The River is a Strong Brown God

 

‘A Strong Brown God’ is what T. S. Eliot called a river. No doubt he was right. Certainly, the Tennessee River plays a large part in my life, and so the Jackson Point flotilla is once again preparing to set out on the waters. Persistent rains slowed down preparation and maintenance this year, as did problems created by a half-hearted job of winterizing the boats last fall. Nevertheless, my 14-foot sailing skiff, Flower Ann, is almost ready—just a small sail repair remains.

The 18-foot motorboat Nocturne needs a bit more work. A more rational approach to stowage in the cuddy cabin is being built—the ‘just throw it over there’ method of storage proved inadequate—and some changes to the trailer are needed to make retrieval less of a chore. Nevertheless, the river awaits and soon we’ll get back to her.

I built both boats with the help of my stepson, Andrew, and with the patience of my wife, Deb. Any boat builder will tell you a wife’s patience is essential to boat building but often in short supply. Women don’t seem to grasp the necessity of letting house and garden go to hell while the build is under way, nor do they revel in detailed discussions of construction arcana. Fortunately, Deb’s patience has proved sufficient; each year we have one or more boats on the river. We even started a yacht club, The Jackson Point Yacht Club. It is so exclusive that we are the only members, but what we lack in membership we make up for in style. My son-in-law, Liam, created a nifty logo and gave us T-shirts that proudly display his design. We are trailer sailors. Our ‘yacht club’ is located 2000 feet above sea level on the Cumberland Plateau and at least 1000 feet above the nearest large body of water.

The two signal flags tell other boats “you are about to run aground”, which is a useful piece of information when approaching a mountain-based yacht club.

The two boats are an important adjunct to my studio work, and using them has influenced my approach to drawing and painting the river. That is why I prefer the word, “riverscape”, to describe these works. The view on the river is different from that seen from the shore. From the boat, you can see things that you can’t from land. More importantly, on the boat, you are part of the life, the feel, the rhythm of the river. Sailing or rowing the Flower Ann allows the river to predominate. A small boat moving quietly under sail gives the multitude of river sounds a presence they can’t have with a motor hammering away. When sailing, you come upon things quietly, and the river animals are not so quick to run away. I do own a small powered craft, the Nocturne, but by the standards here in Tennessee, she, with her 4hp outboard, barely qualifies as powered at all.

I much prefer this lack of power. In my world, slow is good. A bass boat with a 350hp outboard motor screams along at speeds that render the world but a momentary glimpse. River current means nothing, wind direction means nothing, and even distance, given the boat’s speed, means almost nothing. The screaming power of the boat demands that the river be its servant. It is a metaphor for humankind’s ruthless need to subordinate the environment.

Sailboats are slow, fragile, and subject to the forces around them. Sailing does not allow you to dominate the river and her forces. You must understand these forces because you must work with them. And working with them reinforces the notion that we are all only part of a very large web of environmental energies that we ignore at our peril.

As I said, sailboats are slow, and slow is an artist’s friend. I never find much subject matter driving around in my truck. Everything goes by too quickly. I like to move at the speed of my bike or my feet on land and at the speed of a sailboat on the river. I have spent days sailing upriver and drifting back down, letting the current do with the Flower Ann as it would. It often takes us places I might not have thought to go. Along the way, I make quick sketches, take photos, and sometimes anchor and do a more finished drawing or a small painting in gouache if time and light allow. Most of all, I soak up the sights, sounds, and feel of the river: T.S. Eliot’s “strong brown god.”

Above: a gouache done on the river.

Below: the oil painting, “Unsettled Day: The Shelby Rhinehart Bridge” based on it.

Copyright  James Tucker