Caesar Boëtius van Everdingen: Pan and Syrinx (c. 1644 - c. 1652)

Gallery Notes:
The nymph Syrinx is on the run, with the forest god Pan, hidden among the dense vegetation, in hot pursuit. Van Everdingen captures the dramatic moment of the metamorphosis as Syrinx implores the river nymphs for help. They transform her into water reeds. Her right foot is already turning green. Disappointed, Pan listens to the wind playing through the tall reeds and subsequently cuts his flute from them.

"…knowing for sure only that I was DissapointingMyself again."

I am perhaps most skilled at DisappointingMyself. Oh, believe me, I remain fully capable of disappointing everyone else, but without intending to disclose even the tiniest bit of personal narcissism, I seem to be most skilled at DisappointingMyself. When I disappoint others, I first DissapointMyself. I hold myself to unrealistic standards, refusing to adjust my metrics to emerging conditions. I hold ideals more than I ever hold ideas. I frequently fail to uphold those ideals in practice. I can't seem to visualize modest ideals. What might they entail? How might I wean myself of my loftier aspirations? On my better days, I seem capable of accepting that I'm only human; on some days, barely so. Even when I set what seem like reasonable goals, I fail to achieve them.

As with any experience, coping's the essence. Anybody seems perfectly capable of stumbling into anything. Integrating that event into usable experience might require some radically different focus, such as the ability to stand meta to one’s feelings, for instance, to serve as one's own fair witness. It's damnably difficult to observe even one's slow-motion train wrecks. Perspective narrows whenever we catch ourselves in a frame. It might be that we cannot observe ourselves, however diligent our intentions, that only others can see us, though they will be influenced by all they cannot perceive from their perspectives, too. Perhaps there can be no unbiased witnesses, and whatever we experience merely misleads, so that our conclusions cannot help but misrepresent actual events. The blind leading the blind could prove to be a dramatic improvement.

My feelings serve as the final arbiter of my plotlines. If I can't know what actually happened, I can certainly feel the aftereffects of any experience. When I send myself regrets, I get different sensations than when I send myself heartfelt congratulations. I prefer those and tend to judge all feedback, even my own, against my memories of those most reassuring appreciations. I don’t even have to actually DisappointMyself to DissapointMyself sometimes. Merely failing to elicit reinforcement can serve as adequate disappointment. Even feeling hollow or aimless seems to diminish me more than sufficiently.

The Muse had insisted that I accompany her to her sister's fiftieth wedding anniversary in South Dakota. This would entail at least ten days to drive the vast distance and visit, dictating that I be away from our front porch project for nearly two weeks, just as the parts start arriving from fabrication. I agreed to do the painting and complete my work before the assembly began. This would require a lot of work to be accomplished in the early morning hours, as the blistering summer weather would allow. A day or two with late starts threw off the schedule. Delayed delivery of parts further knocked a hole in the plan. I couldn't figure out how to balance my obligations with The Muse's expectations. I felt damned whatever I chose, leaving me with only one option: DisappointingMyself.

I didn't quite find the words to mention the unspeakable. The Muse was furious, of course, and I suppose I felt just as angry with myself. She can fly, now at last-minute pricing, which will still be less than we would have spent driving. Yes, we'll miss one of our favorite experiences: days of discovering what can only be uncovered while driving together across places like Montana or Wyoming. Lord knows, we could both use some time away from The Villa, but not if leaving threatens completing our porch project, which has already seen two winters unfinished. Not if it means failing to fulfill my obligations to complete the painting. A late start yesterday morning left me roasting when the sun rose over the garage. Blinded by sweat dripping into my eyes behind my fogged sunglasses, I found myself feeling overwhelmed. Worst, I was making mistakes. I fled into the cool shade inside to hide out from myself, knowing for sure only that I was DissapointingMyself again.

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