Bird on the Wire

The Bird on the Wire [right] and The Telephone Pole [below] are large pen and ink drawings using Rapidograph drafting pens. The Bird on the Wire was drawn from a photograph that I took and the Telephone Pole was drawn from life. The drawings were then made into full size limited edition numbered prints of 100 each in 1984. I rediscovered these prints recently during a move. Of those not sold before they were stored, a few were damaged. So, the total number of salable prints is less than a hundred. I've offered these for sale on Ebay. They were designed to be a set but they can be purchased separately. Each is signed and numbered by the artist. The unframed black and white prints are presented on 17.5" X 22.5" heavy textured paper and are faithful to the original drawings. The Bird on the Wire is $35.00 and the Telephone Pole is $20.00. The set can be purchased for $50.00. Shipping is extra.

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.

Pilgrimage to Auburn

There are many reasons for making a pilgrimage. But whatever the reason, the pilgrimage is made because of a deep connection with either the past or the hope for the future. A pilgrimage is not usually done out of impulse. However, my recent pilgrimage was one of opportunity. Finding myself in Sacramento with a whole day ahead of me, I realized that I was within minutes of my birthplace and many childhood memories. I am a 49er. Not a fan of the football team but a true born child of one of California’s goldrush towns: Auburn. This year in fact I can make claim to being a 49er by both birthright and age. I turned 49 this past summer. So, it was an appropriate serendipity that I should make this pilgrimage this year just before I move to Florida.

When I was young, my father’s health began to deteriorate so he was no longer able to continue as a contractor but had to enter into the humiliating bureaucracy of the U.S. Post Office. For the sake of his family, he traded the manly independence of carpentry for the sterile dependence upon a government job. As difficult as Addison’s disease was to deal with, I think that the suffocating atmosphere of sorting mail day after day was even more detrimental. Do not take from this that I think that working for the US government is dishonorable – I do not. However, for my dad it was a demoralizing transition. He was “called”, if you will, to work in a creative environment where his quick and active mind could be busy - that was not the P.O.

What does that have to do with the 49er community of Auburn? Everything. When I was born in 1959, my father was still a carpenter and he had just two years before designed and built a beautiful house in Auburn. That is the house you see posted above. My father died about 7 years ago and so seeing this house and driving through Auburn was kind of like seeing him again.

Unfortunately, people can be rather dense and it took me several years to understand my dad’s sacrifice. When I was younger, I was kind of frustrated with him for working at the Post Office when I knew he had so much more potential. I knew he was not healthy. I knew he only had a seventh grade education but he was more well-read than so many people I knew who had college degrees. I wanted him to go back to college and do something with his life but he wanted me to do what he felt he could not do. Therefore, he sacrificed his life for the hum-drum mediocrity of sorting mail, so that I could be a college graduate. It took me more than forty years to figure that out but now I know what it meant for him to give up a vocation he loved for someone he loved. Thank you dad.

The aroma of fresh sawdust . . .

Here I present a photograph of one of my grandfather Clayton's planes sitting on my table saw. I have planes from both of my grand fathers and my father. I love those old hand tools, but not simply as collectors items - I use them every chance I get. One of the best things about having a house built in 1945, is that it gives me many opportunities to use my tools. The planes are my favorite wood-working tool. Few things in life are more satisfying than carefully trimming down a piece of wood with a sharp, properly adjusted plane. And, the two best aromas of life can readily be experienced together: fresh sawdust and wood chips, with a strong cup of coffee.