Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Dana prepared an outstanding Christmas brunch for Terie and Marty’s morning visit, enhanced by my “Agave Maria” recipe which utilized the home-made tomato juice canned while I was in Michigan. We opened presents afterward, including a new air-combat video game for Marty that we shall properly inaugurate tomorrow during our PS3 Fest here at the Town House. Last night was another amazing Stew Eve gathering, with the Clan Hall packed with “grown-ups.” Only the members of our Louisiana outpost were missing. Brendan was home, and all the Louisville cousins were present. Mingus was pouring an excellent Bourbon Barrel Stout. Jerry R gave me a rifle sleeve for my muzzle loader (which claimed no venison this year), and Jeanne surprised me with a small picture of our mom when our dad first took her fishing. I had no memory of the image. All these details take on a new emotional significance in the wake of Mombo’s diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease. Everything will change now, and yet everything remains the same as the family pulls together to manage her care, to collectively safeguard her well-being and dignity. God bless us everyone!

No major outings today, since the B’bach family is settling into Thanksgiving mode, but we did have a good lunch with Lauren and Kellie at the Dos Coyotes border restaurant here in Davis. I continued to correspond with JMM, who is in LA for the holiday (both of us in the same state, but so far away). He responded to my curiosity about the California light with these wonderful words, “Oh yes, my friend, the light is different out here. When the early 19th Century painters took their stuff back east, people exclaimed that light simply does not do what it they showed it to do in the West. Imagine Half Dome or El Capitan revealed from a mile or two, but without air to blur and soften. Can’t be done, they said. From there, we seem to love our American West very much for its revealing Air (Spiritus) and the inspiring of it (Inspiritus). The freedom from the well-worn assumptions of the American East (which is hardly ever capitalized) is necessary for the likes of us that need a new perspective now and then. Your ideas are more likely to be met graciously out West.” Mike is doing fine, but he misses his late father, of course. Oh, I know how it feels. It’s nice to see Dana so relaxed and full of smiles during the lead-up to this holiday. I suppose that part of this adventure is meant as a distraction for us, as we observe our first Thanksgiving without Bruce. It is good for her to be with her family. For me, too, and it’s also a mini-sabbatical, as I spend valuable time with books about key Bay-area painters. Looking at reproductions of Thiebaud’s pie paintings while the house is filled with the fragrance of actual pies baking was almost beyond my endurance. When the young generations left tonight, Bill and I made dinner together. The four of us had a great evening of food, wine, and conversation. It was fun to hear all the old stories of the Breidenbach heritage and lore.

I got all excited and woke Dana up early when the sun rose over the Colorado prairie. After a long stop next to the stadium where the Rockies play (Coors Field?), we climbed out of Denver through the tunnel district and the 6-mile Moffet. What followed is impossible for me to describe… some of the most spectacular scenery through which I’ve traveled since my rides long ago across the Alps and along the German Rhein. A photo will need to compensate for my failure with words. There was constantly changing terrain, geology, and vegetation. I especially enjoyed the views from Fraser down to Glenwood Springs.

Dana and I are off on our Amtrak journey to California, with delays caused by freight trains as we enter Chicagoland. Marty will meet us at the station to share time during a short stop before we catch the Zephyr. Can we actually be celebrating his twentieth birthday? We managed to get some sleep on an overnight from Cincinnati (the Cardinal), but I don’t feel train-savvy yet. I also bit my tongue severely a few minutes ago and it won’t stop bleeding.

Selective Memory
by John Andrew Dixon
mixed media collage on panel, 20 x 16 inches
created in August/September 2011, Danville

I’m pleased that a collage was chosen to be part of the second in a series of landscape exhibitions at the Community Arts Center. Although I continue to use found material as standard ingredients, the piece marks a departure from the direction of previous work. Inspired by the plein air activity of my friends (Dorothee, Marianna, Donna, and Mike), Selective Memory and Day Fulfilled (not selected) were created specifically for the opportunity and I pushed my technique toward an effect that fused both representational and abstract qualities. Framing the composition within a cosmic surrounding occurred to me as I thought about how to the best present the result. Dana, Mombo, and Joan came to the reception tonight. I was baffled by which inclusions were awarded cash, but the number of friends who expressed approval with my selection made me happy. The closest thing to this that I’ve done previously may have been 1525 Redwood, the house portrait created for Flo and Bill. I want to investigate this approach further with more landscapes (perhaps another real location) and with a still life, too.

It was time to press homeward and leave our seaman apprentice to his shipmates. As Dana observed, it was a fine glimpse of both youthful folly and maturity in the rough. For me, the bottom line impression was his strong sense of purpose combined with a clear view that it is a privilege to serve. He is making the most of his opportunity, with no attitude of entitlement or cynicism. That’s more than enough to make me very proud, and I can’t wait to see where the unfolding adventure takes him. Lord, keep him safely guided on his voyage.

We scrubbed our original agenda to visit a museum and adopted a more relaxed plan to hang out in Evanston, see a movie, shop a little, and to gradually work our way north toward the base. We saw a matinee screening of “The Conspirator,” which apparently is not burning up the box office this weekend. I thought the opening depiction of the assassination night was interesting, but the courtroom scenes were uninspired. Admittedly, they are very difficult to pull off. When not scripted with the typically unrealistic dynamics, they usually play out with a certain monotony or stereotypical dialogue. Lumet’s “The Verdict” ruined me for life, I suppose. Overall, I enjoyed the production design and art direction, but the picture lacked the story-telling power of Redford’s early projects. I had a similar feeling when I recently watched Clint’s “Hereafter.” Afterward, Marty bought himself some sketching materials at Blick’s and surprised me with a set of colored fine-points for card making. He gave Dana a gift of Hawaiian coffee beans. When I got online, I discovered that Joan had emailed a wonderful account of goings-on with our mother at the Gels funeral. It sounds like she was in rare form and provided everyone a taste of the true “Jinny Spirit.” I hope Joan compiles her notes as a nice blog entry. Wish I could have been present, but we were exactly where we were supposed to be, and I pray for more such “Mombo Moments” to experience firsthand.

Why did the royal wedding have to fall on my birthday and usurp its date forever? Why did a wave of tornadoes hit Alabama instead of Kentucky? Why did Uncle Clarence have to expire three days before I planned to visit him? Questions with no answers cluttered my mind this morning when I awoke early to prepare for our departure. It was off to Chicagoland for Marty’s graduation from USN Boot Camp. Dana, Terie, and I pushed steadily north through a barrage of rain storms. We saw our first-ever wind farm southeast of Gary. In spite of our best precautions, we hit rush-hour traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway, but had enough in the tank to endure the gridlock. We finally settled into our accommodations a half hour from Great Lakes.

March Exercise —day thirteen— It turned out to be a rough day for both of us, but especially for Dana. It had little to do with externals. It was just one of those days that keep rising to the surface in a long process of managing grief. We spent the bulk of our time at David and Lee’s cabin, helping them prepare for the rifle competition next Saturday. Dana and Lee worked on separate tasks. David and I took on a big two-man job and also fit in a little practice on the range. We left in time to get to Blue Bank for what was to be the first Mission: Madness, a ritualized screening of the entire seven-year run of Mission: Impossible. Because of my scheduling error, we arrived at an “empty” valley. Seeing the grave site, untouched since January, was enough to induce a fresh wave of sadness. We were unable to cope by plunging into the distraction of our planned episode-viewing shindig. The evening wound down from there, although I was able to complete my driveway hedge clipping and commence the spring pruning of the front-yard bushes. Even if I go about my own business, I believe we can still sense one another’s emotion. We ended up streaming an enjoyable movie, but, to be honest, we don’t really salvage these occurrences. We just ride them out and set our sights on the following day.

Today’s sight bite— Small steel targets in sun-dappled woodlands, —c-l-i-c-k— surprisingly crisp to the eye above my familiar sites.

Tomorrow— Back to the studio grind . . .

March Exercise —day eleven— Something had me out of bed and down the street to the soccer field before daybreak, and it felt different than the prevailing energy of the regimen so far. Perhaps it was watching that “Wilderness” guy on KET last night, building by hand his cabin of spruce logs above an Alaskan lake. The brisk air actually felt pleasant, which is a good sign that my exasperation with winter cold has turned a corner. Later, I was glad I’d shifted my swim time from yesterday, otherwise I’d probably not have run into Mike N on campus. Another thing postponed to tonight was the dinner-and-a-movie to celebrate 33 years since our first date. We couldn’t think of anything more enjoyable than having a Japanese meal and seeing The King’s Speech.

Today’s sight bite— An amazing facial chord of sadness, fear, and determination on the big screen —c-l-i-c-k— in one of the past year’s great acting performances.

Tomorrow— The joy of pruning . . .

March Exercise —day six— That feeling in the pit of the gut when one’s new car gets its first scratch on bumper, fender, or door— exactly what I sensed today after my well-meaning blunder rendered Dana’s refurbished Mac Pro unable to start up. Yes, it meant I couldn’t present to her a pristine configuration as the result of my several days of work. But that’s all. No need to get agitated… no need to react as I might have in the past. Finished is better than perfect. Apple anticipates such a thing with its “Archive and Install” option, so use it and don’t fret. I now can see how, in the past, something like this might have set in motion a spiral of self-criticism. And so I put my checklist in reverse, came to terms with a few hours of delay, and took Walie on a long, chilly walk around Bellevue Cemetery.

Today’s sight bite— Muted tones of stone the same colors as the variegated sky —c-l-i-c-k— constituting rows of aged grave markers in a sea of desaturated grass.

Tomorrow— The Monday discipline is applied again in earnest . . .

March Exercise —day four— Dana and I spent the evening with two of the couples who had shown us the most compassion during our winter of sorrow. Actually, there are a surprising number of these kind people, and they’ve helped make the unthinkable bearable. I’ve always been a bit uncomfortable with these types of dinner events, and didn’t know what to expect tonight. It turned out to be an unusual combination of in-depth personal discussion and mindless game-table recreation. We left with a few more discretionary dollars than we brought, and, more importantly, with the satisfying knowledge that our friends are sincerely interested in the process that will put our grief behind us.

Today’s sight bite— The stuttering dance of dice on a thick glass table top —c-l-i-c-k— like a drop of water in a skillet of hot oil.

Tomorrow— A matter of decisive internal orchestration . . .

March Exercise —day one— Unexpected March is upon me. The day is marked by a rare, scintillating clarity that only arrives after a major storm front has passed through the region with its atmospheric cleansing. One mild day a lamb does not make, but this seems to be in contrast to the signal from Punxsutawney. I’d prefer to see the last of winter now. Yesterday, after an overnight stay at Blue Bank, Dana and I drove Mombo into town for her medical appointments during a heavy downpour. With Marty’s departure for USN training, plus two studio computers to configure, the close of February has caught me by surprise this year. Very well. Let us begin it all again.

Today’s sight bite— Vivid architectural facades bathed in pure sunlight —c-l-i-c-k— as I walked to the campus pool for my midday mile.

Tomorrow— Voice-over supervision for the bank’s Jacob T campaign . . .

Bruce liked animals, games, martial arts, music, entertainment, and public policy, but he was first and foremost a voracious reader — went cover to cover through the Holy Bible at the age of nine, and figured he had read through it again at least ten more times. Beginning as a child, he consumed three to five books a week through much of his life. It was only natural that he would devote himself to writing. Keeping in mind his great love for dogs, here is something penned by his alter ego, Elbo C. Buckminster:

“I agree with whiners, of the last few generations at least, that life is a bitch. But I’m not whining when I say it. Maybe the first person to utter that phrase was misunderstood, maybe wasn’t whining either, maybe, as I, realized that the spark of physical in this plane is protected by Nature, the bitch-goddess, sharp-toothed and warm-teated. And, like any bitch, when her offspring are threatened, Nature doesn’t retreat. She bare her teeth, she threatens, she snarls — and she bites. She won’t give up, no matter how overmatched, until the threat leaves or until she is torn to bloody shreds. So count on Life, your bitch-mother, for she’ll not abandon you easily. But respect her. If you misbehave, she may snap your little puppy head off.”

As most of you know, Bruce lost his solitary kidney in his mid 20s and spent 71 months on hemodialysis before gaining a transplanted organ, which would serve him for eight years, until he lost it while battling the devastating inflammation of his pancreas that left him gravely ill, hospitalized, and clinging to life for nearly a year, during much of which he could take no food or water by mouth. By his own account, “I died a few times — three or four, I don’t know — and at least once they were ready to call the time of my death, but one of the ICU nurses refused to give up on me; I guess she felt I still has some fight in me, and she was right.”

Indeed. When he was finally released to tenuous home care, we were told that he was only the second patient in the 100-plus-year history of that Indianapolis medical center to survive such a severe pancreatic hemorrhage. We never learned anything about that other person, but we came to know a Kentucky man named Nathaniel who defied similar odds at UK Medical Center well below one percent, and he helped us preserve hope during Bruce’s darkest days. That was 2005. But even more significant to us than Nathaniel’s kindness — and, of course, the support and encouragement of so many friends and family — was Bruce’s own valiant, grinding effort to meet daily challenges more daunting than it seemed any human being should have to face.

Later (this was 2006, April), to a standing-room-only group of us who met on Sundays to share silence, in perhaps the most awesome extemporaneous public commentary I’ve heard — one of those powerfully unique, you-had-to-be-there moments — Bruce told us that he made it through those grueling months by virtue of what might be understood, as he put it, “lying fallow,” a spontaneous, involuntary suppression of normal cognitive and emotional activity, and I have no reason to doubt it, since he retained only a partial memory of the ordeal. There were times he was so fragile that the doctors could give him no pain medication, even after major surgery. Dana and I will always remember that during the worst of his pain, he told us that he was able to endure it by reminding himself that Christ had suffered even more. Any faith in the future we managed to keep was inspired by this, Bruce’s own profound inner focus and his refusal to quit. Bruce wrote:

“Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when he said, ‘if you but had the faith of a mustard seed’—not belief, but faith. Faith doesn’t require belief, but a deeper knowledge, an intuitive awareness of possibility, even a denial of reality. Faith flies in the face of truth. So while I feel in my bones the existence of a being we, in our ignorance, call God, and the existence of an energy level beyond this lowly one of rock, flesh, and death, I refuse to qualify, quantify, or classify it, because to do so takes me further from the truth, not nearer.”

At long last, he was discharged to confront what he knew to be a difficult three-to-five-year recovery at best, with more surgeries and a relentless cycle of dialysis. Family and friends— that was five years ago. In fact, he went home after that first long hospitalization on Christmas Eve, and that was exactly five years ago this past Christmas Eve. Bruce had completed that journey of recovery, had made a transition, with his mother’s help, to a new, less debilitating method of in-home care, and was optimistic about his chances for another transplant, with a return to school to fulfill his original goal of becoming an English teacher. And then, after all that, the earthly saga of Bruce Joel Willoughby came to a close — when his soul abruptly flew from a physical organism compromised by so many years of precarious health.

We are here to comfort each other in sorrow, but more importantly, to celebrate Bruce’s life, to be inspired by it, as I have been, and to accept that some things can never be understood on this side of the curtain. It brings us once again to the words of Cockburn, who Bruce admired most as a musician and songwriter (and it went well beyond their sharing the name of Bruce):

An elegant song won’t hold up long
When the palace falls and the parlor’s gone.
We all must leave, but it’s not the end.
We’ll meet again at the festival of friends.

Smiles and laughter and pleasant times—
There’s love in the world, but it’s hard to find.
I’m so glad I found you; I’d just like to extend
An invitation to the festival of friends.

Some of us live and some of us die.
Someday God’s going to tell us why.
Open your heart and grow with what life sends.
That’s your ticket to the festival of friends.

Like an imitation of a good thing past,
These days of darkness surely will not last.
Jesus was here, and he’s coming again
To lead us to his festival of friends.

Bruce was troubled in body, but strong in spirit. One didn’t have the sense that he was in decline, but quietly fighting toward a crest, ever determined, never in retreat, but slowly gaining ground, inch-by-inch against insurmountable odds. Always the chess player, he would find a way to extend the end game one more move, one more cunning evasion against near-certain checkmate, yet unafraid of passing, if a stalemate was declared. I doubt if there was anyone except his mother who really understood how hard he tried, including me, but I never lost sight of how incredibly remarkable he was among everyone I’ve ever known. There were times when it seemed he held intact his presence here by sheer force of will. For me, he always will be the true “Impossible Missions Force of Nature.”

It is fitting that we close with Bruce’s re-creation of his summation from those memorable words he delivered in April of 2006, which he titled, “HAH! MISSED ME AGAIN.”

“I leave you with this thought: If you have unfinished business in your life, get to it. Be it mending relationships, expressing yourself creatively, getting involved in community service, going for your dream job, returning to school, or losing weight — get to it. You may not be rewarded with a better economic life, or a longer life, or a happier life, but I guarantee you will be rewarded with a worthwhile life, a satisfactory life, whether it end tomorrow or ninety years hence.”

I do not write regularly in my journal… I see no reason why I should. I see no reason why any one should have the slightest sense of duty in such a matter.
—Occupant of The Hall Bedroom

— Year of 2010 workout totals: Swim-35; Bike-40; Powerwalk-3; Run-0; Lift-0; Pilates-0; Lupus Drills-0

— There is no good justification for having any of these annual numbers come in under 48. I managed to preserve some level of basic fitness this year, thanks only to continued pool access and my fondness for being on a bicycle, but I can’t kid myself—if I don’t reverse this slow decline in vigorous activity, I shall pay a price over time, and it will be a price I can’t afford. My hope for 2011: a new momentum of exercise that will result in a more balanced routine, with 7-10 pounds of weight loss by my birthday.

— The best exhibitions I’ve experienced this year? The ones that occur to me now are the Surrealism show at the Cincinnati Art Museum, the California Impressionists show at the Dayton Art Institute, and the Collage show at Northern Kentucky University. I shall not soon forget seeing my first original Schwitters collage or Cornell box. I am challenged to learn more about Louise Nevelson, Hannah Höch, Alfred Mitchell, William Wendt, Percy Gray, Matthew Rose, David Wallace, Cecil Touchon Janet Jones, Dennis Parlante, and Stephanie Dalton Cowan.

— One of these days I’ll start to fully comprehend what mobile technologies portend for my creative work style. Believe it or not, I still don’t know what to make of these changes in communications. They seem to be touching everything, even my annual experience at Barefoot’s Resort. Being able to have a MacBook Pro and access to a wireless broadband connection changes everything about staying on top of project priorities while out of the studio. Bullets showed me his Kindle and I liked it. I didn’t expect to. Everybody around me seems to have an iPhone. How can I stay abreast? How can I hope to remain a communication designer amid all these transformations?

— Dana’s blunder with the non-existent gas line sent me into a bit of a tailspin, until I realized that tearing apart my work space in the basement would probably result in a better situation after the dust settled. Lesson: disruptions can be opportunities. I need to embrace change more, as I used to do. Look at how Dana has taken on a new discipline with Bruce’s in-home dialysis. We all tend to make room for what we consider the most important things, and that includes procrastination.

— Very well . . . here I am at the close of another year. I can’t change a single thing about the past. In hindsight, the preceding weeks look like some type of malaise. Not that there haven’t been a few highlights, such as the Safariland Doe with my solo harvest at Blue Bank Farm, or the recent push to restore our conference room, but overall it has been a dismal quarter. Enough with the negative. I have the new-year opportunity to shake off the “humbug” and get it together. There’s always the historically strong motivator of Resolutions, to reboot my priorities and catalyze a new momentum that would carry me toward my 60th birthday in 16 months. Time to plot a systematic, gradient escalation to full engagement— physically and mentally —to balance professional, financial, and artistic activity. Reclaim it!

V & S

March Exercise V —day thirty-one— Finis.

Today’s sight bite— Dana —c-l-i-c-k— on her feet again!

Previously on M-Ex— Victory! (3/31/07)

Tomorrow— Walie turns twelve . . .

March Exercise V —day thirty— Dana was still down for the count, as I spent most of my day with the roofing crew. I tore off the deteriorating veneer which covered the exterior of the front dormer and discovered original stucco matching the Tudor-style gables. It was a pleasant discovery that took the edge off a somewhat stressful day. After today, I know what to expect as the dudes move from the garage to the Town House. This work should provide a significant visual transformation.

Today’s sight bite— Don’t bend over. No. NO! —c-l-i-c-k— a roofer’s major crevasse that makes any plumber look like a lightweight.

Previously on M-Ex— An illustration and an excavation. (3/30/09)

Tomorrow— A try for thirty miles on two wheels . . .

March Exercise V —day twenty-nine— I had my eleventh session at the eye center with a substitute therapist, and she gave me a “Brock String,” a simple but powerful tool for binocular training that improves accommodative (focusing) and vergence (aiming) skills. Dana was gone most of the day on an EKU campus visit with Marty. When they returned, he was excited to report that he liked the school and would do everything he could to get enrolled for the fall term. Dana, who hadn’t been feeling particularly well over the weekend, took a turn for the worse after too much outdoor exposure while touring the facilities.

Today’s sight bite— Bold shapes of red, white, and black —c-l-i-c-k— as symbolic abstractions challenge my perceptions.

Previously on M-Ex— At the home stretch, I get good news. (3/29/07)

Tomorrow— The roofing crew is due at the Town House . . .

March Exercise V —day twenty-five— I continued to have difficulty with my “phantom thumb” exercise, so I called Mary Ellen to consult. She told me to just set it aside for now and not to fret about it. I suddenly realized how many other things I’d allowed myself to make an object of daily worry, pondering the connection between stress and vision problems. It seemed a good time to walk over to the Community Art Center with Dana and tour the dinosaur exhibit. We saw Nathan M and he offered to provide us the list of economic development conferees. Later, I sipped a cold Leinenkugel and watched the Wildcats secure their spot in the “elite 8.”

Today’s sight bite— Phosphorescent streaks and random geometric perfections —c-l-i-c-k— convincing me that exotic minerals are more fascinating to my current imagination than extinct reptiles.

Previously on M-Ex— It’s a madhouse! (3/25/07)

Tomorrow— Flying solo in the studio . . .

March Exercise V —day twenty-one— After Dana fixed Marty and me a delicious pancake breakfast, I set out on Hakkoch for my first bike workout of the year. Near the edge of town I stopped at Jay and Glenda’s for a surprise inspection before heading out to Chrisman Lane, one of my favorite riding roads. I was thinking about the recent death of Winston and that Walie was the only Yorkie remaining in the Clan. She’ll turn twelve on April Fool’s Day. I rode about 15.5 miles and was ready to arrive home. I’ve got some serious work to do if I hope to complete a 100-miler in May. Joan and Mombo stopped by as part of their ongoing mattress research. I heard Joan tell Walie she knew what it felt like to be a widow.

Today’s scent bite— The glorious agricultural stench of a spreader’s output —s-n-i-f-f— with pastoral recollections of Studebakers, Browns, and Silknetters all rolled into one.

Previously on M-Ex— This is about as heavily into the experiment as one can get. (3/21/06)

Tomorrow— Pedal to the metal…

March Exercise V —day twenty— I now have my foot in the door at the Kentucky Artisan Center, thanks to a good friend. Decision makers there chose to purchase three of my wood engravings for the upcoming “Black and White” exhibition. This is a very good sign, because I would’ve been thrilled if they’d taken a few merely on consignment. Dana and I traveled to Berea today to deliver the prints and see the facility for the first time. We spent a bit more time downtown at a couple galleries, but we got so hungry we found ourselves heading north to Lexington for a celebratory dining experience. Even though we ran smack into the Wildcats game-viewing crowd and had to endure an inordinately long wait for our meals, it was a satisfying finish to a most uplifting day.

Today’s sight bite— Squares of assembled stone in a multiple of subtle hues —c-l-i-c-k— provide a captivating visual stimulus as memorable as the sensory overload of artistic creations.

Previously on M-Ex— The Graybeard is confounded. (3/20/07)

Tomorrow— First bike ride of the year…

March Exercise V —day eleven— Trying to get back in my lane, I made it to the pool for a mile swim, but never felt like myself. I took part as an uneasy judge in the Band Festival poster contest, fearing that the new approach could prove an embarrassment for devotees of the event. Afterwards, Dana and I tested out the new restaurant in town called Mallards, which failed to impress.

Today’s sight bite— By the sidewalk’s edge, a lifeless juvenile in repose —c-l-i-c-k— the intensity of his fresh male plumage impossible to overlook.

Previously on M-Ex— Experiencing the “golden age” of St. Mark’s. (3/11/06)

Tomorrow— Facing a loaded checklist at the end of the work week…

March Exercise V —day ten— Woke up early with a sore throat, after a feverish, restless night. I really did not want to keep my consulting appointment, but I felt satisfactory once the meeting began. Joan and Mombo stopped by later in the day to deliberate on the topic of a new mattress, but I was a far cry from 100%. All I can do is rest up and aim for a more productive tomorrow. I learned that the Artisan Center wants to purchase three of my wood engravings up front at the wholesale cost. It will be equal to the best price I’ve ever received for one. This is the 32nd anniversary of my first date with Dana. I wish I was feeling better.

Today’s sight bite— The face I see each day —c-l-i-c-k— is the face I shall see forever.

Previously on M-Ex— I do battle with the “inner wimp.” (3/10/07)

Tomorrow— Sitting in local judgment…

March Exercise V —day nine— Even when nothing goes according to plan, good things can happen as a result. After vision therapy, I had to meet Dana in Nicholasville so that Marty’s car could be available for the appointment Joan scheduled at the Toyota dealer. My first notion was that I just wanted to get back to the studio and not lose my morning, but it was already obvious that Plan A wasn’t coming down, so I shifted gears accordingly. As it turned out, I spent some time at a Starbucks and captured some good ideas. Because Bruce still had his engine torn down, we had to drive him to dialysis and get the to-go food he wanted, before we could grab our own lunch. I wrote a draft for a radio spot while Dana was inside the McDonalds. I don’t know why I have to keep proving to myself that I can work anywhere, especially when I often find the ability to take a fresh look at things when I’m “someplace else.” It’s simply a matter of accepting that I’m always in the right place, that every environment can offer something to the creative process, or, if it honestly can’t, then at least the inner momentum can be preserved. When I finally did get back to my home base it was afternoon, but I was there in time to take two important calls. Gwen phoned to let me know that it was likely that the Kentucky Artisan Center would be displaying my wood engravings. And then I talked to a prospect about upgrading the online presence for a Lexington business. This looks like a job for Website Makeover™ Man!

Today’s sight bite— A geometric pattern of holes on the slowly revolving disk —c-l-i-c-k— challenging my eye-hand coordination.

Previously on M-Ex— Ideas and aspirations are always bubbling up in March. (3/9/09)

Tomorrow— A new project begins…

A strabismic’s eyes are not aimed at the same point in space. The difference between the left- and right-eye views is too great for the brain to combine the images into a single picture. A person with non-aligned eyes is confronted with a serious perceptual problem; she must somehow create a single, coherent worldview from conflicting input from the two eyes. To solve this problem, many strabismics suppress the information from one eye and look through the other. Some always use the same eye, while others continually switch between the two eyes, but in either case, they may never see normally through the two eyes together. As a result, most strabismics have reduced or absent stereovision.
— Susan R. Barry, Fixing my Gaze

Spending time with the View-Master as a child was a deeply moving experience. But, after all, it was just a toy, and I was embarrassed enough about my strong emotional responses that I kept them to myself. I recall being so affected by the Flash Gordon reel that knowing there was a finite limit of images nearly brought me to tears. What was it about seeing those 3D impressions that was so profound? Was it because my natural depth perception was already deficient or in decline? I knew I wasn’t very good at hitting or catching a ball. Did I simply lack an athletic reflex, or could it have had more to do with an inability to place objects in space, a known characteristic of monocular vision? How flat has my world been all along?

Yesterday I went to the Vision and Learning Center for a battery of diagnostics that measured and benchmarked the current state of the eye disorder. I’m starting to get more comfortable with phrases like a) Vertical Strabismus (eyeballs out of alignment), b) Oculomotor Pursuits (something to do with how cognitive function enables the eye to move smoothly), and c) Binocular Fusional Disfunction (inability of brain neurons to coordinate dual-eye vision). Actually, it’s wrong to think of it as an eye problem. A “brain glitch” is probably a more accurate way to understand it. Some of the tests seemed ridiculously easy, while others were very difficult and exhausting for me to perform. At the end of my session came a discussion about the details of therapy, timetable, and costs. Once-a-week sessions at the Center for 30 consecutive weeks, plus daily home practice, 30 minutes minimum. For some reason, I wasn’t expecting such a long program, and the sticker price knocked me for a loop. I left with doubts about whether I could take on the economic commitment, even though I knew I had enough discipline to make the approach work. Dana and I had a long discussion. We kept arriving at the same conclusion: I simply had to get this fixed, and somehow we would manage our finances to pay for it out of pocket.

— Year of 2009 workout totals: Swim-43; Bike-38; Run-1; Lift-3; Pilates-16; Lupus Drill-3

— Back spasms and muscle injuries shut down my gym time early in the year, and I never could recapture the momentum. Eventually had to curtail the Pilates work, too, but assigned myself an improved swimming and cycling pattern. Running played no part in the annual effort. My new hope is that 2010 will take on a more balanced character, otherwise my long-held exercise habit could turn into a flab-it.

— An even more regular fitness regimen is on my list of New Year’s resolutions. I also need to:

•   Partake of the great writers—
     Conrad, Hugo, Dickens, plus more Hemingway, Kipling, Tolstoy
•   Gain new levels of skill with hand, eye, and mind—
     Brush Stroke, Graver Line, Digital Effect, Options Trade, Chess Move
•   Spend more time in the knobs with Marty
•   Take Dana to the west coast — somehow . . .

— Another year has passed, and it is ever gratifying to create things which satisfy one’s own artistic urge, while promoting commercial activity that helps provide abundance and livelihoods to others. But, as always, it is never pleasant to continually justify the role of the design professional in an environment of declining visual literacy, where everyone can stand their uninformed, subjective ground to affirm the inappropriate, or declare that mediocrity is “good enough.”

— An unexpected viral assault has threatened my long-anticipated year-end participation in Louisville, but a counter-barrage of immune system boosters is under way, and, so far, I successfully made it to the city intact for the wonderful rehearsal dinner last night. The final day of the year is a bedridden affair, with fifteen back-to-back Twilight Zone episodes to suitably infuse the atmosphere with surreality.

To Caitlan and Kyle— Happy New Year!

V & S

“To be politically correct, I can say
that I’m scoping out the Norwegians
when I get on a plane, but face it,
if there’s a shaky Muslim cat near me,
I’m going to be keeping my eye on him.”

        —Dennis Miller

News of a thwarted terrorist act has popped the bubble of holiday euphoria, and yet, to maintain a festive mood is remarkably easy for those of us who weren’t called upon to celebrate Christmas by clambering over an airline seat to subdue a suicidal fanatic.

Yesterday morning found us at Terie and Marty’s for Christmas brunch gift giving. After arriving home we had some private time (I got a new bicycle helmet from Santa), before relaxing with afternoon victuals, enjoying the company of our dear friends, David and Lee, and a sensational Sonoma County Zinfandel from Dana’s brother Bill. A trip to Lexington followed, where we watched the new Eastwood picture and shared our evening at The Pub. Not surprisingly, “Invictus” pushed my buttons, but the editorial pacing of the World Cup championship match fell a bit short of my expectations. In any case, Freeman’s portrayal of Mandela was outstanding, and it’s my understanding that he has wanted to play the character for many years, having brought the adaptation to Clint while developing the property himself.

Today is Boxing Day, so it’s off to Kelley Ridge for more conviviality. Things just keep getting better during this splendid countdown to a landmark New Year’s Eve wedding in Louisville!

I’ve come to the end of a outstanding week that began last Friday when I headed to Monterey for my fifth workshop with Wesley Bates. I didn’t pitch a tent this year, but had the familiar loft at Larkspur Press to myself each night. The opportunity to concentrate on wood engraving for three days in that extraordinary environment made sleeping on a wood floor seem like the ultimate in accommodations. I continue to learn more about the art form with every retreat, and I now face the breakthrough act of finally acquiring my own set of customized tools, so I can maintain a year-round practice to replace my once-a-year introductory learning curve. On Saturday night, Wes, Juanita, Leslie, and I drove over to Hanna’s “house concert” by Kraig Kenning, at the home Prajna Design created for her (builder Garry Murphy was there, and I chatted with him). I’m prepared to say that Kenning is the best steel guitar performer that I’ve heard live (and I once watched David Lindley tape a Soundstage concert with Jackson Browne in Chicago). An enjoyable nightcap with Wes extended deep into the night as both of us discovered that we have even more in common as creative professionals. It was nice this time around to balance social enjoyment with lots of one-on-one time with Wes.

The subject of my block was a pair of handsome mules that worked the Realm of Greystone when James brought in low-tech loggers after the ice storm of 1994. I managed to get some decent slides while they were in the Valley—undoubtedly the last high-level transparencies I may ever take. It wasn’t a bad note on which to end my slide-shooting era. I’ve always wanted to begin exploiting those images for my art, and so I selected a shot of two mules with the tobacco barn in the background (a suitable tribute to the recently fallen landmark). My goal was to chose a style that would enable me to complete the block and print it within the weekend constraint, and that meant consulting with Wes about how to use an approach that didn’t rely on time-intensive technique (the path I found myself on last year, resulting in a missed deadline). I may not ultimately like “Logger’s Team” as much as my 2008 print, but I learned much about the medium, with a big step closer to understanding the elegantly minimal line quality that Bates has truly mastered.

Last night I headed north again with Dana and Joan for Richard’s First Friday event in Old Frankfort. Wesley’s wife, Juanita Wilkins, performed and Richard read poems from his new volume about Abraham Lincoln (commissioned for the bicentennial observation). Everything about the evening was splendid, and there was a magical moment when the unknown “Harmonica Man” appeared from nowhere with his “harp belt” to jam with Juanita. I’ve been so fortunate to hear her a number of times now, and she never sounded better to me than last night; nor had she conversed with her audience so impressively or in such a personally revealing way. Absolutely wonderful…

“The chief cause of stress is reality.”
~ Lily Tomlin

It’s hard to accept that nearly three weeks have flown by since Dana and I were traveling to North Carolina, bearing the brunt of a devastating tempest that left 35 homes “unlivable” in Casey County (based on information I learned through the Salvation Army). Since that stormy day I had two wonderful weekends with family at both Broadwing and Blue Bank Farms. Carol and Bob are as youthful as ever and at the pinnacle of insight. Shame on me for taking five years to make a return visit. I was delighted to see how they had displayed my drawing of the old barn, and Pete showed off my pen and ink sketch of the Vulcan stove from their early years above the French Broad. I couldn’t help but contemplate the decline in my sketchbook activity over the past year. During my two days at the Hall, I made an attempt to complete work on the rock flue, but ran into mortar problems again while battling Panyon’s tool thievery. My “Son of Dirk Man” character was a bit of a flop, compared to Jay’s Pappy, Mombo’s Rufus, and Clay’s Donkey Kong. Nevertheless, the day was noteworthy for the revival of our Clan Hayride—a “harvest jamboree,” as Joan called it—and also for her tip about Pandora.com. The Council voted to commission an illustrated map of Clan Valley. Wow, how do I come up with an estimate for that? (Lord, help me finish it quicker than my stone masonry!) Dana called me from town to break the news that our friend Irina had been discovered lifeless, the apparent victim of a heart attack. She was a year younger than me! It took four or five days for me to grasp the finality of losing her awesome talent. Early Sunday morning I decided to tote my Hawken-style 50-caliber down the Valley in search of venison. The ache of a gifted comrade’s passing was on my heart when treetops dipped to let the sun pour its precious gold into our beloved hollow. The goal of hunting for meat dissolved abruptly to a deep reverence for the beauty of our rural legacy and my gratitude for life. When I got up to move farther along the road, something caught the corner of my eye. Four good sized does were now moving purposefully across the hay field. Before I could swing my muzzleloader into play, all were into the wooded drainage. If I’d only lingered a minute more, I probably could have had my pick. The following days were tainted with sorrow, but the request to create Irina’s memorial keepsake helped me channel my emotion, although, sadly, the local printer once again seized the opportunity to complain about our predicable attention to detail. By week’s end, the fabulous distraction of sharing Rick H’s 50th birthday celebration was trumped by the news of Glenda’s bizarre mishap at the Haunted House, which resulted in her breaking four back bones. And this comes on top of her and Jay dealing with the aftermath of burst plumbing and extensive damage to their newly remodeled home. The Graybeard Prospector had the second of two successful networking sessions in Lancaster, and Sunday Silence at Simpson Knob was another welcome break, but the heightened oscillation of desirable and undesirable happenings is becoming too strange. All I want to do is immerse myself in the upcoming wood engraving workshop at Larkspur and try to take myself back to a point of quiet equilibrium. Well then, load the truck and go!

“There is no substantial difference by which we can attribute a higher aesthetic value to one choice or the other. Our preference is a question of a personal, irrepressible urge.”

—Leo Lionni

D a n n y  D
at a recording studio
somewhere in Lexington

 
 
 
After years of friendship built on untold hours of front porch discourse and coffee shop dialectic, Danny and I finally had the opportunity to work together on a creative project before his family’s chapter in Danville came to an end with the sale of their nearby house on West Broadway. However, it would be beneficial to back up and start my account at a more logical beginning:

The story begins at a typical sighting of our familiar Graybeard Prospector—a Chamber-sponsored networking event hosted by a newly organized bank. My pal David was in a conversation with the president of the bank when they looked my way and motioned me to join them. Within a few moments I was one of the first to learn about the imminent signing of a one-year endorsement contract with local football hero Jacob T, who had completed his NFL rookie year with the Colts after an accolade-studded career at UK. I gathered my wits as the short briefing came to a head. “We have to get a year’s worth of photographs and radio spots before he goes into training camp.”

A question flashed internally. “How would a true Ad Man reply?” With his stainless steel gaze fixed to observe my response, an imaginary Donald Draper was standing off to one side, a deftly balanced Lucky in hand. I heard myself say, “If I understand correctly, you need creative direction, and you need it fast.”

Before the impact registered, the project was in my lap and the countdown to Jacob’s departure had begun. The photo part almost felt easy. I had a solid list of pros in my head and the first one took the assignment when contacted. In a matter of days we were shooting Jacob at a personal appearance. On the other hand, it had been over a decade since Dana and I had produced any radio advertising. I felt rusty. Audio technology had moved to desktop digital since then, and there were other important factors, too. I knew the default setting would be to handle this at the hometown radio station, and my gut told me that I had to find a way to pull this into a slicker technical environment. I was confident our print advertising would look first-rate, but to stand apart on the radio would be a different kind of challenge.

The last thing I wanted was to generate “more of the same” junk so typical of local radio. If at all possible, I hoped to accomplish two things: a) create scripts that would promote the bank with words that rang true for Jacob’s personality, and b) grab the listener’s attention with music at the same level of production quality that motivated them to listen to the radio in the first place. Anything less might simply be brushed off as “some bank paying Jacob to read stuff on the air.” It made sense for me to consult someone who knew more than I did about this sort of thing. I needed to talk it over with Danny.

When I delicately raised these issues with him at the Hub one evening over a tall “haf-caf,” his response astonished me. Literally poking me in the shoulder, he mentally grabbed hold of my ideas and offered to write some music with lyrics that would help carry the campaign I envisioned. He gave me so much good advice that retaining barely a third of it enabled me to get a green light from the bank to book a recording studio and capture Danny’s work. He seemed delighted to do this favor for me, given the fact that he’d watched Jacob grow up and had a high regard for his family. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Danny said all he wanted was to have the bank guys buy him a dinner, and I wasn’t sure whether he was joking about that part of it. I knew he was dead serious about the rest.

It took some digging, but I tracked down a sound pro named Kevin J that I’d met through Eric C in the 90s. He was the best in Lexington at the time, and, more importantly, he was worthy of my total trust. Our session together with Danny came off with flying colors and I walked out the door with everything I’d hoped for. It was exactly what I needed for the type of spots I wanted to produce. Kevin and I mixed a disc of various musical tracks at :60, :30, and :15 lengths. Now all I had to do was close the deal by winning the bank’s approval to combine Danny’s distinctive sound with Jacob’s natural voice.

Ideally suited to Jacob’s character and reputation, there was something powerfully authentic about Danny’s original words and music. Dana and I made a supreme effort to pitch those tracks to the CEO, but he fundamentally could not envision the effectiveness of my concept— to contrast a relaxed, down-home style against the typically phony-sounding chatter on the radio.

When I told Kevin that the head of the bank had thrown out Danny’s music as an element of the radio advertising, he didn’t seem surprised. Although understanding and supporting the approach I’d proposed, the experienced audio engineer and producer observed, “John, I have known people who tried to combine art with advertising, but it is rarely possible to convince the buyer. Clients have a tendency to play it too safe, do what every other similar business is doing, and then wonder why it doesn’t work better.”

Having failed to sell my idea of making the music be an equal partner in the message, the success of the production would now depend entirely on Jacob’s vocal sincerity. I pushed for the same Lexington studio we’d used to record Danny, arguing that to merely bring Jacob to the local radio station where he’d interned as a student would work against our effort to enhance his self-image as a professional. Having him rise to the challenge of his first major voice-over gig was the only hope of capturing the genuine personality on which we could hang the campaign, and I also needed Kevin’s technical expertise to produce high-quality, finished spots.

The “homework” I’d done to ensure that Dana’s scripting would naturally sync with Jacob’s values paid off with a smooth, comfortable recording session. He praised her scripts. His gifted ability to focus on task, along with his easy-going confidence, sense of humor, and considerable breath control, left us all rather impressed. After getting the go-ahead to use some appropriate background music I discovered on the Web, Dana, Kevin, and I brought the project in on budget with seven :30 spots, two :15 spots, and the ingredients for yet-to-be-written, Jacob-introduced spots that could rely on adjunct voice talent.

Much to our surprise and disappointment, a recommended introductory newspaper ad with Jacob’s image was drastically reduced without our knowledge. It looked terrible when published and put us into the position of explaining why it was not only illegible but also quite ignorable. This took place after Jacob’s sports agent endorsed our work when he saw the preliminary design. Playing catch-up, I adjusted the photo density to compensate for the poor reproduction, and we encouraged the bank to enlarge the ad for two follow-up insertions. The third time around it was printed well enough to look respectable, even though it was still significantly smaller than what we’d suggested was required to create a sufficient level of impact for an effective campaign kick-off.

Football season is getting under way and we anticipate a bigger splash to draw the market’s attention to our new client bank. So far, people “in the know” have made positive remarks to me, but I await the first clear indication that we’re putting something out there that is doing the job. Over 70 banks have already failed in the USA since January 1st. Clearly, this isn’t the most advantageous time to open a financial institution, but I like to think of our situation this way: Here’s an enterprising group that wasn’t forced to think outside the box because it was never inside the box. Time will tell if the innovations they’ve brought to Danville will meet with consumer satisfaction. Hey, if they hired me, they’re obviously not stuck in the status quo. Let’s hope some good things start to happen!

So there’s my tale about how an exciting chance to compose a stand-out piece of promotion can turn into another missed opportunity. Nevertheless, we have an entire year to pull this campaign up a few notches, and our client has already expressed an interest in using the song Danny wrote for us to anchor some kind of Web video or podcast. To be honest, the main reason I put together this detailed account is so I can remember it myself as part of an unusually interesting summer. With everything going on, including the latest round of major abdominal surgery for Bruce, this e-log is undoubtedly the best memory chip I have going for me.

I caught a ride to Ohio with Joan and Mombo on Friday afternoon, and we managed to arrive at the church in Tipp City while almost everyone was still there. The three of us had dinner with K&KK in downtown Tipp. When Dana found out that Bruce would not be released immediately from Jewish Hospital, she left Louisville and made the trip separately to join me at Amy and Bill’s later that night. The morning funeral was appropriate for “a theatrical family,” complete with bagpipes and a horse-drawn hearse. We walked the half mile or so to the Catholic cemetery and rediscovered the profound sense of community that is lost when mourners retreat to their individual automobiles. The family reception at the parish hall featured a salad-lover’s bonanza. I enjoyed talking to Rita, David, Clev, and Angela before we returned to say good-bye to “The Barefeet.” After I snapped the bride+groom+2dogs in their new great room, we made our way down to Taylorsville Dam and the 2009 Seitz Reunion. Always good to see each member of my mother’s family, whoever shows up. Some of us gathered at Marion’s Pizza afterwards. Joan and I got a kick out of the peculiar, black and white, celebrity photos from the 60s and 70s, many of which are now beginning to fade. She observed, “What John Kenley did with his Players was what the Colonel had hoped to do in Danville.” True, but Henson’s summer troupe survived his passing and lives on after 60 years. Back at the motel, Joan treated us to our own adjoining room and I had the rare opportunity to watch the final two stages of the Tour de France before we left the next day. Although Armstrong accepted his role as “domestique” to teammate and eventual winner Alberto Contador after the Alpine 15th stage, admitting that “I gave it everything I had, and I wasn’t the best,” it was exciting to watch him ensure his place on the podium while settling “unfinished business” on Mont Ventoux. I tried to get Mombo and Joan involved, but they were just too sleepy to follow the drama. Dana had more interest in the Sunday finish, with the stunning aerial views of Paris and the Champs-Elysees. Lance will be back to challenge his rivals next year, leading a new team sponsored by Radio Shack. Whether an “old fart” can unseat the young Spaniard at the age of 38 will surely be the focus of the 2010 Tour. After checkout, we headed directly to Louisville to get Bruce. I’d felt odd on Saturday that I hadn’t worn my Seitz T-shirt, but it was a good thing I’d put it in my bag, because it was the only clean shirt I could offer Bruce for his release and our trip home. We all got to the Town House safe and sound, and Bruce was feeling normal enough by Monday to be voicing grievances about minor issues in and around the kitchen. I can tell how much he’d like to have his independence back. I said, “When you begin to feel like a husband in your mother’s home, it’s time to carry out the exit strategy.” His laughter sounded good.
 

— AP Photo | Bas Czerwinski

— photo by Clay Jackson. Visit Clay’s Daze today!

• While swimming my weekly mile today, I had to make an effort to quiet the mental static and focus on a steady rhythm of breath and body. I can sometimes lose count of the laps doing that, but there’s so much going on right now that I needed the meditative pause. After the workout I took advantage of the sunny afternoon to shoot some photos around campus for use in an illustration that suddenly became a rush job when I worked on everything else. During the walk home I realized it was time to “come up for air” with this blog and to jot down some overdue notes.

• News came today that Pat R’s shocking, month-long cascade of medical emergencies had come to a lamentable end. My heart goes out to all the Greystonians and their extended family. Our ability to make the trip to Ohio for the burial is complicated by another round of hospitalization for Bruce. He went to Lexington Friday night with more GI bleeding, but it looks like he finally found a team at St. Joe that wants a solution, and to get him back on track for a kidney transplant. Dana stayed with him through the inevitable admission ordeal while I took part in the weekend activities at Blue Bank, including some major attention being given to Spring Hollow and the area around the pond, plus a milestone Clan Council (first on Skype), as well as a long Sunday session for me that nearly completes the stone work on the Hall flue. One more day of labor should do it, and then I move on to the finish carpentry. How many years ago did I begin this project?

• I was a bit surprised that Mombo’s face was healing so fast, although she is still experiencing a visual disassociation between her eyes. I urged her to demand some type of sight rehab or therapeutic exercises from the ophthalmologist. She’s tempted to close or block off one eye to see clearly, and that’s probably the opposite of what she needs in order to regain her eye coordination. Actually, I’m a poor one to judge or make suggestions, since I’ve continued for years to put off a proper examination for my own eye condition.

• The closest I can come to imagining what it would be like to have some type of severe short-term memory problem is what I experience when trying to remember my dreams. No matter how vivid and realistic the images I have when awakening, under most circumstances they will be quickly gone—and irretrievable—if I don’t write them down or make a sketch. Think what it would be like if one was that way with actual waking events. Making notes to oneself would be the only way to function. (Makes me think of my Uncle Art.) It’s true that I do remember some dreams, but they tend to be the ones that reoccur, or the ones I wrote down and periodically read over. There I go again. Didn’t I promise myself I would not use this space to talk about dreams?

An apartment house located about a half block from our home burned while we slept last night. Bruce said he heard and felt an explosion. Dana and I figured that the frequent sirens and steadily increasing traffic noise downtown has inured us to sounds that would otherwise wake us up. It’s amazing what one can get used to. Reminds me of when I was twelve, and, for a few months, our family slept only a few feet (literally) from the active B&O rail line that ran through Tipp City. I did awaken when the police rang the doorbell at 4:30 am, looking to take a statement from Bruce about the fire. Rumors have circulated today concerning the potential of foul play. If it turns out to be arson, I hope the culprits are nailed, but the greatest concern to me is losing another old structure in this endangered historic district.