If the safe landing of a passenger plane on the frigid waters of the Hudson is any sign of things to come, a nation of passengers has summoned the will to purchase a ticket of faith and boarded the plane with their untested pilot.

From a fearful bed of restless nightmares, the sleeping spirit of a hopeful nation has awoken unified to a new day of bright ideas with the renewed strength to overcome grey skies.

Our way of life is based on a fragile system of faith in one another, a system in which our success lies in our courage to “extend an open hand rather than a clenched fist.” Barack Obama has restored faith in a system bankrupt by pyramid scheme thinking. He has called upon us as citizens of a global community to be the change we want to see in the world. It is up to us to answer the call and extend an open hand with open hearts and minds.

Best wishes to President Obama and everyone!

Lucien

My trip to East Hampton coincided with the seventeen year return of the locust. The air was charged with the electrifying crackle of these persistent buggers. Their buzz and rattle could be heard emanating from the dense mossy green foliage of every tree in the area. Groups of these creatures took turns exchanging the insistent hum, punctuated by an occasional twitter or whip of a jealous bird. The exchange begins wildly with sounds darting back and forth across the treetops and then in an instant flows in a circle counter-clockwise, finally finishing by reversing direction clockwise to the point of origin, all with well orchestrated symphonic design.

Hidden by the quiet charm and dense foliage of the Hamptons is a treasure trove of wonderful tales about the area. She holds on her tongue a history of titillating stories and awaits any ear willing to listen. Overturn any rock to be whisked behind the curtain into a world of pirates, revolution, unmarked graves and German spies. A drive down Fireplace Road led me to the Pollack/Krasner House.

In stark contrast to the vastly open yellow-green terrain leading to Accabonac Creek and Preserve behind the house, rests the narrow frame of the artists’ dwelling. The artist spent most of his time working in his studio at 830 Fireplace Road before his life came to a tragic end in a car accident only a mile up the road from the home. His final resting place is around the corner in Green River Cemetery, where Lee Krasner had placed a giant boulder as his head stone. Pollack had collected giant boulders and piled them directly behind the house, they were to be part of an art project that never saw completion.

Inside the house the staff worked busily to get things ready for the Krasner exhibition opening the next day. The first floor of the two story building is one large connected space, with its only separation being a partial divider near the center of the room, the dividers’ purpose being merely of structural support. Next to a window along the south wall rests Lee Krasner’s stunningly colorful circular table embedded with ceramic tiles and found objects. The tiles and various found objects glisten in the soft light filtering through the window. Directly underneath the window along the wall is a shrine of found objects. The shine contains various shells, some broken some whole, and shards of glass in a variety of colors found during walks along the beaches in the area. The highlight of found objects is the old rusted anchor hanging on the wall next to the shrine. Pollack’s books about Picasso and cultures of the world line the shelves, his jazz records rest quietly in their sleeves on the bottom shelf next to the old record player, the crystals of the player eagerly await someone to set them aglow once again.

The openness of the first floor echoed the natural freedom of the surrounding landscape while the upstairs was divided into four cramped claustrophobic compartments, two serving as bedrooms, one as Lee’s studio and last being the bathroom overlooking Fireplace Road to the West. While in the tiny rooms on the second floor, a sense of loneliness closes in to quickly surround all who enter the space. The air hangs heavy with woeful feeling, the only freedom that can be found being the view through a 2×2 window in Lee’s workspace overlooking Accabonac Creek to the East. My thoughts began to drift peacefully out through the small frame of the window toward the water until I was quickly pulled back into the loneliness of the rooms’ memories, empty fingers grasping for someone or thing to give life to the space once again. Stories of adulterous affairs and drunkenness cling to every fixture, and my breath quickened as an uneasy feeling began to coat my skin. A stiff drink seemed a good solution to quiet the ghost still roaming the halls, but with no bottle in sight I scampered down the flight of stairs and charged through the screen-door and across the lawn toward Pollack’s studio.

The barn door creaked and crackled as I opened the vault to Pollack’s creative space. A waft of fumes from car and aluminum paint still hanging in the air washed over me like a tidal swell. The north light invited me in as it filtered through the panes of glass high above the wood floor beams stained with drippings of paint not meant for the finished creation, the stained floor perhaps the only “accident” in Pollack’s canon. These paint spills are rather special when considering that the artists’ technique of dripping paint was to “deny the accident” of unintentional spilling.

I began to envision Pollack in a ritualistic creative dance around his work, in some fashion reminiscent of the Indians of the Southwest Plains with their sand paintings. Jazz music began bopping and bouncing loudly throughout the space. I could see the artist darting wildly about, encircling a gigantic canvas some eighteen feet in length, paintbrush in hand. My thoughts then transformed into the sight of Pollack hanging high above the room from the rafters, an opportunity to inspect the massive final work in full as it is branded “Autumn”.

Each time I visit the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art I make a point of spending time with Pollack’s “Autumn”. The typical twenty minutes I spend locked inside the work takes on new meaning having visited the place of its birth. The speed and movement of lines and colors within the painting take me deeper into the levels of her creation. My eye darts back and forth across the painting, in and out of her texture, locked in step with Pollack’s creative energy. Pollack captures in his painting the movement of life, the moment, the instant, and as I experience these moments I am set free by the freedom of his creative spirit.

Lucien

A few Sundays ago I arrived at the rehearsal space with new charts in hand to begin working with a new bassist and drummer for some upcoming shows. I tend to be punctual, but in my efforts to finalize some chicken scratches into legible score, Father Time had me beat by 15 minutes. I hate being late, and this only added to my nervous energy in anticipation of meeting and playing with new musicians. I am rather quiet, and find these new encounters turn all the more strange due to my awkward shyness. As I set up my equipment, trying to untangle the spaghetti-like mess of chords from my bag, we performed the usually name swap ritual and attempted to find common ground through a pleasant exchange of words. As it turns out, Jacob, the bassist, is friends with all my sister’s friends and has worked with many of the same musicians with whom I work. This seems to be quite common with musicians, forget six-degrees, more like two. A universal family connected through sonic blood. Knowing this eased my nervousness a bit, and now it was time to play. Jacob’s first offering to the musical alter was the “Chicken.” “Do you know it,” was all he said, and away we went. From his six-string Carvin came a heavenly tone as his fingers moved on the fretboard with the grace of a figure skater gliding effortlessy on a glassy surface of ice. As we navigated the changes, trading the role of captain, I sensed right away that something was definitely “happening.” We steered the ship to port, and as the sonic feast gave way to, and was digested by the motionless molecules of air on fringes, we glanced at each other to confirm the event with an unspoken “yes.” My head was whirling and became filled with a child-like excitement for the musical possibilities available to the ensemble. My thoughts were limitless as I daydreamed of beautiful music being summoned by the hearts and hands of these capable musicians. Daydreams turned quickly to reality as the next tune was called. I was incredibly greatful to be a participant in the musical offering that day. As we worked our way through jazz standards and original material, my faith in music was continually renewed. I can’t wait for the next meeting, where daydreams have a chance to become reality.

Lucien