While out at midday on a five-miler, I was imagining what would happen if I took a collage miniature and enlarged it to gallery size after subjecting it to a mezzo-tone or stochastic conversion. I must have at least a dozen images that lend themselves to this graphic treatment, but when I consider time, materials and framing, I don’t see how I could finance it, not to mention the lack of anyone asking me to prepare such a large exhibition. I’d better start with just one and test the waters.
Archive for April, 2005
Majestic aspirations vs elusive microeconomics
Saturday, April 30th, 2005
Happy Birthday to me
Friday, April 29th, 2005– repeat –
(with Caliterra…)
This one’s on the Haus
Thursday, April 28th, 2005Precisely three years ago, Marty and I spent much of our day documenting and dismantling my 50th birthday “Haus of Cards” retrospective exhibition. At the time I thought it might be the high point of my card-making activity, and I was probably right. After a peak of 309 hand-made cards in 1999, I created 166 in both 2000 and 2001, bumped it back up to 189 the year of my Danville show, but saw the total fall to 105 by the close of 2004. So far this year I’ve made 22, a far cry from those productive years, when I might top 50 or 60 cards by Brendan’s birthday.
Nature abhors a shopvac
Wednesday, April 27th, 2005I spent the day with exterminators (don’t even ask!) and felt my livelihood slide one more notch toward crisis. All I want to do is watch “Alias” and “Eyes,” back to back (the two most entertaining dramas on network television, due to Ron Rifkin and Tim Daly).
The dad of Father George
Tuesday, April 26th, 2005While visiting Bruce at the hospital, I heard a priest about my age talk about his dad, a veteran of World War II. He shared a story about a particular beach assault and how his father had dug his way under a stack of boxes to escape devastating fire. After pushing more sand out of the hole, he’d pulled one of his fellow soldiers in behind him. In time, he found out that they were the only members of his unit to survive. He also found out that their refuge was under a pile of ammunition and explosives.
Listen; partake not of quotations ye disdaineth, but believe
Monday, April 25th, 2005“Every noble work is at first impossible.” —Carlyle
His transplanted kidney declared a loss, Bruce nevertheless takes up the fight.
“An enterprise, when fairly once begun, should not be left till all that ought is won.” —Shakespeare
Branches of prayer extend as the roots of the faithful deepen.
“A good intention clothes itself with power.” —Emerson
Thirty-eight days later, when renal function is restored, doctors are heard to use the word “miracle.”
“The divine insanity of noble minds, that never falters nor abates, but labors, endures, and waits, till all that it foresees it finds, or what cannot find, creates.” —Longfellow
And to top it all off, a lost hat is restored!
Passing Olga
Sunday, April 24th, 2005I knew I’d been spending a lot of time at Methodist Hospital when too many people looked familiar. That was about two and half weeks ago. I saw a lady in the hall today, walking in the opposite direction. It didn’t surprise me to recognize her as one of the cashiers from the cafeteria, but I freaked myself out when I realized I knew her name. Good Lord… Bruce has been in there over five weeks.
An answer to our prayers
Saturday, April 23rd, 2005Anybody who reads this will be pleased to know that Bruce has improved to the point of getting out of the ICU. Over the past five weeks he’s battled back from the edge of the void with the benefit of advanced treatment and lots of love, positive thoughts, and prayerful intent from an amazingly huge network of well-wishers.
Our studio clients have stood by us with compassionate understanding during a very difficult period. We’ve been in business long enough to know the kind of customers that many companies have to deal with. By contrast, Dana and I are fortunate enough to serve a group of people that happen to be exceptional human beings. In the competitive marketplace, that’s a true blessing.
Family has made the difference in so many ways. In these times, the word “Family” is defined in various ways. For me, it comes down to “crunch times” like this. However you choose to compose it, if it doesn’t pull together in support to get you through this kind of a challenge, then it isn’t really a family after all.
We’re getting ready to go to Indianapolis again to be with Bruce, along with my sister Joan (Brendan’s Mom! That’s why my name is Uncle John!). I don’t think the full impact of relief will strike me until I see him in his own room, minus all the medical paraphernalia that was necessary to provide the fighting chance that he employed with such stoutheartedness.
Bravissimo!
Tearful eye vs clenched jaw
Friday, April 22nd, 2005I haven’t been sure if I had any more “olden” entries in me, for now (because they might be something cathartic related to the past 4-5 weeks), but then I went to my Rotary lunch meeting today and heard a performance of the Boyle County Chamber Singers. These highschoolers are tackling Mozart’s Requiem and other pieces that would be considered advanced at the college level. To think that there are youngsters today with this kind of access to high-quality fine arts instruction at a local public school… well, it just might get me musing again about my own dearth of artistic mentorship and stir a few dying embers of resentment for your amusement.
Fidgetronic visioneering
Thursday, April 21st, 2005Every so often it’s cool for our studio to get a naming project, but I’ve never been asked until this afternoon to recommend names for the new company a client is setting up to replace the need for services we are currently offering them. Now, let me run that by you again…
Oldenday VI
Wednesday, April 20th, 2005When I was a preteen, Dadbo brought home a carload of aerospace magazines from work. Did I cut out all the cool pictures of rockets and supersonic aircraft? No… I cut out and saved the marketing symbols and corporate trademarks. I can’t explain it, but I always had an affinity for letters and graphics (the GE emblem on the refrigerator intrigued the heck out of me), but I had no clear comprehension of either the fine or applied arts, any sense of the distinction, or what an artist actually did for a living, other than maybe draw cartoons, paint signs, or think up a few crazy advertising ideas like Darren Stevens. My junior high art teacher had worked as a commercial artist before switching to art education. She didn’t actually instruct me in any specific graphic arts techniques, but I did gain one valuable thing from her—she made sure I understood that commercial art was a viable aspiration for a talented person. But there was something else between the lines, as though it was our secret, this notion that commercial art wasn’t exactly noble, that it wasn’t real art. Hmmm, so what was real art? Didn’t have a clue. Norman Rockwell? For petesake I didn’t even realize who Bob Clampett and Ralph Bakshi were poking fun at when they created a cartoon character called Go Man Van Gogh (the wild beatnik artist on “Beany“). I just knew that I was fascinated by comics and advertising art and loved to study lettering and draw words as pictures. I remember painting the word “ICE” with watercolors, adding the archetypical mounds of snow and ice-cycles around the letters. It was almost a right of passage. Weird, eh? I had four different art teachers in four years of high school. I hate to be unkind but each one of them was worthless. I had talent, so there was no reason to spend time with me. It was more important to babysit the goof-offs who took art as a “cake” elective. No wonder I sent off for the Famous Artists home test. I don’t think I even realized how desperate I’d become. What others might have viewed as crass merchandising was a Godsend for me. The individual attention I got from instructors in far-off Connecticut was something I’d never experienced before. And even though the course introduced me to both the fine and applied arts, there was something about commercial art that made me feel at home. When I saw the classes offered by UC I didn’t get the same electricity from reading about figure drawing, painting, or printmaking like I did from discovering that I could take design fundamentals, typographics, photography and film/animation. I was pumped! I wanted to go to college so bad I turned cocky and couldn’t wait to blow my hometown and head for the big city…
Various & Sundry, part fourteen
Tuesday, April 19th, 2005— It’s a perplexing day when the media decides to focus on the naming of a new pope instead of the monumental story of the year: that Lance Armstrong will retire!
— Joan tells me it’s difficult for her to read this log on her computer because each entry is a single, horribly long horizontal line of text that scrolls endlessly. Must be a problem with her browser settings, and I hope it can be fixed. Don’t stop reading, Sis! I can’t afford to lose 50% of my fan base!
— I have no idea how it ended up in the library of the University of Indiana Medical School, or why it’s on display, but Marty and I couldn’t deny ourselves a close look at the death mask of John Dillinger. It’s got to be one of the creepiest damn things I’ve ever seen, not because of the casting itself, but how it was so amateurishly hand colored. And while we’re on the subject of creepy, you’ll find a whole archive of death masks at Thanatos.net.
— I remember Joe scolding me the time I made a condescending remark about Pookie, explaining that he just needed to find his identity as a dog, and, if we gave him a chance, he would. I never thought about Pookie the same way after that, and now it gives me a bit of pleasure (within the sorrow) to know that he got the second chance that Joe could see and I couldn’t.
— Bruce is breathing on his own and striving to gain the upper hand against his numerous infections. I try to accept how often they put him through yet another test, but that’s just the nature of modern pharmacological care. They try to match the drug to the bug. Dana is by his side at the hospital while I hold the fort at the studio. According to her latest report, he’s able to maintain a good, steady rate of respiration and cough productively, much better that when the ventilator was removed before. They’ve taken away the special bed that rotated and vibrated his chest. The PT seemed pleased that he’d gained strength since the previous therapy. The nephrologist cancelled the scheduled dialysis. Nobody has made an official statement that he won’t require it again, but the kidney numbers are normal. My son is a freakin’ warrior! God bless him up one side and down the other!
Oldenday V
Monday, April 18th, 2005I regret that I didn’t pursue animation. Yeah, I know, it’s not fashionable to have regrets. I suppose there are self-actualized individuals who’ve genuinely reached the point of “no regrets,” but I reckon that with most people who purport to have no regrets, the claim is wishful horseshit. You have regrets when you fail to go after a skill or livelihood that necessitates beginning when you’re still young. For me it’s sailing, horseback riding, martial arts, and animation. Don’t get me wrong; it’s never too late to start doing anything you’re passionate about, but you have to face the fact that there are certain things that require a lifetime to get good at. Now I admit it’s true that Yukio Mishima didn’t start to train in the martial arts until he was 40, and still became a kendo adept, but he also flipped out and disemboweled himself in public, so I don’t think I’ll suggest him as a role model. There have been rare exceptions among artists (like Grandma Moses? Who else?), but the fact is I made choices that removed me from the world of animation, even though I’d art-directed a corporate animation for Rand-McNally at the age of 24 and had come to the attention of Chicago’s top animator. It’s not complicated—I out-smarted myself and stopped animating, just like Dadbo decided to become an engineer instead of pursuing veterinary medicine. Regrets don’t have to be debilitating, but most likely there will be something you’ll abandon and wish later you hadn’t. Just make sure it isn’t one of the “big things.” Never turn away from your true passions. So… I can’t sail, cycling is the closest I get to real riding, I’m still an Aikido white belt, and I’ve learned to live without animation, even though I still dream of having gotten rather good at it. I contemplate taking the time to study Tex Avery, Jay Ward, the TerryToons, and all the classic cartoon arts or immerse myself in the works of Jordan Belson, Saul Bass, or Hayao Miyazaki. Fortunately I still hold on to my greatest touchstone. I continue to draw with my own hand…
Oldenday IV
Sunday, April 17th, 2005You would have thought that I’d get at least one decent art teacher during my years in high school. No dice. And so I continued my bizarre attempt at artistic cultivation. I developed my own comic book characters, illustrated home-grown stories, and advanced my “Wanted Posters” into a state that was clearly an attempt at pushing my facial skills as far as I could handle without proper training. Nobody had ever told me about anatomy or life drawing. I absorbed the daily comics (I hated “Dondi” but studied the drawing). The unique intro to The Wild Wild West and the long-forgotten Lone Ranger animated series fascinated me. I became more and more interested in animation. I poured over the drawings of political artists—Herblock, Hugh Haynie, and Paul Conrad. I entertained the notion that I wanted to be an editorial cartoonist, and wrote letters to prominent exponents of the art form. But then something happened that would change everything. I saw an an advertisement from the Famous Artist School and responded. A representative actually paid a visit to our home and I begged my parents to let me give it a shot—the correspondence course that would give me the art instruction that I’d never managed to acquire. They said, “Okay,” and I will forever be grateful for this simple consent to expose me to legitimate art educators. I acknowledge now that the home-study “Course for Talent Young People” was an experiment, an attempt to market the successful adult course to a younger market. That meant nothing to me at the time. This was the school endorsed by Norman Rockwell! How could they deny me this opportunity? Well, they didn’t, even though my Mom had to cajole me into keeping up with the lessons. But a sea change had occurred. I was formally introduced to the world of art at last, fine and applied, and I was soon ready to make an informed decision about the direction of my artistic development. When my grandmother gave me a bulletin of classes from the University of Cincinnati, I was ready to choose a course of action—commericial art. No surprise. This was it! Everything else fell to the wayside…
Saturday in the sun
Saturday, April 16th, 2005Marty and I agreed—it was a “satisfying” day. It began for me with the “Repair Affair,” Boyle County’s annual day of exterior house chores on behalf of those who can’t physically do them. Danville Rotary Club took primary responsibility for it this year and that’s how I got involved. We couldn’t have pulled it off without all the volunteers from Centre College (those students are something else). It was a good deed sort of thing for me and a welcome change of scenery. My friend Scott was there and said he was planning to attend the 30th birthday cookout for the Governor’s son at the Mansion in Frankfort. I told him to give Ernie and Ben my warm regards. I don’t get to hobnob much with Fletcher any more, now that he’s hit the political big time.
After lunch I picked up Marty and we went to the Blue Bank Farm to work in the orchard, which also happens to be our family cemetery. I’m late with the pruning this year, but we got through it all and had time for a hike up Horse Lick hollow for Marty’s first adventure to the Pine Forest, which we both speculate was near the sawmill settlement that used to be located back there. We saw a spot that looked as though a small twister had touched down and leveled a few pines, all in precisely the same direction. Also had a chance to confirm that the back edge of the hollow had been unintelligently logged. What a waste! We came back to the valley by way of Blue Bank’s ridge and the Buddha Trail, probably the most peaceful spot in Casey County.
It was good to see members of my Clan after a month of turmoil. I spent a few moments at Joe’s grave with my sister and learned the sad news that her pet Pookie had just died. Throughout the day, Bruce was never far from my thoughts. Dana called from Indianapolis and my heart went out to her.
Oldenday III
Friday, April 15th, 2005I don’t know if I really liked school as a kid, but rather accepted it as my fate. It did have one nice thing going for it—ample opportunity to draw. Because we were Catholics, we went to school six days a week, although the Saturday religious instruction (catechism) was only in the morning, which wasn’t so bad because we were used to it, and we got to hang out with our top chums, the Vagedes boys. But maybe the best thing about Saturday mornings was that we got a comic book. I didn’t know that Treasure Chest wasn’t “cool.” I looked forward to the wholesomely didactic magazine (given out one per family before we went home each Saturday morning) because it was a comic book. Super heroes would come later. “Treasure Chest” introduced me to the longer pictorial narrative form and the art of the visual cliffhanger. Looking back on it, the staff that produced it was clearly packed with talent. I never saw another issue of it after 1964. With the move to a new town, a few dimes to spend, and the proximity of my junior high school to a retail rack of Superman, Batman, and Aquaman, I made the seismic shift to the world of DC Comics. Other than being shown how to use pastel chalk by family friend Mr. Smalley, I still had received no direct exposure to fine arts instruction. I was almost a teen, and I’d had no educator who could demonstrate to me genuine artistic technique, even though I’d had a series of teachers who rather negligently but wholeheartedly supported my effort to become self-taught. And so I continued with my own strange mix of preferred influences: Reed Crandall, Doug Wildey, Bob Clampett, Alfred Andriola, Curt Swan, Bob Kane, and Frank Frazetta. Actually, I could have chosen much worse…
False start
Thursday, April 14th, 2005Rather than grant it any form of permanent expression, today’s dark mood is best left to the ethers…
Don’t ask why
Wednesday, April 13th, 2005When you’re going through a rough time, there’s always someone else who is or has gone through a worse situation. Today Dana and I had lunch with our friend Sherron, whose son was in a fiery accident and spent over a 100 days in a burn unit before he expired. She told me she asked God, “Why my son?” and the answer she received was, “Why not yours?”
At times like this
Tuesday, April 12th, 2005My wife Dana and I want to thank each of you—individually, in person, if we could—for your many messages of support. For now, please know that they are much appreciated.
Bruce was able to sit up and talk on Friday, but seemed tired on Saturday. Since we’d arrived in Indianapolis the previous Saturday with clothes for only two days, we needed to get home. We got back to Danville late Saturday, but didn’t get much sleep that night.
Since we hadn’t seen Marty during his spring break, we took him out for dinner on Sunday. During the meal we got the call that Bruce was failing (high temperature, growing infection, pneumonia out of control). We packed up and headed back to Indy. The message we’d received was so alarming that Marty and his mom Terie came with us, despite the fact that school would be back in session on Monday. This time we grabbed our dog, too.
Bruce was stable by the time we arrived, back on a ventilator, but blood pressure and pulse were erratic. By early afternoon, he was resting fairly well and went into surgery to remove a temporary stint (a possible source of the continuing infection) that is used for dialysis, and replace it with a different type. A permanent fistula was considered, but it was decided that he’s too ill to go under anesthesia.
He was sleeping comfortably last night with better vital signs. He’s still under heavy sedation, but he does react to his mother’s voice and can respond to questions with a slight nod. He’s receiving nutrition through a nose tube that goes directly into the small intestine, bypassing the stomach and pancreas. His nurse told Dana that patients with pancreatitis this severe sometimes remain in the ICU three months or more and in the hospital for months longer–a true test of endurance. Regular drives back and forth to Indiana will seem easy by comparison. On Sunday I got to talk to a friend who reminded me that a local acquaintance spent six months in the hospital with pancreatitis, and that it was two years before he was totally his old self. Bruce has the will to undergo a long recuperation if his situation can just stabilize, but I honestly don’t know if his mate has the stamina for what lies ahead.
It is at times like this that Dana and I are reminded how much we value our family (powerful, quiet support) and our friends (an amazing outpouring of affection).
We’re truly grateful for the positive thoughts and prayers. We’ll need them for some time to come…
(Dana helped with this entry.)
Buffalo man, won’t you come out tonight
Monday, April 11th, 2005As we hold our vigil, I’m reminding myself of some hilarious things Bruce said during his interlude off the ventilator.
Paraphrasing… “I was in The Wild Wild West and fighting James West and he took all my money. I was running a railroad and there was the train and everything, but throughout it all I was this huge buffalo. I knew it wasn’t happening, but it was layered over this reality. Then my Dad came to visit me, and I was talking to him, but I was still a huge buffalo… John, I could never begin to catalog all the strange dreams and images, but I can tell you that I definitely gave birth to a ferret.”
As his wife Pam said, “I want some of whatever he was on.”
– – –
p s ~ Happy Birthday, Dana. I pray that you get your wish.
No time for my watch and chain
Sunday, April 10th, 2005One night’s restless sleep and it’s back to Indy, responding to the news that Bruce has had another relapse.
In transit
Saturday, April 9th, 2005Making our way toward home at last.