Partisan feelings

My brother was in town last weekend, so we took a leaf-viewing drive up into the mountains, first walking the Boreal Life Trail at the Paul Smiths VIC, then meandering up above Lake Placid on John Brown's Road. The day was sunny and cool, and the views all one could hope for, up behind the ski jumps looking east toward the Cascade Pass. As I had never visited the John Brown Farm, I took the chance to stop in for a moment.

The bearded abolitionist of my high school civics book (in life-size bronze) greeted me by the entryway--one arm sheltering an African American child, and looking out over the many-colored hills. His eyes hold a terrible purpose; you can see in them the bloody partisan night raids of "Bleeding Kansas," the armed insurrectionist, captured and brought to trial for treason by then US Army Colonel Robert E. Lee at Harpers Ferry.

Brown inspires in me very mixed feelings. One must admire those who are willing to give their life in a cause. But the willingness to take life for a cause? That gives me pause. Particularly at a time when political temperatures are rising to a boil.

Brian Mann, in the In Box blog, has been tracking some of the hotter end of politics, noting a column this week by John L. Perry, suggesting that a military coup may be the only way to preserve the nation. And in reply to my Listening Post entry about the "American character," an old friend maintained that "As an issue, abortion is the slavery of the 21st century." Even shaving a few points off for hyperbole, when I look at the statue of John Brown, and remember the legacy of slaughter and ruin it took to resolve the issue of slavery, I have to hope my friend is wrong about that.

A mountain view

There could be a whole subspecialty of psychology that focuses on the images people choose to adorn the desktops of their computers. I tend to pick paintings. For the last few months, in idle moments, I have rested my eyes on a Rockwell Kent rendition of his AuSable home, farm and studio, Asgaard. The view is across a long meadow to the barns, which are well removed from the house. Both are up against the shoulder of forested hills that rise up into the soft signature lines of Adirondack peaks. The foreground is in cloudshadow, deep green peppered with clover in bloom. The midground is flooded with sun, lambent upon the tidy miniature white barns and their lesser satellite, the home. Behind them the deep green returns, going up into dappled hills and shadowed summits. The sky is mostly overcast, with sun rays striking through.

One of the satisfactions of the piece is in its unmistakability--this is one place, in one moment, and nowhere else. And the way the landscape dominates the works of man should be pleasing to one of modest demeanor, but the way those works shine out in the sun speaks also of love and pride of hand. The foreground is dimmed to lead the eye on, the background soft to draw the eye down. The farmstead is a buttery island of work well done and rest well deserved.