Poetry of Empty Space

Our local art museum, The Nelson-Atkins, is hosting a George Ault exhibit, complete with WWII era paintings like this: 

Bright Light at Russel's Corners, 1946

And this one:

January Full Moon, 1941

The gallery's promotional materials included that second painting on the cover, and though I don't make it to the visiting exhibits as often as I'd like, something about that painting compelled me to go.  

The peace.  Solitude.  Fresh bracing air.  

Apparently, Ault was stylizing a world of order and calm to contrast the uncertain turbulence of the age.  He created an idealized, almost eerie, peace.

Just looking at these Ault creations, I can hear the quiet.  A part of my soul relaxes, loosens its white-knuckled grip. I crave that peace, however idealized it may be.  

Accompanying the Ault paintings, were works by several of his contemporaries.  One artist, Charles Sheeler, was described as a "poet of empty places."

That's it!  That's what I love about these paintings, the poetic expression of empty space.  And that's what I'm looking for.  Empty space.  Room to be and to breathe.

This is perhaps why I've become a big Andrew Wyeth fan these past few years.  I love the spareness and simplicity of his paintings. 

Long Limb

Fence Line, 1976

Turkey Pond, 1944

Even his face was exquisite:

Andrew Wyeth, 1917-2009

Amidst all the clutter and obligations and hurry of my life, I look at Wyeth's work and feel the capacity, the poetry, of empty space.


Surprisingly, I feel a similar poetic feeling as I drive the middle school carpool -- a van-load of chatty, energetic teenagers-- home each day.  The route home takes me through broad stretches of countryside.  Soybean fields.  Cow pastures.  Sod farms.  


To most, the "beauty" would be easy to overlook.  It's scenic, but not that scenic, even for our area.  It's just ordinary countryside, with houses and fields and roads where people carry out their everyday lives.  


But despite the loquacious exuberance filling my van while I drive (perhaps even because of it), I can savor the space.  I can hear the poetry.  And my soul drinks deeply and breathes.




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One of my favorite albums this past year has been Brandon Flowers' "Flamingo."  It's on my list of top ten all-time favorite albums.  My favorite song on the album, "Playing with Fire," brings to mind country drives and Andrew Wyeth paintings.  In some inexplicable own way, it's a poem of empty spaces for me.  
  

(I suppose I should find it humorous rather than frustrating that this blog placed big empty spaces between the pictures.   I did not intend for those big blanks to be there and I cannot seem to correct them.  Oh the irony!)

Natural gas, Netflix and Grace

When my husband and I bought our first house fourteen years ago, we also became first-time natural gas customers.  The apartment we had shared for the first five years of our marriage was all-electric.  (And forgive me for bragging, but we only paid $250 a month for this home-in-the-country, including utilities.  Thankfully, we didn't have to pay extra for all the mice and bugs.)


I discovered right away I love cooking with a gas stove.  I'll never go back.  I also discovered after several months I do not like my gas clothes dryer.  Seems as if it turns whites yellow over time.  But the price sure couldn't be beat.  $20 a month for gas.  That was a fantastic deal and I wondered why everyone didn't use natural gas in their homes.


About nine months later, I received a call from the natural gas company.  Apparently, our meter hadn't been working and we'd just been paying the base fee for our gas.  They hadn't been charging us for the actual gas we'd used.  Oops!


The woman asked me -- and she wasn't all that nice about it --  "Didn't you wonder why you were only paying $20 a month?"


I answered, "My husband pays the bills."  (True, but uh, I record and file the bills.)


The honest answer is I genuinely didn't realize I was getting a good deal.  If I had given it much thought, I might have figured that out.  But life was (and is) full of plenty of important things to think about and that wasn't one of them.


All of this leads me to Netflix.  I've been a Netflix customer since 2004.  I love movies and I love obscure movies.... and so, I love Netflix.  Their customer service has been great too.  The only thing that makes me happier than when a company regularly asks me "How was your experience?" is when they quickly and smoothly correct any mistakes they make.  On those fronts, Netflix has kept me happy for a good long time.

Then they added instant streaming through Wii.  Sure, their selection was a bit slim, but what an Awesome Feature!  This addition allowed us to dump our cable.  (Hello, paying way too much for way too little.)  I was pleased as punch with this arrangement.


But like paying $20 for natural gas, this wasn't a deal that would realistically last.  If I'd given it some thought, I might have realized that too.


Nevertheless, I was as dumbstruck as anyone by the Netflix pricing roller coaster launched this summer.  First the too chipper price hike email (and what a price hike it was!) -- followed by a dubiously contrite apology email two months later explaining the formation of the new Qwikster DVD company (ahem) --  followed three weeks later by the rather terse cancel-that email.

That we were all a bit dizzy and wondering if Netflix was worth the ride was understandable.  That people were angry and feeling more than a little vindictive was not surprising.  Angry bloggers and internet commenters have more or less asked for CEO Reed Hasting's head on a platter since then.  (Check out my friend, Mike's blog on this.)


Hang with me here.  As a mom, I often find myself asking my children this question: What do you want to have happen?


When they come into the kitchen whining they are hungry, I ask, "What do you want to have happen?"  That's usually followed by, "Can I have a snack?" which is followed by my suggestion that they have something healthy like fruit, which is followed by a snort as they get their own semi-nutritious snack.  (Okay, so it doesn't work perfectly, but you get the idea.)


I don't know that many of us have learned to ask for what we want.  In fact, I'm not sure many of us are good at realizing what we do in fact want.  So we dig in our heels wherever we're standing and defend our position for all it's worth.  Sounds a lot like politics, eh?  And broken marriages.  And countries at war.  I don't want to be too simplistic, but one has to wonder.


So I ask you people now, regarding Netflix what do you want to have happen?


Yes, this was a leadership debacle on Hasting's part and a mighty embarrassing one at that.  Yes, his wavering has seemed more than a little wishy-washy.  (Apparently, this is an even greater sin than the price increase.)  Yes, the immediate demise of  both Netflix and Hastings might be momentarily satisfying to some people.


But what I really want is for the price increase to disappear.  Realistically (and unfortunately), that's not going to happen.  I sorta get it.  If I can't have that then, I want the Netflix I had before.  The one that offered an unmatchable selection of DVDs, a broadening streaming selection and great customer service.


Ultimately, though, I think what I want is a world where it's okay for even a CEO to experiment and to make mistakes.  Not only that, but a world that allows him the freedom to admit the mistakes and to revise plans accordingly, rather than sticking to his guns out of obedience to some twisted definition of  leadership.


Goodness knows, I need the same grace as a wife and mother and coworker and friend.


Even as I write then, I'm realizing I am rooting for Mr. Hastings and for Netflix.  We need more examples of redemption and restoration these days.  And we need those more than we need cheap movie streaming, or even cheap natural gas.

But please, Mr. Hastings, may all future Netflix thrills be on our TV screens and not in our email inboxes.  




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Because sometimes all you can do is shrug your shoulders and laugh, here's a Saturday Night Live sketch about Netflix.  It's slightly off color, but remarkably tame by SNL's standards.  Enjoy!

Rough-and-Tumble Tea Lover

So, I've been repeatedly peer-pressured by my good friend, "Tea Girl," to start my own blog.  But I've been ambivalent for many reasons, some of which I will post soon (if I do in fact post soon).  Nevertheless, I carved out some time to write a guest blog on her site.  You'll find it below.  


Rough-and-Tumble Tea Lover

On my front porch are a pair of sour-smelling socks, a couple sets of old tennis shoes – also sour-smelling and still half wet – and an old empty trash can.  All are products of my son’s crawdad hunting excursion in the creek down the street.  Whenever a buddy visits, in between the rounds of video games, whenever I insist they find something outside to do, this is the beloved activity.

The floor of my son’s room is littered with Legos.  Actually, that sounds too refined.  It’s carpeted with Legos… and a layer of dust.  I insist he keep one section clear so that I can make it to and from his bed without stifling a curse word, and he insists I not move any Legos in the other areas.  (Because I myself have a deep love for Legos, I’m willing to go along with this plan.)  On his bedside table is a wad of gum almost golf-ball size.  It is a growing wad, added to periodically with freshly-chewed pieces.  Sometimes he chews the whole wad.  I pretend not to know.

As I type, he is teasing our lazy hound dog with a homemade contraption: a pair of football socks dangling by fishing line from the end of a long stick.  He hangs it over the sleeping dog’s face.  Soon the dog is jumping to grab the socks and shake them furiously.  The line breaks.  The dog goes for the stick.  My son goes for more fishing line.  I insist it’s time for bed.

And he insists it’s time for tea.   

I brew a pot of the fragrant tea sent to us last Christmas by our former German exchange student.  Who knows what’s in it – the ingredients are in German.  (Yes, you’re right. Germans know.)   It looks like leafy things with a few flowers and orange rinds.  It smells divine.  I don’t know if I’m brewing the tea correctly (someday I need an official lesson from Tea Girl – hint, hint), but I’ve devised some sort of improvisation that produces a slightly reddish and rather yummy brew.

I pour his in a Dave and Buster’s souvenir mug and add some honey.  Not enough honey if you ask him, but more than enough to feel extravagant to me.  And I add an ice cube and a straw. 

Mine, I drink straight, in a slightly chipped mug given to me by a dear friend.  I love this mug.  It feels silky (if a mug can feel that way) and meaningful, so much so I’m willing to continue using it despite the chip.  The chip, by the way, was acquired when I was sick and Rough-and-tumble tried to surprise me with a cup of tea.  He got the tea right (PG Tips brewed strong with a splash of 2% milk) and he finally remembered not to add sweetener.  But he clanked the mug down on the counter a little too hard leaving a permanent reminder of his good deed.

I carry the mugs up to his room along with a Dallas Willard book tucked under my arm.  He will read his book from the school library and I will read my book.  And we’ll sit together on his denim comforter and sip our tea.   As usual, this is his idea.

These times together give me hope.   Great hope.  Sometimes (often!) moms of rough-and-tumble boys need hope.  And it can be a little hard to come by.

Mr. Rough-and-Tumble imitating one of my favorite poses.

The world looks at rough-and-tumble and often they see disruptive-and-bad.  Heck, lots of times I look at rough-and-tumble and see wild-and-I-am-failing-as-a-mom.  But if I look further – and I try to do this often – I see creative-funny-intelligent-energetic and yes, even kind.  That he is a tea lover has to mean something, right?  That he chipped his sick mother’s mug while making her tea seems promising.   That he is choosing to spend the final moments of his day reading with his mom and sipping tea has got to count for something. 

(Okay, true confession:  what it counts for is reading minutes.  He is trying to rack up as many as possible for school.  If the entire school collects enough minutes, all the teachers will dress up as clowns.  And that he’s gotta see.  Apparently, school administrators understand rough-and-tumble too.)

In the meantime, I will sip and savor… the German tea, the company and the hope.