Art of Life

The Penultimate Post

2012-09-22T06:19:00.000-07:00

That's "next to the last," for this is not my last post. There will be one more. Exactly.

I've decided to abandon Blogger.

First, the interface (behind the scenes) will no longer allow me to modify the look and feel without giving an error. That, as is said, "is a deal breaker." I can no longer even enter correctly formatted html without Blogger "fixing" it. I understand this is an effort to simplify things for the "average" user. But I am not average.

Second, I have my own domain and a new web host. I'm going the WordPress route with a custom theme. Blogger was an experiment. I learned a lot, but its days are over for me. I'm going pro.

Third, I will be publishing my first novel in serial form. I was going to go with Amazon, but I honestly felt that the right thing to do was give it away. Not because the book won't sell or get published by a big publisher. It would. The fact is, I want to give something to my tribe with no thought of gain or return. That is just how Ricky rolls.

But this new novel is just too important a project to be hosted by a free account, so even without the first complaint, I'd still be abandoning Blogger. On the contrary, even if that had not been my plan, the new interface by which one writes the code is so broken, I would be forced to move on even if I did not wish it.

I will be linking to the new site in my next post. At this writing, it is under development. But I have enough material to post twice a week—for six months—already written. That is what I have been doing during the long, most recent silence.

Cheers,
Rick

Some Of My Best Friends Are Horses

2012-07-20T00:40:00.023-07:00

I love horses.

I love that horses are really just big babies. I love the beauty of the horse. I love their tremendous physical power. I love the way their giant, shapely muscles quiver under your hands and brushes as you groom them. I love the way they smell, even the pungent, earthy, grassy scent of their droppings. I love the taste of salty horse sweat when I kiss their necks after a hard run. I love the sounds of their hooves, their snorts, and the way they pump wind through their lungs and noses.

I love horse's sweet, pure, gentle eyes particularly, and I love the way they will take food from your hand and rest their chins so delicately on your shoulders. Horses do not have a reputation for being particularly intelligent, but I disagree. They have an eerie kind of intelligence that extends in directions that are alien to us.

Not a particularly religious person, horses make me believe in... Something, for such a creature could be no accident.

I love to ride horses.

But I have no romance for any style of riding. A good charging quarter horse, Western saddle, cowboy hat and cowboy boots make sense if you are herding cows. A long backed thoroughbred, jodhpurs, jockey boots, long tailed coat and hunting cap are fine for fox hunting, but for riding fast over many, many miles of rough terrain, give me a lean and hot blooded Arab with an English saddle, a baseball cap, and running shoes.

The last vestige of traditional Western gear I still like are the really long reins. I can use these to give my mount a swoosh on the rump, or, when I stop to let him rest, I can tie him up.

They call it "English" in America, but really, the saddle type—more properly, the stirrup position—came out of light cavalry, and the style developed from the need to let your horse move beneath you while you were essentially standing. It's a great way to carry a lance, shoot a bow and arrow, fire a rifle, or swing a sword.

For me, riding style is based on purest functionalism. No romance at all. I was probably an Indian in a previous life; I look askance at all styles.

I first learned to really ride from hanging out with endurance riders. These guys are definitely in the running shoes and baseball caps camp. I may have inherited some of their prejudices. For example, the only time you ever "walk" a horse is getting in and out of the barn or pasture. After that, the horse is kept at a trot. The riders I rode with absolutely scoffed at Western style casual riders who walk everywhere and bang up and down in their seats like rag dolls at any other clip until they gallop.

To then listen to these same people in the bar afterward go on and on expertly about breeds of horses and types of gear (called "tack") is just hilarious. I don't really know about any of that stuff, and I don't care to learn. I can tell a good horse when I see one, and I think the best gear is the least gear.

I'm in a third tribe. I'm a primitive, looking from afar at bizarre incursions in strange costumes. I am outsider who does not even want "in."

Don't get me wrong. Even the worst rodeo riders have probably forgotten more than I'll ever know about riding. I know skill when I see it. It's just that most riders don't know shit; worse, they don't even know that they don't know shit. That's unforgivable. Pathetic, really.

I am really thankful that I have had people in my life who did know how to ride, kept real racing Arabs, and were happy to take me from a complete novice to a trail companion who would not slow them down.

I am thankful for the great horses who were able to at first tolerate my ineptitude and then show what they were capable of once they felt me relax and give them their lead.

I remember nimble footed Talouse who first showed me she could jump a six foot high barrier without hesitation.

She was a bay; that is a brown horse with a black mane and tail. She was one of those alpha-female types. It's a total myth that the males always lead herds. My friend Kim got her for his teenage daughter, but Talouse proved to be too difficult a horse for her to handle. Talouse was quirky in that she generally did not like females. I heard this from several excellent women riders. Horses can have strange eccentricities. Sometimes, one cannot fathom where they learned such things. Talouse was not a big horse, and not young either, I was told to take it easy with her all the time. She would want to go too fast, so I had to keep her calm and collected.

Talouse was what they call a "lead changer." Horses tend to be right-footed or left footed. Talouse was both-footed. She'd be going along at her peculiar dancing-footed clip, and then suddenly feel like she changed gears or slipped from two wheel drive to four wheel drive or back again. You never had to worry about Talouse hurting herself, and she had a knack for finding the best path anywhere.

As a beginner, I tended to be heavy handed and seriously pissed her off a couple times by yanking on the reins. After that, Kim had me ride her with just a bridle and no bit. She was a willful horse. I adored her. Good horses, like people, are always a bit hard to handle. You have to get to know them.

She and I really became friends the first time I hopped off her and ran ahead of her down a hill to give her a rest. After that she was always sniffing my neck and trotting over to greet me whenever I visited. I drew her a lot too. I would sit down in the corral, and the horses would shuffle around me curiously. Talouse had very low body fat, so all her muscles rippled under her skin. This fascinated me.

And then there was big, silly Jack who—once you got him excited—could stretch out into the longest strided trot I've ever seen and regally blow right by cantering quarter horses.

He was a big gray. Endurance riders, by the way, tend to favor grays because they run cooler. I do not know what happened in his early life, but Jack somehow must have gotten the idea he was unloved. He could be really mopey and try to refuse to trot. I was told I had to keep his head up. Once he started to hang his head, he'd get apathetic. They called it "Jackass mode."

I discovered a magic formula though. Jack loved to listen to chanting with a strong beat. He loved martial songs. "Hup, two, three, four..." Like that. Usually when a horse flicks his ears backwards, he's upset. He's in fighting mode, but Jack would spin his ears backwards to listen. He kept his head up then. Only then could you get him to do his thing, and his thing was that long strided trot. Jack was a fast, almost tireless horse. He did not particularly care for rough terrain or close environments though. He would get nervous and confused. Jack liked smooth dirt roads or hard packed open desert. He probably would have enjoyed the beach, but I never rode him there.

One time, we were riding a long at a good clip, and Jack suddenly jumped up into a canter while I was messing with my canteen, surprising me. One of my feet popped out of the stirrup. But it was bouncing around, so I could not catch it with my toe, but in trying, I accidently gave him a kick in the flanks, and that inspired him to rip into that crazy gallop of his. I ended up hanging on to the side of him, totally without any control. I resorted to pleading with him to slow down. He slowed down, stopped, and turned his great neck to stare at me. It was like he was saying, "What the hell are you doing?"

Jack could be trusted in an emergency. He was a good guy. I was so pleased with him that I hugged and kissed his big sweaty neck. He just needed someone to appreciate him.

From Jack I learned that there is this certain way you can swing a sword down that generates such force I can believe what I've heard was true: a good cavalry saber could cut through a guy's neck and come out under the armpit on the other side. I used to practice this move with a heavy stick. Jack loved the game. Every time I'd cry, "Hyah!," He would proudly skip a little bit. He was my cavalry horse, a soldier's horse.

I remember brilliant Rascal who was probably the fastest sprinter of them all.

That guy could charge up a hill so hard and fast, you had to keep your head back or he would knock your forehead with his. I have never seen a horse who could go up a steep hill like him, but he could handle anything. Nothing stopped him; nothing scared him. And he was such a sweet, gentle horse! He was in Talouse' herd. He followed her everywhere... until you got on the trail! And then, he wanted to lead! Only then was he competitive.

In the herd, Rascal was entirely docile. But on the trail, he had two speeds—fast, and faster. Rascal was Kim's horse. I usually rode behind him on Talouse, holding her back to preserve her energy. Once Kim and Rascal were out of sight, Talouse would relax and not try to charge forward or pass them. Kim only let me ride Rascal once I'd learned to use a gentle touch on the reins, but what a joy! Rascal loved to prance around, showing off, tossing his head, skipping sideways, dashing around in zig zags. He was a horse who ran for the pure joy of running. He was beautiful too. He could have been a model for Apollo's horses on the gable of the Parthenon.

But probably the most beautiful of them all was Mary.

We called her "Proud Mary," or "Bloody Mary." She was a dappled gray with dark socks, mane, and tail. In horsey talk, they say "points." An extremely tall horse like Jack, she was big enough to handle a tall, muscular guy like me. We had to keep her away from most of the other horses because she would bite them. She was a bitch.

I loved her. Mary and I got along just fine. She loved to be petted and groomed. She loved having her eyes rubbed. She loved to be washed with cool water on a hot day. With people, Mary was fine, but with other horses, though, she was possibly the fiercest horse I've ever known. Like Talouse, she definitely favored men.

Unlike Talouse, Mary had an extremely predictable gait. She was probably one of the smoothest riding, fastest, rough terrain, horses in the world. Riding her was like riding a cloud. She liked to get into a pace, and keep it up for hours. Mary had a driven, relentless quality. She and I shared similar personality traits, I think.

I very much favor fierce female animals, whether human, horse, cat, dog, or bird. You don't have to worry about them doing sneaky, cowardly stuff. If they have a problem, they'll let you know, and if you rate their loyalty—special bonus feature—they will watch your back in a tough spot. Of all the horses, I'd say Mary was the one who would be most likely to win a hundred mile race.

Despite her total alpha-female character, I did once see her yield to the energetic charms of a big, young stud. It was the cutest thing to see her act like a silly girl for a change, following him about and chasing the other girls away.

I'm too big a guy to ever be a really competitive racer, but my brother and sister horses did not mind carrying me, once we achieved an understanding.

It never ceases to amaze me, for, believe me, if a horse wants you off his back, you will be off his back. The damn things weigh a thousand pounds. They could knock a house down if they wanted. Unlike some of my riding friends, I never liked to just manhandle them. I always liked to get to know them. I always liked to run my hands over their magnificent bodies and sing them songs. In this way, I learned to not only draw and sculpt horses, I learned to capture their beautiful, childlike spirits.

Romance? No. Something better: True Love.

In these quickly done studies for sculptures, I try to show this love.

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I always enjoy hearing comments, even though I may have antagonized some Western riders this time. But, well, I got sick of hearing them go on and on about how lovely they were, so I had to have my say.

Chains of Darkness: The Human Condition

2012-07-14T00:05:00.010-07:00

Here is a sketch of what will be my largest wood sculpture to date. You see here a black angel, his wings burned off, wrapped in shadows, holding to his heart something lost, and dissolving in black flames.

This is my opinion of the human condition.

I do believe I hinted at some darker, edgier stuff to come. Well, there was a sneak preview.

The plan is to build up the wood with slices made on my table saw, laminate them, then carve them down. I have been finding that is the only way to get a large piece that has the structural integrity to hold together. I estimate this figure will be fairly near life-size. I'll be using redwood for the wings and a combination of oak and ash for the body. I am also planning on either scorching the wood with a blow torch or painting it black. I may use a combination of the two and contrast that with polished, unpainted wood. I am not sure how I will render the chains, but I am leaning towards something like the wrapping of a mummy rather than chains, despite the title.

Hmmm... Perhaps it should be "Shrouds of Darkness."

As you can see, I do not bother with fussy detail in my sketches.

When it comes to artistic production, I am not a patient person. I want results, and I want them yesterday. I am much more interested in the overall effect. Besides, I do not require much information to start carving.

For this sketch, I departed from my usual sumi-e technique and went over it here and there with some white acrylic paint, following that with a bit more black. In Photoshop, as always, the only thing I did was manipulate the contrast so the white is brilliant white and the blacks are dark black. I am, in effect, simulating on the computer screen what the eyes see, for scanning tends to gray things out.

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How to Be an Artist

2012-07-10T21:55:00.008-07:00

It is heresy to say it, but I do not believe that there is such a thing as an "authority." For that matter, there is not even such thing as a "reliable source." You simply cannot—and must not—ever believe everything anyone says. A fact, if it is a fact, is a fact because it is true, not because it was said by an authority or a reliable source.

I suggest, therefore, that you apply your own reason and experience to the following. These thoughts are based on my personal experiences...

And yet...

I have been walking The Way of the Artist for many years, so I have accumulated a lot of experiences. I have spent many years struggling to "make it" as an artist. I pass these thoughts along as my personal observations. I earnestly intreat you to judge for yourself whether what I say is true.

I was seventeen when I noticed that I would rather die than not do art.

I do not recall making a decision about that. It was an observation.

But it gave me my orientation. My peers had their ideas of what success was; I had mine.

Certainly, we all wanted good jobs. And by "good jobs" I mean we all wanted to do something that was both fun and profitable. Some of us had high enough ideals that we wished to live lives that were of value to others, and we were willing to forego riches for the sake of service. Some wanted fame. Some wanted money and money only. In the scale of social value, I deemed those type of people at best—worthless.

There's nothing wrong with wanting money. The question was, "What are you willing to do to get it?"

I wanted money. Of course I did. Money is great. Money is fun. I wanted fame too. Why not? You always hear famous people complaining about how it is not so great, and sometimes I believe them, but for an artist, fame puts a big, fat exponent next to the prices you command. However, I was not willing to do anything but art to get fame or wealth; more, even if my art did not provide me with wealth and fame, I was still not willing to do anything but art.

There were things that others wanted that I did not want.

I did not want to "settle down, buy a house, and raise a family." I looked on the suburban lifestyle—the lifestyle in which I was raised—with horror.

That kind of life never even crossed my mind as something desirable. I wanted to wander. I wanted to roam. I wanted to look at the world, and I wanted to do art.

I was a little bit more free, but in many ways, I had set myself up for a life of suffering.

I was free in that I did not have to worry about the things other people worried about. I did not have to worry about school, sticking with a job, or a family. I did not have to worry about food, rent, clothing, or shelter.

The only thing I had to worry about was getting the next piece made.

I quit high school. I never even graduated. All the indoctrination that was supposed to turn me into obedient worker or complacent manager just did not work on me.

I would have stuck it out, but they weren't teaching me anything in school that I could not learn on my own. Worse, they were not even trying to teach the things I really wanted to learn.

At that time, I wanted to learn the painting techniques of the high Dutch and Italian Renaissances, and no one, to my knowledge, was teaching that, so I figured I would just have to figure it out on my own.

My life became very calm and orderly. When I looked for a job—and I've had many—all I needed to ask was, "Will this job help or hurt my art?"

When I met a girl, I need only determine, "Will she be good for my work or bad?"

When I considered moving somewhere else, my only question was, "Will I find inspiration in that place?"

Food was merely fuel: rice, beans, and whatever meat and greens were on sale. Clothing was simply practical: jeans, boots, and thrift store button up shirts we fine; for winter, fedora hats and trench coats. Housing had only to be cheap and spacious; a garage or a bunk in a warehouse was perfect.

Seeking, as I did, beautiful environments in which to ponder the universe, I got jobs at resorts and vacation spots. I cooked food and waited tables, mainly. I took evening jobs. This meant I could stay up all night if I wanted, and I would still get plenty of sleep. Day jobs drained my energy and left me too tired for art.

If a manager gave me any shit, I quit. I always wondered, "Where do they find these guys?"

If a girl said, "What about me? Am I less important than your art?" I told her, "Babe, you just said the wrong thing."

Later, I learned to warn her at the beginning. There are plenty of women who can dig an artist's passion for his work, but you do have to let her know at the beginning rather than blind-side her later.

I made a lot of mistakes. It seems I mainly made mistakes.

If I had it to do all over, I would have been more gracious and kind to the people who cared for me. But I would change little else.

I could not have known that "The Techniques of the Master's" was an artistic dead end. I had to walk that road to find that. I was not really living in the present world as it was. I was living in nineteenth century France, fifth century BC Greece, Kamakura era Japan, or 14th century Florence. I was pretty out of touch with the current scene.

The funny thing is: I knew that.

But I did not care. The world as I saw it had taken the wrong turn. All those skyscrapers, factories, chain stores, and fast food places seemed preposterous to me.

I rarely made money with art. I did not attempt to promote myself as an artist. I never tried to get into a gallery. I never even wanted to have an art show. I just did art.

Beyond practicing lovemaking skill, I did not attempt to be much of a boyfriend either. I did not go after women. I let them come to me, and they did, often enough that I never felt deprived that way.

If not quite a cad or a rogue, I was certainly a flake.

No. I take that back. I really was a bastard sometimes. I actually said, "Fuck off, bitch," to a woman one time. I was not toying around, either. I wanted her out of my life, and we never spoke again. I did not even feel guilty about at the time.

But it haunted me.

I would change that part if I could. I did a lot of things wrong. But I did do one thing right. I never quit.

I continued to do art. I got better, and better, and better. I got to where I had no trouble selling; then, I would get bored with the sellable style and go off on another learning curve, beginning with crappy work all over again.

I was seeking my voice. I was trying to find the magic nexus where what I had to offer was also what the world wanted.

There is a quote that is supposedly by Aristotle. This is my version, written in active voice: "Your path lies where your skills and the needs of the world meet."

I've read a lot of Aristotle, and I never found where he says that. I asked two classics professors as well, and both were like, "Hmmm. Doesn't ring any bells."

So if you, dear reader, know the proper, complete, exact attribution, please do let me know!

Yet it really doesn't matter who said it. Remember, there are no authorities. So regardless of who said it, I agree with the sentiment.

However, It seemed to me that the world wanted some goofy stuff. Top news was celebrity gossip and scandal. And in the contemporary art world, well, I thought the artists were over educated buffoons with barely infantile skills.

I looked at a lot of art. I went into galleries and museums everywhere, all the time. I was always looking at art.

But I was too shy to talk to gallery owners and other artists, generally. That was another mistake. My road would have been quicker and happier had I engaged such people as passionately as I engaged my art.

I was always looking at the universe. I studied the sky, the clouds, the patterns of bird flight and the ways of the wind. I walked all over the mountains and along the coasts, looking and listening. I found that the best things to watch were life forms. I had always wanted to draw and paint animals, but I was advised that it was a "genre," and "serious" artists did not do that. I avoided those subjects. I did become good at drawing and painting people. My study of "The Masters" had equipped me for a fine career as portrait painter had I cared to pursue that. I did not. It was a bore to do only that all the time.

Finally, one day, only a couple years ago, I had and itch to carve some wood. Living as I was in a little mountain town and fishing in the river a lot, I wanted to carve a trout. I said, "Ah, what the hell!"

I had been working that summer cutting and selling firewood. That's a rough business. My fuel cost alone for a pickup truck of wood was $40.00. After the work of finding trees to cut into rounds, I had a good ten hours of work to split it. Plus, I was paying one or the other of my nephews to help me and always buying him a good lunch.

Well, one afternoon, taking a break from the splitting, just for fun, I took my chainsaw and carved a trout with it. It took me about twenty minutes. It was pretty loose work, but it had a certain panache. I liked it. I had fun making it. I left it sitting on the log where I had my "Firewood for Sale" sign propped.

Then, I had this one guy who thought $165.00 dollars for a pickup load of really good, well split, perfectly seasoned tamarack pine was just too much money.

But he was happy to give me $20.00 dollars for the fish I carved.

A dollar a minute?

Yep. I'll take that. I took his money and gave him a carved fish.

I never looked back. I became a chainsaw carver. My egalitarian ideals were delighted to have a form that delighted all people, everywhere. I was not limited in my market to a small handful of wealthy customers who were besieged by large armies of hungry, desperate artists. I had broken the box. I did not need a gallery. I could sell anywhere, even on the street. I cannot even express the joy this gave me. It so happened that my work was well received by the wealthy elite. The way things are going, my prices will soon be climbing very high. Were I the P.T. Barnum type, I would advise you to buy now while I am still affordable.

Already, I sell fish like that first one for $200.00, but I do take more than twenty minutes to make them. I use a lot of tools besides a chainsaw now.

The point: My skills and the needs of the world had finally crossed paths.

Now, I don't worry about whether carving animals is "genre" work or not. I do not worry about any of the sniping criticisms that pervert the art world. I have paid my dues. I do what I want just like I always have with no apologies and no compromises.

But there is another point I would like to make.

I did not start becoming financially successful as an artist until I became a better person.

I never quit trying that, either.

These days, the biggest problem I have is producing far enough ahead of the demand to actually get together a show.

Here is the part where I shift into the second person; that is, I start saying, "you." If the following does not apply to you, great. Understand, however, there is a particular audience I am trying to reach and help.

You may find you have a long road ahead of you in order to find your voice and an acceptable skill level. Mastering the techniques of art is arguably more difficult than learning to be a doctor or a lawyer because you can learn about those things in school. I know there are millions of people who will take exception to this, but no one can really teach art. Technique, yeah. Art? No.

That is why you have to have that tough attitude I told you about at the beginning of this essay.

You have to look Death in the face and smile.

It is not that difficult to face death. Haven't you heard? Everybody dies. Once you recognize the inevitability, you can relax.

Why not live a life worth living in the mean time? Why not fight the good fight? Why not be a contender instead of a face in the crowd?

I told you I was often living in another era? Well, there's the viewpoint of an ancient, republican era, Roman or a pre-Hellenistic Greek.

And the old Romans and Greeks were right about that. Ask anyone who is at death's door. He or she will tell you, in the end, the only measure of success is: Did you enjoy life?

It does not really matter whether you "make it" because no one ever "makes it."

Do you see this? The game is in the living. It is not about winning or losing. The only way you can lose is to quit.

But there's a catch.

You may think it is enough to just try to enjoy life. I know a lot of people who do think that, but per my observation, they are never as as happy as the ones who strive for something great because if you do that, man, you are living!

I rarely presume to give advice, but this is good advice.

Never give up. Never surrender. You do not have to compromise your ideals. You do not have to sell out. In fact, while I'm at it, let me clue you in on this whole idea of "selling out." If they were not buying you before, they will not buy you when you sell out. "Selling out" is a term that applies only to people who have already achieved fame. As Orson Wells put it, "You make your reputation on the way up, and your money on the way down."

You, my friend, just have to keep working.

Did you like this post? Hate it? Think it was stupid? Lame? A bore?

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Blogging About Blogging

2012-07-04T17:20:00.018-07:00

I know.

"How jejune!" You say.

Or, maybe not. Maybe you are now saying, "Jejune. Hmmph. I hate it when people toss out obscure words to show how smart they are—so how about some words of my own, like 'juvenile,' 'insecure,' or just, plain, 'lame?'"

But "jejune" is a great word. I only just learned it, and it applies to blogging about blogging.

Here's a cut and paste from the dictionary built into my Mac: The New Oxford American Dictionary.

jejune |jiˈjoōn|
adjective
1 naive, simplistic, and superficial : their entirely predictable and usually jejune opinions.
2 (of ideas or writings) dry and uninteresting : the poem seems to me rather jejune.

DERIVATIVES
jejunely |dʒəˈdʒunli| adverb
jejuneness |dʒəˈdʒun(n)əs| noun

ORIGIN early 17th cent.: from Latin jejunus ‘fasting, barren.’ The original sense was [without food,] hence [not intellectually nourishing.]

See? Great word.

I have noticed that in American English, the words that generally sound sophisticated are those with the French derivations. (Yes. I know "jejune" is Latin, but it sounds French.) One suspects that somehow it was British working class culture that laid the strongest linguistic foundations in what was to become the U.S., and at the time of the American Revolution, there was even less love lost for the French than now, so they purposely eschewed French derivatives as the pretentious affectations of the aristocracy.

Just a theory. And there's me nodding to Independence Day on this Fourth of July post.

Spending most of my career as a working class guy, I've always had to watch this sort of thing. On the job site, you really gotta dumb yourself down. Every once in while you would meet another who really liked to read books and genuinely enjoyed words and wordplay.

But I forget myself. This is a post about blogging.

I suspect that by now you will have perceived that I say that with droll self-depreciation.

Let me say, however, you've done it. I've done it. We've all done it. Every once in a while it is necessary to talk about what you are trying to accomplish with your blog, the things you've learned, and the process of blog creation. I'm right, aren't I?

And sometimes, you have to publicly admit when you have been wrong.

Like now, I realize that I was wrong about a lot of things.

I have always had this anti-capitalist, anti-commercial, anti-mercantile, anti-establishment, anti-status-quo chip on my shoulder. (I told you I was a working class guy. It's true.) I have seen those forces just cast me and my brothers and sisters in the scrap heap because we no longer served their little piggy interests of the micro-moment. I never had to read The Communist Manifesto to acquire a burning hatred for any philosophy that put profit before people.

Let me interject right here that I am most emphatically not making a pitch for Herr Marx. Everything is all about class struggle? Pfft! Maybe if the guy had spent less time in the library and more time taking care of his family, he would have seen that the history of humanity is not reducible to such a stupid axiom.

But I forget myself. This is a post about blogging.

I was about to admit where I had been wrong. I was wrong about the true attitudes of the American middle class, and I know I was wrong because lately I have been moving in different circles.

I have been moving in the art world.

And believe me, that is a capitalist, commercial, mercantile, establishment, status-quo world.

So I find a capitalist who is almost single handedly revitalizing downtown Fresno by proving cheap, beautiful space for artists!

And I find merchants who are just barely hanging on because it is more important to support the arts than it is to get rich.

Then I find retailers who buy me lunch and coffee because they know I'm broke.

Finally, I see that the status quo has every bit the same sense of righteous outrage at the ill treatment of the poor as I do.

[edit: I forgot to mention some cool politicians and lawyers.]

But what does that have to do with blogging?

Everything. "Content," they say, is King.

For by getting out and meeting people instead of staying home and working on the computer, I see a different world. I see myself changing. I see that I'm making the transition from a bohemian outcast to the cool cat in the tux having a blast at the art show. I have different things to say because I am seeing different things.

I had a similar experience working for the US Army as a civilian in an educational post. I saw that the officers, men, and government service civilians were some of the most conscientious and duty oriented people I had ever met. The media portrays them all as drill sergeants and sociopaths. But that is just not true.

Now I am finding out a similar fable has been spun about the movers and shakers in the arts.

I decided to take the chip off my shoulder.

You can expect, now, my posts to be at least a little more entertaining.

In that spirit, just for grins, tongue firmly in cheek, I thought I'd post a picture of a cute cat. This is my kitty Kiki. Yesterday, while I was out taking pictures of my sculptures for my web gallery, she followed me everywhere.

Isn't she cute? I sure do love my Kiki.

And, oh! Yes! Speaking about blogging about blogging? I forgot to mention that I changed the header of this blog yet again. I have been "advised." My name is my "brand." OK, OK! I get it!

(I still smell pork. Guess I always will.)

What It's All About

2012-07-03T09:46:00.008-07:00

I finally figured out what this blog is about. It's about what I've been doing, and it's about what I've been pondering.

The two are closely related.

But I do a lot of stuff, and I ponder much. Lately, I've be working on my image gallery. I even took time off from carving to do that as I needed to have it set up to show friends, buyers, and sellers of my work. (I should note that most of my friends are in both categories with the added bonus of getting gifts.) So here's the latest piece I've put up.

I'm under a lot of internally generated pressure to get into a show here in Fresno, and I found that the way to really promote one's wares is to have a web page. A gallery owner actually told me that's essential. The funny thing is, I have not gotten much interested in doing "web promotion." By that I mean "web only." What I'm actually doing is going around and meeting people in the local scene, and using my site in much the same way I'd use a printed portfolio. It's not about "generating world wide interest." It's about showing Tom and Mary, who are already interested and want to see more. That's the carving gallery.

So part of "what's it all about" is what it's NOT about.

I shall leave that as an exercise for the reader.

This blog is like a little paper boat I put out to sea which may, one day, reach foreign shores or may, one day, perish. (I will give a star to anyone who knows who I ripped off for that line.) A mentor of mine advised me to keep a journal. He said that I will be glad I did when I'm sixty-five.

Right now, my carvings are generating some fantastic interest. Soon enough, I'll be in a show with other artists, and soon enough, I'll have my own shows. Soon enough I'll have more attention than I want.

In the mean time, I'm enjoying quiet, productive peace.

An Image Gallery

2012-06-30T16:20:00.011-07:00

The past couple of days, I've been working on a new page to show my carvings. It's another blogspot blog, actually, but you'd never know that by the look of it, for it's stripped down as far as I can take it. No comment forms, no titles, no dates, and only minimal text for the images.

This new "blog," and I use the term advisedly, for it's hardly what we've come to expect in a blog, is called, simply Richard G. Crockett: wood sculpture.

At this writing, however, I haven't put up any sculptures, just some test images to see how navigation, loading, and display works. [edit: This will change by the end of the day. I put this post up because I put up a link to the new blog in the sidebar, and the new blog links back to this one.]

The new site is a very pure image gallery. It is designed for clients, potential clients, retailers, gallery owners, and curators to get a feel for my wood sculptures. It's also a way for my friends to have a running record of my output.

And these days that is pretty considerable.

The gallery template I picked was chosen for its extreme minimalism. And I made it even more minimal. The template I used is a pruned version of Mr. Huy Dinh Quang's Simplex Gallery. Not only is he a brilliant coder, but he has quite the sense of aesthetics. (And btw, Nhamngahanh, should you happen to see the new gallery before I fix it, please do not be displeased that your name has been removed from the footer. I shall give you credit when I figure out how to make the footer smaller and more discreet.)

There is always this tendency to add and add more and more to everything we make, do, or say. It is a rarer skill to take away until there is nothing left to take away.

Perhaps that is why I like carving.

Anyhow, off now to work on the footer. One thing I can't take away is credit and a link to the designer. We artists have to stick together.

Oak Flamingo

2012-06-28T20:35:00.002-07:00

Just finished the rough out of the flamingo I started yesterday. Still needs hand sanding and varnish. I may do a touch of cutting here and there, but it's done, for the most part.

This one replaces the one I broke. Never did find the head. Chain saws can toss things far, far away.

I have a hankering to do some horses now…

Carving Away the Days

2012-06-27T21:40:00.001-07:00

I've been doing a lot of woodworking. First, some wooden swords in the Japanese tradition; second, shaving strips of redwood for a large model boat; third, but most important, carving again.

These are called "bokuto" in Japan, but in the U.S. people know them as "bokken."

I made these from ash wood. My neighbor had a fallen limb, and I cut it up for him in exchange for some wood. I get most of my wood that way. Ash is perfect for such applications. It's so tough you can smash concrete blocks to bits. I already sold these two pieces... No, that's wrong. I sold the smaller one and another, heavier sword not shown.

I decided not to upload the pix of the redwood. Without something to show where it is all going, it would be boring. Here, however, a pic of me and a flamingo I'm making for a friend.

Except, I blew the head off when I nipped it the wrong way with the chain saw. No worries. I have another already carved further along than the one you can see in the picture. That wood had cracks in just the wrong spots. That's the problem with salvage wood. I keep veering towards using laminated wood and building up large pieces rather than trying to work with single chunks. But for now, I still have a large pile of wood to carve.

And that's all the news that's fit to print.

Jane Jacobs

2012-06-15T00:13:00.001-07:00

I read Jane Jacobs Cities and the Wealth of Nations some years ago, and it amazed me. One key point I got is that Jacobs disputes the notion that centralized control of economies is ever going to do much good, and, in the long run, is certainly doomed.

This agrees with the evidence of history. The plunder economies of the Assyrians and Myceneans, and, late in the game, the Romans, show the long term results. Centralized control of economies means a redistributive economy; that is, you take from one sector and give to another sector. The basic problem is that one must draw funds from productive sectors, but the money tends to be redistributed to unproductive sectors. The unproductive sectors could just as easily be a class of idle rich or poor.

I have heard it argued that both classes then spend the money, thus generating markets, but the problem with that is in order to get those funds, and industrious sector was suppressed. So you have a net loss. Further, the suppression of industrious sectors inhibits the creation of new industries that create jobs, and this is bad for rich and poor alike.

But that was not even the central thesis of the book. It was just one of the things I took away, and from it, one can see that Democrats or Republicans, Fascists or Socialists are NOT going to be much interested, for they are all hanging onto essentially the same economic model, and the model itself never worked.

Jacob's main point is that cities are the engines of economies. As an historian, The fantastic eras of innovation, as in Classical Greece, Ancient China, and Renaissance Italy point to the power of city states as engines of industry and innovation.

Sadly, their internecine bickering always tended in two directions, both bad. First, it weakened them; second, they were thus susceptible to internal "commanding generals" or external conquerors.

Thus, most people will concede the need for some sort of strong central authority.

If only such authorities could keep their grubby little hands off the economies of cities!

It's no wonder Jacobs is largely ignored.

The Sea Ranch

2012-06-12T23:52:00.003-07:00

That's what they call it. Not "Sea Ranch," but The Sea Ranch. It's an upscale community of second homes north of Fort Ross on the California coast. My cousin Chuck has a cabin there. He calls it his "dacha." That's Russian for "superb rural house." See, "cabin" does not have that quality meaning you get in the Russian.

This was the first time I used an iPhone exclusively for the pictures, and that was a mistake. The low light capability sucks, but the screen is so small I did not notice how many duds I was taking. As a result, this picture, the only only I have of Chuck's whole dacha, is all shaky.

I flew out from the Fresno Air Terminal. I hate commercial air transport. You have to get there so damn early, you may as well have taken the train. And then there's the ridiculous security. I wish we did what the Israelis did starting in the seventies—just put a Mossad agent with a gun on every flight. Presto! No more hijacking! Getting ahead of myself, the departure lines at SF are insufferably long, and then my flight was delayed two hours. I actually would have gotten home sooner had I taken the train.

Flying military transport is more fun. The pilots are kinda wild, and there's usually these net seats you can lay on. Also, since they know you, you don't have all those dumb as posts security guys to deal with.

Anyhow…

Here's a picture of me in front of this lovely little non-denominational chapel they have there.

And here's an interior shot.

One thing I got from seeing pictures of me is that I need to lose weight. Ick. I'm in the "linebacker" category these days. So consider these some "before" shots!

Here's another of me down by the Gualala River. This is just down the hill from Chuck's dacha.

Chuck's place is really quite magical. We had a great time. Mainly we just talked and talked. We also had fun doing chores around the place. We saw very few people, but everyone is super friendly. One of the problems with Leftist propaganda is that they don't seem to get that far and away most of the upper middle class are quite socially conscious and civically responsible. In the case of The Sea Ranch, this is expressed in a hyper aware environmentalism as well as dignified public manners.

And speaking of such high awareness, here's a picture of cousin Chuck. He hates having his picture taken, but I was able to sneak in a few shots. Chuck has worked for Chevron for many, many years. He's in contracts right now, but he has spent a lot of time overseas in places like Angola and Kazakhstan. He's hyper smart, and he had really good advice about how to turn my wood carving into a viable business.

We were driving back at the time I took that picture. To Chuck's right, you would have seen this view.

After the weekend at The Sea Ranch, Chuck dropped me off at my brother Mike's place in San Francisco. Here's a picture of the view from the street in front of his house.

And this is brother Mike.

We were out walking his dog, Bosco, who is a scrappy little Boston Terrier and also my buddy. I didn't get a picture of Bosco. [Edit, 13 June. Actually, you can see Bosco just behind Mike.]

Mike's wife, Yoko, and his four year old daughter, Haruno, are in Tokyo right now, so Mike has his house to himself. He's using the time to make some boxes designed to fit in the back of his Subaru for camping. Mike's a designer genius guy. He works for Gap Inc. designing displays, mainly.

I was telling him about this idea I had for a retractable wing sail for a sail boat, and he suggested something that would reduce the cost and weight so dramatically, I just about fainted with the simplicity of it. He does that. He sees into things.

It is nice to have people to love.

Except for the damn plane and airport, it was a great trip.

Forgotten, But Not Gone

2012-01-01T23:42:00.001-08:00

It has been so long since I posted, I almost forgot I had a blog. I'm too flaky to run a blog, I think. It's too much responsibility. Having to get on a computer every day is a terrible burden for me. I'd rather play outside.

I have not been doing much music. I've been playing so infrequently, I lost the callouses on my guitar fingers. That's a pain. It takes a month for me to get them back, but I do have some recordings of ancient Greek to put up. This is in keeping with the anti-commercial nature of this blog. Who gives a skatos about ancient Greek?

Also, a friend of mine—well advanced in years—suggested that I start writing things down about my life every day. Before it is too late.

That got me thinking…

My Girl, aka "Where Did You Sleep Last Night"

2011-06-24T15:44:00.008-07:00

This is the first song I learned to sing and play on guitar at the same time, so it's fitting that it be the first song I post. The file size is a little hefty—5.3 megs, so I have no idea how it will load and play for you. Hopefully, it won't be too bad. I have put the link here so it can load while you read on.

(Here's a Direct Link for Flash disabled devices, like iPhones.)

A Little History

Kurt Cobain made this song famous with Nirvana's MTV Live [edit, 25 June, That should have been MTV Unplugged] version, and he credited the Meat Puppets,[edit 25 June, No, he didn't, my mistake. He credits Leadbelly] but it's a much, much older song than that. Dolly Parton said it was one of those songs that everybody knew and everybody played, so it was just a part of growing up. It's at least as old as the American Civil War, and there are quite a few variations. For example, one version has "Black Girl" instead of "My Girl." You will also see this song titled "In the Pines." It is definitely a train song, and it's a ghost song. In my version, I've podged (I think I made that word up) together bits and pieces of different stanzas, and, as a slight filip, added a couple of resolving lyrics at the end.

That sort of thing is very much in the folk tradition.

A Couple More Points

You will hear in the lyrics something called a "driving wheel." That's a big gear in a train engine. In older trains, it was exposed, and it was dangerous to be near. But the main thrust of this song is that there are two voices, a man and a woman, and they talk to each other. Sometimes, the man is sad, other times he is jealous and angry.

What has happened is that the woman is homeless, and she has taken to sleeping in the woods. It is possible she has been forced to do things a woman would not want to do in order to survive, for she has lost her man, and there was no public assistance program back in the day. In another version, there are references to a lost watch, and these refer to lost time. There are always eerie train references, and occasionally, snippets of these lyrics appear in chain gang songs. Like I said, I have podged together different versions, but there is continuity and resolution.

One final note.

I never did "learn the chords." I rarely do. I just come up with my own progressions based on melodies. In this version, I've tried to simulate the sound of trains, so it has this repetitive hammering. I think this the first recording where I used a little iPhone app called "Easy Beats" to tap out a percussion track. There are little random squeaks and thumps and creaks in the first mix, but they kinda disappeared in the final mix down. In addition to acoustic guitar, I also play the bass in this. Factually, I'm not much of a musician or a singer. For me, it's as Tchaikovsky said, (more or less) "The purpose of music is to express the feelings of the soul."

Anyhow, I am curious to see how this version appears on your end. I have some other music to put up. This is my first stab at posting music. Hopefully, you won't find it too awful.

Checking In

2011-04-08T16:34:00.001-07:00

Hey all,

I am alive and well. I just have been offline for a while. Periodically, I need to do that.

I've been recording music, doing schoolwork, carving wood, working on my truck, building a new bicycle, and learning to auto paint. These are all activities which are inimical to the World Wide Web, so it seems.

Soon, I'll be putting up some music. You will have the dubious pleasure of hearing my singing and my guitar playing.

Until then…

The Show Must Go On, and On, and...

2011-03-05T21:42:00.001-08:00

It seems that Saturday nights have become my prime time to post, and One Stop Poetry's Sunday Photo Challenge my own one stop of the week. School, you know? This is my one little break. Home again on a Saturday night, and fine, just fine with that.

This Week's Photo

And Here, This Is Not My Voice.

The actors have all grown up
Some of them have died
She was once my rival for the stage
But now she is my loving wife
She says, "No one ever really dies,
They just change their name."
She means that I should not be sad
But what worries me is this:
What if that is true?
Then there is no end
The game is never over
It just goes on forever
I'm tired of this same old show
I want to see a new one

And the Audio, In Which I Play Someone Else.

Simple Tools

2011-02-26T22:40:00.001-08:00

Once again, the Sunday Photo Challenge from One Stop Poetry.

This has become a highlight in my week, a break from Latin and Greek dictionaries and professors more concerned with the form of the footnote than the content of the mind.

The Photo…

A Poem,

A steaming mug of coffee, black, no sugar
The sound of the fan, oscillating
Blowing away the sounds of the street
With white noise

His fingers caress the keys

This is the best part
The beginning, unknowing
What might come, what might be
The mind empty, radiant, encompassing

He takes a sip

How do atoms feel when sunlight hits them?
Shall we journey to a beach near Troy?
Describe a kiss that tastes of blood?
An action scene, always difficult?

He adjusts the paper

With such a lack of limits
It is valuable to be bound
To simple tools, for without them
We might burn ourselves with our own imaginations

Clack, clack, clack

And an Audio Version!

Some Tanka

2011-02-22T01:30:00.003-08:00

This is a belated response to another challenge on One Stop Poetry.

"Belated," I say because I should have had this up yesterday, but poetry takes a certain frame of mind, and I am not always up to it, but I have been intrigued by the Tanka form for a while. At last, I have some.

First, I am cautious

Better to compose
In the mind before I place
The words on the tongue
For that which is said once
Cannot be ever be unsaid

Then, I know that I can't be TOO careful

Better to say it
Than endure sullen silence
I'd rather risk
Your disagreement with me
Than suffer dishonesty

Finally, I am just my generally insouciant self

I am too happy
To ever be a good poet
And I do not care
It's better to be silly
Than to be nothing at all

I have some more, but they are purer forms, love letters in the true Tanka tradition. They don't fit with these. I shall save them for another day.

Darth Vadar Plays a Black Violin

2011-02-19T21:21:00.001-08:00

Here is the picture prompt for One Stop Poetry's Sunday Photo Challenge.

And here's my poem.

I used to think
That being beautiful was
Enough

I once believed
That if I pleased the gods with my music
Men would follow

But then I found
It has nothing to do with any of that
It's about getting attention

You might think
I look ridiculous
The joke's on you

A Non Poem

2011-02-18T02:07:00.001-08:00

I have nothing to say
I have used up all my writing energy
I do not wish to write at all
I do not wish to think at all

I want to go skiing
I need to get laid
It is cold dark dead of night, 
So I can't work on my carving.

I would wake the neighborhood with my screaming power tools.
I would LIKE to wake the neighborhood with my screaming power tools!

I am craving physical action.
I wish I had a horse.
I would take her for a ride in the darkness
And trust that she would find the way home if I fell asleep.

I am done.

Valentine's Day: A Little About "Cupid"

2011-02-14T03:18:00.004-08:00

This is all right off the top of my head, but I thought you might like to know who that chubby, little, naked, baby boy with a bow and arrow is. A lot of us have wondered, "Where does he come from, and what's so special about him?"

Well, he comes from Book IV of Virgil's Aeneid. Venus, trying to trick Dido, Queen of Carthage, into falling in love with Aeneas, the hero of the story, has had her son, Cupid, take on the form of Aeneas' little son, Ascanius.

Now, Ascanius bears a striking resemblance to his dad, who from all accounts was a very handsome figure, and Cupid, in the guise of Ascanius, pulls on Dido's heart strings by arousing her maternal instincts and making her sympathetic to Aeneas.

That's where we get the most memorable image of Cupid in the literary tradition. The word, cupidus, in Latin usually gets translated as "desire," but it's a little more involved than that, for Latin speakers used it for lustful or covetous desire. Romantic love itself is far more often than not represented as a kind of dementia in the old texts. The ancients generally did not "Romanticize" love like moderns do. In the Aeneid, Cupid really is creepy, and, maybe, even a touch evil.

Your instincts were right. Cupid is weird.

Just to give you a little more background, not to go on and on, but to round this out, Cupid was the Roman version of the Greek god, Eros, who was also represented in the form of a beautiful boy, but he was the one with the wings and the bow and arrows. The two have gotten conflated. One really neat point about the Greek conception was that Eros also represented primordial creativity which could find actuality in both sexual union and the creation of children as well as artistic production.

My own theory about the popularity of the baby Cupid as the representation of Love (which I am sure is far from original) is that we started seeing more images of the baby Eros/Cupid in the medieval era because they were concerned that the young boy or youthful Eros was just a little too sexy, so there was some social pressure to avoid such depictions. Virgil was very popular in the medieval era too, so his portrayal was taken up with enthusiasm. Last, the historical Cupid has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with angels. That is a later invention; again, one suspects the effort to de-sexify him. We have also another conflation. The word "angel" is angelos in transliterated Greek, and ἄγγελος in Ancient Greek. It means, simply "messenger." That role was taken most often by Hermes, who was another flying shapeshifter who most often appeared in the guise of a beautiful youth.

Like I said, this is all off the top of my head, but I do happen to be translating Book IV of the Aeneid right now, so it has been in my mind, and I'm not just making this stuff up—though I would have gotten a host of "citation needed" flags were I to write a Wiki.

Sunday Photo Challenge

2011-02-12T22:29:00.001-08:00

First, a link: Sunday Photography Interview: Sean McCormick (Part 2) & Poetry Challenge

Next, a picture:

Last, a poem:

It was a late October day
My sister and I had been looking for rocks
Not just any rocks, but
Special rocks
The one she found was best, for
It looked like a bird.

I placed it there, on the sill
My sister's rock
It made her smile, and
I always loved her smile, as
Brothers always should
Of sisters.

Every little while now
From one age to the next
I go back there to our old house, and
find that rock again, to
Put it back just, so
I see her smile once more.

How to Survive as an Artist

2011-02-12T20:54:00.002-08:00

Every work of art is the child of its time; each period produces an art of its own, which cannot be repeated. Wassily Kandinsky

If there was one thing I would say to any artist who wishes to achieve material success, it would be something just like what Kandinsky said.

There are other, more important, forms of success. Of course. But if you were born into a poor house, and if you struggled to find food, ever, you will have a different take on such luxuriant notions of success. (How nice it must have been to bask in the comfort of an expensive education and a course of honors written before one was born.)

And if, on top of that struggle of the marginalized, you loved art enough to never be willing to compromise the sacred, you will have found a tough, as they say, "row to how."

Timing. It's All Timing

We live in age where the quantity of pictures has cheapened their value. There are two ways you can go. You can either make them very, very fast, or you can make copies of them and sell those. (I will leave out the third option, which is to become the darling of the art establishment and then leverage your fifteen minutes of fame for the rest of your life. But you can try that, if you want.)

So I never had much luck with pictures. Too much work for the money. Two many out there. Too common. But still—to my anachronistic soul—too sacred to violate by using cheap tricks to get attention the way you see in every modern art museum in the world.

Things changed when I put down my brushes and picked up my chain saw. There is something even in the word: "chainsaw." It sells. People SEE sculptures when they just pass by pictures. And regular, ordinary people BUY them.

A contemporary form for the present age.

Never surrender. You can only fail if you quit. Even if you die trying, you will have lived a life worth living.

Breaking the Rules

2011-02-07T13:24:00.002-08:00

I have, of late, discovered One Stop Poetry. I am new to it, so I do not know the frequency of the posts, but there are regular challenges for poets. Today, there was a short, entirely effective exposition on the ballad form.

Here is the breakdown, taken from the site:

Quick overview of Ballads: A Ballad is a quatrain with a 8,6,8,6 syllable pattern. The rhyme scheme is abcb – meaning the second and forth lines rhyme.

The example of a classic ballad given on the website was "House of the Rising Sun," using the version made famous by The Animals

Here is my irreverent example:

Once, upon another time
Sing songy baby talk
Was able to amuse me much
But now ticks like a clock

I really must reject this form
It has become cliché
And were it not for the iams
I'd have nothing to say

In my post title, I suggested that I was doing some rule breaking because I have not observed a strict syllable count, so to the foregoing "rules" one must add the concept of metrical weight and syllable duration. In other words, when a syllable is sounded long, it counts as two (or more) syllables.

It ends up sounding more natural, and, in fact, is what keeps the form from becoming, despite my flippant observations, too cliché. In the above example, there is a pause after "once," indicated by a comma; "another" is sounded like "ano…ther;" the "the" before the "iams" is lingered on, building tension for the punch line, which has another stretched syllable in no…thing. I should also say the the italicized "ticks" is meant to be said with a silly up pitch.

If you listen to the greats (Dylan, Guthrie, Lennon, et.al.) You almost never hear them using the rules strictly. There is almost always that stretching (and compressing) of syllables.

So to those rules, I say, "Sound it out. If it feels right—it is right."

Also, I bet the author of the post is quite aware of all this. So don't think me a know it all for pointing this out. Please. In fact, to the author, Thank you. Well explained.

Thinking Aloud: A Short, Scary Post

2011-02-05T22:49:00.003-08:00

Suddenly, it occurs to me that I am not interested in "driving traffic to my site."

I have nothing to sell. I am not fond of attention. I wonder, "What am I doing here?"

Just being honest.

In my next life, I think I shall be a ghost. I would enjoy that. It would be a nice relief from all this striving for profit and gain. No wonder people are always prophesying apocalypses. It is wishful thinking.

Pictures of Pictures

2011-01-31T00:01:00.002-08:00

Yesterday, I wrote this:

…writing about writing, blogging about blogging, making movies about movies, in general doing art about art is so limited and limiting. Like all narcissism and narcissists, it is a frightful bore. It is not reflective of a world view that looks outward, in wonder.

Then, I wrote this:

As I wrote those words, there flashed in my mind an old photograph of my mother holding me as an infant. She has her back the the camera, but she is looking over her shoulder, grinning, as I try to climb over her shoulder. I am staring at the viewer with big, baby eyes.

But what I was really doing was trying to get at the camera my father was holding. He was a great photographer. He always had a camera, and he was always taking pictures. It was a part of my life to be photographed all the time. Later, I would learn to just ignore the camera and talk through the camera to him. Looking at these old photos, I never remember the scene as the camera showed it, I remember my dad with a camera. I remember what the scene looked like from the other direction.

My father had a lot of cameras, possibly hundreds. Sometimes, he would let me handle them. They were fascinating devices. What child could resist?

He would give me these old, useless, broken cameras, and he had many of those too. One in particular I remember was a Kodak "Brownie." This does not actually date me. It had belonged to my grandfather when he was boy, and it was old then. They were a kind of recyclable disposable camera. They came loaded with film, and when it was full, you took it in, and they would develop the roll and give you back the camera with new film. In my time, and my father's time, no one handled that old model any more. My father explained that this camera had a "leak."

"A leak?"

"Yes. It has a crack. Light leaks in. It spoils the film."

Light. Leaking. Wow.

As I understand it, there were several evolutions in the design of the Brownie, and later ones had user loadable 120 film, but mine was the oldest kind. One could not open it. It took, as my father said, "special tools and a darkroom."

But happily, I went around "taking pictures" with it. It had the tiniest viewfinder. One had to hold it just so simply to see through it. But it would make a satisfying click, and it had a neat ratchet sound it made when you wound the film. I took very good care of that camera. I knew I was being tested. I had to prove I could take care of things before I would be trusted with better things.

I would "take a picture," and then go to the drugstore to have it "processed." I would give the developer instructions I had heard my dad say, like, "Push it two stops." He told me that made dark pictures lighter. I wanted bright photos.

Then, while it was being processed at the imaginary drugstore, I would take cut up squares of paper, and draw the photos I saw in my imagination. I used a pencil. The gray tones were more photo-like than my crayons. The world was in color; the pictures were in black and white. The world was bright and huge; it was heavy, solid, hot, or cold; when you turned a corner, there was always something there. The pictures were thin and tiny, feather-light and always just a little bit cool; when you flipped them over, they were always the same.

But sometimes, those weak, thin, facsimiles could be so very beautiful. They were not reflections of reality; they were their own reality.

It may strain your credibility to think that a very young child may have wondered what was real and what was not real and to ponder the overlap between them, but I did, and probably you did too.

Today, After re-writing the above, a little, I wrote this:

Writing is like that also. It is so impoverished and massless. It is amazing that we can even recognize reality in it at all.