If you don’t think that Brendan’s “Plastic Mullet Series” has achieved the summit of artistic hilarity, then A) you’ve been tragically blind since birth, B) you’re a snob who needs a search party to rescue your sense of humor, or C) maybe you actually wear a mullet style and are not at all amused by his cute little pastime. And if the Cap’nLiceCam is not weird enough, the Danville Rotary Club put up this page. Sonuva gun… I figured that after ten years in Rotary, I’d start looking more like Peter Graves. Maybe I should send Rotary a picture from the famous Muscle Club, (actually I don’t look that wimpy any more, due to my impressively strenuous, Bruce-Waynian training schedule this year).
Archive for the ‘Art’ Category
Funny pictures of everybody’s favorite uncle
Thursday, September 22nd, 2005
[Save] New World
Thursday, August 25th, 2005My investigation of comic art and commercial illustration goes back more years than I care to mention, and yet I continue to be clobbered by the work some of these Web-based artists are doing. Who are these people?!!! In the “old days,” alternative-media or “underground” art was weird, cluttered, and often ugly, but the imagery at many of these sites—like Bolt City—is flat-out beautissimous!
Maybe I just need to grasp that this is a generation of artists who have mastered digital techniques and use the Web as an efficient tool for distribution and self-promotion. It’s a medium that simply wasn’t available until recently, if you factor in the explosion of high-speed connectivity. Any previous generation of creatives would have jumped all over it, too.
Various & Sundry, part twenty-two
Monday, August 1st, 2005— Month of July workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-5; Run-7; Lift-0; Yoga-0.
— The yew shrubs (taxus) in front of our porch had gotten totally out of control the past couple years. I figured I needed to either yank them out or do something radical with their appearance. On Saturday I sat and stared at one of them for half an hour, and then I attacked it with my old lopping shears. We’d seen pictures of how landscapers sculpt these bushes in the oriental style, then began to notice examples (Chicago, Cincinnati) in proximity to “Arts and Crafts” residential architecture. It was worth a try. I was pleased with the result, especially after I used shoe polish to camouflage the pruning scars. I have no idea how old these plants are, but they’ve reached nearly six feet in height and have to be dealt with.
— Bruce is doing better, now that he’s back in the hospital. It’s hard for me to see how they could discharge him last week without ensuring the continuity of treatment essential for his improvement. Much of the routine care he needed fell into disarray or was changed. If it hadn’t been for family…
— While Dana was having her Indianapolis adventure, I was trying my hand at topiary arts, making more stabs at getting back into triathlon condition, and spending some time at David’s range with my two carbines. The 1894s clobbered my shoulder until I learned to hold it correctly. David helped me take off the scope that Dadbo put on it, and that restored it to the desired simplicity. I’ve decided to learn to use this nice rifle with the naked eye. I don’t think I’d ever be comfortable with scope hunting, so I don’t intend to start that. If I can’t get a kill shot with open sights I intend to let the moment pass. The .30-caliber M1 was fun to sight in and proved to be far more accurate than I was expecting, probably due to the influence of some negative Rick Jason remarks published in a book about the “Combat!” series. Or maybe I just happened to get a particularly good example of the WWII-era design. I checked my notes and can’t believe I purchased that gun in 1993. That I just let it gather dust must have something to do with Dadbo dying less than a month later. (Interestingly, my father and Rick Jason were almost exactly the same age. I only just learned that he died in 2000 of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, but I don’t know any details.)
— Josh should be back in the States on leave by this weekend. There’s a tribute planned for the following Friday evening at Eagle Nest. That should be a memorable gathering and celebration. To top it off, it’s the World Premiere of “Pirate Revenge,” the family short we shot at Lake Cumberland a dozen years ago, but it was never completed as the last installment of the Clan Pirate Trilogy. Marty and Coleman were babies, Brendan was a squirt, and Dadbo made his final contribution to family creativity as “Frank, the old fisherman.” My, how time does fly…
Oldenday X
Saturday, June 25th, 2005My family was never far from my mind during the seven months I lived in Europe during 1974. (In fact, I so turned off a pretty Flemish girlfriend by admitting I missed my family that she dumped me within hours for a Belgian doofus named Bruno.) One way I could feel connected to my brothers was to think about “The Legend,” and it was easy to be inspired, surrounded as I was by all the fascinating history of feudal conflicts, life on the manor, warring political factions, imperialistic ventures, and Napoleonic exploits. I was constantly encountering the art, architecture, accouterments, and weapons of the general time period we’d chosen to frame our imaginary world of swashbucklers and tyrants. When my brother James sent me a letter mentioning Hedda Keeh, one of our beloved characters (a native of the Western Plaines and Peace Chief of his nation), I plunged into the creation of a comprehensive map and sent it home along with our most ambitious document to date—a long letter from Joncules Dix to his half-brother Jimcus (otherwise known as Chaims-Dan, or Man-With-Flying-Feet, from his years among the outcast monks of Chap). Before long, the nonlinear structure of our narrative was firmly rooted in the idea of producing documents and artifacts that revealed only a portion of the totality, which would then lead to further discussion, attempts at integration, and ongoing creativity (often using dioramas built with the very type of plastic figures that influenced our imagination from the beginning). It became a perfect organizing principle—not original to us, I suspect—and reinforced the historicity of our approach, removing it forever from a strictly oral realm. An explosion of development followed, with numerous drawings, carvings, models, and written fragments. Spinning yarns within “The Legend” has never been the same since.
Because the sky is blue, it makes me cry
Sunday, June 12th, 2005After seeing my fitness chum from Japan (Yu Saito of Denyo) for the first time in over three years, at the old cabin where we meditate, we spent the afternoon on campus, soaking up more world-class music at the Festival. I did another study with the Karat medium and then got a satisfying close-up shot of soloist Vizzutti. On the other hand, it was hard for both of us to comprehend why we could be having such a wonderful time while Bruce was still going through his extended ordeal… and then we found out that he needs emergency surgery tomorrow. We’ll leave in the morning to be there.
At the hop
Friday, June 10th, 2005Carol and Bob arrived for Band Fest weekend, and we had some time to make a few Gallery Hop stops. All the posters from the 16-year history of the Festival were on display, including the four that I designed. Sheldon signed 50 copies of the 2005 edition, and half of them were already gone at $35 a pop. Thanks to Aunt Carol, I found the courage to approach Chuck about his unreciprocal mode (in our long-standing barter deal). I hung out at Paul’s and wondered why I was getting myself into another trade, since I’m the unresponsive party in my similar agreement with Ginny.
Hope for the dawn
Thursday, June 9th, 2005I saw Dr L at the Whitehouse opening, and he told me that he’s seen patients with two normal kidneys lose all renal function dealing with hemorrhagic pancreatitis. So I guess I can’t be too discouraged about
Bruce’s ongoing struggle. Tomorrow adds up to 12 weeks, and that’s enough to test anyone to their core. Danny D loaned me his copy of Dark Night of the Soul. If he thinks I need to better understand this level of suffering, he’s right.
Vinyl hair rush vs sable hair brush
Monday, June 6th, 2005As if getting one step closer to being in the Plastic Mullet Series wasn’t treat enough, I got an early look at the Speed’s Berthe Morisot exhibition, and since I tend to possess that “painterly eye” for 24 hours or so after visiting the finest museums, it was fortuitous to have packed my Karat pencils and sketchbook so I could study a sunny treetop during our brief stay at Simpson Knob.
Day of Clan
Saturday, June 4th, 2005All of a sudden the visited links color has switched from violet to black. Hmm… maybe it has something to do with Brendan fixing the style sheet so that my entries don’t look like a single, continuous line. Speaking of Brendan, it was good to see him yesterday. He turned us on to “Pirate’s Cove,” perhaps the coolest board game I’ve ever played (gotta try “Ticket to Ride” next). It was also fun to be with Alyx on her big day. I really think she liked the “Arts & Crafts Companion” we got her, plus my photorama (number two). A huge “thanx” to the Keepsters, who always throw an enjoyable bash. Marty and I headed up to one of our knobs and kicked around until sunset, then we took some pictures of the evening mist sliding through the Valley. I’ll feel stupid if I end up getting poison ivy.
Various & Sundry, part sixteen
Sunday, May 22nd, 2005— BCA’s Frisco
makes me want to draw it as a comic strip, as Lisa did with Fortado. A while back I realized I’d have a difficult time creating a comic strip as a solo enterprise because, even though I could draw it, I knew I didn’t have the mind to develop dramatic or humorous ideas at the same level. And so I would require a partner, if I ever chose to fulfill the dream. It makes me think of some of the great collaborative efforts, like the strips created by Lee Falk (Mandrake the Magician, The Phantom) and, of course, Parker and Hart’s The Wizard of Id.
— Spent Friday morning compensating for the substandard transparency of the Tapley painting being featured within our Brass Band Festival poster design. It was a relief to know my teamwork with the printer’s pre-press technician achieved the anticipated result. All along, my goal has been to showcase a fabulous work of art without messing up, and having to take possession of the original and haul it around added a bit more stress to the process. Then we had lunch in Louisville with Bob the photographer and he pointed out that shooting a high-res digital could have avoided the entire ordeal of fixing a donated scan. No doubt, but that’s the sort of thing you get pulled into with a freebie project. There’s always time to salvage a botched plan, but never any money to do it correctly from the beginning.
— Within almost every “mandala” of friends there’s the individual or two who act as the “glue.” For a group that’s met twice a month for over a decade to experience “shared silence,” that primary person has been my friend Milton. He’s retiring from his long tenure at Centre College, and it was fun to “toast and roast” him at the cabin this morning. His energy, compassion, and “brutal” honesty has always been an inspiration. One of the harsh realizations of middle age has been to understand that one doesn’t know quite as much about quite as many subjects as it seems in youth. And special care should be taken when claiming any authority in the areas in which one has gained some depth of knowledge and expertise. For the most part, I learned this from Milton, a true scholar who knows how to keep things in perspective—that even though we all have our limitations as students of life, it need not inhibit our enthusiasm for learning, nor deter our quest for illumination.
— The remarkable recovery by Bruce continues as he enters his tenth week in the hospital. He had more surgery on Friday to take out tubes and is down to a single drain (which may come out tomorrow) and a line that delivers nutrition directly to the small intestine. Dana and I spent the afternoon with him yesterday. He did some hall walking and powered his own wheelchair for a while on a visit to the rose garden. He’s off antibiotics, keeps gaining strength, and can now concentrate on a little reading, which is one of the good signs I’ve been looking for. Nobody loved to read more than Bruce, and he’s surely on his way back to his former avocations. And yet I sense that the perilous chasm he traversed this spring is his portal to a new and different life that can be unlocked only by monumental perseverance.
Oldenday VII
Tuesday, May 10th, 2005Since I worked on this series last month, a few more early influences have come to mind, one by one. Joan reminded me of the illustrated dinosaur book with the green cover that she recalls me studying for hours. On Sunday I thought of another. During our trip back from Indy we stopped at the Speed Museum on UofL’s campus to see the Remington-Russell exhibition (typically, the last two hours of the final day, but thank God I didn’t miss it). I remembered the puzzles—a series of simple childen’s puzzles—that were all reproductions of Remington works. I’d forgotten about them, and how much I loved them! I doubt they lasted long in a household of youngsters. They were so powerfully evocative for me that I don’t think I even recognized them as art at the time, but thought of them as true representations of the far West. I’m sure that most of those specific images remain undiscovered to my adult eye, otherwise I would carry a stronger emotional connection to Remington. I came to Russell much later and felt a deeper identification with his sketch techniques and pictorial preferences. I’ve been especially drawn to his pen and wash style. His illustrated correspondence influenced me from the moment I first saw an example. Yes, I know there must be sophisticates who still don’t think he was one of the greats, but his work came to the Speed, dangit! If you don’t think he was a master, just try to copy his modest doodles. I’ve certainly tried and failed. There will never be another quite like him. Marty and I looked at his boyhood sketchbook in the gift shop. The drawings showed more potential for visual imagination than artistic achievement. “But he got good ’cause he never stopped,” I told the lad…and he understood.
Cosmorama-dama-ding-dong
Friday, May 6th, 2005There’s a pattern that presents itself when I create one of my collage artworks, and it can be described something like this— As a concept gradually takes shape over a period of days, individual components are selected by contrast of color, size, and aesthetic associations, often involving the assembly of miniature configurations that will function as units. The formal compositional phase is then executed with intuitive dispatch within a concentrated block of time. After at least one night’s sleep, the third and final step is one of refinement, when the design is finessed with the placement of smaller elements to anchor the proper visual balance. Tonight I completed “act two” of the piece I’m donating to the Art-full Raffle (sponsored by the Arts Commission of Danville/Boyle County next week to raise funds for local arts scholarships).
Majestic aspirations vs elusive microeconomics
Saturday, April 30th, 2005While out at midday on a five-miler, I was imagining what would happen if I took a collage miniature and enlarged it to gallery size after subjecting it to a mezzo-tone or stochastic conversion. I must have at least a dozen images that lend themselves to this graphic treatment, but when I consider time, materials and framing, I don’t see how I could finance it, not to mention the lack of anyone asking me to prepare such a large exhibition. I’d better start with just one and test the waters.
Tearful eye vs clenched jaw
Friday, April 22nd, 2005I haven’t been sure if I had any more “olden” entries in me, for now (because they might be something cathartic related to the past 4-5 weeks), but then I went to my Rotary lunch meeting today and heard a performance of the Boyle County Chamber Singers. These highschoolers are tackling Mozart’s Requiem and other pieces that would be considered advanced at the college level. To think that there are youngsters today with this kind of access to high-quality fine arts instruction at a local public school… well, it just might get me musing again about my own dearth of artistic mentorship and stir a few dying embers of resentment for your amusement.
Oldenday VI
Wednesday, April 20th, 2005When I was a preteen, Dadbo brought home a carload of aerospace magazines from work. Did I cut out all the cool pictures of rockets and supersonic aircraft? No… I cut out and saved the marketing symbols and corporate trademarks. I can’t explain it, but I always had an affinity for letters and graphics (the GE emblem on the refrigerator intrigued the heck out of me), but I had no clear comprehension of either the fine or applied arts, any sense of the distinction, or what an artist actually did for a living, other than maybe draw cartoons, paint signs, or think up a few crazy advertising ideas like Darren Stevens. My junior high art teacher had worked as a commercial artist before switching to art education. She didn’t actually instruct me in any specific graphic arts techniques, but I did gain one valuable thing from her—she made sure I understood that commercial art was a viable aspiration for a talented person. But there was something else between the lines, as though it was our secret, this notion that commercial art wasn’t exactly noble, that it wasn’t real art. Hmmm, so what was real art? Didn’t have a clue. Norman Rockwell? For petesake I didn’t even realize who Bob Clampett and Ralph Bakshi were poking fun at when they created a cartoon character called Go Man Van Gogh (the wild beatnik artist on “Beany“). I just knew that I was fascinated by comics and advertising art and loved to study lettering and draw words as pictures. I remember painting the word “ICE” with watercolors, adding the archetypical mounds of snow and ice-cycles around the letters. It was almost a right of passage. Weird, eh? I had four different art teachers in four years of high school. I hate to be unkind but each one of them was worthless. I had talent, so there was no reason to spend time with me. It was more important to babysit the goof-offs who took art as a “cake” elective. No wonder I sent off for the Famous Artists home test. I don’t think I even realized how desperate I’d become. What others might have viewed as crass merchandising was a Godsend for me. The individual attention I got from instructors in far-off Connecticut was something I’d never experienced before. And even though the course introduced me to both the fine and applied arts, there was something about commercial art that made me feel at home. When I saw the classes offered by UC I didn’t get the same electricity from reading about figure drawing, painting, or printmaking like I did from discovering that I could take design fundamentals, typographics, photography and film/animation. I was pumped! I wanted to go to college so bad I turned cocky and couldn’t wait to blow my hometown and head for the big city…
Oldenday IV
Sunday, April 17th, 2005You would have thought that I’d get at least one decent art teacher during my years in high school. No dice. And so I continued my bizarre attempt at artistic cultivation. I developed my own comic book characters, illustrated home-grown stories, and advanced my “Wanted Posters” into a state that was clearly an attempt at pushing my facial skills as far as I could handle without proper training. Nobody had ever told me about anatomy or life drawing. I absorbed the daily comics (I hated “Dondi” but studied the drawing). The unique intro to The Wild Wild West and the long-forgotten Lone Ranger animated series fascinated me. I became more and more interested in animation. I poured over the drawings of political artists—Herblock, Hugh Haynie, and Paul Conrad. I entertained the notion that I wanted to be an editorial cartoonist, and wrote letters to prominent exponents of the art form. But then something happened that would change everything. I saw an an advertisement from the Famous Artist School and responded. A representative actually paid a visit to our home and I begged my parents to let me give it a shot—the correspondence course that would give me the art instruction that I’d never managed to acquire. They said, “Okay,” and I will forever be grateful for this simple consent to expose me to legitimate art educators. I acknowledge now that the home-study “Course for Talent Young People” was an experiment, an attempt to market the successful adult course to a younger market. That meant nothing to me at the time. This was the school endorsed by Norman Rockwell! How could they deny me this opportunity? Well, they didn’t, even though my Mom had to cajole me into keeping up with the lessons. But a sea change had occurred. I was formally introduced to the world of art at last, fine and applied, and I was soon ready to make an informed decision about the direction of my artistic development. When my grandmother gave me a bulletin of classes from the University of Cincinnati, I was ready to choose a course of action—commericial art. No surprise. This was it! Everything else fell to the wayside…
Oldenday III
Friday, April 15th, 2005I don’t know if I really liked school as a kid, but rather accepted it as my fate. It did have one nice thing going for it—ample opportunity to draw. Because we were Catholics, we went to school six days a week, although the Saturday religious instruction (catechism) was only in the morning, which wasn’t so bad because we were used to it, and we got to hang out with our top chums, the Vagedes boys. But maybe the best thing about Saturday mornings was that we got a comic book. I didn’t know that Treasure Chest wasn’t “cool.” I looked forward to the wholesomely didactic magazine (given out one per family before we went home each Saturday morning) because it was a comic book. Super heroes would come later. “Treasure Chest” introduced me to the longer pictorial narrative form and the art of the visual cliffhanger. Looking back on it, the staff that produced it was clearly packed with talent. I never saw another issue of it after 1964. With the move to a new town, a few dimes to spend, and the proximity of my junior high school to a retail rack of Superman, Batman, and Aquaman, I made the seismic shift to the world of DC Comics. Other than being shown how to use pastel chalk by family friend Mr. Smalley, I still had received no direct exposure to fine arts instruction. I was almost a teen, and I’d had no educator who could demonstrate to me genuine artistic technique, even though I’d had a series of teachers who rather negligently but wholeheartedly supported my effort to become self-taught. And so I continued with my own strange mix of preferred influences: Reed Crandall, Doug Wildey, Bob Clampett, Alfred Andriola, Curt Swan, Bob Kane, and Frank Frazetta. Actually, I could have chosen much worse…
Oldenday I
Saturday, April 2nd, 2005Although my mom provided a truly rich atmosphere for mental play and my dad revealed for me his familiar world of nature, I look back at times with wonder and some amusement that I ever arrived at any sort of creative legitimacy, given the odd character of my early visual stimuli. I always had chalk and my own blackboard, and was given free reign to inhabit the world of my own imagination, sharing it with a captive sibling audience. I suppose we were rather sheltered. It was no surprise they thought I was a real artist. I recall almost no access to books with “serious” artwork. A bound collection of Currier and Ives reproductions was about as close as it got. I don’t remember any childhood visits to art museums or even going to a library before attending school. There was really nothing about art to learn on television, except for the exposure to Walt Disney, or a glimpse of illustrations in the books read by Captain Kangaroo, or, eventually, Jon Gnagy’s “Learn to Draw.” At least I understood that Yogi Bear and the Flintstones wasn’t about art. We didn’t get a daily newspaper. And so it was a monumental event in my life when Uncle Art delivered a stack of Saturday Evening Post magazines and a year’s worth of old Sunday comics. I must not have had a bit of interest in anything else until it was fully absorbed. For a time, that was the pinnacle: Walt Kelly, Al Capp, Milton Caniff, and, of course, those magnificent Rockwell covers…
Various & Sundry, part eleven
Thursday, March 24th, 2005— Now that the corner has been turned, and Bruce’s life has been preserved, he faces a difficult future, short- and long-term. A tough row to hoe, as they say. Today it appears as though the doc has given up on salvaging his transplanted kidney—too little function, too much chronic deterioration. This means more dialysis, a process which Bruce grew to loath, and will surely dread to accept back into his life on any regular basis. It may be several more hours before his awareness clears enough for him to evaluate his choices (or lack thereof). He’s being moved from intensive care to progressive care, and taken off anti-rejection drugs, narcotics, steroids, and sedatives, plus he’ll be down to a single tube—oxygen. One of the reasons they doped him is because he became combative and ripped out the nasal/gastric tube at least twice (as I might have, too, had I been in his situation). Or maybe I have that backwards (side effects of medication causing aggressive behavior and colorful use of language). In any case, the outlook is encouraging, but I’ll keep up my prayers. It’s likely that there will be more bumps in the road…
— If I came up with an idea for a new method of capital punishment—slow death by starvation—would it be declared cruel and unusual? If authorities came into your home and discovered all the pets were dead, would they say, “…within his rights—slow death by starvation.”? Sorry, just thinking rhetorically here. (Did I do the punctuation correctly on that?) “…I can’t imagine why, the world has time enough to cry.”
— As an avid watcher of Brian Lamb’s “Booknotes,” I was disappointed when he wrapped the 800-show series on C-SPAN. Listening to writers talk about writing makes me want to write. Listening to politicians talk about politics doesn’t make me want to run for office. Listening to artists talk about art definitely makes me want to make art. Now the only other good interview show with the classic all-black set is Charlie Rose. I think Rose is at his best when he’s talking to artists. Not that he doesn’t demonstrate the same level of skill when interviewing journalists and politicians, but I guess he tends to insert more opinions that sometimes irritate me. His recent conversation with Daniel Day-Lewis and his astonishingly brilliant and beautiful wife, Rebecca Miller (daughter of the late Arthur Miller), was just about as good as television ever gets. How in the world does he get these creative people to relax and describe the inexpressible aspects of their talent and craft? His style is totally different than Lamb’s, but they both make it look so easy. Not the performance (if that’s what you can call it), but the technique of coaxing the guest to say things that are genuinely interesting. I made the mistake of watching a perfunctory interview with Clint Eastwood, leading up to the Oscars, and the interviewer managed to avoid steering him to a single topic that was remotely enlightening… quite a feat, actually.
The world of Randas Batista
Tuesday, March 15th, 2005You don’t have to explore the Web very long to discover a site that’s distinctive, substantive, and full of talent—
Jeffrey Luke’s Brazil Diary is one of them…
One Earth Tour comes to Danville
Wednesday, March 9th, 2005The rhythmic perfection and exuberant athleticism of the KODO performance at Centre last night was powerful, mesmerizing, and deeply satisfying. I knew the word “Kodo” from my book by Kensho Furuya (Kodo: Ancient Ways— Lessons in the Spiritual Life of the Warrior/Martial Artist), but I wasn’t sure whether it literally meant “Ancient Ways.” The KODO artists boldly but reverently exalt “Taiko,” the traditional Japanese drum, which is the ancient symbol of rural Japan. Their musical interpretations connect at a fundamental human level that must be experienced to fully appreciate.
Trivia: What television theme features the Taiko? Answer.
They see a plate of them and weep
Friday, March 4th, 2005Spent three hours today in front of a hot griddle at Kentucky School for the Deaf making pancakes for the Danville Rotary Club. Once a year I adopt my little-known identity as the greatest fried-foods artist since Neolithic times. Usually this annual fundraising event is scheduled around the middle of February, which enables me to show off by making heart-shaped pancakes. This year the timing was off, but did that stop me?
Modesty eludes me when it comes to my Rotary pancakes. I suppose they can only be described as perfect. Just ask any of my numerous pupils (the community’s best and brightest). That they hold me in total, ring-kissing awe on this particular day allows them to act like they don’t know me the rest of the year.
As far as Dana is concerned, it just makes me smell like grease.
Ah, the sorrow of genius…