DREAMING THE DEAF AWAKE

THE DREAM

Henri Rousseau

AT THE CORNER OF ART AND COMMERCE STREETS

HERE ARE SEVEN HARD TRUTHS ABOUT ART:

1.ART is either a divine accident, or a miserable mistake.... we aren’t sure which.

2.ART is a complete waste of time until you become wildly successful.

3.Sanity and ART don’t mix, but sometimes they will glare at each other.

4.Once you are a successful ARTist, even your toenails become valuable.

5.You probably can’t trade your ART for a new Volvo.

6. They would rather invite a dead great ARTist for dinner than a live maybe great one.

7.Whatever ART is, it's not gravy.

FILE DRAWERS FULL OF PEOPLE

I want to write on a lot of other topics but I’m forced to do some business first.

I have been showing and selling my work since the late 70s, I have tried to be conscientious about maintaining a mailing list and keeping records of which collector bought which sculpture etc. There was an art boom in the 80s and I sold a lot of work. Often galleries do not want artists to know who bought their work as they feared the artists would cut deals directly with the collectors and leave them out......so at times getting information was tough.

At any rate I have mailing lists out the wazoo. A while back it dawned on me that changes of all sort occur in people’s lives. Lives change …my mailing list should change. I rarely changed it.

In fact keeping up with collectors became a full time job. I guess I slacked off in the mail and records department. Other than a few feeble rallies I have pretty well given up the fight.

If you bought a piece of mine years ago you are probably in “File- drawer A…B or C.” I get you out every once in a while and dust you off. Sadly I would rather get to work on something new than keep up with this stuff.

However along with this blog, which is somehow connected to Facebook and twitter, I now have a computerized mailing list. All of this is courtesy of Ashley. All I have to do is not screw it up.

So I am asking people who want to stay in touch to sign my mailing list …either on this site or on Facebook. I promise you will no longer end up in my studio in a cold file drawer but will be safe and warm in my computer.

Thanks

The management

SO HAPPENED BEFORE DREAM

Shall I question what the day brings or what the night leaves behind ? Last night was dream heavy and vision laden . Stirred into the soup of day it vividly fades and haunts my inner eye. Now I face another night....who knows? The mystery of it all still bides her time.

THE MUSEUM TALKS

I will begin by posting some OLD AND SLIGHTLY

USED STUFF.  I have arranged these talks 

somewhat chronologically on the page from

the most recent to the oldest.

Although if you are an art historian 

and you're planning on writing the

definitive ED HADDAWAY BIBLIOGRAPHY

 I did shuffle the deck a bit.

THE REINCARNATION OF EDISON

I gave this talk at the Albuquerque Museum.

It was supposed to be short.

It can be read in one sitting....

or one standing ....with the dryest mouth imaginable.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

THE REINCARNATION OF EDISON

Chapter one: life

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I am 7 years old.

I am Thomas Alva Edison.

His middle name starts with “A”

My middle name starts with “A”

His last name starts with “E D”

My first name starts with “E D”

I am deaf ….he is deaf.

His first name Thomas…

Well… there’s not much I can do with that….

Maybe it got screwed up in the reincarnation process or something.

At any rate when you are 7 years old and you figure out who you are, what difference does it make?

I’m Thomas Alva Edison and all I have to do now is invent some stuff…. a light bulb or something.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Actually over the years I have been quite a few people. (That reincarnation thing was going full blast when I was born…)

I have noticed that rarely is anyone the reincarnation of a janitor or an ax murderer.

As For me, I have always been someone pretty important:  Leonardo Da Vinci, Francisco Goya, maybe Carl Jung.

(We have all bedded down together now and its mighty cozy) ……

But my first memory of a genuine reincarnation was Tom Edison

And at 7 years old He was all I needed to be.

Edison was easy. He was a broad tree of a man… with roots and branches and plenty of room to climb.

He invented stuff. I invented stuff.

He was a mechanical genius.

I am a mechanical genius.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

In time I will invent everything I can think of…

Put stuff together…discover something new.

That IS what I Want To Do!

It all makes perfect sense …besides I can see the stuff as plain as day when I shut my eyes.

It’s all you really need…

The rest of the world goes by and there you are in whatever corner you can muster, thinking a bit, and getting the stuff to all go together.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The adults that hung around back then were not sure what to do with me.

After a while they threw up their hands and declared “Art !“

Ed will be placed in the “Art” category.

“Art” did seem to mesh pretty well with the young Edison that had popped out

and realistically can anyone see a big difference between a painting and a light bulb?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was the 1950s and I was in Ft Worth Texas. They had what we called the Children's Museum.

I went there a lot.

When I was in the 3rd grade I won a prize for art in the Public school system and received art lessons for 2 years at the museum...

My teacher was a vicious woman named Mrs. Sylvestry.

I actually learned a lot.

I could really draw back then...much, much better than I can now.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

In my family I was somewhat lauded for my artistic abilities.

My drawings were hauled out and shown to the relatives…

However my father and mother worried about practicality and money…. they thought I was better suited to be a plumber or an electrician.

“You can always do your art in your spare time”

They said.

I got even with my parents. I learned to do nothing truly useful.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

My brother was a genius

(Or so I was told...

By him)

He was often put on display as a young, soon to be famous Van Cliburn type....

He played Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, all that junk and I was awakened every morning for most of my early life with an overture or a sonata....

Stuff like that.

I always woke up angry

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

My sister’s job I think was to smile and be nice.

I was not too good at that myself.

So I suppose “Art” helped me secure a place in the family

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I stayed away from art after elementary school and became a motorcycle hoodlum.

Gradually I forgot about Edison

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Years would pass… then I found myself hauling art and a motorcycle through New Jersey.

I suddenly saw a sign that said

“Edison New Jersey ...Menlo Park. “

I thought,

“ That sounds like something the reincarnation of Thomas Alva Edison should see”

And off I went in the big rental truck...

I got the truck stuck under a bridge,

in rush hour traffic.

It didn't look too bad till the tow truck driver yanked it out and scraped the top half of the truck off...

I did not see Edison New Jersey or Menlo Park

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Art had subsided through adolescence to be replaced by shop classes, motorcycles and girls.

But when I went to college I like the others

had no idea what to do with myself....

so I took art classes again.

One thing lead to another ...I never quit

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I have never felt compelled to limit myself much in this thing called the creative process...

Whatever emerges is often as surprising to me as to anyone else.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I am a chaser of tangents and ephemera:

The stuff that the wind so often blows about.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Carl Jung and I have learned to turn our faces from the wind, to close our eyes and hunt in the thickets.

There we find small threads left by tangents that have blown by.

With luck a tangent thread leads on

and we may get a glimpse from where it comes or where it’s going ….

I never know which.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

We chase them as far down the trail as I can go…

And while I may be able to describe them somewhat. I wont.

Ephemera don’t like it.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

This sculpture “Child Flight “ comes from a recent body of work.

The thing that struck me about this body of work is how much of it is about wheels, machinery and the like.

Once Again I have regressed

to my Thomas Alva Edison phase.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Machines have surfaced in my work before...

Out in my field there is a piece titled

"Invention for Dreaming" which I put together almost 30 years ago.

It is currently in bad shape after I accidentally ran over it with my forklift.

Some dreams and aspirations are like that:

Squashed by reality.

And along the way there have been other bits of machinery tangled into this mix that I call my work.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I have a few things to say about my childhood love affair with machinery:

When I was 12, I would ask to wander the aisles of a hardware store "just to look"

I still like hardware stores but I rarely go to just look

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

A few years later I fell in love with motorcycles …I fell hard in love . My mother would drive me to look at Hondas through the storefront window.

That was the beginning of something that still persists today.

It was also some how tied in with a strange and compelling attraction to women.

Because of time restraints I will have to delve into that later

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

However, I was once given a chemistry set for Christmas

(My parents were intent on my betterment from the beginning)

And I can tell you from experience that testosterone mixed with gasoline creates a dangerous chemical reaction.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Another memory stirred up by this sculpture was when I was younger 5 or 6 maybe:

The relatives were sitting around the table. Perhaps both Uncle Georges were there.

One Uncle George lived in Midland Texas

He had been in the Air Force during the war and had flown airplanes.

The other Uncle George lived in Dallas and was also involved in aviation.

He was the editor and founder of Flight Magazine.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He knew everyone in the aviation world and always seemed larger than life.

Talk of airplanes drifted in and out of the adult conversation,. as did the stock market and other impossible things.

Suddenly I jumped up from the table and ran to the back yard.

" I want to build an airplane! " I thought.

A vision of flying had gotten a firm hold on me...

I picked up a handsaw.

I was not concerned with anything except how to move the large sheet of plywood that I found in the garage.

I wanted to start sawing immediately and build the plane.

I was obsessed.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The materials were heavy. WAY too heavy.

I was forced to get my mother to help me move the plywood.

She came out, listened to what I wanted to do and somehow managed to put out the fire that was raging in my mind or at least tame it for a while.

That vision of an airplane never really died… but it did lay dormant for a good long time.

Years went by and the world waited….

waited for Thomas Edison and I to get back to building more stuff … some stuff that could fly.

To accomplish it I might have to get a PHD….

Or at least get big enough to move the plywood.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

In the meantime however, Carl Jung and I have taken up flying on our own.

We go out at night after we shut our eyes.

Not much instruction has been required…

And I never see machinery lying about

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TREES

are readily available to jump over….

And once you clear the trees the rest is easy.

I often land on rooftops and look down.

Why don’t those people on the ground join Carl and me? I think.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

So at last I have built something from back then

Something that will fly

Perhaps I will make a bunch of them and sell them cheap…

but leave the instructions out.

And the instructions will be damned expensive.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

BUT… maybe , and maybe I’m overly optimistic here….

Maybe we already have all we need

In time perhaps, we will all learn to shut our eyes and get where we need to go.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The wind, after all is blowing all day and night

you can almost leave on time if you can find it.

Just open your eyes once they are shut

The wind will blow all the long night long…

Ive seen it blow a night clear into day

But if you sleep you’ll miss it

It will bring you right along

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Just open your eyes once they are shut

And gather up all the transitory that you find

get as firm a grip on it as you possibly can…

Lift your foot, the one you tied down way back when….

Now the other

and tell the wind the stories you have forgotten to tell

The wind will do the rest

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ED HADDAWAY QUESTIONS HIMSELF

FROM MUSEUM of the SOUTHWEST TALK

I did the work of the audience for them by supplying both the answers AND the questions.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Question.

What is art?

answer

Art is  the scratch that relieves the itch .........or it might be the itch causing us to  scratch ....either way anyone involved in art is reasonably miserable.

another answer:

For the  slightly nuts or the full blown crazy person art is therapy ..... for the rare sane person  it will drive you nuts

Then of course once again art makes good therapy

Question:

Where do you get your ideas?

Answer :

Before my mother died I used to call her up and she would give me  some good  ideas  and a lot of bad ones.... I've tried this with my wife but for some reason I find I'm always getting mad at her ideas....so I quit asking..... now I just go on line to www. art ideas .com

question from a kid :

asked in a nasty whiney voice

What is THAT supposed to be?

answer:

shut up kid

TOP OF THE HILL DOWN

TOP OF THE HILL DOWN

from

MUSEUM of the SOUTHWEST TALK

We lived at the top of a hill in an area of west Ft Worth called Ridglea Hills. My father was one of the first to buy a lot there and build a house. when I was little you could look out and see the golf course and empty fields  .You could even see Western Hills Motel which was in itself a very unique world.  This was soon after the war and in rapid order Ridglea Hills was filled and overfilled with houses and parents and kids .You couldn't spit without hitting another baby boomer.

At the time, however I was blissfully unaware of just how vast our army was. All I could concentrate on was the hill that we were on top of and the half a dozen or so kids on either side of us.

Soon all manner of stuff was being flung off that hill :

wagons , sleds, roller skates  ,bicycles, go carts, motorcycles, running and not, unicycles, random wheels nailed wildly to boards, and God know what else all went down that hill.

And with each voyage from the top of the hill down came an exhilarating abandonment to the fates and a inexorable trudge back up the hill.

As with all hills there were two sides to it .

One side arced more gently and gracefully, fast enough for mild thrills.... yet tame, its final safe uncoiling came in a slow even leisurely pace, which allowed for both contemplation of the ride and  a refocusing on what came next. Bill McDonald lived on that side, on my left as I hurtled down, his father was a doctor and a much coveted go cart was sitting in their carport awaiting my glance.

At the bottom of that side of the hill ,again on the left, a beautiful and mysterious girl could be seen moving swiftly from car into house.... car into house. The tantalizing  silent scene replayed itself daily as I passed by.

The other side of the hill however, what would have been the north side, must have been created by men still angry after the war . Maniacal 1950s asphalt  laying, road building ,engineers of death. That side of hill  crashed suddenly at its base with a cross street .....A poignant yet fruitless stop sign standing menacingly on the right.

It was only for the older wizened child, the child who sought the sickening sensations felt on roller coasters  and tilt a whirls, the dreamer of bigger more dangerous dreams.

Well here I sit editing this thing with little time left before I have to give this talk...There is so much more...Richard Ellwell, the bad kid that lived on the dangerous side of the hill The three girls ...I cant remember their last names....or their firsts....... also lived there. I had a very vivid dream years ago about those girls......... I think  it was when I hit puberty or something like that was going on and........I will save this dream for my analyst

But this thought is about wheels nailed to boards and me zooming down the hill past it all......I will have to finish it later