Belle of the Ball, Shoe and Bra

The best looking, sweetest creature I know is Bella, my yellow Labrador Retriever. Please note I did not say "best behaved."

Bella is her "call" name. Her full registered name is Top Honors Belle of the Ball. She is canine royalty–a princess sired by BIS BISS Am Can CH Boradors Alligator Shoes JH, officially designated as the no. 1 Lab in the US for 2000. Her mother, Quintessential Caper, though not a champion herself, has an elegant bearing, an uncommonly pretty face and a pedigree boasting five generations of champions. We had to request Bella's adoption before she was born because puppies with pedigrees like Bella's go very quickly. Top Honors Kennel, where she was born, is in North Carolina, so we couldn't even see Bella other than in photographs for eight weeks because she needed to be with Caper. Her breeder told us that she matched Bella with us because she was fearless. The breeder, or " the food lady," as she was known to the pups, said Bella's littermates were too skittish to live in New York.

When finally weaned, the breeder put Bella in a crate and shipped her to New York. The princess flew cargo. However, it was special cargo (for princesses). The food lady trained Bella for her solo flight. She practiced with Bella by placing her in the crate and leaving her in it for increasingly longer periods so that she would not be traumatized when it actually happened. She needn't have done even this though. Bella is truly not afraid of anything.

Bella flew up to New York all by herself. I picked her up at Kennedy Airport's special cargo area. When I opened her crate, she came galloping out and leaped into my arms. Thirteen pounds of puppy kissed me all over with her long, wet, soft pink tongue. White as snow, she looked like a fur-covered basketball. She was soft and sleek. In fact, she looked more like a baby seal than a puppy. She had no doggy odor. Her scent was fresh as spring air, except for her oversized paws which smelled exactly like Fritos. It was puppy love at first sight. She could not stop kissing and nuzzling me the entire ride home from JFK. And that was the last time she was nice to me for the next two years.

PUPPYHOOD: Our relationship quickly deteriorated from love at first sight to love at first bite. After she rested from her long journey, Bella immediately set about trying to establish dominance over her new litter mate--me. She loved "play" fighting with me. That's how puppies entertain themselves in the litter. The only trouble was that I have a much softer hide than her original littermates and therefore sustained multiple wounds about my feet, ankles, hands, forearms and face from her sharp little puppy teeth–not to mention torn clothing and broken eyeglasses. She probably thought she was pretty scary because I never bit back.

Bella also liked roughhousing. Like Tina Turner singing "Proud Mary," Bella didn't do anything nice and easy, she did things nice and rough. She galloped around, crashing into things and breaking them. She chewed everything she came upon--doors, furniture, shoes (Pradas were her favorites because the leather was deliciously soft.) She instructed my cat on shredding upholstery and rugs more efficiently.

I was quite smitten with her anyway and brought her with me everywhere, sometimes with disastrous results. On weekends away, even though by this time she was fully house trained, Bella invariably chose to conduct her business inside our host's house. One weekend she had so many in-house "accidents" that when Bella "woofed" to go inside, our host asked, "Why does she want to go inside? Does she need to relieve herself?" When visiting other friends, Bella reduced their children to tears by systematically puncturing and deflating every one of their pool floats and toys. As if that were not enough, she terrorized their dog, a hyperactive and nervous terrier who spent the entire weekend in a kitchen cabinet, hiding from Bella.

I hired a personal trainer for Bella and enrolled her in canine charm school. She was an excellent student learning all of her lessons quickly and performing them perfectly, with a "ho-hum-big-deal- give-me-the-reward look" on her face. When she finished her performance, all canine pandemonium broke loose. A cacophony of growls, barks, snorts, and fang-bearing lunges from Bella's classmates accompanied us back to our seat. Unbeknownst to me, Bella had been flashing intimidating looks at her classmates on the sly as we passed by. When the trainer investigated, Bella put on her sweet, innocent "who me" face. Though an excellent student, Bella did not change her attitude and after a while we were not invited back to classes.

I could live with most of Bella's transgressions, but one day she crossed the line. I could see that she had a small live bird in her mouth. Labs have "soft" mouths, so I knew the bird would be all right if I could extract it. I approached Bella in a casual manner with a dog cookie in my hand and offered a trade. Bella sensed what I had in mind and, rather than relinquishing the bird, she simply swallowed it whole. Then she demanded the cookie.

TO BE CONTINUED

Postcard from the Sea of Life - Windy City

Like Janus,
the wind is two-faced
coaxing teardrops from my eyes
then gently drying them.
Windswept whitecaps on the lake
energize me
and refresh my spirit.

The Janus-faced wind fiercely
breaks my lilac limbs
and shatters my umbrella,
my protection.
Gnarled spokes point at the wind
accusingly.

Swallows defy the wind.
They shake their tiny feathers in its windy face
and pierce it with their beaks,
circling around its blustery gusts
engaging in demented dance.

Might I defy the wind?
No, I will acquire and sell it–
Twenty-five cents a blow.
The wind is cheap.
The wind is someone you know.

Killing the Comment

Don't let the comments get you down.

An acquaintance of mine, Comment, actually said to me, "No gallery has ever expressed any interest in you." This dampened my eyes as well as my spirit because, generally, Comment is quite supportive. It made me feel like never approaching another gallery ever again. Worse than that, for a while I did not even feel like painting.

So that I wouldn't forget those intentionally discouraging words, I hand-printed them on a paper and displayed them on my bulletin board. I frequently do that with remarks that hurt or baffle me. That way the comment cannot be denied. Also, I can readily recall it and analyze it for truth and accuracy. Usually, this way I can kill the comment.

My analysis of the statement, "No gallery has ever expressed any interest in you": Presently I am being considered for two prestigious and well known galleries for emerging artists -- one in New York and one in Connecticut. The one in New York has my digital portfolio. I guess there is a case for their not expressing any interest in me in that I have not heard from them yet. Upon submission, though, they told me that it would take a long time to get back to me because they get many submissions and have to review them all. On the other hand, you could say that they have not rejected me either and for the sake of argument that could be construed as interest.

The assistant curator of the Connecticut gallery emailed me after receiving my portfolio to let me know that their gallery schedule is filled up for this year, but said he will contact me with dates for a showing of my work for next year. Additionally, he provided me with an insightful critique of my work, let me know which of my paintings he preferred and suggested that I take my current work in that direction. I thought that showed a great deal of interest. Because his input strengthens my work, and so he will remember me, as I complete new paintings, I email the images to him. Comment referred to my keeping in touch like this as pestering the assistant curator.

Over the weekend, I delivered paintings to a local show. Despite the discussion that occurred initially regarding raw edges on my paintings, I thought my work was enthusiastically accepted. The show chair came over while I was registering. She said she thought the pieces were quite accomplished and that she agreed with my decision in not framing them. This I believe showed interest and was very encouraging.

A high-end event planner and florist in New York has given me his prominent storefront window to use as my own personal gallery because he likes my paintings and believes they will enhance his shop. This shows interest also.

My final comment on Comment's comment?...No comment, other than... back to work for me and...

I killed the comment.

Mc LAUGHS

They're nice, but I prefer something a little more representational.

Mc LAUGHS

First I was into existentialism; then transcendental meditation; then zen. Now I'm into bistros.

Body and Soul

I recently painted my best friend, Kenneth Feldman, who I call Feldy. At the first session: I sit him down in a possible pose, studying intently every feature of his face, body and posture. I take into account all of this physiognomy and store the information in my brain. But now I must mix it with the intangible "patina" of Feldy, such as his personality, wit, intelligence, background–indeed, his soul. If a painter attempts to portray a person by considering only the body without taking into account the soul, she is no different than a house painter.

While we are deciding on the right pose, Feldy mugs. He pulls his lapel, which sports a boutonniere, up to his nose and smells the flower. I love this pose and and tell him that this is the way I want to paint him. Curiously, Feldy says "Please don't paint me that way. I'll look too fey." I am not sure what he means, but choose another pose. Even though he is a delightfully lighthearted and amusing model , I choose to show his more serious side.

In my mind I have blended his "patina" with his physiognomy, so I feel I am ready to block in the paint on my canvas. This involves exploring the shapes of his face and body and constructing them with paint, running my brushes up, around and over the various facial forms to "flesh out" the paint rough. I round out the cheekbones and forehead, I build up the volume for his nose and lips, and I darken around his eye sockets so they will appear sunken–on a lower plane than the rest of his face.

I continue the block-out of all of Feldy - his neck, shoulders, torso, pelvis, legs, right down to his feet. All these anatomical parts are merely shapes. But through my exploration and manipulation of them I know that I will reveal Feldy's soul. His essence, not just his form, will be reflected in his portrait.

Feldy patiently subjects his body and being to my artist's gaze. The work on the paint rough progresses smoothly and quickly. For me, the purpose of a rough is simply to get the paint onto the canvas. At this point I do not concern myself with any likeness these embryonic paint splashes might have to my model. However, in this instance I am struck by the remarkable resemblance between the painting and Feldy.

After that first day, I could not work on the painting for ten months. Sadly, almost immediately after, Feldy was diagnosed with late-stage melanoma. I did try to help his body though, trying to restore or at least maintain what was left of his health, by escorting him to and from doctors, keeping him company while he was being treated, transporting him to and visiting with him in hospitals, bringing him meals, newspapers and clothing.

On one occasion, I even bathed him when a nurse was not available. I was struck by the similarity between running a warm washcloth over his physical face and running a brush over his painted face. Toward the end, Feldy had to be moved to a hospice. While he was there, I realized that I had been so concerned with his body that I had forgotten the importance of his soul. Sadly, I then had to watch his soul drain out of his body bit by bit until it was gone.

A rabbi told me that I shouldn't feel so sad about death. It is not the end. Our bodies are just temporary homes for our souls. Therefore, we should view our bodies as just short-term rentals. He assured me that the spirit of Feldy lived on.

Soon after the funeral I got back to finishing the painting. Although I usually use multiple layers of paint when finishing a painting, Feldy's required very little finish because the rough was so "right." While working on it, I remembered that Feldy didn't want me to use the pose with him smelling his boutonniere because it made him look too "fey." I finally looked the word up in a dictionary and learned that the first definition given is: "chiefly Scottish: fated to die, doomed; marked by a foreboding of death or calamity."

Still, the spirit of Feldy lives on.

Laughing Lacunae

Some years ago, I briefly worked as the personal assistant to Dr. Nabil Elaraby, the Egyptian Ambassador to the United Nations. I was quite surprised that I got hired for the position because at the time I had no office skills and didn't even know how to use a computer. My most recent experience had been as a graduate student in art at NYU.

During my interview, I cagily explained to the Egyptian Mission's Minister Plenipotentiary (all the time wondering to myself "What on earth is a Minister Plenipotentiary"?) that I wasn't familiar with the Mission's computer system. Actually, I wasn't familiar with any computer system. Madame Minister Plenipotentiary replied that this would not be a problem because the Ambassador had many administrative assistants to do that sort of work. She added that he also had six secretaries. She further explained that the Ambassador wanted to seem forward-thinking and that he thought having an American, English-speaking personal assistant would help him in that endeavor.

The Minister Plenipotentiary told me that my principal duties would be to maintain the Ambassador's social calendar and field phone calls (which was fun because I got to talk with politicos and dictators such as Madeleine Albright, Hosni Mubarak and Joseph Wilson. I once suggested to Egyptian President Mubarak that he speak more slowly on the phone because I was American and couldn't grasp what he was saying at such a fast clip. He replied in heavily accented English,"You're American? Noooooo kidding." It was thrilling for me to have the President of Egypt speak American slang to me. It made me feel that we were on intimate terms.

The Ambassador was fond of saying that I filled various lacunae in the Mission. Perhaps the two lacunae I filled best were as mollifier and editor. On occasions when protesting groups showed up at the Mission demanding to see Ambassador Elaraby, the Ambassador would calmly stroll into my office, lean in and sweetly say, "Would you mind going down there and talking to them. I'm kinda busy right now." Like throwing a lamb to the lions, I thought. At first I was scared, but I soon discovered it was a brilliant strategy. When the angry demonstrators saw me instead of the Ambassador, it totally disarmed them. They had no beef with a mild-mannered, American girl with no political agenda. They thanked me and handed me a petition to deliver to the Ambassador. I guess that made me a force for world peace.

The ambassador frequently asked me to edit his Egyptian secretaries' correspondence, since English was their second language. The secretaries wrote many letters and generally delivered them personally. They were all extremely tall and powerful-looking men. I would go so far as to say intimidating. They always dressed in dark blue or black suits with long black topcoats and never smiled. When the Ambassador ventured out from the Mission, they formed a human barricade around him. Because I didn't want them to look like thugs when delivering their correspondence, I usually changed phrases like "Hand over the money" to "Kindly make arrangements to deliver the appropriate funds."

One day the Ambassador asked that I take a stack of letters to the fax room and have them sent to the Heads of State of all the members of the Organization of African Unity. The Ambassador was running for an office in that international group and was requesting their support. The fax room had five older Egyptian gentlemen in it, all of whom were sitting on a sofa chatting, drinking black coffee and smoking. I gave the letters to one of them and explained that it was a priority. Shortly after, I returned to my office to find that the letters had been returned to me with a note reading "Too busy. Fax you." (signed) Mr. Faisal." I returned to the fax room with the letters and saw the same group lounging on the sofa, still chatting, drinking coffee and smoking. I told them that I could see very well that they were not particularly busy. Snickering, one of them told me they were too busy indeed–too busy to work for a girl. The others all laughed, which I took to mean they concurred.

On a prior occasion, Abdelrazik, the office manager, had told me that in Egypt toilet paper was paid for by the user, so I would have to start paying for mine. Otherwise he would stop supplying it to my bathroom. I drew the line at paying for toilet paper, but knew that this new incident necessitated my doing the faxing myself. I am not a work snob and I am generally quite willing do anything to get a job done. However, I had never faxed before and was quite sure I wasn't going to get any tips from the professional faxers lounging around. On the other hand, I thought it was pretty simple: insert document, dial phone number, press start button.

Shortly after, I started getting phone queries from various African nations asking why the Egyptian Ambassador had sent them blank pieces of paper. I guess I didn't know which side was up. I pictured all the blank pieces of paper laughing at me---so many laughing lacunae--a veritable pad of paper mockers--as they exited fax machines all over Africa. First, I cried. Then I cried for my boyfriend. He can do anything, even fax. Why do you think I married him? He said it was difficult to explain how to fax over the phone but he had a plan. I was to smuggle the letters out of the Mission by hiding them beneath my trenchcoat. To do this, I had to pass by armed security guards at the door and the New York City police officers who were stationed at a security kiosk right across the street with a file folder full of letters secreted on my person.

As planned, my boyfriend met me on the corner. Just 50 feet away from the police and guards, I surreptitiously "handed over" the papers to him. My hero took them to his office, faxed them, and then returned to the Mission, meeting me outside in the rain to return the papers to me, whereupon I smuggled them back into the Mission. To complicate matters, during this transaction, the Ambassador, en route to the UN, walked out of the Mission flanked and followed by his tall, darkly-clad, non-smiling secretaries. "Who are those guys?" asked my boyfriend. I informed him, "the Ambassador's secretaries." To which my boyfriend, handing over the letters from under his coat, replied, "They're not secretaries, they're packing heat!" Somehow, I managed to smuggle the letters back into the mission without being apprehended.

A few months later, Abdelrazik came to my office and said, "OK, you can go home now." I said, "Why, is it an Egyptian holiday?" He said, "No. Ambassador very fond of you, but he go back to Egypt. You go home now and don't come back." So I did–and I didn't.

Mc LAUGHS

************The Flying Wallendas relaxing at home!************

Phantom Income .... or?

When I was working as an illustrator, one of my positions was as staff illustrator for the weekly newsletter of a major international law firm. At the same time, I was also working on a freelance basis as an illustrator for the New York Law Journal, a daily newspaper. Between the two jobs, I had to produce a minimum of four legal-themed drawings every week. Sometimes I did not receive an assignment until the day before the drawing was due. This necessitated many all–nighters to produce them. Generally, they were not easy concepts to draw either. (How I envied those other artists who got to illustrate puppies, flowers, or sailboats.)

One assignment was to illustrate a story on "phantom income." As in many other instances, I didn't even know what phantom income was. So I had to figure out what the term meant before I could even start drawing. After some research, I found out it is taxable income which does not generate cash flow. Even with my minimal grasp of finance I knew that this was always bad, never good. "Great," I thought,"How am I supposed to show that?" I decided to play off the phantom part of it. At the time Phantom of the Opera was having its moment. That Phantom was a familiar image, recognizable to all. So I appropriated that image for my phantom. To develop this pastiche, I added numbers to the face for the income aspects; a dollar sign became his bowtie. I added sharp discernible teeth between the eight and the one on the creepy side of his face to make him even more bad looking. Then I finished it with a couple more dollar signs in his hair.

I dunno....numbers on his face....frightening teeth....I'm beginning to get a little nervous. Does that remind me of someone else? Maybe I was not drawing on Phantom of the Opera after all. There is a one, a two and a three right there on his face. Uh oh ... I think I resurrected 1-2-3 Man through his offspring–Son of 1-2-3 Man!

I am going to add a pipe and a hat right now and find out for sure.

Bang!

Today's painting, Cowboy, is student work. I did it as an undergraduate in one of my many illustration classes with Jack Potter. He was my mentor and I credit him for any ability I have today as an artist. Mr. Potter was a successful illustrator, especially in the fashion world. However, he gave that up to become a teacher at SVA because he didn't like what was then happening in the field of illustration.

He yelled at me endlessly in class. Once I left my sweater in class and Mr. Potter asked his teaching assistant whose sweater it was. The TA didn't know my name, so he replied, "The girl you always yell at." When Mr. Potter heard that, he knew he had gone too far. The next time he saw me he apologized and explained that he always yelled at the "good" students. He said I in particular frustrated him because I was almost "there" but just short of it.

Back to Cowboy. In Mr. Potter's classes we were only allowed to draw models from real life, not photographs (as was being done at that time and was the reason why Mr. Potter started teaching in the first place). He always created elaborate setups with at least one live model. In this instance, it was the cowboy sitting in a chair, legs stretched out, hands in his lap. That's where this image came from. After making several life drawings from the model in class, we had a week to paint an illustration. At that point we were allowed to draw from photographs to flesh out our concepts and fill the background.

I designed the attacking Indian for the wallpaper and repeated it. That's from my imagination. Capriciously, I decided to have one of the Indians break loose from the wallpaper and cut a slice off the cowboy's back. That's what they used to do, isn't it? So that action is influenced by the movies. With all those Indians armed with hatchets chasing around, the wallpaper has begun to peel. The cupboard is from my photography clip file, but looks suspiciously like one we had at my family's lake house. I like birds, so that's why one flew in. I lost a loved one to cigarettes, thus the cigarettes.

I thought initially that the firing revolver suspended in midair represented the death that smoking causes. Then I thought for formal reasons, the composition simply needed that particular shade of blue in that spot. But it's actually neither. While writing yesterday's post about 1-2-3 Man, I concomitantly jogged loose another chilling bit of family history. I had read the incident in a saved newspaper article I had come upon as a young girl and the image it conjured up had been imprisoned in my mind ever since. I unwittingly exiled it into this painting. Only just now, while viewing Cowboy, did I realize the true meaning of the suspended revolver.

Apparently, a great uncle of mine had been seriously depressed. One day he called his best friend and said, "I need your help. Come over right away. Hurry. I'll leave the door unlocked for you. Don't knock, just come in." Unbeknownst to his friend, my great uncle had rigged his revolver up to the front door in such a way that it would fire when the door was opened. He then sat in front of the door and waited for his friend to "help" him. His friend opened the front door and--

Bang!

1-2-3 Man

I’ve never really liked mathematics, but I find those quantifying little symbols–numbers–of which mathematics is comprised graphically interesting and elegant. I therefore incorporate them into my drawings from time to time.

Easy as 1-2-3, my grandfather, Poppa, showed me how to draw a man using the numbers 1, 2 and 3. To do this, I had to draw the number 1 for the forehead; then I attached to its base directly beneath it 2. The interior curve of the 2 made a nice eye socket and the downward slope and pointy part of the 2 became the nose. I attached a 3 to the end of the 2, which represented the upper and lower lips and the philtrum. He didn't have much of a chin (well maybe a little receding one) because I then joined the 3 and the 1 with a half-circle from the bottom of the 3 back up to the top of the 1. We called him 1-2-3 Man. We loved him and Poppa and I happily drew 1-2-3 Man repeatedly.

After a while, Poppa told me that we needed to put a hat on 1-2-3 Man in case he wanted to go out. Then he said we should put a pipe in his mouth because he liked to smoke. After that he had us drawing sharp little triangles for teeth along the bottom curve of the 3–his mouth. This made 1-2-3 Man take a graphic turn for the worse. He now looked vicious with his 3, I mean mouth, wide open, revealing all those jagged, sharp teeth! Sorry, I cannot post the drawing of 1-2-3 Man with teeth to show how grotesque he became. I wouldn't do that to you. It is too frightening and the blog police would probably shut me down, citing abuse. But you can see from the original hatless drawing with the pipe that he was not too bad looking before the addition of the sharply drawn implants.

Many years later, after Poppa passed away, I was told that when he was a child, his father told his wife and children that he was going “downstreet" for some tobacco. He put a hat on his head and his pipe in his mouth and left his home, wife and three small children forever. He was never again seen or heard from.

After hearing that charming little bit of family history, I wondered, was 1-2-3 Man whom I had been drawing all that time, actually Poppa's deserting father?

**Coming soon (probably Wednesday)–Son of 1-2-3 Man! Even scarier than the original!!**

Mc LAUGHS

"This bill!" Do you take American Distress?"

Mc LAUGHS

"Psssssst! Wanna buy a refrigerator"?!

Dancing with the Devil

Painting a picture scares the devil out of me. I would rather dance with the devil. I never do any studies for my paintings. I am not Rembrandt. With the vaguest of notions in my head, I will start painting on canvas and then see where it takes itself. I refer to my seminal notion in the beginning of the work, but after that I am led by my brush and guided only by the shapes, textures and colors it produces. Writing this blog is even scarier because I feel that I ought to be more precise with words than with paint. You can't really read something that is abstract. This might be why a picture is worth a thousand words. One of the reasons a picture tends to beat out words is because of the variety of ways that artists can push and pull and interpret and reinterpret the various media used in painting. Because of the more limiting definitions of words, the same is not true with writing.

The Flexibility of Colors: The color red, for example, is the color of the devil and so we can use red to mean "evil" in our drawings and paintings. However, red is also the color of an apple–and what could be more wholesome and innocent than an apple? And so we can also use red to mean "good" in our paintings.

The Rigidity of Words: " Red," the word, means "any of a number of similar colors evoked by light consisting predominantly of the longest wavelengths discernible by the human eye." There is not that much that you can do with red when you think of it that way. If you write the word "red" it means only red, unless preceded by a modifying adjective.

"Devil" can mean pretty much only the devil, unless used in the context of deviled eggs. And even then it suggests a pulverizing beating one might get from the devil. The word "devil" can only be bad. It cannot be good and bad. When we hear the word "apple", we pretty much conjure up that delicious rosy, edible sphere with a stem and two green leaves on top– unless we are thinking of the apple of one's eye, or a man's adam's apple. Even then, the first usage indicates favorite and wholesome - "good" and the second a sphere - "good" also. Both phrases still suggest the basic characteristics of the word "apple." I cannot think of a way to use the word that connotes evil, unless perhaps in the context of the apple that Eve ate in the Garden of Eden–and even that apple probably tasted good. I guess an apple was "bad" for Snow White, but even then it had to be preceded by the word "poison." The word "apple" couldn't do it alone. It has its limits.

To support my claim that the painter's medium is superior to the writer's, consider the words of Roger Angell, the noted essayist and New Yorker editor: "Fiction is special, of course, for its text must retain the whorls and brush-splashes of the author: the touch of the artist." Ironically, on the same page, he recalls an editing session he had with a fledgling writer. He chides the neophyte "And then here's your "dirgelike darkness," right in the middle of your wonderful scene. Can darkness have a sound?" he asks the young writer. I believe it can and should, especially in the context of Angell's use of the phrase "whorls and brush-splashes" in his own writing.

One of my professors, Stuart Leeds, a New Yorker artist, always told us that only one of his students used black and white as if it were color. To me, that means that colors can not only represent multiple meanings, but can represent other colors as well. How versatile is that? I've tried to demonstrate this in my drawing of a red ..... er ..... ahem ..... uh....... black and white...... devil above.

Placebook 1.0

Are you tired of being able to see your friends only virtually on Facebook? Then the new app. Placebook 1.0 is for you. Only Placebook can transport you actually, that's right, a-c-t-u-a-l-l-y, from place to place wherever and whenever you want to go. Just enter your friend's address, press the "Go" button, and you will be gently sucked in, swept away and instantaneously ejected from your friend's computer. You will be there visiting with your friend - a- c -t- u -a l- l - y - not merely virtually as that dinosaur Facebook does it. Imagine how surprised your friends will be to see you in the flesh. Be among the first to install the release version of Placebook.

Are you worried that if you install Placebook, your many hundreds of friends will be popping in on you at all hours of the day and night? Don't be concerned. Placebook 2.0, currently in development, will include an optional feature–Macebook. Just one squirt and they're gone!

Placebook and Macebook are registered trademarks of Depingo Ergo Sum. You can only get them here. No guarantees. None at all. But they are reasonably priced.

Intoxicated

Age-0ld philosophical question:
"If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is around to hear it, does the tree make a sound?"

My answer is "No." Without an ear-bearing person present, there would be no sound - only the vibrations that might create a sound.

Same question updated for the digital age: If a tree (one that I had drawn for University of Connecticut School of Agriculture's recruiting brochure) and I were toasting you on this blog, but you never visited, so that the three of us–artist, image and viewer– could bond over a drink during our philosophical chat, would the tree fall down? Would it make a sound when it fell down?

And now that we're really thinking deep thoughts, what would happen to me after my hysterical crying jag (brought about by a distressing lack of blog visitors) let up? By the way, would my crying make a sound? Would I fall down?

Answer: The tree and I would both fall down because we would be intoxicated after your no-show caused us to drink a whole bottle of wine by ourselves. It would be your loss because you wouldn't have gotten to share a delicious glass of chilled-to-perfection Sauvignon Blanc with us. And this sound would haunt you for the rest of your natural life:

HIC!

Beauty

Fairfield Porter (1907–1975), the American painter who successfully produced realist work in the midst of the Abstract Expressionist movement, wrote "When I paint, I think that what would satisfy me is to express what Bonnard said Renoir told him: make everything more beautiful."

When I painted in graduate school at NYU, I agreed with Porter and Renoir and tried to make everything I painted more beautiful, much to the dismay and chagrin of my professors and fellow students. They repeatedly told me that this was a flawed expenditure of my artistic energy. They explained that after I finished a painting, the painting was an autonomous entity, completely separate from me and my opinions–even though I was the one who created it. Even if It seems beautiful to me, there will come a time when the painting is viewed by someone else outside my presence. At that time, "beauty will be in the eye of the beholder."

Beauty is not judged objectively, but subjectively, according to the estimate of the beholder. This idea is a very old one (Theocritus). In addition, the beholder's estimation can be affected by whatever vision he brings to the painting. By this I mean not only his personal vision, arrived at through his life's experiences, but also his actual visual acuity. People see things differently as a result of their literal eyesight as well as the psychological "baggage" they bring to the painting.

Having been won over to this idea (that's what I had to do to get out of NYU alive), I have concluded that we painters should aim for transcendence of the signifier, not its beauty. We must capture and distill the spirit of our subjects in a meaningful and ultimately more truthful manner. Merely enhancing the subject is inadequate. An artist who is searching for beauty simply by reproduction of images is limited because no matter how "accurately" she paints, she can never exactly reproduce the original. The most obvious of many reasons for this is that she is trying to represent a three dimensional subject in a two dimensional format. So, by her own definition, she must always fail.

When a teenage girl, no matter how beautiful, has a pimple on her nose and looks into a mirror, she does not see a beautiful teenage girl. All she sees is a great big pimple. When a handsome, legally blind man looks into a mirror, even if the room is well lit and he knows he is handsome, he might exclaim "Who is that dark and fiendish, film noirish looking man." When a two scooped- ice cream sundae with hot fudge sauce, whipped cream, and a cherry on top looks into the mirror, it sees ........ well, you know the answer to that.

McLAUGHS

"Honey, do we have any defoliant?"

Electric Arthropods

When I'm confronted by anything with a cord, fearing death by entanglement, electrocution or embarrassment, I immediately withdraw into my shell. I have to. It is a matter of self preservation.

As an example of my technical ineptitude, when I try to make a piece of toast, I am toast. The toaster, a simple, useful appliance for most, generally burns my bread to a deep, dark mars black. On those rare occasions when it toasts the slice to the nice ochre color I like, the bread spontaneously pops up, targeting my eyes and blackening them.

No appliance ever works for me. For that matter, nothing mechanical, electrical or technical–big, medium or small–ever works for me. "Just stupid, I guess," is what I used to think about myself because of my chronic inability to use a machine, no matter how carefully I studied the instructions, or how many times I was taught, or how simple an operation it was for anyone else. I observed many people who I did not think were nearly as clever as I operating the very same machines with the greatest of ease. I guess my IQ had nothing to do with it.

That only left one possibility. I did some historical research and eventually discovered the reason for my personal mechanical failure. One dark and dreary night, a long time ago, around 45 BC, all things mechanical, electrical and technical, though still embryonic, clandestinely and illegally convened. They came from all over the world for the sole purpose of conspiring against me, Susan McLaughlin. They voted unanimously to put a curse on me–the Curse of the Low Tech. This pernicious curse was so powerful that it could only be placed upon one person at a time, or else the world would stop.

They chose me, even though I hadn't even been born yet. They issued a dictum and put the static-laden word out to all things mechanical, electrical or technological:

WHEREAS, all machines, appliances and other devices employing technology have organized themselves into the Mechanical, Electrical and Technical Alliance (hereinafter "META"); now, therefore, it is

RESOLVED, that all members of META hereby pledge, agree and confirm, singly and collectively, that they and each of them shall never, under any circumstance, and irrespective of how hard she cries or begs, even if she has a full meltdown, work properly for Susan McLaughlin; and it is further

RESOLVED, that this pledge shall continue in full force and effect for the entire duration of the life of the said Susan McLaughlin, and shall be binding upon her and her successors, heirs and assigns.

You can understand my distress at having a big organization like META against me. I have a suspiciously high rate of non–deliverable emails and Facebook messages. My Dyson vacuum cleaner is as likely to blow dirt as to suck it in. But that is probably a good thing, because if it did, it would probably suck me in to its dusty bowels, never to be seen again. Recently, I have seen many electrical wires quietly slithering up behind and around me, maliciously edging closer and closer in the guise of delivering power to my computer or clock radio. I find their behavior shocking and, indeed, have been shocked repeatedly, almost to the point of electrocution, by these malicious electrical snakes.

The final indignity, though, is this: the only way I can write this blog is to sign in under an alias, so blogger.com, which I happen to know for certain is in cahoots with my computer (both are members in good standing of META), doesn't know it is I, Susan McLaughlin, composing this post. As you can see, META has continually harassed me, wreaking havoc on my low–tech mentality and kept me in a state of sheer and utter technological ineptitude. But I am sure you understand that it is not my fault, it is theirs - those slimy, ugly, conspiring, bullying electric arthropods. This is why I am going to have to hire a circuit breaker guy to unplug and dismember, circuit by slimy circuit, each and every one of them.

By the way, (our little secret, OK?) the above post was not written by me. It was written by that internationally–known blogger Nasus NilhguaLcM.

Gagged

One of my criteria for deciding whether a work is art or not is as follows: If you think about it after you see it, whether it be a play, movie, painting, concert, or book, it is art. If you don't think about it after you see it, even if you enjoyed it for the moment, it is not art.

Recently I saw an extremely heavy late night movie on TV. Its content was disturbing - murder, annihilation and oppression, and it was set in turbulent times. That made it difficult to watch, but I liked the lead characters (two innocent little boys), the lighting, photography, scenery, dialogue and the screen play, so I stayed with it. The story of the forbidden friendship of the boys and the haunting results of their friendship moved me. I couldn't forget about it after I saw it. I thought about it the entire next day as I went about my painting.

At dinner that night with a friend, I tried to start a conversation about the little boys and the artistry of the movie itself. I was told not to talk about the movie and that, though it was a work of fiction, it was offensive. I explained that the part I wanted to discuss was about the boys' relationship which was wholesome and uplifting and showed a light in all that darkness. No matter, the gag order was still on. I was compliant but my friend made me feel totally oppressed which, ironically, was the part of the movie that so offended him.

If he came upon me working on a painting containing subject matter he didn't like, I wonder, would he break my paint brushes?

Grey Ladies

I have known two grey ladies in my lifetime: my cat, Mrs. Grey, and The New York Times.

Though Mrs. Grey was actually black and white, her colors optically blended to grey.

Before the New York Times added color, she was also called the Grey Lady . She, too, was not really grey, but black and white. New Yorkers affectionately called her the Grey Lady because of the lack of color and sparing use of pictures. The black type and white ground made a beautiful shade of grey. Her message never did though. Black and white told the truth. Black and white is newspaper and has always been the carrier of information journalistically, providing an immediate and reliable source of information.

Artistically, black and white, at least historically rather than implicitly, is more "truthful" than color. Consider and contrast Picasso's choice of black and white for Guernica to depict the true and horrible journalistically derived information with Warhol's use of color for Marilyn to produce his intentionally artificial and "untrue" Marilyn.

The capriciousness of color: Would anyone have any faith in an attorney or businessman in an orange suit, a nun in a multicolored, floral habit, a minister, priest or rabbi in striped yellow and cerulean robes? Is a multi-patterned, brightly-colored, red-cheeked clown taken seriously?

The straightforwardness of black and white: When people are born, christened, confirmed, graduate, married and die, black or white is traditionally worn. That is because black and white drives home the truth of the event.

I miss the Grey Lady newspaper. Perhaps, though, I should be happy that she is still around even in her colored state now that the era of the newspaper is passing. I will miss her even more when she is gone entirely as a physical presence and I have to read the news on my computer.

I miss the grey lady cat too. She always made a bed for herself in discarded newspapers. Grey on grey -- a delightful color block composition. Besides reading and bedding, newspapers are extremely useful and can be repurposed for wrapping fish, insulation, papier mache and fire-starting. Wilhem de Kooning used newspapers to cover his canvases when he finished for the day to keep the paint on them wet and workable. On some of them, the newsprint transferred to the canvas and he left it there. Imparting some of the Grey Lady onto canvas enhanced his multi-colored ladies.

Outside we're worms. In here we're organisms.

Before I became a painter, I was an interior designer for years because I know that your environment can make you feel better about yourself!

Three Proofs

When Harrison Brandell was age two his universal reply to any question was, "I not." Before that he was giggly, cooperative and agreeable. He was enjoying his "terrible twos" and he was so cute that he could get away with it -- for a while. His mother understood that he was in the stage when babies realize they are separate entities from their mothers and are "trying out" their new autonomy. When he broke his mother's best flower vase and replied to her accusal,

"I not,"

his mother decided it was time for a lesson.

She told him he couldn't just go around saying, "I not" all the time. It was o.k. to disagree with people, but that he should have and give a reason for it. She gave him an example. Question: "Would you like to have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?" Suggested Answer:

"I not, because I not hungry."

Right after the lesson, he returned to his mantra, "I not." Mother reminded him of the lesson and re-asked her question:" Would you like to watch Sponge Bob?" He replied, "I not." Suddenly, apparently remembering the lesson, squinting his eyes, looking off into the distance and, indeed, reasoning, he said in a calm and statesmanlike manner,

"I not, because I not. "

That is pretty good thinking for a two year old, right up there with the philosophical proof of Descartes,

"I think, therefore I am." (Cogito Ergo Sum)

And my artistic rewrite of the above,

"I paint, therefore I am." (Depingo Ergo Sum)

Monkey on the Roof

One day Richard, the monkey, sprung himself from his cage, stationed himself on the roof just above our porch door and dive bombed everyone as they tried to enter or exit. We were prisoners in our own house. I imagined Richard eating a banana up there and chuckling evilley to himself, "Let's see how they like being caged." Patsy, the only family member who Richard loved and who could reason with Richard was away at a movie. Having had quite enough monkeyshines, mother called the movie theater and told the ticket taker that there was an emergency: she should stop the movie, locate Patsy McLaughlin, and tell her to come home right away. The ticket taker said that that would be highly unusual and asked if she might know the nature of the emergency. My mother replied, "The monkey's on the roof and he won't let anyone in or out of the house." The ticket taker replied, "Sure, and I'm the Queen of England" and hung up.

Monkeys, God, Father Divine and Tommy McLaughlin

 Painting Manita

MY GRANDFATHER, PAPA, called all his grandchildren "Monkeyshines." It was an omen.

Many families had cocker spaniels (although probably not as many as 10 at a time) cats, canaries, hamsters and pollywogs, but rarely would you find a family with a pet monkey unless it were the McLaughlins. His name was Richard.

Monkey on her back: One day my brother, Tommy, heard these perfectly dreadful screams coming from the laundry room. Like this: "Taaameee, the monkey's loose ... he's coming for me ... he's on my back ... biting my neck, ... Taaaameeee ... ... Have mercy on me! ... God in Heaven, ... Father Divine ... Taaawmeee ... Help me ... and so forth and so on! If you heard this, you would probably wonder what was going on. But not me. It was Faith, our housekeeper, stumbling up the stairs, fighting for her life, and, yes, with a monkey (that would be Richard) on her back. She was desperately asking anyone to help her -- God, Father Divine, or Tommy McLaughlin. She didn't care who -- any one of them would do. Although Tommy liked the potency of the company in which he had been placed in this possibly last supplication of Faith, he calmly walked past the laundry stair door, quietly closed it and moved on. When I asked him how could he possibly have not helped Faith, he told me at the time he was thinking, "God, or Father Divine, this one's yours. I have to go make a tuna fish sandwich for my sister." Right, it's always the sister's fault!

Monkeys don't swim: Richard, the monkey, didn't like family members any better than household staff. He was an equal opportunity molester. At our lake house, my brother told all his buddies, "Of course, monkeys don't swim," you can taunt him as much as you want and when he gets smart enough to figure out the locks on his cage (which was frequently) and gets out and is mad enough to chase us, all we have to do is jump in the lake. because, "Monkeys don't swim." It was quite odd to see a bunch of teenage boys swimming as fast as they could across the lake with a furious monkey swimming after them. The boys were screaming, "You told us monkeys don't swim." I am sure Richard was just misunderstood and I applaud him in his aquatic apprehension of marauding teenage boys. Au contraire, Tommy McLaughlin, monkeys do swim.

Paint on,

Depingo

To see more Depingo family portraits and read  family life posts click  the links below:

Circle of Hell

Bipolar Mood Disorder

My diagnosis is bipolar mood disorder.

No, I Had Not Gone "Mental"

I had the occasion to draw patients in the day room of a psychiatric ward. No, I had not gone "mental." I was waiting for an appointment with a doctor there because I had sudden onset asthma. Since there was no physical cause for it, and thinking it was stress related, my GP wanted me to consult a psychologist there. The waiting room was directly across from the day room with a full view of it.

Instead of getting depressed by this view of worse-for-the wear patients, I was elated by their poignant beauty and expressive form. I started drawing them in my journal. They loved their portraits and I loved drawing them. They were perfect models because they were for the most part either slow moving or stationary. I actually think the drawings made them feel better ephemerally and I'm so happy that I could help them a little.

A nurse made me stop drawing them. She said that no cameras were allowed and I was too accurate in depicting them. I told her I thought that was a good thing and she said that I would probably get sued.

Her name was Ratchett.

Loose Ends

When I was an illustrator, I wrote and illustrated a cartoon strip called "Attorneyman - World's Sharpest Attorney." This drawing shows Attorneyman about to be "tied up" by Lou Sends a/k/a Loose Ends. Being very compulsive (but not as compulsive as Seymour Chwast), I rarely leave loose ends. However, the loose end here is that I do in fact leave loose ends -- even in my paintings. I say to myself (as did Loose Ends to Attorneyman), "You'll take care of it in the morning." Then in the morning I start on another painting because a paint rough is more exciting than finishing touches. Sometimes I never go back to the previous painting. A few months down the road I'll take a guilty look at the unfinished painting, declare it finished, and it looks just fine.

More loose ends: My father was a pianist in addition to being a surgeon. He had a very strange affectation to his playing though. The music he played had no beginning and no end. He just sat down and started playing in the middle of a piece, played for a while, stopped before it ended and then got up and left the piano. We called his pieces "Harrison's unfinished melodies." They had loose ends; were unpredictable, mysterious and sounded just fine.

Loose ends help create more art, mysterious music, and are not so bad at all.

Letter to my Canvas