Last one for today, I promise.

Today I spent some time rummaging the stash of older drawings and paintings. I hung a framed thing on the wall, and took down a bunch of not-framed things. I chose some papers to stick in the recycling bin. I chose some items to frame, and I found new enthusiasm for some things I'd stick in the portfolio instead of the trash. All of which means I'm learning some things.

One of things I'm learning is not to judge too fast, or too harshly. I have learned that no matter how much I hate something when I'm working on it, if I stick it in a file until later, I can get some objectivity about things. I can throw it out later, too, and this practice significantly reduces the likelihood of discarding something that wasn't so bad after all.

The significant consequence of this habit is that after some period of time passes, I am confronted with some evidence of productivity, and of progress, and of the accumulation of a body of work. See, if I throw out every single piece I work on that doesn't satisfy me in some way, I would have exactly zero works left.

Today, after doing the spring cleaning, I actually felt somewhat pleased about what I've done in the past year. I can see the progress. I can see some directions to go. I have enough things in the file that I actually need to see about a new file. This is very encouraging. It flips the bird in the face of my inner critic, which is good.

One of life's quirks: This paper is advertised as "extra white" and in fact generally seems pretty white when I'm working with it. Then, when I go to photograph it, I plunk it down on a larger sheet of a different kind of paper, and it's immediately obvious just how much more white the other paper is! Since I'm working in part with chalk pastels, maybe I should just be brave and try a darker/black paper anyway.

I think the lighting I have is contributing to the problem. The sun brings the yellow flavor, as do most of the lights in the house, which are one flavor of compact fluorescent or another. I probably need to just suck it up and buy a halogen lamp or two.

Hey, while I'm buying things for art, I probably ought also to get a matboard cutter, and a shrink wrap machine. And an agent. And possibly also one of those Andy Warhol wigs, to help me get in the groove when I'm working.

Yes. That's the ticket.

Another in this series. I'm starting to think it's time to explore the meaning behind these things. The problem with raw creative impulses is that they often don't make sense. There's nothing wrong with that, but the part of the brain that contributes development and exploration and .... furtherance... needs to know more about what's going on in order to proceed. Otherwise, you just wear a path in the carpet from pacing.

So.... the idea I'm working with here relates to some kind of form emerging from behind a layer of a different material. The emerging forms are rounded, soft (in form and color), and multiple. The covering material is essentially featureless, except where it begins to unravel, jagged and torn. It seems to be pushed back, peeled, cracked.

Cover material: Blank, clean, smooth, damaged, boring?, like skin or sheeting
Emerging forms: Colorful, unanimous, plural (safety/strength/power in numbers?), egg-like, undamaged, perhaps damaging.

See how there are judgment calls mixed in with the descriptive terms? This is what gets at the essence of what's going on in this series. If I were going to actually drill it down to the level of "concept"--meaning, articulate specific values and points of interest about this, I'd probably talk about an examination of the power of collective efforts, about groups overpowering suppression, about interest winning out over homogeneity.

Fortunately, no one has asked me to do that. I find that artists are capable of the loftiest heights of articulation, but also the murkiest depths. Often, concept turns to bullshit in the blink of an eye. It's probably good practice, but I worry that over-analyzing will undermine that raw creative urge. How about a metaphor: Flowers grow best in soil with a fair amount of shit in it, but if the concentration of shit gets too high, your flower will die. Deep, huh? :)

The Blue Phase

No, it's not Klein blue. It's actually my supposedly-lavender-scented ink, which turns out to be a good ink, despite its sad lack of appealing aroma. It's smooth and thins well, and doesn't clump. These are postcard sized, and I'm having immense difficulty getting good pictures today--I swear these are both on the same kind of paper, which is more or less white. I kind of like the style, even if the execution is not everything I'd want. These are both painting on extremely toothy paper, which tends to be at odds with my style of making marks--I use a light touch, but I don't like the characteristic skipping you get that way. I've only got about 4 more sheets of it left, and then it won't trouble me any longer.

This reminds me, I've long thought that artists should get together regularly to trade supplies. We've all been in the position of coming into possession of some material that isn't suitable. The wrong paper, too much paint, so on. Most of these are relatively expensive and relatively perishable, and if nothing else, it's a damn shame if something goes to waste.

As Promised

This is another step in the right direction.

I guess one advantage I have in the perpetual struggle to realize visions is this: While my technical skills can improve, the level of detail in my head is not really changing. It's NOT a moving target. Yes, the ideas might become more sophisticated, more resolved, more detailed. But they don't actually become less technically feasible. That remains fairly constant. I assume I'll have finally achieved sufficient ability to execute my visions, when I'm having a heart attack or something at the drawing board. Death does love a good joke.

In related news, I spent some time at the library yesterday perusing the art books. I came across a design book that showed samples of industrial and commercial design, mass production objects, and fashion trends from the 1890s-1990s. I learned a few things from this.

1. Recreating a period Look is probably not as easy as it seems, given that most of the fashion pictures in the book struck me as being specifically recreations. It's possible that's what those Looks would've looked like if photographed with modern equipment, but somehow I doubt it.
2. The sailor suit for children came from a portrait of a British prince.
3. Cubism might've made bad fine art, but it made kick-ass mass production decor.
4. It's kind of a shame dressing like a grown up is somewhat out of style.
5. Also, hats.
   
6. The late 40s/early 50s American is my favorite lady fashion.
7. The stove, refrigerator, and sink should not be a single kitchen appliance/fixture.

(What? I don't recall claiming I learned anything DEEP from it.)

Closer to the Mark

The closest I've been to executing a design as planned. It's a bit flat, and a bit fuzzier than I wanted, but it's essentially what I was after. I can see I'm going to have to explore this theme some more.

I realize I haven't been great about certain details, but for reference, this and the previous 3 images are on 30#, cold pressed, extra smooth, extra white watercolor paper. Somewhere in the 4x6" range. It's basically cardstock that takes watercolor like a champ, no wrinkling, rumpling, or sogging.

Again With The Silver Ink

Silver ink + black watercolor. Bits of this are working. Most of it, not. At least I stopped before making it really, really bad.

Take Two

Similar to the previous painting, but lacking in black detailing, silver ink, and general mojo. It's not quite there, either. It's further from being scrap, but also, it's further from being a successful composition. Maybe this one will reveal its secrets in the fullness of time. Or, I'll spill some coffee on it, and be done with it.

In hindsight, I can see that the yellow/orange band was a mistake, and that I should've just had a red band on a blue field.

Partial Credit

With some kinds of painting, if you just keep adding paint, eventually you'll get what you want. Watercolor is *not* one of those forms of painting. Some days, you can add paint all day long, and into the next day, and still not get what you want.

Sometimes, in fact, the blank sheet of paper was more aesthetically pleasing than whatever happens after you pick it up. This painting positively reeks of potential, and I know I'm right on the cusp of either turning into a successful composition, or turning into a scrap for the recycling bin. The pisser is, I don't know what comes next. Ahh, well.

The bits that look flat/grey on the blue sections are actually silver ink. It looks much less flat in person.

Copyright: Infringed!

You Thought We Wouldn't Notice offers a good venue for folks who have been ripped off. Maybe you can't afford to sue them, but you can seriously increase the chance of them being embarrassed publicly. Especially if you plaster the internet with links to the write up when you're done.

Self Portrait

It's actually on white paper and graphite, but through the power of low lighting, it looks like it's conte on yellow paper. Yay, low lighting! (It didn't look better with the flash, and I figured that if I waited until tomorrow to make a photo, I'd probably just forget entirely.)

New Inks!

Oh, the joys of new ink. From left to right, copper ink, smoke gray ink in a fetishy little tin, and lavender scented dark blue/purple ink. The scented ink isn't quite as scenty as I would've liked, but I do admire their restraint.
And for the tin fetishists, a close up of the gray ink tin. I probably would've bought it, even if I hadn't spent the last year looking for grey ink. Fortunately, I had.

Various/Sundry

In no particular order.

The Gabriel García Marquez excerpt, from One Hundred Years of Solitude, that I mentioned last week:

Don't talk to me about politics," the colonel would tell him. "Our business is selling little fishes." The rumor that he did not want to hear anything about the situation in the country because he was growing rich in his workshop make Ursula laugh when it reached her ears. With her terrible practical sense she could not understand the colonel's business as he exchanged little fishes for gold coins and then converted the coins into little fishes, and so on, with the result that he had to work all the harder with the more he sold in order to satisfy an exasperating vicious circle. Actually, what interested him was not the business but the work. He needed so much concentration to link scales, fit minute rubies into the eyes, laminate gills, and put on fins that there was not the smallest empty moment left for him to fill with his disillusionment of the war.

That's more or less exactly the relationship that I'd like to have with things I make. It would keep me fully occupied, so that life's annoyances could be held at bay. And, ideally, people would pay me directly with art supplies. All the better if it's pure gold!

Next: Go and see about Brandon Bird's art. He's *awesome*. In my opinion, his obsession with Christopher Walken only makes it better. Also, the Last Supper was, in fact, in desperate need of a good RoboCop. There's a good chance you'll recognize at least one or two of them, the one with David Hasselhoff and the cuttlefish has been around. The Law & Order coloring book and greeting cards, and Nobody Wants To Play Sega with Harrison Ford are some of my favorites. Also, Blood Sport would've been a much better film had it in fact starred Abraham Lincoln. There is a line drawing of the mythical, mystical creature known as the Wooly Norris, as well. Any time spent roaming around Bird's galleries is time well spent!

Next: Mr. Man took me over to the super-mega-god-shops-here art supply today for birthday goodies, and I got all manner of frivolous, silly stuff. Scented purple writing ink. (It was that or the invisible ink, but to be honest, most of my handwritten letters go to my 86 year old grandmother, who probably already has enough trouble reading my letters.) Copper flake brush ink. A nice smoke grey fountain ink in a fetishy little tin. I also picked up some starter materials for sculpting, and I'm itching to get back into some 3D work. So, hopefully you will see some of that here soon.

Finally, check out Little Robot, a Glasgow based paper/low relief artist whose work I first encountered on Etsy. I really dig her use of twilight color schemes, and the way anyone can have a beard, even a lady. Especially a lady. I think some of those gentlemen are ladies, anyway.

If you think of art as a bunch of cats, this is where René Lalique's Persian got over with Mark Ryden's moggy. Very stylish and nostalgic, but not in the maudlin way.



Of course, sensible people probably don't think of art as a bunch of cats. But I wasn't going to point fingers.

Excellent Combination

Just read an article in Wired online about Christopher Conte, who makes good use of his skills as an artificial limb designer, artist, and sci fi fan. I dig it. It's not quite was elaborate or Victorian futuresque as I'd like, but hey, that's me. It's awesome nonetheless. Here is his actual web site.

That's Pretty Much It

Self portrait sketches, after the style of the Mac OS X Photobooth application....

Where Are You Going With That?

Sometimes I wonder what the various shapes and forms that plague me mean. And they do signify, one way or another. Would it take the fun out, to know what the story is? Would it add to the fun, to know where the connections lie? Who knows. Someday maybe I'll sit and think about it, and perhaps tell myself a satisfying story about that. Maybe I won't. There are definitely some strong recurrent images, themes, and relationships, not only in what I draw, but also with things I make in 3D, and in the techniques I prefer for making the magic happen.

Someone remind me later to put the quote from One Hundred Years of Solitude that basically sums up how I'd like my relationship with art to be. Unfortunately, I don't have time to dig it out right now, because I've got a class to get to. But it seems more or less relevant to the thoughts of the day.

Second Verse...

I've been thinking lately about the tension I feel between what's necessary for any kind of remuneration in the art world, and personal satisfaction as an artist. If you continue reading past that last sentence, please bear in mind that I know my situation is not the same as some other artists, and I'm acutely aware that my stuff isn't exactly going to win the Grand Prix. However, given that by any objective comparison, there is ample evidence to support the idea that my work is no worse, and substantially better than, much of what's for sale in the world. I could, in theory, be getting paid for this. At least enough to keep me in expensive papers and slick mechanical pencils.

What's needed to get paid for art is, in a nutshell, marketing. A person has to be willing and able to show their work to other people, and not only expect them to like it, but also expect them to want to pay for it. These things have historically been difficult for me, for a variety of reasons. I'm starting to get on top of it being OK to show my stuff to people, and I'm starting to be OK with the idea that some of them will like and possibly want to buy some of it. What's still troubling me is that final step about expectation, and the further bit about setting a price and collecting the money.

I feel dirty when I think about making art to sell. I don't know how to explain it better than that, but let's just say that whatever I make generally gets made because it seemed right, in the part of my brain that governs my sense of how the world should look. I can see that the perfect combination is to make stuff that appeases that part of my brain, and then package it in a way that sells. For instance, a scribble on a cocktail napkin looks like a scribble on a cocktail napkin... but if you have it professionally mounted and framed, it will then look like art... even if you don't LIKE it, you'll still recognize that it is an object that someone is trying to pass off as art.

So... when someone looks at something I've done, and says, "Oh, you could totally sell that" I am immediately seized with the urge to destroy it. Why? Who knows. I'm not sure that matters. But this puts me in a bit of a bind. Sure, agents and gallery representation is GREAT for people like me, because I don't have to get my precious psyche dirty. But in order to get an agent or gallery representation, I have to show it to someone, and I have to expect them to like it, and as soon as I start thinking about that, my brain seizes.

Probably my best bet is to stockpile a portfolio, and then get it all professionally mounted, and photographed, and then sucker someone else into showing it around. Preferably someone with style, and charm, and a general lack of scruple. I think that'd be worth a percentage.

Long Time, No Post

It's not that I haven't been drawing or painting. I have. (Mostly drawing.) My brain seems to be chewing on some different directions to go in, and it takes a while to get from cocktail napkin quality drawings to something I'm even willing to waste digital camera memory on.

... and here it is: Something I'm willing to waste digital camera memory on.

Nothing here particularly new, but it sometimes takes me a while to see what comes next. I tend to revisit and revisit and revisit until I like it, or until I get so annoyed that I shred the sketches and pretend none of it ever happened.

Rockin' It Mosaic Style

Just finished this on 12/23/07. Still in the post-partum depression phase, but el Guapo won't let me burn it, so I framed it instead. 32cmX29cm. I think. It's blurry and reflecty because I took the picture through the framing glass.


And, a close-up. In case you were interested.

Editorial Note

I've removed the link to Shelfari because it doesn't have most of the books I'm reading (they're in German, and apparently sometimes obscure, like the fat tome on Austrian renters' rights) but please don't worry: I am still reading. I'm just not giving away any clues.

Copyright Discussion

I'm pretty sure I don't personally know anyone as obsessed with this issue as I am, which is ironic because I actually don't get paid for anything I do creatively. When people take stuff I've posted to the internet and do whatever with it that they're going to do, it actually does NOT represent a concrete financial loss to me. Notice how that last sentence doesn't start with the word "If..."? I actually rather suspect that people like me may be a big part of the problem, but that's a conversation for another day.

However, I can appreciate why this is of vital interest to people who do get paid for what they do. There is a catch-22 at work here: In this time and place, the internet is the primary means of direct marketing. It allows the widest possible audience to see your work, in both a targeted and shotgun sense, and when creative folks pursue employment, there is a clear expectation that they have a website gallery, portfolio, or catalog. Putting images and/or text on the internet, and then actively preventing people finding it accidentally is actually surprisingly difficult.

Copyright law appears to be of only marginal interest to people who take for free, the work that other people have done, because it's difficult to enforce any of the body of existing laws in regard to things found on the internet. The moral of the story, as indeed the photographer in this Wired article has learned, is not to leave your stuff laying around on the internet. She has pulled all her public images into a private setting, and would be foolish to believe that's sufficient protection.

She admits some people react like she's a "crazy cat lady" when she stands up for her right to protect her works, an unpopular stance in certain online circles. The notion that anybody should be able to freely help themselves to her work boggles her mind, she says.

"If I want socialism in America, I want medical insurance first," Hartwell said. "I don't want people just taking my stuff and saying, 'We're going to redistribute this to the masses.'"

Apparently the "certain online circles" referred to above includes Wired readers; the reader comments on this article are predictably scathing. Somehow, it seems the photographer is unbelievably arrogant to believe that her own work is supposed to go on paying her bills, and unbelievably stupid to believe that other people should respect her authorial rights, and possibly even the law. The conception of the internet is the outlaw wild west of civilization is not without merit. One hopes that someday law and order will be brought by the new sheriff, but as with other frontier lands, the folks who live there now like it that way. I know from personal experience that creative folks generally can't not create, but when they can't afford to pay rent and eat, the quality and quantity of the work invariably goes down.

I believe that there is a movement toward handmade, individually crafted objects of all types, things you can see on the internet, perhaps, but only have in person. Customized computer and iPod cases, knitted things, and so on. This is probably a response to the extreme mass-manufactured-ness of modern life. However, if all those designs for the nice handmade things are being beach-combed off the internet, I predict there will come a point where the creators and designers discover that they don't feel like using their internet connection to upload someone else's livelihood.

Baby Squid

It's been a while since I posted, for reasons which aren't worth ennummerating. However,
I have made a very cute baby squid, so that pretty much makes up for the stall, right? I was thinking to making a nativity scene involving this guy, but I am not sure I can bear to stare at a nativity scene long enough to get the job done.

In seeking references for this squid, I discovered that a Google image search for "squid" gets me a lot of aquatic glory, while a search for "baby squid" gets me a lot of fried food. No, you can't eat my baby squid. It's much too cute.

Fresh Squoze

Another gap in the space-time continuum...

window.jpg
Originally uploaded by oferchrissake

Or, a busted window space in a ruined castle. It's definitely one or the other.

More Screwing Around With Form

113007.jpg
Originally uploaded by oferchrissake

One begins to wonder if my brain isn't in this space because I've been playing a lot of Super Paper Mario lately.

I Believe.

Lately I find myself inclined to preface statements with phrases like these:

- I believe...
- In my opinion...
- If you ask me...
- From my perspective...

There are many variations on this qualifier, I'm sure you get the idea. Sometimes I feel like I need to construct an airtight signature disclaimer, which I can append to every single expressed thought that comes out of my head, so that no matter what, everyone will know that what I've said has its roots in my perspective, not in the externally agreed reality. This is always the case, of course, even with perceived facts (such as the externally agreed reality), but that's a whole other philosophical discussion.

Why do I feel like I need to remind people that when I say something, I'm expressing my point of view? Am I afraid that people will take me too seriously, and accept something I've said as opinion, as a universal fact? (This has happened, and it disturbs me.) Am I afraid that without the qualifier, my opinions are too strong? (Too strong for whom?) Am I concerned that sometimes people cannot distinguish persistent facts from opinions? (this is certainly true, but I'm not sure how much I care.)

More likely, this is my reaction to seeing people express their own opinions as universal facts. I am the type of person who tries to live a corrective life. I try to do right, the things I think other people are doing wrong. This is probably an extension of having a naturally critical/analytical temperament, and in a real sense, it punishes me for the sins of the world. If you do badly this time, I need to do better next time. This trait also leads me toward a profound tendency to begin interactions with some variant on the theme You Are Doing That Wrong. It's endlessly useful, if we're talking about proofreading and critical analysis, troubleshooting, crisis management.

It's less useful if you're talking about something that someone holds very near and dear.

Opinions are a kind of fact, of course. It's the fact of what's true for a given individual at a given time. As such, they can't be disproven or invalidated... they can only be discarded and replaced. But, for the duration of their glory, they are true. Totally and completely true facts. That is probably why people feel so strongly about pushing them into other people's faces. It's Truth! It's Reality! I Believe This, And It Is Therefore True, And Must Now Be True For You Also! Crusading IS irritating, isn't it? No matter how beautiful we look, with the Light of Righteousness beaming out of our heads...

study in blue & yellow

study in blue & yellow
Originally uploaded by oferchrissake

Futurity

cherub.jpg
Originally uploaded by oferchrissake

I heard a lot at college about archival quality, durability of art works, and the expected lifespan of a work, and as a result of that, whenever I see a work of art, I think about how long it has lasted, and how long it will likely last into the future. I think about the artist's choice of materials, and about how the material choice influences the final result of the work.

The stone cherub pictured here, for instance, was probably carved in the 16th or 17th century, and may have been sitting in that spot for most of the intervening time (although I doubt that, since the castle courtyard around it has plainly been renovated at least twice in that interval.) I think... ok, four or five centuries isn't too shabby. The person who carved it probably didn't expect it to last that long. This all assumes it's not a cast replica of an original piece. I didn't actually poke at it long enough to even make an educated guess about that.

How long should art last? Does it lose relevance, with time? Does it gain worth over time? There is a certain mindset that holds endurance to be a desirable trait, but clearly a cherub doesn't mean the same thing now, as it might have at the time when this figure was carved or cast. Should a thing last until someone decides to smash it? Should it last until the artist can come up with something better? What if art were always ephemeral, like so much else in the universe? In a sense, it is, but I'm not trying to have that kind of philosophical inquiry right now.

Andy Goldsworthy seems to want his to last exactly as long as it takes to make good photos, unless of course he's having it mortared in place by professional stone masons. Harvey Fite, on the other hand, actually sculpted an abandoned stone quarry, turning it into a permanent, unmovable work of art entitled "Opus 40", which is now the name of the NPO that maintains it. Theoretically, performance art is the ultimate in ephemeral art, as it cannot exists beyond the memory of the last living person who saw it. Buster Keaton died a long time ago, but his art continues to exist, because we have film of it. When that's gone, Buster Keaton's art is gone.

Where is it all going? I don't know. I mostly just wanted to test the ability to post to this blog from my flickr account. The obvious age and sturdiness of this carved piece stands out as a stark contrast to some pieces I saw yesterday, from Kris Kuksi, which struck me as brilliant in many ways, with the Achilles heel of being made from materials that are notorious for lack of durability.

Jesca Hoop

Floating my musical boat right now: Jesca Hoop's Seeds of Wonder.

Edit: For mysterious Internet Reasons, that link directly to the song isn't working. However, you can still go to her main page, click on Music, and then click on Seeds of Wonder from there.

Furnishing the Self — Upholstering the Soul

David Byrne has had some chairs made, to his unique specifications. The show is/was in DC and NYC, for those who can and would go and see what this man's remarkable brain produced, in the department of places to place your backside.

His short commentary Why Chairs? is pretty interesting, and also details where the actual chairs are/were on display.

Welcome to the Logic-Go-Round

(An excerpt from a "customer discussion" on Amazon.com about why not to buy stuff on eBay or wherever that is being resold new by someone who bought it for the express purpose of reselling, ie, "flippers". Actually, it's a thoughtful and impassioned essay on the topic.)

For those who think the time of ebay buyers is more valuable than that of persons waiting in line, they should reconsider their definition of value. Because poorer people don't live as long as wealthier people, the life expectancy of those waiting in line behind flippers is shorter than the life expectancy of those served by flippers; therefore, time is actually more precious for those waiting in line behind the flippers. When time is evaluated in this way, flippers actually do more damage in this market than good. In other words, they are a drain on value.

The Future

Here, not sorted outside of my own stream of consciousness, are some things I believe to belong to the realm of The Future. Obviously, I can't make real good predictions about *when* this stuff will happen, and I'm sure most of it will come around when I'm loooooong past the ability to say "I told you so!" That doesn't mean it won't happen. I probably got on this train of thought because of this BBC article about a new scanner that gets killer images inside the human body without nearly as much radiation.

Flying cars.
Teleportation.
Intergalactic travel.
The cure for death.
Assisted suicide.
Media inputs direct to the human brain.
Living in space.
Submersion of most current coastal areas, and all of Florida.
The extinction of Sol.
The eventual extinction of the human race.
My own death.
Androids.
Fully integrated cybernetic prosthesis.
Synthetic organs.
Ex utero gestation.
Metabolic calibration.
Abandonment of paper and books printed on paper.
Network systems that connect the thoughts of one person directly to the thoughts of another person.
Eye-cameras.
Mandatory identification implants.
The cooling of the Earth's core.
Synthetic blood replacement.
Nano-bot medical procedures.
Nano-bot environmental clean up.
A la carte offspring trait selection.
A new model for government.
A true global economy.
At least two global pandemics.
Prenatal cancer.
Out of brain memory transfer & storage, and perhaps dream recording & playback.
Persuasive evidence that there is sentient life off this planet.
Discovery of the previously unknown disadvantages of genetic modification.
Medical cures for: obesity, addiction, diabetes, HIV, cancer, Alzheimer's
NO medical cure for: the common cold (this is a cheat, I don't think the common cold is *a* disease any more than AIDs is *a* disease).
Cloned dinosaurs.
An enormous asteroid striking the Earth and killing most of what's here now.
All the current major religions lapse into obscurity.
A means of genetically provoking humans to grow hair in vibrant colors, usually associated with birds and insects (blue, orange, true yellow and red, green...).

What's out there?

My obsession with what's on the other side of a sturdy wall or door continues unabated. This sturdy wall or door belongs to Burg Lockenhaus, on the Austrian side of the border with Hungary. Knights Templar nested there, as did Elizabeth Bathory. Those odd birds laid all kind of crazy-eggs in their nest.

Sitting outside the castle, I had a moment of perspective vortex, where I could see the rolling hills and valleys of the region as the ocean, which I was in, and the sky was the surface of the water, which I was looking up into and through. It was a strangely secure feeling.

Book Review Policy

I've been confronted with a lot of evidence that reading is on the wane, as a pleasure activity, as an educational activity, as an fixed element of modern enlightened life. This is a recurring nightmare over at Grad Student Madness, where the posts are generally of higher tone and better documented than my own. (I believe that may come as a direct result of reading, by the way. Rufus reads WAY more than I do, and I read somewhere in the too-much range.) After reading several articles about how The Young People Just Don't Like To Read (most recently, this one), and having experienced a shocking amount of groaning when adults enrolled in college were told read as many as one written page...

I started to wonder about book reviews. It is unwise for me to read a book, and then just tell people what's in it? Sure, it could pique someone's interest, but more likely (given the statistics) they'll just breathe a sigh of relief, realizing that it's one less tedious pile of irritating words they might avoid wading through. (Both the book, and the review.) Here's why:

When I worked at the bookstore, it was a regular occurrence to encounter folks who came rushing in, breathless, moments before the store closed, demanding the Cliff's Notes or... ah. That other thing, that isn't Cliff's Notes. Well, it doesn't matter now, because there are probably a dozen or so version of that idea, of clarifying and examining a text. The idea, I think, was to help folks who were having trouble getting on top of what they'd read. The Illiad is deeply mired in reference, fer cryin' out loud. To Kill A Mockingbird is complex shit, yo. The Sun Also Rises is... well. Nevermind what adjective I'd put on that one. Point is, sometimes when you read a thing, maybe you didn't quit apprehend the full significance. Enter the Cliff's Notes, or the Complete Idiot's Guide, or whatever. Maybe you're going to have to expound on Catcher In The Rye for your AP exam, and you want to rock it, and maybe your English class sucks.

But that's not how these guides are used. Instead, they're used to help the folks who haven't read the original text fake it satisfactorily in class, in the paper, in the exam. And now, the folks who discover that the library or bookstore doesn't have the study guide, who learned that some other jerk checked out the video store's only copy of the classic movie adapted from the book, are frantically rummaging the internet for synopsis and analysis. They're thoroughly boned, they're risking their A- average by getting called out on their complete and total failure to know anything at all about the title at hand.

Now we come around to the reason that I'm hesitant to write book reviews. I don't want any part of that. I admit, it's unlikely that I'm reading something that someone was supposed to have read but did not. I admit, it's unlikely that, in the random case that I have read and reviewed something that someone was supposed to have read, and did not. Hell, it's exceptionally unlikely that I have read and reviewed something that someone didn't read, and they somehow end up in my almost-totally-unread blog and read my review of it, and think they've learned something about the thing they didn't read. That's a lottery win long shot, right there. But I feel pretty certain that more non-readers who are searching the internet the night before their paper is due will read my book reviews, than other readers.

As a confirmed bibliophile, it's hard for me NOT to talk about things I'm reading. But it's often seemed to me that the people I'd like to talk with (other adults who have read the thing) are either non-existent or unavailable to me, or I'm too neurotic to connect with them. The other bibliophiles I do know well enough to talk intelligently with... don't read the same books I do, for the most part. Unless I force a book on one of them, or they on me.

Am I contributing to the problem, by not sharing my enthusiasm? Am I just being a bitter old wingnut, by believing that it's better to enjoy it by myself, than to have my experience corrupted and perverted? (In fact, it's unlikely that I would ever know if my book reviews were used in this way. The folks who skim the internet for clues in life are not going to be the ones giving authorial credit where it's due...)

I did join a few reading-group websites (like Shelfari, which displays my current reads at the bottom of this page, as well as GoodReads, and LibraryThing), to see about finding people to talk to about my books. I've been consistently disappointed with the discussions going on. The book I finished most recently has one, two-word review, which somehow manages to incorporate consonance, a pun, and two clichés. Argh! Another one has a few more words, but those words are "A nice sequel to the previous book." That's the entirety of the review. It's depressing, to be blunt. That's the best the bookworms can come up with?

So. Here's my book review policy. If I'm reading something, and someone asks me about it--anyone at all, in real life, one of my imaginary internet friends, the bookstore clerk, anyone--I'll review it. Otherwise, I'm probably not going to bother, unless it strikes a profound chord in me, and I just can't not write about it. Sometimes the spirit really is moved.

More Scratchfile

Scratchfile is my word for "the stuff I do when I'm not trying to get something particular accomplished." I don't know if there is a proper, commonly known and used word for this? It means that I'm painting, or drawing, or writing, but not with a predetermined destination in mind. Here are more, it turns out Blogger only allows 5 images in a post.

In other creativity news, I've been writing every day this month on a novel. Well... it's the kernel of a novel. When I meet the goal of 50,000 words, I estimate I'll have about 2/3 of the plot structure for a good novel, 1/2 of the necessary number of characters (I'm really good with main characters, not great with supporting characters), and about 1/5 of the total number of words that would be necessary to eventually massage, edit, and cajole a thing into an actual novel. The plot isn't clear even to me, the characters are still trying to figure themselves out, and overall, I'll be doing the literary world a favor if I kill it at the end of the month. But I committed myself to this task for the Month of November, because of National Novel Writing Month, and because of my tendency to heap scorn on the bad writing that gets published as "literature."

I do not foresee actually having A Novel on my hands by 30th November, as in the thing you see on the cover of actual novels in bookstores: Some Kind of Pretentious or Obscurely Referential Title: A Novel by Me... kind of thing. But I am learning a lot about the novel writing process. If I don't delete it all on December 1st, but instead keep scratching at it in a persistent manner for another 6 months to 2 years, it could conceivably turn into a rough draft of a coherent novel.

I have always wondered why I can write, at length, about whatever comes into my head, but the idea of deliberately writing a novel intimidated me. Short stories aren't a real problem, but for some reason I've always felt that novels would be better, somehow. More complete? More... encompassing? I have always wondered what famous authors mean when they say that they discover what's going on as they write--I'd always imagined it to be a premeditated thing, mostly a matter of copying down a story that was in the head already. Definitely, my appreciation of authors who can work out enormous, long-range plots and worlds has grown immensely. The respect is quadrupled if it turns out that they have worked out a self-consistent imaginary universe in their subconscious and are, in fact, only writing down bits of it at a time, without serious planning.

Surely some writing has that premeditated, start from the end and work your way back to the beginning flavor about it, and I think I expected it to be that way for me because that's how visual art works for me. I see some materials, and realize that if I do this, and this, and that, by the time it's finished, if I've done it all well, I'll have .... the thing that was in my head. With this month's practice of sitting and writing every single morning for at least a little while, I'm beginning to see how the threads of ideas can come and go. I can see how the story changes as it flows. I can see how characters come and go, seemingly of their own volition, and it's just a matter of trying to keep up with their motivations and maneuvers. Also, I can see how authors often end up as depressed cranks, living alone, grumbling at the world to shut the hell up so they can concentrate, already. It might be a chicken and egg issue, but the path has become progressively plainer to me.

And, I can see that if I sat down and wrote every single day for the rest of my life, I *might* come up with a story worth publishing. It has been kind of horrifying to see how much of what I've written is a synthesis or correction-to-my-view of things others have written, and how much what I'm writing reveals about my own inclinations and prejudices. This is not to say that any of what's being revealed is particularly unexpected or news-worthy, because generally I'm pretty wide open about things. But it's so, so clear what my issues, ticks, and obsessions are. So, so transparent. This is probably why it's so popular for authors to work under pseudonyms. Your friends might be happy that you're a published author, but they might not really want to know what your fantasies actually are.

Scratchfile

Here are some marks I made recently that made me happy. They're not compositions, they're not even definite objects. They're really, literally, just marks I made that felt satisfying. What point is there in making some other kind?

Green Evening Stories

This morning I wandered into an archive of several chapters of a graphic novel. The illustrations are all ink and watercolor, which may go some distance toward explaining why I had to look at every single page, before I could look away. No, that's not true. The reason I couldn't look away is that the illustrations are simultaneously familiar and otherworldly. It was like visiting a dream I'd had before, only it wasn't my dream. Very moody, atmospheric. All in, it only took me about 10 minutes to click through all of the pages the author had posted, but I think if there had been 10 times as much, I would still be clicking the next button now, eating up the images.

The author says the series is on permanent temporary hiatus, because it just takes too damn long to produce each image. I can believe that, but it's also a bit sad. It definitely has an epic quality about it, the unmistakable sense of having just spotted the tip of the iceberg.

Green Evening Stories

Green Evening Stories

This morning I blundered into an archived graphic novel. I'd be hard pressed to say what it was about, in the traditional plot summary sense, but I can tell you that it was wonderfully illustrated by the author, in ink and watercolor. The author has apparently discontinued this series, because it's too time-consuming to produce. This is probably the crux of why writers and illustration teams work together to make graphic novels... anyway, I thought it was fantastic, because the scenes were highly evocative, familiar in an otherworldly way. Like visiting a dream you've had before. It took me maybe 10 minutes to skim through them (there is not much text, and I was in it for the illustrations anyway), but I was sort of startled to note that, had there been many, many more of them, I'd probably have read them all in one sitting anyway...

Two Books I Finished Last Night

Last night, I read the last page of Gefährliche Geliebt, the German translation of Haruki Murakami's 7th novel, in English titled South of the Border, West of the Sun, and closed the book with satisfaction. I like it so much that I have read it before, and I don't doubt I'll read it again. However, I don't see any reason to summarize it here. If you're looking for a compelling read, go and get this book. It's sad, at times almost unbearably so, but it will almost surely make you feel better about your own life.

The other book I finished last night is Daniel Gilbert's Stumbling on Happiness. It's kind of the non-fiction version of the Murakami's thesis: a point by point rebuttal of the idea that happiness is attainable. Gilbert has assembled an astonishingly well-referenced theory about why it's so hard for people to plan themselves into a future they are satisfied with. He talks about the odd behaviors people consistently have, that always seem like a good idea at the time, but ultimately lead to dissatisfaction. Some of these are very interesting, such as the inability people apparently have, to correctly gauge their own reactions to events, and some intriguing examples of the long term effects of the notoriously inaccurate human memory.

This isn't a self-help book; it's not about How To Be Happy. This is simply an analysis of why it sometimes seems so freaking hard to be happy, no matter how much time you spend on it. The conclusion I have come to is that this undermining behavior is probably for the best. Dissatisfaction keeps us going, it gives us something to do after the thing we're doing now. And, besides that, actually being happy seems to be more a matter of actually noticing when that's going on, than it is about planning or execution of plans.

I do recommend this book if you're the kind of person who has wondered what the hell everyone's problem is, and why it's SO hard to just be content. This isn't necessarily the whole story, but it certainly is an interesting and fairly well-written part of it. My only complaint is that there were more than a few moments where I read a sentence or two, and thought, "My god, you ARE a smarmy bastard, aren't you?" I have nothing against smarmy bastards, of course, but when I'm reading a book, I'd rather be engaged with the book than the author, if you see what I mean.