RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,136
(my own view of me?)
If you put 'smooth' under a
microscope, you immediately
see that it's actually 'rough.'
I always kept that as a personal
metaphor for life and reality.
Things are never what they
seem, and the words we've
been given to describe the
'Real' are, obviously, inadequate
for the task. Another way of
seeing this, from the Art angle,
is, for me, to observe the fade
of color and color washes over
time. What we 'think' are to be
permanent tints never are. It's
a matter of a year or two, in
time with the absorption factor
of the surface and grounds,
before the reds and oranges
become less and less vibrant,
with the other colors as well,
and eventually fade to nil.
I guess that's all 'relativity'
in its own way. And, following
suit, the rest of life now goes the
same : flexible categories and
variable designations. Like
Pilate said, 'Truth? What is
Truth?' The gift of the cosmos
to us now is that very quality.
-
Well, not so fast and hold on.
Perhaps that changeability
factor is built in, hard-wired
to us so as to progress 'society'
along. I used to shake my head
in wonder sometimes over the
things I was seeing : those old
mill guys and foundry workers.
Even my own father with all
his dedicated and steady work
on upholstery items and all
the rest. They never changed
one iota. Head down, steady
in concentration, as if they
were designing some new
human at some new human
loom. My father, and the
others, thought nothing of
using their own tools that
were already 45 years old.
There was an honesty and
a dedication, somehow, to
all the old routines. Simply
'changing' a tool wasn't done,
unless something broke or
wore out. Unchanging.
You'd never hear a Pilate
say, 'Tools? What are tools?'
as if they too were some
vapid, easily altered trick.
That was some honesty!
-
I can remember, as a young
boy, being fascinated at my
father's workbench - which
seemed massive to me. He'd
made it himself; maybe 12 feet
long, out of heavy lumber, 4x4's
and real stuff. It was rock solid,
not a wobble or wiggle to it.
There was a massive vice, and
a less massive one at the
other end, and then that less
massive one was replaced, after
a time, with an upholsterer's
button press - an odd, leverage
kind of tool, bolted in place,
vertical, about 2 feet high. It
made those fabric buttons, of
most any size, that sofas and
couches and chairs often had
in their backs - centered, or
two or three along. You'd put
some metal blank, with a backer
for sewing, in the press, and
cover it with a piece of the same
fabric as they chair was being
covered in, and leverage the
handle-press down, with some
pressure, and the bare metal
blank turned into a fabric-covered
matching button that was then
sewn into place, after some tufting
and stuff went on, sewn, around it.
He had car and motor stuff there,
all around too, and barrels for
grease, cans of oil, 'hammers a
zillion,' all different hammer faces.
My hammer lessons were always
the same story about the soft face
or the harder face having to best
match the object being hammered,
whether nail, bearing-face, or
whatever and how important it
was to be aware and have a
knowledge of that. Otherwise
the very act of hammering would
mar or ruin the surface you'd be
hammering but yet wanting
to show. Later on, in learning
of metal-working, I was always
fascinated by what were called
'hammertone' finishes, and instantly
grasped, as well, what they were. My
father had plastic face hammers,
softer and harder, regular metal
hammers, upholstery hammers,
stretchers that resembled hammers
but weren't, and much more.
I could go on. Oh how I
could go on; a lingering Dad
space memory bell is always
somehow ringing. That, for
me, is unchanging, and a
more serious life-factor than
any rules or categories or new
cars or computers ever could
be. Just proves how old and
how substantial I am. My
own view of me, I guess.
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