The Light House

The Light House

" Hey Jim, have you had a chance to go down to the Light House yet?" I ask.
"No, but I hear it’s beautiful."
"Oh, thanks. It was a passion project. If you’d like, I’ll give you the nickel tour."
"Hey, yeah, I’d love that."
"You wanna schedule a time, or should I just grab you when you’re free?"
"I’m free now."
"Perfect. Let’s do it."

We walk down the rock-lined path. Blue jays and cardinals dart through the cedars and pines.
"Wow," Jim says. "The moss and ferns are so vibrant."
"Oh, I know. Spring is when they’re in full bloom."
"Why don’t you go first," I say, "so you can see it as we get closer."

"So Jim, a little backstory — I built this when I was thirty-four. I was inspired by the Arts and Crafts movement of the 20th century, especially the bungalows from that period."
"How long did it take to build?"
"From start to finish? Three years."
"Who helped you?"
"Oh, I worked alone. That’s my MO."

As we turn the bend, it comes into view: a 12x16 cabin full of glass and light.
"Wow, it’s got a lot of windows. How many are there?"
"Oh yeah — well, there are fifty."
"Jeez."
"Yeah, I know. I was a little hypomanic when I built it — couldn’t stop adding windows. Let me tell you, I was kicking myself when it came time to trim them all out."

Jim opens the door.
"How long’s it been since anyone was down here?"
"Oh, it gets a little stale and moldy this time of year."
"Did you make all this art?"
"Some, but not all. A lot were gifts — but all the mathematical sculptures are mine."
"I’ve never seen anything like them before."
"Well, math art is pretty niche."
"May I pick one up?"
"Sure, go for it."
"They’re so complex and intricate. What inspires you to make them?"
"I just love structures — they’re a source of solace in a chaotic world.
I think of my math art in terms of the Nietzschean dichotomy between Apollo and Dionysus."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the Greek god Apollo is associated with order, rationality, and light, while the god Dionysius is associated with chaos, irrationality, and darkness."
"Okay, but none of this looks Dionysian to me."
"No, I keep that out of view. I’ll show it to you if you want to see it, but I must warn you — some people find it disturbing."
"I ‘m OK with that," he says.
"Alright — I warned you."

I open a cabinet door and pull out a slim black binder.
"Before I give this to you, let me just give you some context. Do you know the painter Francis Bacon?"
"The name sounds familiar."
"I’m not talking about the 17th-century philosopher. I mean the 20th-century artist. He smeared and contorted pigment on canvas to express the impact of the violence he witnessed during the World Wars and the effect it had on the psyche of Western civilization.
I adopted his style and methods to express the fragmentation, chaos, and confusion of my childhood."

Jim opens the binder. I watch him closely. His hands tremble as he slowly turns the pages — and I know.
He puts it down. Without a word, he hugs me, and we understand.

As we walk back up the hill, shafts of sunlight stream through the trees. Everything looks brighter. The moss, the birds, the ferns — it all feels more connected.

Examples my Dionysian paintings and drawings can be found here: 

Albert P. Carpenter  and Albert P. Carpenter 

Examples of my Apollonian art can be found here: Albert P. Carpenter - Wooden Structures