My Name Is Asher Lev
With deep apologies to, and deeper appreciation for, the work of the late Chaim Potok, who once seemed to walk among us with a strange little miner's hat, its tiny flickering lamp illuminating hidden rooms of the heart and revealing dust-covered secrets tucked into odd corners of dark corridors of the mind . . .
My name is Asher Lev, the Asher Lev. The artist. Here is some of my art. Strong words are being written and spoken. I am a traitor, an apostate, a self-hater, an inflictor of shame. I am a mocker of sacred concepts, a blasphemous manipulator of revered models and forms. I am none of those things; or, on another hand, I am all of them.
On many, no, most, mornings, the sisters, Grace, Love, and Beauty, drop in to share a small breakfast. We are warmed by the sun of any season, and comforted with, especially in winter, lap robes of civility, insight, and mutual admiration. The sisters, always all three joined in movement, never fail to ring for admittance.
Chaos, on some off-days, comes crashing through the doorway, splintering all around him, kicking over the open paint cans, and oblivious to the destruction, the Technicolor rainbow of slow-drying shoeprints arcing over polished and worn oak flooring, the gape-mouthed awe, trailing in his erratic wake. Those mornings, the sisters timidly knock on the side of what remains of a doorframe, and peek hesitantly and quickly - like kittens, curious and cautious - around a corner to determine if anyone left inside the cramped rooms of spare furnishings has been left alive. Or sane.
The occasional afternoon tea is a favored time for Despair to seize an opening and arrive, unbidden, and determined to show off his most recent and most vicious accomplishments. Drawing bck the curtain of his portable traveling shadowbox, he giggles and delights at the parade of depravity, horror, calamity, and catastrophe that he has visited upon his chosen targets, his unwitting and unwilling victims. Most times, I am on to his game, and refuse to play; every so often he catches me out, though, and I carry the images of his little scenes in my head for too long a time.
But, all of this, and more, is what goes into my art; I am compelled to capture all of it - the good, the bad, the simply gorgeous, the ugly, the pure, the deformed, the uplifting, the degrading, the light, the darkness - the totality of the human experience.
If that makes me at once demonic and divine, so be it. Aren't we all? Aren't those opposing elements part of, two aspects of, the same elemental force? We mere humans try to assign one set of behaviors, events and ideas to Ribbono Shel Olom, the Master of the Universe, and their counterpoint elements to the Other Side, the Mitra Achra. No, no, no, these are simply examples of how limited our stunted brains really really are.
Creation was and is both demonic and divine; creativity is both divine and demonic. Might it be he artist's purpose to find balance in these unbalanced forces? Seeds must be sown everywhere. Only some will bear fruit. But there would not be the fruit from the few had the many not been sown.
My name is Asher Lev, the Asher Lev. The artist. Traitor, apostate, self-hater, shamer, mocker, and manipulator. I am all of these and none of these. Now, it is time for me to don my miner's hat and walk among you. Here is some of my art.
Those who visit with some frequency know that I am not really Asher Lev; neither am I another Chaim Potok. But there are days when I think I understand - a little - of what they were feeling and saying.
And so it is that what masquerades in an assemblage of blogs as vignettes of the supply chain universe is really a collection of observations about life as it is lived in actuality, not in a make-believe world of predetermined, dare we say predestined, actions and outcomes. Life challenged by the need to find balance among its intrinsic divine and demonic forces.
Life limned and drawn in all of its splendor and decay. Opaquely cloaked in details and minutia of business dynamics and arcane matters of logistics and allied mysteries. And the writer appearing to, at some times, defame the sacred or exalt the profane.
It may be a conceit, but I think that Rabbi Potok, the writer and painter, and his favorite creation, Asher Lev, would get it. Now I must put on my tiny miner's headgear and walk among you. Here is some of my art.
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