Payne Hollow Journal

Harlan Hubbard

• Publisher: The University Press of Kentucky
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9780813188324
• Topic: Arte
• Subtopic: Biografías de artistas

Harlan Hubbard was Kentucky's Thoreau, and his journals are intimate records of a life lived in harmony with nature. For more than fifty years the artist, writer, and homesteader described daily activities and recorded keen observations as he sought to live simply and authentically. The third and climactic volume of his journals, Payne Hollow Journal, contains entries from the years he and his wife, Anna, lived at their Payne Hollow home along the Ohio River's Kentucky shore.

There they mastered the arts of country life, building their own stone and timber house in 1952 and raising their own food. To live with nature was not a novel experience for the couple; earlier they had floated down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers to New Orleans on their homemade shantyboat. Hubbard described this journey in Shantyboat Journal, the basis for his Shantyboat and Shantyboat on the Bayous.

By turns poetic and practical, Payne Hollow Journal celebrates nature's intense beauty and sometimes harsh realities as perhaps only an artist can see them. Here Hubbard reveals how dedication to work that provides sustenance—gardening, wood chopping, fishing, foraging, and raising goats-can also be fulfilling. Don Wallis's arrangement of the Payne Hollow entries reflects the seasonal changes in Hubbard and his life as well as in the natural world around him.

At the beginning of this volume Hubbard writes, "When we are away from Payne Hollow, that place does not seem real or possible.... It is hard to explain our situation, to give reasons for our living this way to people who have no understanding or sympathy." A visit to the Hubbards' home through Payne Hollow Journal is ample explanation for anyone who has yearned to lead a life of simplicity and purpose.

Winter

December

December 1Fog this morning, and frostwork on the riverside trees, a brilliant spectacle when the sun broke through.1965

A wintry night, dark and sleety, a cold wind sweeping down the river. We are thankful for shelter and warmth and abundant food, warm clothing; yet all this alone could not give us much satisfaction or happiness. This comes from wood fires, from food almost as natural as wood burning, from the satisfaction of having cut your own wood, produced your own food, built a house just for ourselves.1966

December 2Late in the afternoon I walked up the hill for mail, a wet walk. The course is so familiar, and restful, and the time of the walk is for contemplation and meditation or dreaming. Heard a robin again today.1955

I received a significant idea last evening as we read something about psychoanalysis and art, by Jung. Perhaps my tendency to the simple, natural way—wood fires, cutting my own fuel, raising or foraging for my own food, fishing, even the goats; also my distrust for the complicated roundabout way in which civilization gets the necessities of life—this feeling springs from a primitive instinct in the human race, an old experience which has faded away in civilized man, except in the subconscious. Then it may be that my gestures toward an old, forgotten way of life aroused a deep instinct. . . . 1958

The goats have been coming in mornings for breakfast, then after a short rest in the stable they are off for the woods again. I think they spend the night on the cliffs to the south, perhaps under them to be warmer. They came in early this morning, announced by a faint tinkle of a bell from high up in the frosty twilight. The bell indicates not only their position on their course, but the nature of it. When the way is steep, there is a lively jingling as they come down with a rush. Then there is silence, when they stop to browse. As they thread their way along the creek bank and the river shore, the bell accompaniment is andante piano. 1962

How rooted in the past I am! These young fellows [modern artists] trying to forge ahead, to do something living and contemporary, deserve much credit. Yet how much of their work is original, springing from within, and expressing something deeply felt? And who has done just what I am doing? At least, it is all I can do with honor and sincerity. What is there to do? What is required? Perhaps the Four Last Things still rule—death, judgment, heaven and hell. Only these are in force during life.1963

Pre-daybreak is a special time of day, having no connection with the rest of it. When I think of it when the sun is bright, it seems part of the night and my actions then might have been dreamed.1965

Much of my life is preparation for changing weather, colder or warmer, possible rain or fair weather. Cold or rain demand the most. In winter, if there is a chance of wet weather next day, I give extra time to getting in firewood. Even in summer the woodbox for the cookstove must be filled. This evening I had to get in some walnuts that were drying, clean the gutters, put a clean strainer cloth in the filter of the cistern, see that the cistern was ready to receive water. Fresh meat must be put in the cellar to protect it from freezing, or hung out in the open or in the forge to keep it as cold as possible without freezing. I would not want to live a life that was cut off from the seasons.1965

December 3A quiet mild sunny day, cloudless, a light breeze upstream. A feel of spring in the air this morning, enough to stir one’s insides; yet I cut firewood as usual. . . . A new moon, setting behind the hill before dark. Saw a great blue heron on the river. The remembrance of the city, of the traffic on the long avenue, the coldness, the inhumanity of the apartments; blocks of them, blocks of stones, the lights at night—1956

This whole day spent in trifles and small jobs, one after another; and even then I did not come to the end of all I had in mind. These chores are either necessary or desirable. The latter become critical after a period of time. It is good to set all these details to rights, even at the cost of the day; especially the longstanding ones.1960

A wintry day. . . . I began the winter season by building a fire in the forge and sharpening the big log saw. The fire heated the studio, prompting me to work up there the rest of the morning. The evening is dark and still, freezing. I think I keep up a cheerful spirit quite remarkably. I enjoy the dark bleak days, they are most homelike. A rift in the clouds, a piece of nice driftwood floating in, I rise into ecstasy.1963

There is something demonic about my woodcutting, like Moby Dick. I rise before day and in the moonlight even through clouds, I go out with saw and axe. . . . 1966

December 4I could have a power saw to cut our wood, and hire a tractor to haul things up from the river, but so many benefits and blessings attendant on hand work would be lost.1956

Printed woodblocks this afternoon, and played some [music]. In the attic yesterday I found a box containing small oil sketches done a long time ago—20 years and more. Set up 2 of them where they could be seen and I have enjoyed them. They are good. Perhaps I have been more successful than I thought. They are so simple and straightforward, artless; perhaps I will paint more.1956

We have read in Michael Levey’s book, A Concise History of Painting, about the Italian painters of the Early Renaissance with great interest. To me, that is the best of it all. Those artists worked with innocence and freedom, their paintings were natural productions, with much in them that the artists were never aware of putting there. Modern art is thoroughly self-conscious and scientific. I feel that I work with a similar innocence, to some degree. Sometimes I wish I knew nothing at all about painting, could approach it with a fresh mind. One lives through the history of painting. It is ever taking a fresh start. As experience is gained, simplicity is lost—the old story.1964

December 5 Returned today from the north [a trip to Michigan], having been gone 3 weeks, minus one night. While I was gone I thought hardly at all of this place, and with no longing. Life centers at whatever place I happen to be living, and if it means walking the city pavements with Sambo, I arise eager to do it. Yet when I am here again, I know that my days were not complete when cut off from the earth. I would not last long in the city. Payne Hollow welcomes me. No person could be so kind, patient, understanding, loving.1954

While I am in the city, I am depressed, beaten down, I have gloomy thoughts about life and about myself, I think that there is something wrong with me, physically; as perhaps there is. . . . Here, I am strong and confident, able, composed, serene. No misfortune can touch me. . . . What I missed most of all, I think, was the open fire. How cheerless, how desperate, to be warmed by a fire you never see. I was never warm.1954

Gentle rains all this dark day. Now at nightfall there seems to be a wind from the NW, though the rain still falls. The goats were out in the woods for awhile, but came in during a heavier shower. They have had several sunny days of browsing and rest on the hillside. I like to see them filing down through the trees, nibbling here and there, each with his particular gait; or come upon them on some sunny bank among the leaves, their serenity putting to shame my business. How inane is most of my activity, cutting firewood for instance, when seen through their eyes. How complex and unbalanced my life is, compared with their simple existence.1959

All the world has said today, “What a beautiful day.” The rain ceased in the night and the sun rose clear. . . . Up along the shore for a load of firewood. The atmosphere seemed not to exist, the river was an unruffled blue plane. I watched the lengthening shadows touch the eastern shore and spread until only the hilltops were in the ruddy sunlight.1961

I cannot write of nature with a poetic rapture or with a naturalistic keenness of observation. All I can hope for is to have something of what I feel come through in these trivial and commonplace facts. Perhaps I should try to express myself fully. In painting, however, I simply put down what I see and hope for the best. It is dangerous to interfere in this matter.1961

Yesterday the creek was running for the first time, clear water and a low sound. How much it adds, it is another form of life.1964

We get full value from cold weather—also from rain, snow, wind, sunny and cloudy skies, it all affects us more intensely, we seem closer to it.1966

December 6I was up before daybreak this morning. The sky was cloudless, the air clear and calm. The stars bright, the moon being in the first quarter. By the light of the stars I tread well known paths, carrying buckets of sand up from the riverbank. The brilliant searchlight of a towboat flashing back and forth spoils the effect of starlight. After it is gone, I notice that one corner of Orion is down behind the western hill and the morning star has ascended in the east. A faint light can be seen there, my paths become somewhat lighter. The stars pale, and light floods the earth. What a blessing it is, given to us every day.1956

I see nature with a painter’s eye.1961

We spent the afternoon in Classic Hall, Hanover College, talking with the few people who came to see us and my paintings. They were worth talking to, however, and I hope they found us so. It is encouragement and realized achievement to see that a picture takes hold of a stranger, not an artist or connoisseur, to the extent that he wants to own the picture, to have it be a part of his life.1965

December 7From a mild day like this one, I look back on the recent cold weather as if it were on a higher level. The moon was late and I went down in its bright light, climbed the hill with axe and saw, cut wood. The eastern horizon lightened, the moon and stars paled. In the half darkness the coming light seemed a great unusual blessing. Now the keenness has gone from the air, the sky is soft and cloudy.1955

The dark heavy sky, portentous calm, heavy clouds building up in the northwest, night extinguishing the feeble light of day. What gives a man courage to want to live, alone on this savage earth which is too much for him? A cold wind streams down from the northwest, the clouds already seem higher, they are breaking. It already seems possible that the stars will be seen tonight, and that the sun will rise clear.1960

December 8I rejoice in the winter landscape, cut to essentials. Earth and sky are more closely joined.1954

Another clear morning. Orion is my clock. When its lowest star is down close to the western hilltop, it is time for me to get up. It was before the beginning of dawn when I went out this morning. An owl hooted far off, then suddenly one just across the hollow, giving a loud “who-o”; after an interval, another. The river was calm and smooth, the three stars of Orion’s belt reflected in the water just over the johnboat. The simple masses of night’s landscape. I went out along the path and began to saw firewood as the light of the coming day began to show in the east.196...