Information, Advice and Old Man Pants

Back in my day, we didn't have no internet. And by my day we're talking mid to late nineties. You'd be correct to point out that that statement is an outright lie as the world wide web was certainly a thing back then, but I'll counter with the fact that it just wasn't the same. In the years of my schooling, and for many subsequent, you could feel yourself aging as images downloaded a pixel at a time and appeared magically from left to right, top to bottom. If there was video content to speak of, it was certainly not the kind of thing that mere mortals could view with their substandard connections, and primeval, hamster-driven machines. There was email, of course, and there were chat rooms and webpages, but what hadn't really happened yet was the explosion of content out there for artists and art enthusiasts alike. There were no blogs, no demo videos, no podcasts or streaming content, and there certainly weren't extensive message board threads about the type of paint someone used, what Daarken's digital brush settings are, or how I don't know anything about the anatomy of creatures that don't actually exist.

What did we have to work with? Why, let me put on my old man pants and tell you!

While all those things listed above were certainly to come, my search for information about how other artists did things was limited to books (many of which were long out of print and thus difficult and expensive to find), obscure films that you were lucky to stumble upon a thrice budded VHS cassette of, and actually cold calling people and asking them directly. There was occasionally a lecture or live demonstration here or there, but there just wasn't the wealth of information so readily available like there is today.

At this point I pull up my old man pants and point at you meaningfully (even though it isn't polite) as I say that I hope you all appreciate the opportunities this goldmine presents. I'm happy to be living among you, late to the party in some ways, early in others, enjoying the sheer wealth of information about many of my heroes and how they won so many of their canvas duels.

But there's one thing that has begun to nag at me. The information didn't come alone. No. Uninvited, it brought along its idiot cousin as a plus one. That idiot cousin is free advice.

Now, I'm willing to take much of the information out there at face value — after all, why would someone lie to you about using a number two round dipped in a mixture of Cadmium Red Light and Yellow Ochre?Seriously. What's in it for JoJo down at the shopping mall to lie about using an airbrush to make all those t-shirts he sells? I just don't see the angle. But all those opinions out there? All that free advice? Excuse me while I get my bucket of salt, some waders, and a shovel.

Without further ado, here's some advice about that advice.

Do Some Research

I know this may seem obvious, but it's kind of important to know a little about who the advice is coming from. Figure out whether they're worth your time, what their motives are, and whether there's actually some aspect of their work that's applicable to you. For example, were I looking for oil painting tips I'd be unlikely to go to someone who works digitally. This isn't a prejudice against digital work, mind you, as I'd be just as unlikely to consult a water colorist. And if it's a bigger issue of artistic fundamentals you're looking to solve (like composition, drawing problems, or visual communication issues), it helps to turn to someone whose sensibilities and qualities have something in common with your own — which is not to say that you should only be looking to people who do work that looks exactly like yours. Indeed, the illustrators I turn to have work that looks nothing like mine, but there are underlying threads that keep our work in the same ballpark. Similar approaches to solving problems, similar interest in story telling, etc. That synchronicity automatically makes any opinions they share more effective, as I understand better where they're coming from.

Don't Settle

While potentially overwhelming, the untold quantity of advice mines also give you the luxury of choice. As you sift through your options, it's important to remember not to settle for advice given by artists who are at your level or only marginally better than you. Sure, you might like that one piece that JoJo down at the mall did, but like an art director once told me, "everyone has one good piece in them." So what's the rest of JoJo's work look like? Why not look to someone who has a whole portfolio of good pieces? Pieces that you think are beyond what you could ever hope to achieve. And while we're at it, how about someone with a whole portfolio of good pieces and a decent amount of experience and has made a career of it? The point is, don't skimp. You don't have to. Sure it can be intimidating to contact someone you don't know, and sometimes it takes a while for these total strangers to get back to you, but it's better to wait for advice from a professional who knows what they're talking about than it is to get your instant two cents from JoJo.

More = Better

So you've ignored me and insist on going to JoJo for all his artistic ravings — I understand, he has a wise face. That's one opinion and one opinion is good. You know what's better? Two opinions. Or even three! Hearing more than one thought can help patterns emerge and can also help solutions become clearer. Plus, not everyone is going to pick up on the same things, and you might end up with multiple issues to address. While this seems like a headache, it can also help your work improve multiple times over, and in a far more compressed period of time.

Look, it's never a bad idea to get opinions from multiple sources. You can't determine the direction of a line from a single point, so it always helps to find another point...of view. See what I did there? (I hate myself for writing that). But seriously, it's a lot harder to get to the truth of things from one person's opinion, and gathering insight from more than one source is going to give you a lot more options, and may even counter-intuitively help you hone in on the best answer for you.

Have the Salt Ready

There are a lot of folks out there spouting off on their blogs like it's the gospel as told by the illustration god, Illustrut, himself. They shout with their conviction and dazzle with neat pictures and large, bold typography. Heck, JoJo is sporting a whole cart that's got a big sign on top of it. Clearly these kind of things and the fact that they've been paid to illustrate at some point make all those guys experts and they obviously know more than you. Right?

Ahem.

Perhaps not. The most important thing to remember about advice is that it's just an opinion. Sure, it might be based on facts and experiences, and sure they might be working illustrators, but such things do not turn their wisdom into a law chiseled in stone by Hammurabi*, himself. Advice can apply to you and your work, and it can also be pretty far off base, so it's vital to learn to take in what applies and ignore the rest. Part of making art is having intentions and making real choices. You know what you're trying to do better than the person giving you advice, so be sure that adhering to some of that advice doesn't betray those intentions and choices in some way.

Which brings me to my final point. While I've dispatched some advice as well as a fair amount of information about my work and process on this blog of mine, everything I've passed along has been based on my own experience. What knowledge I've provided is what worked for me, nothing more. I've also tried to include what hasn't worked whenever pertinent. Much of the advice I've given is pretty general. Indeed if you go from blog to blog looking for the secrets of life and illustration you'll note that the advice often is. There are themes of hard work and perseverance woven throughout, and many universal truths are present that you just can't get around. But remember, it's the internet, and the internet is still the Wild West. Any idiot can express their opinion half-intelligently and sound like they know what they're talking about — which includes me, by the way.  

Still, I'm a big proponent of getting help on the fundamentals and then figuring the nuances out for yourself. The building blocks of what we do, while largely comprised of repetition, are often molded by other hands. A slight nudge here, a slap on the wrist there, not to mention the meticulous study and outright thievery of the work of our heroes. The big ticket items are what I go seeking information about and look to others for advice to improve. But deciding what brush to use or what colors to mix? That's all trial and error. Sure I've taken advice on that stuff, but it was me driving the bus and deciding which passengers to let on. I'm just as likely to drive right by. Remember that it's the oddities of process, the quirks, the mistakes and hiccups along the way that make our artistic endeavors our own.

So go out there and seek that advice whenever you need it, but arm yourself with a shovel of your own, and don't forget to leave some time to actually paint along the way.


*  Survey of Art History 101 for the win!

Steve Vs. Pests

Amy and I moved into the house in January.  Judging from the range of noises in the walls, it became obvious early on that we had a mouse problem.  So I began to take care of it to the best of my ability.  I caught a few, likely poisoned some others, but found that the scritching and scratching heard nightly didn't seem to change much.  Because of this, my landlord hired an exterminator.

The exterminator was a snide little fellow who cut me off every time I tried to talk, contradicted me at every turn, and was here for about twenty minutes, the first fifteen of which he spent criticizing me for how our furniture was laid out, with the remaining five spent haphazardly throwing poison blocks around the attic.  Both his attempts at insulting me and at exterminating pests failed.  The noises continued.

So I started to look around the house to see if I could find a point of entry and maybe at least cut down on any traffic in and out of the place.  Amy and I spent an afternoon filling holes as best we could in hopes that we might get some sleep.  That's when I noticed the holes in the ground along the fence.  Now, I'm not the kind of guy who can identify the species of animal just by looking at the hole they make.  All I knew is that they were big enough for me to put my entire hand inside, so it couldn't be mice or chipmunks.  I also noticed there was an awful lot of garbage in my backyard, and not my garbage, either.  Tin foil, peanut butter jars, pudding cups.  My neighbor, upon seeing me puzzling over this new detritus quietly came clean.  My neighborhood had a bit of a rat problem.

Now, I don't want you thinking that I'm living in some third world hovel.  I live amongst the bridge and tunnel crowd — the kind of people who could afford to live in Manhattan, but chose not to.  It's extremely suburban and to say that the yards around here are immaculate would be an understatement. 

If all that's the case, how the heck did rats make this area their home?  No one's certain.  What is certain is that there's been a lot of construction in the area.  Three houses within a two block radius have had overflowing dumpsters parked out front for months at a time as additions have been put on and remodeling has occurred.  The rats could have taken a free ride in one of the dumpsters and found themselves smack in the middle of our 'hood, or they could simply have been attracted by the lunch leftovers the construction workers have lackadaisically tossed into the dumpsters each day.  Whatever the cause, they're here.  Add a mild winter into the mix, and you've got yourself a problem.

As soon as I told my landlord about the rats, she called in a new exterminator who quickly went to work the very next day.  This new exterminator was a woman who took her time to listen to everything I had to say, was willing to get dirty, and had nothing to say about our decor.  Within seven days of her first visit, Amy and I were busing dead rats out of our backyard.  And over the next couple weeks, the rat holes became increasingly decrepit and are now clearly abandoned.  Progress has been made.  While our own property seems to be rat free, it's wise to remain vigilant as many other homes have been affected.  Each time the same thing happens.  So worried about the stigma of having rats, people end up keeping the problem from their neighbors until it's too late.  It's unfortunately already had a negative affect on some neighborly relations in the area, and could also lead to their return.

All the while, the noises continued in the walls at night in one form or another.  Over time, they've stopped in all but one location: a small section of the wall immediately behind the headboard of our bed.  Like clockwork, the rustling begins just as we are trying to fall asleep.  Unless, of course, it's warm out.  Should the temperature stay above forty degrees or so, it's largely silent throughout the place.  So it would seem that our mystery critter has been coming in and huddling next to the heating duct for warmth.  Mind you, the basement and attic have been inspected very thoroughly by myself and three different exterminator techs.  While we never found any sign of rats inside, there was once clear signs of mice, but no more.  The smell of uneaten peanut butter from all the various traps fills my attic, and still nothing.  No animals caught in months, and whenever it's cold outside the noise continues.

So, if it's not rats and it's not mice, then what's keeping us up at night?  The finger next pointed to squirrels.  I honestly didn't see how this could possibly be the case as squirrels supposedly do a lot of damage and leave behind very pungent odors, and we have neither of these and no hole.  Like I said, I've spent a lot of time searching for entry points into the house, and I've never seen anything that pointed to squirrels.  Well, except that gaping hole the size of a fist in the side of the place that I completely missed after two months of looking.  It took five minutes of the animal control expert from the extermination company to see it, and I felt like a pretty big idiot.  Obviously he didn't want to close the hole up straight away, just in case something was inside at the time.  What he decided to do, instead was to stuff some steel wool in the hole and see what happens.  The steel wool plug is in there nice and loose, and he figured that if they were inside they'd push it out.  If outside, they'd push it in.  Point being, we'd see some evidence of the comings or goings, and after getting this new evidence, a one-way tunnel would be affixed to the house so they could get out, but not back in.  A week after this visit and the steel wool remains untouched.  The noise continues.

As of right now, no one is sure what's in the wall.  My landlord is game for opening the wall up as a last resort, and I feel like we're getting to that point.  In the meantime, one other action has been taken.  When we moved in, three pine trees lived in front of the house.  Each was taller than the house itself, which is two stories, and one was situated a mere eighteen inches from the facade.  My landlord felt the critters what live in our wall might be climbing those trees to get to the second floor, where the noise is located.  And obviously she was also worried about the house's foundation and such.  Two days ago the trees were cut down.  While our tree free front yard resulted in more light in the studio, thus far it hasn't affected the noise.

Between earplugs and sheer exhaustion, I've learned to sleep through the racket.  Our cupboards remain pest free, the living space continues un-invaded, the attic and basement still show no sign of visitors.  At this point I'm willing to call it a draw.  Since the trees were felled, I have not seen a squirrel anywhere on our property.  I periodically see a chipmunk or two (their burrows are on the opposite side of the property from those of the rats), an occasional rabbit or two stops by in the evening, and all kinds of birds frolic in what trees remain.  Those at least have left me alone.

Except, of course, for the chickadee that I saw fly out of a hole just above one of my studio windows yesterday.

Sigh.

Of Anniversaries and Other Holidays

I'm way behind.  I was hoping to get a few posts in recently, but both of our schedules (mine and Amy's) have conspired to keep me from having more than a few random moments' peace and I've chosen to utilize that peace for things other than this blog.  Namely making some headway on prep work for a personal piece which would create more interesting (hopefully) content for this here blog of mine.

The point is I've been a little out of touch and I chose today to write for a couple of reasons.

The first and most important reason is because this is my eleventh wedding anniversary.  Amy and I have been together for close to fifteen years total and this date, while not a round number, feels pretty important.  Our lives are in a fair bit of turmoil to be sure (what with Amy being out of work and all), and despite the stresses and chaos surrounding everything I must confess that we're still incredibly happy.  I like to think that I'm Amy's biggest cheerleader and I can say with authority that she's certainly mine, so it should be no surprise that we've settled into a fairly low level of worry which is buttressed by routine and an ever growing search for our next step.  Still, I feel it worth noting that I'm insanely lucky that someone would be daft enough to put up with my outbursts, generally grumpy disposition, impending baldness and occasional need for reassurance to stick with me for so long.  Either Amy sees much that many do not, or she's projecting a lot that isn't there.  Time will reveal all, I'm sure.

I'd continue on about how awesome Amy is and how great things are, but all that has an audience of one and I've got a bit bigger a theme to talk about.

Back in college, I had an illustration professor who assured me that at some point birthdays, anniversaries, and all the major holidays (including but not limited to personal, discretionary, bank and federal) would become meaningless.  He was of the opinion that the things that typically tie a person's schedule together (the days of the week and whatnot) begin to blur together in such a way that even those days which stand out will eventually become moot to illustrators as we are enslaved to the deadline.  In his mind, before long we would work through Christmas, sleep an all-nighter off on our birthday, be busy making revisions on our anniversaries and never notice.

Ten years into my career, I must confess that I have certainly painted on Christmas.  I have slept off a hard work of week on my birthday.  And I will be pushing paint today on my anniversary.  But as I am now my professor's age at the time he shared this opinion with me, I am happy to say that such a fate has not befallen me. 

What my professor spoke of was the danger of being an illustrator.  It is a possibility of what may happen, but I believe that it needn't come to fruition.  While I have certainly put in many hours on such days, they have never stopped meaning something to me.  And because I continue to cherish them, missing some of those days can hurt quite a bit.  But if I wanted my life to be pain-free and easy, I would have chosen a profession other than freelance illustrator.  (Of course, which other profession I might pursue is an impossible thing to say as so many professions seem to share this problem nowadays).

So how does one avoid those standout days from eroding into the background of our daily grind?  I think it helps to account for them as much as possible, and to accomplish that I think the key is balance.  Easy to type, difficult to achieve.  The work doesn't go away and the deadline still looms, but so do these important days.  How different illustrators deal with this issue varies.  Some just always keep a six day work week with one mandatory day off.  Others will just sacrifice when necessary, take the time off and do the all-nighter to make up for the lost hours if need be.  Still others keep vampiric schedules where they work while others sleep, sleeping little themselves.

Personally, I don't have a lot of answers.  My schedule while seemingly regular, varies in unpredictable ways.  Even if it were regular, paintings can sometimes unravel, last minute changes can be requested, and plans can be ruined.  It's one of the biggest downsides of the business.  Still, I try and adjust my schedule as much as possible, take the days off that I can, then deal with the fallout as it happens.  But I'm lucky — I have Amy's understanding and support.  If things fall apart, we'll arrange alternate days off and celebrate later if need be.  The dates begin to mean less, but the days themselves never become meaningless... if that makes any sense.

Though I can't honestly say that I've achieved true balance, I continue to strive for it.  And striving is necessary.  Otherwise, I'll never even get close.  Still, I know a lot of folks out there struggle with this kind of thing.  My biggest hope is that they find a system that works for them, and I hope they get the support they need while trying to find it.

Finally, I hope that you all — even in some small way — feel as lucky as I do right now.

Cheese Platter 7

•My parents always spoke of a barber from their youth whose quality of haircut depended on the amount of alcohol he'd consumed.  Contrary to what you might think, the more inebriated the barber was, the better the haircut.  I'm sure, however, that there was a point that the scale started tipping in the other direction.  I'm sure beyond a certain level of drunkenness the quality of haircuts had to start deteriorating.  Unless, of course, the barber in question was able to maintain a buzz all day long, which I guess he managed to do considering that he stayed in business.  My own barber, so far as I can tell, is more a talker.  If you can get him to talk about marathons, the sport of running in general, the Red Sox or politics that lean towards the right, you're guaranteed a good cut.  I have to fake it with all four of those topics as none of them really interest me.  However, there is a delicate balance to shoot for, as I learned about yesterday.  You don't want to get too deep into a conversation with the man because he just keeps cutting and cutting and cutting until the conversation ends.  My hair is the shortest it's been since my Mom gave me a buzz cut in elementary school.  It's a good cut, just really, really short.

•I have an irrational fear of my garbage disposal.  This is the first time I've ever lived in a place that has one and there's a part of my brain that is positive that I am going to cause myself grievous manual harm.  This wouldn't be much of a worry if the switch for the disposal wasn't where the over-sink light switch has been in every other place I've ever lived.  There is no over-sink light switch in our current place, so the way I see it my eventual hand mangling will go down like this: something will need to be retrieved from the disposal unit and I will stick my hand down there.  In an attempt to shine more light on the situation, I will flip the switch unconsciously thinking it is for the light, and voila: nubs for fingers.  Of course, I know it prudent to unplug the unit before sticking my hand in it, but I still can't shake the fear.  Surprisingly, however, the fear has not featured in any of my recent nightmares.  So, I guess that's a good thing.  I'll be well rested when it all goes down.

•In my backyard, there was once a shed.  During what was an unusually snowy winter, the shed's roof caved in due to the accumulated weight of the snow.  I expected the contents of the shed to be tools and lawn equipment, but it turned out to be mostly furniture which was unfortunately ruined.  Last week, my landlord showed up with his daughter and dismantled the shed.  He waved me over after finishing one day and proceeded to ask me what I'd like him to do with the additional yard that had been created by the now-absent shed.  I had expected him to just buy a new shed and put it there, but clearly he wasn't going to bother.  Instead, he wanted to know whether he should put a garden in, a patio in, or just seed the bald patch of earth and make the yard that much bigger.  I was a little befuddled.  It's not my land, you see.  It's his.  I bounced the question back to him reminding him that it was his land to do with what he wanted.  I'm not really sure we'd need a patio as we have nice a covered porch.  A garden would be great in theory but neither my wife nor I have been gifted with green thumbs.  More back yard would be easiest for him, I explained, and would likely be the most versatile option as well.  He thought about it and seemed satisfied with my conclusion.  So now, we have 33% more backyard.  And also the nicest landlord I've ever had.

Catching Up With New Work

Our move to Boston has continued to be something Amy and I are really happy with.  Though we're only now entering our fifth full month as permanent residents, things continue to go smoothly and we're pretty happy in our new home.  Despite all this joy, life has not been kind to either one of our families over that same time period.  A lot of death, a lot of sadness, and a great deal of disappointment.  There have been times where Amy and I both have felt like Cerberus' chew toys, and the repeated punches in our mental and emotional guts have left us a little worn and weary.

Nevertheless, we are alive and kicking.  We continue to do what needs doing.  We manage to keep moving.  The blog, however, has suffered.  A bit.

I've been trying to write some stuff recently but distractions have been many and severe, and I'm finding certain stories I want to tell difficult to nail down.  Perhaps I'm aiming a little too high with some of these things, but that's always been my nature.  In the meantime, I figured I'd pop in and write a few words to bring things up to speed.

I'm going to go ahead now and make a couple announcements then close with a new piece.  First, I will be at the Magic Grand Prix in Providence, Rhode Island next month, along with fellow artists Lars Grant-West, R.K. Post and Ryan Pancoast.  I can't say whether any of the other guys will be bringing paintings, but I'll have a few, and I'm sure there will be prints and proofs available all around.  Should be a nice event and I'm looking forward to it.  Secondly, I am still headed to Japan in June.  As long as Wizards plans on having the Pro Tour event there, I will present to support it.  Joining me will be fellow artist Mike "Daarken" Lim.

Further details on the above events will appear on my site's news page as we close in on their respective dates.

Here, now, is the newest piece spoiled officially by Wizards of the Coast for the upcoming New Phyrexia Magic set:

©Wizards of the Coast

I can't tell you what it's called because they haven't released that info, but they did at least spoil the image.  As soon as that bit of info has been released, this guy will end up in the gallery on my site.  I don't fancy leaving him untitled until then.

Well, I'm off to finish up the voluntary changes on one painting and make a go at completing the unfinished second take on the Badass cover.  With a little luck, I'll be able to start that personal piece I was talking about at the beginning of May.  I shall keep you all posted.

Cheese Platter 4

•If there's a profession out there that could really benefit from being exposed to more art, it's plastic surgery.  And I'm talking about everyone from the surgeons themselves, to the designers of the various implants used.  I question, quite frankly, whether or not some of these folks really know what a human being is supposed to actually look like.  After all, their patients often end up looking like hand puppets made from fat trimmings stuffed into a nylon stocking with lipstick smeared where the mouth is supposed to be.  I've seen potatoes that didn't tread so deeply into the uncanny valley.  Perhaps all involved should be forced to prove that they are able to successfully sculpt a face before altering a real one.

•Why can't we have one universal cord that plugs into everything instead of a specific one for each and every electronic device?  For a world that's increasingly cordless, I feel like I've got more cords than ever.  Here's an idea, stop making new cords, throw some money and bodies at the problem.  Preferably bodies with intelligent heads attached to them.  Then come back to me when you've come up with the perfect cord.  At least if you go that route, I'm covered with the cords I've already got until that perfect cord finally comes along to replace them.

•I remember mail often being the highlight of my day in college.  This was before email was so common, mind you.  It was really nice to receive a letter or postcard every now and again.  Every once in a while, there would be something unexpected waiting for me.  More often than not, however, I found my mailbox empty.  Or containing only a bill or two.  As the years have gone by, a disproportionate amount of the mail has become bills.  Gone are the days of letter and postcard writing, and many of those I used to keep in touch with in this way have passed.  Still, at least there are those wonderful days when I receive Netflix in the mail, and no bills.

Writus Interruptus

I'll be taking a last minute break on this blog starting tomorrow.  I need to go down to New York and do some work on my old apartment.  Not sure if I'll have internet access and such, and I'm not sure how much time I'll actually have to put towards this old blog.  If circumstances allow, I'll try and polish up something that's already written.  We'll see.

Anyway, the work I'll be doing will include but is not limited to: re-grouting the shower, filling nail and screw holes, and fixing water damage.

I'm also going to take the opportunity to see my accountant and deal with this year's taxes.

Hopefully I'll be able to pry some time in there to see some friends and hang out.  After all, my building won't let me make loud noises past 6:00pm, which means I'll have to stop working by then.  Sure, many of the activities I have to do are relatively silent ones, but they're the type of things that are sure to solicit loud swearing on my part.  While the swearing itself might not cause problems, the volume will.

With any luck, there'll be at least one more post this week.  If not, I'll be back next week with more stuff for you fine folks to read.

Steve Vs. Skiing

Before this past weekend, I had never gone skiing.  While I have had the opportunity to in the past, I haven't followed through because of a fundamental lack of interest.  I was (and continue to be) about as interested in skiing as I am in contracting the ebola virus.

Okay, that's a bit hyperbolic, but there's an element of truth to it.  There is certainly a school of thought that states that I should try it to find out if I like it or not.  While I understand where the students of this school are coming from, it still doesn't address that underlying disinterest.  I'm not interested in skiing, in the same way that I'm not interested in sky diving, spelunking, or reading Ayn Rand.  I understand basic elements of all of these things and much of what they entail, and that is precisely what makes me want to turn the page.

However, there is one small, nagging thing that kept me from completely turning the page on skiing.  And that small, nagging thing was my wife.  I know, I know, it's horrible to say such things.  But, she is small and she has been nagging me about skiing for over a decade.  You see, she likes skiing.  She's been doing it since she was a child.  She hasn't gone much in the years we've shared together because we didn't have the time, the money or, on certain occasions, I was holding her back.  And during our conversations on the subject, I would profess my lack of interest quite firmly.  Yet, years ago in a moment of weakness, instead of reinforcing my feelings, I made the mistake of promising to try it once.  Just once.  Thus the nagging began, and rightfully so.  I left the door the slightest bit ajar, and Amy kept trying to kick it wide open at every chance she got.

You see, we keep our promises.  With one glaring exception we hold each other to our word.  This glaring exception involves the purchase of a wedding dress long after a more casual affair had been agreed upon.  The compromise in that case was that she got to have the wedding dress, and I got to complain about it for the rest of our natural lives together.  I think we'd agree that this compromise worked out well for both of us.  Aside from this one instance, though, we do actually follow through.  And so I finally did this past weekend with my promise to ski.

This is how I found myself at Mt. Ellen, Vermont this past weekend, taking my first skiing lesson.  A lesson given by one of the strangest teachers I've ever met.  I want to take a moment and discuss how important it is to have a teacher that's a good fit.  While there are some excellent teachers out there in their respective fields, not all good teachers are right for you.  Teaching styles and personalities don't always jive.  I found this out the hard way in college, and I urge you to always keep in mind that it's okay to find a new teacher if the one you've got just isn't working for you...provided another teacher in available.  Which there wasn't in my case.  I was given a pretty lousy hand, in fact.

While I will not post his name or go into any physical description, I will tell you that my skiing instructor was just not a good fit for me.  He was really into Eastern philosophy, had his own vocabulary for things that were a complete mystery to me (and the seasoned skiers I quoted them to), and was just not someone who I could really meet on any level.  There was a lot of discussion about "going with the flow" and how snow was just another form of water.  There was not a lot of discussion on more academic things like how to slow yourself down or even how to walk uphill while wearing skis.  These things I learned more from watching and overhearing other instructors teach five-year-olds about ten minutes before my own lesson was over.  I heard them talking about "making a pizza" and seeing the kids' skis turn toward one another, making a wedge that resembled a slice of pizza.  I mimicked these lessons fairly successfully and was pretty happy with the progress I made in that least ten minutes.  Turns out I understand "making a pizza" but don't understand "going with the flow."

The other thing that I really felt held me back was that I was not issued ski poles.  I was told that I didn't get them due to my neophyte status.  Apparently folks are apt to use the poles as a crutch and develop bad habits if given them straight away.  While I understand this, there is one academic thing that poles assist in where I really could have used their help: getting up after falling.  Suffice it to say that I fell a lot, and the poles certainly would have been a useful tool in leveraging my increasingly heavy body into an upright position from relatively flat ground.  It turns out that repeatedly pulling yourself up from a prone position with skis attached to your feet can be quite taxing.  Though amusing at first, it got old fast and I can't help but think that having the poles could have prevented some of the falls in the first place, and made recovering from them a little easier.

These two factors and a couple of others that I won't get into made the two hour lesson among the longest two hours of my life.  Time has flown by faster while watching a Terrence Malick flick (I don't care which one — any of them).  The difference is that watching a Terrence Malick flick is more mentally exhausting, and repeatedly picking yourself up from a ski slope for two hours is more physically exhausting.  It took just two hours to completely use up the vast majority of energy I had that day, and I came out smiling not because I'd successfully learned to ski, but because it was over.  In fact, I think it's fair to say that I did not actually learn to ski at all.  I never made it onto the lifts, because I was unable to stay upright for any real period of time.

I've heard it said that in order for an activity to become truly enjoyable, you have to attain a certain level of proficiency at it first.  Gaining that level of proficiency at skiing is not really how I see myself spending my time, though.  Still, I feel like whether or not I attempt to ski again is up in the air.  Personally, I preferred how I spent the hour and a half after my lesson was over: eating lunch then spending some quality time drinking good beer and drawing on cocktail napkins at the lodge bar.   It was easier, more fun, and frankly far cheaper.

More Random Thoughts On My Germany Trip...

I've gotten a lot of odd looks here. Sometimes because people expect German to come out of my mouth, and sometimes when serviceable German actually does.

Random bruises accrued by Amy so far include a bruise on her finger from lifting beer steins at beer halls and a bruise on her arm where it makes contact with the bucket seat of our VW Golf when shifting gears.

The cathedral in Cologne might be my favorite cathedral in all the world. The exterior of it, anyway.

I realize now that putting the work part of this trip at the end was a mistake. But, if we hadn't, we would have had to cancel the trip entirely due to the obligations surrounding our upcoming move.

Seeing friends in foreign lands is a bit mind bending. Seeing foreign friends in foreign lands is less so.

Walking around a tiny village my Grandfather grew up in was a pretty cool.

It is impossible to walk three feet in the Rhine or Mosel valleys without tripping over a castle or the remains of one.

So far, the weather was only bad in Munich and Nuremberg. Everywhere else it has been lovely. I guess we just weren't welcome in those parts of Germany.

The Simpsons is still funny in German. Here they call it Die Simpsons, which makes me wonder about the Sideshow Bob tattoo that read "Die Bart, Die", which Sideshow Bob explained meant "The Bart, The". I'm guessing that that joke never really worked.

Spongbob Squarepants is also dubbed in German. The voices are all spot on. It is also aired at 11:30 pm.

Went shopping yesterday and saw various outfits suitable for cave people made of possible skinned Wookiees. Then Amy set her eyes on a nice green winter coat and stated that she like it, but would look like a leprechaun while wearing it. Me: Yeah, but you're MY leprechaun. I caught you and your gold is mine! Thankfully she found that funny.

The beer and wine and food remain good, if a bit heavy at times. As heavy as German cuisine can be, it is no wonder that pizza is so popular.

This is Amy's first trip to Europe without getting a cold.

Today I am off to Bochum and will spend my weekend drawing and chewing the fat with fans while playing Robin to Chris Moeller's Batman. I guess that makes Amy... Batgirl? Catwoman? That female Robin? She claims she's Commissioner Gordon. Whatever.

Random Thoughts On My Trip To Germany So Far...

I dislike being lured to a random place in the middle of nowhere only to be charged to use the only bathroom available.

I would like to fire all of America's driving instructors and replace them with German citizens.

There is a shockingly low number of red lights here... Probably due to the fact that German citizens know how to drive.

The food is excellent, though a little heavy at times.

The people are lovely and have put up with my butchering their language very graciously.

Castles are neat.

Two liters of beer is a lot for one sitting.

I really love pedestrian-only zones. I wish we had them in the states.

I do apologize for driving down the pedestrian-only zone in Heidelberg, though it turned out to be perfectly legal on this one occasion.

Actually, I didn't drive down it, Amy did. I can't drive cars with a standard transmission. I was still at fault, however (I was navigating).

I was not prepared for snow. But then again, neither was Germany.

The screen grab feature on the iPad has made printing maps out unnecessary.

Finally, the Astin Martin DB 9 is easily the most beautiful car I've ever seen driving down the road. While not German, I did see it on the autobahn, so it still counts!

The Magic event is next weekend. I will write about it after I get home. Plus, I'll probably gab on about the trip some more.

Stay tuned...

For My Lady

Ten years ago today, we got a bunch of people together in a room with an aisle down the middle of it, where Amy (wearing a doily on steroids) and I (wearing a rather dapper suit) exchanged a bunch of vows and officially got hitched.  There apparently was a party that followed this vow exchange ceremony — which we’ll call a “wedding” for brevity’s sake — but I have very few recollections of this party.  Not because I was inebriated or some such (in fact, I was quite sober), it was more that my brain was still processing the events that had just transpired.  Events which were easily the most life-changing things I’d been ever been through to that point next to being born (which is about as life changing as you get).

I’ve heard that the desert table at our little post-wedding party — which I understand is called a “reception” — was to die for.  I never saw it.  In fact, I never actually ate any wedding cake due to the fact that I was too busy talking to everyone and thanking them for showing up and sitting through what I believe to be among the most boring things people ever have to sit through (being weddings).  All the while, my brain just repeated “this is actually happening, this is actually happening, this is actually happening.”

You might get the impression that I had butterflies or cold feet.  Not the case.  I was excited as all get out.  I just never believed on some level that I’d ever be happy.  Like, permanently happy.  This is not to say that being married automatically makes me happy, but rather that being married to Amy does.  Sure, there have been rough patches.  There have been times when she should have run away screaming never to be heard from again.  After all, as many might guess I am not an easy person to live with.

To be sure, long before we got married Amy was warned by my family and certain “friends” of ours not to get involved with the likes of me (rest assured I know who you are).  But, boldly she ignored them all and stepped right into the heaping piles of the mess that is me and started digging.

I will get to the point.  I am a very lucky man.  I have been with Amy for fourteen years, we’ve been married for ten, and they have easily been the best years of my life.  She has raised the bar for who I am, and helped me to reach it.  She has been my biggest supporter, my greatest love, my best friend.  I cannot begin to thank her for all she’s done for me, nor can I repay her.  There’s just too much.

That she still is excited to see me when she walks in the door everyday is something I marvel at.  That she’s never done anything more than joked with me for my repeated breaking of the “good” wine glasses leaves me amazed.  That I can say anything to her, no matter how awful, and she continues to love me despite it, humbles me.  That we’ve never run out of things to talk about; that we can sit comfortably in silence; that she still laughs at my horrible jokes; makes me grateful beyond these mere words.

Truly I am a lucky man, and I wish that everyone were just as lucky.

Donuts At Knifepoint

A random, non-art related memory:

As stated before on this blog, I attended Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, NY. Pratt has the distinction of being one of the few colleges in New York City with a closed campus (as well as having the second largest sports complex in New York City, Madison Square Garden being the largest). The campus is comprised of 3 Brooklyn city blocks fully enclosed by an iron fence with only 4 total points of entry during the day and 2 at night. It was a relatively safe haven in what was at times a sketchy neighborhood (this is '94, I believe so I can't comment on the neighborhood now.).

I spent all four years there in a fairly typical dorm (2 as a resident, 2 as an RA), and during my freshman year, I got held up in the middle of campus. It was a friend’s birthday and I had made the cross campus slog to the C-Store (which was a small convenience store located in the only off-campus dorm building) to buy a cake. Lacking the required appliances to make a real cake, I was forced to settle for an Entenmann’s chocolate sheet cake and some candles. For myself, I purchased some Entenmann’s chocolate covered donuts.

On my way back to my dorm, while crossing campus, I noticed a group of 6 local kids hanging out (somewhat unusual as it was around 10:00 at night). I really didn’t think much of it until I noticed that they started to move towards me. By the time I realized what was about to happen, it was too late. I was completely surrounded by the six kids (all of whom seemed younger than me, but much larger). My eyes immediately began searching for one of the campus security cars, another passerby — anything! From where I stood I could see two of the school's security booths, but no roving cars and I was too far away to get anyone’s attention. Furthermore, the closest buildings to me were locked for the night. I was trapped.

Oddly, while the incident unfolded, I wasn’t in the least bit worried for my personal safety. I was more worried about what I actually had in my pockets. Fortunately, the only things I had were my keys and my meal card — neither of which would be of any use to them. No, I figured I’d be fine and had little to lose…until I saw the knife. The kid directly facing me brandished it with a certain level of comfort that finally brought home the reality of my situation.

“Give me your money.”

I emptied my pockets, showed him the contents and apologized for having nothing more. A guy behind me patted my pockets to be sure.

“All right then, what's in that bag.” He took the bag and looked inside. “Give me this cake then.”

At this point my mind split in two. One half was thinking how nice it would be to be alive in my dorm room having lost only a cake and a certain level of dignity. The other half of my brain was blown away by the situation and a little angry that these guys were stooping to holding me up for baked goods. Unfortunately, that’s the half that spoke.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t have the cake, it’s for a friend’s birthday,” I said. The intelligent half of my brain lost it. What are you doing? Why are you saying this? You’re never going to get the blood out of these pants!

Not surprisingly, the kids looked pretty surprised and irritated that I would argue. After all, they had the knife and the superior numbers. I was just some idiot from Pennsylvania who trusted that the security that his college loans were paying for would actually be somewhat effective. As it was, I had just made the situation worse, and I realized that I had to do something to placate them on some level and so the reasonably intelligent side of my brain finally kicked in with a stutter and added after a brief pause, “But you can have these donuts!”

The kids all looked around at one another having some unspoken discussion about whether this was an acceptable offer, and finally concluding (to my utter relief) that it was. They pulled the box of donuts out of the bag, handed the bag back to me, then opened the donuts. I can still remember the chocolaty smell wafting from that box and mixing with the smell of dead leaves on that fall night. I remember, too, the buildings and trees and leaf-covered grounds bathed in the pinkish orange light of the streetlamps and feeling so alone in what was the only truly dark part of the entire campus. And finally, I remember having the box of donuts handed back to me, still containing two donuts inside, seeing the knife disappear under the kid’s shirt and being told, “Thanks, and tell your friend we said ‘Happy Birthday.’”


*This story was inspired by Chuck Wendig's blog over at Terrible Minds.  Check it out.