• Opening a statement from the Social Security Administration did not get my day off on the right track, and it began to go downhill from there. Fortunately, I was able to recover a bit by putting some good sales moves on the Republican candidate for Boyle County Judge Executive, who will definitely need a high-credibility graphic image as part of any success campaign to unseat the entrenched incumbent. After that, I attended the opening of “4 Seasons — 4 Directions,” Kathleen’s inspiring collage exhibition at Danville’s Community Arts Center. By evening, Dana and I were in Berea with Lee and David, eating delicious Thai food and learning English Country Dance—so the day ended fully back on its proper rails.
Archive for the ‘Art’ Category
Tales of the Graybeard Prospector VII
Friday, February 10th, 2006Chip-chip of the organizer’s new chisel
Thursday, February 9th, 2006I did it! For the first time in many moons, I attacked the massive tower of storage boxes that was metastasizing in the corner of our meeting space. To be honest, it had steadily grown like a Schwitters Merzbau until my continuing to call the area our “conference room” had become an irritating exercise in self-delusion.
Silly Li’l Pitchurs
Wednesday, February 8th, 2006Last April I wrote, “If I make a mistake and publish a typo, everybody feels bad, but nobody has a funeral. I’m not an architect. My designs can’t fall down and kill anybody.”
Well, let’s take another look at that. Even though I haven’t made much money at it in recent years, I still consider myself a cartoonist, and, if you haven’t noticed, people are now actually getting killed over a few cartoons.
I remember writing a report in high school about this “ungentlemanly art,” after I’d sent a batch of correspondence to famous editorial cartoonists. Paul Conrad, at the beginning of his long career at the Los Angeles Times, sent me a friendly letter with helpful details that became my favorite among the replies. (As a result, I always felt a personal connection to him, and was elated several years later when Los Angles mayor Sam Yorty failed to successfully sue Conrad, who drew Yorty dressed in a Napoleon suit.)
After that project opened my eyes to political opinion, I’ve never underestimated the power of a cartoon, but this current situation borders on the absurd. In the words of Doug Marlette, “…the world has, in fact, become a cartoon.”
Naught but by this expenditure
Monday, February 6th, 2006In Memoirs of a Geisha, the main character reflects on the advice of her mother, who taught that water, with time, can cut through the hardest rock, and, when blocked, will always find another way.
Why is it that everywhere I shift my attention, I’m reminded of the power of persistent, repetitive action? Is the universe using the method itself to make sure the concept gradually penetrates my stubborn personality?
When I look over the past dozen years or so, the most noticeable change I can recognize in myself is the transformation to high physical activity from a sedentary mode. It wasn’t initially inspired by a dream. Rather, it grew out of an apprehensive realization that I undoubtedly carried the same predisposition to heart disease that had claimed my father’s life. Out of weakness came strength—increment by increment, workout by workout, mile by mile.
So, there I have it. Out of my weakness to believe that I could achieve without grinding, habitual effort my dream—a dynamic life on the land, making art from a studio in the Knobs—can come a new practice and ritual which is the only course that will ever take me there. Yes, there will be obstacles and inner resistance. At times, the water will need to find an alternative path, but there is no alternative to the necessity of the “drill.” No other way than through the power of focused routine, and a life of productive habit.
Once again, I must read the words of Emerson and let them sink in—
In chemistry, the galvanic stream, slow, but continuous, is equal in power to the electric spark, and is, in our arts, a better agent. So in human action, against the spasm of energy, we offset the continuity of drill. We spread the same amount of force over much time, instead of condensing it into a moment.
Once more.
And again…
“Enlarge not thy destiny,” said the oracle
Friday, February 3rd, 2006This is one of those moments when I think that I didn’t begin to get a real education until after the age of 50, when I finally settled for me as a teacher.
Me said, “It’s not too late to learn how to think.” I answered, “Ok, Me. Let’s get started.”
Joan was kind enough to make some of Joe Wood’s books available, and there was one I accepted with particular seriousness—“The Conduct of Life,” a collection of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Perhaps true book-larnin’ doesn’t take place until one can center on an idea or theme after confronting it from multiple directions.
A good start, but there’s little chance a revelation will be internalized until put into actual practice.
Here is something I just read from the essay called “Power”—
When Michel Angelo was forced to paint the Sistine Chapel in fresco, of which art he knew nothing, he went down into the Pope’s gardens behind the Vatican, and with a shovel dug out ochres, red and yellow, mixed them with glue and water with his own hands, and having, after many trials, at last suited himself, climbed his ladders, and painted away, week after week, month after month, the sibyls and prophets. He surpassed his successors in rough vigor, as much as in purity of intellect and refinement. He was not crushed by his one picture left unfinished at last. Michel was wont to draw his figures first in skeleton, then to clothe them with flesh, and lastly to drape them. “Ah!” said a brave painter to me, thinking on these things, “if a man has failed, you will find he has dreamed instead of working. There is no way to success in our art, but to take off your coat, grind paint, and work like a digger on the railroad, all day and every day.”
Stimulating Seminality
Tuesday, January 31st, 2006I’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.
Tales of the Graybeard Prospector VI
Saturday, January 28th, 2006• 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.
Yeah, I know… it’s a man-crush
Wednesday, January 25th, 2006I first encountered Paul Watkins as a memoirist, and then set out to investigate his novels, reading both a later and earlier one. But, because I’d discovered his prose as nonfiction—spoken in his own, highly personal voice—I just had to find a copy of his first autobiographical work, “Stand Before Your God,” an account of his coming of age at English boarding schools. Thank goodness for the Kentucky system of interlibrary loans!
“Stand” is a bit tough to settle into, due to its uncomfortable opening. As a boy, Paul was literally tricked into leaving home at the age of seven to get an education in the centuries-old manner of the English upper crust. Unfortunately, he was an American, and was made to feel the misfit from the first startling moments. Out of this inescapable loneliness his creativity is born, and by page 100, I’d grown so fond of the lad that I was already bemoaning the end of the book.
A few years ago, after finishing “Drawing Life: Surviving the Unabomber” by David Gelernter, I understood that it’s possible for one to develop such a deep affection for the mind of a writer that the life-span of an exceptional book triggers all the emotions associated with birth, maturation, separation, and, inevitably, the finality of mourning.
I think many dedicated readers would understand what I’m trying to describe. Although I’m a bit uneasy with this phenomenon, I’m not ashamed to admit that on rare occasions, I can actually fall in love with an artist’s creative personality. Maybe it’s even more than that—a non-physical soul union of some type that alters you for the better.
When it comes down to it, most art is basically stupid… but not when it reaches heights worthy of the word. To be able to produce a single significant, enduring work of art is a tremendous achievement, but to consistently connect with others at such an essential level—as Watkins is able to do—almost defies comprehension.
Moving kinda slow, but discovering the good stuff
Tuesday, January 17th, 2006It 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.
Lord, I was born a ramblin’ man
Monday, January 9th, 2006As 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…
Various & Sundry, part twenty-nine
Sunday, January 1st, 2006— Year of 2005 workout totals: Swim-73; Bike-28; Run-41; Lift-22; Yoga-9
— Month of December workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-0; Run-4; Lift-3; Yoga-8
— I’m satisfied with how I was able to maintain a good momentum of swimming during an unsettled 2005 that didn’t exactly lend itself to regular exercise; plus I’m pleased with how I managed to regain regular yoga practice at the end of the year (it helps to be watching Lisa Bennett-Matkin). Nevertheless, an odd tenderness in the right knee will cause a delay in my return to running form, but I’m expecting it to be a huge year for cycling instead. Brian M gave me his “hardly used” Shimano pedals—look out!
— Once again, my family had its annual Hot Wheels car race. When I try to explain this event to the uninitiated, the listener nods politely and probably can’t get past the idea of little boys playing with toys. My description fails to capture the rich generational traditions, the competitive repartee, and the comedic tone, not to mention the feast of delicacies, snacks, and tempting junk-food delights. And we have our announcers—two of them—so jaded and sarcastic that “real-life” fans would have long ago beaten them to a pulp in the parking lot after their summary dismissal by speedway executives.
— I humiliated myself last night by making the classic blunder of bringing a movie that I’d never watched to a get-together with friends. William H. Macy let me down with his dreadful “The Cooler,” and who in the world wants to see his saggy buttocks anyway? I suppose we salvaged the evening to some degree by attending the wildest midnight scene in Danville—the annual three-inches-of-confetti-on-the-floor bash at the Hamlins. It’s rowdy, loud, and lots of fun, if you don’t mind digging the little colored stuff out of all those personal nooks and crannies that WHM so gratuitously displayed to the whole world.
— I finished another Grandy-bo piece this morning (my tenth) that Caitlan ended up getting during the Clan’s Chinese (Chine-Yine) gift exchange. I’m finally achieving the loose, spontaneous style that I’ve been after for quite a while. Rita’s photo show was particularly moving for me, as though my torch had been passed to a new generation of documentarians. She’ll get better at editing down her images to a more focused presentation, but it was the kind of montage that I used to have such a passion for, and I’m happy that someone else wants to pick up where I left off. Now, if I can only convince her to take over the Seitz Reunion portrait…
— Our family gathering today was filled with much love, perhaps more that usual, if that’s possible. The gesture of generosity that was extended to Dana and me took us by surprise, and brought emotional closure to a holiday season that had seemed somewhat diminished by an inability to carry out our usual traditions at the Town House. What a thoughtful, caring thing to do! It made us realize that a tough, draining year was behind us at last, and how much everyone has missed Bruce.
So tender and mild
Friday, December 23rd, 2005I sent out the rest of this year’s Christmas cards, which use a small block print that I call “Holy Infant.” Technically, I guess it would be considered a wood engraving, since it was cut on the endgrain, but it seems far too primitive for that description, since I used a tool more suited to a woodcut (sidegrain), the piece of wood itself left a lot to be desired (from a quality standpoint), and the actual printing process was a crude affair using old stamp-pad ink. Nevertheless, the rustic effect pleased me, and it was just a limited experiment anyway. It just heightens my desire to do some proper printmaking, using a true engraver’s tool, with one of the good maple blocks I bought over a year ago from Wesley Bates.
Magic Island
Wednesday, December 14th, 2005I saw Joan’s mention of Aunt Carol’s game.
Beverages included? What about spices?
Ok, ok…
If I spend any more time, I’ll just keep fiddling around with them, so here are my picks—
Corn, tomatoes, spinach, almonds, eggs, cheese, avocados, vanilla ice cream, strawberries, and raspberries.
And we get to share, right?
How about if we add to the game?
I wasn’t there at the genesis, but what if we discovered a chest on Magic Island containing three books—a Holy Bible, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language (unabridged)—and each of us could pick three additional books, which the chest would produce for our group library. There would be no other books on Magic Island—for the rest of our lives.
What three volumes would you choose?
Here are my selections—
The I Ching (or Book of Changes), The Odyssey of Homer, and James Clavell’s SHÕGUN.
When faced with picking books with pictures or books with words, I chose words. When faced with making more universal choices or being selfish, I decided to be selfish.
What about you?
Would you pick a how-to book, a cookbook (not a bad idea), or a collection of reproductions? Literature? What about a book with blank pages—no other books on Magic Island means just that—or a work you’d want the other inhabitants to read?
Nobody knows how long the chest’s magic will last.
Hurry, but choose wisely…
Various & Sundry, part twenty-eight
Thursday, December 1st, 2005— Month of November workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-0; Run-3; Lift-0; Yoga-0
— If I keep up this exercise pattern, I won’t be able to call myself a triathlete any more. It’s interesting that during these weeks of low-grade anxiety and stress, I’ve fallen back primarily on what was my “boyhood sport.” Since those days of backyard family fun and our frigid plunges at Dunn’s pool, swimming has always been my favorite physical activity. (Don’t tell anybody on the Bicycle Commission!) More than that, being a lifeguard enabled me to escape unpleasant fast-food and grocery jobs, providing a foundation of employment during my youth until I developed entry-level creative skills. Truthfully, I never understood why a young guy would want to work all day when he could build a nice tan while observing pretty girls in bikinis.
— Dana and I were badly in need of some soul nourishment, so we visited the Indianapolis Museum of Art this morning before our stop at the hospital. The special exhibition we “accidentally” found out about and then had to see—International Arts and Crafts—was even more astonishing than we’d hoped for. It was so phenomenally well-done, I have to think back to the famous Tutankhamen or Impressionist exhibitions, or my experiences at the Van Gogh, Rodin, or Tate galleries in Europe, to find any parallels. This one will stick with me for a long, long time and open up many new areas of personal investigation. The
Speed Museum was still open when we came through Louisville tonight, so we caught about an hour of Mary Ann Currier. Fortunately, her stunning work can be appreciated purely at the sensory level, because the show at the IMA had thoroughly exhausted my capacity for intellectual delight.
— I can’t get over the costs involved in maintaining Bruce‘s extraordinary care. Prior to his recent surgery I saw him get a 1-ml intramuscular injection that carried a $1,000 price tag. That’s a million dollars a liter, for cryin’ out loud! The night before we came home, the lab prepared a bag of custom-mixed IV nutrition that was worth $1,500, but for some unknown reason Bruce refused to take it. Certain people were not very happy about that. I’m beginning to think his months-long iron will is morphing into a bored, laid-back stubbornness. He needs to get out of the frickin’ hospital.
Gleanings from Lexington’s downtown Gallery Hop
Sunday, November 20th, 2005I left Danville too late, so most of the steam was out of the “Hop” by the time I hit the streets of the city. The wine boxes were empty and the finger food looked too picked over. The crowds of hipsters had clearly shifted their collective focus to discussing whatever late-night enticements lay in store for them after the galleries closed.
I was there to see art while I could; it was worth the trip.
• Jeff Rogers is always up to something new and interesting.
• D.B. Westerfield, a prospective Layerist, has switched from ceramics to multi-media canvases, and I like her smaller collages—bright, loose, and full of gaity. I was going to add, “just like the artist,” but how would I know? (I shouldn’t be so rude. I just met her and she’s a very sweet person.)
• Going from the Ann Tower Gallery to the poster art show
at the ArtsPlace building was moving from the sublime to the ridiculous, but that’s what this event is all about (and I liked discovering the work of Mark Daly).
I’m glad I had the impulse to drive up. I was alone and there wasn’t anything else I felt like doing on a Friday night. I saw a few pieces that inspired me, but nothing I encountered in Lexington compares with Sheldon‘s exhibit at the Community Arts Center, only a block from our studio.
Various & Sundry, part twenty-seven
Saturday, November 19th, 2005— I reconfigured the screen saver on the Mac G4 Mini to display a sequence of abstractions by Kurt Schwitters. I can’t say why, but, as far as motivating me to make art, nothing of late has been more inspirational to me than the rule-shattering creations of this early 20-century master. One could say he basically invented the medium we know as collage (he certainly was the first to perfect it), and it won’t hurt if I can subconsciously absorb a wee bit of his genius. Did KK really go to Newcastle? My God, that’s the repository of the Schwitters “Merzbarn,” one of the most genuinely innovative artistic concepts of the last hundred years! I may never get to see it myself… Go back there, Caitlan; it’s in the Hatton Gallery at the University of Newcastle!
— Don’t know any details, but it seems as though conditions are imploding at the school where my sister Joan has worked for many years. I feel bad for her because I think I know what she’s going through. Dana and I still refer to the “Golden Age” at Wright State University Communications (where we first met) before that department went into a nose dive. Things were never the same. Some of our coworkers saw it coming early and escaped most of the madness. Dana and I saw the handwriting on the wall before many in our group, but we still had to endure six months of collapse until we made the leap and started our partnership and studio. Several of our friends tried to make the best of it and had to experience a lot of nastiness before what was left of our creative “dream team” had been totally dismantled. A few of us from those years started our own companies and continued to work with each other sporadically, and we keep in touch as friends to this day. Since then I’ve learned that good working relationships and situations can rarely be sustained indefinitely. Everything always changes. Undesirable situations can improve, but, unfortunately, great situations inevitably decline, or even crash and burn. There’s been quite an ebb and flow in our clientele since those days (26 years ago). It’s not that existing relationships will sour, but it’s more often a matter of the natural, dynamic flux in any organization’s personnel equation. Never underestimate the wake of change that can occur when outstanding people move on with their lives. It can cause a “brief, shining moment” to fade into personal mythology. The silver lining for me—I still have my “partner in all things” and my Clan, and that’s as close to permanent as I’ll ever know.
— Today Dana told me that Bruce had a bad night, but pulled through without having to go back to the hospital. He gets into vicious cycles of fever, nausea, low red cell count, weakness, low blood pressure, and then sometimes passes out when he tries to stand up, if he has the energy to move at all. I don’t know the actual sequence of it, but he manages to will himself forward, or he relies on his mother or Pam for the encouragement to ride it out when this happens. It apparently has something to do with dialysis, or the lingering infections, or another factor I’m not aware of. He told Dana this past week how much he wants to feel good again, and that he’s not giving up. Dana will stay with him until he improves enough that she can turn her role over to someone else. Until then, she must be there while Pam is at work. Meanwhile, I continue at the home-front and make my effort to get work, be productive, juggle the volunteer commitments that have a momentum I can’t control, and resist the kind of distractions I’ve always invited to avoid facing—right now—the full emotional impact of bearing life’s load (for example, making overly long blog entries).
Layered meaning vs metaphysical anarchy
Monday, November 14th, 2005I broke away from the Knobs so as not to miss a meeting at Kathleen‘s about the Society of Layerists in Multi–Media (SLMM). I recently joined as an associate member and hope to boost my involvement with the organization as they gear up for a major gathering in Lexington during the autumn of 2006. My goal is to complete enough larger collage pieces by next summer to submit an application for full membership to the Society’s jury. It’s my hope to qualify to participate in the exhibitions connected with the month-long series of art events.
It was a very pleasant, interesting gathering of artists who share a similar orientation to their work, including a few friends from Danville, but mostly a group of people I’d never met. We each had an opportunity to introduce ourselves, show some examples of our work, and talk about our approach. I got to explain how the hundreds of greeting cards I’ve made over the years as a creative contrast to the needs of my commercial practice has enabled me to develop a miniaturist style that I yearn to apply to larger concepts. I told them that, although the aesthetics of my spontaneous compositions are rooted in early 20th-century design and modern art (like the masterful Merz experiments of Kurt Schwitters), I reject the nihilism and pessimism of Dada, and that my process and intent is more in keeping with the uplifting, holistic principles of Layerism.
Chlorine, linseed oil, and pigskin
Thursday, November 3rd, 2005Today’s swim was as meditative as Tuesday’s was strenuous. Before I came home I walked over to the Jones Center and looked over the exhibition of sculptures. Standing in the painting studio among the half-finished canvases, I breathed in the vapors of turpentine and tried to get the Paul Watkins story out of my system (it made matters worse). Last night I listened to a 1993 radio interview that helped me gain a greater sense of the young man. The interviewer used the word “precocious,” but I must say I didn’t have that impression after having lived with David Halifax for a week. Well, I suppose most contemporary artists tend to squander youth before getting their act together, so any disciplined person who hits the ground running by the age of 20 is now considered prematurely developed.
I was talking to Marty about the novel and immediately he thought it would translate well as a motion picture. He chose Tobey Maguire as Halifax and Sean Connery as Pankratov. Not bad. I’d go with Michael Gambon or Brian Cox as the gruff, mysterious Russian myself (but who besides Cox could be Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring?). The character of Guillaume Fleury is trickier. John Turturro could have played him early in his career (maybe a bit too tall). Perhaps Jason Schwartzman would be a good match today, but I’m not familiar enough with his work. The likeness of Fluery that I picture in my mind is similar to a self-portrait by Pierre Bonnard. Marty suggested Adrien Brody—not bad again. He asked me how one gets to be a casting director in Hollywood, and I’m ashamed to admit that I came back with a snide reply inappropriate for a fourteen-year-old lad. Needless to say, it doesn’t please me when I witness a pocket of cynicism erupt from below the surface, like looking in the mirror to discover a conspicuous pimple.
Speaking of Marty, I had to pick him up from school yesterday when he was feeling too sick to wait for a bus ride home. I told him to stay warm, rest, take some vitamin C, and, so he wouldn’t miss any class time today, not to be “outside playing football after your friends get home.” When I talked to Terie later she said that he was fine. “Really?” I asked. “Yeah, he’s playing football,” she said.
Vive la Valya
Wednesday, November 2nd, 2005Thoughts—more than that—expansive, deep-breathing celestial amalgamations inspired by a magnificent story of smoldering suspense, defying containment by mere intellect, taking possession of my imagination, filling it and spilling over like Champagne poured too quickly, and I’m wondering who happens to control the film rights to The Forger, and whether he is a typical Hollywood son of a bitch, and I’m certain that I could design the production, fixated on the idea that Brendan would play David Halifax, and totally convinced that Andrew was born to make this movie…
Yes, I know—these are the outrageously soaring notions one has after finishing a Paul Watkins novel.
Light at the end of the tunnel—priceless
Thursday, October 27th, 2005Bruce‘s release to home care remains a day-to-day affair as Dana maintains her Indianapolis vigil. She has her PowerBook G3 with her, and the two of us trying to work together at long distance reminds me of when we were making the transition to Kentucky. I was here in Danville and she was in Dayton. Our studio survives, but it’s been a weird year so far for us—obviously.
Bruce is still slowly improving and we anticipate he’ll be home by the weekend; if not, we’ve endured false starts before. He just fights on. Although many details of his financial status are certain to emerge later (millions of dollars for just the hospital bill; doctor fees unknown), I think it’s fair to say he’s considered an indigent ward of the state at this point, and could be for a long time. The important thing is that he’s among the very few who make it through this malady. In time, the artist in Bruce will surely provide a glimpse into this grim, months-long soul journey and the forbearance it coldly demands.
Meanwhile, down at the corner pub
Monday, October 17th, 2005Someday it would be fun to draw—no—I SHALL create a comic strip version of Bridget, and I’ll begin now if you agree to buy it. Metal frame or wood? Next Day Air or standard ground?
The world has gone mad today and good’s bad today
Monday, October 10th, 2005Dana and I drove to Indianapolis after the reunion so we could spend time with Bruce. Some anonymous medical genius had him so sedated he could barely keep his eyes open. They load him up with drugs and then stop in and ask him if he’s feeling depressed. Well, that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? On our lunch break we walked along the canal, visited the Indiana History Center, and looked at some Bodmer lithographs and 1860 watercolors of Old Richmond. By the time I’d stopped in the Cole Porter room to see the Hirschfelds and play a couple tunes on the Wurlitzer, I felt somewhat better, although I took out my residual frustration on a nurse by insisting Bruce get some plain yogurt instead of the version with artificial sweetener, which gives him a headache (no problem, we have drugs for that, too). I’m certain everyone’s glad when the grouchy step-dad leaves.