The Works of Alan

I received a morning call from Alan at an uncivilized time.

As I picked up the phone I tried to say good morning but it came out more of a grunt from some extinct beastie of the Jurassic period. My brain and mouth had yet to connect. Without saying hello, Alan went right into…

“I see you’re a graduate from the school of telephone etiquette John,” Alan said with a whip of his sardonic humor.

“EEEEERrrrrr,” I think I replied, but I’m still unsure.

“I have to talk to you about the Ministry of Culture,” Alan replied.

As I tried to figure out what Alan was saying, a rather long pause ensued as blood started to enter my foggy-brain-conciseness.

“Alan,” I said sharply, ” It’s 6:30 in the morning… it’s windy as hell out. Go back to bed!”

“John,” Alan retorted, ” It’s 6:30 here in Jerry Springerville but it’s 12:30 in London. Get yourself together and come over.”

“What the hell does London have to do with it?” I still have a hard time with Alan’s reasoning.

Not a bloody thing.. but people are pulsing all over the world and I want “us” to join that pulse.” Alan said excitedly.

It was the way Alan said “US”. As if we were about to board a cruise ship. I resigned this moment to Alan’s artistic temperament. I never question why Alan does what he does… I just wish he’d allow all of us at least eight hours of sleep. For all of you who don’t know, Alan is up early; he is also up late, very late. He must sleep because Annie complains about his snoring but God knows whenever that may be. I do know, and Alan has said this on more than one occasion, “if you go by the studio at 2:30 in the morning and don’t see a light on – call 911.. for I am sure, that I’m dead.” This is so… so… “Alanesque.”

“Ok.. I’ll be over in an hour,” I said resigning my protest.

“Goooood Boy Mr. John,” Alan said, dripping in sarcasm.

As I turned off Rt. 50 towards Alan and Annie’s home, Alan words “Ministry of Culture” kept cycling from side to side in my mind. As usual, I have no idea what he was talking about. It was a warm January day with the sky-clouds causing sunlight to paint the landscape. Adding to the weather mix were gale force winds vaulting off the hogbacks. My small pickup truck was swaying… the tumbleweeds tumbled… the driven dust was dusting, both acting like the supporting cast as the redundant white shopping bags from Wal-Mart have found their way into the low level jet-stream swooshing like ghosts with schizophrenia.

As I made my final turn to Alan and Annie’s home, I could see the top of Freedom Hill.

There sat Alan in his director’s chair swaying to the invisible rhymes of the pulsing wind like a wind chime with his scarlet winter scarf flapping around his face.

There is no way in hell that I’m going up there. So I beeped my horn several times and to my amazement Alan started down Freedom Hill at a very fast pace.

I greeted Alan with my morning scowl as he sauntered by with a focus and determination of a military officer. As we entered Alan’s private studio I was welcomed by the smell of brewing coffee and a plate of warm scones with fresh butter and assortment of jams. The sounds of mournful bagpipes were playing on Alan’s stereo to punctuate this moment as if we were at a Bed and Breakfast in Britain. Alan was playing host today, as we both settled into our chairs and started in with our civilized eats.

“Georgia O’Keeffe, John.” Alan blurted for what seemed like for no rhyme or reason.

“What about her,” I replied not knowing where this was going.

“She moved from New York to Taos, New Mexico because of the light, ” Alan said whilst fumbling with his scone and uncooperative honey-butter.

“The sun shines in New York just as it does in New Mexico Alan. I know, I’ve been there,” I said with finality knowing that Alan couldn’t escape my morning logic.

“No.. No John. You don’t understand,” Alan said. “Painters and photographers are always in search of…

“The Lost Cord!!!” I interrupted with a certain amount of amusement, attempting to move Alan away from one of his serious profundities.

“Hmmm,” Alan corded with his symphonic smile. Taking in a deep breath, exhaled slowly as if he was enjoying one of his Cuban cigars.

“As I was saying… a painter or a photographer, and most of all an architect understands the light. The light is different in Chicago as to the light in London… or Kona on the big island of Hawaii to that of San Francisco. The natural environ of an area is on the same level in personality to that of a magical person. Artists are always looking for magic, and in Georgia O’Keeffe’s case, she found her magic in the light in New Mexico,” Alan said as he poured another hot cupper.

“And you got me up for this?” I said.

“No.. but if you look around this area, and at times, the light holds a certain magic. Not the dusty days of late afternoon that cast a putrid yellow onto a barren landscape that this area is known for. But like today, when the clouds and the sunlight dance together, like an artists brush that reveals the earth tones against wet rocks and cobalt skies contrasting the silver gray clouds. The mystery unfolds. All you have to do is sit and watch the rolling opus of colors and shapes. But you have to be in attendance. Just be there… and open your mind to the environs around you,” Alan said with that strange knowingness that he processes.

“What about the wind? Doesn’t that distract from your own personal opus,” I said somewhat annoyed by the whole reason of being here.

“Sometimes… but it reminds me of the story of when Robert Louis Stevenson wrote his masterpiece, Treasure Island. Robert, while sitting at the Edinburgh Botanical Gardens in Edinburgh Scotland, under gray skies with the wind blowing off the north-sea; the words just came to him. Robert hadn’t traveled, never had met a pirate or ever sailed on a clipper ship, just the environs of sky and land gave him the words through the famous Edinburgh light,” Alan said.

“Just the light?’ I replied and oddly enough had just re-read Treasure Island for the sixth or seventh time last month.

“And speaking about Edinburgh… that is exactly where Harry Potter was composed… same place… same light… and look at the impact Harry has on the entire world,” Alan said with great joy since he has read the entire series and even quotes from the Potter books from time to time.

As we sat there and enjoyed each other’s company whilst downing a traditional morning eats, Alan rose and gathered a pile of papers from the counter space from across the room and then returned to his high-back gray swivel chair.

“The plasticity of peoples interest of the arts at times bothers me,” Alan stated in a most opercula sort of way. It was as if he lifted the lid and said “Abracadabra” here it is.

“It’s where experience and conviction come together… It’s the meticulous treatment of the artist’s statement… it’s where the artist vision triumphed over the sense of sanctimonious objectification projected towards past history to the current history of expression through the creative arts. What is lacking is not the interest in the arts by the general public, but the conviction that a healthy culture is reflected by the arts it supports. Human beings are the only species on this planet that creates a historical record through artistic endeavors. In the end, that is all… a culture is left with,” Alan said whilst reading from his notes buried within the pile of loose pages and then continued.

“Art is the breath of culture… without it, suffocation of the soul… the culture dies. Believe me, there are those out there who want just that… spin, spin, spin… control the thoughts, the actions… and a attempted control of the creative spirit,” Alan said with great conviction.

Okay… then what is needed, or what can any one person do?… If the arts can not be supported by the general public then it’s over. Art gallery closed… concert over, songs go unsung. Right? Is that what you’re saying. I personally think you are wrong because rock concerts still draw a good crowd,” I said over Alan’s recitation.

“Rock-n-Roll will never die John, but believe me, they really tried to kill it,” Alan snapped back, and then said, “But artists need a place to gather, to show their work, to speak the language that artists speak. I know this personally because photography has it’s own language. In the last few months over seven galleries closed in the Colorado Springs area which is insane. The argument goes… due to current economics, or lack of interest, or art is boring, dance is banal etc. All it is… is a fragmented world from a fragmented world-view point. Art is culture. We as a people have to understand, art is part of everything we do… design is part of everything we do… music is part of everything we do…and a gathering point is essential for artists.”

“But if the tendency is to say – art is dead- then what’s the point. I mean, sure there’s a good showing at the Denver Museum of Art, or the Colorado Fine Arts Center and time to time other venues, yet, what’s the real point of it?” I said to the nit on a roll, because I knew what was coming.

“I still can recall the cover of Time Magazine with the question – IS GOD DEAD- and you know what that sparked,” Alan laughed knowing full well the controversy that Time had caused. “The power of words and images, John, the power of words and images.”

With that Alan muddled around his stack of papers and then stopped. Alan came to a legal size yellow piece of paper with bold capital lettering that carried the scent of an overworked Sharpie and then smiled as he pulled it from the stack. He paused for a moment and poured another cup of coffee. As the steam from his coffee rose from his cup, almost as a cloud of thoughts from his mind, Alan spoke in clear if not razor affinity to transform his thoughts from words into actions.

“John, this is why I asked you to come to the ranch this morning,” Alan said, then reading from the yellow paper’s large Sharpie words. “With the help of other liked minded people, Annie and I are transforming the ranch to become a center and gathering point for artists to meet. Our target point will be to launch the first phase this spring. We plan to sponsor lectures for the performing arts, visual arts, media and digital arts and the literary arts. We have already established a network with interdisciplinary and multi-disciplinary organizations for the advancement of new artists who reside in the State of Colorado. We will focus our efforts to hold exhibitions and to create publications of performances being given in the fields of dance, photography, literature, media arts, music and performance art - all are our goals.”

I sat there and thought for a moment, knowing full well the enormity of this… this idea of Alan’s and the controversy that will follow. Alan can’t get out of bed without somebody calling foul in this community.

“Have you thought this one through?.. I mean, you know, how the people are around here,’ I said with great concern.

Look John, anti-culturalist have been around for a very long time. Here, there, everywhere. This is the era of OBAMA. It’s time for “change” to become the standard not just for Annie and I, but everyone - everywhere who wish to participant. We have to listen to our better angels and include those who hate us to those who love us. My table is large and long and a seat is reserved for everyone. Besides, I never look back… it interferes with the now.

“Okay… but it’s still out there,” I said trying to make my point. “So what are you calling this gathering place?”

“The Ministry of Culture,” Alan said with a very odd smile.

“The Ministry of Culture?” I answered back. “Is this a nod to George Orwell from his book 1984?”

“I think… more in the lines of Animal Farm since the general public is slowly moving in that direction”, Alan said with a laugh. “That skinny guy with the Clark Gabel mustache would roll over in his grave if he knew how prophetic his words have become. But Orwell isn’t the reason,” Alan said with a note of authority.

“Then what is? I asked.

“I lived for a short time in Oxford England and on the weekends, I would commute by train to Paddington Station just a few blocks from Hyde Park in London. From there I would walk throughout London and I loved the way the British named their governmental agencies the Ministry of this or the Ministry of that… I thought it was so grand, I still do. But when JK Rowling wrote her Harry Potter books, she named the center of the wizarding world the Ministry of Magic. She followed suit to the world she knew. I still feel a great connection to the United Kingdom… in some ways I never left. So it was only natural for me to name this next big event in my life, The Ministry of Culture. The circle is large enough to include everyone,” Alan said, and with that Alan closed his file folder and reached for another scone.

As the bagpipes continued to whine from Alan’s stereo, I walked to the window and looked out to a large blue building that lies just 40 yards or so from Alan’s private studio. Renovation’s have already begun on the blue building that is the heart of his Ministry of Culture, and I can see… the flagpole at the pitch of the roof flying the Union Jack in the steady but strong breeze. The Ministry of Culture has come to Penrose Colorado.

 

Tags: alan miller, alanworks, Culture, freedom, John Williams, photographer

This entry was posted on Monday, January 12th, 2009 at 3:51 pm and is filed under Alanworks Studio News, Events. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.