Vision, Value, And an End to Violence

(Originally posted February 19, 2020)

The sculptor Constantin Brancusi was born on this day in 1876. I love one of his quotes- “What is real is not the exterior but the idea, the essence of things.”

So what is our essence? Looking out from the sacred sawdust bowl, my vision tells me this: we are all equal expressions of divine love. I’m certainly not the first or only one to see this way; perhaps you too see this as our essence.

So what if we started to live our vision? What if we aligned our governments, businesses, and spiritual communities to this idea? (Because currently they are not.) If we could embrace this vision of the equal and sacred value of everyone, then violence would practically cease. And I don’t mean just physical violence. I mean the violence that says I am not enough. The violence that says I am better than you. The violence that hasn’t made food, clean drinking water, and health care a reality for everyone in the world. Because those things are totally possible. And a lack of clean water is as violent as the billion guns, bombs, and missiles we currently have to kill other equal expressions of divine love.

I know. It sounds too easy. But at the same time, it sounds too hard. Something else I know- we’ve never really tried it. Is it just a dreamy vision by a wood sculptor? Perhaps. But I believe there’s a pretty famous carpenter I read about who wouldn’t disagree with me.

To all of you equal expressions of divine love who support me, I wish you Peace and Joy,
Jeff

Lewis hine:Mild-mannered hero for children

(Originally published on my Facebook page September 26, 2018.)

Lewis Hine: Mild-Mannered Hero for Children

Artists have a really bad reputation for sticking their creative noses where others think they shouldn't. Especially in social justice issues, artist are often the ones giving images, voices, faces and passion to the cause of a better world. Lewis Hine, born on this date in 1874, was “one of those” and he is one of my heroes.

From 1908 to 1917, Hine was a photographer, social reformer, and undercover detective all rolled into one. Working for the National Child Labor Committee, he visited factories, mills, and mines from the Northeast to the Deep South, taking photographs of child laborers and the conditions in which they worked. It was dangerous work, as factory owners were violently opposed to reforms, and he often gained access under assumed identities, like fire inspector or salesman. If he could not ask a child's age, he used tricks to gather information, such as measuring their height by the buttons on his vest.

Mostly self-taught, he went against the photographic style of his day by having children look directly into the camera, so the viewer couldn’t escape looking into their eyes. His work helped change public opinion and laws that protect our children today.

Hine went on to do other photographic work, enjoyed mild success, but unfortunately struggled professionally in later life. He died in 1940, mostly penniless. I honor you today, Lewis, for using your art to bring the needs of children into the light.

Home

(Originally published on my Facebook page September 12, 2019.)

I really love turtles. Even when they wander, they are still at home. I need to learn from them.

In one form or another, I’ve spent a lifetime looking for home. I didn’t get to leave my childhood home in the traditional way, it sort of left me. Fortunately, in time I found that literal definition of home again, in place, people and feelings. And there’s no place like it.

It’s the other forms of home that still have me searching. I live in the misty gray tension of belonging everywhere and belonging nowhere. I have a strong sense that the whole Earth is my home and everyone here is my family. It makes no sense to me that those who came before me drew pretend marks on the ground to divide both land and people, and then presume I should feel differently about those on one side of their make-believe line than another. Even those within my arm’s reach get categorized and labeled and sorted like Goodwill donations. And since this whole presumption is so globally held, it leaves me feeling like I don’t belong here at all. What’s a sculptor to do?

When I turn from the physical to the spiritual realm for answers, I fare no better. I have been seeking, finding, and fleeing comfortable spiritual cottages most of my life. The only thing that really feels familiar is the cycle itself. I start to feel restless, my beliefs no longer fit. So back out on the trail I go, looking for the next understanding that feels like home. I have never been satisfied with the spiritual box off the shelf. Instead I have some scars and a backpack full of treasured souvenirs and good questions.

A wise soul once advised me to consider not thinking of my quest as a trail with little huts along the way, but to picture a grassy field where I just sit and wait for home to find me. I’m comfortable with that approach in theory. I currently identify as a renegade Quaker and spiritual pirate, so I’m comfortable waiting in silence. I just have to calm my eagerness and nurture my patience.

Home. Whether it’s a place, or people, or a feeling, we all ache for it. Some call it heaven, the kingdom of God. A carpenter’s son said it’s inside us and around us as much as anywhere else.

At the end of a long day, one tired family member turns to another and says, “Take me home.” I sense that in the asking, they are already there.

Peace and Joy...and Welcome Home,

Jeff

Racism

(Originally published on my Facebook page July 22, 2019, after deep consideration and assurance I could offer it out of compassion and conviction.)

Racism

When I was in college I spent much of my time alone, pondering spirituality, who I was, and how I wanted to be in the world. Out of that experience I began to sense the oneness of life and that all humanity was my family. These spiritual beliefs continue to feed my attempts to live the Quaker testimonies of equality and peace, and the Social Work value of upholding the dignity and worth of all persons. It flows through my art and my ongoing intent for this page. I want my life and my work to promote the best we all can be.

When I climb to the top of the sacred sawdust pile and look out across the world, I often find myself “sad for the sadness of the world” for what I see. I usually keep it to myself and process it through writing, meditation, prayer, and conversation with gifted souls. And sculpture. I love silence, but sometimes there is a time to speak.

It is from this spiritual center and my love for my human family that I speak and take a public stand against the rising seeds of white supremacy and racism in our country. It is not normal and must never be accepted as normal. It grows in tiny bits, and every tiny bit must be denounced.

For decades, telling someone of color to go back where they came from has been a racial insult. It’s not a new thing. The government’s own EEOC specifically uses it as an example of potentially unlawful conduct in the workplace. More importantly, people of color have experienced it hurled at them. It’s a real racist insult.

When the person elected to the highest office in our nation used that statement toward people of color, neither his anger nor his patriotism changed it from being a racist statement. It still is, and either he knew it and used it anyway, or he didn’t know it and should have retracted it and apologized upon being informed.

The issue is not, as many claim, that the four congresswomen provoked or deserved it. His position demands that he have better language skills when angry than to use a well-established racist statement when there are multiple other choices. I will not call him a racist, because I do not know that to be true. I can confidently say he used a racial insult toward people of color without an apology. And in doing so he took a step toward making it seem normal and patriotic. It is not normal and must never be normal. Not in the grocery store, not on a third grade playground, and not from the White House.

I have compassion for the president’s supporters. Most of them are people of faith, they are not racist, they otherwise support him, but when he says things like this their hearts aren’t sure how to find peace. I don’t hate the president. I want him to stop using racial insults, and not just become neutral on the topic but show true servant leadership and fight racism and white supremacy.

That’s where democracy comes in. If his supporters demanded it as a condition of their support, he would either start aggressively fighting racism and white supremacy or lose his supporters. But they have to demand it.

My stand is not political. It is for the spiritual well-being of our country and all my human family living here. I do not need Likes or affirmation, I do not fear disagreement, nor will I engage in a debate. I never considered what I might gain from this post because it’s not about me. I didn’t consider what I might lose because it doesn’t matter. Except relationships. I want to keep those. What I did consider is whether the many voices that matter to me would approve of my silence. Voices like my neighbor, the Voice inside me, my future grandchildren. And Fred Rogers. My spirit discerned they would not approve of my silence. So it is on this sacred sawdust pile that Jeff Albert and Jeff Albert Sculpture takes a stand against racism and white supremacy, and the statement made by my president. Not to hate him, or to destroy him, but for him to change.

I wish everyone Peace and Joy... and much Love...and know that I recognize the spark of divine Presence in each and every one of you,

Jeff

Sculptor’s poem

(Originally published on my Facebook page May 21, 2019)

Speak your truth, with kindness-but unwavering

(Originally published on my Facebook page May 13, 2019)

“Speak your truth, with kindness- but unwavering.”

A very wise soul gave that advice to me during a difficult time of growth, one filled with surrender, defiance, discovery and pain. A time of saying who I was, what I believed, what I needed, and what I wouldn't tolerate. A time of finding my voice.

My visual mind immediately pictured a leaf, with “kindness” written on one half, “unwavering” written on the other, and “my truth” as the stem running through the center. I carved my mental leaf out of ebony wood and wear it on a cord around my neck every day as a reminder to respond rather than react to repercussions.

When you find your voice, and speak your truth, there are always repercussions. Whether explosive like an argument, or subtle like a millisecond frown, other people's reaction can invoke hurt, anger, shame, or a desire to retreat.

I still don't always get it right, but when I do, being kind helps me to be patient and ready to listen. It focuses the discussion on the issue and not how I spoke. And not wavering helps me to be strong. It doesn’t always mean unafraid, nor does it mean not compromising. It just means not compromising my value. This idea has been life affirming- in my relationships, my art, and how I present myself to the world.

I am beginning to recreate my leaf and send them out into the world, because I know there are others who are finding their voice and maybe needing a reminder to speak their truth, with kindness- but unwavering.

Peace and Joy… and strong kindness,

Jeff

Two gifts

(Originally published on my Facebook page March 28, 2019)

Yesterday I took my “studio assistant,” Denver, for a walk through some woods near my home. At the edge of a field I received a gift, given freely by an unknown giver who used white stones to create a heart and peace symbol. I gave thanks, took a quick picture and moved on. This morning as I looked at the photo, I noticed a second gift. At the exact brief moment I was there, the late afternoon sun had shone on a single flower and cast a shadow that looked like a dove. To both givers, I thank you.

May I give good gifts.

Peace and Joy...and Good Gifts,

Jeff

Constantin brancusi & the essence oF things

(Originally published on my Facebook page on February 19, 2019)

One of my favorite sculptors, Constantin Bracusi, was born this date in Romania in 1876. While I like his work, I am more drawn to his vision. He observed, “What is real is not the external form, but the essence of things.” In describing a fish, he said if he made fins and eyes and scales, he would arrest its movement, adding, “I want just the flash of its spirit.”

His words challenge me as a sculptor, but they challenge my spirituality even more deeply. He expressed what I tried to see as a Social Worker and mirror my Quaker faith tradition of seeking that of the Divine in everyone.

When I vacuum the sawdust from my hair (yes, literally) and venture beyond the cocoon of my studio to walk around in the world with other human souls, I often forget how to see. I might as well have sawdust in my eyes. When I notice hair, clothing, status or even behavior, I know I am only seeing the external form. It takes real practice and intention for me to see the true Essence of others. Or myself.

Brancusi described this vision about his sculpture work. A long time ago, another well known woodworker talked about this in his second career work as well. In honor of both of them today, I will try to see the true Essence of those I meet, of myself, and especially to envision the beautiful, shining, pure and true Essence of all of you who support and encourage me.

Peace and Joy,

Jeff

A sculptor’s dream

(Originally published on my Facebook page December 24, 2018)

Late one Christmas Eve a wood sculptor put away his tools and slept. He dreamed of creating his only masterpiece and putting it in the village square. Upon seeing his sculpture the people in his dream saw clearly and fully that all are connected, hurting, and shining vessels of the divine. And so, the people in his dream began to live a new form of kindness. Upon waking in the morning, the sculptor arose, went to his workbench and began sharpening his tools again.

Christmas Peace and Joy,

Jeff

Georgia is on my mind today

(Originally published on my Facebook page November 15, 2018)

Georgia Is On My Mind Today

Georgia O’Keeffe that is, because she was born this day. When I was about 12 years old, on a summer morning, I declared to myself that Georgia O’Keeffe was my favorite artist. I had seen one of her paintings on the cover of a Reader’s Digest magazine, and there was something in the way she painted that smooth white bone with mountains in the distance that captured my heart.

Of course, I didn't tell anyone she was my favorite artist. My friends spoke of their favorite quarterbacks but never a favorite artist, so I didn't talk about it either. It would be years before I learned more about O’Keeffe, and decades before I dared think of myself as an artist. But something real and lasting happened that morning, something that happens more often than we realize. Constantly, sparks are ignited in the hearts of children, even if they smolder for decades before fully becoming a flame. And sadly, too many of those sparks are drowned out by one form of cold water or another.

So today, on her birthday, I give thanks for Georgia O'Keeffe. I am grateful for her art, her quotes, her spirit and her life. I am grateful that she was a petite, genteel, independent headstrong firebrand, ahead of her time and timeless. And I am grateful that on a summer day decades ago, one of her paintings printed on a magazine cover ignited something in a boy’s heart.

Happy Birthday, Georgia!

Peace and Joy,

Jeff

Salvation, RESURRECTION, communion 2015

(Originally published on my Facebook page October 21, 2018)

Salvation, Resurrection, Communion 2015

I reached for an oddly shaped brown shell in the wet sand, instead finding wings matted together by sea water. Saddened, I wondered how this goddess of the air could have fallen prey to the ocean waves. In my hand cup the wind must have dried her delicate wings enough to separate and tremble in the breeze. When another gust turned over her body, I secretly pretended it was a sign of life. With breath and fingertips I gently cleaned the ocean dust from her wings to see her true beauty. Movement, must be the wind again. And again.

I carried her back to show my wife, Debbie, and with a six-year old’s certainty declared, “I think she’s alive.” In Debbie’s eyes I saw a bit of doubt and a greater desire not to see me hurt. When I fully shielded her from the very wind she previously rode to flutter by, this shell boldly sat upright and curtsied.

She wouldn’t leave my hand. We talked silently for a few minutes, and her name was Beatrix. I didn’t name her, that’s what it was. I tried to release her to the tall sea grass behind our chairs but she wasn’t ready for that, so I took her back to our temporary home, on but not in my hand.

Inside, she still clung to me, walking backwards when I tried to move her to paper or furniture. I had to leave her for a while for dinner, but she waited and took her place again when I returned. Assuming she needed it, I put water in my palm and watched in awe, like witnessing birth, as she uncurled a long tongue and drank.

A butterfly named Beatrix drank water from my palm.

Her world was outside. It was evening. We expressed our mutual gratitude for saving something in each other and agreed we were always joined. I took her to a nearby planter with a slow water drip and released her onto a leaf. She was gone the next morning.

Three years ago today, it really happened.

The day the music died

(Originally published on my Facebook page October 12, 2018)

Twenty-one years ago today a small plane fell from the sky and John Denver was gone. When I heard the news the next day, I grieved twice, once for the loss of someone who had saved my life, and once for the missed opportunity to ever thank him. I know that sounds extreme.

From mid-teens to early twenties, depression visited me frequently and declared us best friends. Typical teen issues, losses and other events took a heavy toll. I had great family and friends. (Thanks!) And religious faith, but those words soon became shop-worn. I looked outward and inward, and the only pictures I saw were confusing, sad, scary and lonely.

Then one day, from a holy 8-track tape player, came a clear and joyful voice:

“And oh, I love the life within me,

I feel a part of everything I see.

And oh, I love the life around me,

A part of everything is here in me.”

And I heard: “Rejoicing in the differences, there’s no one just like me.” And most importantly, I heard, “Can you understand the need to carry on?”

There. There it was. John Denver was singing directly to me. The space between that 8-track speaker and my soul became sacred space. I became a believer that somewhere in the world joy still existed. John Denver had witnessed it, and his smile and music testified to it. I believed that maybe one day I too could feel joy again, and rejoice in being different, and through his music I slowly began to understand the need to carry on.

I am far from the only person who survived hard times through the music of this very imperfect man who fought his own demons. And I know there are other vocal artist who have had the same effect on people.

So today, I gratefully remember John Denver. I remember Sunshine, Peace and Joy. And I remember learning there is always the need to carry on.

Peace and Joy!!!

Jeff

“Exposed”

(Originally published on my Facebook page September 12, 2018)

“Exposed"

Today I share a new sculpture, “Exposed” that is the most emotional piece I have created, so it comes with a warning. If you have a history of PTSD, abuse or emotional trauma, please skip this post unless you can read it while being protective and gentle with yourself.

It began simply as gentle curves based on a graceful neck and collarbone, but as I carved the neck, it looked so vulnerable, so exposed. My thoughts flowed, and that’s when the magic happened- physically it was in my hands, but creatively, totally out of my hands. Four straight hours later, the rough basic design was formed, and my mind was in a foggy swirl around concepts of the throat and exposure.

As an introvert, I know about feeling exposed. Our life needs of food, water and air pass through the throat. Physically one of the most vulnerable parts of the body, the throat holds one of our most powerful forces, our voice. The voice is such a powerful weapon for the powerless that it causes the most fear in the hearts of those with the most physical, emotional, political, financial and religious power. The most powerful have always tried to silence or control the voices of the powerless, dictating who may speak, vote, learn, where they may go, sit, eat, and what kind of art they may create. “Don’t express. And especially-don’t tell.” Don’t tell. I thought of all who have been exposed, physically and emotionally, without their consent, and then told not to tell- the victims of sexual assault and abuse. I started working on this sculpture in the midst of the #Me2 Movement, and I finished it the week news broke that 1,000 minors were sexually abused by 300 clergy over decades. And it was covered up. And now it is exposed.

Especially for children and adolescents, whose brains are still developing, abuse permanently changes the way their brains grow. Permanently. Forever. For most, their sense of safety is never the same as others. They live with imaginary targets on their backs that they try to rip off again and again.

I respond to this as a parent. I respond as a social worker, who saw the effects of childhood abuse in the eyes, tears and shaking bodies of even elderly adults. More than this, here it comes, I respond to this as a victim. I was a male 14 year old victim of sexual abuse from a non-relative. No, I should NOT have known better, even at that age. No, it was NOT my fault. And No, you may not ask me about it. (Yes, I’m ok.)

So why would I, a very private introvert, share something so private with the world? Because I can. Because what should have been covered was exposed without my consent, and what should have been exposed was kept covered. Because the shame I carried for decades was not mine, it belonged to my predator abuser. Because I am the 1 out of 6 males who was abused. Because I know that in a room of 12 men, 2 were victims. And because I want to use “Exposed” and this post somehow to offer healing to others, including female victims.

As you process this, my greatest hope and deepest prayer in these divisive times is that you will remember today, and every single day, what is best expressed by Carrie Newcomer in a yet unreleased song, “That’s the Way These Things Go.” (Gratefully used with Carrie Newcomer’s permission.)

“Be kind to everyone you meet, No matter what you see on the street, You don’t know what people live down deep.”

Peace and Joy,

Jeff

But what about the joy?

(Originally published on my Facebook page June 10, 2018 and first published on May 30, 2018 by One of a Kind Gallery, LLC.)

Film director Tim Burton said “Anybody with artistic ambitions is always trying to reconnect with the way they saw things as a child.”

I’m never surprised when an artist reveals that some small childhood experience was a sparking point for their artistic interest. For me it was finding a box of tissue under the seat of our family station wagon. On the bottom of the box was printed a photograph of a bald eagle plaque and some woodcarving tools. The chisels and gouges looked nothing like my pocket knife, and they somehow held the magical ability to carve this magnificent eagle. I bombarded my parents with questions like, “How did they do that?” “Where do you get those tools.” And most importantly, “Can I get some?” A few months later, on my birthday, I became a wood carver.

Even in my young mind, woodcarving was a craft and not real art. Artist were those rare and lucky people who were born knowing how to draw and paint, and although I loved to do that as a child, by late elementary school I had learned my adult lesson- Making art wasn't for your own joy, others decide what it's worth, and shame on you if you make something that is not good. So I stopped. Thankfully, since I didn't see carving as real art, I kept a hand in it throughout most of my life.

In later adulthood, as the artist in me reawakened, I transitioned to rotary carving tools to help achieve the curves and flowing lines of my own style that was emerging. A woodcarver purist might say it's cheating, but I say I didn't know there were rules, and that I would use an old egg beater if it produced the effect I was seeking.

I have been overwhelmed by the support, encouragement and downright love I have felt from most fellow artist, and I wish 1000 Georgia O’Keeffe blessings upon them. Yet, as I watch critics, business, wealth and academia interact with and sometimes infect art, I see the same ego, shame, and fear issues that persuaded me to abandon my box of 64 crayons with the built-in sharpener when I was a child. And I sit broken-hearted and ask, “But what about the joy?”

Maybe I'm too sensitive. And maybe I’m venting because I have seen the battles waged between craft and art, between sculpture and painting, and even the shaming by those (insert your favorite curse word here) who dare to view wood as an inferior medium. And when it gets too serious, too sad, too adult, the beauty is that I still want to run away to my childhood room… and smell Play-Doh.

Although I haven't done actual research, my observation tells me that about 80% of all the art in our culture is produced by tiny hands who haven't reached their 8th birthday, another 10% by those 70 and over, and only 10% by the rest of us. And the latter group contains not only professional artists but all those who returned to art as part of some form of treatment or recovery. In other words, most art is produced by people who don't care what other people think, and they do it for joy! Picasso expertly summarize my whole point in one sentence when he said, “Every child is born an artist, the problem is to remain one once they grew up.” Amen.

I'm one of the lucky ones. Although I still struggle mightily, I am making my way back to my artist child.

So, to everyone reading this who “isn't an artist” my suggestion, my request, my take-you-by-the-shoulders-and-shake-you-’til-you-listen plea is to go to your local department store. To the kid’s section. To the arts and crafts isle. Buy a $5.00 kit, the messier the better. Go home, pull down the shades if you want, lock the doors if you must. Open the box, touch and smell the materials. And play.