I find it profoundly moving that this day is the anniversary of Lincoln signing the Emancipation Proclamation. I hope each of you has had the experience of seeing the fictionalized but profoundly satisfying movie ‘Lincoln’ which gives a certain narrative structure to an event that I believe had cohesion in Lincoln’s own mind long before its realization, even while the chaos and disruptions of the wartime and all its currents of political contention obscured this purpose. Yet it came to pass, and he inked his name upon the document, and if he were remembered for little else but what has been called this “bill of lading”, it is a worthy thing!
It is another cold silent night, and I hope for better sleep than last night, when I came awake inopportunely for several hours, unaccompanied by the usual call of owls. There is an interesting sense to those nights, no anxiety, though in small waves comes an impatience concerning the waste of good potential sleep time, a sense of suspension and an opportunity to think deeply. Do I? Think deeply? Hardly. I figure out what I want to eat for the next day’s dinner, and I wonder if it is worthwhile mending a sock. How I wish such nights brought insight into the nature of mankind, or even the answer to what is the ultimate ice cream sundae!
I remember a fellow freshman at college saying with her signature curling sly smile, that ice cream was good for the soul. A bad exam? Ice cream. Didn’t get the class you wanted? Ice cream with caramel sauce and whipped cream. I looked her up on line yesterday and found out that she followed her heart’s desire and got a Masters in Fine Arts and she’s now at one of the great museums on the East Coast. She is doing just fine, and I am heartened to know it.
So who are we, between Lincoln and my friend? None of the above or below, doing piece by piece what we can, making the creation of a life day by day. Strong shadows and bright curves of light, and the strange muddling in between. I am thinking so much these days as I try to imagine the next show of paintings which do not yet exist, a show which will be upon me all too soon, and I want to say something. What, you ask, what would you want to say in your work, and I can only blurt “An ice cream sundae, with caramel sauce and fudge and whipped cream.” If that is the best we can do– well, I know of worse.
Off I go to dream, perhaps of sundaes and socks, and maybe an echo of Lincoln talking half to himself, as he wanders the shadowy corridors of the old White House, his tatty shawl drawn up over his shoulders and his bowed unbrushed head heavy with thoughts that will not let him sleep. We are more fortunate than him, but I follow him in dreams some nights, and I wonder if there might be a leftover drift of strong minds leaving currents in our air– this air that we assume is only worth our breathing, and no more.
robinwinter 