Back in the waning days of Heron Dance as a print publication, I introduced the fictional private journal of Archibald Campbell, wild artist. It generated both the strongest positive and negative reaction of any of my work over the last thirty years. The problem in the eyes of more than a few was that Archibald was prone to erotic misadventures with wild women, including with his nude models. All in all, I thought it was my strongest work. There’s more background on my Archibald stories here.
For the next little while, I think I’ll explore Archibald’s more recent journal entries. He is, after all, now eighty and less inclined toward chaos. His journal entries show us journaling in action. Archibald looks back on his life as a younger artist, and records his thoughts on success and failure, on joy and tragedy, and reflects on his current life, still living in a tiny, remote cabin back in the woods, having found a degree of peace and harmony with who he is and who he could have been.
Here's an example.
. . .
What follows is one of Archibald's recent journal entries — a record of a night, an owl, and the question of how any of it can be caught in paint.
Journal entry, November 19
Deep in dreamworld, an owl called from the trees above me. I’ve been painting owls over and over these last couple of weeks – a hundred times, three hundred times? – and as I woke up thought at first that my preoccupation had forced its way into my sleep, as often seems to happen. But then, as I lie half-awake in the darkness, came the resounding hoo-h'HOO-hoo-hoo of an owl no more than fifty feet away. It was a booming sound, penetrating the rustling of beech leaves stirred by the fall wind. A chill ran down my spine, partly owl, partly the encroaching cold of the night and the changing season. I got up, threw a log on coals in the woodstove and sat in the darkness.
As I closed my eyes and searched my imagination for a way to capture that haunting call in a painting, it hooted again. Its wild beauty, its solitude – solitude not loneliness – a predator that strikes fear in the shadowy night world of mice and moles. How does an artist capture that?
I grabbed my journal, a cup of water and some watercolors. With the owl hooting every few minutes in the background, it is time to try yet again.
. . .
Archibald’s journal notes arrive like weather: brief, exact, indifferent to the reader's comfort.
Many of his introspections are inspired by the ancient Taoist hermits of the Tang dynasty — voices from remote Chinese mountains that spoke of the treasure to be found in solitude in nature.
