Portraits at the Stock Exchange (1897)

Edgar Degas’s Portraits at the Stock Exchange exemplifies art’s capacity to elevate the mundane, transforming an ostensibly ordinary moment into a profound visual narrative. The painting depicts a group of men engrossed in conversation within the confines of a stock exchange—a setting emblematic of commerce, routine, and modernity. What might otherwise be dismissed as a fleeting, unremarkable interaction is imbued with depth and complexity through Degas’s keen observational eye and masterful execution.

Degas employs a muted palette and subtle compositional techniques to emphasize gesture and posture, directing the viewer’s focus to the nuances of human interaction. The slight tilt of a head, the lean of a body, and the proximity between figures are not just details but windows into social dynamics, creating a tableau that speaks to the rhythms and tensions of professional life. These gestures, seemingly inconsequential in isolation, become laden with significance, elevating the scene from an ordinary encounter to a study of human behavior and connection.

This work epitomizes the broader function of art as a celebration of the everyday. Degas reframes the commonplace, asking us to pause and examine the overlooked details of life. Art, in its finest form, renders the ordinary extraordinary, revealing beauty and meaning in what might otherwise be ignored. A conversation, a bowl of fruit, a crowded street—through the artist’s lens, these mundane moments gain permanence and weight, inviting the viewer to linger and reflect.

This notion is particularly poignant within the tradition of portraiture. Portraits, whether of notable figures or anonymous individuals, center on the humanity of the subject. Degas’s work resists idealization, presenting his figures as they are—flawed, ordinary, and deeply human. In doing so, Portraits at the Stock Exchange transcends its specific time and place, offering a timeless meditation on modernity, ambition, and social interaction.

Ultimately, Degas’s painting is more than a mere depiction of a scene; it is a testament to the transformative power of art. By inviting the viewer to observe, reflect, and appreciate the nuances of the mundane, Degas elevates the average to the extraordinary. In Portraits at the Stock Exchange, we are reminded of art’s enduring ability to find the profound within the ordinary and to make the fleeting timeless.

Number 23, 1951

Jackson Pollock’s Number 23, 1951 remains a compelling example of Abstract Expressionism’s capacity to evoke profound introspection. At first glance, its chaotic black forms on a stark white background appear unrelenting and alien, yet as I continue to sit with it, the piece transforms into something deeply human—something that resists interpretation yet invites it all the same. The painting seems less a depiction of an external reality and more a confrontation with the subconscious, both Pollock’s and my own.

One of the most striking qualities of Number 23 is its Rorschach-like nature. Pollock’s dynamic forms are ambiguous, unbound by conventional representation, which compels the viewer to project meaning onto them. As I stare into the painting’s labyrinth of black strokes, I catch glimpses of what I interpret as eyes or faces, only for them to dissolve upon further examination. This fluidity mirrors the experience of a psychological Rorschach test, where meaning arises not from the inkblot itself but from the observer’s subconscious associations. Carl Jung’s assertion that “Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes” feels particularly apt here. The painting invites me not merely to observe but to confront the inner workings of my own psyche.

The choice of black and white in Number 23 is significant. By stripping the composition of color, Pollock eliminates distractions, emphasizing the raw interplay of form, movement, and contrast. The black strokes slash across the canvas with a force that suggests both violence and intention, yet they never fully descend into chaos. The tension between the frenetic energy of the lines and the restraint necessary to keep the composition intact reflects a universal struggle: the balance between order and disorder, creation and destruction. Pollock himself once remarked, “I want to express my feelings, not illustrate them,” and this sentiment is palpable here. The painting does not describe—it enacts. It is the visual equivalent of raw emotion made tangible.

The context of the 1940s and 1950s further enriches Number 23. Pollock created this work in a world reeling from the trauma of World War II and grappling with the existential uncertainties of the Cold War. Traditional forms of representation seemed inadequate to express the enormity of the era’s destruction and anxiety. As Theodor Adorno famously observed, “To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.” While this statement has been debated and clarified, it underscores the profound challenge faced by artists attempting to make sense of a world that had so thoroughly unraveled. Abstract Expressionism, with its emphasis on raw emotion and non-representational forms, emerged as a powerful response to these existential crises.

Psychological theories also played a pivotal role in shaping the art of this period. The influence of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung on Pollock’s contemporaries cannot be overstated. Freud’s theories of the unconscious mind and Jung’s exploration of archetypes provided fertile ground for artists seeking to bypass rationality and access deeper, more primal truths. Pollock’s drip technique, often compared to Surrealist automatic drawing, exemplifies this approach. It is as though the painting bypasses the intellect entirely, speaking instead to something instinctual and visceral. Pollock’s work becomes not a representation of the world but a direct outpouring of the inner self.

Yet Number 23 is not just a product of its historical moment—it is also a deeply existential work. The rise of existentialist philosophy in the post-war era emphasized themes of alienation, absurdity, and the search for meaning in a world devoid of inherent purpose. Jean-Paul Sartre’s assertion that “existence precedes essence” resonates with the open-endedness of Pollock’s art. The chaotic forms of Number 23 do not dictate meaning; they demand that the viewer create it. In this way, the painting echoes Albert Camus’s concept of “the absurd,” the tension between humanity’s desire for meaning and the universe’s indifference.

One of the most fascinating aspects of Number 23 is the perception of eyes within its forms. The human brain, predisposed to recognizing faces and patterns—a phenomenon known as pareidolia—seeks out familiarity even in the abstract. I find myself repeatedly drawn to what appear to be eyes peering out from the chaos. This instinctual search for recognition speaks to something primal within us. Eyes, whether real or imagined, evoke connection, judgment, and self-awareness. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once observed, “The eyes of men converse as much as their tongues.” Even in Pollock’s abstraction, the suggestion of eyes transforms the painting into something alive, something that watches as much as it is watched.

But what do these eyes reveal? Are they an echo of my own self-awareness, a manifestation of my desire for connection, or a reflection of my fear of being seen too clearly? Art historian E.H. Gombrich suggested that “The beholder shares in the process of creation.” This feels especially true in Number 23, where the painting’s meaning emerges through the interplay between Pollock’s gestures and my interpretations. The painting exists not as a static object but as a dynamic interaction, one that shifts and evolves with each viewing.

Ultimately, Number 23, 1951 reveals as much about me as it does about Pollock. Abstract art demands active engagement, and Pollock’s work exemplifies this. It doesn’t offer tidy narratives or easy answers but instead compels me to confront the ambiguity and complexity of my own thoughts and emotions. Today, I see chaos and tension in the painting, reflecting my own anxieties about uncertainty and control. Tomorrow, I might see something entirely different—energy, movement, or even liberation.

This is the enduring power of Pollock’s work: it refuses to be pinned down, remaining fluid, open, and deeply personal. In its chaos, I find the space to explore my own inner world. As I step away from Number 23, I am left not with answers but with questions—about art, about Pollock, and about myself. Perhaps that is its greatest achievement: it doesn’t just ask me to look; it asks me to see.

Sand Storm (1932)

How fortunate we are to have Sand Storm by Agnes Pelton so close to home. Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art has, over time, become not just a repository of great works but a space for introspection, where nature and art converse, where silence enhances seeing, and where paintings like Sand Storm do not merely hang on a wall but actively shape the inner landscape of the viewer.

Pelton’s work invites a different kind of looking. Some paintings demand attention with grandeur or narrative force, but Sand Storm requires patience, a quieting of the mind, an attunement to subtleties that might at first be imperceptible. To see this painting is to experience movement—not the hurried, erratic movement of an uncontrolled force, but a slow and deliberate unfolding. Pelton does not present the storm as an agent of destruction but rather as a state of becoming.

In her hands, a sandstorm ceases to be a blinding force that obscures and erases. Instead, it transforms. 

Unlike traditional landscapes, which depict storms as external events, Pelton internalizes the sandstorm, rendering it not as something that happens to the land, but something that arises within it—a pulse, a breath, a force that is not separate from the environment but essential to it.

Her accompanying poem gives us insight into how she understood this phenomenon:

***

SAND STORM

By Agnes Pelton

Dense clouds that push and loom

Too early, darkening the day.

Above the streaming palms

Bent low to earth

Sharp points of blowing sand converge

Are poised beneath the sky’s light blue

In balanced conformation.

Below this flowering, remote, serene

Behold the movement luminous –

A rainbow in the dust.

***

The storm looms too early, disrupting the natural order of things. The palms bend, not breaking but yielding, allowing the wind to move through them rather than against them. The sand converges—not chaotically, but in a balanced conformation, a phrase that upends the usual understanding of storms as formless tempests of destruction.

Then, in the final stanza, Pelton offers a revelation: Behold the movement luminous—A rainbow in the dust.

What a powerful contradiction. A rainbow, a symbol of clarity and light, appearing within dust, a symbol of obscurity and disarray. Here is Pelton’s gift: to find harmony within apparent disorder, to reveal something radiant within the murk of transformation.

In reading her words, I cannot help but think of William Blake, another artist who refused to separate vision from poetry, who understood that the spiritual and the material were not two separate realms but one continuous reality. Like Pelton, Blake was not merely an artist—he was a seer. His illuminated manuscripts merged image and verse into a singular, heightened experience, insisting that the world of symbols and dreams was just as real as the physical world.

Blake’s most famous lines from Auguries of Innocence resonate deeply with Sand Storm:

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour."

Pelton, like Blake, paints with this same mystical sensibility. Her storm is not simply a storm—it is a portal. To stand before it is to be invited into a state of contemplation, to see beyond the surface of things, to recognize that even within obscurity, there is clarity, that even in upheaval, there is a secret order at work.

Blake believed that the artist was a prophet, that their role was not simply to imitate nature but to reveal truths hidden beneath it. Pelton, in her luminous abstraction, follows this same impulse. She does not give us a desert storm as it appears to the eye; she gives us the essence of the storm, the spirit of the wind, the movement of transformation itself.

What speaks to me most in Sand Storm is its assertion that change is not random or meaningless. So often, the storms of life come too early, disrupting carefully laid plans, unsettling what seemed secure. These storms—emotional, existential—feel like agents of destruction, scattering the familiar and leaving only uncertainty in their wake.

And yet, Pelton suggests another way of seeing.

She asks us to consider that within the storm, there is balance. Within the sand, there is color. Within the dust, there is luminous movement.

Perhaps the storms that unsettle us are not meant to break us but to reshape us.

I think about the times in my own life when the ground beneath me has felt unsteady—when relationships ended, when paths I had expected to walk were suddenly closed to me, when I found myself in a place I had never intended to be. In those moments, it was easy to believe that I was lost, that everything was collapsing around me. But looking back, I wonder if those storms were less about ruin and more about redirection.

Pelton’s palms do not resist the wind. They bend. The storm does not obscure forever; it reveals. And in the final moment of the poem, when all seems disarrayed, a rainbow appears.

Is that not how transformation works?

One of the gifts of having Sand Storm at Crystal Bridges is the ability to return to it again and again. There is a difference between seeing a painting once and seeing it over time—allowing it to shape the way one thinks, allowing its meaning to shift as one's own life shifts.

Pelton’s work does not offer answers, but it does offer insight. She teaches us that movement is not always chaotic, that storms are not always to be feared, and that what appears at first to be obscurity may, in fact, be illumination in progress.

I have stood before Sand Storm in different chapters of life, and I suspect I will stand before it again in the future. Some paintings change with time, but others remain constant, revealing instead that it is we who have changed.

Perhaps, in a future storm, I will remember Pelton’s words.

Perhaps, in the dust, I will see a rainbow.

The Gilded Skull

The Gilded Skull

By Dave 

It gleams in the half-light,

Gold poured like honey over bone,

Filigree curling across its surface,

A sugar skull forged of greed.

Diamonds trace its grin,

Emerald eyes smolder in hollow sockets,

A death mask made for worship.

This is no relic,

No lost artifact of old kings or corsairs.

This skull belongs to the now,

Adorned for the modern plunderers—

The ones who pillage with screens,

Trade air for gold,

Spin dust into kingdoms.

But beneath the gilding,

The opulent shine,

The same dry truth remains.

Bone.

Brittle. Fragile. Mortal.

They call it treasure,

Call it vision,

But the skull grins knowingly,

Its laugh a silent echo:

All that glitters is empty.

Emerald eyes burn brighter,

The sockets of a predator

Staring into the hollow of us all.

The gold is just a mask,

The jewels only bait—

A fleeting dream for those

Who think themselves immortal.

And yet it grins,

Always grins,

As if to say:

Beneath it all,

You’re still mine.

Sick Child (Octavi, the Artist’s Son) (1903)

Ricard Canals’ Sick Child (Octavi, the Artist’s Son) portrays a poignant moment of human vulnerability, framed by the intimate connection between a parent and their child. Painted around 1903, the work centers on Canals’ son Octavi during a period of illness. The muted palette and gentle brushstrokes amplify the fragility of the subject, while the child’s small, delicate frame conveys the gravity of his condition. This tender depiction evokes a visceral response, resonating with those who have experienced illness or the care required to support someone through it. For me, this painting is especially evocative, as it parallels my own experiences with sickness and the profound dependence it brings.

Born prematurely, I spent much of my childhood grappling with illness, particularly recurrent pneumonia. These episodes were nearly ritualistic, marked by persistent coughing, body aches, and unrelenting exhaustion. I vividly recall one year when I collapsed into the arms of Dr. Quay at the emergency room and was promptly hospitalized. Those moments of helplessness left an indelible mark on me. Despite achieving better health as an adult, illness still has a way of disrupting life’s balance, stripping away any semblance of self-sufficiency.

Earlier this school year, pneumonia returned with force, offering a stark reminder of the body’s fragility. Determined to power through the workday, I ignored my worsening condition until my boss, Ms. Tarter, insisted I go home. Reluctantly, I left, but barely made it to the end of the block before rolling down my car windows to vomit. This scene repeated itself multiple times on the way home, and vertigo soon compounded my misery. By the next day, I could hardly function. At school, I tried to persevere but collapsed as I made my way to the door. Two students, seeing my distress, caught me and helped me to Ms. Tarter’s car. She drove me to the hospital, where the hours blurred into a sequence of tests—MRIs, CT scans, and bloodwork. In those moments, I was utterly dependent on the compassion of those around me: my colleagues, my students, my boss, and eventually my parents, who stayed by my side throughout.

This weekend, I find myself ill again. My body aches, my cough is dry, and fatigue has settled deeply into my bones. Yet, despite the discomfort, I take solace in knowing that I am not alone. My support system—my family, my colleagues, my friends—remains steadfast. Even my cats, Cricket, Hopper, and Louie, offer their own quiet care. Their instinctive closeness and comforting presence remind me that acts of care come in many forms, both human and otherwise.

As I reflect on Canals’ painting, I see a mirror of my own vulnerability in Octavi’s frail figure, dwarfed by the expanse of his bed and enveloped in the muted shadows of his surroundings. The painting captures the essence of caregiving, where even the smallest gestures—a colleague’s insistence to rest, a parent’s reassuring presence, a pet’s silent companionship—can serve as lifelines. These moments of care reveal an enduring strength within human connection, a quiet resilience that allows us to endure even the most trying times.

Illness reduces us to our fundamental needs: safety, love, and support. It is a humbling process that underscores our inherent interdependence, no matter how self-reliant we may strive to be. Canals’ portrayal of Octavi, and my own experiences, illuminate this truth. In our weakest moments, the compassion of others becomes a source of strength, reinforcing the bonds that sustain us. The beauty of this painting lies not only in its artistic skill but also in its ability to evoke profound personal reflection, connecting the viewer to a shared human experience that transcends time.

What strikes me most about Sick Child is its dual focus on fragility and resilience. It reminds us that dependence is not a weakness but an opportunity to embrace the connections that define us. Whether it is a parent tending to a sick child, a friend offering assistance, or even a pet providing quiet companionship, these acts of care resonate far beyond the moment. Through this lens, Canals’ painting becomes more than an artistic expression; it is a testament to the enduring power of empathy, vulnerability, and human connection.

Broken Cup, aka Cat Science

Broken Cup, aka Cat Science

By Dave 

Tap, tap.

"Ah, yes, the cup resists,

a vessel of mystery clinging to the laws

of gravity... or so THEY say."

The cat squints,

eyes narrowed in scholarly disdain.

"How fragile is this human artifact?

How stubborn its balance?"

Tap, tap.

It wobbles now, teetering,

a delightful dance at the edge of certainty.

The feline tilts its head,

a researcher mid-hypothesis.

"Will it shatter? Will it bounce?

Will it make the human yell?"

Push.

Down it goes—ceramic symphony on the tile.

A cacophony of shards,

a masterpiece of chaos.

The cat watches,

tail flicking with academic pride.

"Data confirms:

1. Gravity is intact.

2. Humans are predictable.

3. Cups are fragile, but delightful

in their destruction."

Leaping to another surface,

a new test subject in sight,

the cat begins again,

ever the curious researcher,

ever the chaos muse.

Tap, tap.

Now Showing: Purple Noon

Young Girl with a Candle (1670)

In Godfried Schalcken’s Young Girl with a Candle, it is tenebroso, the profound play between light and darkness, that gives both form and emotional resonance to the painting. The candle’s light reveals the girl’s face and hand, pulling her into visibility from surrounding shadows. Here, light is more than illumination; it is creation itself, defining her existence within the frame. The surrounding darkness, thick and almost tangible, represents all that is unknown or forgotten, while the small, determined flame allows just enough detail to surface. Much like memory, this light carefully selects what to reveal, preserving moments against the inevitable fade of time.

Tenebroso in this context becomes more than technique; it is a meditation on the nature of remembrance. The candle’s glow reveals the girl’s features with gentle precision, as though bringing fragments of a past life into focus. Shadows obscure much around her, suggesting the fleeting and selective nature of memory itself, where certain moments shine clearly while others recede into obscurity. In this way, the painting speaks to how memory actively shapes our perceptions of those we’ve lost, not as static records but as intimate, evolving glimpses that defy the erasure of time.

Schalcken’s use of light and shadow invites us to see memory as both a personal and creative act. The candle’s glow here is fragile yet purposeful, illuminating specific aspects of the girl’s face as we, too, choose what to remember, defining the presence of those who have influenced us. As the light reveals the girl’s form and expression, it captures the complex interplay between remembering and forgetting—the flame, though small and limited, powerfully resists the surrounding darkness, much as our memories hold fragments of loved ones within the vastness of life’s transience.

In this sense, Young Girl with a Candle suggests that memory itself is a way of keeping light within darkness, of finding continuity in absence. Each flicker of memory acts as a bridge, shaping not only our past but our present understanding of self and connection. Schalcken’s work reminds us that memory is an enduring presence that allows us to hold onto, preserve, and even transform fragments of life, casting a lasting glow that defies the inevitability of shadows.

St. Jerome in His Study (1605)

Caravaggio’s St. Jerome in His Study offers a profound reflection on mortality, merging themes of Catholic memento mori with the quiet intensity of scholarly devotion. In this composition, St. Jerome, one of the early Church Fathers, is absorbed in his work, his focus fixed on the task at hand rather than the skull nearby. Caravaggio’s inclusion of the skull, prominently displayed on the table, aligns with the Catholic tradition of memento mori, urging viewers—not Jerome himself—to remain conscious of life’s impermanence. This subtle placement speaks to the underlying message of mortality, resonating deeply during the autumn season when Halloween’s associations with death and the supernatural segue into All Saints' Day, a time to honor the faithful departed and contemplate our spiritual journey.

The concept of memento mori, or “remember you must die,” finds its roots in both Catholic and Stoic thought, where it serves as a call to live with intention and humility. For the Stoics, reminders of death grounded individuals, cultivating wisdom and courage. Marcus Aurelius wrote, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” Catholic tradition deepens this reflection, viewing mortality not merely as an endpoint but as a preparation for eternal life. In St. Jerome in His Study, Caravaggio brings these ideas together, showing Jerome fully absorbed in his work, undistracted by the presence of the skull—a subtle nod to the disciplined acceptance of mortality, guiding without overshadowing his purpose.

Caravaggio’s use of chiaroscuro—the dramatic contrast between light and shadow—creates an atmosphere of intense focus. Light falls on Jerome’s face, the open book, and his quill, leaving the skull partially in shadow. This lighting choice emphasizes that Jerome’s purpose is his work, his scholarly and spiritual pursuits, rather than an explicit meditation on death. The skull, though ever-present, is a quiet, almost passive symbol. It exists within Jerome’s space but does not command his attention, suggesting that he has already internalized its lesson. For Jerome, the reminder of mortality is constant but does not deter him from his greater calling.

This work invites contemplation during Halloween and All Saints' Day, both of which engage with themes of death and the afterlife. Halloween, rooted in medieval Catholic traditions, acknowledges mortality and the supernatural, while All Saints’ Day reveres those who have lived lives of holiness. In St. Jerome in His Study, the skull reflects both these aspects: it symbolizes the inevitability of death, as Halloween does, while also pointing toward the saintly pursuit of a life aligned with higher values, echoing the spirit of All Saints’ Day. Caravaggio’s decision to leave Jerome’s gaze focused on his scholarly work, not on the skull, reminds viewers that while mortality is essential to recognize, it should not be all-consuming.

St. Jerome’s dedication to translating the Bible into Latin (the Vulgate) and his disciplined, ascetic life underscore the painting’s message of devotion and spiritual purpose. His intense focus on his writing aligns with Stoic teachings on living with purpose and immediacy. As Seneca advised, “Let us prepare our minds as if we’d come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing.” Caravaggio’s Jerome embodies this mindset—not through a direct fixation on death, but by dedicating each moment to his work and faith, implicitly acknowledging mortality as part of his life’s rhythm without needing to dwell on it.

St. Jerome in His Study thus serves as a nuanced memento mori, subtly urging viewers to acknowledge mortality while focusing on a life of purpose. Through the careful positioning of symbols like the skull and book, Caravaggio illustrates that while the reality of death is present, it need not distract us from meaningful pursuits. The chiaroscuro lighting enhances the psychological depth, allowing the viewer to feel Jerome’s commitment to his scholarly work in contrast to the silent presence of the skull. In the context of Halloween’s contemplation of death and All Saints' Day’s focus on eternal life, the painting challenges us to recognize mortality without letting it consume our focus, urging us to live with intent and humility.

In this way, Caravaggio’s portrayal of St. Jerome transcends the immediate visual and becomes a meditation on mortality’s place in a purposeful life. The painting’s subtle message is clear: true wisdom lies in understanding our finite nature and, within that awareness, dedicating ourselves to pursuits that transcend the material. Through Jerome’s steady focus, we are reminded that life’s purpose is found not in obsessing over mortality but in living fully within its limits, preparing our souls for what lies beyond.

Afternoon Coffee

Afternoon Coffee

By Dave 

Afternoon Coffee.

She sits before me, black and bold,

Unadorned, offering only what she is.

Steam rises, carrying her aroma, 

A fragrance both of the earth and beyond it. 

I drink deeply and her warmth flows through me,

Steady and sure, a fire to kindle my heart. 

The heat of the cup lingers in my hands,

Grounding me to the moment, holding me close.

Each sip a pause, a deep breath,

An invitation to reflect, to act,

To find focus amid the day's haze.

She is both the calm and the push,

A ritual of balance and resolve.

She lingers in my mouth,

In the sharpness of my thoughts,

In the steady rhythm of my work,

In the comfort of knowing she was.

She is simplicity, black excellence,

A companion without pretense.

In her, I find resolve. 

Afternoon coffee.

The Rose in the Mirror (1920)

Suzanne Valadon's The Rose in the Mirror not only exemplifies her technical mastery in capturing the essence of nature but also reflects her unique position within the early 20th-century art world. Valadon, a self-taught painter, originally entered the Parisian art scene as a model for renowned artists such as Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and Edgar Degas. Her work in The Rose in the Mirror subtly echoes her experiences with these artists, as she brings a vivid expressiveness and layered depth to her still-life compositions—qualities that set her apart from traditional approaches to this genre.

Valadon’s journey from artist's model to celebrated painter was unusual in a male-dominated art world, where women were often depicted but rarely the creators. As a model, Valadon became the subject of several iconic works, including Renoir’s Dance at Bougival (1883) and Toulouse-Lautrec’s The Hangover (c. 1888). These portrayals capture her striking presence and distinct personality, characteristics that would later influence her own approach to portraiture and still life. Valadon absorbed the lessons of composition, color, and texture from these artists, integrating these techniques into her own work but reinterpreting them through her individual perspective.

In The Rose in the Mirror, Valadon applies a bold color palette reminiscent of her mentor Degas, who was instrumental in encouraging her shift from modeling to painting. The vivid red of the roses set against the dark, shadowed background recalls the vibrancy and contrast seen in Degas’s pastels, while the interplay of light and shadow reveals a nuanced understanding of form and depth. The incorporation of a yellow cloth beneath the vase introduces a warmth and stability that enhances the intensity of the rose’s color, grounding the scene and creating a cohesive visual harmony. Valadon's ability to transform this floral subject into something both visually striking and symbolically potent reflects the lessons she internalized from Degas, as well as her own commitment to pushing the boundaries of conventional still life.

Moreover, Valadon’s sophisticated use of reflection to create spatial depth in this work may also be attributed to her exposure to the experimental compositions of her peers. The mirrored image of the roses in The Rose in the Mirror invites the viewer into a layered visual experience, transforming the scene from a simple still life to a study of perception and duality. This reflection suggests a dialogue between reality and illusion, inviting contemplation on the layered meanings and hidden depths within the everyday. Her choice to depict both the rose and its reflection adds a level of introspection and complexity, a trait that elevates her work beyond mere representation to a contemplation of beauty, transience, and resilience.

Valadon’s unique position as both muse and creator allowed her to bring a rare sensitivity and insight into her own art. While she absorbed the techniques of the artists she modeled for, she broke away from their influence, infusing her work with an assertive boldness and emotional resonance that was distinctly her own. The Rose in the Mirror reflects her complex artistic identity, as she captures the rose not only as a botanical specimen but as a symbol of strength and vitality, mirroring her own life and her evolution as an artist. This piece embodies her capacity to balance realism with symbolic depth, affirming her legacy as an artist who transformed her own experiences into a singular visual language that resonates with both beauty and meaning.

Sehet, Jesu hat die Hand (1898)

In 2015, during a sermon, my friend Fr. Steve Wilson spoke of a painting he’d seen as a younger man while traveling in Europe. His memory of it was vivid: Christ, crucified not among ancient contemporaries but surrounded by modern townsfolk going about their daily lives—each figure representing "us," the ones who had placed him on the cross. The power of this image, as Fr. Steve described it, lingered with him, and his words left an imprint on me.

Fr. Steve couldn’t recall the painting's name, but his description was so striking that I became determined to find it. I began by searching online but found no leads. Undeterred, I reached out to museums, explaining the details he had shared—a crucifixion scene set in a 19th-century Austrian village, with a crowd of humble townsfolk, each witnessing Christ’s suffering in their own way. It was enough. Within just a few emails, I had traced it to Sehet, Jesu hat die Hand (1898) by Ernst Stöhr, part of the Symbolist movement.

When I finally shared this discovery with Fr. Steve, it was a confirmation, not only of the painting’s existence but also of its impact on both our lives. Knowing that I had found the very piece he described and that it still resonated after all those years was indeed something special beyond words. 

Ernst Stöhr was a member of the Vienna Secession, an avant-garde art movement founded in 1897 that sought to break away from the rigid academic art of the 19th century and delve into deeper emotional and philosophical expressions. Stöhr, like his fellow Secessionists, aimed to bridge the visible with the invisible, the tangible world with the immaterial aspects of human experience. His works often explore themes of isolation, spirituality, and existential struggle, embodying the Symbolist desire to move beyond surface realities.

In Sehet, Jesu hat die Hand, Christ is surrounded by a diverse gathering of townsfolk—each one bearing their own expression of sorrow, empathy, and contemplation. There is an elderly man standing tall, hands clasped in solemn reflection, embodying a kind of stoic reverence. Beside him stands a woman in black, her face marked with lines of grief, her hands folded in prayer. Another figure, a man bent with age, removes his hat as he kneels at Christ's feet, embodying humility and respect. Each person in the painting—from the young woman with a somber expression to the older woman in a scarf—conveys the simple yet profound sorrow of witnessing suffering.

This portrayal of Christ, set low on the cross and close to eye level with the onlookers, brings his suffering into the realm of the everyday. He is not elevated or remote but remains among them, drawing a quiet yet powerful empathy from those around him. The crowd, deeply etched with lines of hardship and toil, is not indifferent. They gather not as distant observers but as silent witnesses, each bearing their own burdens and sorrows, reflecting Christ’s loneliness and their shared, unspoken connection to him.

Stöhr’s choice to place Christ in a humble, Austrian village, surrounded by working-class individuals, bridges the sacred with the familiar. This decision collapses the distance between biblical times and Stöhr's own era, suggesting that Christ’s suffering is not confined to history. In the faces of the crowd, Stöhr captures the essence of humanity’s role in both causing and witnessing suffering—a message that Fr. Steve articulated so well, reminding us that it is "us" who crucify Christ.

Reflecting on this painting now, after Fr. Steve’s passing in 2022, I feel a renewed connection to him. Just as the Symbolists sought to bridge reality with the mystical and emotional, so too did Fr. Steve with his sermons. In finding and sharing this painting with him, I like to think we both found a bit of that bridge together—a way of connecting past to present, friend to friend, and heart to heart. Through Sehet, Jesu hat die Hand, I am reminded that art, like faith, is something that can be shared and carried forward, holding meaning across time, loss, and memory.

Holocaust Remembrance Day

Dear journal, 

In 2023, my brother and I visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., an experience both transformative and deeply unsettling. The museum presents the Holocaust not merely as a historical event but as a complex, human tragedy that demands reckoning. Among its many exhibits, one moment has lodged itself in my memory with an almost physical weight: stepping into the dark, confining space of a train car that had transported human beings to their deaths.

The experience was profoundly disorienting. The oppressive darkness inside was a vacuum, a silence that reverberated louder than words. The smell—earthy, aged, and deeply organic—clung to every surface, but it was more than that. It was as if fear itself had been absorbed into the wood, into the iron rails that once bore this car. This wasn’t an artifact to be observed at a distance; it was an artifact that forced engagement, a confrontation with its history and its horrifying purpose.

What struck me most in that moment was the humanity of those who carried out these atrocities. This isn’t to diminish the monstrosity of their actions, but rather to underscore their ordinariness. These were not demons or caricatures of evil; they were friends, neighbors, and family members. They lived among those they would later dehumanize. They were capable of love, laughter, and acts of kindness, and yet, under the right conditions—fear, propaganda, economic desperation—they became agents of unspeakable cruelty. Hannah Arendt’s concept of the “banality of evil” came sharply into focus for me in that train car. Genocide is not executed by an abstract "other," but by people—by individuals—acting within systems that normalize violence and dehumanization.

The experience raised questions that I am still grappling with. How does a society move from coexistence to complicity? How do individuals navigate the tension between self-preservation and moral responsibility? And, more urgently, how do we, as contemporary witnesses to injustice, ensure that the lessons of history are not lost amidst the noise of modern life? These questions demand more than historical awareness; they demand introspection and, ultimately, action.

The Holocaust is often remembered as a unique, almost singular atrocity, but this framing risks limiting its lessons. Genocide did not begin with the Holocaust, nor did it end there. Even today, there are ongoing efforts at ethnic cleansing and systemic oppression in various parts of the world. To view the Holocaust as a closed chapter in history is to absolve ourselves of responsibility for the present. Memory alone is insufficient—it must be paired with vigilance and moral courage. The train car reminded me of the stakes of that vigilance. Every policy, every prejudice, every silence has a weight that accumulates over time. The train car was not a beginning or an end; it was a midpoint in a process of systemic cruelty that began long before the deportations and continued long after liberation.

Stepping out of the train car, I felt an overwhelming mixture of grief and anger, but also a heightened sense of responsibility. It is one thing to condemn the past; it is another to act in the present. The museum forces visitors to grapple with this tension. It does not allow for passive reflection; it demands an active reckoning with the reality of injustice in all its forms. It challenges us to confront our own capacity for complicity and to recognize the subtle ways in which systems of oppression take root and flourish.

The memory of that train car continues to weigh on me. It is a reminder that the preservation of humanity requires more than passive goodwill; it requires active, intentional resistance to injustice. Silence, whether born of fear or indifference, is not neutral. It is a choice, and often, it is the choice that allows atrocities to unfold. The Holocaust Museum, and the train car in particular, serves as a call to action—not just to remember, but to stand firm against the forces that threaten to dehumanize others. In doing so, it holds up a mirror, asking each of us to confront the question: What would I have done? And perhaps more importantly: What will I do now? 

Always,

Dave

Currently Reading: Caliban's War (The Expanse, # 2)

The Road to Emmaus (1877)

Today, I found myself reflecting on Robert Zünd’s The Road to Emmaus and its profound, enduring impact on me. This painting, which I first encountered as a child in the Family Life Center of First Baptist Church, has remained etched in my memory. At the time, it seemed like a nondescript piece of decor—the kind of artwork that blends into the background unless one’s attention wanders. Yet, for me, it became so much more: a catalyst for reflection, imagination, and a source of enduring personal meaning.

I often found myself staring at the painting, imagining myself as one of the disciples walking alongside Jesus. The figures, cloaked in warm, natural tones, appear so at ease, casually strolling down a sunlit path, engrossed in conversation. Initially unaware of who their companion is, their connection feels natural and intimate, not bound by awe or ceremony. As a child, I would picture myself in their place, sharing the same kind of conversation—one built on friendship, trust, and the quiet joy of shared presence. It was this painting, more than any sermon or theological lesson, that gave me a visceral understanding of what adults meant by a “personal relationship with God.” It wasn’t about grand rituals or profound revelations; it was about the simplicity of walking, talking, and sharing time together, the sacred manifesting in the ordinary.

Zünd’s depiction of the landscape is breathtaking in its detail and composition. The sunlight filtering through the towering trees creates a patchwork of light and shadow, while the winding path disappearing into the distance evokes both physical and spiritual journeys. The scene’s tranquil harmony invites the viewer to linger, to imagine themselves stepping into this serene moment. For me, this setting made faith tangible. It wasn’t an abstract idea but something I could imagine experiencing—a lived sense of peace, connection, and belonging. The warmth of the sun, the crunch of the path underfoot, and the rustle of leaves became part of a meditative scene, a metaphor for life’s journey and the company we keep along the way.

Even now, as someone who no longer identifies with faith, the painting continues to resonate with me. Its meaning has shifted, but its significance remains. Rather than focusing on the story from Luke, I now see the painting as an emblem of companionship and shared humanity. It reminds me that being a good friend or companion is not about extraordinary acts but about presence—walking alongside someone, listening, and sharing the journey. These qualities, illustrated so vividly in Zünd’s work, have shaped how I understand and value relationships. The painting’s invitation to reflect on the simplicity and depth of human connection feels timeless and universal.

The interplay of light and shadow in the painting—particularly the golden light breaking through the trees—is masterful and evocative. As a child, I interpreted this light as divine, a reminder of God’s presence and guidance. Now, I see it as a metaphor for those fleeting yet profound moments of clarity and connection that illuminate life’s path. It’s not just about reaching a destination but about appreciating the journey itself and the companions who make it meaningful. The light, subtle yet transformative, speaks to the idea that revelation often comes not in thunderous moments but in quiet, gentle interactions.

The Road to Emmaus endures in my mind because it speaks to something universal. While its biblical narrative may no longer define its meaning for me, its themes of connection, reflection, and shared experience transcend its religious origins. The painting reminds me to slow down, to be present, and to find beauty and meaning in those with whom I interact every day. Its quiet yet profound message continues to shape my understanding of relationships, reminding me of the importance of listening, of walking alongside others, and of finding joy in our shared journey. For that, I remain deeply grateful to Robert Zünd, whose artistry transforms a simple walk into a profound meditation on life, companionship, and the journeys we share.

Date Night

 

Currently Reading: Tribulation Force (Left Behind, #2)

Solon before Croesus (1652)

Today, I find myself drawn to Nikolaus Knüpfer's Solon before Croesus, a work that not only embodies artistic excellence but also encapsulates profound philosophical discourse. This painting, a visual dialogue between the ephemeral nature of wealth and the enduring power of wisdom, invites a meditation on the value of external versus internal richness—a theme as resonant today as it was in antiquity.

The composition directs immediate attention to Croesus, enthroned amidst symbols of his affluence. Draped in opulent textiles and framed by the golden light that illuminates his court, Croesus exudes pride and sovereign authority. His pose—reclined yet imposing—exemplifies the arrogance of unchallenged power. Yet, this grandeur is not without its vulnerabilities. The scattered weapons at the base of the steps introduce an ominous undercurrent, subtly forecasting the fragility of his power and the inevitable transience of material success. This foreshadowing is mirrored in the attentive yet complicit gaze of his courtiers, who seem to anchor Croesus within the seductive bubble of his own wealth and influence.

In stark contrast, Solon stands apart in both literal and metaphorical dimensions. Positioned at a lower physical level yet occupying a space of intellectual and moral superiority, he embodies quiet dignity and an unshakeable presence. His modest attire and composed posture underscore his indifference to material excess and external status. With his hand raised in a gesture of measured articulation, he engages Croesus with a calm yet firm demeanor, embodying the philosophical gravitas of his message. One can almost hear the echo of his enduring proclamation, "Call no man happy until he is dead," as recorded by Herodotus. This succinct yet profound assertion encapsulates the essence of his philosophy: happiness cannot be assessed through transient moments of fortune but must be evaluated over the totality of a life well-lived, taking into account not only prosperity but also virtue and legacy.

The attendants encircling Croesus function as both enablers of his hubris and silent witnesses to the unfolding moral lesson. Their elaborate costumes and subdued postures amplify the thematic contrast between opulence and moderation. They seem absorbed by the immediacy of their surroundings, yet their presence underscores the seductive allure of material wealth and its inherent limitations. The harsh light that bathes Croesus’ court, almost garish in its intensity, reflects the fleeting brilliance of his reign, while the understated light that subtly highlights Solon serves as a metaphor for the enduring luminosity of wisdom. This interplay of light and shadow enriches the painting’s allegorical depth, linking visual storytelling to the philosophical discourse it portrays.

The narrative itself, as recounted by Herodotus, reinforces these visual themes. Solon’s visit to Croesus’ court becomes a didactic encounter, wherein he dismantles the king’s presumptions about happiness. Solon’s assertion that the happiest individuals are those who have led virtuous, fulfilled lives—marked not by wealth but by meaningful relationships, moral rectitude, and resilience in the face of adversity—is a direct challenge to Croesus’ worldview. The idea that "fortune is fickle," articulated by Solon, serves as a poignant reminder of the impermanence of external markers of success.

This central tension between external wealth and internal richness is deeply embedded in classical thought. Aristotle, in his Nicomachean Ethics, contends that true happiness, or "eudaimonia," arises not from material abundance but from the cultivation of virtue and the fulfillment of one’s potential. Similarly, the Stoic philosopher Seneca warns against the corrosive effects of wealth, writing in his Letters to Lucilius, "It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor." These insights resonate within Solon’s critique of Croesus, framing internal richness—character, virtue, and wisdom—as the bedrock of a meaningful life.

The poignancy of this lesson crystallizes in Croesus’ ultimate downfall. Defeated and captured by Cyrus the Great, Croesus confronts his mortality and the futility of his material accomplishments. According to Herodotus, as the pyre is lit, Croesus cries out Solon’s name, a recognition of the wisdom he once dismissed. This climactic moment not only validates Solon’s philosophy but also underscores the fragility of external markers of success. It reveals the enduring importance of virtue, resilience, and the introspective pursuit of a meaningful life. The irony of Croesus’ transformation—from a figure of immense pride to one of humbled introspection—illuminates the depth of Solon’s insights.

Reflecting on this tale, I am struck by its perennial relevance. Solon’s assertion—that happiness is contingent upon the full arc of one’s life—resonates as strongly today as it did in antiquity or during the Renaissance, when Knüpfer masterfully rendered this scene. "The uncertain future has yet to come," Solon might have said, "and no man, while living, is happy." This insight compels a reevaluation of priorities, urging a focus on balance, humility, and the cultivation of virtues over the accumulation of wealth. Solon’s philosophy, echoed by figures like Aristotle and Seneca, is as much a critique of hubris as it is a guide to living with integrity and foresight.

Knüpfer’s painting serves as a profound visual testament to these timeless truths, transcending the constraints of language to communicate the universal tension between ephemeral riches and enduring wisdom. Its allegorical richness invites viewers to grapple with questions of value, mortality, and legacy, bridging the temporal gap between ancient philosophy and contemporary introspection. As I consider these lessons, I am reminded of the fleeting nature of external success and the abiding value of a life anchored in integrity and purpose. Today, these reflections guide my thoughts, urging me to align my own actions with the enduring wisdom embodied in both the painting and its philosophical narrative.

January Entry: A Conversation with Myself

January Entry: A Conversation with Myself

Theme for January: Truth and Humility

Quote: 

“The mirror flatters not; it reveals the truth as it is, unembellished and unyielding. It demands courage to look deeply and wisdom to accept what is seen.” – Jean Puget de La Serre, The Mirrour Which Flatters Not

Reflections on Truth:

The start of the new year often feels like a blank canvas—an opportunity to redefine who I am and who I hope to become. For as long as I can remember, I have entered January with resolutions to lose weight. Yet this year, as I examine myself in the mirror, I realize my struggles with weight are not merely physical. They are reflections of deeper truths, rooted in my choices, experiences, and emotions.

This journey didn’t begin today but years ago, during my senior year of high school. That year, I made a choice that still reverberates through my life: I decided not to play football. At the time, the decision felt necessary. My anger had become uncontrollable, and football seemed to fuel it further. I feared the intensity of my emotions and their potential consequences. What I didn’t anticipate was the profound fallout that followed. My choice alienated me from nearly everyone around me—family, friends, teachers, and peers. It was as if, in rejecting football, I had unknowingly rejected the foundation of my identity.

That year became defined by isolation. Rejection from those closest to me led me to withdraw further. I quit band, chose classes with underclassmen to avoid judgment, and sought refuge in church, though even that fell away after my youth pastor, Robert, left at Christmas. By the time I graduated, I was disconnected and adrift, unsure of who I was or where I belonged. The absence of connection left a gaping void, one that I filled with the only consistent source of comfort I could find: food.

In this void, food became more than nourishment; it became my solace, my coping mechanism, and my way of exerting control over an otherwise chaotic life. I ate to fill the emptiness, to soothe the hurt, and to distract myself from the feelings of rejection. This pattern persisted into adulthood, as I navigated the stresses of college, work, and relationships. By 2011, my weight had peaked at 370 pounds. I was a young man with big feelings and a big appetite. 

One pivotal moment stands out in this journey—a moment of painful clarity. I was at the Heart-Attack Café in Dallas, where patrons weighing over 350 pounds ate for free. In the center of the restaurant was a massive, industrial-sized scale, its display visible to all. On a dare, I stepped onto the scale, unaware of what it would reveal. The number—370 pounds—flashed for everyone to see. The humiliation was overwhelming. That moment shattered the fragile denial I had clung to and forced me to confront the reality of my situation. I remember the heat rising to my face as strangers watched, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, pity, judgment, and exuberance. It was as though the number on the scale wasn’t just a reflection of my physical weight but an indictment of my choices, my pain, and my failures.

In the aftermath, I took action. I joined a gym and committed myself to the hard work of change. Over time, I brought my weight down to 240 pounds. For the first time in years, I felt in control of my body and my life. I believed I had conquered my struggles. But life, as it always does, moved forward. Stress returned, rejection resurfaced, and old habits crept back. Slowly but surely, the weight returned. By the time I realized it, I was back at 350 pounds, trapped in a cycle I thought I had escaped. The sense of failure was crushing, as was the realization that I hadn’t addressed the root causes of my relationship with food.

Reflections on Humility:

The mirror is an uncompromising teacher. It reflects not only the visible results of our actions but also the truths we work hard to avoid. This January, as I stand before it, I see both the setbacks and the progress I have made. My weight remains high, at 320 pounds, and my type 2 diabetes and A1C levels demand more attention than I have given them. These are undeniable realities. Yet, the mirror also shows me the efforts I’ve made—the ways I have fought to be more mindful, more intentional, and more honest with myself.

Over the past two years, I have worked to adopt healthier habits. I’ve made strides in recognizing the emotional triggers that drive my eating and have taken steps to address them. I’ve also dedicated time to improving my mental health, examining how my self-image as an overweight adult has shaped my broader sense of well-being. These changes may not always feel significant, but they are meaningful, and they deserve my acknowledgment.

Humility requires me to acknowledge both the weight of my failures and the strength it takes to keep trying. There is no linear path to progress, no one-size-fits-all solution. The mirror demands that I see myself clearly, but it also reminds me that growth comes from persistence, from showing up day after day even when the results are slow to appear. Humility is about accepting the messy, imperfect nature of this journey—learning to forgive myself for missteps while continuing to move forward.

A Yearlong Journey:

This year, I aim to see the mirror not as an adversary but as a companion on my journey. It will neither flatter me nor condemn me. Instead, it will challenge me to look deeper, to confront the patterns and emotions that underlie my actions, and to accept myself as I am while striving for growth.

The truths the mirror reveals are not always easy to face. They force me to confront the rejection I’ve experienced, the shame of public humiliation, and the years I’ve spent seeking solace in unhealthy habits. Yet these truths also provide an opportunity for transformation—a chance to grow, to heal, and to move forward with honesty and grace.

The journey will not be simple. It will require discipline, patience, and an ongoing willingness to confront uncomfortable truths. There will be moments of doubt and frustration, but I am learning that those moments are part of the process. They are what make progress meaningful. This year is not about reaching a specific weight or achieving a perfect version of myself. It is about learning to live with intention, to balance accountability with self-compassion, and to embrace the journey for what it is: an ongoing conversation with myself.

Looking Ahead:

As I move through January and into February, the focus of my reflections will shift to balance and moderation. Inspired by the clarity the mirror offers, I will work to address my health holistically—physically, emotionally, and mentally. This journey is not about achieving perfection or a specific number on the scale. It is about persistence, self-compassion, and the courage to face each day with intention.

The mirror’s lesson this month is one of truth and humility: to see myself as I am, to acknowledge my struggles, and to embrace the courage and wisdom to change what I can. This is the beginning of a yearlong journey, and I am ready to face it—one reflection at a time.

Les Miserables at Tulsa PAC

 

The Brook Downtown

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MLK Day

Dear journal, 

As someone who has read and evaluated numerous dissertations in my academic studies, I have come to view them as more than intellectual exercises or rites of passage. Dissertations are, in many ways, a reflection of their author’s intellectual foundation and aspirations. They are blueprints of the scholar’s emerging identity, revealing their preoccupations, philosophical leanings, and hopes for future contributions. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s dissertation, "A Comparison of the Conceptions of God in the Thinking of Paul Tillich and Henry Nelson Wieman," is no exception. Written in 1955 at Boston University, this work is not only a theological exercise but also a precursor to King’s later moral and social leadership. By synthesizing Tillich’s abstract metaphysics with Wieman’s practical theology, King laid the intellectual groundwork for his philosophy of nonviolent resistance and social transformation.

In reflecting on this dissertation, its lasting influence on King’s life and work becomes clear. Moreover, its themes of reconciliation and action carry profound resonance as we celebrate MLK Day—a day not only to honor King’s achievements but also to reflect on how his life and ideas challenge us to confront injustice in our time.

At its core, King’s dissertation is an exercise in comparative theology. He examines two towering figures of 20th-century thought: Paul Tillich, the existentialist theologian, and Henry Nelson Wieman, the process theologian. These figures, though addressing the same fundamental questions about the nature of God and humanity, offer contrasting perspectives. King’s choice to study them reflects his own theological curiosity and a desire to reconcile divergent ideas.

Tillich’s concept of God as the “Ground of Being” emphasizes transcendence and immanence. For Tillich, God is not a being among beings but the ultimate reality underlying all existence. This framework allows for a profound exploration of human estrangement from God and the need for reconciliation through divine grace. Tillich argued that human beings experience existential anxiety because of their separation from God and that this anxiety could only be resolved through reunion with the divine. As he famously wrote in The Courage to Be, “The name of infinite and inexhaustible depth and ground of our being is God. That depth is what the word God means.”

In contrast, Wieman’s theology is grounded in empirical observation and pragmatic concerns. Rejecting supernaturalism, Wieman views God as the creative force that fosters growth, harmony, and moral progress. His focus is on the tangible and observable: God operates within natural processes, enhancing human cooperation and creating the conditions for the “greatest good.” As Wieman articulated in The Source of Human Good, “Creative good is always concrete and particular, taking form in actual experiences that contribute to human betterment.”

King’s dissertation critiques both theologians while drawing from their strengths. He appreciates Tillich’s existential depth but critiques his abstract language, arguing that it risks alienating ordinary believers. Conversely, King praises Wieman’s focus on moral progress but questions his dismissal of the supernatural, which, King argues, diminishes the transformative power of faith.

This dual critique is where King’s own voice emerges most clearly. He refuses to reduce theology to either abstract metaphysics or utilitarian pragmatism, instead calling for a synthesis that integrates the existential concerns of Tillich with the practical ethics of Wieman. This theological balancing act would become a defining feature of King’s later work, where moral philosophy and social activism were always deeply interconnected.

The connections between King’s dissertation and his later activism are striking. His exploration of Tillich’s and Wieman’s theological frameworks laid the foundation for his philosophy of nonviolent resistance, which would become the cornerstone of the Civil Rights Movement.

Tillich’s concept of estrangement deeply informs King’s vision of the “beloved community.” For Tillich, estrangement is not simply a personal or spiritual condition but a fundamental feature of the human experience, one that manifests in societal structures and relationships. King applies this idea to the racial and economic injustices of his time, understanding segregation and poverty as symptoms of humanity’s broader alienation from the divine. His vision of the beloved community—a world where justice, equality, and love prevail—is a direct response to this estrangement. As King wrote in Strength to Love, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.” This vision reflects Tillich’s theological belief in the interconnectedness of all being.

Wieman’s emphasis on creative transformation, meanwhile, aligns with King’s belief in the power of nonviolent resistance to enact social change. For Wieman, God is present in the creative processes that lead to human progress. King translates this idea into the practical realm of activism, where nonviolence becomes a creative and redemptive force. As he declared in his sermon Loving Your Enemies, “Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend. It is love that will save our world and our civilization, love even for enemies.” Here, one sees how King transforms Wieman’s abstract principle of creativity into a concrete ethical commitment.

King’s ability to synthesize these theological ideas and translate them into actionable principles is remarkable. While many dissertations remain confined to academic debates, King’s work transcended its original context, serving as a foundation for a lifetime of leadership and inspiring generations to come.

MLK Day is more than a celebration of Dr. King’s achievements; it is a call to action, a reminder that the work of justice is ongoing. Reflecting on King’s dissertation enriches our understanding of his legacy by revealing the intellectual and spiritual foundation of his activism. It challenges us to approach our own pursuits—whether academic, professional, or personal—with the same commitment to integrating thought and action.

King’s synthesis of Tillich’s and Wieman’s ideas reflects a broader commitment to unity—not just theoretical unity but the unity of diverse communities working together for the common good. This is the essence of the beloved community that King envisioned: a world where justice, love, and reconciliation are not abstract ideals but lived realities.

On MLK Day, I am challenged to ask myself: How can I bridge the gap between thought and action? How can I ensure that my work—academic or otherwise—contributes to the broader struggle for justice and equality? King’s life and work challenge all of us to move beyond passive admiration and toward active participation in the work of building a more just and compassionate world.

Reading King’s dissertation through the lens of my own academic and personal experiences, I am struck by the depth of his intellectual and moral courage. His willingness to grapple with difficult questions and synthesize divergent ideas serves as a model for scholars and activists alike. King reminds us that intellectual inquiry is not an end in itself but a means of serving humanity.

Dr. King’s dissertation is more than an academic document; it is a blueprint for transformation, a testament to the power of ideas to change the world. On this day of reflection and recommitment, may we honor his legacy not only with words but with actions that embody the principles he championed: love, justice, and the relentless pursuit of human dignity.

Always, 

Dave

Currently Reading: The Mist

Currently Reading: Skelton Crew

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Self-Portrait Between the Clock and the Bed (1940)

Today, I’ve been thinking deeply about loneliness—how it manifests in my life and how it connects to two works of art that have been on my mind: Edvard Munch’s Self-Portrait Between the Clock and the Bed and Stephen Crane’s In the Desert. Both pieces feel like mirrors, reflecting back aspects of my emotional, social, and existential solitude. As I embrace middle age, I’m also confronting what feels like a midlife crisis, a sense of being caught between where I’ve been and where I’m going, uncertain of what lies ahead. It’s a strange, weighty feeling—as though time itself is pressing down, asking questions I’m not entirely ready to answer.

***

In the Desert

by Stephen Crane

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it

“Because it is bitter,

“And because it is my heart.”

***

Munch’s clock, stark and unrelenting, feels like the pressure I’ve lived with—reminders of milestones I haven’t achieved or relationships that have failed to manifest into what I had hoped. Romantic relationships, especially, have been a source of pain. I’ve tried, but my lack of experience has left me feeling inadequate. Online dating was no better; it magnified my insecurities and left me overwhelmed. The pressure to present myself—to compress my entire being into a series of curated photos and clever quips—was exhausting. And so I stopped trying. Like the creature in Crane’s poem, I’ve had to confront the bitterness of this loneliness head-on. The creature’s words, “It is bitter, but I like it because it is bitter, and because it is my heart,” resonate deeply. My solitude is mine, and while it’s painful, it’s also an integral part of who I am. There’s a strange sense of ownership in it, like carrying a scar you’ve grown used to tracing with your fingertips.

The bed in Munch’s painting evokes rest, but it also symbolizes isolation. I’ve stepped away from the communities I once engaged with so actively. For years, I poured myself into social activities, organizing events, volunteering, and finding joy in shared moments. But over time, the effort became too much. My mental health demanded attention, and my priorities shifted. Now, I’ve whittled my world down to a few close friends who I connect with online and my brother, who remains my stalwart travel companion and confidant. These relationships anchor me, but there’s a part of me that wonders if I’ve retreated too far. I think about the spaces I used to fill, the people who may have noticed my absence for a while but then moved on. Crane’s image of the heart-eating creature feels apt here too—acknowledging the bitterness of isolation while accepting it as a necessary choice. It’s a choice I’ve made to protect myself, but it’s not without its lingering questions.

Munch’s self-portrait places him in a liminal space, caught between the clock and the bed. This image captures how I feel as I navigate midlife. I’m keenly aware of time’s passage—the years behind me and the uncertainty ahead. Divorce, being childless, and feeling adrift all contribute to this existential loneliness. It’s not just about being alone; it’s about grappling with the questions: What now? What's left? What's next? The midlife crisis looms large in this space, amplifying my feelings of stagnation and the search for purpose. I find myself looking backward almost as much as I look forward, trying to piece together where things shifted, where I could have taken a different path.

Despite its challenges, solitude has become a space for growth. Journaling helps me process these feelings and create meaning from them. Art, movies, and music have been vital companions, offering solace and insight. Sometimes a lyric will hit me in just the right way, or a painting will make me pause, and in those moments, I feel a little less alone. Munch’s resigned but reflective posture and Crane’s grim yet honest creature remind me that loneliness is not something to escape but something to understand. It’s part of being human, part of the journey. There’s a quiet dignity in facing it head-on, in letting it teach me about myself and my place in the world.

I want to continue exploring this state—not as a burden, but as an opportunity. My midlife feels like a crossroads, but perhaps it’s also a chance to redefine what matters, to uncover new paths, and to embrace the present moment fully. For now, I’ll keep journaling, reflecting, and searching for the meaning within my fortress of solitude. I’ll keep looking to the muses to guide me, to remind me that even in the bitterest moments, there is beauty to be found. And maybe, just maybe, that beauty is enough to sustain me as I navigate these as yet unwritten chapters of my story.

Date Night

 

Ripples

Ripples

By Dave 

The sun descends, the sun descends—

its gilded light a fleeting lens.

The waters still, the waters still,

await the cast of lives fulfilled.

A stone is loosed, a stone is loosed—

its weight a truth, its flight a muse.

Concentric rings, concentric rings,

expand with whispers time yet brings.

The stones are souls, the stones are souls—

their presence shapes, their absence tolls.

Each plunging deep, each plunging deep,

a legacy the currents keep.

Time undulates, time undulates—

its patient tide no heart abates.

The ripples blend, the ripples blend,

to shores unseen, where echoes end.

Yet stones endure, yet stones endure—

beneath the depths, serene, secure.

Their silent mass, their silent mass,

holds stories written in the glass.

And as we gaze, and as we gaze,

upon this fleeting twilight haze—

we glimpse the ripples, fading, wide,

their ghostly fingers reaching further tides.

Currently Reading: The Mirrour Which Flatters Not

Currently Reading: The Tommyknockers

The Poor Poet (1837)

Carl Spitzweg’s The Poor Poet serves as both a striking visual narrative and a profound reflection of the sacrifices inherent in a creative life. Painted in 1837, the work portrays a destitute poet huddled in an attic, wrapped in blankets for warmth while an umbrella shields him from the rain seeping through the roof. This vivid depiction—equal parts comedic and somber—resonates deeply with my personal journey as a poet and admirer of the written word.

As a child, I struggled with reading. I gravitated toward Choose Your Own Adventure books for their interactive nature, but I found traditional chapter books daunting. My seventh-grade teacher, Ms. Jones, eventually barred me from submitting book reports on them, urging me to explore more challenging literature. My pivotal moment came on a Saturday, scouring yard sales with my mom and brother, when I discovered The Treasury of American Poetry. That anthology transformed my relationship with literature, opening doors to worlds I hadn’t imagined and introducing me to ideas I had never encountered before. It became more than a book to me; it became a portal to a broader understanding of language and the human condition.

The concise and evocative nature of poetry offered an entry point that other genres hadn’t. Poetry’s vivid imagery and emotional resonance captivated me during a transformative phase of my life, as I navigated the shift from boyhood to adolescence. Initially, I was drawn to the brevity of poets like Emily Dickinson, whose lines, “Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul,” mirrored the fragility and promise I felt within myself. These short verses became like snapshots of emotional truths, helping me find clarity in my own experiences. Gradually, I expanded my horizons, delving into longer works such as Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. Whitman’s declaration, “I sing the body electric,” awakened a sense of vitality and self-expression that has stayed with me ever since. His expansive, unrestrained verses encouraged me to think beyond my immediate world and embrace the boundlessness of creativity. The anthology also introduced me to a wealth of diverse voices—freed slaves, immigrants, war veterans, and women writers—that enriched my understanding of the American experience and broadened my perspective on life. Each poet seemed to offer a piece of their soul, contributing to a mosaic of human resilience and beauty.

In Spitzweg’s depiction of the poor poet, I see a reflection of my own poetic practice. Although I haven’t endured physical poverty, the emotional and creative struggles feel familiar. What draws me to poetry is what draws me to art in general. It takes both the ordinary and extraordinary and makes them accessible. Much in the same way painters paint what they see with both their actual and inner eye, the poet writes what he sees and feels. The poor poet’s tattered surroundings become a metaphor for the artist’s inner world—a space that may be humble and imperfect but is rich with imagination and possibility. The poet’s commitment to his craft, despite his meager circumstances, parallels my enduring relationship with poetry. Since junior high, I have written my own verses—not with the intention of achieving mastery but as a means of navigating and processing the world. Like the poet’s umbrella that provides only partial protection from the rain, poetry has been an imperfect yet vital tool for self-expression and resilience.

The attic in The Poor Poet is a dual symbol: a space of restriction and one of freedom. Despite its confines and lack of comfort, it offers the poet a sanctuary for creativity and introspection. Similarly, poetry has been my refuge, providing a space to confront and articulate emotions, ideas, and experiences that might otherwise remain unspoken. It reminds me that beauty and meaning can arise even in the simplest and most challenging circumstances. In those quiet moments when the world seems to press in too tightly, poetry has been my outlet, my release, and my reminder that there is value in vulnerability and expression. Each line I write becomes a small act of defiance against the chaos of life, a testament to the enduring power of words.

Reflecting on The Poor Poet, I am struck by the universality of its message: art endures through resilience. Spitzweg’s poet perseveres, and so do I, scribbling verses in the margins of life, holding fast to the belief that creativity—no matter how modest—is worthwhile. While poetry may not patch leaking roofs or warm cold rooms, it nourishes the soul. And in the end, that sustenance is more than enough. Spitzweg’s painting reminds me that art, whether visual or literary, exists not only to mirror life but to elevate it, to transform the mundane into something transcendent. In this way, the poor poet is not poor at all; he is rich in purpose, rich in the ability to transform his reality into something enduring, and I aspire to do the same with my words.