Elf with Flute

Since Mr Zzyzx encourages us to post doodles, here is one of my favorites.

The beauty of doodles is that they are not drawn with the idea that anyone else will see them, so they have an unexpected freshness that even surprises the artist.

Such is the case here. This particular doodle was first drawn with a ball point pen, so all of the sketch lines show through the watercolor. Turning it into a watercolor illustration was an afterthought.

In the early-mid eighties when I drew the Elf, I had purchased my first set of Dr Martin's concentrated watercolors and looked for every opportunity to use them and found existing sketches to paint for practice. One convenient aspect of painting over ball point sketches is that ball point ink is greasy and repels water making it possible to see the lines through the paint. Of course, that is also the problem with using ball point: nothing is hidden. Painting with watercolor over pencil covers the lines better but the graphite softens the color of the watercolors because the graphite is somewhat soluble. That too can have positive effects depending on whether the composition favors a milder or bolder result. In my experience, the ball point does not interact with the watercolor and so maintains the intensity of the color.

The Chimera Crusade - Prologue

Here is a draft of the first page of the novel that I am working on:

- PROLOGUE -

"Zingot, one of the sleepers is wondering about us . . . thinking beyond a dream. He is curious as a cat and I suppose that he may visit us tonight. Let us prepare to greet him, shall we?"

The voice that spoke was deep and threatening, which betrayed the hospitable verbiage. However, all of the proper grammar was lost on Zingot, who did as little thinking as possible. But Zingot did get the gist of the message and rolled away ringing his hand bell and dripping ice cream in the corridor as he went. As he did so, rats in crisp red tunics came out of tiny doors in the baseboard and cleaned the ice cream off of the floor and then just as swiftly disappeared again - leaving no trace.

The Head took no notice of the ice cream, the bell ringing, or the rats. He was pensive. With eyes closed, his massive and distorted head and tiny body shuffled slowly back to his chambers.

The Head was just that, an immense head with little legs and arms that extended beneath him. His body was completely hidden by his chin and jaw. The Head always wore a suit - either black or pinstripe gray - with black patent leather shoes. His shirts were always plain white but all you could see were the cuffs. Presumably, he wore a black tie but that was hidden deep beneath the fleshy recesses of his neck. His skin was normally a pallid gray-green. However, he had a chameleon-like ability to change his flesh color. The Head was bald, with the exception of an odd stub of hair now and then, as though a mostly bald man had been caught in a fire and had his few remaining hairs seared off. His eyebrows were a little fuller but still mangy.

At the top of his head was a prominent and disconcerting fissure, which ran across the center from front to back. The fissure appeared old and weathered, as did the whole head, with many lines, cracks and scars - like an ancient whale that had won numerous battles with whaling ships. The shape of the skull under the skin was easily recognizable and were it not for the fleshy eyelids, lips and bulbous nose, his head might easily be mistaken for a skull. Particularly since The Head had only holes where his ears should have been. Oddly, his hearing was quite acute.

* * *

Zingot rolled around a corner into another older corridor, the ice cream cone was gone but the evidence still could be seen on his hands and face. Zingot did not mind the stickiness or the pink, for it had been strawberry - his favorite - and it just made him appear sillier than normal, if that were possible.

Zingot's head was cone shaped with the pointed end up. He had two tufts of bright orange hair sticking up above each ear. His ears were large and pointy. His eyes were black and beady, and were always crossed, so that you could never be sure where he was looking or whether or not he was focused on anything at all. He never stopped grinning but he did not exactly look happy. He wore a one-piece purple suit with a puffy yellow collar that went around his neck like a donut. Down the front of his suit were three large yellow buttons. Where his feet should have been, there were smooth red rubber tires with bright yellow hubs. In his left hand, he frequently carried a brass hand bell, which he rang incessantly as he rolled madly through the corridors of The Head's Governor Mansion.

With sticky pink face and hands, Zingot reached the scriptorium in the deepest level beneath the mansion, crashing and ringing through its chamber doors.

Seething with anger from the dark shadows, the hooded scribe gnashed his teeth, "Quiet, you noisy fool!"

Zingot took no notice of the vicious tones but rather was distracted from his bell ringing by the flickering candles, incense and general air of mystery in those austere and dank rooms. Even the red-tuniced rats did not enter there.

"Why are you here, you idiot?" Kreen, a Skolex scribe, spit the words at Zingot as he spoke.

Barely remembering The Head's orders, Zingot began babbling in his squeaky voice about preparations, papers and solemn contracts. At least that was what Kreen unscrambled from Zingot's ramblings.

“Yes. This is what we have been waiting for.” Skolex hissed. “We will be ready.”

Zingot nodded his head vigorously. Though without the least understanding – he was simply caught up in the drama of something new.

More to come . . .

Teddy Roosevelt

Recently I was looking through some very old sketch books and most of what I saw made me cringe - why was I storing so much of this junk? But I found a few drawings that I had forgotten about and was pleased to see again. This is one of them. It is a small pencil drawing made more dramatic by an inked background. The actual sketch is surrounded by several pen & ink doodles, which I edited out after I scanned it.

I remember at the time I was reading an outstanding biography of Roosevelt by Edmund Morris.

Obelisk and Angel

I failed trigonometry in college. But while I was taking notes I made a doodle in the margins that later became this painting. (Just for the record: I missed the first class session where the students were told that they could not use a calculator. Besides, I had just spent $75 on an advanced calculator and I was determined to use it! I could not imagine a scenario where anyone would not take advantage of a calculator if they could. However, my professor did not see it that way. He was about 70 years old in 1977 and he could not imagine anyone using a calculator. His opinion won out on the registrar's report.)

While I was interested in algorithms to a point, I was more interested in the experiment of combining abstract concepts with surrealism. The "Obelisk and the Angel" was one of those experiments. The obelisk and the face of the angel were rendered in an abstract form, while the remainder was rendered in a surrealistic form. The doodle was originally drawn with a blue ball point pen, the look of which is retained in the image of the obelisk. The hand is threatening to keep the angel from ascending beyond the height of the obelisk. The profundity of which escapes me for the moment. Any Freudian suggestions?

The "Obelisk and Angel" was painted on canvas with oils.

Love's Seeing Eye Dog

Romans 8:28

Austin and Alice

Since I am partially colorblind, I have never felt quite as confident with painting as I have with drawing. Even so, I was more pleased with the way this painting of my father turned out than any other painting I have done.

By the way, my father is Austin, not Alice.

Painted in 1982 (I think), the painting was an experimental oil painting. I had never painted a portrait before that was set in a natural background. Up until that time, all my paintings were fantastic and dealt with imaginary beings and settings. This painting of my father was inspired by a photograph of him out in the Mojave Desert, which was one of his favorite places to be. It captures him well and anyone who knew him would recognize the likeness and the appropriateness of the setting.

I may have tried to incorporate too many different influences but even twenty-five years later I still find the combination pleasing. The upper background was prepared with a textured gesso and the painting was inspired by Monet. For the foreground I prepared my own mixture of Japan drier and gesso that forced the surface to crack, which was painted over with a wash so that the paint would seep into the cracks to give them definition.

In the 1970s I was listening to albums on vinyl records, which meant that while you listened you could analyze the artwork on the large album covers. The album covers that impressed me the most were the Yes covers by Roger Dean and the Welcome to My Nightmare cover by Drew Struzan. With apologies to my father, this album cover influenced how I rendered him in the above painting. Struzan imitates a 1920's stylization that is crisp and clear and has patterned embellishments, that are usually seen in drawings and advertisements rather than paintings. These appear as sharp edged flat lines for shadows and highlights. (Note Alice Cooper's top-hat, hair, hands and the bottom of his vest.)

The painting of my dad is not as crisp nor as precisely stylized as Struzan's but it was the main influence to the style. Due to the informal setting of my father's portrait, in contrast to the formal setting for Alice Cooper, I rendered the lines in my dad's shirt more organically and not so rigidly as in Alice's tuxedo.

For me though, the best thing about the painting is not who influenced my technique; it is that it reminds me of the person who most influenced my ideal for character and integrity.

Welcome to My Nightmare - Artist: Drew Struzan

The Strangest Moon I Ever Saw

A father and son were outside on a hot Saturday afternoon digging a hole in the front yard. Beside them lay a small evergreen tree; its roots wrapped in burlap. The boy stopped digging and set the shovel aside while his gaze remained fixed on the hole.

“Dad, look!” There’s a deep pit or cave or somethin’ here!”

The dad looked and he could see the dirt dropping into the darkness.

“That’s strange. You better not stand too close.”

The son stepped back, not liking the idea of slipping into some awful abyss.

“Hmm.” The dad rubbed his chin. Lowering to his hands and knees near the edge of the hole, he sniffed thoughtfully, animal like.

“The air coming out of here is cool and fresh . . . definitely not the septic tank.” He looked up and smiled at his son and then became serious again. “Besides, that’s in the backyard.”

His son was now kneeling cautiously on the other side of the hole, opposite his father – periodically looking up at his father and then back down into the hole.

“Look dad! There’s smoke in there.” The boy pointed into the hole.

His dad stretched his hand into the hole and felt moisture.

“No, it’s more like mist or fog; it’s not smoke.” His brow furled curiously. “Look, it’s clearing away. Maybe we can see something now.” Both, father and son were now on their bellies peering into the hole.

Dad gasped, “I’ll be . . . there’s a bunch of lights down there!”

His son smiled. “Wow dad! It looks just like it did when we flew to Portland to see grandma!”

“Yeah, it sure does . . .”

* * * * * *

Somewhere else, it was night-time and a father and his daughter were outside enjoying the cool night air in their front yard.

“I can’t see the moon very well tonight through all of those clouds.” The dad observed.

His daughter looked up . . . “Hey! I got dirt in my face. There’s dirt falling out of the sky!”

“What are you talking about? How could dirt fall . . . huh?” The dad brushed off his face. “I felt it, too! Where could that be coming from?” The father scratched his head while his daughter spit dirt out of her mouth.

“It seems to have stopped.” The father observed, as he looked back up into the sky. “And the clouds have blown away. You can see the moon, now.”

The girl looked up and wrinkled her little nose. “The moon looks kinda’ funny dad.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It is kind of a strange shape tonight, isn’t it? Kind of like an apple with two bites out of it.” The father muttered.

Silence followed for a few seconds as father and daughter cocked their heads and considered the oddity. The girl spoke first, stretching a pointed finger out toward the moon.

“Hey dad, can’t you almost see what looks like a couple of faces up there? One big one on one side and a smaller one on the other side?”

“Yeah, I sure can.”

They continued to stare it for a while when the father finally concluded, “That is the strangest moon I ever saw.”

Vee Mack - 6/92

Blind Bather?

Once while driving down the freeway, I noticed a truck with a sign on it declaring "Blind Bather", which offered a phone number where you could reach this person. This begs several questions: (1) How is this blind bather able to drive a truck at 70 MPH - or at any speed without crashing? (2) Is this person bathing while he is driving? Is that why he needed that big truck to drive in - so there's room for the bath tub? (3) Why would anyone advertise the fact they bathe - no matter what their disability? (4) By the way, I am color blind. Should I print "Color Blind Bather" on my car? And if I did, who would care and why would they call me about it? Forget those questions about the Hegelian Dialetic, predestination and existentialism, I need to know the story behind blind bathers driving trucks!

After the party . . .

Do you hear the bell?

I wonder what condition my conditioning is in?

Existentialist Vegetable

Getting in touch with one's inner self isn't always a pleasant process.

Get in Touch with Your Inner Diva

More wisdom from Mr Tutwaller

When all else fails, bewilder your audience with nonsense. Say it with confidence, so that those who are listening will assume that they do not measure up to your erudition. Politicians and philosophers are masters at this. A perfect example of this is the philosophical phrase that has become part of everyday communication: "There is no right or wrong answer." Consider the paradox that this meaningless statement is always presented as an absolute statement, which any sensible person should ascribe to. Amazingly, it is a favorite statement employed by teachers. The alert student ought to reply with something like this: "So, why am I taking this class from you?"

Wise Words from Mr Tutwaller

Mr Tutwaller offers sound and stable advice to politicians, clerics and academicians, who value both clarity and ambiguity. And who well understand that straight talk is certain evidence of a limited and narrow mind.

A Public Service Announcement

Happy Anniversary

March 6, 1980 - September 20, 2003

Here is another example of a drawing with arms that are much too long. [Ref the post "Comic Gone Awry", December 3, 2006] No one has arms that long, except a Gibbon! So, a drawing that has some real pathos is made ridiculous because the artist didn't notice that the arms are extended beyond physical reality. Or, did the artist intend to convey that he was reaching for that which was lost and therefore unatainable? No, I don't think that can be chalked-up to a retro-active Freudian "save" due to some subconscious deeper meaning. The artist simply got sloppy and wasn't watching what was right before his eyes. How could he have missed then what is so obvious now?

Strolling Through Modern Art

This particular drawing came to mind while I was looking at the Art Institute of Chicago's website and I came across some artwork by Joan Miro, who is exhibited at AIC. Vee Mack's drawings generally demonstrate better draughtsmanship than this drawing displays but I thought that the concept was amusing and the implied commentary worth considering. Are you a fan of Joan Miro, Piet Mondrian, Paul Klee, Jackson Pollock, Willem De Kooning and Vasily Kandinsky?

What does this elderly gentleman think of his stroll through the paramecium of the artworld? Francis Schaeffer noted in "The God Who is There" that Paul Klee and similar artists, introduced the idea of artwork generated in a manner similar to how a Ouija Board generates words from outside the artist's conscious intent. Schaeffer observed that Klee "hopes that somehow art will find a meaning, not because there is a spirit there to guide the hand, but because through it the universe will speak even though it is impersonal in its basic structure." [page 90] Why would an impersonal universe have something to say? What does meaninglessness have to communicate? Schaeffer explains that "these men will not accept the only explanation which can fit the facts of their own experience, they have become metaphysical magicians. No one has presented an idea, let alone demonstrated it to be feasible, to explain how the impersonal beginning, plus time, plus chance, can give personality . . . As a result, either the thinker must say man is dead, because personality is a mirage; or else he must hang his reason on a hook outside the door and cross the threshold into the leap of faith which is the new level of despair." [page 115]

Vee Mack's sketch demonstrates the paradox of an average man viewing images, which represent the nonsense of Dadaism and chaos. It is the overeducated who will look at something that is inherently meaningless and try to find deep meaning in it, while the average man sees it and observes with reasonable common sense that this or that is an absurd waste of time.

By the way, while it may appear as though I am favoring one artist for these posts, I am not receiving the variety of artwork that I had hoped for from other artists and I happen to have ample access to much of Vee Mack's unpublished portfolio. Therefore, until I receive other artwork, I will have to rely on what I have on hand.

Cowboy Juggler

This whimsical sketch was simply a doodle; drawn while the artist was responding to a phone survey that promised to be short but in reality went on for quite some time - as evidenced by the detail of the drawing. Vee Mack is working on a color version of this same drawing.

Comic Gone Awry

What does an artist do after he spends a couple of hours putting a drawing together and then discovers that he goofed up? In this case, the cartoonist (Vee Mack) used the mistake as the focus of the comic. However, the mistake was only obvious to the artist. So the enigmatic tension that he created - while amusing to him - was lost to most everyone else who saw it. What is the mistake? If you sit down in a chair with your back straight and your elbows up against your waist, your hands can't possibly extend over your knees, unless you are a gibbon! Therefore, the oddity in the drawing was used to indicate to the viewer that the seated figure was so humiliated by his long arms that he was unwilling to speak to anyone and so retired to the attic in silence.

Vee Mack, (who retired from drawing comics before more than only a very few were published), delighted in drawing the comic first and then afterwards deciding what the caption would be. In this case he fell short of the mark. As we know: a joke is not funny, if you have to explain it. However, Mack persisted in the idea that the artwork of the comic ought to take precedence over the caption/punchline. If the graphic itself was intriguing and amusing; it did not matter to Mack whether or not the caption was amusing. I suppose this is sort of a silent movie approach to drawing comics. Have any comics been able to survive using this philosophy?