VARIATIONS: My
Journal
By Mark Philip Stone
This
series of seventy-one cards, each one representing a single element from the
original award-winning artwork1 MY JOURNAL2 (seen on the
cover) from the VARIATIONS3 series by Mark Philip Stone, is offered
as an analysis of this complex graphic.
Each page reproduces a hanging card in sequence from the original. The
same information, in abbreviated form is also presented as a series of
postcards. Each postcard also contains
a small preview of the next hanging card, as a stamp. In the work MY JOURNAL the cards are arranged and dated as if
they were calendar journal entries. I
will do my best in the space allotted by these pages to explain the life behind
each journal entry and the evolution of this single work.
You
may also view this work online at www.spiritcrow.com.
________
1
Washington
Square Outdoor Art Exhibit, 2004
2
The
first bound journal entry was made June 1, 1976
3
The
VARIATIONS series was conceived while spending “A Day in the Field” on August
24, 1992, Les Belles Lettres Series XI – An Autumn Day in the Field, by Mark
Pilipski, published by Markov Press, box 561, Clifton, NJ 07012 (1997)
2-11-96
A quiet
morning reading Brassai’s “Miller”;
then bagels and the NYT. (New York Times.) Work this afternoon at a health fair. Conceived this idea.
I’m not sure what causes
my fascination with Paris between the wars yet Brassaï’s photos, aside from
being wonderfully composed, provide visual insight to this era. I think I admire Henry Miller not as a
writer but as a lover of Anais Nin (I wonder if we had been born in different
years, would Anais and I be lovers.)
Miller’s vibrancy, joie de vivre, and ego provide a sample of what is
possible for the artist; initially under any circumstance. As is my habit I spend Sunday mornings with
fresh bagels and the New York Times. I
was scheduled to work representing Union Hospital at a public health fair this
afternoon. While continuing to read
the Times in between patients queued for free pulmonary function tests, I
conceived the idea for the VARIATIONS piece now called MY JOURNAL. Will it be
viewed as text or art; literature or graphic?
Maybe it is both.
2-12-96
Up
early. Watched Jupiter rise, bright in
the clear winter sky.
Jupiter and Io –
Correggio c.1532
I had already moved into the atelier in
Passaic and was working on an oils copy of a painting by Correggio. The planet Jupiter rose early in the
morning sky. I viewed this as a sign
of good fortune, despite my declining enthusiasm. The movement of the planets and the recognition of the
constellations are a pastime of mine.
As a child, I would camp out of the house in the little open gravel pit
and view the stars until I drifted off to sleep. The smoke-like nature of Jupiter (Jupiter approached Io as a
cloud) echoed my feelings about myself; I was turning into smoke, dissolving my
identity to rebuild my fractured self as a whole person. The erotic drive, the Freudian libido,
seemed to be something I could recognize as my own; not given to me from
without but generated by my own being from within.
I guess I was searching
for a way to avoid the impending heartache of separation, as I ran across this
quote. Maybe, I was looking for
something to justify my already decided course. I recalled my Uncle Benny (Bruno Czerkas) counseling me, as I
sought advice while debating the course of my first marriage. He asked, “Why are you sitting here talking
to me? You’ve already made up your
mind.” At the time I didn’t realize
that I had made up my mind. My course
was set. This simple quote reminded me
that without taking a risk, one cannot pursue one’s dreams. Even though I understand that some risks
are indeed fatal; to live a life without risk is not to live at all. To live a life freely chosen that is not
your own is to live in Hell. This led
to a rather lengthy letter/essay entitled “Letter From the Gates of Hell” on
the heels of an epiphany.
2-14-96
Paris!
Chorioplexus
Hemorrhage
Profound sadness and
confusion
Dinner and Dessert
Paris! The
pressures of my emotional upset have begun to push me to run away. I noticed this tendency during my first
divorce from Maria. I had vivid dreams
of sailing away; around the world.
I’ve never seen Paris. I
fantasize about haunting the alleys of Montmarte. Work at the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit was exceptionally
trying, today. A young mother with placenta
previa hemorrhaged and, after a coordinated effort by mother and staff,
delivered a healthy baby. My problems
seem trivial in the face of life or death events. Sometimes deadly events produce life.
This evening, after a regularly
scheduled appointment with a marriage counselor, Marianne and I decided that we
would have far more fun going out to dinner, rather than spending the money on
counseling. We treated ourselves to a
good meal and finished the evening with glorious desserts at the Café St.
Honoré.
I know a hangover is
caused by the congeners remaining within the bloodstream. This one seems to have a bit of heartache
attached to it. My dreams were vivid
and of the country. I’m trying to purchase
the property once owned by my parents in the little town of Westbrookville, New
York. My fondest memories, indeed my
only fond memories of childhood are centered there. I know this is an impossible dream. I, simply, can’t afford the purchase price. Although, oddly enough, the struggle to
raise the required finances acts as a diversion from my inner turmoil. I recalled climbing into the small chicken
coop through a trapdoor I’d built in the side of the shed. Within my secret laboratory I worked on an
inductance coil from a crystal radio set that I found in the barn. It was an antique, even then. I think I still have this coil packed
somewhere in a box.