the ephemeral joys of childhood

art - photography -writing

by

David Treece
december 2010

Adavio
 the ephemeral joys of childhood
A collection of artwork, photography and writings by David Treece. This
book is limited to an edition of two and was produced as a final project based
on an assignment given by writer and Professor, Carolyn Steinhoff for a
course titled “Colloquium” at Lehman College during the fall semester of
2010. This book was made using 400 Series Strathmore 6” x 8” Drawing
medium 80 lb. paper and was printed with an HP Photosmart 2610 printer
using Microsoft Publisher. The fonts used for this book is Modern No. 20.
The initial concept and idea for this book was born while waiting for a bus
in the Bronx.

waiting for you

i am lost
in the wetness of this city
as street lights make rain drops glitter
in the crowded roughness of passengers
i’m singing a song and speaking in tongues
these voices echo words I hear
a cell phone [ding-a-ling] rings in my ear
i color this noise inside my head
while rhythmic rhymes dance in my head
i’m bounced around
tossed side to side
people get on
people get off
the sudden stops and screeching of brakes
fare box beats the clinking of change
bus carriage comes down spits out its air
no meaning to the magic that plays in my mind
as the percussion of pot holes vibrate my brain
 A Day at The Opera

Opera glasses are some of the oldest binocular designs

dating back to the early days of opera, where opera-goers
seated in the rear of an opera hall or in one of the balcony
or box seats wanted a close-up view of the performers and
stage scenery.
The American painter Agnes Martin once stated in regard to her minimalist
landscape paintings that only one line is necessary to depict a landscape. Everything
additional can be evoked through the viewer‟s power of imagination. “Anything can
be painted without representation.” [1] In reality, human perception is organized in
such a way that only two defined, horizontally opposing surfaces of different
coloration are needed on a canvas—or, according to Agnes Martin, merely a single
line on a white back-ground—to enable an association with a landscape.[2] How do
images form in our minds, before our intellectual eye? How is it that the human
mind is able to construct something that appears familiar to us out of simple,
literally abstract lines or individual dots? Neuroscientists have been examining this
question for a long time. It can even be said that “knowledge of the illusion has no
influence on perception”..[3] The brain is so conditioned by a mixture of experience
and expectation that it wants to discover something rational and tangible, even in
initially unfamiliar structures.[4] The same may be said for reading, writing and
ultimately, our own imaginations.

As an artist I created my works much like my poems without rhyme or reason, using
whatever mediums struck my fancy, painting on anything and using any materials I
could find or were available to me. When I determined I was completed with the
piece, the title I would give my piece of artwork would immediately enter my mind.
The title would be a word or a group of words which came to me as I determined I
had completed the work. More often than not, the title was how I felt about the piece
at that final moment it was created. In the event I had no feeling what so ever
concerning the work, I would name it „Untitled‟. For those pieces of work concerning
how I felt about myself at the time I created them, I would give the title as
„Self Portrait‟. Whoever saw this piece of artwork in the future along with the title,
was to interpret whatever they chose when viewing my works. It is this basic
concept which I have used in creating this art book.

I am aware my Metacognitve experiences (those experiences that have something to

do with the current, on-going cognitive endeavor) play a large role in the production
of this art book but more so in understanding the anxiety I experienced being in an
academic setting and the insecurity I feel regarding my own artistic abilities. This
realization and the act of identifying this has generated difficulty for me in not only
creating this work but more specifically, dealing with the emotional attachments that
are related to my academic and creative experiences. In completing this final project
I am moving closer to understanding my own learning abilities and also moving
forward in overcoming those emotional barriers which may have limited me in my
previous learning experiences.
1 Agnes Martin, Writings / Schriften, Dieter Schwarz, ed. (Ostfildern-Ruit: Hatje Cantz Verlag, 1998) 37.
2 Birgit Jensen referred to her work Little Landscapes during a conversation with the author, which features two horizontally opposing surfaces of different
colors (as shown in: Site 5 (2001) 68-71).
3 Singer (2004) 66.
4 Andreas F. Beitin Earthly Galaxies or: Straitigraphy of The Third and Fourth Dimension http://www.birgitjensen.de/beitintextengl.html
 ætatis: 7
the ephemeral joys of childhood
[that period or state of being a boy]
it happened
one day

boy
dad
father
he him his
man
son
teacher

little lost boy runs from pain

on concrete walks he looks down sees
with blood stained shirt in bushes he hides
so careful he holds the secret he keeps

proem: he is seven this twelfth child or boy number eight with his insignificance
-enters that place of his fathers (dad is) wearing dirty blue work clothes seems
more aware which tool works best unlike this one son who trembles (still) at the
smell that is forever his fathers (memory with so much blue-blackness) now with
dirty hands touching the whiteness of skin and hair this auto-body mechanic
man touches tools with kinder care than with his words spoken
he begins work on his son
on stage right stands a (little) boy
lost
he looks
lost
It was my first day in my new second grade class and I liked my new school teacher. Her name
was Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Smith gave me my very first winter coat and when I didn‟t have money
for school supplies, she would often give them to me (for free).

Mrs. Smith: It‟s time for art!

(Mrs. Smith hands each student a heavy piece of white paper)
Mrs. Smith: Take out your crayons class, today we are going to draw our favorite animal.
(David raises his hand)
Mrs. Smith: Yes, David?
David: I ain‟t got crayons.
Mrs. Smith: I don‟t have crayons, or I do not have crayons. We don‟t say „aint‟ David.
David: I don‟t have crayons.
Mrs. Smith: That‟s better David.
(Mrs. Smith goes to the back of the room and opens a big metal cabinet and takes out a big box
of crayolas and hands them to David)
Mrs. Smith: O.K. class let‟s draw our favorite animal now.
(all the children begin drawing and coloring with their crayons and a few minutes pass by)
Mrs. Smith: Is everyone finished?
(Children nod their heads and some say “Yes Mrs. Smith!”)
Mrs. Smith: Let‟s have our newest student show the class what he has made. David please
come up to the front of the class and show us what you drew.
(David eagerly and excitedly takes his piece of paper to the front of the class and holds it up
towards the class)
Mrs. Smith: David what is your favorite animal?
David: An elephant!
Mrs. Smith: That‟s a very nice picture of an elephant David, but elephants are not purple.
(classroom laughs and some children say out loud “Elephants are not purple!”)
Mrs. Smith: Quiet class. David, have you ever been to the zoo?
David: No Ma‟am.
Mrs. Smith: Well David, elephants are not purple, they are grey. In the spring I will take the
class on a field trip to the zoo and you can see a real live elephant for yourself. Class would
you like that?
Classroom: Yes Mrs. Smith!
Mrs. Smith: David, you may return to your seat. Did anyone else choose an elephant as their
favorite animal?
(A girl raises her hand)
Mrs. Smith: What color is your elephant Joyce?
Joyce: My elephant is grey.
Mrs. Smith: Joyce please stand up and show David and the rest of the class your elephant.
(Joyce stands up and shows the class her picture)
Mrs. Smith: Very nice Joyce, thank you. David, the next time you draw an elephant, remem-
ber that elephants are grey and not purple.
[Mrs. Smiths voice fades as one of David‟s fingers follows along the edge of the colors on his
argyle sock]
Even though I liked Mrs. Smith, my seven year old being was upset that I was corrected in
front of the entire classroom, especially when it came to her critical observation of my purple
elephant. I admit this continues to happen to me whenever I am called on in a classroom
situation. I have that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that no matter what the answer
is or what color I am using, my teacher is going to tell me I‟m wrong. When this happens,
initially I have the same reaction I did that same day, however as an adult, I‟ve learned to
control it. As Mrs. Smith‟s voice began to fade and I began tracing the colors of that argyle
pattern on my sock with my finger, I stuck my tongue out at her and before I could lift up the
top of my desk and neatly put the picture of my purple elephant away, Mrs. Smith was standing
over top of me. “David, please hold your hand out and turn it up” and with a quick whack I
was hit with a yardstick which broke in half. Mrs. Smith bent down and picked up the broken
piece which broke on my hand, walked back to her desk and returned with a smaller ruler.
“David, please hold your hand out and turn it up.” SMACK! OK, that hurt. But it didn‟t hurt
enough for me to believe elephants could not be colored purple. At the end of class, I ran home
carrying the picture of my purple elephant. Even though Mrs. Smith told me there weren‟t
purple elephants, I didn‟t believe her. I‟ve always been different, that became apparent to me
very early on. I liked purple elephants and was the hillbilly kid in school. I was always the
one who didn‟t fit in. I always tried to be like my brothers all of which were older except for
one. If there was one thing I wished for when I was growing up, it was to be „regular‟. When
you feel and think you are „irregular‟, you wish to be regular so you fit in and don‟t stick out
from everyone else. At the same time, when you have eight brothers and five sisters, you do
want to be different or special in some way. Being raised with thirteen other siblings is almost
like being in a classroom, at least one-half of a classroom. Perhaps a baseball team is more
appropriate since there were nine boys. But even if we were a baseball team, I would not have
fit in because I disliked baseball and was never good at it and I could never catch the ball
anyway. We could not afford baseball mitts and the few times I did manage to catch the
baseball it stung my hands. It only took one time getting hit in the head with a fast ball that
contributed to my not liking baseball. Get hit on the hand with a yardstick doesn‟t hurt too
much but get hit in the head with an object a few times and you develop a dislike for the cause
of that pain. Even though Mrs. Smith told me elephants were not purple, I didn‟t believe her.
I wanted to find out from someone I knew would know, my father.

words spoken too soon

colors black and blue
finger paint pictures tell secrets I keep
on sheets that are white with letters of black
words are not spoken
buried in pain
are colors of hope
 [boy runs into small house carrying a picture he drew of a purple elephant on a piece of large
white newsprint]
[boy] (Yelling) Dad! Dad!
[boy’s mother] What are you hollering for son?
[son] I need dad!
[boy’s mother] He’s in the garage honey and be careful if you go out there, he’s got his truck tore
up.
[boy runs out of his small house and into his father’s garage]
[son] Dad, I wanna ask you something!
[boy’s father] Give me that wrench by your foot.
[boy bends down and picks up something and hands it to his father]
[boy’s father throws tool back at his son hitting him in the head]
[father] That’s not a God Damn wrench! You kids ain’t worth the salt in a sows tit!

In late 1966 a picture of a purple elephant was dropped onto a garage floor land-
ing face down on a pile of grease and oil by a seven year old boy. The boy ran
away. The boy became lost.

age seven
atypical boy
chase girls on playground
kissing girls
he was that type of a boy
class prince
he could not be found
he was lost
 For him.

my father could build an automobile

he could
add numbers together faster than i could say them
in between he smoked cigarettes
and drank coffee
he drank a lot of coffee
and smoked a lot of cigarettes
i cannot remember him without either
his clothes were always clean in the morning
but when he got home they were dirty

There is a time, a moment when everything finally comes

together.

For me.
look out window
snow falls
open window
stick out tongue
catch
snowflakes

That moment is now.

 ætatis: 51
anno aetatis suae
Main Entry: an·no ae·ta·tis su·ae
Pronunciation: 'ä-nO-I-"tä-tis-'sü-"I
Function: foreign term
Etymology: Latin
: in the (specified) year of his age

aetatis
adjective (usually abbreviated as aet. or aetat)
Latin.
Of or at the age of

ae·ta·tis su·ae
[ahy-tah-tis soo-ahy; Eng. ee-tey-tis soo-ee]
Latin .
in a certain year of one's age.
you are so close
like the moon
and as i walk
this night
i want to reach out
and touch you
like i
want to touch you
and it seems
easier if
i touched
the moon
through wet windows
i look
and see
umbrellas in the air
and puddles
filled with dead
leaves
that swim
in the street
oh how i want to laugh
just once more
just once
but the cold air
makes my words
echo back toward me
and they are trapped
behind my lips
not spoken
i do not speak
i do not want to
i am living within
myself
alone
although i am not
i am
 you are a brick
wall
a constructed
(or even destructive)
brick wall
and I am trying
yes trying
to break
not break
tear down brick by brick
and as one falls
you replace it
again
on and on and
on
it goes until
i take that brick
out which you protect
so hardly
that center brick
that connects all bricks
and mortar no longer
fills a crack
so easily and
i can see into
you
and you are
given a chance
to give in
give into
me
 iam in you
your eyes
and i am falling
further and further
into them
with no way to stop
or cling to
this little
time i see you
and want you
i want to reach
out and touch you
like i imagine a touch
upon you
and me i want
to lie next
to you
yes my venom
is on you
(like white linen
black with soot from this dirty city)
and it is my heart
that is bleeding
bled out
and when my eye catches a ripple
moving across the surface
of a river as it ejaculates into the ocean
it is your skin and muscles
that i see
and want to feel
the smoothness
of you
and your hair
is soft and the wind
catches it (blows through it)
and my mind and heart and body
is hungry for you
your words
spoken to me
not spoken
word for word
in cool white sinks
drip water
that repeats
and hollow walls
echo sounds
of broken words
 paper rips

easy

when words are lifted

from it’s surface
and seen
if not for my girl
Treece Boys 1967 Flowers for Mother 1967 Adavio 2010
Construction Paper Self Portrait

When It Started To
Begin 2007 (from a
series of 68 custom
A Day at The Opera Flowers for Mother 1968 made single cd covers)
Central Park NYC 1995 Get Well Card

Moonlight on the night

my brother died 2007

David Treece Theo ‘Red’ Treece 1966

1966 school picture
 turn around the tragedy 2009
acrylic on paper

the planned effect of Light waiting for the bus 2010

2010 photograph photograph

Moulin Rouge 1998

Self Portrait 2004 a negative photograph
colored pencil on paper

out my window 2008

photograph

Marilyn 2009
Self Portrait 2009 the planned effect of Light coloured ink on xeroxed news-
2010 photograph print
The Beauty of the Cross 2010

Coming in 2011 will be an

unlimited edition
artist book created by Adavio
and distributed throughout the
NYC metropolitan area and may
be found in the most interesting
of places.