I was pleased to visit Buxton this week. Buxton was the site of a Roman Spa way back when the Romans roamed this Green And Pleasant Land. Buxton has a hot spring that produces more than a million liters of mineral water at 27 degrees C (80.6 F) every day. That's lots of warm water. The waters there are supposed to have restorative qualities. My old bones could use some restorative. Nevertheless, it is a pretty town with a lot of attractions. We enjoyed stopping at the Pavillion and Gardens next to the Opera House. The Gallery in the Gardenshouses the work of 40 local artists. I love local artists. One artist that stood out for me on this visit was David Hoodith. David moved to the Peak District in 1995 and currently lives in New Mills. He's a self-taught artist who paints the dramatic Peak District landscapes and cityscapes. His loose style is pleasing and invites you in and holds you. This artist doesn't have much of an internet presence, however, you can see more of his work on the Gallery in The Gardens website. Or you can visit his Facebook Page.
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Art starts a conversation. Sometimes the conversation goes well and sometimes it goes the other way. The conversation might start like this. "Wow, that's incredible." Sometimes like this. "What kind of monstrosity is that?!?!?!?!" Sometimes it could be, "You know, I was in Rockport, have you ever been there?" Sometimes - "Was a dog sick on that canvas?" Or "I was in Macy's and I needed something to go over my couch so I got this. I think it's pretty cool" Every piece of art has a story. Every work of art in your home has a story attached to it. The story is usually personal. A piece of art tells others who we are. It could be where you got it. It could be that butterflies mean something to you. It could be the artist was a friend or the colors are beautiful. It could mean any number of things. My art story this week includes a trip to the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. The rooms were crowded. There was some unintended jostling going on. I'm not good around crowds. I can get uncomfortable and irritable when I'm closed in with a bunch of people, but I didn't blow a gasket or run out screaming and whining like a child. This time. It was interesting to listen to the comments from people on the floor. Some of the work was interesting and some of the work was fabulous Some of the work was just not worth the time it took to make it. There seems to be no end to the opinions people hold and many times they're happy to share those opinions with a complete stranger. "I'd never have that in my house." "That's the most horrid thing, why would they select that?" "Where did they get the idea for that?" "I can't believe someone bought that?" "Really, that sold for ₤22,000! I can't believe it." No one will like everything and I have my opinions as well. There were some large works that looked like they should be hanging in a soulless atrium, selected by a committee, and approved by the board. They were well executed but looked like they lacked any investment or inspiration from the artist. Some were creepy and some were downright horrible. Some were just funny. This year, there was a skinny pink panther laced through some strange structure. It was huge - over six feet long. I really didn't get it, but I can appreciate it nonetheless. It made me smile and I liked it. I could hear the theme song playing in the background. Some were smaller and more intimate portraits. A couple caught my eye. They were about 8" x 10" and though they were hung amongst a hundred other paintings stood out to me. They were titled MOH 8 AND MOH9. These were obviously, at least obvious to me, portraits of United States Marine recipients of the Medal of Honor (MOH) recipients. The MOH is the highest decoration possible within the ranks of the military service in the United States. The paintings gave me pause to think and reflect on them and their sacrifice. A few goosebumps were involved too. Executing something well is important to me. Some of the entries were incredibly detailed and intricate like this marvelous forest scene made entirely of wire. Some of the artists in the show displayed no effort and looked like they were just slapped down, trampled, twisted up, run through a trash compactor, and then hung. Their effort and investment were minimal/dismal.
I don't like criticizing an artists work because maybe I just don't get it. It could be someone else will. Perhaps I think if I criticize someone else's work it leaves mine work up for criticism as well. I do enjoy going to these shows even though I know I won't like a lot of the stuff there. To me, it is an explosion of creativity and different opinions. It helps me see new possibilities. I'll be back to see the good, the bad, and the ugly. Go see some art. Visit a gallery. Start a conversation. Lord knows we could use a bit more conversation today. So, without mentioning Tracy Emin's horrible contributions, I will leave it all alone. But... someone will always find her interesting for some reason or other. Ack! The painting I've included today, at the top of this section, was submitted by me to the show a few years ago but was not selected. I like it. It's hanging in my house. It has its own story. :-) I'll keep trying. Until next week, I wish you peace. The artist I've chosen to present this week works on a grand scale. DAAS' murals can cover the entire side of a building or even a huge city water tank. The massive scale, the color, and feel of his work make it truly remarkable. It just gives me a good feeling. For this otter mural, he researched the area to determine what image would work best for the area. The following is a video of the Otter Project in Winston-Salem NC. The whole process is intriguing. I find how he uses reference marks painted on the water tank to draw the mural is really interesting. I love the creative way that he abstracts his subjects into a cubist style. His paintings are immediately recognizable as his own. His work is certainly unique in scale, diversity, and style. DAAS is currently based in Japan but his work can be found around the globe. From a panda or an elephant in Kathmandu, Nepal, an Otter in Winston-Salem, NC, a wall of birds in St Petersburg, FL, to Astronauts in Osaka, Japan. You might want to stop by DAAS' website to take a peek at is other work as well. I love the smaller (relative) work as well. Check out what he calls his "indoor paintings" on his website including this very impressive falcon. I look forward to visiting one of his murals. I think that will go on to my bucket list! I love his work and I hope you do too. You can find his work in a number of places online including: This a painting I did of St. Nicholas Church in Stevenage. The current building as you see sits proudly atop the hill across some fabulous rambling fields. The tower itself dates back to 1100 AD and an ancient stone font with a medieval carved wooden cover. In 2012, my father came to visit us in England. He was 84 at the time. We took him on many walks around Forster Country which surrounds St. Nicholas Church. One day, on our walk, we stopped in to visit the church. The Rector of St Nicholas Church, Dave Brown, came out and gave us a great tour of the building. He showed us some fantastic little Latin graffiti on the center columns of the church. I can't remember what it said though. It was probably something like "Dave Was Here". The church survived the plague and escaped the Blitz (a nasty piece of work sponsored by Herr Hitler). I don't know of many Hitlers in Germany (not that I know many people in Germany). Did all of the Hitlers corporately change their name to something else. Maybe Hitler was an Austrian name. Anyway - he was, as we all know dreadful. I would certainly change my name if it was Hitler. My dad was blown away by how old the church was and how friendly the Rector was when he basically gave us a private tour. It was one of the highlights of his visit. Back to Forster Country... Way back in 1883 through the summer of 1893, a fella called Edward Morgan Forster, known as Morgan to those close to him, more popularly known today as E.M. Forster, lived in a little place off the Weston Road close to Stevenage in Hertfordshire. His early family home, called Rooks Nest House, was the model he used for the home described in his novel as Howard’s End. Other works you might know include, Where Angels Fear To Tread, The Longest Journey, and A Passage To India. We still often walk the fields and farms around Rooks Nest House. The house, which sits atop four and a half acres of land, was recently put on the block for 1.5 million pounds. The decision to sell was probably prompted by the uninvited encroachment onto their spectacular pastoral views. You see, The Stevenage Borough Council has approved the development of an inordinate number of homes to replace this lovely greenbelt area. It will surely decimate this tranquil and peaceful setting. I’m sorry to see the fields and farms succumb to our wanton exploding population. Forster was unhappy with the expansion of New Stevenage when it occurred. He said, “it would fall out of the blue sky like a meteorite upon the ancient and delicate scenery of Hertfordshire” (Hertfordshire Life, 12 August 2010). New people started pouring into the new town in 1952 and the population has steadily climbed since that time. I’m sure Mr. Forster would be equally opposed to this encroachment on to Forster Country today. He may, I imagine, like his name removed from the abomination it could become. Though the plan was passed in 2017, the development plan has been placed on hold for the time being. The local MP, Steven McPartland, asked to have the plan put on hold. It means no development can currently proceed. It is not a permanent fix but it means there still might be a glimmer of hope that this amazing greenbelt can be saved. I will enjoy the walks while I can though. It is beautiful. I love this place and I thought you might like to see it before you hear the engines of the bulldozers grind to life. I will keep my fingers crossed. Melancholy Sigh… Until next week I wish you peace. This week's artist sends me back to my childhood. It sends me back to my teenage years at least when I was taking a cartooning class at Woodside High School. The instructor's name was Paul Buck. Some of you from Woodside might remember Mr. Buck and the art department. The artist I want to highlight today is Al Hirschfeld. Hirschfeld drew caricatures and his style is quite unique. I was enthralled in my teen years. When we were at the play last week at the Noel Coward Theatre I saw a Hirschfeld drawing of Noel Coward on the wall. It brought me back to my teen years. Hirschfeld would "hide" his daughter's name in most of his drawings. He used to put a number to the right of his signature to indicate how many times his daughters name, NINA, showed up in capital letters in the drawing. If there was no number NINA usually only showed up once or perhaps the drawing was done before she was born. One of the things you strive for as an artist is a unique style. Something that is your own. As Srini Rao might say Unmistakable. When you are the only one you have no competition. Herschfeld exemplifies that unique style. He was one of a kind. Hirshfeld's drawings were published in a number of publications including the New York Herald Tribune, The New York Times, and others. Though he is well known for his black and white drawings he also produced many full-color caricatures that were quite unique as well. If you feel you'd like to take a trip down memory lane, back to an iconic artist of the 20th century, you could do worse than checking out Al Hirschfeld. He's not on Facebook or Instagram or any
You can find his work at The Hirschfeld Foundation website or you could just search his name in your favorite search engine. He was truly the caricaturist to the stars and I want to thank him for this pleasant flash from the past. Life has changed so much since I was an ankle biter. I have to keep adapting to new things. I guess the minute you stop adapting you start down the long miserable path to slothful decrepitude. Don't wanna go there. I'm not a digital native by any stretch of the imagination. There were no personal computers when I was growing up and I learned to type on a Remmington manual typewriter. I’ve had to learn plenty of different systems since I first poked my toe in the digital waters. I've worked with an IBM Selectric, a CPT 8000, a Wang, an IBM PC Jr, WordStar, Word Perfect, Word, Lotus, Excel, Pages and many more. Technology has produced many changes in the way we live our lives. A change in technology needs a change in approach. Let's take shopping for instance. Some retail dinosaurs that didn't see the technology comet slinging on across the sky. They're struggling to survive. Macy's is floundering. JC Penney's stock price has plummeted. Sears, once a retail giant, is closing stores and burning through cash trying to adapt to how people shop today. We buy much more online now. I've become more comfortable buying things online now than I have been. I'm getting there. I'd not call myself an early adopter but we do more that involves the internet every day. We buy everything from clothes, furniture, groceries and, for me painting supplies all off the inter-web or as some of our friends call it T’internet. We stream television programs online and we get to skip commercials. To me, watching advertisements is like dragging your bare knuckles over a sharp cheese grater then asking for some lemon and salt to soothe your wounds. Can I hit my finger with a hammer again, please?! Technology has changed our lives in many ways. Some changes are good. Some of them aren't so good. I used to get the random spammy letter through the letterbox (chain mail, advertisements, investment fraud). Now, I can't tell you how many times I’ve inherited millions of dollars from some kindly old lady who calls me endearing terms like, my love, my dearest one and on and on. The Artificial Intelligence (AI) creeping into our lives too. It can be helpful but to me, it's truly creepy. AI giveth with one hand (Alexa, what's the weather today? Raining, look outside you blithering idiot!), and AI taketh with the other (Sorry, Scott, we no longer need your services, we've got an app for that now). I've heard Alexa listens to you even when she's not engaged. The internet has disintermediated galleries as the main venue to buy and sell art. There are many people out there making quite a good living without having gallery representation. Having your work physically available to view and buy is good, but the internet has really opened up fantastic ways to sell artwork. Saatchi Art, eBay, Etsy, Redbubble, Society 6, and DeviantArt are all great places to display and sell your work. And there are more. I plan on opening a shop to sell my original artwork. Unfortunately, I think I need a good kick in the pants to do that. Anybody got a boot? Life feels so much different today than it did when I was growing up. Overall, I am so happy with my life, I could jump out of my skin and dance a jig. I'd need to be out of my skin, because, in my skin, I neither have the coordination nor do I have the rhythm to perform such a jig. I think of where I've been and the opportunities and challenges ahead and find it daunting but exciting too. I'm enjoying the English countryside. I painted this a little while back. It reminds me of our lovely walks here. Until next week, I wish you peace.
Bold colors and grand gestures are so inviting, aren't they? They are to me anyway.
I'm going to throw a one named person at you today. Let me suggest you explore the artwork of Voka. Voka's work is often bigger, bolder, and more colorful than life. He creates his artworks with very saturated colors and bold marks. His paintings jump off the canvas (or at least off the screen). His studio and gallery are in the eastern Austrian Alps in a place called Puchberg am Schneeberg.
He is a favorite amongst wealthy investors and cultivates a bit of a celebrity following. He looks bigger than life. When you're in awe of someone's work you're liable to put them up on a pedestal. I don't necessarily think that's a good thing, but it does help him cultivate a pretty decent following. I don't want to do that. I'm not a pedestal kind of guy. I love the way he uses color expressively and makes paintings on a grand scale. I do like his style.
I'd like to share one of my favorite words. I have 65,000 thoughts banging round at any one time and now I know why a most of them don't get done. Like, sometimes I think it would be nice to win the lottery. No, I'd love to win the lottery, but I seldom, if ever, buy a ticket. I'm pretty sure you can't win the lottery if you don't buy a ticket. I've never heard of that happening. Have you? I'd love to write a symphony, but alas, I can't be bothered to learn the music or practice. It's velleity pure and simple. Velleity is a wish or an inclination that's not quite strong enough to lead to action. There go my lottery winnings. Put another way, velleity is the lowest degree of volition, a slight wish or tendency. Merriam-Webster I like my mother's definition best though. My mother loved words. She loved colorful words. Colorful words for a colorful lady. She would say: Velleity is wanting something so much you're not willing to get off your a$$ to get it. I think the Romans may have made it up first. It's a Latin thing. As for me, I first heard the word velleity in an Ogden Nash poem. Let's hear what Ogden Nash has to say about the topic! Oh, glorious velleity! Like Mr. Nash, the word gives me great satisfaction.
This week, I conquered my battle with velleity. I got out the pens, then the paper, and I drew this little drawing of my brother's family dog. Her name is Tally. She's a wonderful pup. The kind you could spend a lot of time around.
One must master their own velleity. Until next week, I wish you peace. This is a portrait of Jasper. I drew (or dotted) this portrait of my pal over the last week or so. Jasper and I are very good friends We get along so well, he and I. That’s probably because Jasper is a stoic. As a stoic, he never makes too much of a fuss, and he enjoys his alone time. He tolerates people but doesn't need a human for anything more than food and water. The boy's happy in his own skin as long as he can sniff around the refrigerator from time to time. We both struggle with our weight. I think he's doing better on his regimen than I am. He's got an edge. There's no beer or potato chips in his life. A bit of an advantage, I'd say. When I first met Jasper his belly was slightly closer to the ground than it is now. I don't think there was a pancake's worth of distance between that Tibetan belly and the hardwood floor (one of those thin English pancakes). Both of us like our treats when they come, and both of us scoff them down way too quickly. The other day, while eating some tortilla chips with a little bit of hummus, Jasper patiently stood in front of me. His big ole puppy dog eyes pleading without really pleading. Every once in a while his little doggie tongue ran across his little doggie upper lip. He looked like one of Pavlov's troopers. As each chip went past my lips you could see his upper lip flap and hear a tiny puff of air like he was trying to blow a hair from in front of his eye. He was either disgusted at my eating or disgusted he didn't get any. I think it's the latter. "It's for your own good", I tell him. He says, "It's hard work being lovable." Still, he didn't beg, but he didn't go away. Persistence is one of his very strong suits. This Little Lord Fauntleroy does not give up easily. We've been happy to have him stay with us many times. He's not much like his older brother Scout. Scout's a ball chasing, tail wagging, run-till-you-drop dog rocket. Jasper is the waddle till the next treat type of pup. I love Jasper. I call him "Little Chunk" because, though he's dropped some tonnage, he still more resembles a plump chipolata than a svelte wiener. The little fella is short, squat and chunky, just the way I like my Tibetan Spaniels. I rather think he'd like that description. Well there Little Chunk, if you're reading this, I hope you're not offended. We love you very much and wish you plenty of small wooden swords from the seaside or at least a nice chewy bone to pass the time. I'll bet Scout is really happy to have you around too even though he weasels in on every bit of affection that comes your way. I know. Yes, I know. You have ways to get back at him. I've seen it with my own eyes. Until next week, I wish you peace. As any experienced fixer-upper of things will tell you, "You need to use the right tool for the right job". You can almost always do a better job with the right tool. Wouldn't you agree? What if waiting for the right tool keeps you from doing the job at all? If you think new tools will solve all your problem, you might want to think again. When I start waiting for the right brush, canvas or paint to come along, I could just kick myself. Let me tell you a little story. I was jonesing after a new set of golf clubs. I thought my problems with golf could be boiled down to the 30-year-old set of second-hand clubs I was playing with. I thought a new set of clubs and it would fix everything. The handicap would plummet. I'd be a scratch golfer in no time. The day came and my clubs were delivered. I loaded sticks and headed to the range. My game would be born again! I put the first ball down and pulled out my handy-dandy pitching wedge. The pitching wedge was always a go-to club for me. I never missed with a wedge. I took a couple of practice swings. I thought, "Damn, this will be good!" I moved up to the ball. I used every mantra I knew to bless the shot. The club went back. It felt so good. Then the turn. This is where it all happens. The turn was smooth and steady, inside-out, left arm straight, eye on the ball. Perfect. Now, push, swing, follow through! It all happened so quickly. My club made incredible contact. I left a beautiful divot. It was an impressive divot. It was a professional divot. You would have loved my divot. The ball, however, went 10 yards on the ground before it came to rest just past the tee box. I learned a valuable lesson that day. No matter how brand-spanking-new your equipment is it can only make you incrementally better. New technology will help you hit the ball farther - but not that much farther. New technology will help you hit the ball a little straighter - but not that much straighter. What will make you better? Take lessons and practice. Now I concentrate on practice. I don't wait for miracles. If you're waiting for the right brush or pencil, don't. Pick up your pencil and draw. Botch it up a thousand times. Persevere. Remember, "A poor workman blames his tools." I once saw a guy draw with an Oreo cookie and it was pretty darn good. Make a mark people will remember. Until next week, I wish you peace. I wish we could all be more kind to each other. We all need to be a bit more patient and understanding but sometimes it's just harder than hammering a 9-inch nail into concrete with a teaspoon. As some of you might know, I try to maintain a rather stoic outlook on life. I try not to let things bother me. It's not that I don't care, I just choose not to get all riled up. I know what I'm like when I'm angry, and I don't like him very much. Traffic seems to bring out the worst in people. It drives me a bit buggy. Sometimes, other drivers just rub me the wrong way. The fact that ninety percent of drivers think they are better than the average driver does not surprise me at all. We all can't be above average, can we? I must run into the 10 percent more often than other folks. Last week, we had two occasions to climb on to the M25. This can, at times, rattle even the most zen seeking and peace-loving among us. Sunday was a perfect day to go out and enjoy the seaside. We decided to take a longish ride from Stevenage to Whitstable. For those of you who don't know Whitstable, it is a seaside town on the east coast of England. It sits at the entrance to the Thames Estuary. I have to tell you, overall, I loved our little excursion to, as my daughter used to call it, the big water. We crossed the River Thames at Dartford Crossing. Traffic at Dartford Crossing is heavy at the best of times. This dystopian combination of junctions, mergers, two tunnels, and a bridge is a fustercluck if ever I saw one. The traffic at Dartford Crossing can be a nightmare, and it was a touch like that on our northward crossing under the river. Tuesday, we had the occasion to share a meal with some good friends in Chorleywood just before the England/Colombia match. Chorleywood is a village just off junction 17 on the M25. We left home at 5 pm to be there at 6 pm. We should have given it a bit more time, but I was true to form, and running a bit late. I hate to admit it, but I'm usually the one who makes us late. I will tell you, rush hour is not the time to drive in or around London. Having said that, somehow we opted, you guessed it, to mount the M25 in rush hour. The entire journey wasn't too bad, just parts. It certainly wasn't like the mind-numbing, zen-crushing, soul-destroying traffic in and around Los Angeles. However, merging on to the M25 from the A1(M) was like squeezing out a kidney stone the size of a bowling ball. (I would have used a childbirth analogy here but, being a guy, I have no frame of reference.) It was painful, raised my blood pressure and seemed neverending. I wouldn't recommend it. I know, given the tinderbox state the world, traffic on the M25 is only a nit in the fabric of life but even nits, compiled one on top of the other, can be endlessly irritating. I guess it's not so much the traffic that's at issue, it is how people treat each other zipping around from within the confines of their little glass, fiberglass, and metal boxes. Just because your car has zoom-zoom doesn't mean you always have to zoom-zoom. Three things I hate about traffic jams:
Sometimes it's best, for your own well being, to sit back and let it all wash over you. Nothing is so pressing that you have to put your own life or somebody else's at risk. I leave you with this. The best thing you can do in a traffic jam is to:
Lastly, crank up Led Zeppelin as loud as you can to drown out the second-hand hip-hop coming out of the car next to you. Seriously, be sane, be safe, and be kind. Love each other and make the world a better place, not a worse place. Until next week, I wish you peace. We're all memory builders but the memories we build are so very different. Though we are the same, we are, most definitely, very, very different. Almost everybody has a refrigerator magnet or two. We have one that I love. It says: "Remember that life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away!" I love that quote, though there is some debate over where it originated. It's something that I think we can all agree on the sentiment. We've just wrapped up another memorable holiday in Cornwall. I'm already getting nostalgic for the long walks, bright sunrises, stunning sunsets, and relaxing to the sound of the sea. Part of the whole holiday experience, for me, is the train ride from St Erth to Paddington. The train passes by some of the most picturesque countryside. We pass Dawlish, Teignmouth, and Saltash. We finally arrive in London at Paddington Station. It was the stuff that takes your breath away. What great memories. When we got back to Kings Cross last week, I paid a bit more attention than I normally do to the throng gathered at "Platform 9 3/4". Under the sign, there's a trolley, some suitcases, and a birdcage partially embedded in the brick wall. Of course, Platform 9 3/4 is where Harry Potter famously transitions from the real world into the magical world of Hogwarts, magic wands, and Quidditch. It's the beginning of his magical journey. I can be a bit cynical about this kind of stuff. Why do people get so excited about a book or a movie or a sports team? I'm trying to understand. I don't get all hyped-up for some fake trolley stuck in a wall. Though people are the same in so many ways, we are oh so different as well. Maybe Harry Potter was a big thing for them. I guess I shouldn't get so cynical about it. I remember telling a friend, one time, that I was going on a holiday and there was nothing but beach for miles. This was my idea of heaven. She said, "Where's the bar? Where's the nightclub? Where's the excitement?" That's the point! I was after no excitement. She said, "That would drive me crazy real fast" (she really said bat-shit-crazy but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt here). Different people have different priorities. What I find lush and relaxing can be seen as boring and dull by somebody else. The same way, I didn't grow up with Harry Potter but the kids who did are now getting out and feeling their way around the world. The trolley and the wall must evoke pleasant memories for them. I guess they're trying to capture a bit of that feeling again. Perhaps, more than anything else, Harry Potter lets us dream like my generation did with Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, or Bilbo Baggins. They bring us out of our everyday lives and make us feel like we're partners on their fantastic journey. We're vacating our existence to participate in their world. I guess it's kind of a vacation. For me, that's what art should be as well. Good art should help us to vacate our normal life and be transported to another magical world. Art lets us build memories or remember things that are important to us. That's probably why I've painted this lighthouse above so many times. It reminds me of our four-mile beach-walk to have lunch at the Godrevy Cafe here. When I look at this painting it all comes flooding back to me. Life is good. I'll probably paint that lighthouse many more times in my life. Just because it makes me feel good. It's a whopping great memory. So, when I breeze through Kings Cross, and I see the crowd of people gathered around that half a trolley, I'll try not to be so cynical. I'll try not to be so critical. I can feel good for the memories they're creating or reliving. I can understand why but I guess I still don't get it. For me, I'll stick to long walks, fresh air, and a bit of color splashed here and there. Not bad, I think. Until next week, I wish you peace. Everybody knows that when you travel you have to be at least tangentially aware of local customs and traditions. We just had a walk on a secluded cliff edge path. It was a bit drizzly but a really nice walk just the same. Topping off the day, we decided to stop in a little harbor town called Porthleven to see the beach, visit some shops and watch the tide come in. After getting a bit shopped out the sun made a brief guest appearance. There was a nice pub portside. I thought it would be great to grab a pint and some chips because I really love chips. Okay, I really like beer too. What's not to like about chips and beer except the calories and the starch and the grease and the ... Okay - I did it cause I like 'em. Having ordered my chips (fries), a beer, and a ginger beer for you know who, we sauntered, as you do on any great day, out to the patio area next to all the fishing boats in the harbor. We waited patiently for the fries to arrive. When they were delivered there was a plate and chips but where was the stuff you put on the chips. There has to be stuff to put on the chips. By the time my brain caught up with my mouth, the server had disappeared into what seemed to be thin air. The accompaniments were all inside. So I got up to go inside to get salt, vinegar, and perhaps some mayo. As soon as I turned my back to the chips the Devil's horde descended from the heavens in their multitudes (okay there were three) digging their nasty little beaks into MY chips. Andrea deftly scooped up the dish with the fries and swooped them under the table. Several people shooed the vermin from the table which enabled me to go forth and continue my condiment quest. When I came back to the table, I gathered the plate within my protective space, hunched around it, and growled at any seagull that would dare encroach on my chow-space. I was even offered a loan of a very cute little black cocker spaniel to help guard my chips (I thought that little pooch was a bit too eager so I decided to pass). The point here is I didn't think twice. Even though their horrible little H1N1, Avian Flu carrying, tick-infested nasty carrion-eating winged critters had their muzzles full-in on my vittles, I had no problem scoffing the rest of them down. I didn't think twice. You see when the zombie apocalypse comes it will be some poor idiot like me that will be patient zero. He'll be the idiot that the monkey bit or who ate his fries after some pox infected feathered freeloader lunged face first into it. Yeah, it's just somebody like me who thinks they're a hardy person cause they ate quite a bit of dirt when they were a kid. It will be somebody who thinks that not much of any kind of disease can affect them. Yup, I'm not much worried about the zombie apocalypse. I'll probably succumb to something more mundane. I'll probably be taken by something like Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga Gull Fever and squawk my way to the grave. Maybe I'll have to pay more attention and start being a bit more cautious. Maybe I should be a bit more respectful of those creatures who could inadvertently do me harm. Whether or not I survive till next week, I wish you peace. You've been traveling all day long. You've taken a space at the airport bar and you're quietly waiting for your next flight. You sit down, order yourself a beer and perhaps you scan your phone to see if you have any messages. Maybe you've picked up a newspaper to give it a good read. You just want to pass time and get lost a little bit in your own thoughts. Maybe you're watching the television above the bar for entertainment. Then this guy sits next to you. He's already talking on his phone when he sits down. He continues to flap his gums. "... There's nothing much happening here, sweetheart. We're just waiting for the plane. In the meantime, I guess I'll just sit around here and watch people going by. It's not a bad occupation to have at an airport but people do just think so much of themselves. How will I ever get through the wedding? It's been so long since I've been in the same room with all of them. It is so boring. Don't you think? I wish I wasn't going. You know how I hate all that dancing an frivolity. There is nothing for me there. I'll show up, I'll make nice and in the end, there will probably be a fight. There's always a fight. Especially, when I get together with my family. It's just inevitable. You know Adam. Adam has to be right all the time. He has to be the center of attention. He's the kind of guy who just has to be able to say his piece. It doesn't even matter if he is right or if he's wrong, and he's usually is wrong. God forbid you should even roll your eyes in his presence. He just has to have his say. Of course, Sam will take offense at anything that Adam says. Sam always takes offense at whatever Adam says. Sam is just bound to get his knickers in a twist over something or other. You never really know with my family........" The guy just droned on and on like that for a whole hour. There wasn't an ounce of interesting information in his whole oratory. He barely stopped to take a breath. At one point, I thought he was just holding the phone up to his ear to make everybody believe there was actually somebody on the other end. I was convinced there was nobody on the other end. I'm sure there wasn't. There wasn't enough time while he sucked in his next breath for anyone on the other end to respond to anything he said. I think he was just trying to tell everybody around him that he was so important that somebody at the other end of the phone was willing to listen to him pontificate on subjects from family relations to the situation in the Middle East to auto mechanics. Small mercies exist. In this case, that is, I don't know the guy, and I will probably never have to sit in the same room with him again. Ever in my life. Ever. Never. Then there's the guy who is having the most important business meeting of his life over a pulled pork sandwich, fries, a shot of whiskey, and a Sam Addams Octoberfest chaser. He got the chaser for half price. And just wait for the carrot cake topper. With a full mouth and some very convincing mumbling, I'm sure he was able to put the world to rights. This is the all-important airport business meeting conducted by a ne'er do well who ain't all that talking so loud when he says "Millions" or "sign the contract". I am not really good on the telephone. My daughter is the same way. If we have three words to say to each other that will convey the sentiment there is no need for four words. For those of us that have problems recognizing and respecting another's space, I suggest a few rules of engagement. Smartphone Rules of Engagement Rule Number 1 - If you're in a crowded room (hell - if you're in a room with other people) and you have to take a call - excuse yourself, leave the room, and relocate to a more private location. Rule Number 2 - If you're in a crowded room/room with other people in it and you have to make a call - see rule one. Rule Number 3 - If you're on a mode of public transportation and you must watch the last England goal (not that they happen very often) or the last episode of Eastenders, use a pair of bloody earphones. I don't want to listen to it. Rule Number 4 - Your smartphone is not a BoomBox. I don't like your music. No - Really - I don't - especially out of a tinny smartphone speaker. If you must play it - Use Earphones/buds. Rule Number 5 - If you're at dinner with somebody special - Put the damn phone away. I really don't care about this one if you are having dinner with somebody else. It's funny to see people not talking to each other. However, if you're having dinner with me - please put it away. I like to see the whites of your eyes when I'm blabbing with you. Please turn it off and put it away. Rule Number 6 -Just because you have the capacity for 20,000 pictures on your phone and the last picture of the last time your child spit up on you, you don't need to show it to me. (I have a bad habit of over-sharing photos cuz I think it's cool - I will try to do better - honestly). That's all - if I think of any more I'll be sure to let you know. I painted this lighthouse scene yesterday. The paint is not yet dry. I really like the view from the St Uny Church in Lelant through to Godrevy Lighthouse. Until then, seriously, I wish you peace. I had a 1968 Ford Mustang, eons ago when I was little more than a young colt. I loved tinkering with my old friend. It was a cool car. It was a great car. Oh, the good times we had together. We would eight-track our way down the highway, riding the rage. We entertained each other. We were best friends. Yes, we were quite a pair. Life has its little twists and turns, and we eventually parted company. One of us zigged and, I guess, the other just zagged. He got old and I got responsibilities. I needed a new and more reliable buggy. We did have a good life together though. I do miss that old horse. I feel like I might have let go of the reins a bit early. I'd like to rekindle that old relationship. I want to get my hands on one of those old fellas. I want to get behind the wheel of one of them again. There must be an old pony out there I can breathe new life into. I can make it purr like a kitten. I can shine it like brand-spanking new. You might say, "Scott, you're not thinking straight." You could have a valid point. I can delude myself a bit sometimes. It's been known to happen.
It may not be such a great idea after all. It might not be practical, but are dreams supposed to be practical? Why do we do these things?
It's a mystery to me. Nevertheless, I'd like to keep thinking about it for now. Why? Because it's fun and I like it. I'll keep dreaming and the next time you see me, who knows, I could be rolling around in a flashy old pony car. Until then, I wish you peace. I get to think a lot when I'm on my walks. This was drawn from a walk we did near St Paul's Walden. St Paul's Walden is where Queen Elizabeth II's mother, The Queen Mother, grew up. This drawing is of the house on that lovely piece of country. We are thinking of going there tomorrow or Sunday. I like to think about how things might be in the future; where I might go, what I might do. Though, when I was a kid, I think I spent a bit too much time dreaming and not enough time acting. Like most people, I'm great at projecting out into the future. I love thinking about what it will be like when I ...
I can go on and on and on... It's just fun to think of how things might be. That's all gaga, fiddle-de-de, fanciful thinking unless you take action today. I know there's Free Beer Tomorrow but how often have you collected on that one? Today is the only time we have to make a change that will change the future. It's like taking the next fastest train. The next fastest train to your destination may stop at every puddle, pub and fish shop but it's the next fastest train. You don't know, especially now, if the next fast train is even coming. So take action today while you have the chance. You can't spend money tomorrow. You can't be in better shape tomorrow. You can't be rich tomorrow. That is, unless you do something today. But just like you can't take action tomorrow, it does not serve you well to carry today's baggage into tomorrow. It will weigh you down like an anchor keeping you from doing today's important things. Remember, when the day is done - It's Done. The day is done. I'll clear the decks. I'll stow the baggage, And bury the wrecks. Today has passed. I can't have it back. Did I do the right things? Am I on the right track? There's no use churning over What woulda been? What coulda been? What shoulda been? Cause today was perfect, Right in every way. I can't change it now, I can't make it stay. Today was perfect, But I can't hold on Because tomorrow will come And today will be gone. So tonight, I'll clear the deck, Cause tomorrow's My blank check. And ... Today ... Well ... Was, just as it should've been, Perfect in every way. Until next week - I wish you peace.
I've been thinking about life in general recently. Eldercare isn't easy. For me, though, it hasn't been horrible either. I've been able to spend more time with my father in the last two years than I have since I left high school. Its prompted me to think about things while I still can. How will I approach that time when I might seem okay on the outside but the gears aren't really meshing under the hood. I really don't know. All I can control is how I live now. My dad has a 30 years' head start on me, so, hopefully, I have about thirty years. I think reaching the age of 90 would be excellent. I saw this the other day. According to the 2012 article, Top Five Regrets Of The Dying, in The Guardian,when people come to the end of life their biggest regrets are, and I quote: 1. I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. 2. I wish I hadn't worked so hard. 3. I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings. 4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends. 5. I wish that I had let myself be happier. I'm determined to not have those regrets when the clutch starts slipping and the pistons start misfiring. How do I accomplish that? How do I counter those things most people regret? Countermeasures baby! I have a choice.
That's my list. Those are my countermeasures. It sounds like great ammunition to me. And - I'll make it fun! Shouldn't it all be fun? I will make what I make and do what I do the best way I can and I promise not to take myself too seriously. I'll keep on creating till I get to the end of this journey so I can "... skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!” - Hunter S. Thompson The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967 When I see you on the road or on the other side, I hope you’ll have no regrets. Until then, I wish you peace. I was in Barnes & Noble the other day, and I bought a book. Yes, it was an honest-to-goodness book. It had real ink and real paper and occupied real space. Nowadays, I almost exclusively buy e-books. Every so often, though, I love rummaging through the shelves in a real bookstore. Holding a physical book in my hands makes me happy. What convinced me to switch over to e-books? I switched over to e-books when I was moving from Phoenix back to Dayton about eight years ago. Our shipping bill doubled from when we moved to Phoenix only two years earlier. Surely the shipping company was ripping us off. Someone was taking advantage of me. I nearly jumped out of my skin. How in the world could that have happened? Did we get new heavy furniture? Did we buy some extra lead flashing? Did I pack the limoncello? Were we shipping stuff that wasn't ours? Did our neighbors sneak some of their stuff in the truck? I had to scratch my head. Then it finally hit me. What caused the big jump in shipping costs? I had to put it down to the books we bought over the previous two years. We had bought tons of books. Okay, maybe not tons, but a lot of books. Why was I paying to ship something I might never use again? I could donate the books and save shipping costs. Then, I could buy new books on the other end. It would have been a net win. But, it is so difficult to get rid of books. You have time, money, laughter and tears invested in them. When you read them, they become a part of you. If you give them up, it's like giving up a piece of yourself. Would you want to lop off even a finger or a toe? It was then that I decided I would only buy e-books. There are advantages to owning e-books. Like:
So, I've made the switch. I'll stick with e-books for most things, but when I need indulge my emotional attachment to paper and ink, I reserve the right to head down to the bookstore to entertain my tactile nature.
Like life, I am full of caveats. Until next week, I wish you peace. Just like any other American family, when I was a kid, we'd go to amusement parks. On some random weekend or other, we'd pack the car up and head out for a day of magical fun and adventure. Though mom was keen, I think dad would have rather been mowing the lawn, vacuuming the carpet, doing dishes, or sticking needles in his eyes. I can see them now, waving excitedly, as I stepped on the roller coaster, the tilt-o-whirl, the spinning teacups or any other medieval torture device. Were they out to kill me?!?! I don't think so, but I'm sure it crossed their minds a few times when I was a teenager. Just think of it - death by teacup. Amusement park rides and I have never played well together. I dread long lines. I hate carnival food and, of course, who can properly describe the overwhelming joy of expelling, at velocity, carnival food you didn't even like traveling in the other direction. I'm sure heredity has nothing to do with it either. I think my brother loved all that stuff. Dad was in the Canadian Navy and spent five years at sea. Mom could probably sleep upside down on a train moving at the speed of light. She could sleep anywhere. Me, I got the seasick gene. Going to fairs and festivals isn't horrible. I like going for the music, the spectacle, the camaraderie. I can even enjoy them as long as I'm not asked to get on some spinning whirling rickety nausea-inducing death trap. I used to go to fairs and such because I wanted to be with my friends. My so-called friends, however, always intended to get me on some spinny thing. They'd goad me or somehow coerce me into getting on a ride. Sometimes I'd give in. Maybe, it was the excitement. Maybe, I wanted the same experience my friends had. Maybe, I didn't want to be left out. I don't know why. It could have been a combination of all those things. When I did get on the ride, I'd remember why I didn't like them. First, there would be that flush feeling. Then, the color would drain from my face. That pallor would soon be replaced, in due course, by a lovely shade of green. I learned much later in life that it's okay to say yes, but it's okay to say no too. It takes some of us a bit longer than others to catch on. Now, I don't go on those kinds of rides anymore. I can admire them from afar but I don't go on them. While at San Diego State, millennia ago, I knew a guy who followed this principle to the letter. If you asked him if he wanted to do something his answer was either yes or no. There was no equivocation. If you thought there might be some explanation coming, you'd be wrong. I admired him for that. It took me a lot longer to put that lesson into practice. You can say no politely. You can offer an explanation if you'd like but you don't have to. No is often the best answer.
The next time somebody asks you to jump off a bridge, you can say no. I know I will. This week's painting was done a while ago. It hangs in our house and I see it every day. It's a bit creepy but I like it very much. Until the next bridge comes, I wish you peace. Some people like to multi-task, but me, I like to take it one step at a time. I learned the value of concentrating on one thing at a time playing golf. When my brother and I were teenagers on summer break, a little to old for babysitters and a little too young to be left to our own devices or to create new vices, dad would sometimes drop us off at the golf course on his way to work and pick us up on the way home. I suppose it kept us out of trouble most days. We spent lots of time on the golf course. It's a good thing we liked it. I learned a few things on the golf course like how projecting into the future can be a bad thing sometimes. Most great golfers will say they visualize their shots before they even step up to the ball. They pull from their experience to project into the future. The problem is that I had a lot of experience hitting bad shots. So I'd visualize everything that could go wrong and didn't pay enough attention to what could go right. Negative forecasting is a bad habit to get into. My projections really worked against me. I'd get all flustered and nervous and nothing would seem to work. I'd become my own worst enemy. If you spend too much time thinking your ball is careening off a pine tree into no-mans land it will happen. I've been told that trees are 90% air but somehow my golf ball never got that memo. I learned to take my mind off the bad stuff by focusing on keeping my head down, keeping my eye on the ball, and following through. That's it. It's what they call "swing thoughts". Yup, it's a real thing. Swing thoughts, for me, exist to block out the negative so I can concentrate fully on what's happening now. I think they might call it mindfulness today. It's the same thing when I sit down at the easel. It always goes better when I concentrate on what I'm doing right now rather than worrying about the results. I think about applying each brush stroke, paying attention to the brush as it hits the canvas, and focusing on what happens as the colors come together. If I stick with doing one thing at a time, most of the time I get a pretty good result and the experience is much better too. I just show up and paint. BTW- I did show up and I did do some painting this week. I have included a little video of my brush hitting the canvas. I hope you enjoy. Until next week - I'll keep painting and ... you ... well ... I wish you peace. The last couple of weeks have been busy. Very busy. I was running around like a chihuahua chasing its tail. To paraphrase the Duke of Edinburgh, I've ..."been running around like a blue-arsed-fly." I say that right up front because I feel a bit guilty for not publishing a blog or the newsletter last week. I've always known consistency is important but it home last week. That is the concept. You show up consistently without fail. Well, last week I failed. Because I was so busy with everything I let the newsletter slide. I let it get away from me. I gave myself permission to give this one a pass. I thought nobody will notice. I thought nobody will really care. I was wrong. I got a stream of emails asking if I was okay and asking where I went. One emailer even demanded, "where’s my little artsy newsletter!?" - you know who you are! Conclusion - If you say you're going to publish every week, by gum you should publish every week. Big publishers don't miss an edition. Professional publishers don't give themselves a pass. I couldn't imagine National Geographic, Scientific American, or the New Yorker would miss an edition. Though I'm not a big publisher, I do consider myself a professional. The three keys to professional success, as I learned them from a salty ole Gunny, are: 1. Show up on time 2. Be in the right uniform 3. Do the job. Passion is great but you need consistency to get things done. Show up on time and do the work. The uniform is optional for me today. I'm moving on. Fall down, get up, move forward. Oh yeah - My drawing this week is a cardinal, it's the state bird of Ohio. I've been thinking of seeing my friends next month in Ohio. I hope I see a cardinal there and I hope I see you there too. If you live in Ohio that is. Until next week, I wish you peace. It's a gamble when you start a drawing. What you want to be a masterpiece could end up in the bin. The result could lead to endless sobbing in your pillow - or - it could actually turn out okay. It's a risk. There was no sobbing or gnashing of teeth involved in the making of this drawing. As in all things, there are ways you can keep from whimpering like a child who's lost his toy. Practice the basics. It might sound trite but I really believe it's true. This is why. Long ago and far away, when I was growing up, my family was very sporty. I'm pretty sure my parents used sports as a pseudo babysitter. Our days were filled with ice hockey, football, baseball, golf, basketball, and I even had a stint as a boxer. I was okay at most sports. Not great but okay. I have to admit that as a boxer I got pummeled more times than I care to remember. Come to think of it, that might explain a few things. We played lots of sports but our drug of choice was ice hockey. I could have called it hockey but hockey, to some people, means a game played with an upside down shillelagh on a soft grass pitch. I'm talking about ice hockey. The hockey that has pucks, blades, sticks and missing teeth. It's a hostile game of speed, skill, and brute force. It's gang warfare splayed out on a sheet of ice. Originally from Quebec, our family has huge gnarly chunks of St. Lawrence River ice cutting through our veins. I'm sure you'll find it in our DNA somewhere. I can still smell the locker room, feel the ruts in the ice, and see the steam rising off my uniform. I loved the game but I never really liked that nudge at five in the morning, and yes we played at 5 in the morning. In every sport, a player knows they have to practice the basics endlessly to get good. Here are just a few:
If you want to get better at art, practicing the basics is essential too. You have to study:
This week, I'm getting back to basics - just because. In this drawing, I was practicing the fundamental elements of drawing: composition, shape, form, and contrast. The basics of producing an interesting image. If one thing is off, the whole thing can look horrible. Unless, of course, you're Salvador Dali or Pablo Picasso. Easy right! This bird made it in my sketchbook this week. I hope you enjoy it. Until next week, I wish you peace. "The early bird gets the worm" or at least that's what I've been told all my life but I think this morning was pushing things a bit. At 4 am in the morning on Tuesday I was doing what most peoples do. The insides of my eyelids were getting a thorough inspection. While I was enjoying my very own oneness with the universe, I heard a mind piercing chirp. It was either the loudest bird I've ever heard or it might have been the loudest, highest-pitched gunfire anywhere in the known universe. That little chirp at oh dark thirty had me perched upright in about 0.00001seconds flat. It turns out the battery in the fire alarm had just gone out of commission and the alarm was warning me that it might be time for a new one. Note to the manufacturer: Please use a nice soothing Siri or Alexa type voice or better yet HAL from 2001 A Space Odyssey. "Scott, your alarm needs a new battery." I can hear it now. As it happens that little helpful chirp had enough adrenaline pumping through my veins to lift a 2-ton truck off a mother and child and do a great impression of Usain Bolt in the 100 meters. Okay, hyperbole for sure, but how the heck does a body recover from that. Even the sun has more sense than to get up that early. I was dog tired but sleep wasn't ready to do me any favors. I guess I should be grateful that I live indoors and it wasn't a copperhead getting cozy or a coyote nuzzling my cheek. That's probably a good thing so I'll put it in the win column. It wasn't too much of a problem because I get up pretty early anyway but the question remains ... Why do these things always happen in the middle of the night? I've found most really bad news comes in the middle of the night (Yes, I consider 4 am the middle of the night). Nobody wakes you up at 4 am to tell you they've won the lottery and they're giving you half cause you are a fabulous human. I have, however, had several lawyers and bankers from other countries tell me I've inherited millions of dollars or they want me to distribute their millions because they are so concerned with getting the money out of their country. I am apparently their last resort. And all this because I'm divine and saintly. But even they don't call! They just send me endless emails promising me "riches beyond the dreams of avarice". Isn't avarice one of those seven deadly sins? That's why, when I go to bed, my phone goes into airplane mode. As if to pile insult right smack on top of injury, at 7 am (still not a civilized time for noise) the gardening crew showed up next door with their gas-powered hedge trimmers, gas-powered leaf blowers, gas-powered chainsaws, and the accompanying gas-powered megaphones attached to brainless human gas-bags yelling orders at each other. I try to be tolerant. I really do. So I don't say anything. You have to pick your battles well in this life. I understand it gets hot here in the middle of the day. I understand they want to get going early so they can get home early to their beers, burgers and bourbon whiskey. I know all that. So I go with the flow. I'm just glad this doesn't happen every day. Most days I can ease my way into the day with thoughtful, quiet expectation and exuberance. I think I'll work toward that. Until next week - I wish you peace. It's been a great week here in the desert. The temperatures are starting to rise a bit. This week's highs were in the eighties and next week is promising nineties. You know where this is heading, don't you? Last summer the highest temperature here was 120F / 49C. Change is all around now as one season gives way to the next. I'm sure it's the same in your neck of the woods. I like to get out for a walk almost every day. Walking just makes me feel good, especially when the weather cooperates. By stepping out and moving my legs I keep myself sane(ish) and in better shape than I'd otherwise be as I sit behind a computer or a painting umpteen hours every day. Operative word, "sitting". Sitting's not one of those nice active verbs. It's not like running, jumping, swimming, climbing, or walking. It's passive, reserved, shy, retiring, blah. Though I do like a nice sit after a long walk. That's relaxing and restoring and not blah at all. It's also easier to read a book, drink a cup of coffee, or use a knife and fork, or type while sitting. I guess sitting does have a use. It's just that sitting and I have a far too intimate relationship. I like to keep my distance so I don't get sucked all nice and cozy into the armchair vortex of slothfulness. Walks give me a chance to "stop and smell the roses", admire the clear blue sky, or the mountain views along the way. There are so many beautiful things to see if you pay attention. I love watching the trees begin to unfold their leaves and the flowers open up to show off their goods. I guess lots of people like this time of year because poems about flowers and spring are all over the place. You won't find me waxing lyrical with eloquent profundity about their beauty. I'll leave that kind of thing to the likes of Mr. Shakespeare. Okay - here's a bit of one I like by Mr. Wordsworth. ... Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. ... William Wordsworth, Lines Written in Early Spring Let me say simply that the flowers here are gorgeous. Of course, many pretty things have very effective ways to protect themselves. I'm not talking about bodyguards either but I've found the prettier the flower the more vicious the defense. Some of the plants that sprout flowers here happen to be prickly, unforgiving and can be downright dangerous. I wouldn't want to get too close. To get the best effect when you stop and smell the roses though you have to pay attention and appreciate them too. That's what I try to do. I'm usually irritating to walk with because I'm always stopping and snapping photos of things that I find interesting. I'm kind of like a child. Have you ever seen a cactus flower? It's quite a sight. Here's a selection of photographs I've taken over the last week of flowers, shrubs, cactus, and trees here in Sun City Grand. You can see them below in their fantasmagorical spring splendor. The reds are really red, the purples very purple, the palo is quite verde, and the saguaro is just itichin' to pop. I'll have to keep an eye on that one. I hope you get a chance to enjoy the changing seasons in the next month or so before you have to start mowing the lawn all over again. Every season comes with its chores.
Until next week, I wish you peace. I'm going to the AIIP Annual Conference in Minneapolis next month (April 19th - 22nd.) I was inspired to draw something for the conference. This flyer is the result. It's the iconic Spoon Bridge and Cherry at the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. I thought it was kind of cool and I wanted to share it. This conference is where Independent Information Professionals meet up and share the secrets of making and delivering world-class information products. I look forward to the conference every year. I didn't learn to build information products overnight. Experience has been my best teacher, more than 25 years worth. I had a bit of aptitude for it. I understood things rather quickly. It still took a lot of water under the bridge to understand what I do today, which, in the grand scheme of things, is just a grain of sand on a very large beach. Then why did I think that I would be able to be so good at drawing right off the bat? I suppose it was a bit of fanciful/delusional/wishful thinking. That's kind of changed in recent years. It all happened when I made up my mind to be better. I stopped saying I wasn't good enough and only strove to be better regardless where I was in the process. I'm talking to all of you who say, "I can’t even draw a stick figure." or "I wish I could draw." I'd like to say that you CAN draw a stick figure and if you can draw a stick figure you CAN draw. And wishing is what you do with your fairy god-mother or upon some star or other. It's the same as saying, “Let me have X and don’t make me work at it.” It’s wanting something for nothing. Believe me, I've often wished I was better but practice works much better than wishing. Here's a little tidbit. Did you know if you wish upon the first star you see at night - it’s most likely not a star but a planet? BTW - Who is this guy Tid and why do we care about his bits? Work is the only way to get there. It's really sad that proficiency doesn't fall out of the air like manna from heaven or grow on trees. You can have a bit of talent or aptitude but even Michelangelo worked his tail off to get better. One of the reasons he got so good is he did more and worked harder than other apprentices at the time. I'd like to tell you, "If you can write you can draw." What is drawing but representing something on something else with some medium or other that is understood to be what it is or evokes some emotion? Can we agree on that? Maybe or maybe not. Do this - take out a pencil and write the letter "A". Does it look like an “A”? Do you think other people recognize it as an “A” You just drew a stick figure that was recognizable to at least the entire literate English speaking world. That’s a lot of people. You CAN draw something other people can understand and recognize. Yes, some people write better than others. People who write well often care about writing more than those who don’t. There are calligraphers and there are doctors. The chasm is wide and deep. The rest is just getting better. That takes educating yourself, practice, and the most important thing: Desire. What do they say? "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." So find your desire and watch the teacher appear. The saying is often incorrectly attributed to Buddha. Its likely origin is a charlatan called Mabel Collins. She actually recanted her claims in an 1889 letter. Why not use a "Fake Buddha" saying if it sounds good? It just sounds better coming from Buddha. There's no harm in that. Is there? I like the sentiment. The rest is just - wash, rinse, repeat. You don’t need any special tools. You can start with a pencil and paper. If I draw something poorly, I just try again, and again, and again. I guess you also need a high tolerance for repetition and failure. The next time the spirit moves you, make a horrible drawing. You have to make a whole bunch of them. I’m sure the next one will be better. It’s not always about the result but sometimes it’s about the process and the process can make us better people. If we feel better about ourselves, aren't we are more likely happier, healthier and nicer to be around? Wouldn’t that be nice? Until next week, I wish you peace. |
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