Standing in front of the canvas with brush in hand, I begin to smear the most brilliant turquoise pigment across the surface, when suddenly I stop. I smell something. It isn’t the fumes of paint or turpentine, detergent or damp. It is smoothing different. A scent so cloy that it takes my breath away. “It’s a Dum Dum pop” I tell myself. “I smell Dum Dum’s,” cream soda flavored to be exact.
The act of painting has a powerful physical effect on me. It can summon up moments from my childhood long buried, or throw me back into a conversation I had my grandfather, long dead. I can hear symphonies like I am sitting in the first row behind the orchestra pit, or taste the flavor of beef, something I haven’t eaten in twenty years. It can summon up the smell of fresh honey or clover, rekindle lost passions and fears, and even create phantom pains from wounds that have heal years past.
I don’t think of myself as having synesthesia, where my mind confuses the act of painting with some other sensation. Rather painting has for me a kind of total recall effect. One in which the sum total events of my life can come flooding back to me in an instant, even as I am totally engrossed in the act of making art. As the great artist and teacher Hans Hoffman once said “A work of art is a world in itself reflecting senses and emotions of the artist's world.”
I have heard of artists, Cezanne or Gauguin, and especially of Bonnard whose works rely on the spontaneity of memory and perception, paintings that allows us to participate in a single enveloping moment culled from the artists experience. I think about these artists as I work. An art centered on epiphanic moments that find a structure in extraordinary colors lain on meditatively like layers of afterthoughts parsed out over the surface of the canvas. The colors themselves are organized in thin lines that could just as easily represent the colors of the moment in recall as they could embody an intensity of feeling or a duration of time.
I am often told that my paintings are brightly colored, beautiful and the like, but when I look at these works I mostly feel sad. The viewer has no access to the immediacy of my experiences with these works, experiences that are profoundly personal. I wonder; how important is it that someone else shares in these experiences? Is it enough that my experience rendered in paint has become something aesthetically pleasurable to another?
Work proceeds slowly, laboriously, as memories and sensations both recent and long past wash over me. Sometimes I recreate the snippets of color that are most vivid, fuchsia and royal blue, mustard-yellow impasto and flame red. Other times these colors become a complex code of symbols that represent feelings, sensation and emotion. Again Hans Hoffman “My aim in painting is to create pulsating, luminous, and open surfaces that emanate a mystic light, in accordance with my deepest insight into the experience of life and nature.”
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
small world
I stood looking at the Rauschenberg in absolute wonder. “This piece is amazing,” I thought to myself. I could tell the girl standing right next to me was thinking the same thing. She looked at me and we both smiled. I turned and walked over to the guard. “Can I take a picture?” I said dangling my camera phone between my thumb and forefinger.
“Sure” said the guard, “go ahead.” I walked back over, flipped the phone open and pressed the camera button. The crack of the sound effect built into the phone filled the gallery.
“I didn’t know we could do that!” exclaimed the girl.
“Apparently we can,” I said, nodding towards the guard.
“My girlfriend will be so excited” she said, pointing to another girl across the room. “She’s really inspired by Rauschenberg.”
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Texas” she said.
“Small world. I am too.”
The second girl joined us and took over the conversation. “I am an artist.” She said matter-of-factly.
“I am too. In fact I am here doing my research for my MFA Thesis.”
“What school do you go to?” I told her and you could see her eyes widen. “No kidding. My aunt teaches there!”
“What department?”
“Art.”
I looked at her for a minute. “Is your aunt Barbara?”
“Oh my gosh! Yes!”
“I know your aunt very well. She’s on the graduate faculty. I speak with her all the time.”
We exchanged names, and I gave her my business card. “I can’t wait to tell aunt Barbara about this.”
Suddenly I felt very uncomfortable. “Look, it’s been great meeting you.” We shook hands and I dashed into the next gallery. It was full of Pop art from the mid 60’s. I hate pop art and moved on to the next room, and then the next. I saw an Antonio Tapies that was stunning, and then I saw two more.
I lingered a bit then turned the corner into the next hall, and would have kept going but stopped short. The room was full of no less than 10 Mark Rothko’s. I love Mark Rothko. Pretentious, arrogant, and full of radiant color, they were stunning. There would be no dashing through this gallery. The moment had to be savored.
I looked at the dates on the first cards. They were all dated in the late 1950’s. Superb examples of his color field work in its prime. Here were examples of the artists work when his was at the height of his power. Huge canvases painted with simple rectangles of color that seemed to glow and rise off the surface of the picture plane. There is a kind of transcendental experience one has when staring at Rothko for a substantial period of time. It cannot be rushed. The color begins to engulf you, even as the floating geometric shapes usher you into another realm without time or form. It is a place of pure feeling.
Slowly I moved from canvas to canvas drinking them up like bee nectar. I flowed them around the room, unconscious of my surroundings. There was no time for idle chitchat or discovered lost connections here. Here was a monument to genius, and standing in front of these canvases I felt for a moment what it must have been like to have that driving passion to create these colossal canvases.
As a traversed each canvas my mind was rocked with magentas and violets, ochre’s and reds. Till at last I came to the last painting and was completely overwhelmed. This painting was different, something altogether new. A large black filed atop a cooler grey. The artist fingerprints were clearly visible in the lower register, but the black was formless, unbroken, a perfect void. I looked at the card on the wall. 1970. Rothko killed himself in February of 1970. Was this the last painting he ever made?
I stared into the black for a moment. “He’s confronting his mortality.” I thought. I could feel the darkness tugging on something primordial. It was drawing me ever deeper in. “This is so depressing” I thought. “No wonder he killed himself. I would have too if I painted this.”
I looked at the playful gestures in the gray paint. “Was it enough to create this? Or would it never be enough?” I felt a kind of closeness with this man who died a mere month after I had been born; a kind of intimacy that wells up out of human understanding. I looked over my shoulder. The girls had just entered the gallery. You could see them rocking on their heels. I knew what they were feeling too. I had just been there. I decided to walk over and share my discovery with them. “Just once more, and quickly” I thought “And then I am getting out of here.”
Friday, March 6, 2009
reflecting on my time on Face book
I think I hate facebook. Not that I am going to stop using it right away, I am too compulsive for that, but I think that facebook may be a huge waste of time and, what is worse, my be enabling character flaws that need acceptance and validation.
Years ago, I remember it clearly, my high school debate coach told the class how much he loved college. Most of us scoffed at him. How could college be better than high school? At the time high school seemed like the greatest place on earth. I had never felt closer to any group of friends, never had the same sense of purpose that I had shared with so many, the disdain for authority, the yearning to explore my sexuality and the driven desire to purposefully feel boredom for everything life had to offer. My god, it was beautiful.
I went to a small liberal arts college. My freshman class was slightly more than one hundred students. My graduating class four years later was barely seventy. I knew virtually every one of them by name, and certainly all of them by sight. We all took the same classes, we dinned at the same time, we threw extravagant parties on the weekends and cloistered together in the evening to read Joyce and Plato, the Bible and Kant. We cried together, slept together, laughed together, and by the end of four years I wanted to see few, if any of these people ever again, not through any fault of theirs, but because I am a solitary person whose boundaries and been sorely tested by the system.
Face book is a funny place. The most interesting thing about it, I think, is that I can look at the friends I have there and can draw demographic lines around those periods in my life when I made the most friends: high school, college, and now in the present, as we have recently joined a church and become members of the community.
The oddest thing, I think, is how Face book seems to accentuate the nature (or perhaps the origins) of these friendships. When I was in college, I spent most of my time locked away in my dorm room reading the thousands of pages of homework I had been assigned each week. In reality, when I did see my fellow classmates, it was in class, or while standing in line at the dining hall, in the coffee shop, or walking back to my dorm room. I saw these people and they saw me. We would mutter salutations, exchange a few pleasantries about our lives, occasionally make insights, and then we would disappear into our studies.
Truth be told that while I did not miss these people at first. I grew to remember them nostalgically, and with incredible fondness. The lives we shared were incredibly close and the opportunity for friendships like those I forged in high school will never come again. When I joined Face book and began to discover so many of the old familiar names and faces, I was incredibly excited to discover them again, twenty years later, in cyberspace.
Only here is the thing. I see them now on Face book, a line in their status update, a glimpse at their lives as they answer the questionnaires in memes and on applications, I see them in the dining hall and on the way back to the dorm room. They are present in my life, but in an odd quirk of fate, that presence is strangely similar to the one we shared so many years ago. The nostalgia fades, and I am left wondering how much time do I give to these people? How close am I to them? How honest am I about the nature of these relationships. What is a friend?
Now that the friendships are back, the past seems to glimmer a little less brightly. I am no longer separated from these individuals by time and space. The nostalgia is gone and I find myself wondering, am I better for it?
Postscript:
Lying in bed last night I was telling J. about what I had written. I think I was afraid that I was going to offend someone by telling him or her that I thought of many of my face book friends as mere acquaintances.
“Why do you still use Face book then?”
“I don’t know, because I am compulsive, I can’t stop.”
She thought about this for a minute “What do you get out of it?”
“I don’t know,” I said again. “I suppose I enjoy the little connections I make, posting a humorous status message and then seeing how people will respond”
“Yeah” she said noncommittally.
I fell asleep still thinking about it. In the morning, I slumbered into the living room. The laptop was still open, I tapped the enter key and brought it back to life. The draft of the post was still there. “Oh yeah’ I thought “That.” My impulse was to delete the whole thing. Better gone than to insult every one I ever knew.
I thought about nostalgia. Was I glorifying it? Was nostalgia really all that? Or was it instead a way of prettying up memories of the past to make them more digestible? The truth about College was that I was really too busy to form many deep or lasting friendships, but that the friendships I had formed were real and lasting. Also, there is something to shared experience that bonds people together. There weren’t many other people that understood my college experience like those people that had been there with me. They understood the nuances, the music the fashion, the… well you get the idea.
The more I think about it this morning the more I am beginning to think that Face book, while probably still a huge waste of time, isn’t as bad as I first thought. If anything it has given me a second chance to connect with no less than three different groups of people that I really missed, and many of whom, because of our circumstances in the past, missed opportunities to become close friends. I think about the people I have reencountered just in the last year and am amazed at how quickly these friendships have blossomed.
I think again about my conversation with J. last night.
“Why do you keep doing it?”
Friendship, and the possibility of even greater friendship.
Years ago, I remember it clearly, my high school debate coach told the class how much he loved college. Most of us scoffed at him. How could college be better than high school? At the time high school seemed like the greatest place on earth. I had never felt closer to any group of friends, never had the same sense of purpose that I had shared with so many, the disdain for authority, the yearning to explore my sexuality and the driven desire to purposefully feel boredom for everything life had to offer. My god, it was beautiful.
I went to a small liberal arts college. My freshman class was slightly more than one hundred students. My graduating class four years later was barely seventy. I knew virtually every one of them by name, and certainly all of them by sight. We all took the same classes, we dinned at the same time, we threw extravagant parties on the weekends and cloistered together in the evening to read Joyce and Plato, the Bible and Kant. We cried together, slept together, laughed together, and by the end of four years I wanted to see few, if any of these people ever again, not through any fault of theirs, but because I am a solitary person whose boundaries and been sorely tested by the system.
Face book is a funny place. The most interesting thing about it, I think, is that I can look at the friends I have there and can draw demographic lines around those periods in my life when I made the most friends: high school, college, and now in the present, as we have recently joined a church and become members of the community.
The oddest thing, I think, is how Face book seems to accentuate the nature (or perhaps the origins) of these friendships. When I was in college, I spent most of my time locked away in my dorm room reading the thousands of pages of homework I had been assigned each week. In reality, when I did see my fellow classmates, it was in class, or while standing in line at the dining hall, in the coffee shop, or walking back to my dorm room. I saw these people and they saw me. We would mutter salutations, exchange a few pleasantries about our lives, occasionally make insights, and then we would disappear into our studies.
Truth be told that while I did not miss these people at first. I grew to remember them nostalgically, and with incredible fondness. The lives we shared were incredibly close and the opportunity for friendships like those I forged in high school will never come again. When I joined Face book and began to discover so many of the old familiar names and faces, I was incredibly excited to discover them again, twenty years later, in cyberspace.
Only here is the thing. I see them now on Face book, a line in their status update, a glimpse at their lives as they answer the questionnaires in memes and on applications, I see them in the dining hall and on the way back to the dorm room. They are present in my life, but in an odd quirk of fate, that presence is strangely similar to the one we shared so many years ago. The nostalgia fades, and I am left wondering how much time do I give to these people? How close am I to them? How honest am I about the nature of these relationships. What is a friend?
Now that the friendships are back, the past seems to glimmer a little less brightly. I am no longer separated from these individuals by time and space. The nostalgia is gone and I find myself wondering, am I better for it?
Postscript:
Lying in bed last night I was telling J. about what I had written. I think I was afraid that I was going to offend someone by telling him or her that I thought of many of my face book friends as mere acquaintances.
“Why do you still use Face book then?”
“I don’t know, because I am compulsive, I can’t stop.”
She thought about this for a minute “What do you get out of it?”
“I don’t know,” I said again. “I suppose I enjoy the little connections I make, posting a humorous status message and then seeing how people will respond”
“Yeah” she said noncommittally.
I fell asleep still thinking about it. In the morning, I slumbered into the living room. The laptop was still open, I tapped the enter key and brought it back to life. The draft of the post was still there. “Oh yeah’ I thought “That.” My impulse was to delete the whole thing. Better gone than to insult every one I ever knew.
I thought about nostalgia. Was I glorifying it? Was nostalgia really all that? Or was it instead a way of prettying up memories of the past to make them more digestible? The truth about College was that I was really too busy to form many deep or lasting friendships, but that the friendships I had formed were real and lasting. Also, there is something to shared experience that bonds people together. There weren’t many other people that understood my college experience like those people that had been there with me. They understood the nuances, the music the fashion, the… well you get the idea.
The more I think about it this morning the more I am beginning to think that Face book, while probably still a huge waste of time, isn’t as bad as I first thought. If anything it has given me a second chance to connect with no less than three different groups of people that I really missed, and many of whom, because of our circumstances in the past, missed opportunities to become close friends. I think about the people I have reencountered just in the last year and am amazed at how quickly these friendships have blossomed.
I think again about my conversation with J. last night.
“Why do you keep doing it?”
Friendship, and the possibility of even greater friendship.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Tell me, muse, of the artist who
The stereo randomly picks from a thousand songs, and is still completely unable to find my mood.
“Daddy can you dry me off?”
“Are you done with your bath?”
“She thinks she saw an ant in there.”
“I did.”
“I looked, it was soap.”
I think about the possibility of black specks of “soap” floating in the tub.
There is this strange feeling in the bottom of my throat. It feels like thirst, but cannot be quenched by a half dozen glasses of water. I take the towel and dry her off.
“Thanks Daddy.”
You know I ever loved but four women in my life, my mother, my sister, my kitty cat, and my wife.
Feelings of inadequacy have no voice.
They are the silent submissions in the dark of my soul.
They are the yearning to sit quietly on crushed velvet and cry.
They are overcome in action.
Long narrow stripes of cobalt blue run down the surface of the canvas.
“I am not fighting with my sister. I was just using her brush.”
The canvas twists and turns beneath the brush, edges that should be smooth are rough. The light is harsh, playing tricks on the senses. Like a siren whose song leads sailors to their death, so the light leads the artist to think first one shade then another will bring revelation till everything is lost in an oblivion of color
Blue is evocative, full of sorrow and sexuality (The blue spot shown down on the burlesque dancer as she silently glided into the most erotic part of her dance.) Rain falls from the blue sky down into the deep blue ocean. All my thoughts are of this blue, and yet, the color is but a mask of somethings deeper. A thought perhaps, still in seed-form, wrapped in a cocoon of emotion, yearning to burst free.
There is no muse of painting. Vermeer thought it was the muse of history, while Hogarth the muse of comedy. The muses, I suppose, can inspire a painter to any of their vocations. Painters partake in the inspiration of all the muses, though they are not the only artists to do so. For while the muses may be associated with poetry or song, they are the goddesses of inspiration the spirits of creation, and thus speak to all.
I got the Blues so bad one day it put my face in a permanent frown, but I’m feeling so much better I’m gonna cake walk in to town.
A single red line is drawn along the edge. It is suffering and it is love. The eye hovers for a moment, then plunges headlong into the abyss.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Hell
“So your wife is born again?”
“Yes” he said smiling, I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
“And you don’t go to church?”
“Oh no, no I don’t”
“That must make for some awkward dinner conversation>”
“There's nothing like the kids asking after church ‘is Daddy going to burn for all eternity?’”
“I don’t think the Bible actually mentions a “Hell.””
“I pretty sure it does, “burning in fire and brimstone”, “Gehenna.””
“Yes but GeHenna isn’t the same thing as Hell.” I suddenly felt very uncomfortable.
“A mistranslation then?”
“I suppose so, “ I said, retreating.
In the early nineties I spent a little time studying early Christianity. It was during this time that I learned that GeHenna was literally Ge Hinnom, or the Valley of Hinnom, a burning trash dump where the bodies of deceased convicts we unceremoniously dumped and cremated. Learning this I decided, rather on my own that Hell wasn’t some burning place in the afterlife, it was the death of an individual who had lived the unexamined life. Sort of like Jesus was saying “if you follow me you live forever and if not, you are a smoldering rotten corpse two valleys down.” I think it was very big of me to put these words in Jesus’ mouth.
Talking to my friend I suddenly realized that I had made a lot of assumptions about other peoples religious beliefs in the past, and that I was still carrying around this baggage.
The notion of Hell and damnation was the central preoccupation of my early childhood, and my reinterpretation allowed me to finally shrug off many of these childhood fears. I suppose my new fear is imposing my religious beliefs on others. I wonder, what cockamainie notion of the spirit world I will concoct to deal with it?
Thinking about his I realized that my current belief is that Hell is the world of our own making, living in these preconceived notions that cut us off from the possibility of a connection with the divine, if such a thing is even possible. Anymore I have adopted a more Socratic approach, I know that I don’t know, (but I want to).
Imagine there's no Heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today
“Yes” he said smiling, I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
“And you don’t go to church?”
“Oh no, no I don’t”
“That must make for some awkward dinner conversation>”
“There's nothing like the kids asking after church ‘is Daddy going to burn for all eternity?’”
“I don’t think the Bible actually mentions a “Hell.””
“I pretty sure it does, “burning in fire and brimstone”, “Gehenna.””
“Yes but GeHenna isn’t the same thing as Hell.” I suddenly felt very uncomfortable.
“A mistranslation then?”
“I suppose so, “ I said, retreating.
In the early nineties I spent a little time studying early Christianity. It was during this time that I learned that GeHenna was literally Ge Hinnom, or the Valley of Hinnom, a burning trash dump where the bodies of deceased convicts we unceremoniously dumped and cremated. Learning this I decided, rather on my own that Hell wasn’t some burning place in the afterlife, it was the death of an individual who had lived the unexamined life. Sort of like Jesus was saying “if you follow me you live forever and if not, you are a smoldering rotten corpse two valleys down.” I think it was very big of me to put these words in Jesus’ mouth.
Talking to my friend I suddenly realized that I had made a lot of assumptions about other peoples religious beliefs in the past, and that I was still carrying around this baggage.
The notion of Hell and damnation was the central preoccupation of my early childhood, and my reinterpretation allowed me to finally shrug off many of these childhood fears. I suppose my new fear is imposing my religious beliefs on others. I wonder, what cockamainie notion of the spirit world I will concoct to deal with it?
Thinking about his I realized that my current belief is that Hell is the world of our own making, living in these preconceived notions that cut us off from the possibility of a connection with the divine, if such a thing is even possible. Anymore I have adopted a more Socratic approach, I know that I don’t know, (but I want to).
Imagine there's no Heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Lessons
“So what’s the deal with you and flying anyway?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Why don’t you like flying? Did you have a traumatic experience when you were a child or something?”
“No” I said taking a sip of my bloody mary “I just don’t like it.”
“When I was a child” he began and finished by sharing a story of his own traumatic experience on a plane when he was seven years old. “That is why, to this day, just before landing I get that little rush of something that leaves me momentarily uneasy. Then when the plane sets down, I feel a rush of relief that leaves me feeling exhilarated.”
“Yeah, see, no, I don’t get that. I just don’t like it.”
From The Explosive Child:
The first is that somewhere along the line, noncompliant children have learned that their tantrums, explosions, swearing, screaming, and destructiveness bring them attention or help them get their way by coercing (or convincing) their parents to “give in.” This belief often gives rise to the notion that explosions are planned, intentional, purposeful, and under the child’s conscious control… a corollary to the belief that such behavior is learned is that the child has been poorly taught or disciplined… Finally if you believe [that] then it follows that it can be unlearned with better and more convincing teaching and discipline.
Finally…
“You’re too easy on them” said the student.
“What?”
“Letting them turn it in a day late, you’re too easy on them.”
I thought about this for a minute. Someone, a fellow classmate of mine once taught me “better a little information on time than all the information too late” something I think he learned in the army. It made sense then, and I have followed that rule through most of my life, but starring out at these students I suddenly wasn’t sure. “I want them to do the assignment. I want them to learn. Failing them now doesn’t accomplish that goal. No one benefits if I am completely inflexible.” He shrugged his shoulders. I knew what he was thinking. Where is that line? What lesson am I here to teach? Do I whip and beat them to type a paper only to have them graduate hating art but able to turn in assignments on time for the rest of their lives?
I am lecturing now, but my mind is on automatic pilot. “The Paleolithic features numerous examples of several art mediums including…” What lessons did I have to learn to be successful? What lessons am I still learning? Would I have learned them faster if some professor had been harder on me one Tuesday afternoon in 1992?
I like to think I learn the lessons that I need in the order that I need them. This kind of thought is a safety net that allows me to accept the seeming randomness of the universe and to make order of all of life’s crazy experiences. My mind it seems keeps better track of these experiences than I do, allowing memories, bits and pieces of the past to float by on occasion and remind me that while yes I have many lessons to learn, they aren’t learned all at once, rather it takes time, it takes patience, and it takes an incredible amount of gentleness with myself if I am to get them at all.
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Why don’t you like flying? Did you have a traumatic experience when you were a child or something?”
“No” I said taking a sip of my bloody mary “I just don’t like it.”
“When I was a child” he began and finished by sharing a story of his own traumatic experience on a plane when he was seven years old. “That is why, to this day, just before landing I get that little rush of something that leaves me momentarily uneasy. Then when the plane sets down, I feel a rush of relief that leaves me feeling exhilarated.”
“Yeah, see, no, I don’t get that. I just don’t like it.”
From The Explosive Child:
The first is that somewhere along the line, noncompliant children have learned that their tantrums, explosions, swearing, screaming, and destructiveness bring them attention or help them get their way by coercing (or convincing) their parents to “give in.” This belief often gives rise to the notion that explosions are planned, intentional, purposeful, and under the child’s conscious control… a corollary to the belief that such behavior is learned is that the child has been poorly taught or disciplined… Finally if you believe [that] then it follows that it can be unlearned with better and more convincing teaching and discipline.
Finally…
“You’re too easy on them” said the student.
“What?”
“Letting them turn it in a day late, you’re too easy on them.”
I thought about this for a minute. Someone, a fellow classmate of mine once taught me “better a little information on time than all the information too late” something I think he learned in the army. It made sense then, and I have followed that rule through most of my life, but starring out at these students I suddenly wasn’t sure. “I want them to do the assignment. I want them to learn. Failing them now doesn’t accomplish that goal. No one benefits if I am completely inflexible.” He shrugged his shoulders. I knew what he was thinking. Where is that line? What lesson am I here to teach? Do I whip and beat them to type a paper only to have them graduate hating art but able to turn in assignments on time for the rest of their lives?
I am lecturing now, but my mind is on automatic pilot. “The Paleolithic features numerous examples of several art mediums including…” What lessons did I have to learn to be successful? What lessons am I still learning? Would I have learned them faster if some professor had been harder on me one Tuesday afternoon in 1992?
I like to think I learn the lessons that I need in the order that I need them. This kind of thought is a safety net that allows me to accept the seeming randomness of the universe and to make order of all of life’s crazy experiences. My mind it seems keeps better track of these experiences than I do, allowing memories, bits and pieces of the past to float by on occasion and remind me that while yes I have many lessons to learn, they aren’t learned all at once, rather it takes time, it takes patience, and it takes an incredible amount of gentleness with myself if I am to get them at all.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
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