Rigor Vitae: Life Unyielding

Saturday, December 31, 2005


Four years from now, we'll celebrate the 150th anniversary of the original publication of The Origin of Species. That century and a half has wrought huge change in the world, but it's done little to quell the evolution controversy; the current shouting match all but drowns out the sounds of old Chuck Darwin popping wheelies in his grave. It's hard to believe that as a culture we've come no closer to coming to terms with our phylogeny than the Victorian ninnies who roared against him in Dickens' day.

As the new torchbearers of Medieval thought push their Trojan horse of Intelligent Design up the schoolhouse steps, I find myself dizzied by the hysteria. To me, Darwin's logic always seemed pretty hard to knock, something I've never been able to say for the arguments of most of his detractors.

When he published TOOS in 1859, though, Darwin did so with great apprehension. He knew he was up against a cherished icon--the same icon that Douglas Adams brilliantly lampooned with his “Total Perspective Vortex.” In Adams' 1978 BBC radio play, A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the most effective and horrific torture device ever created was situated on the the Frog Star. Once placed into the Total Perspective Vortex, a victim could actually see and appreciate the true vastness of the universe, and himself in relation to it. The shock would destroy his brain. As the narrator tells us, “In an infinite universe, the one thing sentient life cannot afford to have is a sense of perspective.”

Darwin's TOOS provided an unwelcome perspective—and, while it never totally annihilated any brains, it did induce fever in many, being probably the most forceful Perspective Vortex unleashed on this planet since Copernicus' De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium (On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres), first printed in 1543, as the author lay dying of a cerebral hemorrhage. DROC was the great Polish astronomer's Magnum Opus, outlaying his radical (and mostly correct) view of the universe. In the Copernican model, of course, our Earth is not the center of the Universe, but a minor body revolving around the sun. While Copernicus' timely death saved him from a public/church backlash,* his ideas were picked up by others in following years, most notoriously by the Italian astronomers Giordano Bruno and Galileo Galilei. Bruno was burned at the stake by the Inquisition in 1600. His specific crime was actually claiming that Jesus had no physical body, but his heliocentric views didn't help his case. In 1633 Galileo's published work on a heliocentric system inspired Pope Urban VIII (a personal friend) to try him for heresy. Galileo lived his final nine years under house arrest.
With that little bit of perspective, today's Creationists look like cute and harmless little Cocker Spaniel pups, but our old friend Mr. Darwin still needs defenders. The neonatal movement of Intelligent Design is no argument against Natural Selection, and needs to be called on that charge. It is a philosophy born out of the Discovery Institute, a Seattle-based think tank devoted to several conservative causes, chiefly the advancement of a Creationist world view. At its heart, ID is a lot like Sir James Lovelock's Gaia hypothesis. Neither of these ideas should be called hypotheses—they're nice philosophical models that can be helpful in looking at the universe, but they shouldn't be taken too seriously. The Earth behaves like a big organism in many ways, but it certainly is not an organism. At the same time, the universe exhibits many characteristics like intelligence, but drawing too many parallels between human brains and cosmic ones is a dodgy business, not likely to bring us closer to an honest understanding. These ideas are worth sipping from, but only when chased with a heavy shot of Spinoza (whose own little Perspective Vortex got him excommunicated from the Dutch Sephardic Synagogue in 1656).

Most of us have a view of Darwinian evolution muddied with misconceptions—some of which I intend to address soon, in an upcoming post. To really appreciate evolutionary biology, the best place to look is to the science of biogeography. The concept of Natural Selection occurred to Darwin while studying the biogeography of the Galápagos, among other places. Meanwhile, Alfred Russell Wallace came to the same conclusions while collecting specimens across the Indo-Pacific region. Island ecology is much simpler than that of large land masses, and the varying ecosystems within an archipelago portray evolution in its most elegant form. A close look at some of the myriad little island taxa, like the paradise kingfishers (Tanysiptera spp.) that illustrate this post, six species of which occur in the New Guinea region, from the western Moluccas to the Bismarck Archipelago, says more about evolution than the shouting dogmatists of both sides combined.
*Copernicus enlisted the theologian Andreas Osiander to oversee the printing of DROC. Osiander surreptitiously replaced the original preface with a more apologetic one, claiming that the book was not to be taken as the truth. Without the changes, Copernicus' book would have surely met greater fury in its day.
upper: NUMFOR PARADISE KINGFISHER (1999) Acrylic 10" x 8"
lower: BUFF-BREASTED PARADISE KINGFISHER (2005) Acrylic 10" x 8"

Tuesday, December 27, 2005


The very moment I plunged into the icy waters of the wildlife art profession in 1989, it became clear to me that I needed to focus on producing a high-quality coffee-table book of my paintings. I knew there was a sizeable audience out there that would enjoy having my artwork in their homes, but who wouldn't necessarily want to be confronted by it twenty-four hours a day, on their walls. I took a quick inventory of my available images, and found that I was a couple of hundred paintings short. I decided to change my focus, and concentrate instead on creating a body of work.

It was about a decade later that, through a series of coincidences and well-placed hints, I was approached by Abbeville Press, one of the big New York art book publishers, to collaborate on a book of my work. I worked with Abbeville for nearly a year, and we got as far as producing several "dummy" books for their marketing department to use for whatever it is that marketing departments do. The working title was "PREDATORS: the WILDLIFE ART of CAREL PIETER BREST van KEMPEN." I still keep one of these dummy books in my home, in open view, so guests will have to ask about it.

While the Abbeville marketing lab technicians were busy measuring the various qualities of my dummy books, someone from the front office phoned to tell me that my project had been "shelved." That didn't worry me too much. While my book waited on the shelf, I'd get a chance to catch up on a few other things.

After a year of catching up on everything I could think of, it became apparent that "shelved" was a publishing-house euphemism for "deep-sixed," and I went about looking for another publisher. I spoke to Louis Porras, president of Eagle Mountain Publishing, a small, specialty publisher of natural science titles. When he learned that Abbeville wouldn't be publishing Predators, he suggested that should I want to go with a smaller publisher, he would be happy to work with me. I had known Louie for nearly twenty years, and had done lots of illustration work for him. I trusted him completely, and knew he would spare no effort to produce the best product possible.

I conferred with a couple of friends well acquainted with the publishing world, and eventually decided that going with Eagle Mountain would be a very good decision. It was.

The first couple of months consisted of brainstorming about various ideas about format and approach. Louie talked to a number of writers, then asked me how I'd feel about writing the text myself. "Sure!" I said, "I can do that, no problem! I've got plenty of things to say! I'll have a manuscript to you in six months!"

Two years later, I sat at my desk staring at a blank computer screen, looking and feeling like Jack Nicholsen in The Shining. "What the hell have I agreed to?" I asked myself. "I'm not equipped to do this." Writing this text instilled in me an awed appreciation of the serious writer that no literature course could ever match.

The basic structure of the book never changed; I began with the premise of five chapters: prologue, invertebrates, reptiles & amphibians, birds, and mammals, but once I established a trajectory, I found myself eternally turning down pointless dead ends.

Early in the writing, Bill Lamar, of the University of Texas at Tyler, suggested the title, "UNTAMED! The ART OF CAREL BREST van KEMPEN." Louis and I both found the title catchy, and agreed to use it. In November of 2004 I was chagrined to see Bill's title scooped by a new book of wildlife photographs.

I began racking my brains for a new title. Looking for a two-word phrase, I wrote down two columns of words, one containing synonyms for "Life," the other, synonyms for "Force." No sooner had I written the word "rigor" in column two, than I had my title: "Rigor Vitae." Not nearly as catchy as "Untamed," and my translation, "Life Unyielding," involved some serious poetic license, but what it lacked elsewhere, it made up for in appropriateness. I emailed my old Latin professor to make sure my conjugation was correct, and notified Eagle Mountain.

Once I turned in my manuscript, the really hard work was over. Working with the editor, Laura Schuett, involved several weeks of full-time labor, but was a joy. I usually don't react gracefully to criticism, but having Laura point out the weaknesses of my manuscript was exciting and educational.

Overseeing the design and layout was also a pleasure. Megan Davies was amazing to watch. The average fourth-grader can dazzle me with facility for software I don't understand, but few can impress me with great artistic judgement and ideas the way she did.

Louie Porras was as fussy with his oversight as I am with my painting. He pored meticulously over every step, making absolutely sure everything reached his high standard of excellence.

Now that the book's "in the can," there's nothing in it but for me to sit and wait for the printers to do their bit. It seems odd to go back to spending my entire working day actually painting again, and I"m finding a renewed joy in that activity. Still, I kind of miss the writing. Maybe It's time for me to produce something more literary--a novel perhaps, or a great drama penned in iambic pentameter.

Nah, I've got painting to do.