Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Early childhood accumulation is the most authentic form of collecting—that first little box or drawer with trinkets to stimulate the bud of imagination. Certain special shards of quartz from your “rock store” just couldn’t be carelessly tossed back into the driveway gravel, could they? When it came to postcards or match-packs, adults would facilitate, but most likely it wasn’t their idea at the outset. Not all children collect, but for many of us, the desire was innate. What was it about that hoard of popsicle sticks or milk-jug caps that gave us a tingle of satisfaction? It was only a small step of forward progress to coins, stamps, baseball cards, books, antique tools, vintage toys, etcetera. Or was it the opposite of progress? Some types of collections made you feel “big,” but now I am, and everywhere in the world of grownups are admonishments to clean up the mess, downsize, and banish your clutter. I caught a few minutes of Dr. Phil the other day, apparently a whole program about the dysfunctional pack-rat, in which the message was unequivocal—needing to keep all that junk is the latest fear-based personality disorder.

Well, maybe it is, but I was happy to recently discover the other side of the spectrum with In Flagrante Collecto, Professor Marilynn Gelfman Karp’s fascinating, richly illustrated treatise on our essential impulse to acquire—the rare, the strange, the unsung, and the incidental. How, as a life-long collector, she’s found the ability to survey the topic with such intelligent objectivity is quite remarkable to me. She defines six shared traits among all collectors:

1) Unquestionable Dominion • the total mastery of your self-defined territory.

2) Hands-On Gratification • the satisfying communion with your booty.

3) Empowerment by Delimitation • the boundaries and criteria of allowable desire.

4) Hunting and Gathering • the fulfillment of discernment plus the exhilaration of the quest.

5) Possession • the self-affirming ownership of historical era by osmosis.

6) Husbanding and Transference of Characteristics • the salient attributes of the collection which accrue to the collector.

Her bottom-line assessment is that “loving the unloved is the purest state of collecting from which all collectors’ motives may be deduced. An object of material culture is any object that a person deems worthy of collecting.”

I suppose most of us who face piles of stuff fall somewhere in the middle of the continuum between connoisseur and cripple. So the question remains—what do I do with all of it? Much has no intrinsic value and begs to be pitched (if it isn’t actually begging, then my patient mate surely is). To me, it’s an archival record of what has appealed to heart, head, and hand throughout my life. Ah, precisely… there’s the source of its abiding interest to me. It represents the creative opportunity to organize, process, synthesize, repurpose, and present to others a “culminating artifact” that maybe, just maybe, will achieve some level of extrinsic value greater than its inherent nature as a sum of overlooked ingredient elements.

Will that make it art? It’s worth a try…

Olden…

There’s no doubt about it, Steve Carell is on a roll, especially with his upcoming “sequel” to Bruce Almighty and the feature remake of Get Smart. Dana and I make no secret that we’re huge fans of The Office and we can’t get enough of this guy. That’s why we watched The 40 Year Old Virgin tonight. I usually come down “Yay” or “Nay” on most movies I see, but can’t seem to swing one way or the other on “Virgin.” As much as I enjoyed Carell’s performance and in spite of my general amazement at the cast’s brilliant improv talents, the picture is just too vulgar for me to recommend. It brings me face-to-face with my inner prude, and I can’t deny the genuine discomfort. What can I say? Perhaps the profound lack of personal satisfaction which derives from indulging banality is the underlying point of the comedy, and, if so, I’ll give credit where it’s due, but I’m glad I inhabit this side of the fuzzy line. When the laughter was over and the credits rolled, I wanted to gargle or something. Nevertheless, the flick’s “Age of Aquarius” closing number is one of the most delightful cinematic “curtain calls” ever done—I’m so ready for this creative team to dare themselves to take their whole product up a big notch.

Yesterday my favorite big sis had her birthday, and I won’t comment about whether I think she’s officially “pushin’ 60” or not, but I need to confess that one of my hand-made greeting cards was not among her collection this year.

When I made the decision to cut back the activity at John’s HAUS of CARDS, I figured I’d still be making my originals for family, but the redeployment of my creative resources has decimated the old HAUS far more than I ever expected, and I miss that time spent meditating on my loved ones. I haven’t found a happy medium yet, but I must, because I’ve always refused to do store-bought cards. I can’t start now—not at my age…

Of course, this is a nontrivial matter. An artist can take many paths, and most of them will cross minefields of egocentricity. I’ll need to be on guard as I make my shift from a gift orientation to this new focus on personal artistic goals. I believe it will all balance out over time, but there are sure to be some pitfalls ahead. What appeals to me about the “Layerist Premise” is the emphasis on connectedness and a holistic perspective. Much of the art in my life has been in service to a specific recipient or client. I must take the positive aspects of that motivational framework and merge them with an effort to evolve my own voice, to avoid the undesirable side effects of self-absorption so prevalent in the world of art.

Hey, enough of that— My valentine sweetie awaits!

Sometimes these deadline experiences are like chuting down a pipeline—there’s no thought to doing anything but surrendering to the power of the flow, all the time hoping you make it to the end of the tunnel without a disaster. Mombo used to talk about when she was a kid, and they would play in a rain-swollen ditch, letting the water suck them into a storm-water culvert that ran under the street. Long ago that image got stuck in my mind when I realized I’d chosen a deadline-driven lifestyle. So, for what it’s worth, that’s what the suction of a deadline is like for me. (Her story also convinced me that my mother really was a tomboy, in case there’s any doubt about it.)

And, so I made it to the end of the latest chute today, presenting my study for a painting I’m developing to feature on this year’s poster for the Great American Brass Band Festival. The new executive director is delighted with my approach. The idea has a focus on the music makers. I want to illustrate the intensity of the performances with a montage composition. I don’t know why I always have to complicate things, rather than come up with a simple idea, other than the fact that “less is more” is easier said than done. I’m excited about the idea of including Vince prominently in the artwork. He’s always been the inspiration for much of my toil on behalf of the Festival.

Now, all I have to do is complete the final version by the end of the month without getting stuck in that darn storm pipe.

— A Mombonian Correction!

This morning I pushed out my application for full membership in the Society of Layerists in Multi-Media, including ten digital images on CD which represent my “body of work” (all were pieces I’ve created within the past two years, which should tell anyone just a bit about my so-called career as a fine artist). These continued investigations of collage remain highly influenced by the “Cosmosaic” series and all those miniatures I created in the form of greeting card covers.

Now, to indulge myself with quotes from my application . . .

Having found my voice in “visual polyphony,” I’m prepared to begin a more intensive exploration of “the intuitive genesis that takes place in the composing of mundane found material and the discarded remnants of ordinary living.” I marvel at the inexhaustible potential to provide artistic pleasure by “formulating extrinsic value from cultural detritus that has no intrinsic worth.”

Today I spent a lot of time preparing my application for full membership in the “Layerists” society. Thinking so much about my artistic intentions and work process has my head spinning. Truthfully, it started to whirl yesterday after my friend Captain Zach gave an inspirational speech at Danville’s Rotary luncheon. We talked about making a trip to Dallas in April for the national conference, and I’m pretty sure I’ve convinced Jeannette and Ben to go with us. Zach had his first tour of their home, and that’s always a treat for anyone. So far, that makes at least ten of us locals “thinkin’ Texas.” Then, later in the afternoon, the Captain phoned to share his excitement about the latest development—the youth-group proposal on which he and his wife have worked so diligently (and to which I donated a logo design) has been selected by the Salvation Army leadership for nationwide implementation. Wow! Club 316 is suddenly very big! In other words, “It’s MAIN!”

I think I understand why writers must write. It’s really no different than why sketchers must draw or why dancers must move, but why do we read? Why do we engage in this intensely self-centered activity with books? And what’s even more perplexing to me is why our society seems to exalt this particular kind of internal isolation, because, for the most part, it raises a collective eyebrow at meditators or deep, introspective thinkers. It wouldn’t be considered socially acceptable to spend much time playing golf by yourself, or going to movies by yourself, or drinking by yourself (certainly not), but almost all of us feel differently about reading.

My friend Danny would say we must read to train and develop the mind—to understand influences and work backward to the early sources, the original premises.

My “big sissy” is a librarian, so I asked her, and she said that reading makes us a more interesting person—reading may be solitary, but it’s not inherently selfish.

Watkins, Wolfe, Hammett, Hemingway, Twain . . . Why do I read their fiction? What am I looking for?

Every so often, I find myself listening to the lyrics of Eric, a talented friend. He writes:

You can seek your life to find

Answers that satisfy your mind,

But Jesus spared your life by giving his,

And, Brother— That’s all there is.

Even though the viability of our old story (known at different times as “The Mutants” or “Benedict’s 9”) took a major hit with the success of “X-Men,” I continued to think it held some promise as a distinctive fictional idea. So much for that. Within the next month, two new television premieres will undoubtedly gouge deeper into the heart of our concept and kill it off for good: “The Nine,” which places a group of strangers into a high-stress scenario and then follows how their lives intertwine, and “Heroes,” a series about a professor who learns that ordinary people are developing extraordinary abilities (including an artist, a high schooler and an Asian guy—sound too familiar?). It reportedly has a group of sinister types pursuing them as their paths begin to cross. Good grief. Maybe somebody found our Web pages and stole our story. Hey, maybe we can sue if this takes off! Seriously, we sat on our treatment too long. Let’s hope someone else does it justice. I’m encouraged by the fact that Tim Kring was creatively involved in both “Crossing Jordan” and “Chicago Hope.” “Heroes,” will debut on Monday, September 25 at 9 pm, and a pilot for “The Nine,” is supposed to air on Wednesday, October 4 at 10 pm. Well, at least we can watch Tim Daly in a new show and see if he’s as good as he was in the ill-fated “Eyes.”

Bruce spent most of the day resting. He wanted to leave for Indianapolis after tonight’s concert. Quite some time ago, as a 40th birthday present for her son, Dana got tickets for a rare Bruce Cockburn performance at the Kentucky Theatre. Lee and David decided to go, too, and the five of us drove to Lexington for dinner at Natasha’s before the show. We had a great meal and great seats. Bruce was clearly pleased with his gift. Early this morning on her way to work, Joan dropped off hers—an excellent copy of “Walden” that belonged to Joe Wood. At lunch, Bruce and I had a good talk about writing as a subtractive process, and the necessity of brutal self-editing (not unlike the practice of “design refinement” drilled into me as a university student). I’m finally beginning to fully appreciate Bruce’s artistic spirit. My anticipation for his creative output is a familiar craving with which I’ve learned to live. I respond to artists in one of three ways—indifference, inspiration, or demoralization. Although Bruce Cockburn’s sensibilities tend to fall a bit farther to the left than mine, he doesn’t fit the description of a stereotypical liberal musician. Experiencing his creative energy inspires me to my own art, and maybe that’s one more thing my son and I have come to share.

In Lexington this morning, a commuter jet crashed while trying to take off from the wrong runway, killing 49 of the 50 souls on board. I bicycled out to Shared Silence, and left for Kelley Ridge when I got home, to help Joan get her armoire to the upper floor. I didn’t find out about the accident until she told me. Jeffrey had to leave, but I stayed and had lunch with her, Caitlan, Josh, Pat, and Verla. Caitlan and I talked about her internship, and I also found out that Josh will be working full time as a screen printer for the 10th Planet. Joan sent me home with gifts, including Berry’s book on Harlan Hubbard and two of Joe’s old wooden boxes that will enable me to create assemblage under the influence of Joseph Cornell. She also loaned me a James McMullen book which totally throws open my thinking with respect to a concept for the Brass Band Festival poster. I worked outside when I got home, swept the driveway, and finished stacking my salvaged bricks. I got an email informing me that the son of a cycling pal (Martin V of Burgin) had died in a rock-climbing fall. I helped Dana finish her food preparations for Bruce’s visit, just as he arrived. It seemed so amazing to have him here after his first solo Interstate drive in a very long time. It was only a year ago that he was still in the thick of a battle against potentially deadly infections, so this marks another important milestone in his slow recovery. Jeannette and Ben stopped by to see him and have a bite to eat. Terie, Marty, Joan, and Caitlan paid him a visit, too. It’s been a happy evening, in a house not usually so full of life, but I’m acutely aware of the overwhelming sense of tragedy that so many other Central Kentucky families must be feeling tonight.

Our Indianapolis arrival was behind schedule, but Dana, Marty, and I had a nice Mexican supper with Bruce. Said our goodbyes and headed north this morning, travelling through Ft. Wayne, which was much better driving than I-75. After a big delay in Lansing, getting groceries and trying to find the best route to Grayling, we finally arrived at Barefoot’s Resort before dark and settled into Walt’s old mobile home—not a stylish abode, but comfortable, bright, and more than roomy enough for the three of us. Finished “Payne Hollow” during the drive up. Harlan inspires me to my own individualism, and it’s my hope to find significant time for contacting my creative self over the next few days, with conceptual development for artwork and self-promotion that would be hard to sustain in an environment less conducive than this. That’s my idea of a good break from the typical routine.

Brendan made his anticipated “career shift” announcement. Dana looked at the Website of his new employer last night. She said it was so cool she couldn’t get to sleep. I looked at it today and wanted to go destroy my own and start from scratch. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a site that combines so many contrasting features in such a distinctive and integral manner—legibility, motion, sophistication, clear communication, imaginative hipness, superb writing, exquisite taste… I found myself wondering who had the creative inspiration to fuse Buck Rogers with soothing classical music, and then it hit me that Erik Satie and Jules Verne were contemporaries. Awesome!

— Month of June workout totals: Swim-2; Bike-12; Run-1; Lift-5; Yoga-2

— All the other training took a back seat to my cycling this month, as I push to regain the conditioning I lost during 2005. The Tour started in France today without Armstrong, who, at age 35, is preparing to run the New York City Marathon. At age 36, Agassi played his final match at Wimbledon today. With all the talk of aging, legendary athletes, it’s interesting to note that both men are still in the acknowledged target zone for an endurance event like the triathlon. I don’t expect Agassi to do more than settle into his role as a retired tennis superstar after his U.S. Open appearance in New York, but I think Lance might be a very different story. If he demonstrates the ability to run an impressive 26.2-miler in his own New York performance a month later, just watch—and you read it here—for him to set his sights on the
Iron Man competition. How much time could he spot his opponents in the water before devastating the field on a bicycle and then finish strong with a marathon run? It’s interesting to contemplate. He won’t do it for sport. He’ll do it as a cancer fighter, and what better way to keep his cause before a world audience?

— As I continue to look for my next major novel, my bedtime reading jumps back and forth between Isaac Asimov and Ernest Hemingway. If you don’t think that’s a bit strange, you should try it some time. They do have one thing in common, however. When I’m reading either one, I’m struck by how profound an influence they appear to have had on succeeding generations of writers. Every creative person is influenced by those who come before, but few of us can push beyond the derivative and craft something new for others to emulate.

— I completed a proof of my “Bridget” comic this afternoon. I had a hard time convincing myself that it was finished, so I stopped and compared notes with Brendan. I was able to achieve the rough, sketchy look I desired, but some areas of the artwork still need refinement. Once I got past the storyboarding phase, which was genuinely challenging for me, I found deep satisfaction executing the drawing itself. No doubt I could get rather good at this if I tried it more that once or twice a year. I don’t expect to be getting urgent calls from Kazu Kibuishi any time soon, but I was very happy to learn that Brendan thought my effort looked “fantastic.”

V & S

There are times when only one solution to an intractable problem is feasible—dare to redefine the dilemma entirely.

If one no longer finds merit in reaching the ocean floor, one would hardly require a submarine. Perhaps a sailboat is more than adequate, and the same body of water is crossed with unforseen tranquility.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m very grateful for my talents, but I’m thinking that perhaps there’s no greater gift in life than a keen, dominant sense of humor. PartiallyClips proves that anyone who’s funny enough can create an entertaining Webcomic, even if the drawings look like clods of rhino dung. On the other hand, try producing really cool cartoon art with crappy dialog and see where it gets you.

No fair…

— Month of April workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-6; Run-3; Lift-6; Yoga-7

— We stopped out at the park to watch some of Hayley’s varsity softball game, but she wasn’t having a very good night on the field or at the plate. Cliff and I talked about business. Dana and I needed to leave after a few innings, and Hayley’s team was winning, but it was my hope she’d have a much better j-v game.

— I had to do my utmost to tactfully resist the mushrooming of my Brass Band Festival involvement. It was necessary to remind others why donating creative time is worthwhile to our studio—an opportunity to represent our best ideas to the community. One shouldn’t need to explain that we volunteer for reasons that go beyond the goodness of our hearts, and that the mutual benefit doesn’t work if we end up executing production services for the featured artist.

— Seems like my old chum Scott V and I only touch base this time of year, during our shared birthday season, but nothing wrong with that. A life-long athlete, he’s recovering from disc surgery on his neck and is eager to be back to normal. His goal is to return to the ball diamond as soon as he can. In a month he plans to go fishing in Canada with his Dad and four of his brothers. Sounds like a great getaway—no phones, no TV, with just cold water in the cabins. Dadbo always talked about taking the Dixon brothers on a trip to the “North Woods,” but it never happened. I’m happy to learn Scott is getting to do it, although it makes me sad at the same time.

V & S

•   I had a prospect call me to ask our hourly rate. It’s not the type of question you like to hear up front. The person is already caught up in a comparison of apples to lemons. It becomes complicated to explain our schedule of fees, which primarily serves as a basis for estimating a total project. I had a follow-up question for him:

“If you find someone who charges $30 per hour, and it takes them an hour to come up with an idea, but it takes me 15 minutes to develop a concept based on a track record of effectiveness, which is the better deal?”

I didn’t get to ask it. He’d already hung up as soon as I said our top charge for creative consultation is $100 per hour. As much as I hear about how design conscious our society has become, I rarely find evidence that people understand more about my profession than they did when I started out 30 years ago, but I’ll shut up now, because you didn’t visit this site to hear me whine and complain…

… graybeard prospector …

After the Shared Silence at Mack’s cabin, Bruce was the featured provider of words. I can’t remember ever having heard a more awesome extemporaneous commentary (and I’m even taking into consideration some of Uncle Bob’s and Uncle Clarence’s memorable remarks at family gatherings over the years). I actually started to tremble, and at least one person noticed that it probably wasn’t due to the morning air’s unseasonable chill. Dana prepared blueberry-walnut muffins, pecan coffee cake, and a variety of fresh fruit. Lee and David came for the first time, and it was standing room only. Without a doubt, it was one of those powerfully unique, you-had-to-be-there moments, and Bruce left everyone with the profound message that NOW is the time to make your mark as a creative being.

We’re about to go out the door now, to take Bruce for his first trip to see Kelley Ridge, and what a spectacular day to do it!

Leave it to Brendan to turn me on to another droll Webcomic. More power to Wondermark. It makes good on an idea I had a while back about recycling the huge archive of copyright-free, nineteenth-century wood engravings as humorous art. The main reason I never did it? The answer is obvious to me when I read David Malki’s amusing strip.

- sob - I have absolutely NO sense of humor. - blubber - Never did. Never will. - sob -

This is how day twenty-nine has gone…

5:30 am — Is this what it feels like to go mad?

6:47 am — Am I on solid ground here, or am I out of my mind?

9:20 am — This will work. I’m a genius!

2:43 pm — This is absurd. What am I doing to myself?

4:02 pm — God, it would be so cool to do this every day.

7:58 pm — Wow. Maybe I’m really going to pull this off.

Now that I’ve learned the lesson not to worry about something that isn’t in front of me, I have to learn something more difficult, and that’s how to avoid spinning my emotional wheels with the real task that is in front of me, to stop fretting about how it will turn out and to promptly start making the first permanent marks on top of the sketch that will be erased. This might be the most critical habit I can develop, but it will require vanquishing another that has been on my back for most of my life, and I’m sick and tired of it…

Begin!

March experiment—day twenty-four— I rescheduled my ten-miler when I arose to discover a steady shower of wet sleet at first light. Well, at least I didn’t have more than my hopes invested in the proposed venture, unlike other ambitious people. I may be bonkers, but I’m not a madman. Not yet, anyway. However, I do recall running in worse weather during the winter of oh-two. A local man stopped his car and yelled, “You’ve got to be crazy to run in this!” I shouted back, “You’ve got to be crazy to drive in this!”

Today is about dealing efficiently with a multiple of tasks recently sidelined by a critical deadline, which naturally tends to subordinate other priorities. It’s about breaking a habit—temporarily letting go of my discipline or indulging an escape after a major presentation, instead of shifting the same level of focus to a new area of active creativity. Maintaining a momentum of accomplishment is a more desirable reward, if a reward is necessary. I’m tired of having to regain my inertia over and over again. I’d rather keep a more even pace of achievement. I’ve learned this from exercise, but the idea has taken on a new power for me, the more I pay attention to the advice of artists who know how to routinely get things done.

Last night before bed I spent time with Kazu’s description of how he creates his “Copper” strip. This morning I’m “mining” an interview with Arundhati Roy. Some of her thoughts fascinate me because I’m trying to find a way through the challenge of shifting my fine art from a gift-oriented activity to a more self-centric ambition, in order to professionalize it within a desired array of income modules. For reasons unclear, I’ve been getting more out of listening closely to writers and filmmakers (and a dancer!) than I get out of listening to designers or visual artists.

“You know, I always believed that even among the best writers, there are selfish writers and there are generous ones. Selfish writers leave you with the memory of their book. Generous writers leave you with the memory of the world they evoked. To evoke a world, to communicate it to someone, is like writing a letter to someone that you love. It’s a very thin line. For me, books are gifts. When I read a book, I accept it as a gift from an author. When I wrote this book, I presented it as a gift. The reader will do with it what they want.”

Roy’s keen insight applies to all the fine arts—in my case, the applied arts. If I’m to be honest with myself, it’s my identity as an illustrator that I seek to define, rather than as a true fine artist, at least in the near term. Earning commissions for the type of imagery I intend to create involves meaningful service to a customer, and so I must juggle my own artistic agenda while capturing a high level of personal significance for my client—balancing the selfish with the generous—providing pleasure in the sense of legacy, a useful satisfaction. Emerson often draws his distinction between the fine and the “useful” arts, but makes clear that both can lead to wealth.

Why is it that I’ve been more comfortable with dedicated effort toward seizing health and less so with wealth? Is it just cultural conditioning or is it part of my DNA? I wanted health, so I built it into my body. It took time, but I did it. I have goals that require a solid microeconomic platform. Forget wealth. I would hope that I could just free myself from the low-grade financial stress that erodes well-being. But Emerson doesn’t dance euphemistically around the issue. He uses the word.

“Wealth is in application of mind to nature; and the art of getting rich consists not in industry, much less in saving, but in a better order, in timeliness, in being at the right spot.”

Indeed. Let’s get back to the drill.

Today’s sight bite— Afternoon sunlight cuts across a wall the color of thick mucous, as my paint-saturated roller subtracts the distasteful hue—c-l-i-c-k—with white, glorious white, overtaking the wall, swath by swath.

Tomorrow— Running toward the dawn, to share the silence with friends…

March experiment—day twenty-three— It’s taken me three weeks to zero in on hidden patterns of thought and feeling engraved deeply in the way I prepare for a presentation. These are inner habits rooted in college-era indoctrination. Now I’m beginning to understand that one must not only compartmentalize goal-oriented activity, but also the emotional content associated with specific areas of focus. There is room for concern, expectation, intensity, and enthusiasm with respect to the challenge at hand, but not for worthless anxiety about what is not getting accomplished in other areas of life, no matter how important or necessary it may be. The energy conserved can be used for creativity and poise, the best prerequisites for moving forward on schedule to the next priority.

Today’s sight bite— The geometric designs of his bright red sleeveless sweater—c-l-i-c-k—as our client forms his first impressions of the visual concepts before him on the conference table.

Tomorrow— Ten miles on foot at dawn, Band Festival ideas, new branding for swim attire, and a date with the vacuum cleaner…

March experiment—day twenty-two— When I got back from the gym, I finally finished resolving Tuesday’s surprise request, and shoved it over the wire with a sense of relief. Then I was able to settle back into designing the equine symbology, benefiting from Dana’s help and a bit of synchronicity when the realization struck that it’s never too late to revisit research mode if things get into a rut. Twyla writes about this in her book. By afternoon I had a new momentum of progress. She knows everything!

Today’s sight bite— Freezing a noisy blur with eye and hand—c-l-i-c-k—as gloved fists strike the black speed bag.

Tomorrow— A client’s reaction, after a kick to the finish line…

March experiment—day twenty-one— Having my morning schedule play out with precision was a source of encouragement, but that was followed by another chaotic stint in the studio. That’s what happens when a client calls and asks you to work with ten-year-old files as if they were created last week. Nevertheless, there were solid insights to gain from the contrast of an impending deadline and the all-too-typical, wild-card elements that seem to inevitably insert themselves into the day. Well, I don’t remember which famous general said that even the best battle plan doesn’t survive first contact with the enemy, but the last couple days have driven home the point for me. Not that my clients are the enemy—far from it—but you’ll probably catch my train of thought. The focus of my 30-day experiment is enabling me to examine dynamics that have always been too obvious to scrutinize. Interesting.

Today’s sight bite— Taking a mental break with page after page of exquisite narrative graphics—c-l-i-c-k, c-l-i-c-k, c-l-i-c-k—temporarily immersed in the flowing talent of Rudolphe Guenoden, Kazu Kibuishi, Giuseppe Ferrario, Chris Appelhans, Justin Ridge, and Herval.

Tomorrow— Mares and foals… foals and mares…

March experiment—day fourteen— Up before the alarm, with my mind too full of typography to postpone the opening ritual. Did I really think I could write and design a point-of-purchase promotion for “Share the Road” and circulate it among the Commissioners before 9 am? Not really. Didn’t think. Just set to work, to short-circuit the doubt.

To just begin, and trust the habit of creation.

“Finished is better than perfect.” Spoken inside without fear, these words from Gene Johnson—who may have swiped them—can be a certain kind of victory for me today.

Tonight’s Kirov concert was a lesson in contrasts. Tchaikovsky’s D major Violin Concerto with Mikhail Simonyan, followed by the Shostakovich 10th. Who wouldn’t find delight in the former? But, if you appreciate a brand of music decidedly in the “spooky” vein, you might prefer the latter.

Today’s sight bite— A carpet of emerald clippings under a sculpted yew—c-l-i-c-k—and the rusted tines of a familiar rake.

Tomorrow— Halfway through the experiment, it’s time to ratchet up my focus in the studio, and to lead a strategic discussion with local cyclists later in the day…

Slept just fine on the cabin’s big leather sofa, but I awoke with a complete mental storyboard of action choreography for the climax of a gangster movie that doesn’t even exist.

All the more reason to re-calibrate my imagination when I get back to the prescribed studio discipline tomorrow…

It took longer than I expected, but my drawing for the Housing Authority was a pleasure to execute. The illustration technique I used was directly inspired by my favorite masters of pen and wash—Jack Unruh, Ken Dallison, Joe Ciardiello, and Alan E. Cober. Dallison is known for his automobiles and Ciardiello for his portraits, but all of them have worked with great breadth of subject matter. I’ve marveled at their skill for decades, but they have a similarity of approach that is close enough to my own capability that I can relate to how they visualize and have learned from their prolific examples. Unruh is exceptional—equally adept at rendering people, places, and the natural world—and I could die happy if I gain a fraction of his ability. Cober, who, of the four, actually did die (happy I hope, although much too young), holds a special place in my personal history. At the height of our indecision concerning what to do about the crumbling situation at Wright State, Dana and I had the opportunity to question him at a workshop. He counseled us to trust and follow our instincts, so the two of us got out together. He was a great adviser to hundreds of talents over the years, and I’m grateful to have been one of them.

Twyla Tharp makes clear throughout her invaluable book that creative consistency can only be achieved when the artist pushes beyond talent and desire to infuse work with an ethic of ritual. Not even skill, imagination, research, or planning will compensate for the lack of a daily habit of constructive focus. Emerson calls it “drill.”

Both of them describe a level of disciplined concentration with which I have personal experience, but only for relatively brief spells in my life. I’ve always felt relieved to settle back into a more multi-dimensional frame of mind. I never understood how the focused state could be harnessed as a positive habit pattern because I wasn’t convinced there was any reason to do so. My self-image as a hard worker coexisted with a misplaced desire to indulge my aversion to structured, regimented, predictable behavior. I built an entire lifestyle around it, but, to be frank, I haven’t built much else.

I was talking to my brother James last night and when he asked what was going on with me, I replied without thinking, “You should read my blog.”

I knew it was lame as soon as I said it. His not unkind reply was that he just didn’t have the time. I wasn’t surprised, but I still carried a vague sense of disbelief for the rest of the night until I finished Emerson’s “Power” before bed.

The one prudence in life is concentration; the one evil is dissipation: and it makes no difference whether our dissipations are coarse or fine; property and its cares, friends, and a social habit, or politics, or music, or feasting. Everything is good which takes away one plaything and delusion more, and drives us home to add one stroke of faithful work.

The thinker likens the severe limiting of miscellaneous activity to an orchard-man’s pruning which “forces the sap of the tree into one or two vigorous limbs, instead of suffering it to spindle into a sheaf of twigs.”

It’s not too late for me to take the step from knowing to doing. Typically for me, it’ll be easier said than done. Twyla would stomp her foot and shout, “Begin!”

Now that I’ve convinced everyone to stop reading this blog, I’d better quit. Or perhaps I should revisit my own misgivings from my very first entry over a year ago.

I’ll admit that the aesthetically exquisite “Outside my Window” influenced my color choices for the Carnegie Center illustration, but it’s time for me to take “FLIGHT, Volume One” back to the library and I really don’t want to do it. I feel as if all my ancient desires to become a comic artist will eventually bubble up to actual conviction if I keep looking through it. Oh well, if I stay diligent and get my nose above the water line again, there’s no reason I won’t be able to buy things like this and build my own library. Plus, I can always continue to study these artists on the Web—Khang Le, Chris Appelhans, Catia Chien, Mudron, Bengal, Kazu Kibuishi. They do more than preserve a wonderful genre; they breathe inspiration into a natural part of my creative DNA that I allowed to become dormant.

•   After I got back from a 10k at daybreak, my first Saturday-morning run since the year-end holidays, I put in a session on my digital poster art for Lexington’s Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning.

I’m among those who qualified to participate in their “Art of the Alphabet” project. 26 artists were chosen to create the “Carnegie Center Abecedarium,” a collection of illustrated letters of the alphabet. Following an exhibition that begins in mid-February, the Center will distribute the individual 26 reproductions of letters to local pre-school children over the course of a year.

I think that most of the artists will use a more painterly, humanistic technique. or what they consider to be a style of illustration suited to the young child. My approach is intended to be a contrast to what I expect will be the dominant look of the series, and perhaps awaken in children a regard for the graphic arts.

I’m still not clear on all the details of the project, but the honorarium is low, so I’m trying to be economical with my time by recycling some of my previously created elements. I’m using a montage style typical of the way I’ve been thinking visually for some time, but still very much a graphic design. It should be only the first of a series of various works that I’ll be doing this year to boost awareness of my capabilities within the city.

Oh, I hadn’t mentioned, but my letter is H. Try to guess my images before you see the finished piece.

… graybeard prospector …

It sent out a beam like a laser sight, hitting my eye sideways from across the library, and I couldn’t believe I was the first to spot it on the new-purchases shelf. I immediately brought home “FLIGHT, Volume One” and consumed it as I would a delicacy—which, of course, it is. I’ve been to Bolt City and other webcomic sites, but savoring this collection plays to my print bias. It makes me realize how much other incredible work I’m surely allowing myself to miss. I’ve got to do something about that. A new golden age of the comic strip is already under way.

As Dana and I worked our way back toward Danville, we found ourselves near the Kentucky Theater, with the chance to catch a showing of “The Squid and the Whale” during its last week in Lexington. We hadn’t been in the adjacent State Theatre since the screening of Andrew’s movie last summer. Seeing this kind of film reminds me how much I appreciate the full spectrum of cinema, from the huge spectacles like “War of the Worlds,” to small literary pictures like “Squid.” I’m not enough of a groupie to outline any details, but I recognize the quality of the creative output coming from this particular circle of film makers, including Noah Baumbach, Wes Anderson, Jennifer Jason Leigh (Vic Morrow’s daughter), the Wilson brothers, and others. The nature of the circle’s connection to talents such as Bill Murray, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Kevin Kline are unknown to me, but serves as a clear reminder that the movie biz is a relatively “small world” at the nontechnical level. “Squid” has obvious parallels to “The Royal Tenenbaums,” but it also triggered some reflections on “The Anniversary Party.” Beyond the dynamics of the artistic circle (usually behind the camera, but occasionally in front as well), these kinds of low-budget, quasi-autobiographical pieces tend to fascinate me when well executed, not so much because of the typical, self-reflective focus on dysfunctional relationships, but the way in which the art affects me at an emotional level and stimulates personal objectives. For me, that’s what movie-going has always been about—the lingering internal ripples of the following day (and beyond, if I’m lucky, or did a decent bit of homework before making my choice of feature). For instance, in spite of all the attention to the unattractive snobbishness of intellectual elitism, I come away from “Squid” with the distinct desire to reverse my practice of keeping at arm’s length the major works of great novelists—Dickens, Melville, Proust, etc. It brings to mind the words of Michel Seuphor, which I copied in my journal a while back: “You can never see too many things in a work of art. Itself, the work is a means for discovering what is already within us. The true work of art is more than its creator; it is always behind him; soon it enters another orbit not his, because the artist changes, he dies, while the work lives in others.” Twyla Tharp takes it a step further, examining the potential power of sub-art, with her story about Jerome Robbins: He was “a true man of the theater, who made a point of going to see everything because he could find something useful in even the worst productions. He’d sit there, viewing the catastrophe onstage, and imagine how he would have done it differently. A bad evening at the theater for everyone else was a creative workout for him.” No bad art, only bad observers? I wouldn’t take it to that extreme…