Downtown

Downtown, 2007
acrylic/ canvas 36 x 48 inches
Ins and outs, ups and downs—the center of a town or city is always active
but why do we call it Downtown

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When I was here they said,
"It's there. There's no there here.
It was when we were here, but
That was then. We're here now."

They're there and there is there
Here is not.

I went. We went. Many left.

They'd left for there
No there here
There and only there.

Fool me once

Thereback I went to where when I was there was here

Late I was
And now it's neither here nor there.

We are not born

We are of, in.

The continuum is

us, you, them

All is, was, will be

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Rocky Neck Nights

Rocky Neck Nights 1977, ed touchette

24x30 oil canvas

Rocky Neck Nights (Snippets from memory belying the admonition—If you remember nights on Rocky Neck You Were Not There.)

I had never painted with oils on canvas when I decided to paint a night scene. I’m certain you recognize the nightlife.  The location I knew well—Rocky Neck Avenue at the front of my apartment and studio at the end of Rocky Neck, over the coffee shop that Penny ran, near the entrance to the Railways, next door to George Bleich’s Gallery.

There I was, young, innocent tossed to the wolves at the bitter end of The Neck. Having survived two stints at the Rockaway Hotel could not prepare me for the neighborhood where Casper and Arthur sold costume jewelry by day and by night, entertained a bawdy, raucous crowd at the Studio piano bar. Evie, entertained celebrities at the Rudder. (How I wish I’d been on the Neck  when John and Lionel and Judy performed at the theater.) I did hear Dominic sing Embraceable You, over and over again.  And there was a rumor that a bare breasted trumpeter performed somewhere north of the The Studio. (I dare not be too specific. One character in the infamous novel, In a Place Like No Other,  mentioned that he/ she had married an attorney. Oh, dear, where is Denny Crane when I need him.)

Parker Lee had spent a summer across the street at West Wharf, the rooming house that the harbor eventually reclaimed. Ray Frasier painted clipper ships and David Pollack, set up his director’s chair and umbrella to offer his talents as a portrait painter.

The Beaux Artes Ball in the Lobster House parking lot. The mad man in Captain America underwear climbing the fence to enter without a ticket. So many Carmen Mirandas, you might have thought you had been beamed onto a fruit salad.

The antique shop above the rudder, Tragabigzanda, held treasures suitable for John Smith’s Greek princess for whom the shop was named. The three Turk’s heads were stored safely off shore. Nightly, folks lined the street to wait for a seat at the Rudder to enjoy the world famous clams casino and hopefully hear Evie sing a broadway tune. Anthony Newley frequented the restaurant but I never heard him sing, actually, I never saw him but I’d heard he was there. Similarly, every summer a humongous yacht or motor sailer would dock at the Lobster House. One year it was rumored that Keith Richards was aboard. One year it was rumored that the boat belonged to Ringo Starr or maybe it was, oh, you know, that other famous musician actor whose name I can’t recall. (If you can think of it, let me know, Please.)

So many famous people tied up at the Lobster House it was difficult to sort through the directory. No one ever claimed to have actually seen them and no one has reported seeing John Hays Hammond Junior's lobster boat cruising the harbor without a soul aboard. Nonetheless, the sea monster that lives under Ten Pound Island frequents the harbor and each summer Eric Clapton’s yacht drops anchor near Niles Beach.

Rest

Chair, ed touchette

c 1983

oil/ canvas 25x 22

Sit and rest

It is best 

to rethink your time

Near Middlebury 2003
acrylic/canvas
36" x 60"

A Memory of Mountains 

Near Middlebury, where I paint, fields and pastures loll westward.

The lake in the distance shimmers below granite cliffs.

A stand of trees draws a line.

A stone wall crosses — interrupts, but briefly.

 The landscape is its own being and cannot be other.

This patchwork of cornrows and lush, verdant grasses,

rich umber furrows where stalks will sprout,

eases the eyes to the deep, ultramarine.

That is Champlain.  

Beyond, near Port Henry, mountains rise from the waters. 

Not gently, as if to ease your soul to a higher plane.

Severely, demanding to know why you approach.

Once you’ve explored and exhausted all answers,

given yourself to the simple majesty that once, millions of years ago,

was the verge of the ocean,

you will let go of that to which we cling,

those feeble attempts to dominate the indomitable. 

Reinterpretation of

Near Middlebury 2010

India Ink/ Canson 20 x 24

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Recession

Weather Map (new title) acrylic/ canvas 20" x 24"

Recession

The cold recedes leaving the browns of autumn

Behind the barn chickens cluck a welcome to

Spring is nearby. You can recognize the green of early risers.

Hank Baldwin, the resident gardener, readies his tools.

Spring

Not to worry.

Spring is coming. 

Following this storm.

Dance at Winn's Barn, 2013

(Published in the Watershed Review, CSUC, Spring 2018)

acrylic, India ink, Walnut ink, graphite/ Arches 300lb. CP

Living on the Farm

Change your aspect

Regard the world 

As connected.

Edge of the Known Universe, c 1980

28 x 24, oil/ canvas

The edge of the known universe is doubly oxymoronic.

Universe implies all. That would include infinite. 

How arrogant are we to establish a boundary, an edge, a perimeter, asserting our knowledge of the dimension of infinity. Of course, we could argue that by establishing an edge to that which we know, we are implying a continued search as our adventurous spirits will impel forward movement. That would be acceptable.

Adirondack Sunrise, watercolor/ Fabriano 140lb. CP, 9 x 12 (")

Painting in the mountains is peaceful. 

interested in this piece, email

At The Beach

At The Beach, 1982, Watercolor/ cahracoal/ arches 300lb. CP28" x 40"

Another painting from the years at Reeds Wharf

For Sale

email for more information

Sounding

Sounding, c 1981, 22 x 30 inches,
charcoal, acrylic, modeling paste/ Fabriano 140 lb. CP
for sale


No doubt at the top of my list of books to read, reread, and reread n x , is Melville’s Moby Dick.
As I endeavored to understand the engineering aspects of architecture, I gravitated more and more toward literature and painting and drawing.  Moby Dick was a required novel in a literature course I engaged in during my junior year at Rensselaer. Perhaps the best book I’ve ever encountered. I have since reread the novel at least 5 times. Understandable that as I delved into abstraction and expressionism in the Reeds Wharf studio, something like this would surface. (Sorry but the word was there)

Some of these works from the archives are for sale. email me at eddsart@gmail.com to get the art listings

Aiding Sysiphus

Aiding Sisyphus 21” x 30”,

charcoal, white chalk, acrylic/ Fabriano 140lb. CP.

My time in the studio at Reeds Wharf (formerly the Thurn School where Hans Hoffman taught) was devoted more to abstraction and expressionism. My interest in literature has always been keen. During the last months I've revisited the classics, Iliad, Odyssey, Metamorphoses and more. In searching through my archives, I came across this drawing from the late 1970s, early 1980s.

Some of these works from the archives are for sale. email me at eddsart@gmail.com to get the art listings

A Holiday Greeting

                                                   Country Dreams, ed touchette, 
                                                        40 x 30, acrylic/ canvas


Imagine. Sitting in your kitchen or sun room, early morning, gazing at the skeletal maple in the yard and a flock of starlings, European by descent, descend onto the branches of the tree and each, having been coated in a non toxic, brilliant, non GMO pigment, affords the tree the appearance of a holiday greeting and your level of excitement escalates well beyond that usually experienced after your first taste of French roast, and  a bolt from the heavens strikes and the birds become secular, they ascend and fly to a neighborhood near a marsh where power lines offer seating for thousands and the open spaces are more conducive to the masses they prefer to form (some say for warmth others claim these groupings confuse predators) and fly in balls or great clouds of iridescent and/ or fluorescent color, swooping and banking, up and down, colors flashing as crowds gather along the roads leading to the marshes, awed by the spectacle of a giant screen saver painting the skies, arms linked quashing any thoughts of waving Bic lighters that would spoil the impromptu gathering, and even those Catholics enamored of Vatican II would not dare engage a chorus of Kumbaya and disturb this quiet and....Peace.

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Consider a Journey

Consider a Journey, walnut ink, acrylic/ paper, 11 x 14, 

ed touchette 2016

It has already happened. I am headed there now.
Billy will ask, Where? 
I answer: To that which precipitated me.

Hmm. Billy will mumble. He'll ponder then ask, Why?

My answer: Have been since what they've repeatedly remarked as my first breath.
You know, they call it the beginning. Being born.
Actually, I think that was a consequence of where I'm headed.
Now and then, as it were. 

A what? prompted by Billy's confusion.

There, I'll say. My raison d'être. That which gave rise to my existence if that's what you call my living. My life. It's already happened.

Billy will turn away.

I go.

I have no concept of how long I've been here. In real-time? Years. In space-time?Maybe seconds. Maybe eons. What's out there?

That thought becomes past tense as I engage the quandary. To be or have been.

I go. May be is no longer valid. Become is was.

Malcolm says, The present is. The future was. The past will be.

She stands, back to me, a terry cloth towel clings to her hips, another turban wraps her head. Water spots on the carpet outline her feet like a chef's dribbles, meant to entice, ready my lips and tongue for a taste of her.

I laugh openly. As if the swale of her lower back was never enough.

She turned and asked if I'd be gone long.

I watch as I left, then shrug and go.

Memory: Captured pasts. Massless yet there. Incomplete though lit and audible. Sometimes you can smell it. Taste it, too.

Real-time supports these definitions. Space-time rearranges them.

Sensations flash. I recall, remember, recollect. Recollect is good. There is somewhat of a gathering and reconstruction. Yes, a reconstruction of thens. Whens. Futures now past and they become more perfect. Mutated.

Rearranged? Possibly to suit the needs of the end. And yet there is no end. The event is circular—so far. Back and forth in and out. Here and there. Mostly here but there exists for comparisons.  Picked from the agglomeration.

Ahh, relativity, Malcolm offered. Takes time. Take time, he added. You will need it.

Where we are has already been and we were there moving toward there only here for the slightest. What we are is what we were and will become will soon be. Then am will be was. Will be will be am.

There is clarity in this.  I turn and glance forward over my shoulder.

What? Billy asks.

Getting here, I answer.

Where? Billy asks, mystified. 

It's already happened. I am headed there now.

Crossing The Bridge

We crossed the Great Morass of Equivocation via the Longfellow Bridge and arrived at Olson with a few minutes to spare before the start of the annual Festival of Opinion. This particular festival's theme being Form One. We passed along Eliot Street through neighborhoods where housing had replaced casinos, trendy boutiques and coffee bars, and the corporate headquarters of Donut, Donut, Donut. ( The board of directors realized their days in a gluten free society were numbered so they opted to relocate.)

Olson began as an experiment in community following the Great Debacle. People gravitated to the concept Live is a Verb. Expression ran rampant. Quaint cottages and rows of brownstones line streets. An entire block of frame buildings that had once housed factory laborers was demolished to make room for a hotel but a public outcry halted the hotel's development and the building, now complete, houses a library.

We spent an afternoon exploring the grounds at the homestead of the social critic, Will Perry. His famous words are inscribed on a plaque bolted to the stone wall surrounding the tulip garden: It's easy to be critical of a culture in which more people know of the Kardashians than know of James Joyce or Virginia Woolf. (Excerpted from Travels With My Aunt.)

West Middle Derby (WMD)

Talking Heads, ed touchette, 1984, oil and charcoal/ 140lb. Fabriano CP, 22" x 30"

West Middle Derby rests peacefully beneath Mount Orwell in the Pearly Valley. Middle Derby to the east, South Middle Derby and North Middle Derby appropriately named. The Road to Derby Pier parallels the Palendor Escarpment to the west. Middle Derby became a repository of chic fashion and popular music during the 1980s. The township supports several museums dedicated to the preservation of pop art, lawn gnomes, and larger than life, stainless steel balloon animal sculptures.

West Middle Derby became an arts community when musicians, writers, painters, sculptors, actors, et.al. were remanded here whenever their work incited thought. The village became a refuge; work was uncensored and expressive.

We entered WMD in the dead of  a moonless night, having skirted the Middle Derby Dells where critics lurk, intending to waylay travelers headed for WMD. Our guide, a former Factory apprentice knew the secrets of influence and promotion so we passed through without incident. During our visit our excitement blossomed; our brains functioned; our health improved to the degree that we thought we might have stumbled onto a stoup from which poured youth and vitality.

Nonetheless, all things end so we left WMD promising to return in the near future. Leaving WMD, we passed through a series of magnetic loops. The consequent resonance destroyed any thoughts generated by what we had seen and heard. As well any traces of photos and videos recorded on our smart phones disappeared. Thank goodness I had a pencil and notebook to record some of our visit.

We noted a series of signs along the highway, remnants of a shaving cream promotion from the mid 20th Century. They'd been refurbished and read: Les artistes — sont interdits — de sortie. One of the older novelists had employed a gifted graphic designer to convert the last sign in the series to read Burmese Shave.  (Excerpted from Travels With My Aunt.)

Circular Logic

We arrived at Best Wheaton only two days after leaving St. Ellens. Normal transit time is 72 hours but we hurried to take advantage of the newing of the seasons, a time during which colorful changes occur. With the onset of warmth, villagers burn detritus and recyclable papers as well as the balance of fossil fuel stocks—offerings of thanks to loftier beings. People in the valley have long subscribed to the belief that surviving the ravages of colder times is directly related to spirited worship of myriad deities. 

The image above, captured on a smart phone, reflects a vivid horizon that endured for three days— dawn to dusk. Similar displays have been known to last for months. Residents consider these as worthy as those prompted by solar flares. Committees are now seeking public relations and marketing expertise to assist with their efforts to generate additional income with which to purchase next season's fuel supply. (Excerpted from Travels With My Aunt)

Enjoy the quiet times.

During the solstice we visited el Conundra, a region beset with a variety of puzzling happenings.  Most residents explain these dilemma, citing a coincidence of planetary alignments or the regenerative powers of cellular matter impacted by electromagnetic currents. Other groups use complex mathematical calculations to promote their efforts to comprehend. Some carry balls of twine and construct random webs of string to guide others toward the ultimate conclusion.

Nonetheless a few stalwarts hold firmly to the belief that an extraordinary form guides daily activities. These folks worship trees, rocks, any and all forms of matter, animate or inert, that appear to have erupted from the surface. Each year at the solstice they gather at the learning tree and demand a short encounter with peace and quiet. Most, but for the most severe cases of mental incapcitativity, abide. It is a quiet time. Enjoy. (Excerpted from Travels With My Aunt.)

Cairn of Melangé

Cairn, acrylic/ canvas, ed touchette, 2011, 20" x 24"

Just off Rt U2, in what now is known as the Common, we saw the Cairn of Melangé. The culture of a region is buried here.

Some years ago, leaders in the dominion demanded compliance and adherence to sameness to ease the stresses of governing a heterogeneous population. Commonality was encouraged; dissent was ignored. Consequently, all became usual and nothing of value remained. Surprise was cancelled. Save the granite boulders and outcroppings on which the region had been built, all disappeared. Scientists studying the remains have determined that lichen on the boulders of the cairn hold promise but its development into anything resembling the miscellany once thriving here remains eons in the future.

We rarely purchase souvenirs but at The Cairn of Melangé, the District's Governors have established potpourri shops as an homage to the once cultural hotbed. My aunt bought a pound of a rose petal, lavender mix.
(Excerpted from Travels With My Aunt)

Rampant Afflictions

Beach People, 1984, ed touchette, monotype with etching ink and conté crayon

We headed for the beach at Nuevo Nuevo Novel to spend some time reviewing our trip so far. To no avail, I might add. The sands there attract folks from all genre. Most suffer from attention deficit so they constantly, interminably strive to outdo others with their mannerisms and dress. Although pop music instruction is the most popular, posturing and posing classes attract a fair share of the population. It is impossible for shop owners to keep sunglasses stocked. As you can see from this photo my aunt took as we sped along Rt 14591, posers rule in Nuevo Nuevo Novel.  (Excerpted from Travels with My Aunt)

Kinesis

 

At Saint-Grégoire des montagnes: We approached a travelers hut with circumspection, understanding, having read a recent issue of The Honest Tourist, that previous venturers had met tragedy in similar conditions. We peered carefully across a valley to ascertain the presence of possibly dangerous animals, vegetables or alternative forces. Realizing none of our premonitions of disaster, we lay back our heads and indulged a previously undiscovered cellular want of calm.

Several hours later, bloated with chroma, we beheld the majesty of the mountainside sanctuary and involuntarily broke into song. Much later, energized as only a kinesiologist might determine (my aunt literally dancing for several miles) we continued on—where-to being of little or no concern given the sense of well being proffered by the sanctuary. (Excerpted from Travels With My Aunt)