the ephemeral joys of childhood

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the ephemeral joys of childhood

art - photography -writing

by

David Treece

december 2010

Adavio



the ephemeral joys of childhood

A collection of artwork, photography and writings by David Treece. This book is limited to an edition of two and was produced as a final project basedon an assignment given by writer and Professor, Carolyn Steinhoff for a

course titled “Colloquium” at Lehman College during the fall semester of 2010. This book was made using 400 Series Strathmore 6” x 8” Drawingmedium 80 lb. paper and was printed with an HP Photosmart 2610 printer using Microsoft Publisher. The fonts used for this book is Modern No. 20.The initial concept and idea for this book was born while waiting for a busin the Bronx.

waiting for you

i am lostin the wetness of this city

as street lights make rain drops glitter in the crowded roughness of passengers

i’m singing a song and speaking in tongues these voices echo words I hear

a cell phone [ding-a-ling] rings in my ear i color this noise inside my head

while rhythmic rhymes dance in my headi’m bounced around tossed side to side

people get onpeople get off

the sudden stops and screeching of brakesfare box beats the clinking of change

bus carriage comes down spits out its air no meaning to the magic that plays in my mindas the percussion of pot holes vibrate my brain



A Day at The Opera

Opera glasses are some of the oldest binocular designs

dating back to the early days of opera, where opera-goersseated in the rear of an opera hall or in one of the balcony

or box seats wanted a close-up view of the performers and

stage scenery.

http://www.opticsplanet.net/bintheat.html

http://www.opticsplanet.net/bintheat.html



The American painter Agnes Martin once stated in regard to her minimalistlandscape paintings that only one line is necessary to depict a landscape. Everythingadditional can be evoked through the viewer‟s power of imagination. “Anything can

be painted without representation.” [1] In reality, human perception is organized insuch a way that only two defined, horizontally opposing surfaces of differentcoloration are needed on a canvas —or, according to Agnes Martin, merely a singleline on a white back-ground —to enable an association with a landscape.[2] How doimages form in our minds, before our intellectual eye? How is it that the humanmind is able to construct something that appears familiar to us out of simple,literally abstract lines or individual dots? Neuroscientists have been examining thisquestion for a long time. It can even be said that “knowledge of the illusion has noinfluence on perception”..[3] The brain is so conditioned by a mixture of experienceand expectation that it wants to discover something rational and tangible, even ininitially unfamiliar structures.[4] The same may be said for reading, writing andultimately, our own imaginations.

As an artist I created my works much like my poems without rhyme or reason, using

whatever mediums struck my fancy, painting on anything and using any materials Icould find or were available to me. When I determined I was completed with thepiece, the title I would give my piece of artwork would immediately enter my mind.The title would be a word or a group of words which came to me as I determined Ihad completed the work. More often than not, the title was how I felt about the pieceat that final moment it was created. In the event I had no feeling what so ever concerning the work, I would name it „Untitled‟. For those pieces of work concerninghow I felt about myself at the time I created them, I would give the title as„Self Portrait‟. Whoever saw this piece of artwork in the future along with the title,

was to interpret whatever they chose when viewing my works. It is this basicconcept which I have used in creating this art book.

I am aware my Metacognitve experiences (those experiences that have something todo with the current, on-going cognitive endeavor) play a large role in the productionof this art book but more so in understanding the anxiety I experienced being in anacademic setting and the insecurity I feel regarding my own artistic abilities. Thisrealization and the act of identifying this has generated difficulty for me in not only creating this work but more specifically, dealing with the emotional attachments that

are related to my academic and creative experiences. In completing this final projectI am moving closer to understanding my own learning abilities and also movingforward in overcoming those emotional barriers which may have limited me in my previous learning experiences.

1 Agnes Martin, Writings / Schriften, Dieter Schwarz, ed. (Ostfildern-Ruit: Hatje Cantz Verlag, 1998) 37.2 Birgit Jensen referred to her work Little Landscapes during a conversation with the author, which features two horizontally opposing surfaces of differentcolors (as shown in: Site 5 (2001) 68-71).3 Singer (2004) 66.4 Andreas F. Beitin Earthly Galaxies or: Straitigraphy of The Third and Fourth Dimension http://www.birgitjensen.de/beitintextengl.html



ætatis: 7 the ephemeral joys of childhood

[that period or state of being a boy] it happened

one day

boy dad

father he him his

man

son teacher

little lost boy runs from pain on concrete walks he looks down sees with blood stained shirt in bushes he hides so careful he holds the secret he keeps

proem: he is seven this twelfth child or boy number eight with his insignificance -enters that place of his fathers (dad is) wearing dirty blue work clothes seems more aware which tool works best unlike this one son who trembles (still) at the smell that is forever his fathers (memory with so much blue-blackness) now with dirty hands touching the whiteness of skin and hair this auto-body mechanic man touches tools with kinder care than with his words spoken he begins work on his son

on stage right stands a (little) boy

lost

he looks

lost



It was my first day in my new second grade class and I liked my new school teacher. Her namewas Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith gave me my very first winter coat and when I didn‟t have money for school supplies, she would often give them to me (for free).

Mrs. Smith: It‟s time for art! (Mrs. Smith hands each student a heavy piece of white paper)Mrs. Smith: Take out your crayons class, today we are going to draw our favorite animal.(David raises his hand)

Mrs. Smith: Yes, David?David: I ain‟t got crayons. Mrs. Smith: I don‟t have crayons, or I do not have crayons. We don‟t say „aint‟ David. David: I don‟t have crayons. Mrs. Smith: That‟s better David. (Mrs. Smith goes to the back of the room and opens a big metal cabinet and takes out a big box of crayolas and hands them to David)Mrs. Smith: O.K. class let‟s draw our favorite animal now.(all the children begin drawing and coloring with their crayons and a few minutes pass by)Mrs. Smith: Is everyone finished?

(Children nod their heads and some say “Yes Mrs. Smith!”) Mrs. Smith: Let‟s have our newest student show the class what he has made. David pleasecome up to the front of the class and show us what you drew.(David eagerly and excitedly takes his piece of paper to the front of the class and holds it uptowards the class)Mrs. Smith: David what is your favorite animal?David: An elephant!Mrs. Smith: That‟s a very nice picture of an elephant David, but elephants are not purple.(classroom laughs and some children say out loud “Elephants are not purple!”) Mrs. Smith: Quiet class. David, have you ever been to the zoo?

David: No Ma‟am. Mrs. Smith: Well David, elephants are not purple, they are grey. In the spring I will take theclass on a field trip to the zoo and you can see a real live elephant for yourself. Class wouldyou like that?Classroom: Yes Mrs. Smith!Mrs. Smith: David, you may return to your seat. Did anyone else choose an elephant as their favorite animal?(A girl raises her hand)Mrs. Smith: What color is your elephant Joyce?Joyce: My elephant is grey.

Mrs. Smith: Joyce please stand up and show David and the rest of the class your elephant.(Joyce stands up and shows the class her picture)Mrs. Smith: Very nice Joyce, thank you. David, the next time you draw an elephant, remem-

ber that elephants are grey and not purple.[Mrs. Smiths voice fades as one of David‟s fingers follows along the edge of the colors on hisargyle sock]



Even though I liked Mrs. Smith, my seven year old being was upset that I was corrected infront of the entire classroom, especially when it came to her critical observation of my purpleelephant. I admit this continues to happen to me whenever I am called on in a classroom situation. I have that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that no matter what the answer is or what color I am using, my teacher is going to tell me I‟m wrong. When this happens,initially I have the same reaction I did that same day, however as an adult, I‟ve learned tocontrol it. As Mrs. Smith‟s voice began to fade and I began tracing the colors of that argylepattern on my sock with my finger, I stuck my tongue out at her and before I could lift up the

top of my desk and neatly put the picture of my purple elephant away, Mrs. Smith was standingover top of me. “David, please hold your hand out and turn it up” and with a quick whack Iwas hit with a yardstick which broke in half. Mrs. Smith bent down and picked up the brokenpiece which broke on my hand, walked back to her desk and returned with a smaller ruler.“David, please hold your hand out and turn it up.” SMACK! OK, that hurt. But it didn‟t hurtenough for me to believe elephants could not be colored purple. At the end of class, I ran homecarrying the picture of my purple elephant. Even though Mrs. Smith told me there weren‟tpurple elephants, I didn‟t believe her. I‟ve always been different, that became apparent to mevery early on. I liked purple elephants and was the hillbilly kid in school. I was always the

one who didn‟t fit in. I always tried to be like my brothers all of which were older except for

one. If there was one thing I wished for when I was growing up, it was to be „regular‟. Whenyou feel and think you are „irregular‟, you wish to be regular so you fit in and don‟t stick outfrom everyone else. At the same time, when you have eight brothers and five sisters, you dowant to be different or special in some way. Being raised with thirteen other siblings is almostlike being in a classroom, at least one-half of a classroom. Perhaps a baseball team is moreappropriate since there were nine boys. But even if we were a baseball team, I would not have

fit in because I disliked baseball and was never good at it and I could never catch the ballanyway. We could not afford baseball mitts and the few times I did manage to catch the

baseball it stung my hands. It only took one time getting hit in the head with a fast ball thatcontributed to my not liking baseball. Get hit on the hand with a yardstick doesn‟t hurt too

much but get hit in the head with an object a few times and you develop a dislike for the causeof that pain. Even though Mrs. Smith told me elephants were not purple, I didn‟t believe her.I wanted to find out from someone I knew would know, my father.

words spoken too soon colors black and blue

finger paint pictures tell secrets I keep on sheets that are white with letters of black

words are not spoken

buried in pain are colors of hope



[boy runs into small house carrying a picture he drew of a purple elephant on a piece of largewhite newsprint][boy] (Yelling) Dad! Dad![boy’s mother] What are you hollering for son?

[son] I need dad![boy’s mother] He’s in the garage honey and be careful if you go out there, he’s got his truck toreup.

[boy runs out of his small house and into his father’s garage] [son] Dad, I wanna ask you something![boy’s father] Give me that wrench by your foot. [boy bends down and picks up something and hands it to his father][boy’s father throws tool back at his son hitting him in the head] [father] That’s not a God Damn wrench! You kids ain’t worth the salt in a sows tit!

In late 1966 a picture of a purple elephant was dropped onto a garage floor land-

ing face down on a pile of grease and oil by a seven year old boy. The boy ranaway. The boy became lost.

age seven

atypical boy

chase girls on playground

kissing girls

he was that type of a boy

class prince

he could not be found

he was lost



For him.

my father could build an automobile

he could

add numbers together faster than i could say them in between he smoked cigarettes

and drank coffee

he drank a lot of coffee

and smoked a lot of cigarettes

i cannot remember him without either

his clothes were always clean in the morning

but when he got home they were dirty

There is a time, a moment when everything finally comes

together.

For me. look out window

snow falls

open window

stick out tongue

catch

snowflakes

That moment is now.



ætatis: 51

anno aetatis suaeMain Entry: an·no ae·ta·tis su·ae

Pronunciation: 'ä-nO-I-"tä-tis-'sü-"I Function: foreign term

Etymology: Latin: in the (specified) year of his age

aetatisadjective (usually abbreviated as aet. or aetat)

Latin.

Of or at the age of

ae·ta·tis su·ae[ahy-tah-tis soo-ahy; Eng. ee-tey-tis soo-ee]

Latin .

in a certain year of one's age.



you are so close

like the moonand as i walk this nighti want to reach out

and touch youlike iwant to touch youand it seemseasier if i touchedthe moon



through wet windowsi look

and see

umbrellas in the air and puddles

filled with deadleaves

that swim in the street



oh how i want to laugh

just once more

just once

but the cold air

makes my words

echo back toward me

and they are trappedbehind my lips

not spoken

i do not speak

i do not want to

i am living within

myself

alone

although i am not

i am



you are a brick wall

a constructed(or even destructive)

brick walland I am trying

yes tryingto break

not break tear down brick by brick

and as one falls

you replace itagainon and on and

onit goes until

i take that brick out which you protect

so hardly that center brick

that connects all bricksand mortar no longer

fills a crack so easily andi can see into

youand you are

given a chanceto give ingive into

me



iam in youyour eyes

and i am fallingfurther and further

into them with no way to stop

or cling tothis littletime i see youand want you

i want to reach

out and touch youlike i imagine a touch

upon youand me i want

to lie nextto you



yes my venom is on you

(like white linen black with soot from this dirty city)and it is my heartthat is bleeding bled outand when my eye catches a ripple

moving across the surfaceof a river as it ejaculates into the oceanit is your skin and muscles

that i seeand want to feel

the smoothnessof youand your hair is soft and the windcatches it (blows through it)and my mind and heart and body is hungry for you

your words

spoken to menot spokenword for word



in cool white sinks

drip water

that repeats

and hollow walls

echo soundsof broken words



paper rips

easy

when words are liftedfrom it’s surface and seen



if not for my girl



David Treece1966 school picture

A Day at The OperaCentral Park NYC 1995

Treece Boys 1967 Flowers for Mother 1967Construction Paper

Flowers for Mother 1968Get Well Card

Theo ‘Red’ Treece 1966

Adavio 2010Self Portrait

When It Started ToBegin 2007 (from aseries of 68 custom made single cd covers)

Moonlight on the nightmy brother died 2007



elf Portrait 2009

ut my window 2008hotograph

the planned effect of Light2010 photograph

turn around the tragedy 2009acrylic on paper

Self Portrait 2004colored pencil on paper

the planned effect of Light

2010 photograph

waiting for the bus 2010photograph

Moulin Rouge 1998a negative photograph

Marilyn 2009coloured ink on xeroxed news-print



The Beauty of the Cross 2010

Coming in 2011 will be anunlimited editionartist book created by Adavioand distributed throughout theNYC metropolitan area and may

be found in the most interestingof places.

the ephemeral joys of childhood

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