Bright and early tomorrow morning I'll catch the worm, pack up my PT, Dolly, and head southeast towards the nation's capital. My sister and her husband live in Maryland and I'll be spending the weekend with them. A sojourn into D.C., peek into the Smithsonian and a furniture hunt through IKEA are on the agenda. My brother-in-law is an avid Playstation fan and, care of my Christmas generosity, is in possession of the legendary Crash Bandicoot Team Racing. I bought him a multitap, too, and I'm sure that my sister can be cajoled into some cartoon-character-grand-prix tomfoolery, so we're sure to squeak at least an hour out of their entertainment center. A doggie, Jake, and a kitty, Steve; endless possibilities. Hell, we may even catch up on life - I'm more of the marathon conversationalist, but the last five times I've seen either one of them it's either been for a wedding or a funeral. I'll brave the Beltway and traverse the Pennsylvanian wild.
I'll enjoy it.
I return home Monday, at which point the small company for which I work will be spending two days in Columbus for the Ohio Airports Conference. We'll be flying in and out - morning and evening - in our Cessna 206 both days, so I reckon to be washed out both nights.
All of that in consideration, I leave the uBlog to sway in the breeze for a bit. I'm just about done with my two-month-long Herculean effort, "Freedom and Culture," but it is nevertheless incomplete; I'd like to leave you all with a part of my life I've kept out of the site but for functionality.
I graduated in May of 2000 from Syracuse University with a Bachelor's of Fine Art in Painting. In a tiny office run by family, I happily wear many hats - but my occupation today is arguably graphic design. Quite literally, I learned design and Photoshop on the job; I purchased my own copy and saved the boss half-a-large stumbling ahead and meeting whatever visual capacities arose. One of these days I'll post my growing portfolio of handiwork for business.
But for the next week, I present a gallery of my undergraduate work. I was largely influenced by Michael Parkes and my uncle-by-marriage, John Jude Palencar. Both men are not only about thirty years my senior and what I'd consider true painters and draftsmen; they thrive on it and loved it well enough to innervate their abundant talent into careers.
Senior year, I realized that I was not a painter. I worked with painters; they slept, woke, ate, drank, read, spoke, dreamt painting. I was able to paint and I was able to draw, but neither was my calling.
I graduated and floundered for a bit, fell into some dark months and in the inevitable complete reappraisal of my life, decided that my visions into a fantastic unreality weren't worth the time I now found fleeting in the "real life" we come to understand as being dominated by an occupation. Only so many hobbies can be pursued in each clutch of seven days. I've become efficient as I can be; I haven't drawn or painted anything substantial in nearly two years. This past February I ended a one-year stint in a fantastic musical project, yet another artistry that I adore but recognized as still slightly perimetric to wholeness. A season, it was, from spring to winter.
I prefer the clarity of graduated life, most certainly, as do I now appreciate a turn, Dorothy-like, to my home: the pen.
To think I never caught on to the fact that nearly every one of my pictorial ideas began with a written description and not a sketch.
Without further ado, an abridged gallery of works from 2000.
A funny inception: Adrian, the model, was so engrossed in an anti-globalization/anti-biotech book that she kept shifting around. By the second five-hour session, I'd had it and went fricking gonzo. No, she doesn't look like that. And, with the title Mary Magdalene she was lightheartedly puzzled by the casting as a whore.
Ask my pal Gabe about Chroma. After you compliment him on his own artistry. That's an order.
If I didn't find drawing more exhausting than writing, I'd use a sketchpad like a weblog and ink line upon line as I do so in typed words here. A testament to the beauty of serendipity, I began with a half-thought and ended with a rich vignette.
I took four semesters of photography - loved every minute but the ones consumed by Susan Sontag reading assignments and technical lectures about proper flash use. I'm Neanderthal when it comes to photography, a stubborn disciple of what-you-see-is-what-you-get. This was from an extremely successful shoot with four acquaintances; my favorite. To the right is Old School Andy, a good fellow who'll keep seven-inch hardcore punk alive forever. Peggy's got a good heart but I heard from a reliable source that she's currently doing softcore. Not the music. No kidding - nor a link. As soon as she finds her way out, she'll find her way. Say a prayer.
From a model. I intially hung him on my bedroom wall to grin at me, evilly, until I blamed misfortunes on him and shoved him under the bed. Under a few other things. Face down.
Gorgeous girls from Syracuse University. I took twenty-one credits of music - diatonic and chromatic harmony, music history, diatonic and atonal sight singing - during my junior and senior years. The girls, both named Jen and friends of the inseparable sort, were in several of my classes. One sang; one played horn. The left Jen was a flirt but the "unattainable" sort. The right Jen nearly came across as flirtatious during an unnaturally lengthy phone conversation about sight singing assignments. Both were involved to some degree, I'm sure. It's just as well - imagination trumps harsh reality.
Cue harsh reality. Still accepting "ladyfriend" applications. They're hourglass-shaped, so fairly easy to fill out.
I dunno. Another instance of if-sketches-were-weblog-entries. Very Disney.
This one I enjoyed, the product of one five-hour session with a model. It's a satisfying example of the arc of growth in painting I sustained in college, moving from an interminably meticulous operation to a looser, more confident wrist.
That's me, looking characteristically dour when the chips are down. It's my senior show, as evidenced by the painting behind my shoulder. It was April, a Saturday, and a last gasp of winter had blown through - snow was falling as my father snapped the shot. The friends I had in painting were out of town and the other half were at a colleague's show the same night; I didn't make many friends in the art department and certainly didn't lift a finger advertising beyond a passel of signs. For a long time, nobody showed.
One fellow, to whom I'm forever grateful, arrived early and stayed the whole time. Paul Jacobs. Wonderful chap. Then, fashionably late, my housemates and buddies showed up and we partied down on chips and cheese.
I'm sporting my then-famous "Atlanto-Mediterranean Billy Idol" look. I wore earrings and a chain wallet at the time and yes, I was emaciated. I no longer blow away with a strong gust. And I smile a lot more.
Have a good week, everyone. Until Next.