Richard Goodman's Blog, page 12

Aboard the Flying Dutchman

I watched a documentary the other day about Nan Goldin, the photographer. It’s called, “All the Beauty and All the Bloodshed.” This documentary is about many things, but one of its recurring themes is Nan’s older sister, whose presence haunts the film and Goldin. Many years after her sister’s death by suicide, Goldin still tries to appease her unquiet ghost. Goldin seems, still, to want to be worthy of her sister, who had loved her and believed in her. When her parents did not.

Nan Goldin

Family never dies. Quests and searches endure, no matter the physical status of those involved.

The fact is, if you search for your father’s love or your mother’s love and never get it, you don’t give up hope, even after they’re dead. Maybe, just maybe, you believe, they’ll come back from the grave—or from somewhere—and appear in your house or apartment one day and say those words you’ve been yearning to hear,

“I love you.”

Or, just as vital, “I’m proud of you.”

Death doesn’t diminish the pull of unrequited love. Not in a family. Every day is father’s day or mother’s day for some of us. Whether this is logical or not, doesn’t matter. If you never had their love, you’re like a puzzle looking for that missing piece that will reveal the entirety of your picture and without it, won’t.

Each person on this Flying Dutchman—“a legendary ship never able to make port, but doomed to sail the seven seas forever”—has their own way of contending with the absence. Some do much better than others. Some shrug, more or less, and get on with their lives. I’m one of those who hasn’t adjusted particularly well. The echoes of my unrequited love have determined many of the decisions of my life. Will this father figure give me what I crave? Will that father substitute be proud of me? I can see why I do what I do, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it. I suppose it’s a form of addiction. There’s no twelve-step process for this. Not even therapy, I’ve found, can bring peace. Do you know what I mean?

I return to this quote by Dawn Powell (1896-1965), the American novelist. It’s from her Diaries:

“Some people seem to ‘never grow up’—they do not take personal or emotional responsibilities.  The fact is they are in reverse—they were forced to be adults as children, to understand and be part of extremely adult problems—financial, amorous, domestic, psychological—and they cannot get to a certain other plane without some period (the equivalent of an ideal childhood) of security, love, money, being cared for and cherished.  Many of us continue seeking this childhood of which we were deprived and will not surrender until we have had our share.”

Meanwhile, the ship sails on.

Holy Cow! My strange sense of schooling.

I went to a prep school for my teenage years, from 1958-1963. As part of the goal of broadening our education, the school would have guest speakers come in from time to time. One mid-week morning, we gathered in what was called the Common Room where, unlike the auditorium, we could sit on the floor close to the speaker. As we entered, a man dressed smartly in a suit and tie, wearing glasses, as I recall, was waiting for us.

We had not been told beforehand what he was going to say. He had an easel next to him on which he unveiled pictures that illustrated his talk. He spoke to us about a subject that he was gravely concerned about, a very serious matter, indeed, he said.

That subject was the fact that all animals are naked. And this was very wrong.

He declared that it was indecent that animals walked around naked. And that we should rectify that wrong by clothing them. For modesty’s sake. His organization, the Society for Indecency to Naked Animals—also known as SINA—was created to remedy this. The animals’ unclothed state was an affront—as it should be to everyone. He was, I recall, especially adamant about cows and horses. He said, I remember, “A nude horse is a rude horse.” It was, in the end, a matter of morality. It would also make the animals feel better about themselves. It was humiliating for them to be naked, he assured us. They knew.

We were enthralled. He was dead serious.

“Should all animals wear clothes?” one of us asked. “Even mice?”

(I am repeating the dialogue as best I remember it. It was a long time ago. Details may not be precise, but I’m not making anything up.)

“Any animal higher than 4 inches or longer than 6 inches,” he said.

“So, cats and dogs?” someone said.

“Yes, certainly. And, of course, horses and cows, the larger animals, especially.”

Not a hint of humor.

“How would you do that?” one boy asked. “Wouldn’t it cost a lot of money?”

“We have members that contribute to our organization,” the man replied, evenly. “That would pay for the cost.”

One of us asked him, “Well, if you put clothes on a cow, how do they go to the bathroom?”

“That’s a question everyone asks,” the man replied with a slight smile. “The clothes would be designed so as to allow the animal to perform their normal bodily functions.”

He had a poster of a horse wearing pants he presented. It was a drawing, not a photograph.

We sat and listened, rapt. I remember thinking something to the effect that, yes, we can clothe ourselves, but what about the poor animals who can’t? They must feel so embarrassed, naked and exposed like that. What’s wrong with us? The point is, I believed him. Or, I certainly wanted to. Clearly, this must be real. Besides, the school had sanctioned the visit, hadn’t they?

After answering a few more questions and distributing some information—I wish I still had that!—the man left. We prep school boys were already screwed up enough about sex and bodies, especially being at an all-male institution. Now, here was someone coming in and telling us that we should feel guilty about letting our pets walk around naked. We had enough guilt to contend with just about masturbation. Now, this?

I thought about all this for a while. And then, after a week or so, other matters came forward, and that day slowly receded in my mind.

Fast forward forward. Many many years later, recalling this talk when I was an adult, I asked myself, did I dream this? Did this actually happen? Did a man come to our school and advocate for animals wearing clothes? That it was indecent not to clothe them? When I told people the story, they were incredulous at best.

So, I did some research, and, lo and behold, I found a Wiki entry for Society for Indecency to Naked Animals. It turns out that this was real. It was a long-running hoax. But a hoax that people—including me, my fellow students, many others and even journalists—believed. For years. The “founder,” a certain Alan Abel, convinced the then young and unemployed actor, Buck Henry, to play the role of the organization’s president, G. Clifford Prout, Jr.

Recognize Buck Henry?

So, Buck Henry had been at our school! “Henry,” as Wiki explains, “who had improv training, was able to play Prout with an intense deadpan sincerity, as well as to stay in character through unscripted interviews.” And that’s what I remember. His utter deadpan seriousness. This is the same Buck Henry who, years later, participated in those remarkable Samurai skits with John Belushi on Saturday Night Live.

Decent Americans protest the indecency of naked animals.

SINA, I discovered, was taken seriously. After all, what could be more indecent to decent Americans than an animal’s private parts exposed to the world?!? Even the Harvard Crimson published a piece about SINA in 1963, titled, “College May Ban Animal Nudity.” Reading it today, it’s hard to determine if the writer was serious, or not. I think he was. If not, the piece probably would have appeared in the Lampoon. You decide.

I hadn’t been dreaming. This happened. What a crazy school I attended. Or at least one desperate for speakers of any sort.

SINA flourished from 1959-1963—my years at prep school—until it was finally unmasked by none other than Walter Cronkite, the most renowned television newscaster at the time. SINA’s founder, the aforementioned Alan Abel, was interviewed by NPR in 2014 and explained how this ruse worked and how he got away with it for so long. Indeed, for a while, there were a lot of true believers in the notion that we should clothe our fellow animals and save them from the indignity of having their naked selves exposed to the world.

I’ve encountered worse causes.

Pedicure

My girlfriend, Gaywynn, and I arrived at Victoria Nails, located in a strip mall, on a Friday morning. The place was nearly full. The clients were all women, getting pedicures, except for a solitary male nestled in amongst them. As we were led to our chairs, we passed by him. He beamed at us from his chair and said, merrily, “It’s my second time!”

It was my first.

I was not entirely comfortable with that.

For months, I’d watched Gaywynn go off to get a pedicure. Every once in a while, she’d ask me to come along with her. I always said no. A pedicure seemed…well, I mean, look, hey, I know it’s nothing to be scared of, but I always thought there was something strictly girly about it. I mean a guy having his toes tended to? Even the name, pedicure, seems effete.

My idea of a pedicure.

Really, it just seemed frivolous. However, I checked out an article in—what else?—Men’s Journal titled, “Do real men get manicures and pedicures?” The answer, I was relieved to find, was yes.

In the end, really, what the hell? Why not? I was curious. So, I said yes.

We were led to two big lounge chairs. They were like those hefty relaxing numbers you see at airports. We installed ourselves. At the foot of the chair was a small, plastic-lined bin full of water. A woman came by and told me to put my feet in the water. I took off my shoes and socks and did. The water was hot. I winced.

“Too hot?” she said.

I nodded feebly. She adjusted the temperature.

Getting a pedicure. It was my first in seventy-eight years of living on this planet.

Another woman came and sat down in front of my feet and began to have a go at them. She was masked. I wished I could see her face. I said hello, and she said it back. I asked her a question about something and, by her answer, realized she didn’t speak English very well. She was from Vietnam, she said.

So, there I was seated in Victoria Nails with my naked feet in someone else’s hands.

I looked around. The lighting was harsh, bright. Two wall-mounted wide-screen TVs were playing at low volume. One was showing “The Price Is Right” with Drew Carey, who had long hair and a beard and looked like he’d just emerged from “Survivor.” I was lamenting what he’d been reduced to until I discovered he makes $12.5 million a year.

The woman began the pedicure. First, she clipped my nails. With an ordinary clipper. I could’ve done that at home! Ok, be patient. (Gaywynn is always telling me to be patient.) Then she took some sort of small garden clipper-like device and went at my cuticles, probing and snipping and edging. Very surgical. Precise. Next, she took out a grater. Yes, the kind you use for food. She started grating my feet. That tickled me and even hurt a bit. I cried out. None of the other women were complaining.

“That gets rid of any dead skin you might have,” Gaywynn, who was sitting next to me, said.

“Or produces some,” I replied, still smarting.

Ok, so why am I so threatened about getting a pedicure? I guess the idea of being groomed, seems, as I said, unmanly. But what, you ask, about a haircut? Isn’t that the same thing? Clearly, I don’t think so. Why not?

Significantly, this is going to put me out of my comfort zone. If I do that, by definition, I will feel uncomfortable. Why is it, I had to ask myself, that, for the most part, I have stayed inside my comfort zone. “To avoid feeling uncomfortable,” you might answer. True, but the result of that has been large swaths of unexperienced experiences. It has finally come to my attention that experiences are what life is all about. Good and bad. What’s stopped me? Fear? I take a look within myself and see that fear has dominated my behavior far too much and far too often. Fear of what? What possibly could happen to me as a result of getting a pedicure, for example? Public mockery? What public? No one gives a damn about me, except for a few people who love me, or at least who tolerate me.

Hey, wait a minute, this is just a pedicure, not a philosophical inquiry about my fate as a human based on the Socratic method! Still, you often come face to face with yourself at the most unexpected moments and situations, don’t you?

Next, the woman filed my nails with arching, swoping gestures that reminded me of someone playing a tricky piece on the violin. Up, over, around, down. Why is it so satisfying to have the rough spots of your nails sanded smooth?

After a few final touches, she was finished.

I looked at my ten transformed toes. They looked smart. Very smart indeed. A small touch of vanity made itself known. “How,” I wondered, “will anyone see these beautiful new toes of mine? I have to put on my socks and shoes now. Who’s going to know how great they look? Maybe we could go to the beach. Walk around barefoot near a lot of people. Until someone notices and compliments me lavishly.

This was not the reaction I expected myself to have. What about my threatened masculinity? Well, I suppose there’s nothing more masculine than vanity.

We left.

“I feel proud of you,” Gaywynn said when we got outside, “for doing something that made you feel uncomfortable.”

“Thank you,” I said. It was sweet what she said. It’s wonderful to have someone who wants to help make you a stronger person. Who never trivializes those efforts. “It seems crazy to be so worried about something like a pedicure,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

“I took some pictures,” I said, as we headed to the car, “just in case.”

Interim

Batteries are still charging. In the interim, I offer a post from last October. A bit of levity—I hope.

THE PERSONAL TRAINER

My girlfriend Gaywynn gave me an hour session with a personal trainer as a birthday present. I had been whining about not being in shape. This was very nice of her, and it was also a handy way of shutting me up.

Actually, I was looking forward to it. At my age, which is 77, I need to do anything and everything I can to detour the rapid degradation of my body. Note to people my age or thereabouts: staying away from a mirror is extremely helpful.

So, a few days ago, I arrived at the gym, ready and willing. The trainer introduced himself. His name is Brian. He is huge. Like some sort of redwood. Even the loose track suit he was wearing looked tight. If you put him on a pedestal, you’d think, who did that statue? I’m running out of comparisons.

Clipboard in hand, he sat me down and began asking me a series of questions. He’s an affable guy. As he listened to me, he jotted down little notes. Even his hands seemed muscular.

“What are your goals?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, thoughtfully, “I’m not sure what’s a realistic goal at my age. Bench pressing 600 lbs is probably not within the realm of possibility.” Or is it?

“Probably not,” he said, an appealing smile appearing on his face. “Ok, let’s have you run through a few drills to see what sort of shape you’re in.”

He had me get on the treadmill first. He started the machine off at a slow walk.

“This ok?” he asked.

I think the setting was “Grandad.”

“Yes, good.”

I can do this. I can walk.

Note: this is not me.

He adjusted it several times to make it go faster. Then I started feeling like: where am I going? What is the meaning of life? Something about walking and going nowhere brings out the nihilist in you.

“Ok, good,” he said, noting something on his clipboard. What was it he wrote? “Alive,” perhaps.

He had me do a series of exercises. Curls with hand weights, push-ups against a bar, stepping up and down on a block of wood, etc. Then several sets using those menacing-looking gym machines that look like they had a supporting role in 50 Shades of Grey.

Pain? Pleasure?

When I completed an exercise, Brian said, “Good job!” Even if the exercise was fairly easy, he said it. It’s surprising how positively I responded to this reinforcing praise, even for doing something one step harder than tying my shoe. I nearly responded, “Gee, thanks, Dad!”

In fact, this made me realize that almost every male authority figure—teachers, coaches, bartenders, bus drivers, etc.—has been a father figure to me from whom I sought approval. Which explains a lot. And which makes me wonder if I’ve ever had a simple encounter with any male I’ve ever met in my life. Has it always been about seeking my father’s approval? Which makes me….wait a minute! I’m just here for a workout, not for analysis. Let’s get back to the machines.

Along the way I asked Brian about himself. Turns out that he got one of his degrees at the University of New Orleans where I taught English for ten years.

“I actually grew up in New Orleans,” he said. “In Gentilly.”

That’s a neighborhood not too far from the university. I always thought it was such a pretty name, Gentilly. It’s also the name of a particularly delicious cake, a piece of which I could have eaten then contentedly instead of exercising. Followed by a sugar coma.

This…or exercise? Thoughts?

But, no. Brian kept pushing me. That was his job, after all. That was the reason I was there. Because I was too damn lazy to work out by myself. And even if I did have the gumption, I wouldn’t know what to do. Unsupervised, I’d probably design a workout for myself that I could do while watching TV. So, deep down, I was glad to be in Brian’s hands. Clearly, he knew what he was doing. Clearly, he had a plan. There is something so gratifying about putting yourself in the hands of someone who’s capable.

He kept pushing me and writing notes down on the clipboard.

I began to get tired. How much longer is this workout? I thought at one point. I didn’t say that out loud, mind you. I didn’t want to be put in the “Wimp” section of Brian’s report. The thing about a trainer is that he knows you want to quit. But he won’t let you, despite whatever woebegone, melodramatic look you assume, however hard and pitifully you pant. And, believe me, I did—all of that. At one point, I was grunting like a feral pig. He ignored me.

This didn’t work with Brian.

A few more exercises, and then, finally, it was over. I was spent. My chest was heaving. I was sweating. But I felt good. I’d lasted.

“Good job! You did really well,” Brian said, reaching down from his height and shaking my hand.

I really think he meant it. It sounded like he did.

I thanked him, and we made an arrangement for me to come for a second session that following week. I walked out of the gym feeling wrung out but slightly heroic. That’s the thing about a real workout, isn’t it? You make yourself, in a very small way, and for a very short time, a hero.

When I got home, I began the conversation with Gaywynn,

“My personal trainer said….”

Taking a break

I’ll be taking a break from posting. I always want to have something to say when I post, whether it’s light or serious, and so sometimes I need to pause, so I can re-charge the batteries.

Thank you for reading my posts. I appreciate that very much.

Therapy

I’ve been in therapy, on and off, since the Cold War era.

I don’t know how many therapists I’ve seen. I would guess close to fifteen. That sounds slutty. But that’s the way it was. Each time, there was a good reason. I was with a few therapists for quite a long time. The longest, in New York City, was with a woman, for around nine years. She was expensive. They all are, aren’t they, but in New York, particularly so. They almost have to be to maintain their collective reputation.

I used to joke about the woman I saw for so long. I would say that one day, when I was walking by the Hudson River, I saw her pass by in a huge sailboat. The boat was named, Thank You, Rich.

I can hear her now. “How does that makes you feel?”

The first therapist I saw rescued me. I know you’ve heard this before. You may have even said it before. But fact is, he did. I was in college, down, down, down. Possessed by demons. (I’ve thought, from time to time, that an exorcism might not be a bad idea.) A friend recommended this man. I was terribly nervous. He was a classic Freudian. Lie down on the couch, facing away. What? Why? But I told him things that had been securely locked up inside, labeled, “Warning! Lethal, Disgusting, Only Me, Shameful, Do Not Repeat.” And lo — he didn’t call the police. He made me feel — human.

The therapists I’ve seen through the years haven’t all been of the same quality. But you could say that of car mechanics, plumbers or dentists, couldn’t you? Some have been a lifeline, when I was desperate. Some I’ve seen briefly, to give me a new set of crampons to help climb a particularly slippery slope. Then I’m off. Some have been humorless. Always a bad sign. Some have been brilliant. Some have been less than professional. One cancelled appointments on a regular basis, not that good for the self-esteem. Onward.

As the wise poet, Molly Peacock, said to me once about seeing a therapist, “I need backup!” Indeed. Molly wrote a tender and loving book of poems about her therapist, The Analyst. I haven’t written a book about my therapists, so I guess this post will have to do.

I’m seeing a therapist now. He’s my backup. And a good one. He laughs at my jokes. What’s better than that? After a lifetime of therapy, I’ve come to understand that I can’t heal some of the wounds I had hoped to heal. They are too profound. But I can become more aware, can hurt less, can try to do a bit better as a human.

All together now, group hug.

I become an influencer!

I’ve decided to become an influencer.

I think I might have the knack. Something tells me I do.

What exactly is an influencer, you may ask? Like me, you may have seen or heard this term on social media. It’s usually applied to a young person talking online about arcane matters from their bedroom. I found this definition:

“To define an influencer in the simplest terms, it means any person who influences the behavior of others.”

So, how do I accomplish this?

I went to the website, How to Become an Influencer in 10 Steps. I read it carefully. Several times.

Now I was ready to influence.

In terms of who I influence, I think I’ll start with my dog. She hasn’t been responding to my commands—or, really, to anything I say—for some time. Well, to be truthful, she never has. I have no influence over her at all.

In my new role as an influencer, I’ve decided to change that.

I’ve noticed that a lot of influencers have videos. So, I made my very first influencer video. In this video, you will see how I use my newfound knowledge to influence my dog. Obviously, I can’t influence my dog to buy anything. Yet. But I can use this opportunity to demonstrate my potential as a nation-wide influencer. This potential will become fully apparent when I begin influencing actual humans.

Have a look at what clearly is the beginning of a long, storied career:

As you can plainly see that while this may not be considered by some a major success, it clearly shows I have a knack at influencing. A talent, you might even say!

I’m going to be working hard in the next days and months to become the influencer I was meant to be.

Watch this space.

Louisiana girl

I lived in New Orleans for eleven years. Now I live in rural Louisiana, in the country, about three hours west of New Orleans.

I live in Ossun, an unincorporated community that has a population of 2,145. It has nothing in common with New Orleans. It’s like comparing Earth to Pluto, if that comparison can be made, and I guess it just has been.

Yes, we are definitely in the country.

New Orleans is not Louisiana and Louisiana is not New Orleans. They’re hardly on speaking terms. If they are at all. Louisiana is a conservative state, or provincial, to put it unkindly but perhaps more accurately. US News & World Report ranks Louisiana number 50 in its Best States ranking, taking into account crime, education, healthcare and the economy. Normally, Louisianians will say about a low ranking they achieve, “Thank God for Mississippi,” whose ranking is usually worse, but in this case they can’t turn to their neighboring state to rescue them.

I live in a small, old, tin-roofed house with my girlfriend, Gaywynn. It’s her house. It was her parents’ house. We don’t really have much communication with our neighbors, though Gaywynn is friendly with people in general. Our closest neighbor, next door to us, is a family of three. The father is a long-haul trucker who is home sporadically and whose favorite pastime is cracking a bullwhip in his backyard. The mother works in a hospital and is not unfriendly but who we don’t talk to much just because that’s how it is. Gaywynn is on good texting terms with her.

They have a daughter, Abigail, seven, who visits us frequently. She loves to come over to our house, and almost every evening, after school, or in the summer after day care, we find her at our front door.

Abigail is a country girl. She says y’all, ain’t and uses grammar incorrectly but accurately. “He don’t like that,” sort of stuff. She adores Gaywynn. Gaywynn adores her, and treats her sweetly and deals with her patiently. She calls Gaywynn “Miss Gaywynn” and me “Mr. Rich.”

Gaywynn tries to teach her useful things on the computer, using number games and things like that. Or she will let Abigail help her when she’s cooking something or tending the garden. Abigail always brings her iPad on which she plays some questionable videos about heavy teenage drama, for example. We don’t know if her mother knows what she’s watching. Abigail says she does.

Abigail will stay as long as we let her. We give her snacks, and sometimes she shares dinner with us. Once, when Gaywynn wouldn’t give her any more snacks because she didn’t want to spoil her appetite for dinner, Abigail told us, “I don’t eat dinner.”

“What?” Gaywynn said, eyebrows raising. “No dinner at all?”

Abigail shook her head. We take what Abigail tells us with a grain of salt. But we don’t really know. Abigail does not look undernourished, that’s for sure. She has long brown hair that her mother puts in a ponytail, and she’s always dressed in clean clothes. There’s nothing untoward here. We just think Abigail will say things perhaps just to say them. Gaywynn and I love to watch the birds who come to our feeder, and we will sometime tell Abigail about a particular bird we’ve seen.

“I saw that same bird at my house,” she will say.

“Really?”

“Um-hum. I saw two of them.”

Abigail’s birthday is June 21. We know this because she began reminding us in April that June 21 was her birthday and continued to remind us until the actual day. We—I mean Gaywynn—gave her a little outfit, shorts and shirt as a gift. A few days later, she came over wearing the outfit.

“I been wearing this for the last three days,” she said.

On my birthday, July 11, Abigail gave me a card. I was greatly moved by this.

I will keep this card in a place of honor.

Her family has three horses, and on the weekends and even in the evenings, her mother takes Abigail riding somewhere, pulling a horse trailer at the back of her truck. According to her mother, Abigail is a very good rider and has won some ribbons in competition. I’ve seen her little self perched on one of her horses from time to time in her yard, and she looks very confident.

Abigail finds my compost bin in the backyard disgusting, and often, when I’m not in the house, will ask Gaywynn if “Mr. Rich is playing with his compost.” I’ve tried to teach her about the joys of compost, but so far she has rejected that offer with dramatic disgust. She prefers talking, and spending time, with Gaywynn anyway, and I would, too, if I were her.

I wonder what will become of Abigail. I spent a lot of time in a small town in Michigan, and I did not like it at all. It was stifling. I don’t like the insularity and the busybodiness of small towns. I hope when she grows up Abigail doesn’t marry the first boy she sees out of boredom, get pregnant and stay within ten miles of where she grew up for the rest of her life. I feel protective of her. She’s a sweet girl, and her love for Gaywynn and her strong, flower-like response to the sunny kindnesses Gaywynn directs to her is heartwarming.

I hope Abigail travels. I hope she sees other places than Louisiana, especially this part of Louisiana. This is Trump country or arch-Republican country, however you want to put it. I hope Abigail goes to college. She did tell us once that she is saving up for college. My heart brightened when I heard that. I hope she gets a decent job, earns her own money, and does something fulfilling with her life. No place is without its strong points, but there are other places to see in this world than the place you grew up in and other people to meet than the ones you’ve seen every day of your life.

However that plays out, Abigail is welcome into our home any time. We’ll talk to her, listen to her and soon I will tell her about a place I once lived in with great happiness called New York City.

A kayak ride in Maine

At 6:30 am on a July morning, I pull the heavy, sleek kayak across the grass toward the water. The grass is damp, and the kayak glides surely to where the lawn meets the rocky beach. I have to lift the kayak by the cockpit rims and haul it to the water some fifty feet away. I step cautiously over rocks I can’t see—the kayak’s bulk obscures my view—until I reach the water’s edge and set the kayak down with a splash. 

I’m on an island in Maine. The amber sunlight spreads across the flawless water in front of me. I’m wearing a chest-tightening life jacket, baseball cap, swim trunks and flip flops. I ease myself into the kayak, always a touchy maneuver with great possibilities for farce. Once installed, I push the kayak away from the shore with the paddle, digging the end into the sand for leverage. Then there is that space shuttle-like moment when the bottom is freed, and the kayak begins to glide off into the water.

For glide is what you do in a kayak. You glide across the water like some sort of nautical skater. Newton seems wrong here, as the kayak’s lengthy reaction to my paddle’s action appears far more extensive than equal. The world is still. 

Isle of Springs, Maine, 1995

There are a few lobster boats moving from trap to trap on the water in the sunny distance. The sound carries so well, a boat a mile away can seem like it’s bearing down on you. I’ll hear a lobster boat’s motor and crane my head around in slight worry only to see the boat is far away  I can never get used to this disparity, and it makes me feel a little foolish. 

I paddle the kayak along the edge of the island. Above, on a branch of a bleached, skeletal pine, an osprey perches. As I approach, it sees me and begins a high, relentless screech. These noble birds, with their haughty, Medici profiles, are a welcome presence. With their superb fishing skills and fierce dedication to their young, they make you want to be a better human with whatever resources I’ve been given. They are proud, hard-working birds, and I want to be proud and hard-working, too. 

I paddle away from the island, which is now fully bathed by the early sun. The smell of the water enters my nostrils. There is no better aroma, nothing in the world like the scent of Maine coastal water. The water is limpid, briny and wonderfully alive. It’s so pure it almost seems drinkable. Yes, it’s cold, and you feel the electric pins and needles when you swim in it—if you dare. But as a kayaker I only dip my hand into it from time to time for cleansing and renewing, and it’s Ponce-de-Leon refreshing. 

When I am out riding in a kayak, I feel like the first man. I feel as if I’m seeing these sights before anyone else has ever seen them. That I am the first person to see these dark massive rocks and quiet tall spruces before anyone else in the world. I think this has a lot to do with the point of view of the kayak. It’s a stealthy and almost noiseless experience. Its purpose seems discovery  It’s also easy in Maine to feel this way where there are hundreds of small, uninhabited islands that you can paddle by without seeing a soul. It’s easier here to pretend you’re Magellan in Maine.

I paddle east. I see a seal’s head break the surface of the water. Surprise and delight from me. There is water everywhere, deep and cold, but for some reason, I don’t think of seal being underwater until one appears. Seal are curious, and, if not exactly friendly, are often unafraid. If you’re lucky, one will surface near you, probably having seen the bottom of your kayak, and will swim by to have an assessment. It’s almost impossible not to grin when you see one of these sleek, alert, graceful animals. Today, though, this particular seal is staying clear of me, and I can’t make out the details of its face. It is a seal, though, and I feel lucky having seen it. It’s as if I am in a state of grace somehow.  

I kayak hoping to see animals. I have in the past seen weasels making their way amongst the rocks on shore. They slither along adroitly as if they had designed the rocks for their movement. Weasels are highly disparaged, but no animal consciously does harm. I have also seen bald eagles in the huge nests high above, and loons, and little ducks I can’t identify and, at the water’s edge, a lone Great Blue Heron. 

Rockport Harbor, Maine, 2021

Now, as I paddle around the tip of the island and make my way toward the modest dock area, something new: a huge sturgeon leaps out of the water not ten feet away. Even with so brief a glimpse, it’s absolutely unmistakable. Its long, antediluvian body with its notched spine and blunt snout looks like no other fish. It crashes back into the water and disappears. Because of the quick, explosive nature of the sight, it leaves me wondering if it actually happened. Wondering, too: do fish jump to warn us, to have a look, to show off? Another mystery that doesn’t need explaining. What a creature I’ve just seen! For the first time I wish there were someone with me to share this moment.

My shoulders feel strong as I paddle, in that steady switchback motion of a kayaker.  The day is getting warm. I’m sweating lightly. I take a scoop of water and splash it on my face. It braces my whiskers. It’s delicious. I paddle past the dock area. No one is there, just the tethered boats, empty and ready. I continue around the island, slowly and steadily. 

My mind rejects anything complex. It’s at this moment that the ego subsides. I’m grateful for its diminution. The clarity of the wisdom of these rocks, trees, this sharp cold water and these animals shrinks my importance. It’s a burden, this presumptuousness I’ve learned being human. Nature, of course, has no such concern. Nature has no ego. For a few blessed moments out on the Maine water, I join her.   

I increase the power of my stroke, and the kayak surges, like a racehorse. Muscle and mind work flawlessly together. I paddle around the northeastern point of the island and head for home. I see the little cove where I began this ride. I slow, then stop, my paddling, not wanting the ride to end. 

The kayak drifts ever so slowly toward the little beach. It finally touches with a small, sandy crunch. I awkwardly get out of the kayak, right foot first, then left. I pull the kayak up on the beach. It feels unnatural to be walking on land. Am I really terrestrial? I’m not so sure. I take a deep breath and look back out onto the water.   Most of the island is still asleep. I am savoring in my mind the moments on the water, becoming, reluctantly, a biped once again. 

Van Gogh and his cypresses

I went to see the exhibition, “Van Gogh’s Cypresses” at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York the other day.

It’s not a huge show, but it’s substantial enough. I’m not sure exactly how many paintings and drawings there are, but I would estimate about forty. Unlike the Impressionist room on the second floor of the Met where the lighting is strong, clear and bright, the lighting here, on the first floor, off the section where the Greek vases are displayed, in a room I’ve never even seen before, is muted, soft, quiet.

Most of these were painted by Van Gogh when, troubled and depressed, he was at the hospital in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, in the South of France, where cypress trees flourish.

I am, as I would guess many of us are, familiar with some of Van Gogh’s paintings of cypresses. I’d seen two of them at the Met many times. One, Wheat Field with Cypresses, I like very much. It looks to me like a daytime version of the famous The Starry Night. Look at that swirling sky.

Wheat Field with Cypresses, 1889

What I didn’t realize, and probably should have if I’d thought about it at all, is that in order to be chosen for the exhibition, a painting didn’t have to have cypresses towering, front and center, as in the painting above, but anywhere in the painting. It didn’t matter where and how many.

That expands the range considerably. This is taken to a clever extreme in the painting Window in the Studio where the cypresses are in the form of Van Gogh’s own paintings hanging on the wall, very lightly rendered. The top one is Trees in the Garden of the Asylum. (You can see it further below.) There is also a dab of cypresses seen through the window.

Window in the Studio, painted by Van Gogh in 1889 in the hospital at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. Note bars in window. (All photos by R. Goodman, except Wheat Field with Cypresses and Landscape from Saint-Rémy.)

What this means is that the show is, despite the singular emphasis, very diverse. At least half the paintings I had never seen before and did not even know they existed. Not that I would be expected to. Overall, you can’t but be impressed by Van Gogh’s artistry, of course, but also by his fiery curiosity and his relentless determination. Flagging writers like me will have a hard time coming up with excuses for not working after going to this exhibition. Mental struggles and lack of money never stopped Van Gogh.

So many people adore, worship Van Gogh, that there will never be a need to attract new viewers to his work because he is underappreciated. Exhibitions of his work are a welcome preaching to the choir. I am a member of that vast choir. We all have our personal relationship with Van Gogh. I come to his work often for inspiration and advice.

In what other painter is passion and skill so unforgettably forged? Look at those swirling brushstrokes. Yes, you can see the brushstrokes in other artists’ paintings, and that is one of the great pleasures of looking at a painting, among the many. You feel the human hand. There it is, reaching across time. With Van Gogh, has paint ever been choreographed like this? With such exuberance and freedom? The paint is applied carousingly, seeming nearly out of control, yet there it is, before you, when you step back, the controlled masterpiece.

Some very familiar paintings are here, like The Starry Night, on loan from the Museum of Modern Art. That painting has crowds enveloping it, and can be difficult to see. Wait until the tide recedes. Meanwhile, there are so many other wonderful paintings. Many of them are dominated by color schemes I’d not encountered in Van Gogh before.

For example, there is Landscape from Saint-Rémy, cypresses diminutive behind a farmhouse in the distance, with its high-altitude landscape colors at the forefront, like something you’d see in the upper range of Wyoming or Colorado.

Landscape from Saint-Rémy, 1889

You can see the aforementioned Trees in the Garden of the Asylum, with its double-jointed tree to the right—along with cypresses, of course—that hangs from the artist’s wall in Window in the Studio.

Trees in the Garden of the Asylum, 1889

There are some of his letters, too, because they have drawings of cypresses in them and/or speak about Van Gogh’s struggle to capture cypresses on canvas the way he thought they should be rendered. The one below, right, is to his sister. (Van Gogh wrote most of his letters in French.) His handwriting is precise, orderly, calm. Unlike the paintings.

And there are drawings by Van Gogh. It’s always interesting to see the searching mind.

A Pine Tree and Cypresses in the Garden of the Asylum, 1889

Many of these photos are mine. I usually take smug satisfaction in not taking photographs at an exhibition with my phone. I look down on the unclean masses taking shot after shot—and who, as I imagine, are not looking at the paintings at all. But I do look! I want the actual experience, not a souvenir! I want to be engaged with the painting!

Well, so much for smug satisfaction. Funny what you learn in a museum.

What can you say about Van Gogh? Really?

Just this. At one point, I looked around at all the people and had one of those moments I sometimes have in museums where you have lots of people, all kinds, gathered in rooms to see an artist’s work. And that is: how much Van Gogh gave to the world. I don’t want to get all Don McClean on you here, but he has been dead 133 years this month, and he is still very much with us. The work is still fresh, challenging, inspiring, moving and beautiful. People gaze at The Starry Night today—or any number of Van Gogh’s paintings—and are astonished, awed and grateful. And they always will be. If he only knew.