All of Us In All of This
There is so much to say.
A lot can happen if you spend time away from screens. People don’t seem crazy, you’re not afraid of dying, some work gets done, and what is important returns like the animal you can’t seem to drive away.
Here is a recap.
This year started with an acceptance into the OPA National show. After that I was selected for the Summer Salon, and the Eastern Regional to close out the main shows of the year. There was an award from the monthly Plein Air Magazine competition and an award at the OPA National show. The OPA shows are necessary and the recognitions are truly humbling, but the end of the year, November, would top them all.
Where I come from, “art” is something small that you leave behind in grade school. It is not encouraged or even discussed. “Painting” obviously refers to painting walls in a home remodel or new construction. I have no idea how or where I learned to love pictures and paintings as a boy, but I did. There were two pictures, I suppose, that we did have - both reproductions from Home Interiors, I believe. An elderly man sat at a simple table, hands together in prayer over a simple meal. It was an image of faith found in many, many homes across the region, I’m sure. There was also an image of a man and woman standing praying in a field - a reproduction of a well-known painting, I’m sure.
That was about it. Votive cups, sconces, mirrors, swags, - these things were on our paneling-clad walls. It was the same almost everywhere. I saw oil paintings in school books only. Mostly of a historical nature.
As a boy, I would leave the house, walk across the road, open and walk through a gate, close it behind me, and walk by the barn and into the field. Some days I would go over the old railroad (Civil War era) to the lower part of the field and just sit in the tall, tan grass. Other times I would head over to the pond just yards away, but most often I would keep walking to the creek.
Once there, I would lose track of time. Where did these rocks come from? How old?
Babbling water.
Twigs, branches, leaves - some stuck, some floating - crawdads, buzzards.
Minnows flash.
Brown, green, and blue beneath the water. Rusty reds, earthy yellows.
Debris.
November was magic. No - it was something more real. October would begin to whisper of change, but November always reminded my of who I was. The tiny, half-pinky-nail-sized flower that I would see as I followed the stem of golden brown grass (sedge?) down to ground level was not overlooked. I saw it. I was the only human who ever would. I follow the stem to the top to see the inflorescence ever so gently waving with the breeze and speak to myself aloud, “I see you too.” There was a Teacher present leading me to see all of us in all of this. The individual in the mass, the hidden and the hiding, that which blooms at my feet, the verse and chorus of the waving grass, the whitetail’s fear - My eyes saw only the part, but my heart saw them all.
The wind would pick up. The sound of dried leaves through the air, so softly clattering against limbs. (The Japanese or Scandinavians would have a single word for it.) Something swirled in the dark woods across the creek. Deer? Squirrel?
I would stand in the field, hair blowing sideways, eyes clear, and look into the woods and feel as if - it’s very difficult to articulate - as if all of Life, all of time was present in those few moments, as if there was a bubble created where all things were present and time became as nothing - an eternal moment where someone clapped my being in their hands and wordlessly commanded my complete attention.
What does one do when they suddenly become aware of Life writ large? The Presence across the creek in the woods seemed to be the same One in the tiny flower, waving grass, changing clouds, reflections on the pond, the brim’s cautious eye, and the whitetail’s fear.
That is really the key to all that would come after. In nature, I didn’t sense forces. I sensed a Person. Not just another person, but a person who knew me in ways I can’t know anything. Terrifying. Magnetic. Beyond words. One-Who-Dwells-In-Silence.
Fast forward.
I waste my time at college. I have a useless degree. Never used it. Would have been much better served by just getting a job. I emerge from college just as small as lost as I ever was, except that I liked myself very little. I had no purpose. The money game was shallow to me, albeit necessary.
Drift.
More alone.
Useless jobs. I could have learned a lot from these times, but I had no guide, no goal. No purpose. I was unconnected to everything. I knew nothing except that human life was meant for more.
I didn’t like myself at all, I had a nothing and nowhere job, and no one to walk with. At some point I cried myself to sleep while saying to God something along the lines of “just show me what you want me to do with my life. I don’t care if I’m single forever. Just be here.” Tears dry on my temples.
The next morning a cousin who worked at the school called me. She excitedly said something about meeting someone - a teacher - “I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me sooner…”
Long story short, I met my wife standing in the doorway of a high school Spanish class. I don’t know why she has stayed with me (Seriously. No kidding.). But if there is a true thing written here it is this:
If I appear to be standing, it is because my two parents are my legs and my wife is my spine. I should have been that featureless pile of flesh and fur that you drive over on your way somewhere else, but I am not.
I begin with all of this not-art stuff because it is who I am. I am not painting. I am not art. Art is not how I “identify.” It wasn’t painting that saved me from myself. It was love. Love believed that I would provide for us. Love hoped for a home and children. Love saw my weaknesses and lent me her strength. Love stayed when all others fled. Love rejoiced when all others gawked. And when I decided to (FINALLY) engage in my desire to learn more about painting, love said, “okay.” When I’d spend money we didn’t have, when I’d spend more time with art supplies than with her, she endured disappointment with patience.
All of those accolades in the black section at the top of this website - all of them are because love held me up.
My parents (whose endurance - if typed out - would fill years), my wife, and Christ.
Paths.
I realize that belief (actual weighed, considered belief) in the Resurrection is crazy. So many people tell me how the Jesus story is just another version of stories of past gods, or how stupid I must be to believe in a fairy wizard in the sky, how Jesus will pass into history just like other figures, or how science explains everything. Say you are a Christian and you will find that people put you into a very little box that they think they know well. You will become less interesting, less intelligent, and a little disappointing.
And strong.
And independent.
And clear.
And fearless.
Purposed.
Contented.
Whole.
Enter November.
I get into a show in Sheridan, Wyoming, and stand in a place of my teenage dreams - my heart expanding to fill the windy space. I win best of show. I use T. Allen Lawson’s personal maps of the area to drive around on roads he has highlighted for himself. Seriously. I did that. Windows down.
If someone would have pointed to the lump of flesh that was Seth in 2010 and said to you, “In just over 10 years, this one will win awards, be asked to teach at an atelier, and have his work collected by professional artists” you would have immediately and greedily bet your life savings against me. I would have done the same thing. I’m not afraid to type it here because I know of just how little of me is actually responsible.
But those things did come to pass. My parents helped me stand, my wife stood me up straight, and Christ filled me with blood and breath. All of my home - the field, the creek, the woods, the fine dust from the horseshoe pit and the lights strung between trees at my grandmother’s house, black walnuts and dirt roads - all of my parents’ endless giving - all of my wife’s love - - -
all of this in all of me - in all of US - just like the field said it was.
And so it is, that whatever recognition I receive, the name should read Seth Tummins et al.
That is really all I have to say. What have I said? Not much maybe, but I am thankful to write it down nevertheless.
The date for this post will read November 10th. My birthday.
Let the leaves so softly clatter down.
Literally Unbelievable. Unless you know Tim Lawson.