December 9, 2019

‘DOOR KNOB TO HISTORY’/photograph/gunther

By Arthur H. Gunther III


(also on Facebook)

Edward Hopper, the famous American realist painter, could not have reached this marbled 1858 door knob in his childhood bedroom until a few years after his 1882 Nyack, N.Y., birth, but once he began turning it, the door opened to a lifetime of painting and images that endure, that captivate, that draw you into stories the viewer must write.

Yet, turning that door knob was not always easy. It was decades before the gifted artist  connected with his audience, and even after that there were periods of frustration, perhaps doubt and all that comes with it.

Edward Hopper probably touched this door knob for the last time just after his sister Marion’s 1965 passing and as he approached his own death in 1967 at age 82.

Fittingly, there is now a bit of white wall paint on the bedroom knob, not from his era but there nonetheless.

The writer is a retired newspaperman. ahgunther@yahoo.com 



Dec. 2, 2019


By Arthur H. Gunther III


(also on Facebook

We are sometimes asked to look at the “black and white” of things, to assume that what appears white is just that, as well as black being black.

That is the “positive” look. What if we reversed things and flipped into the negative, white being black and vice-versa?

Would that make us more introspective, pushing us to realize that there is usually more to the story?

The writer is a retired editorialist. ahgunther@yahoo.com 






November 25, 2019

COLOR ON GRAY RIVER’/acrylic/gunther

Rivers are gray and meant to be, though some shine blue and other hues. From the shore, with life declared by our own feelings, inclinations, style and additional uniqueness, we can each set the colors of the rainbow as foreground.

It’s like dressing for the world as it is, gray perhaps, on a day anyway. So, dress as you like it, and venture forth!


CLOSED ON BROADWAY’/acrylic/gunther

By Arthur H. Gunther III


(also on Facebook)


Change is part of the march of time. The hands may slow but the moments pass anyway. There can be sadness, loss of cherished routine, worry about the future.

Yet as surely as the windows are covered and the door closed, another day comes and with it new living, hope.

The writer is a retired newspaperman. ahgunther@yahoo.com



November 11, 2019

By Arthur H. Gunther III

     The thing about a city is its diversity. It doesn’t get built by one tribe. It doesn’t rise to its heights nor extend to its breadth and length by one anointed species. It doesn’t run on one person’s moxie nor fall on the deceit and greed of just an individual.

     It takes decades, even centuries for a city to develop, and in that time of success and failure, wealth and poverty, war and peace, there are many running the show.

     No one can claim ownership of a city. It is literally of many colors.

And so goes a nation.


The writer is a retired newspaperman. ahgunther@yahoo.com



By Arthur H. Gunther III

Everything begins with “1” after there is zero. The first second of life. First awareness. First year. First grade. First friend. First joy. First love. First job. First success. First home. First child. First heartbreak. First loss. First acceptance. First uppercase. First lowercase. First anything. First everything. 

The writer is a retired newspaperman. ahgunther@yahoo.com




By Arthur H. Gunther III

What paths we take in this life, 

not knowing the why of the walk

nor the destination.

The marks of others 

are there to see, if we 

but look down.

Halted steps, skid marks,

a hurried pace, a leisurely one,

lessons for the observer.

The path is ours for

we are not sheep, but history

tells us to remember.


The writer is a retired newspaperman.



October 21, 2019

‘FOG’/acrylic on canvas


By Arthur H. Gunther III


Fog — le brouillard — particularly if  it comes on the broad expanse of L’Avenue des Champs-Élysées — is not merely mist in the air from a temperature change. It envelopes, and so you can be alone with your thoughts even in the crowd. Romantics savor such an envelope.

     But isn’t it the same in London, on the Waterloo Bridge, or in the East Village of New York on Bowery Street? Or in the majestic mountains anywhere in the world? Or in your backyard? Being alone so you can travel in a dream is one of fog’s blessings.

The writer is a retired newspaperman. ahgunther@yahoo.com



‘AT THE CAPE’/gunther

October 14, 2019

By Arthur H. Gunther III


      Seasons always end, leaving memories whether photographic, in the mind, in the heart, in the soul. They are there for renewal, reinforcement, reassurance.

     Each of us takes from our particular seasons what we will, perhaps tucking away the particulars until a later time, maybe much later, when we look or remember, and we see what it was all about

      To live is to have seasons, however crafted they may be, however stormy or calm, sweet or sour, happy or sad. To weather them, to luxuriate in them, to chill in them, to purr in them is the score in life’s music.

     The writer is a retired newspaperman. ahgunther@yahoo.com




October 7, 2019

‘TUNED TO WSM, NASHVILLE’/acrylic/gunther

By Arthur H. Gunther III


     Defining country music is like translating the ever-growing list of languages, including colorful, highly descriptive idioms, in this immigrant America. Listening to it, from the earliest 1920s radio programs through the metamorphosis that are today’s sounds on smart phones, is to hear a sound train’s lonesome wail and mighty rush on some of the tracks of our always-developing, changing history. 

    The roots of fiddle-playing/country-western/rockabilly/pop American music are gathered from many voices, especially African-American, Irish and Scottish settlers and Native Americans. Newer populations add lyrics written off hardship, love, loss and hope. 

     If ever a national candidate sought to win the hearts and minds of a full America, he/she would do well to listen to country music over the ages and then talk to those who have lived it, are living it, those whose hardscrabble lives have endured. It would do everything to dispel myths and prejudice in a land that sorely needs love. 

     The writer is a retired newspaperman. ahgunther@yahoo.com