessimistic is to be dead, or
at least non-functioning.  All that we have left to us, as a middle-ground,
between the two extremes, is just hope, and the determination to keep
speaking the truth.

     As long as hope is alive, we have to keep trying to move forward, each
of us in his or her own way, doing our parts as individuals, and hoping for the
ripple effect to grow and swell, until it touches multitudes, and reverberates
across the globe.





(  There is a painting which was intended to accompany this posting,
but I do not yet have a digital photo of it on file. I will try to remedy that,
and post the picture as soon as I can. )

A Special Private-Investigator In The White House

                                       An original mixed-media on illustration board

   
     Today, my little four-footed friend, and occasional model, Horatio H. Hamster Esq.,
stopped by the studio for a short visit.  ( Due to his diminutive stature, all of his visits
could be considered short ones, but I'll let that pass. )  It had been months since I had
seen him around our little Kingdom Of The Animals, so I asked him what he had been
up to, or down to, in his case.
     He was not amused by the question.  He said that he had been very busy, doing
some important government work, in his capacity as a private, consulting detective,
working a low-profile investigation.  Such surprising news made me question his
aptitude for that profession.  I asked him if he didn't find himself to be a bit out of his
depth for dealing with criminal masterminds, but he said that, quite to the contrary, he
had inherited an instinct for detective work, because of his namesake, the world famous
detective with whom he shared the name "Holmes".  His response prompted me to ask
if he was referring again, to his middle initial, the solidly variable letter "H", and he did
confirm that his middle-initial stood for the name Holmes.
     That answer shouldn't have surprised me; he always had a different answer for what
his middle initial stood for, depending on what kind of outfit he was wearing at the time.
( Once, during a time when he was playing the role of a magician's assistant, he told me
that his middle initial stood for the name Houdini. )  I should have recognized his Sherlock
persona immediately, because of his appropriate accouterments, including his deer-
stalking hat and his meerschaum pipe.  I asked him if he had known Sherlock Holmes,
and he said he had not known him, but that one of Horatio's distant cousins had once
shared a room on Baker Street, and he seemed to feel that this relationship provided him
with rare insight into criminal matters.
     When I asked him who had hired him for this "important" case of detective work, he
said that the man's name was confidential, but he did reveal the man's last name began
with the letter "M", and that his name rhymed with the word "color".  That intrigued me
enough to ask him what he could reveal about his personal assignment, in this top-secret,
special investigation.  So, after swearing me to secrecy, he said that he had been chosen
to slip into the White-house, without being observed, because of his talent to make
himself seem quite small.  I observed that I thought his size had more to do with his
family heritage, than it did with talent, but he pays little attention to such theatrical
reviews and  critiques.   As for the details of his assignment in the White-house, he
said that Mr. "M" had told him to take his cue from Diogenes, the Ancient Greek
philosopher, and go in on a quest to find an honest man in the White-house.
     Horatio said that he had set out on this important search with determination and
due diligence, but unfortunately found that he had to gain entry to the White-house,
through a hole created by rats.  And then, to make matters worse, once he was inside,
he was nearly trampled to death, by a pack of panicked, fleeing rats, jumping all over
each other in their rush to get out and away, and yelling "Get out! Run! The ship is
sinking! The ship is sinking!".  Horatio said that he had tried to tell them that they were
not on a ship, but that his voice had been drowned out, by the rats,  mad, screaming
scramble, to flee the disaster as quickly as possible.

     At that point, Horatio seemed to want to end his narration of his White-house
search, without further revelations.  So, I asked him whether his mission had reached
a successful conclusion.  Then his bright eyed expression turned sad and dejected, as
he finally had to admit that he had failed in his assignment.  Although he had searched
long and hard, he had never found an honest man in the White-house.
      Reflecting on his failure, he said, "There must have been an honest man in that
confused place somewhere, or else Mr. "M" wouldn't have sent me in there to find him.
But  I had to report back to him, that I hadn't been able to discover where the man
was hiding out, in that treacherous rats-maze of a house."
     "Don't feel too bad about it", I told him.  "Maybe the honest man escaped
before you got out".
     He agreed that my suggestion was a possibility, considering the large number
of people who were rushing to get out of those White-house exits at all hours of
the day and night.
     Before Horatio ended our visit, he asked me to remind everyone in our little
Kingdom Of The Animals, that he would be reprising his role as Bob Cratchit,
in the annual production of Dickens' Christmas Carol, at the quadruped playhouse.

     He is ever the busy, little promoter, isn't he?