One of the guys at work is, at first glance, maybe a little scary. What front teeth he has are mere splinters, though he is a happy sort and smiles all the time. When you're feeling down, this man will offer you his faith-based, simple, yet very humble and sincere advice. Usually, he's spot-on. A serious never-judge-a-book-by-its-cover lesson all of us could benefit from. But, his appearance, if you didn't know him or speak to him, is a little frightening.
I am sitting at a round cafe-size table in the company office. We are waiting to clock in. A lot of us are in chairs for a moment, recovering from a morning when most of us wake up at 4:00 a.m. in the dark, pile into cars, pick up other co-workers and hit the highway for an hour-long drive. Punch in is at 6 a.m. Nobody is truly awake.
One of the women I work with is sitting across from me. She is pretty laid-back, so I am surprised when our kind and gentle, snaggly toothed co-worker walks into the office, and she visibly bristles - every nerve vibrating. Her entire body stiffens and braces itself against the back of the chair she's in. She eyes him cautiously. He punches in. He leaves the office with a "good morning, ladies!" I respond with "hey! Have a good day!" She watches him walk through the office door to go outside for his customary morning cigarette with our other smokers. When she is sure he is gone, she relaxes a little.
I ask her what the Hell is going on. You look freaked out, I say. Is everything okay? You all right this morning? Shit, girl, you look like you've seen a ghost.
She says everything is good. She has a hard time when he's around, even though she knows he's a really good guy. But she's okay now, he's gone.
Seriously? Really? I ask her. I kind of chuckle a little. He freaks you out? HIM? I am surprised. We all know him to be a sweetie.
No, she says. It ain't that. I'm afraid of clowns. Terrified to death of them. No joke!
CLOWNS? You're afraid of clowns? No shit, I say. I think a moment. I don't get it, I tell her.
We was talking one day, and he told me he was a Carnie for a lot of years.
Yeah, I heard that, I say.
Yup. So every time I see him, I think of clowns. I see him in clown make-up, working the rides. Putting them little kids on the ponies or some shit. So he scares the crap outta me. Every day. I am absolutely scared to death of him. I know it don't make sense. But every day, I see him and he's in clown make up.
I start to laugh. Not at her! I touch her hand and apologize. I don't want to seem insensitive, but it is...right now...the funniest damned thing in the world.
A picture, a scene, is playing out in my wild imagination...and I am laughing so hard tears are coming out of my eyes. I can't stop!
Right now, in my head, some mother has hired a clown for her daughter's birthday party - and this guy shows up. The girls are screaming, clutching their mother's legs, scared shitless and wanting to go home. NOW. The happy snaggly-toothed clown leans down to give one of them a sucker, or ask them a silly question...the child is shaking....I am laughing so hard. A whole neighborhood of children ruined forever! Expecting Ronald McDonald or Bozo, or a mime squeaking out animals from inflated sausage-like balloons - all those images SHATTERED FOREVER because Janie's mom hired the WORLD'S SCARIEST CLOWN...
She starts laughing, too. I am laughing because this man is so sweet, but so damned scary - clown make-up would just make him something out of a horror flick. Seriously, every bad fun-house worth the admission would put this man in make-up and have him pop out to scare the hell out of everyone. He'd be famous!
All of this is running through my head...and I can't stop laughing. I am totally seeing what SHE sees, and it's funny as hell.
If he was evil, I guess it wouldn't be so funny.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Fear of Clowns
One of the guys at work is, at first glance, maybe a little scary. What front teeth he has are mere splinters, though he is a happy sort and smiles all the time. When you're feeling down, this man will offer you his faith-based, simple, yet very humble and sincere advice. Usually, he's spot-on. A serious never-judge-a-book-by-its-cover lesson all of us could benefit from. But, his appearance, if you didn't know him or speak to him, is a little frightening.
I am sitting at a round cafe-size table in the company office. We are waiting to clock in. A lot of us are in chairs for a moment, recovering from a morning when most of us wake up at 4:00 a.m. in the dark, pile into cars, pick up other co-workers and hit the highway for an hour-long drive. Punch in is at 6 a.m. Nobody is truly awake.
One of the women I work with is sitting across from me. She is pretty laid-back, so I am surprised when our kind and gentle, snaggly toothed co-worker walks into the office, and she visibly bristles - every nerve vibrating. Her entire body stiffens and braces itself against the back of the chair she's in. She eyes him cautiously. He punches in. He leaves the office with a "good morning, ladies!" I respond with "hey! Have a good day!" She watches him walk through the office door to go outside for his customary morning cigarette with our other smokers. When she is sure he is gone, she relaxes a little.
I ask her what the Hell is going on. You look freaked out, I say. Is everything okay? You all right this morning? Shit, girl, you look like you've seen a ghost.
She says everything is good. She has a hard time when he's around, even though she knows he's a really good guy. But she's okay now, he's gone.
Seriously? Really? I ask her. I kind of chuckle a little. He freaks you out? HIM? I am surprised. We all know him to be a sweetie.
No, she says. It ain't that. I'm afraid of clowns. Terrified to death of them. No joke!
CLOWNS? You're afraid of clowns? No shit, I say. I think a moment. I don't get it, I tell her.
We was talking one day, and he told me he was a Carnie for a lot of years.
Yeah, I heard that, I say.
Yup. So every time I see him, I think of clowns. I see him in clown make-up, working the rides. Putting them little kids on the ponies or some shit. So he scares the crap outta me. Every day. I am absolutely scared to death of him. I know it don't make sense. But every day, I see him and he's in clown make up.
I start to laugh. Not at her! I touch her hand and apologize. I don't want to seem insensitive, but it is...right now...the funniest damned thing in the world.
A picture, a scene, is playing out in my wild imagination...and I am laughing so hard tears are coming out of my eyes. I can't stop!
Right now, in my head, some mother has hired a clown for her daughter's birthday party - and this guy shows up. The girls are screaming, clutching their mother's legs, scared shitless and wanting to go home. NOW. The happy snaggly-toothed clown leans down to give one of them a sucker, or ask them a silly question...the child is shaking....I am laughing so hard. A whole neighborhood of children ruined forever! Expecting Ronald McDonald or Bozo, or a mime squeaking out animals from inflated sausage-like balloons - all those images SHATTERED FOREVER because Janie's mom hired the WORLD'S SCARIEST CLOWN...
She starts laughing, too. I am laughing because this man is so sweet, but so damned scary - clown make-up would just make him something out of a horror flick. Seriously, every bad fun-house worth the admission would put this man in make-up and have him pop out to scare the hell out of everyone. He'd be famous!
All of this is running through my head...and I can't stop laughing. I am totally seeing what SHE sees, and it's funny as hell.
If he was evil, I guess it wouldn't be so funny.
I am sitting at a round cafe-size table in the company office. We are waiting to clock in. A lot of us are in chairs for a moment, recovering from a morning when most of us wake up at 4:00 a.m. in the dark, pile into cars, pick up other co-workers and hit the highway for an hour-long drive. Punch in is at 6 a.m. Nobody is truly awake.
One of the women I work with is sitting across from me. She is pretty laid-back, so I am surprised when our kind and gentle, snaggly toothed co-worker walks into the office, and she visibly bristles - every nerve vibrating. Her entire body stiffens and braces itself against the back of the chair she's in. She eyes him cautiously. He punches in. He leaves the office with a "good morning, ladies!" I respond with "hey! Have a good day!" She watches him walk through the office door to go outside for his customary morning cigarette with our other smokers. When she is sure he is gone, she relaxes a little.
I ask her what the Hell is going on. You look freaked out, I say. Is everything okay? You all right this morning? Shit, girl, you look like you've seen a ghost.
She says everything is good. She has a hard time when he's around, even though she knows he's a really good guy. But she's okay now, he's gone.
Seriously? Really? I ask her. I kind of chuckle a little. He freaks you out? HIM? I am surprised. We all know him to be a sweetie.
No, she says. It ain't that. I'm afraid of clowns. Terrified to death of them. No joke!
CLOWNS? You're afraid of clowns? No shit, I say. I think a moment. I don't get it, I tell her.
We was talking one day, and he told me he was a Carnie for a lot of years.
Yeah, I heard that, I say.
Yup. So every time I see him, I think of clowns. I see him in clown make-up, working the rides. Putting them little kids on the ponies or some shit. So he scares the crap outta me. Every day. I am absolutely scared to death of him. I know it don't make sense. But every day, I see him and he's in clown make up.
I start to laugh. Not at her! I touch her hand and apologize. I don't want to seem insensitive, but it is...right now...the funniest damned thing in the world.
A picture, a scene, is playing out in my wild imagination...and I am laughing so hard tears are coming out of my eyes. I can't stop!
Right now, in my head, some mother has hired a clown for her daughter's birthday party - and this guy shows up. The girls are screaming, clutching their mother's legs, scared shitless and wanting to go home. NOW. The happy snaggly-toothed clown leans down to give one of them a sucker, or ask them a silly question...the child is shaking....I am laughing so hard. A whole neighborhood of children ruined forever! Expecting Ronald McDonald or Bozo, or a mime squeaking out animals from inflated sausage-like balloons - all those images SHATTERED FOREVER because Janie's mom hired the WORLD'S SCARIEST CLOWN...
She starts laughing, too. I am laughing because this man is so sweet, but so damned scary - clown make-up would just make him something out of a horror flick. Seriously, every bad fun-house worth the admission would put this man in make-up and have him pop out to scare the hell out of everyone. He'd be famous!
All of this is running through my head...and I can't stop laughing. I am totally seeing what SHE sees, and it's funny as hell.
If he was evil, I guess it wouldn't be so funny.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Spring is HERE!
Oh, how I woke up late for painting Saturday morning! We meet at 8:00 a.m. at a local nature center's parking lot. I had too much fun the previous night and was so slow to wake up! So, I missed the usual Saturday morning greetings among the painters. We are a motley lot - all dressed in our painting clothes and outdoor gear. We stand amid the birders who are unloading their cameras and binoculars from their cars, and clog the parking area with tight knots of people drinking coffee, discussing art, figuring out where to go, laughing and hugging hello to friends we've missed.
It was good to see Bob Perrish, Keith, Mike, Hung, Paul, Steve, Brant, Nancy, Tammy and company when we got to our destination. There was an old collection of barns, silos and rusting equipment on a few hundred acres. The farmhouse was definitely lived-in, and looked a little run down. We parked in the lot next door that belonged to some industrial-park building. We proceeded to set up our easels, careful not to trespass. I went to the farmhouse door and knocked loudly. I was hoping to get permission to step onto the property for a better vantage point of the outbuildings.
A young man eventually came to the door, yelling at the two or three dogs indoors to get back. I felt bad! It was not even nine in the morning. I expected to have my ass kicked off the porch. Instead, he was thrilled to see us and allowed us to take photos and roam the property. So much for our artistic opinion, that although the buildings were perfect, there was probably a meth lab in the bath tub or a barn somewhere! It was that run-down and sad looking - miles from any other homes - surrounded by industrial parks.
The young man came outdoors an hour or so later, and gave the history of the farm. It is the Spencer family farm. One of the first settlers in the area. The first barn was built in the 1830's. The land they owned stretched for hundreds of acres. They had dairy cows in pasture, and a few hundred acres actively tilled and worked. Hay, corn, wheat, oats. It was amazing, and put the seeming tiredness in perspective. So many of the acres had been sold off for industrial use, with fringe acreage sold for upscale neighborhoods or "gentlemen's" or hobby farms (anything 5 acres or more). We were recording the last of the family's holdings - the original homestead and acreage left. What would come of the farmhouse when the young man became weary of the upkeep and burden? The local historical society had no money to purchase the farm - as they did the farm up the road. So, it was likely to be torn down. It would vanish under the weight of progress like so many others.
A great shame! Almost 200 years of dedicated ownership from another era - gone forever! We painted some great plein air this day. Hopefully, we did some honor to the history by artistically recording it. The last time we recorded such a lovely farm on canvas, the barn blew down two weeks later. One of the painters joked that we don't have a good track record for assisting in preservation, as our barn subjects keep getting paved for parking lots, or blown over in storms. It's true! We've lost a lot of great panoramas. Others joked that perhaps our landscapes would become a recording of industrial parks. They may be right! Even in this economy, history falls prey to progress.
We finish and go to our usual watering-eating stop and bring our paintings indoors for group critique and comments. Wow! Paul and Hung did a wonderful job! So did Steve. Bob and Mike are old pros, and it was great to see their individual renderings of the same subject, painted from the same point of view. Basically, we stood in a swampy depression we hoped was still frozen. It wasn't, as Bob noted. He soon had a muddy puddle at his feet. He said he was just a "wet one" and must've not noticed he created a puddle at his feet. We laughed, knowing that finding a place to relieve our bladders while out in the field can be a challenge. I handed him some Wet Wipes from my backpack. Talk of deer camp, toilet paper in the woods, questions as to how long it takes those biodegradable wipes to disappear from the shrubs...the places an artist's mind will go while struggling with perspectives, light and shadow! Oh my!
Wish I could show everyone the painting I did. It turned out really good. But, it sold - still wet - at the bar that day. Twenty bucks and a music CD of the guy's band was payment. One of the artists stated she gets at least $200 for her works (and she does). I don't care. It's gone from my studio floor. I am moving soon enough. It's one less in the "private collection of the artist" - meaning it will gather dust until I re-gesso it for another shot at greatness. I don't have to haul it around, or find a place to keep yet another panel. And it paid for my lunch.
I went out to my car, where a few of us were lingering saying goodbye. Where is your painting, Melanie? I sold it, I said. The guy paid MILLIONS for it! They laughed. But wait! There's more! I got this awesome music CD from his band, too. They all laugh harder. For the record, it was an awful CD. My daughter and I giggled while listening. Poorly mixed. Good effort, knowing what goes into being in a band. I felt sorry for it. It is now in my "private collection" of music CDs. Sigh!
It was good to see Bob Perrish, Keith, Mike, Hung, Paul, Steve, Brant, Nancy, Tammy and company when we got to our destination. There was an old collection of barns, silos and rusting equipment on a few hundred acres. The farmhouse was definitely lived-in, and looked a little run down. We parked in the lot next door that belonged to some industrial-park building. We proceeded to set up our easels, careful not to trespass. I went to the farmhouse door and knocked loudly. I was hoping to get permission to step onto the property for a better vantage point of the outbuildings.
A young man eventually came to the door, yelling at the two or three dogs indoors to get back. I felt bad! It was not even nine in the morning. I expected to have my ass kicked off the porch. Instead, he was thrilled to see us and allowed us to take photos and roam the property. So much for our artistic opinion, that although the buildings were perfect, there was probably a meth lab in the bath tub or a barn somewhere! It was that run-down and sad looking - miles from any other homes - surrounded by industrial parks.
The young man came outdoors an hour or so later, and gave the history of the farm. It is the Spencer family farm. One of the first settlers in the area. The first barn was built in the 1830's. The land they owned stretched for hundreds of acres. They had dairy cows in pasture, and a few hundred acres actively tilled and worked. Hay, corn, wheat, oats. It was amazing, and put the seeming tiredness in perspective. So many of the acres had been sold off for industrial use, with fringe acreage sold for upscale neighborhoods or "gentlemen's" or hobby farms (anything 5 acres or more). We were recording the last of the family's holdings - the original homestead and acreage left. What would come of the farmhouse when the young man became weary of the upkeep and burden? The local historical society had no money to purchase the farm - as they did the farm up the road. So, it was likely to be torn down. It would vanish under the weight of progress like so many others.
A great shame! Almost 200 years of dedicated ownership from another era - gone forever! We painted some great plein air this day. Hopefully, we did some honor to the history by artistically recording it. The last time we recorded such a lovely farm on canvas, the barn blew down two weeks later. One of the painters joked that we don't have a good track record for assisting in preservation, as our barn subjects keep getting paved for parking lots, or blown over in storms. It's true! We've lost a lot of great panoramas. Others joked that perhaps our landscapes would become a recording of industrial parks. They may be right! Even in this economy, history falls prey to progress.
We finish and go to our usual watering-eating stop and bring our paintings indoors for group critique and comments. Wow! Paul and Hung did a wonderful job! So did Steve. Bob and Mike are old pros, and it was great to see their individual renderings of the same subject, painted from the same point of view. Basically, we stood in a swampy depression we hoped was still frozen. It wasn't, as Bob noted. He soon had a muddy puddle at his feet. He said he was just a "wet one" and must've not noticed he created a puddle at his feet. We laughed, knowing that finding a place to relieve our bladders while out in the field can be a challenge. I handed him some Wet Wipes from my backpack. Talk of deer camp, toilet paper in the woods, questions as to how long it takes those biodegradable wipes to disappear from the shrubs...the places an artist's mind will go while struggling with perspectives, light and shadow! Oh my!
Wish I could show everyone the painting I did. It turned out really good. But, it sold - still wet - at the bar that day. Twenty bucks and a music CD of the guy's band was payment. One of the artists stated she gets at least $200 for her works (and she does). I don't care. It's gone from my studio floor. I am moving soon enough. It's one less in the "private collection of the artist" - meaning it will gather dust until I re-gesso it for another shot at greatness. I don't have to haul it around, or find a place to keep yet another panel. And it paid for my lunch.
I went out to my car, where a few of us were lingering saying goodbye. Where is your painting, Melanie? I sold it, I said. The guy paid MILLIONS for it! They laughed. But wait! There's more! I got this awesome music CD from his band, too. They all laugh harder. For the record, it was an awful CD. My daughter and I giggled while listening. Poorly mixed. Good effort, knowing what goes into being in a band. I felt sorry for it. It is now in my "private collection" of music CDs. Sigh!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Mona Lisa Mannequin - the latest...
I went to Heiner's after painting last Saturday. Keith tells me Heiner has re-assembled the mannequin we left at the end of his driveway near his bird feeder in the back yard. We can see it from his studio. I laugh. She is lying with her arms at her feet. Her torso caught in the branches. Her legs standing up a few feet from the torso. It's a mess.
Heiner says it's been fun to watch the horses and riders along the bridle trail - at the back of his property - freak out when the horses shy at the mannequin. But, he says, he's had enough of her. She needs to go. He is trying to conduct classes in his studio, and there's this naked woman in his back yard scaring horses. Keith and I pick her up. Her torso is buckled into the front seat of my car. It's funny. She looks like she hit the windshield. She is far uglier than I remember.
My friend Kim is delighted to hear the mannequin is available when I call her. Her buddy is anxious to have her. He wants to add her to his collection of crap at his self-made Tiki-Bar that overlooks the river. She's wondering why this plastic woman gets all the attention.
Kim can't pick her up until Monday. Okay, I say. I work at General Motors. The mannequin is buckled into my car's front seat. I joke with Kim that this plastic, naked woman in my car is going to cause a stir with Security. I will be called into GM's massive security checkpoint to explain the nude body in my car. My imagination is running wild, but when I return to the employee parking lot, everything is fine. Except that I offered to give a co-worker a ride home that evening.
He goes to get in the front seat, and there she is! He's startled, but I wrestle her into the back seat with where her legs and arms are stuffed. What the HELL are you doing with a nekkid woman in your car? It's a long story, I say. Surely, this will be the talk of the lunch-table tomorrow!
We pull up in front of his house, and his soon-to-be-wife is waiting for him. She peeps out the front window, and sees her beau is riding with TWO women, and one of them appears to be rather fleshy - scantily clad. I drop him off and leave. He texts me later and said he had a lot of explaining to do. So now I am the lesbian lover of the plastic girl in the back seat, just so he doesn't have to tell his soon-to-be-wife that I am actually a crazy artist with a broke-ass mannequin in her car. Sometimes fiction is better than truth.
Heiner says it's been fun to watch the horses and riders along the bridle trail - at the back of his property - freak out when the horses shy at the mannequin. But, he says, he's had enough of her. She needs to go. He is trying to conduct classes in his studio, and there's this naked woman in his back yard scaring horses. Keith and I pick her up. Her torso is buckled into the front seat of my car. It's funny. She looks like she hit the windshield. She is far uglier than I remember.
My friend Kim is delighted to hear the mannequin is available when I call her. Her buddy is anxious to have her. He wants to add her to his collection of crap at his self-made Tiki-Bar that overlooks the river. She's wondering why this plastic woman gets all the attention.
Kim can't pick her up until Monday. Okay, I say. I work at General Motors. The mannequin is buckled into my car's front seat. I joke with Kim that this plastic, naked woman in my car is going to cause a stir with Security. I will be called into GM's massive security checkpoint to explain the nude body in my car. My imagination is running wild, but when I return to the employee parking lot, everything is fine. Except that I offered to give a co-worker a ride home that evening.
He goes to get in the front seat, and there she is! He's startled, but I wrestle her into the back seat with where her legs and arms are stuffed. What the HELL are you doing with a nekkid woman in your car? It's a long story, I say. Surely, this will be the talk of the lunch-table tomorrow!
We pull up in front of his house, and his soon-to-be-wife is waiting for him. She peeps out the front window, and sees her beau is riding with TWO women, and one of them appears to be rather fleshy - scantily clad. I drop him off and leave. He texts me later and said he had a lot of explaining to do. So now I am the lesbian lover of the plastic girl in the back seat, just so he doesn't have to tell his soon-to-be-wife that I am actually a crazy artist with a broke-ass mannequin in her car. Sometimes fiction is better than truth.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Goose Poo Looks Like Burnt Umber
Mike is an awesome painter. He is also a great practical joker. Getting one-up on him isn't easy, either. As is typical for practical jokers, once you DO find a way to get even, it just opens the door for more.
His palette is holy. Sacred. He he he. Yeah.
I find bags of used paint rags on the front seat of my truck. A cememt Budda that I had sitting in the bed, on its way to my garden, became a hood ornament. A snowball in my hoodie. Like that.
We are painting near a boat launch. The rental row-boats are all stacked neatly, piles of life preservers at the ready, weathered oars. Some paddle boats. Lots of sailboats. A sunny Saturday. The light is playing with all these images.
Everyone is complaining about the goose shit. The piles are like gooshey Tootsie Rolls, scattered all over the grass and sidewalks like a sickening Easter Egg Hunt gone horribly awry. Finding a safe place to put an easel, without coating the bottoms of our shoes is almost impossible.
Like the troopers we are, we endure. It doesn't stop the whining, but we deal with it. Jokes are made. Recipes for goose dinners are discussed. How to dress a goose, if anyone would miss one, egg shaking, poisoning them with bad things, how nasty they are if you try to chase them, if snapping turtles really eat the goslings while they swim, what to do with the feathers, what part of the goose would have the softest down for our pillows.... Nothing remotely nostalgic about how, once upon a time, they were rare things to see. Mostly a lot of pondering about how if you were to kill, cook, and eat one in front of all their Canada Goose buddies, that perhaps it would serve as an example to the rest of them. Like that.
My painting is turning out good. Tammy does a loose portrait of me with the last of her paints. I look like Michael Jackson. We are singing "Thriller" and doing the dance moves from the video. Mike says something Mike-ish. My favorite is when he looks at my painting and tells me: Don't Fuck It Up. This is a real compliment, I get excited that I'm on to something decent - a few more brush strokes! I'll be done.
I look at his painting while he's away from his easel. It looks beautiful. Mike's stuff is consistently awesome. I look down at the goose shit, and notice it looks like Burnt Umber. I notice the paint on Mike's palette is very organized. The colors have that toothpaste-tube look to it. Perfectly squeezed lines on a perfect palette, under a perfect painting. Looks like he's a little short on Burnt Umber.
It took Mike ten minutes to find out. It was such a perfect color match.
He he he.
His palette is holy. Sacred. He he he. Yeah.
I find bags of used paint rags on the front seat of my truck. A cememt Budda that I had sitting in the bed, on its way to my garden, became a hood ornament. A snowball in my hoodie. Like that.
We are painting near a boat launch. The rental row-boats are all stacked neatly, piles of life preservers at the ready, weathered oars. Some paddle boats. Lots of sailboats. A sunny Saturday. The light is playing with all these images.
Everyone is complaining about the goose shit. The piles are like gooshey Tootsie Rolls, scattered all over the grass and sidewalks like a sickening Easter Egg Hunt gone horribly awry. Finding a safe place to put an easel, without coating the bottoms of our shoes is almost impossible.
Like the troopers we are, we endure. It doesn't stop the whining, but we deal with it. Jokes are made. Recipes for goose dinners are discussed. How to dress a goose, if anyone would miss one, egg shaking, poisoning them with bad things, how nasty they are if you try to chase them, if snapping turtles really eat the goslings while they swim, what to do with the feathers, what part of the goose would have the softest down for our pillows.... Nothing remotely nostalgic about how, once upon a time, they were rare things to see. Mostly a lot of pondering about how if you were to kill, cook, and eat one in front of all their Canada Goose buddies, that perhaps it would serve as an example to the rest of them. Like that.
My painting is turning out good. Tammy does a loose portrait of me with the last of her paints. I look like Michael Jackson. We are singing "Thriller" and doing the dance moves from the video. Mike says something Mike-ish. My favorite is when he looks at my painting and tells me: Don't Fuck It Up. This is a real compliment, I get excited that I'm on to something decent - a few more brush strokes! I'll be done.
I look at his painting while he's away from his easel. It looks beautiful. Mike's stuff is consistently awesome. I look down at the goose shit, and notice it looks like Burnt Umber. I notice the paint on Mike's palette is very organized. The colors have that toothpaste-tube look to it. Perfectly squeezed lines on a perfect palette, under a perfect painting. Looks like he's a little short on Burnt Umber.
It took Mike ten minutes to find out. It was such a perfect color match.
He he he.
Twelve Degrees and Two Feet of Snow...
Last winter, we met on a terrible snowy day. It was ten degrees that morning (we meet at eight in a nature center parking lot). Even the sun felt cold. The light was beautiful! About six of us were geared up and ready to go painting. The Polar Brush Club. Only the bravest nut jobs paint on the coldest mornings.
So, us collective nut jobs set up in a corner of the park we frequent. Slogging through the two feet of snow that had fallen. Stomp a clear spot, pack it down real good in a circle around yourself. Good enough to set up your easel and stand without your toes in the deep snow. Don't drop your brushes or tubes of paint! You'll have to dig to find them!
You either have to be committed to painting, or just plain be committed to an asylum to accomplish an oil painting in this weather. Those of us who haven't been commmitted, are at least committed to this challenge.
Mike is far off. Keith, Tammy, Jeannie, myself and I think Patrick are close to one another. I am smearing paint on my board. The paint is moving like butter fresh out of the fridge on a piece of Wonder Bread.
Yes, we are dressed for the weather. Hand warmers, boot warmers, lots of thin layers followed by bulky ones. Coveralls. Snow pants. Two pairs of gloves. Scarves, those neck warmers, hats of all kinds.
The world is completely still at 12 degreees. Even the birds are absent. I can hear every breath, squeak of boots, dabbing of brush against palette. I settle in to the routine. Large shapes first. Shadows. Point of interest. Background first...
I have to pee.
Nearby is the park bathroom. Is it open? And, more importantly, will I have to put my delicate parts on a toilet seat so cold I'll pee ice chips? Will I have to call for assistance to get my frozen ass off the seat? Why did I drink that McDonald's coffee? Why didn't I go before I left the house? Shit! Piss! Dammit... I try to hold it. My bladder, thanks to the cold, is probably the size of a walnut at this point. I put down my brush and decide to chance the bathroom.
I slog past Patrick, Keith and Tam. The bathroom door is open. IT IS HEATED! A whole 70 degrees - like an oasis! I am so delighted, I am singing as I strip off layers to pull my drawers down. The acoustics are AWESOME! THIS is why it is so important to pay for that park sticker every year! Hooray!
My outdoor clothes are in a heap in the corner of the bathroom (which was thankfully clean). I consider taking off my boots to warm my toes. I find a clean stall and sit down to relax and enjoy my luxury. And good luck. I stop singing.
You know, we can HEAR you, right? The voice is Tammy's, from outside. Keith and Pat are laughing. I don't care, I yell. You know we can HEAR you peeing, too? She says, softly. Everyone is laughing.
I flush.
I wash my hands with WARM water and dry them with the hot-air dryer. I pull my boots off and push the hot-air dryer, pushing the air into the toes of my boots. It takes me ten minutes to put on and adjust my gloves, scarf, boots and hat. I check myself in the mirror.
I am staying in here! I announce to everyone outside. I'm bringing my easel and paints into the bathroom, and I'm gonna do a still life of a toilet. I'm coming out to get my easel, I say.
Pat says, from outside, don't be such a painting pussy. Get out here!
No, I say. You are all CRAZY, you know that?
Tammy drolly responds: You can't be a plein air painter and do a still life of the inside of a public toilet in the park. YOU are crazy. We are fine.
Yeah. What WAS I thinking? I open the restroom door, and assume my place.
So, us collective nut jobs set up in a corner of the park we frequent. Slogging through the two feet of snow that had fallen. Stomp a clear spot, pack it down real good in a circle around yourself. Good enough to set up your easel and stand without your toes in the deep snow. Don't drop your brushes or tubes of paint! You'll have to dig to find them!
You either have to be committed to painting, or just plain be committed to an asylum to accomplish an oil painting in this weather. Those of us who haven't been commmitted, are at least committed to this challenge.
Mike is far off. Keith, Tammy, Jeannie, myself and I think Patrick are close to one another. I am smearing paint on my board. The paint is moving like butter fresh out of the fridge on a piece of Wonder Bread.
Yes, we are dressed for the weather. Hand warmers, boot warmers, lots of thin layers followed by bulky ones. Coveralls. Snow pants. Two pairs of gloves. Scarves, those neck warmers, hats of all kinds.
The world is completely still at 12 degreees. Even the birds are absent. I can hear every breath, squeak of boots, dabbing of brush against palette. I settle in to the routine. Large shapes first. Shadows. Point of interest. Background first...
I have to pee.
Nearby is the park bathroom. Is it open? And, more importantly, will I have to put my delicate parts on a toilet seat so cold I'll pee ice chips? Will I have to call for assistance to get my frozen ass off the seat? Why did I drink that McDonald's coffee? Why didn't I go before I left the house? Shit! Piss! Dammit... I try to hold it. My bladder, thanks to the cold, is probably the size of a walnut at this point. I put down my brush and decide to chance the bathroom.
I slog past Patrick, Keith and Tam. The bathroom door is open. IT IS HEATED! A whole 70 degrees - like an oasis! I am so delighted, I am singing as I strip off layers to pull my drawers down. The acoustics are AWESOME! THIS is why it is so important to pay for that park sticker every year! Hooray!
My outdoor clothes are in a heap in the corner of the bathroom (which was thankfully clean). I consider taking off my boots to warm my toes. I find a clean stall and sit down to relax and enjoy my luxury. And good luck. I stop singing.
You know, we can HEAR you, right? The voice is Tammy's, from outside. Keith and Pat are laughing. I don't care, I yell. You know we can HEAR you peeing, too? She says, softly. Everyone is laughing.
I flush.
I wash my hands with WARM water and dry them with the hot-air dryer. I pull my boots off and push the hot-air dryer, pushing the air into the toes of my boots. It takes me ten minutes to put on and adjust my gloves, scarf, boots and hat. I check myself in the mirror.
I am staying in here! I announce to everyone outside. I'm bringing my easel and paints into the bathroom, and I'm gonna do a still life of a toilet. I'm coming out to get my easel, I say.
Pat says, from outside, don't be such a painting pussy. Get out here!
No, I say. You are all CRAZY, you know that?
Tammy drolly responds: You can't be a plein air painter and do a still life of the inside of a public toilet in the park. YOU are crazy. We are fine.
Yeah. What WAS I thinking? I open the restroom door, and assume my place.
Follow up to Mona Lisa - Will she become the Tiki Tart?
My pal, Kim, texts me. Hey, she knows someone who has a real eclectic, outlandish collection of stuff. It surrounds his sellf-dubbed Tiki-Bar that overlooks the river. Do you think Heiner would part with Mona Lisa? Mona could have a new life as the Tiki Tart.
Dunno, I text back. He might have disposed of the body by now. I am visualizing the legs sticking out of the trash can, with their shapely toes in the air. Delicate little fingers at the end of slender palms and long arms, reaching out from under the Hefty Cinch Sack at the top of the garbage can. Who knows where Mona is?
And so, we go about finding Mona, so to say (the studio tour was called Finding Mona). It seems, Kim says, after a few phonecalls, that Heiner has fallen for the girl. He won't be parting with Mona for the time being.
Kim texts back later that day. Why, she asks, are two men interested in a plastic woman with a smushed nose and missing eyeball, when she is still single?
Now, there's a good question. I am still amusing myself with all the possible answers and haven't texted her back with anything. Poor Mona! Men are still seeking you out, searching for something in that damaged smile of yours!
Dunno, I text back. He might have disposed of the body by now. I am visualizing the legs sticking out of the trash can, with their shapely toes in the air. Delicate little fingers at the end of slender palms and long arms, reaching out from under the Hefty Cinch Sack at the top of the garbage can. Who knows where Mona is?
And so, we go about finding Mona, so to say (the studio tour was called Finding Mona). It seems, Kim says, after a few phonecalls, that Heiner has fallen for the girl. He won't be parting with Mona for the time being.
Kim texts back later that day. Why, she asks, are two men interested in a plastic woman with a smushed nose and missing eyeball, when she is still single?
Now, there's a good question. I am still amusing myself with all the possible answers and haven't texted her back with anything. Poor Mona! Men are still seeking you out, searching for something in that damaged smile of yours!
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