Winner!

WE HAVE A WINNER HERE!

Colors Askew

PICASSO WAS OUT OF RED
So he started his period - Blue (1901-1904)
My painted bench is of manganese hue
The alizarin tube was through.

I painted it so I could rest
While working on my book
–and solo show–
Where the painting will go.
The curator declared the bench my best
(not crimson but blue)
Have a look.

To you
The colors may seem askew ...
But hey! When you're outta red
you use blue
Whatever else are you gonna do!

~~~~

Paint on,
Depingo

McLAUGHS

The ones with the polka dots are the hardest!

The Shape of Things

A FRIEND OF MINE, ANOTHER PAINTER, recently criticized me for painting my subjects and models so irreverently. He said he noticed that I had a complete lack of concern for their meaning or function.

He's right. As a closet formalist, I concern myself primarily with form or shape. I can rely on shapes. They maintain their integrity. A shape stays the same no matter how you look at it, or where it is placed. A word and its meaning can change but a shape stays the same. If I turn a painting upside down, the shapes will remain just as I painted them, even though inverted. But the word for the shapes will change drastically, thus transforming the meaning and function of the element.

First image:
I can demonstrate this In my painting Upsidedown Sky. In its normal configuration, the way I painted it, the sky is at the top of the canvas and also appears as a reflection in the swimming pool. The reflected sky actually has heightened color because of the turquoise paint on the walls of the (actual) pool. The pink rectangular shape bordering the pool is the above ground part of the pool–at least those are the words that describe it in this upright orientation.

As I paint, I rotate the canvas. This insures that the composition works from all four sides. When you turn Sky Blue upside down:

Second image:
The pink border of the pool is no longer a pool element, but becomes a skylight through which you see the water. But in this orientation the water is not water anymore, it is sky. The element that I originally painted as sky is now at the bottom of the canvas. This way it is no longer sky; it looks like and becomes a lake. In this painting, sky and water, two disparate words with different meanings, are fungible when inverted. The shapes stay the same, but the words and functions for them change.

In addition, when viewed upside down, what used to be the distant background appears more like a reflection in the lake because it is now inverted. Similarly, the hanging vine when the painting is upright transforms into a shoot. Here again, the shapes stay the same but the words change. This is why I like shapes better than words, although ...

I love words when I "paint" with them in my essays.

Paint on,
Depingo (who is sometimes unsure which end is up)

The Cufflinks, Too?

WORSE THAN SPAM

that Uncle Sam
in his red, white and blue with stars.
He'll take all your money and then your shirt
For dinner you might even have to eat dirt
with no dessert!
Or the kind of Spam than comes in a can.

You'd be better off living on Mars–
with no cars
*Viewing the stars
from Mars*
But not Sam's.

Maybe you should
go on the lam
Get away from Sam!
I am.
*****
***
*

Mc LAUGHS

Botanical Gardens, please.

Devil

I WAS PROBABLY THE ONLY SEVEN YEAR OLD surgeon's daughter who worked. I had a job breaking in ponies. And the amazing thing about this is that I never required my Dad's fracture-mending services. My horse sense told me that my equine job was the greatest ever. My parents never knew about it, so please don't tell them now.

Sam, the owner of the stable where I rode, continually acquired new horses and ponies. He usually bought them at auction. He preferred the wild horses for economic reasons–they were much cheaper than the trained ones. Of course that left him with horses that refused to be saddled or have a bit in their mouths which, of course, precluded bridles and reins. No matter, Sam really loved a bargain.

Breaking in the new horses was not a problem because Sam had several stable hands, all excellent riders. They were more than happy for the opportunity to break in the new arrivals. The ponies did present a problem, though, because the stable hands were too big for the tiny animals. The stable hands' legs were too long and would would drag on the ground while mounted. In addition, their weight was too much for the ponies.

One day when Sam was watching me jump my horse, you could almost see a light bulb go on over his head. Even though I was only seven, I was an experienced equestrian; I had been riding pretty much from the time I could walk. I handled horses well, had a good rapport with them, was light as a feather and had short legs. After a while, the light above Sam's head started flashing * Depingo * good rider * Depingo * light weight * Depingo *short legs* Depingo * break ponies*

I was delighted when Sam asked me to break in his ponies. My pay for this service was to be the right to name each pony I broke in. At age seven I thought this was a great deal. Sam explained that the breaking of a horse or pony is pretty straightforward, uncomplicated work. (He forgot to mention that it was also extremely dangerous.) My job was simply to stay on the pony's back, no matter what happened, until the pony submitted and acknowledged that the rider was the boss.

While breaking in the ponies I had to ride bareback and without reins because the ponies would not let the stable hands get close enough for saddling and bridling. If I were lucky, the pony would still have a loose rope lead around his neck for me to hold. If not, I would just hold onto the pony's thick mane.

I quickly learned that wild ponies will viciously and relentlessly do anything to get a rider off their back. They buck, rear, kick, bite, and jump in an effort to dismount their rider. At their sneakiest, they run close to a stone wall or tree, so that the rider's legs would be crushed or she would be scraped off if she did not jump off first.

Nothing to it. Just stay on the pony. How easy is that? I actually became pretty good at my job. One day, I was breaking in a beautiful chocolate-colored Welsh pony. By this time I was a seasoned pony breaker and quite used to their tricks. After some initial bucking and rearing, most of them ran wildly towards the jumps in hopes that I would slide off their back. This didn't faze me in the least because I was quite proficient at jumping.

This time, however, the brown beauty headed away from the jumps and sailed over the corral fence."No problem, Welshie, I'm still with you,"" I whispered in a soothing voice, trying to calm him. I admit I was a little nervous because I had no way to steer or stop him. Nor did I know where he was taking me. I hoped not into the Central Avenue traffic. Maybe I'm going to have to ride Welshie the whole 41-mile length of the Aqueduct from Croton to New York City before he submits. As it turned out, my pony had a far more treacherous idea than that.

In a variation of the standard leg-crushing trick, (or maybe because he just wanted to go home) my mount galloped fast and furiously toward the pony barn. The door of the barn was small and the jamb was just high enough to clear a pony's head. An adult would have to stoop to enter. And, of course, a rider would get knocked off by a full frontal collision with the barn wall above the door. I think the pony knew this and I certainly knew it. I was terrified for the first time in my pony-breaking career. I had a few seconds in which to decide if I would rather take the hit or jump off a pony galloping at full speed. I decided to jump. Then everything went black.

I came to lying on the sofa in the caretaker's cottage. The caretaker gave me a cup of tea and a plate of cookies. Sam and the stable hands were there with me. They all cheered and applauded when I opened my eyes. After I finished my tea, Sam asked me to get up and walk around. I guess he wanted to make sure I still could. Sam was so nice that although I had failed to break in the feisty Welsh, he told me that I still got to name him. I named him Devil's Food Cake because of his rich chocolate coloring. Sam even gave me a ride home that day so I didn't have to walk. Devil's Food Cake eventually got broken in (not by me), became sweet and well behaved and was a favorite of all the young riders. Everyone called him Devil for short.

My pony breaking career came to an end after my failed attempt with Devil. Sam apparently decided that the work was too dangerous for a seven year old and hired someone else for the job. My successor was a retired professional jockey. I still got to name the new ponies, though, and I returned to ride at the stable every afternoon after school ...

wild horses couldn't keep me away.

Paint on,
Depingo

Mc LAUGHS

If only I'd used a Quo Vadis planner, I wouldn't have so many loose ends!

Mc LAUGHS

And how can we help you today?

Like Man

AT FIRST BLUSH I EMBRACED FACEBOOK in its entirety, believing that it was a brilliant networking system and an efficient way to get people writing the English language again. I soon realized, along with the Winklevoss twins, that I, too, have a bone to pick with Facebook.

In addition to casting aside many of his personal chums, Facebook founder Mark Zuckerburg has also cast aside the deferential Yes Man, replacing him with his updated counterpart, Like Man.

Most people are not really communicating as much on Facebook as I had originally thought. Many Facebook "friends" instead have become Like Men. A Like Man simply presses the Like button to approve the content of a post, which is supposed to suffice as a response .

The now-obsolete Yes Man was a person who agreed with everything that was said or done. He endorsed without criticism every opinion or proposal of an associate or superior. Look at Jim Carey, the quintessential Yes Man in the movie of that same name. Yes, Yes Man-Jim, you too have been replaced. I understand, however, that you are making a comeback in the upcoming movie, Like Man. Well, yes to that, man!

In addition to Like Man, the shopworn hydrogen-high Smiley superciliously floats around Facebook these days. Smiley frequently lands sideways alongside some pseudo-pithy communique like a spirited cheerleader inspiring happiness for both the writer and recipient of the post. Though overshadowed by Like Man, Smiley's grin is even wider now because he has been elevated to emoticon status. No matter how spare and small he might be, he is happy to have avoided the fate of his contemporary, Yes Man.

Here are some sample Facebook posts with Like Man's responses:

My grandmother just died a horrible, agonizing death and left her entire estate to my brother - LIKE :)

Japan is having a lot of trouble right now; people are breathing in radiation dust - LIKE :)

I found a delicious recipe on Goop using truffles excreted by endangered pigs - LIKE :)

I lost my entire life savings in the stock market and am now homeless and hungry - LIKE :)

I went blind applying copious amounts of mascara in a failed effort to look like Heidi Klum - LIKE :)

A dog bit me but the doctors think they might be able to reattach my finger so that maybe I'll be able to paint again someday - LIKE :)

Depingo never says WTF, but in this case, I'll make an exception–WTF! The above posts require attention, thought, compassion, empathy, insight, creativity, composition and grammar...not a mindless Like :)!

And forget about art posts! When I share a painting on Facebook in hopes of receiving constructive feedback, I mostly get Likes. I would rather get the ubiquitous, overused-within-an-inch-of-its-life "awesome," (a word I refuse to use or even acknowledge). That's how much I dislike Like.

And speaking of "awesome," what kind of button does Facebook have for Valley Girls? Is there a special one labeled "Like, Like?" Or do they have to press "Like" twice, followed by a question mark?

I conclude in Valley Girl speak. Like, man? I liked writing this post? It helped me to, like, vent? And I have a, like, question? about my, like, post? for Like Man? . . . . . .

Like? :)

Paint on,
Depingo

Shenanigans

TOP O' THE MORNING TO YOU! (Whew, made it by two minutes) Just want to wish you all a Happy St Paddy's Day.

May all your greens come true
And be of the right hue!

Paint green,
Depingo

Mc WORRIES

Bummer. Shredder's on the blink again!

Seven

 























THE NUMBER SEVEN HAS A HISTORY of being useful for mankind. The cognitive psychologist George Miller wrote a famous article in 1956 about our capacity for processing information. His thesis was that the amount of information or numbers which people can process and remember is often limited to seven, (plus or minus two.)
Of course, seven is not really a magic number. But it really does get around. Many things come in sevens: the Seven Deadly Sins, the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, Shakespeare's Seven Ages of Man, Seven up, the Seven Seas and the Seven Dwarfs. Seven is also probably the most popular number. Studies have shown that when asked to pick a number from one to ten, most people will pick Seven.

That's six examples of the ways that seven has been invoked over the ages. There are more, but I am stopping at six because I know from reading George Miller that our digital span is about 7 and I want  readers to be able to remember the most potent use for the number 7. I learned this some years ago from my boss, who used to remind me of it every day when he came back from his seven-mojito lunches. He would invite me into his office, where I would actually have to witness him ask God to grant him the power to get rid of a rival senior partner. He earnestly, if tipsily, prayed that if God did this one thing, he would never ask for anything else. My boss didn't want much–just to be able to dial his enemy's telephone number and when he answered, press the number seven to cause his instant death. By the way, I was being paid an extremely generous salary to listen to this. (I might add that this is why I do not like working for others.)
I wondered why my boss had picked seven to do his killing for him. I started doodling to see if I could understand his choice. I discovered that if I slant a 7 to the left, it looks like the scythe that the Grim Reaper slings over his shoulder. If I draw it upside down, the top could be the blade on a guillotine. If I draw it obliquely, its point could be used for piercing like a spear or arrow. A seven is indeed more frightening than the well-rounded 8 or 3, or 0 with cozy interior space .
I rooted for my boss for a while because I felt this would be a good power to have. With some direction from me, and the right telephone numbers, we could get rid of much of the evil in the world. But then I thought, I can't believe I'm doing this. And I am an enabler for even listening.
So, one day after one of my boss's repetitious afternoon rants, I calmly did my duty. I returned to my office, dialed his extension and then...pressed seven.
PS. If you don't like this post, please don't  seven me.

Mc MARCH

Twitter Haiku

DO THE TWAIKU - a rhyme, a dance a rant - it's new!

17 syllables + 140 characters - (not a few) - 4u

Grok?* No? Sorry. Boo hoo.

__________

*Wikipedea definition: Grok means to share the same reality or line of thinking with another physical or conceptual entity. Robert A. Heinlein coined the term in his best-selling 196l book Stranger in a Strange Land to mean to understand so thoroughly that the observer becomes a part of the observed - to merge, blend, intermarry, lose identity in group experience.

*Depingo's definition: Grok means, "Got it!" Geeks and techies use it all the time.

Grok on,
Depingo

Mc WORDS' WORTH

"Why do they call them briefs?"

Postcard from the Sea of Life - Villas by the See

WOW! WHAT A CRUISE!

I was impolite and I committed murder. Murder is one thing, but I still couldn't believe I actually said "Get the flock out of here!" to the marauding Sulu Beloix- even if they were going to eat me. To celebrate remaining alive, I was sipping a glass of wine on the deck of the Ergo when I got dizzy, fell, struck my head on its bow as if I were a bottle of champagne, and passed out. Depingo overboard!

Apparently I fell into the Sea of Life, because when I regained consciousness I was being towed at a decent clip by my faithful dog, Bella, who had jumped in and saved me. My yacht was nowhere in sight.

While floating through the refreshing, restorative azure waters, I figured out that my carnivorous "friend" Sulu must have doped my Sauvingnon Blanc with a dose of animal tranquilizer, so that I would be manageable when she and her flock carried me off to be their main course.

I was nowhere near the Ergo, nor could I even see it in the distance. Bella seemed to be towing me with a purpose in mind, though, and soon we came to a multifaceted jewel–a lush, sparkling barrier island with colorful villas right on the beach. I determined we were off the coast of Fort Lauderdale because the Ergo had been heading back to NYC when I took my swan-dive. Even so, it didn't look like any location in Florida I had ever seen before. In fact, it had the look of Tuscany. The villas were pretty, lyrically designed three-story-high dwellings right on the beach. There were none of the ubiquitous homely, white Floridian high-rises in sight.

Bella and I finally reached the sandy shore. I was happy to lose my sea legs and find my land legs still in good working order. The village had a curious name–Villas by the See. The apparent misspelling of the word "sea" struck me as an interesting play on words. I fell in love with the island and the villas instantly. I usually have trouble making up my mind about almost anything in life, but in this case, everything was crystal clear. I was certain that this was where I wanted to live for the rest of my life.

Bella and I went directly to the Villas by the See sales office. Within a few minutes I had a six-figure deposit wire-transferred from my bank in NYC to the developer and signed a contract which promised another hefty payment at the closing, which was scheduled for the next week. I was absolutely enchanted that I was going to live in this charming village. Bella was excited, too, because they allowed dogs. The home I bought was the lovliest of all the Villas, a penthouse right on the beach, overlooking the Atlantic and fully furnished with tasteful, unusual furniture. All I had to do was move in–no shopping or any such prosaic activity.

As I wrapped up the paperwork, I could see Captain Sum, who had finally caught up with me and Bella, anchoring off the beach. He knows me all too well, so he knew for sure what I was up to. But instead of being happy for me, he looked a little nervous, maybe even irritated. He told me that I should not make impulsive decisions. I told him we could talk about it as soon as I finished measuring the coral reef sofa. I wanted to make sure a painting of mine I had in mind to hang over it would fit.

Something strange happened as I was measuring that sofa. Every time I measured it, I got a different result. The sofa seemed to be measuring smaller and smaller. Was the coral reef shrinking? No, it couldn't be. I was probably hallucinating as an aftereffect of the header I had taken against the Ergo's bow. Then I noticed another peculiarity. The villa's marble floors were curling up, turning blue, forming waves and rapidly getting pulled into the sea by a powerful riptide. I had an excruciating headache by this time, couldn't concentrate and nothing was making any sense. I had had it! I ordered Captain Sum to measure the coral reef sofa, or at least what was left of it, for me.

Resigned, Captain Sum took out a tape measure and started measuring the sofa. He, too, couldn't get the same measurement twice. I also noticed he was now knee-deep in foamy turbulent water and was shivering. "Cold feet!," I thought, "Captain Sum has cold feet!" I was standing in the very same water and my lower appendages were foot loose and fancy free. Eventually the sofa got so small there was nothing left to measure. Then my new home, which I loved with a passion, and the entire village became blurry. They began to undulate as though I were viewing everything through a sheet of water. My beautiful villa was being chipped away by the lapping waters of the incoming tide as if it were no more than an oversized sand castle. In a matter of minutes, Captain Sum, Bella and I were left standing on a sparking, sandy island somewhere off the Florida coast with nothing on it at all, except that curious hand-painted sign, Villas by the See.

Captain Sum, with the I-told-you-so look in his eye that he frequently adopts in situations like this, led Bella back to the Ergo. I noticed a couple of circling sea fowl following him. "Cashpoor!, cashpoor!, cashpoor!," they squawked. I called to the Captain and asked him what the avian commotion was all about. " They're just taking cheep shots at me," he replied.

Before returning to the Ergo, I studied the sign for one last time. The cryptic name of the Villas suddenly became all too clear to me. I got it! I knew why they called it Villas by the See ...because

Now you see it, now you don't.

Paint on,
Depingo

Postcard from the Sea of Life - Still Life

MURDER IS NEVER EASY. Sometimes, however, it is justifiable. Let me tell you my side of the story.

I am sure you can imagine how upset I felt out on the Sea of Life when Hard Drive failed. I still had not fully recovered from almost having become Depingo stew for the culinary pleasure of the flesh-eating Sulu Beloix when Hard Drive became corrupt! I had already had enough near-death experiences to last a lifetime and didn't want to endure a corrupt Hard Drive or corrupt anybody around me. So I simply killed him.

That's right–shocking as this must sound, I murdered Hard Drive. Furthermore, I enjoyed it. Sadistically I removed him from his life support, Mac, spun him down, and sat there watching him. He struggled and sputtered until with a final mechanical...I would even go so far as to say comical... burp, he expired.

I am sure, dear readers, you will forgive me. It clearly was either he or I. I had to kill Hard Drive. Any court of law in the Sea of Life would find that it was self defense! I hated Hard Drive for becoming corrupt and I knew his slothful ineptitude would eventually kill me. There simply was no excuse for his bad behavior. Still, he had given me many years of faithful service before he went bad.

I didn't want a dead body on the yacht. So I gave Hard Drive a conflicted sentimental kiss, placed him in a toile-covered box, tied a bow around it and ordered Captain Sum to anchor The Ergo off the nearest island. My dog Bella, my cat Blossom and I disembarked with my Still Life (dead Hard Drive) and made our way to a tropical rain forest. Birds perched on a branch above us, chirping Chopin's Funeral March in birdsong. Blossom delivered a eulogy of sorts, saying that she had always enjoyed sleeping on top of Hard Drive when he had lived in Mac and thanking him for the warmth he had provided her during her frequent naps. Bella dug the grave, but had to be cautioned not to have too much fun digging. I placed a marker, a DVD, on the grave. After the interment we solemnly made our way back to The Ergo.

No hard drive feelings on my part. I hope Hard Drive's corrupt soul rests in peace.

Paint on,
Depingo

Art and the Hostile Takeover

I WAS VERY SORRY TO READ the obituary of Joseph H. Flom, Esq. in today's New York Times. I knew him professionally and worked with him on art projects for the firm with which we both were affiliated. To clarify that, he was a senior name partner and I was a midlevel employee.

Mr. Flom was a brilliant lawyer who perfected the hostile corporate takeover. But more important, he was an artist. That's how our paths crossed. He worked on the 35th floor of the building on the telephone masterminding billion-dollar deals, while I labored on the 42nd floor for what worked out to $45 an hour, drawing editorial illustrations and cartoons for the SASM&F Newsletter.

His obituary referred to the firm's "lawyers in thrall to Mr. Flom as they would try to decode his doodles." These doodles, which were amazingly controlled and complex, were always rendered on lined yellow legal pads in ballpoint pen. My drawings were done with a fancier pen, but they too started out on yellow legal pads because that was what was available. Remind anyone of the caves at Lascaux, where one of the cave dwellers discovered that various pigments could represent life? Even if not, I believe it supports my thesis that art and life are one–or fungible, as Mr. Flom would say.

Unlike his acolytes, I never had to think about decoding the hidden messages in Mr. Flom's doodles. I knew they were art the moment I saw them. I wanted to incorporate these beautiful "doodles" in my art, asked him for permission, and Mr. Flom agreed. Coincidentally, the drawing I recently chose for the header of Depingo Ergo Sum is one that incorporates one of his doodles under the baton. I chose it for its lyrical quality, which reminds me of music.

Goodbye, my doodling art friend. I enjoyed making art with you. I would like to make art with you again sometime–just not too soon.

Paint on,
Depingo

Postcard from the Sea of Life - Dancing with the Sulu Nebouxi

FLIGHTS OF FANCY! Went dancing with Sulu last night.

Sulu took me to meet her flock, the Sulu Nebouxi, who are beautiful and fascinating! They seemed very interested in me too, but said I was a little skinny. (I wondered why they cared.) They invited me to a dance that was to take place on their sacred grounds that evening. I asked about the dress code. They chirped, "Pretty dress." But they did mention that in order to dance with them, I had to eat all afternoon because they wanted to fatten me up. They also mentioned that I should rub olive oil all over my body.

When I came back for the dance, they were all very colorfully dressed and quite jolly. I frankly don't know why they bothered with the costumes, as their natural plumage is gorgeous. They were also sporting fanciful headdresses and masks with human features painted on them. They could never fool anyone with those masks though, because they had to poke holes in the middle, from which their long yellow beaks protruded.

To tell the truth, I felt kind of underdressed in my little blue Ralph Lauren. The dance they taught me was sort of like a line dance, only done in a circle around a cauldron just about the size of me. It was raised up on a bonfire, with boiling water and herbs in it. I danced around it with them for a bit. One of them put a few sprigs of rosemary in my hair, saying it went great with my outfit. Another kept offering me garlic to hold under my tongue, saying it was an excellent breath freshener. I drew the line at the garlic. I have standards for my breath!

They asked several times if I had remembered to rub the olive oil on my body. I said they were so nice to share their beauty secrets with me and that I felt really glowing. Just when everything got going and feathers were flying, one of them chirped, "Wait a minute–Depingo–she too thin to dance." The music stopped abruptly. The Sulu Nebouxi told me to go back to our yacht, eat as much as I could all the next day, do the oil rub again and return the next night for a continuation of the dance.

This was just a little weird for my taste. I didn't feel like stuffing myself; the olive oil had just about ruined my dress, and I didn't feel like dancing with them anymore. So the next night I stayed on the ship.

As soon as it got dark, I heard chirping. It kept getting louder and louder. I peeked out the porthole and couldn't believe my eyes. The Sulu Nebouxi–the entire flock–were descending on my yacht. I did what I had to do. I opened the porthole, leaned out, and putting all pleasantries aside, bellowed,

"Get the flock out of here."

Paint on,

Depingo