You 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…
Archive for the ‘Creativity’ Category
Oldenday IV
Sunday, April 17th, 2005Oldenday 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 II
Monday, April 4th, 2005Not long after the surprise bonanza of “funny papers” from Uncle Art, I developed the notion that the ideal life would be to have my own studio and draw a daily comic. I began filling up tablets with my original strips. I remember some of the titles and characters, such as “Pop and Pope,” and “Manna, the Nice Hermit,” but these early collections are long gone, and I can’t for the life of me bring to mind the title of the most extensive series, which consisted of humorous, everyday stories about a smart young woman named Miss Little who lived with her quirky grandfather (or was it an uncle?). These serials comprised my “wholesome” creations. At the same time, I applied myself industriously to numerous one-page “wanted posters,” refining my facial cartoon style with a cast of murderers, thieves, arsonists, and blackmailers, as well as pictorial set pieces that I called “scrips,” in which I worked out my shorthand visual body language with depictions of battles, action scenes, and bloody assaults on dinosaurs and other monstrous beasts. These two sets of drawings managed to survive, but it’s the comic strips that I wish I still had as part of my childhood archives, because I viewed these as actual preparations for what I wanted to be when I grew up…
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…
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…
Houston, we have a countdown
Sunday, February 27th, 2005The realization hit only yesterday. There are four graduations in the Clan later this spring! Cosmosaics? Cosmoramas? More Grandy-bo variations? Something new? I’d better plan ahead this time…
Use the stuff, Petey
Saturday, February 26th, 2005Seth showed his trailer to the Clan today, and then we made plans to collaborate on the long overdue, final cut of “Pirate Revenge.” It should be fun. I also found the lost narration notes that Brendan and I made years ago. It looks like the pieces are coming together at last, and then the emphasis will shift to producing the concluding episode of the generational quatrain, which Alyx and Seth are already planning to script.
One Man’s Journey
Wednesday, February 16th, 2005Rob Perkins is so amazing that I don’t know what to say about him. Canoeing alone in the remote arctic? Impressive… Capturing it on tape with such honesty and artistic vision? Unreal…
Gone too soon
Wednesday, February 9th, 2005Danville lost another fine man this week, my friend Morse Marcum. If Dadbo had grown up in Kentucky, he would’ve known all the things Morse knew. We had many enjoyable lunchtime conversations about wildlife in the knobs, tobacco, timber, horses and mules… But there was one specific interest that only we seemed to share among locals: murals. Every time Morse would visit a town that had a mural he would bring his excitement to me and we would brainstorm about creating a mural in Boyle County. But we never found a patron. Rest easy, Morse. If I ever get to do another mural, I’ll surely dedicate it to you.
Various & Sundry, part three
Tuesday, February 1st, 2005— Month of January workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-4; Run-3; Lift-6.
— Well, it’s the day to do that “first of the month” stuff: Total and evaluate the fitness workouts; adjust engine coolant and steering fluid levels; scan the hard drives; polish the cutlasses; check the hams.
— Bob and Meg sent me an article about John Evans (clipped from The New York Times) and his 37-year daily collage project. Synchronicity: Bob said that Meg had shown it to him on the same day he received my note about how I’d made the decision to gain control over my hand-made greeting card habit. At my 50th birthday party Bob suggested I scan my cards and publish a book. I’ve taken his advice on the scanning part. The article mentions that nobody was interested in doing a book on Evans because he wasn’t famous. After a publisher finally decided to produce one, he now admits it won’t make any money. Strange parallels. Like Evans, I’ve also had the recent urge to get rid of stuff, especially after helping to sort out some of the accumulation at the house that Joe Wood built. I might as well do it while I have the desire. It’s not my typical mode. But like Evans said, “What if my daughters and my wife had to deal with all this?”
— Josh has been staying in Kuwait and was scheduled to arrive in Iraq this week, so I wrote a note to him last night, thinking that he’d get it the first time he had a chance to check email after he got settled. My hope is that the atmosphere will have improved, now that the election has taken place, and that more Iraqi citizens will cooperate with the interim government and the coalition to provide information about extremists. Nevertheless, he’ll need to stay “on guard” for the duration of his deployment. I do look forward to hearing from him soon.
Dr. Wesnick vs the Brigadier
Saturday, January 29th, 2005Mario at Anacrusis reminds me of when my niece Kristi sponsored an interactive story at a defunct site called boards2go.com. I started an SF tale that lasted only 3 segments, without anyone else taking interest, before the whole thing imploded. Somehow I never mangaged to save any of it, but the directory still loads from the Wayback Machine, in case there’s a wizard out there who knows how to get deeper into the archive (if it even exists). I still remember that an embryonic plot idea involved the conflict between the commander of a secret brigade and a pompous Dr. Wesnick, the lead physicist on a government project to perfect the “Quantum Coil,” which could inject a paramilitary team into “the Outer Zone.” Wesnick presumed the Brigadier was being paranoid when he questioned the randomness of the energy profile captured by the coil’s “wave discriminator.” Why of course, reader, the signature was being proffered by sinister lifestreams, and the fun was about to begin…
Swim-Bike-Run
Tuesday, January 25th, 2005I’ve settled back into a decent fitness schedule that should have me back in triathlon shape by spring, and then I’ll start thinking about my first summer event. It’s back on the bike again tomorrow. Today’s morning swim went well, with my year-end concentration on strength training paying off with improved stroke pull. Swim coach mentioned to me that I should finish my workouts with harder sprints, so I’ve been forcing that on myself each time I get in the
pool. I refuse to just space out and not count laps, but I wish there was a better way to keep track, because I miss that feeling I got in my long lake swims last year, when I could just get in the zone and find a good endurance pace, like being out on the road running for distance, letting the imagination fire at will.
Vic Vega vs Napoleon Solo
Saturday, January 22nd, 2005My grandson Marty has discovered Quentin Tarantino, so first of all he screened Kill Bill: Vol.1 for me and then Reservoir Dogs. I didn’t know what to expect, since I’d never seen one of his films, not even Pulp Fiction. Marty has watched an alarming array of violent action flicks, beginning too many years ago, and now, at the age of thirteen, he can calmly dissect and critique motion pictures that have trailers I might not be able to handle so well. I’m not quite sure what to make of Tarantino. Marty finds his work more complex and intriguing than the typical fare he’s been used to, and I don’t doubt that’s true. For me, his movies mesh artistry with depravity like the teeth of a rusty zipper. A generation ago they said the same thing about Peckinpah, I suppose. Good Lord, when I was thirteen I had my hands full with The Wild Wild West and The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
On blogging
Saturday, January 15th, 2005Today’s a good day to initiate this log. Actually, I have no idea what a “blog” is meant to accomplish, or whether this online journal will meet the definition of that term. I supposed a true blog requires the kind of obsessive drive that keeps the generator of posts relentlessly coming back to the keyboard, so visitors can rely on a daily stream of new entries, thoughts, and observations.
But it occurs to me that if one is a creative person, and one is blogging, then one is not doing something else, since one is blogging, and therefore not engaged in a non-blogging priority, if you follow me…
I think that true blogging would necessitate a careful process of finding the best way to balance one’s creative imperatives, keen powers of compartmentalization, and a certain level of mastery over the daily resource of limited time. But what do I know about “true blogging?”
It’s just important for me to recognize that if I’m blogging, I’m not designing, and if I’m blogging, I’m not drawing, or painting, or engraving wood, and if I’m blogging, I’m not running, cycling, or swimming, and if I’m blogging, I’m not working on my house, and if I’m blogging…