Of Snakes and Art

Why is It He Never Looks at Me?

Why is It He Never Looks at Me?
by Gay Pogue
8" x 10"
Acrylic on canvas

In a recent conversation with Carol Barnwell, she asked me point blank, "Why do you paint snakes?" 

I referred her to this blog, but I did not have a good 10-second answer to that question.  Hmmm.

Needless to say, I have been pondering that moment with some consternation.  Here is my first attempt.

"I paint snakes because I can make them what I want them to be--serious, whimsical, religious, spiritual, sentient, or iconic."

Here they represent the human condition.  Two beings lie in the grass tete-a-tete, neither able to acknowledge the other. 

How often do I pass people by without looking at them?

Morning Prayer and Snakes

While I had already been painting snakes for some time, I was struggling with the question of whether I should devote myself 100% to snakes and let the other ideas go. I had committed to a solo show three months away so there was some urgency to resolving the issue. I had thought and prayed and discussed; still the notion of such a strange narrow focus left me unsure.

That early July morning in 2006 while visiting my sister in Russellville, Arkansas, my husband Ron and I decided to explore the local walking trail at Bona Dea Park. Before the walk we sat in the gazebo at the trail head and read morning prayer as food for our meditation and conversation during the 3 1/2 miles through the swampy bottom land below the Lake Dardenelle Dam. It fell to me to read the scriptures. The old testament lesson assigned for that day was the story of Moses raising the bronze snake on the pole in the wilderness. Considering it a sign, I could hardly read. Well, there was food for conversation!

We completed the liturgy and set off down the trail, a nice broad washed gravel trail. About a half mile in, I saw what looked like a stick lying across the path. As we got closer, I realized it was a copperhead, about 20 inches long. It lay so straight and still that I thought it was dead. As it raised its small head to look at us, I was assured it was not. We kept our distance and picked up pebbles to throw to encourage it to move on. Unfazed it continued to lie there and look at us. Two more walkers approached us from behind and we motioned for them to stop. No amount of prodding with either stones or sticks could get the critter to budge. Finally we had to walk into the bushes at the side of the trail to get around it. After we had gone about 50 feet, I turned and saw that resolute serpent make an about face and head into the underbrush.

There was not much to say after that. Snakes it would be.

A few miles on we watched a large momma turtle laying her eggs in a damp hole she had scraped in the sand beside a slow-moving stream.

Red Snake in the Grass

Where Does a Red Snake Hide?
by Gay Pogue
18" x 24"
Oil on Canvas

Snakes in the grass have plagued humanity for some time, according to Virgil, 37 BCE. A few years ago, I happened upon a virtual nest of vipers. In memory of the surrounding events or perhaps to purge the poison from my psyche, I painted several serious “Snakes in the Grass.” My favorite is “Where does a Red Snake Hide?”

I particularly enjoyed the process of knife painting that I used to execute the portrait of said snake.

The answer, of course, is “In the red grass.”

Beware red grass.

The Snake in the Grass

My Photo of a Snake at the Washington Zoo

When I was young, maybe eight or nine, my family was visiting Tante Liz who lived in the county. She had a modest home with a large front porch complete with swing. That swing was the only one I ever saw that had a seat with inner springs.

My younger brother and I would play a sort of game at Tante Liz's. One at a time, we would jump off the side of the porch, land and roll onto the thick St. Augustine grass. Then we would jump up, run back up the four or five steps and do it all over again. We had a simple childhood; it did not take much to entertain us.

That fine summer's day as we were engaged in our pastime of running in circles, I made my jump, landed on my feet and noticed a pink and brown diamond back rattlesnake of about 18 or 20 inches sitting coiled about a foot away from my bare foot. Needless to say, my return to the porch was speedier than usual.

My brother recalls Tante Liz responding to my screams by appearing with a hoe, neatly severing the snake's head from its body, and flinging the body far from the house.

I only wish that all snakes in the grass could be handled with such dispatch.

Thailand - 1993

Note: Ron is not pictured here.

My husband Ron is an Episcopal priest. Sometimes priests conduct funerals. That time the decedent’s will instructed that his ashes be scattered on the highest mountain in Thailand near Chaing Mai. Ron had held a memorial service for him in Houston earlier in the year.

Naturally, we did what the will required--journey to Thailand. We held a service on Doi Inthanon and scattered the ashes to the wind.

Of course that was not all we did. Along the way we heard stories of The Naga, a mythical sea serpent. We saw it in paintings and on buildings. And, we met real pythons.

Here you see one of our traveling companions Cecil and me dealing with our ophidiophobia by embracing the beast, or should I say, letting the beast embrace us. I clearly recall making serious eye contact with the python; my feelings toward all snakes changed in that instant. They became if not precisely love, at least to more respect than fear. You do not see my husband in any of these pictures because he insisted that he be the photographer of any close encounters with snakes.

The 1980 drawing of a two headed serpent in a swamp had no eyes on either head. Today my snakes have exaggerated eyes. It was not until I was gathering all this information into one place that I made that connection.

The photo below was taken at a later point in our trip. Having become ophidiophiles, we were attending a performance at a snake ranch, and Cecil and I could not resist yet one more opportunity to bond with our new friends.

The Birth Project

After The Dinner Party, Judy Chicago came back to Houston to organize women to embroider her images for The Birth Project.

One evening a friend and I sat on someone’s living room floor along with 15 or 20 others and listened to Judy outline her vision for The Birth Project. Her strong magnetic presence had me convinced I wanted to be a part of it all.

Then I went home to my three year old son Matthew.

He had been diagnosed as severely mentally retarded and autistic. In 1980, autism was a label that covered a wide spectrum of developmental disorders. One of his doctors made it clear that she believed one of the then prevailing theories of the causes of autism--the mother’s “coldness” toward the child. I guess my being his full time mother and nursing him for only a year was the basis for her diagnosis.

As I came to grips with the reality of his condition, I drew the image on the small piece of black paper in a sketchbook and called it my contribution to The Birth Project. I did not participate in any part of Chicago's project.

Last year I dug the image out, drew the image on the right-hand page, and sketched the small canvas you see below. I wanted to see if there was still some energy there that might help someone else working through the grief over a child that does not turn out as we had expected.

Matthew is now 30 years old. He lives in a lovely group home in Cypress, Texas with five other young men who have similar handicapping conditions. They have been together for 18 years. He is happy there and has a good life. His older brother, father, and I love him dearly and enjoy his visits with us. He relishes time spent in beautiful buildings. His favorite magazine is Architectural Digest.

The First Snake

After the dust had settled from The Dinner Party and the Embroiderer’s Guild show, I considered that perhaps I too could draw something scandalous. I distinctly remember beginning this drawing with no plan at all. I drew the bottom portion first and then let the pencil take me where it wanted. The snake just appeared. Like that. I have no idea where it came from. A Freudian analyst would have a field day.

Of course, such an image was much too strong for a preacher’s wife to exhibit, even though we lived and worked in the heart of Montrose, Houston. I put it away. That was May of 1980.

At some time in the early ‘90’s, I dug the drawing out and took it to have it framed. After what I spent on the frame, I had to hang it on the wall. By then we were living in South Houston, near the Astrodome--a somewhat more conservative environment. Needless to say, it did not receive much comment, but I had given due respect to this dark image.

The Dinner Party

Before and during the time of The Dinner Party's exhibition in Houston, my art consisted primarily of ecclesiastical embroidery. Untrained, unschooled, and from a very sheltered environment, I believed that all the artistic talent I had was executing other people’s designs in meticulous stitches. I would never have called myself an artist back then. Stretching the point, I might have called myself a fiber artist, but then they were somehow not real artists after all. Or they would have worked on stretched, gessoed canvas.

In 1979 and 1980, I was very involved with the Houston Embroiderer’s Guild. In fact, I was in charge of the logistics of the Guild Show that year.

A couple of my clergy stoles were exhibited at the University of St. Thomas along with some of Judy’s early plates.

I have scanned in the brochure of the events surrounding the exhibition of The Dinner Party in Houston. It was a big deal.

Anyone reading this who remembers things from the time is invited to leave comments.

Judy Chicago

Go to the website for Judy Chicago’s Dinner Party. Take the time to read some of the history and view some of the images.

Attending that exhibition in 1980 and being involved in some of the connected events was the real beginning of my art career.

And, why I paint snakes.

Why I Paint Snakes - Part 1

Lust
by Gay Pogue
7.5 x 7.5 inches
Gouache on paper

Why I Paint Snakes - Part 1

1) Snakes are easy to draw, just some squiggly lines.
2) People pay attention to snakes. They may love them; they may hate them; they do pay attention.
3) Since I paint mystical, magical snakes, no one can tell me whether I got them right or not.
4) Good snake stories abound.
5) I am supposed to paint snakes.

Over the next few posts, I will tell stories of catalysts to my painting snakes exclusively. Some attempt will be made to tell the story chronologically; however, I find that as I write my memories, I remember even more.

Maybe as I respond to the promptings of The Snake, she will reveal why she spurs me on to set down her sagas.