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The Artist’s Almanac
December 2004
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What freezings have I felt, what
dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
- Shakespeare
Children fear the
dark, and truth be told, so do we.
This is the season of
cold darkness and rain as we wind our way home along the
interstates, following taillights, to the light and warmth of home
and hearth.
Nights are longest
now, yet problems which seem insurmountable at 2AM yield to even the
weakest sun at dawn.
Either the sun returns
or it does not. Our ancient ancestors, who had no illusions about
their dependence upon the sun, weren’t so sure it would, as it had
been slowly disappearing for several moons now and even the days
were short and dark. They knew their survival depended upon the sun
that drew the corn from the earth to sustain them through the dark
months.
Their wise men told
them the sun would return, and set up circles of stone with slots to
mark the very spot it would illuminate at its turning back to us.
Far above a canyon in Arizona there is a cliff dwelling with a tiny
peephole in its south-facing stone wall where the sun enters and
illuminates an image of itself on the far wall only at winter
solstice.
Our ancestors offered
prayers for the return of light. Electricity, which now lights our
world and powers our television and computers, makes us feel
omnipotent, until a power failure. Then we pray that the Arabs will
not shut off our oil again.
Coal, oil and gas are
recycled sunlight, but once used up, they are gone. Our wise men
strive to recycle the year’s corn crop into ethanol or store the sun
with solar panels. So far better recycling has been achieved with
wine and good bourbon.
Not to miss out on the
action, psychologists have discovered a new syndrome - Sunlight
Deprivation Sadness – which marketers offer to alleviate with
illuminated panels mimicking the sun’s action. Depressed by the
dark, we may flick a switch and stare unblinking into the light
until we are restored.
The gardener finds her
own answer in the catalogues and seed trays, which she nourishes
with faith and hope in a sunny southern window. Her husband gleans
the turnip green patch for surviving tender green leaves when the
ground is dry enough to tread.
Dry days are few this
month. Diaries from vineyard years show the last two weeks of
December are invariably the wettest here. Rain does not just fall on
the earth this month – it melts it and carries it away. The cold
dank of this season allows no drying time, but the shrubs and trees
need the rain.
The artist recycles
sunlight. Reflected light is all he has to depict, and if well done,
the subject may be anything - a recollected summer landscape, a
rainy twilight, a bowl of fruit or a familiar human face.
Just as the ancient
Sinaguan cliff dweller watched his solar signal slot, merchants and
Wall Street investors study sales at this season for the annual
refreshment of earnings. A season otherwise cold and drear becomes
for them, as for expectant children, one of hope and cheer.
When we tire of
watching the flickering ads in prime time or find nothing in the
internet news to cheer us, we, like our ancestors, search the dark
and weather-beaten landscape for hopeful signs. Like our expectant
children, we long for the light of dawn.
Then, at midnight, on
the darkest night of the year, it comes, and we are enlightened. The
Son has returned, and we sing our carols of peace, good will towards
men.
In him was life,
And that life was the light of men,
A light that shines in the darkness,
A light that darkness could not overpower.
December becomes the
season of joy and light. May each of you share a generous plenty of
it this Christmas!
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Bill
Puryear, Artist