Memories of a Dead Man
I have the memories of a dead man.
They float up from a bog, unwilling to become soil, preferring instead the light existence of wind with weight. No gentle breeze do these make. No welcome relief in summer, no prayer answered from the shade.
These come without calling and hang in the air before the mind, ragged, torn shapes of a cloud disintegrating and the slow, sideways look of one approaching with malintent.
I no longer meet their eyes. I sigh a prayer and walk right through. They belong to no one now. They are nothing — not dreams, not hopes, not memories, not pains or failures. Nothing.
One ragged form, hanging in the air like mustard gas, like garments left on a forgotten scarecrow, rose up today and offered me a way back. I looked at it like it was a stranger, like it had the wrong man, because it did.
Receiving no attention, it drifted past, and at a glance I saw a confused, confounded figure. Was it muttering to itself? Then I saw it no more, opening my laptop to peck out sentences about painting and faith.
It may be worth noting that this wispy visitor came around just as I was finishing watching a video by Mark McKenna featuring Greg Beecham (YouTube channel is The Business of Art Podcast ) — two very successful wildlife painters — where McKenna asked Beecham what he would do differently if he could.
He said he would try to meet his art heroes sooner.
With the fresh but faint aroma of old company in the air reminding me of all I’ve done wrong and and all I’ll never be,
I sent an email to George Carlson.
Hello.
My name is Seth Tummins.
I am a nobody, but I would very much like to have a conversation with you about oil painting and art.
Of course, I would love to visit your workspace.
I paint the landscape, but sometimes feel as if I’m between worlds, faltering in my efforts to take the bits of the transmission that I receive from nature and put them into the language of shapes and surface.
I heard Greg Beecham say that he regretted not reaching out to his art heroes, and I don’t want to repeat his mistake, so here I am asking.
Life is short.
-Seth
sethtummins.com
While I am unlikely to get a reply, I felt it a good thing to say I tried, especially when reminded of my failures. The past is no more. If there is a future to be had, I want to know that I did my part to shape it, holding all things lightly and giving them over to God.
I feel there is more to say about remaining connected to purpose when there seems to be no purpose, and how that should actually clarify our purpose.
How many times have we been stopped or discouraged by other voices? How many times was an opportunity to break through missed because of reminders of who we used to be or our latest failure?
For me, these cloudy companions are always around me, but I’m learning -
no -
I’m acting on what I’ve been taught.
When the fog starts to surround you, say with glad delusion,
“Today will be different.”
Then begin again.
Remember that you are alive and you still have agency in your life. Make the trip, send the email, do the color charts, introduce yourself — do something that you would want your character in a movie to do. Leave the past. Feed on the present.
Life is short.
Let’s try.
https://www.markmckennastudios.com/
As I type this at 9 pm on May 4th, 2024, millions of Christians gather in their churches, lowly lit with candlelight, as those who gather at a funeral. The floors are a beautiful disarray of rose petals and bay leaves and basil or whatever was local. Earlier today, they observed the harrowing of hades, or Christ’s descent into hell, where Christ broke the chains of death. There will be an energetic silence. These Christians await midnight, when the Resurrection will finally be celebrated with raucous joy. Know your purpose. Know your value. Let the past die. Live.