Banksy's Rat Shows Up in Haight/Ashbury This Week

Banksy's iconic rat in San Francisco, 2010. 

I watched a documentary recently about graffiti art, and it's current hero Banksy. His visit to San Francisco in 2010 caused a sensation, albeit a brief one. His iconic image of a rat in the Haight/Ashbury neighborhood was cut out by an investor who wanted to save it from the building owner's paint brush. When the owner threatened to paint over it, or get fined by the city, the investor/savior stepped in and paid to have it safely boxed up and removed. He stored the work in pieces, in his apartment closet.

My question was, of course, "who the hell invented spray paint, anyway?" 

A paint salesman from northern Illinois is to blame. No Ed Seymour, no spray-painted rat. Seymour owned a paint company and had an aluminum coating for radiators he wanted to sell. So like most salesmen, his wife stepped in and told him what to do. She suggested a makeshift spray gun. So, in 1949, Seymour mixed paint and aerosol in a can with a spray head. Suddenly, Banksy's mother must have felt a twitch. 

After Seymour grew a business overnight manufacturing spray equipment and selling it to the auto and industrial-machine markets, the home-furnishing industry took notice. Rust-Oleum and Krylon stepped into the mist.  And by 1973, Big Spray was producing 270 million cans annually in the U.S., according to the Consumer Specialty Products Association. U.S. spray-paint manufacturers produced more than 412 million cans last year.

All of this is to point out the obvious: when you get stuck needing to sell something, ask your wife.

This past week, the Haight/Ashbury Rat reappeared above the Red Victorian, 1665 Haight St. It's hard to keep a good rat down. It's been reported a fake. Evidently it was created by two Banksy fans using a projector.

Banksy's rat, after being removed from it's Haight/Asbury home in 2010..

Five Reasons I Became an Artist, According to Hemingway

I read an interesting passage this morning in Michael Reynolds’ book, “Hemingway: The Paris Years.” As an artist and writer, I like the idea that Ernest hung out with local artists in Paris during the 1920s when American artists outnumbered their French counterparts.

“Hemingway was never a major collector of art, but he bought some extraordinary paintings, finally owning five Massons, an enormous Miró, a stunning Paul Klee, some Fernand Léger sketches and two oils by Juan Gris –paintings now worth at least two million dollars. He may not have been ready for Modernism when he first arrived in Paris, but he learned quickly, buying well with Hadley’s money.
 He not only bought art, he also admired the lives of the artists, their apparent freedom and their ability to deal directly with reality. He admired their life styles, their colorful, paint-spattered clothes. He drank with them in the cafés where they joked with models who earlier that day stood naked, posing in chilled studios. Painters, he saw, remained the local heroes of bohemian life, and from his close observations, Hemingway adopted some of their public behavior for his own persona. At Café du Dome, where, despite the new gaudiness, local painters collected out of habit, Hemingway took his place as one who understood their art and could speak of it easily.”  (Hemingway: The Paris Years, Michael Reynolds)

I’ve often wondered why I love being an artist. What is it about the life of an artist that so attracts me? The painting, drawing, creating stuff? I think Hemingway touched on a few reasons:

1. “apparent freedom” The greatest feeling in life is that moment when you really feel free, unimpaired, without constraints, open to all possibilities and opportunities, with only yourself as master. This “apparent freedom” comes with a cost. But most artists do what they do because they desire to be free and want to express themselves in a personal way.

 2. “ability to deal directly with reality” The job of the artist is to confront reality. They have the responsibility to interpret it, look at it from different angles, manipulate it, control it, change it. An artist has to confront his demons, not ignore them. They must deal with life head on and face whatever consequences come along. They put themselves on public display risking criticism and praise.

 3. “lifestyles, their colorful, paint-spattered clothes” Art is a messy business. A lifestyle based on the fluctuations of income and success are offset by the freedom to be real, authentic, and personal. I remember the day I decided that paint on my clothes was a calling card, a sign that I was a painter.

 4. “heroes of bohemian life” The “bohemian” person in 1920s Paris was considered a kind of gypsy, an unconventional, free-thinker, usually living in poverty and unconcerned about what anyone thought about them. They were free to live outside the “norms” of social provinciality. A bohemian would never be found sitting in an office cubicle, working 9 to 5, with an hour off for lunch.

 5. “he drank with them in cafes where they joked with models” Artists are essentially loners, but loners who need each other. We do like to socialize. I guess it’s because we spend so much time alone. Writing is a horribly lonely profession. An artist is usually working alone for hours in the studio. Part of the attraction of the artist lifestyle is the ability to work alone. So it’s no surprise that hanging out with each other at a cafe is a necessary distraction.

The Canadian Jordan B. Peterson: I Think I Like This Guy

When I heard Jordan Peterson say, "Don't be afraid to speak your opinion," I had to listen. So many people are afraid these days to say what they really think, (unless they are on Facebook.) His take on the idea that words matter and language is what binds a society together is a fundamental truth.

I began doing some research on Peterson and watching him on YouTube. Not all Canadians are silly, and I found this guy quite entertaining, smart, and opinionated. It's refreshing to see someone with a point of view who is able to express it and stick by it.

I've been watching his YouTube video "12 Principles for 21st Century Conservatism" and I admit I'm liking what he has to say. His bashing of radical leftists is on target and amusing. He's no idiot.

He makes the point that the assumptions we have about Western civilization are valid. Who among us wants to live in an Eastern environment under leftist regimes? Anyone buying a plane ticket to Syria to join ISIS? Western thought and culture is popular for many reasons. Peterson outlines twelve of these assumptions in his video. Good stuff.

Let me just mention the first "assumption" he discusses. Western civilizations value the individual. This assumption is valid and one of the reasons we Americans celebrate July 4th each year. Radical leftists hate the individual and value only the group. This has profound implications in how we view the world. The only thing that matters to the radical left is the group. They espouse individual rights only as long as it promotes the group. Black Lives Matter, for example, is a movement for the group, not the individual. Have anyone espouse an independent individual opinion that questions the group, then watch the fireworks begin. The survival of the group is what matters, not individual rights.

Peterson is on target here. In Western civilization, individuals matter.

Stop Setting Goals? Here's Another Approach to Getting What You Want

Setting goals. I've always disliked setting goals. I think it has something to do with control, and my unwillingness to follow the mainstream. In many ways I am a contrarian, a person who relishes in taking the opposing view. If I'm told to go right my immediate question is "what if I go left". I have never liked being told what to do, and I know this can be a problem. In the past, when goal-setting has come up, I've always resisted it.

Then a few years ago I read a book "Stop Setting Goals" by Bob Biehl. His approach is to solve problems, not set goals. He says eighty percent of the people around us dislike setting goals, and if given the choice they would stop doing it. He gives us permission to stop goal-setting  and not feel like we are "second class citizens."

One major problem with setting goals is that most people won't do it. They don't believe it works and have been disappointed with their attempts in the past, so just give up. You say "set some goals" and they roll their eyes. "Been there and done that." Then they feel like something is wrong with them, like they are subhuman. If you ask one hundred people to set a goal, eighty of them will ignore you. 

Biehl breaks down the statistics this way, when you ask a team or an individual to set a goal:

• 80% won't do it, have tried it in the past, failed, and won't try it again
• 15% will do it, they love setting goals and like hitting preset targets
• 5% won't care one way or the other, they are opportunity-seekers and rely on instinct and will never set a goal no matter how hard you try to convince them to do so

Many people are problem-solvers, not goal-setters. They like fixing things, solving puzzles, finding solutions. The problem-solving approach for them makes more sense and frees them from the guilt of not being a goal-setter.

Another approach I recently came across about setting goals involves fighting the "culture-scape" that says goals are somehow magical and necessary in order for you to get somewhere. How can we get anything done without setting a goal? That is a "culturally-induced" question, supported by Western consumerism and capitalism. To fight the culture of goal setting we have to change our thinking.

Ask yourself these three questions, to change your mindset when considering goals:

• "What do I want to experience" in my life?
• "How do I have to grow" in order to experience this?
• "What can I give back" to my community and fellow human beings?

Asking these questions will help us focus on the things that are important, crucial to becoming who we want to be. Instead of setting a goal, you ask "what do I want to experience?" This is an "end", not a "means." It is a result you desire, not a step you must take. Instead of saying "I want to lose 50 pounds", you say "I want to be healthy, and live a long and productive life." Then you consider how you can experience this in your life. How must I grow, what must I learn, who must I seek out to help me? And most importantly, you want to help others, too. How can I give back and serve others who also need help? A goal of losing 50 pounds is a "means" to an end. An approach that focuses on the "end", not the "means", is more motivating for some people and allows them to de-emphasize the importance of setting "means-type" goals. 

If I were to take both of these approaches, Biehl's problem-solving approach and the experience-based approach, and mix them up like a tossed salad, how would that help me accomplish things without setting goals? I'm not sure. It's something to consider. 

Creatures of Habit: Like Me, He Likes His Place at the Coffee Shop

I see him almost every day. When I walk into the coffee shop he is sitting alone with book in hand reading some obscure text. Middle Eastern philosophy, intellectual works I can only guess about. I would guess he was a professor, now retired. He often takes notes on a small pad. He has an iPad, too, and surfs a bit online from time to time. Today he is reading "Kant's Critique of Judgement."

I have never talked to him. Some morning I may meet him. But if he is like me, he just wants to be left alone with his books and thoughts. More than likely we will remain strangers. Which is fine.

I see him every day. Today he is reading Kant.

I have seen him some mornings walking to the coffee shop. He is the first one there and sits at the same table. Like me, he is a creature of habit who likes his place. My place at this particular coffee shop is near the door, next to some book shelves with the windows to my back. I can crack open the window when it gets hot and take advantage of the cool breeze that blows northerly toward the coast. I like my spot. When its not available I sit as close to it as I can, then make my move when it's vacated.

This older man, I'm guessing he is at least 70-years-old, is reading some heavy stuff.  "Kant's Critique of Judgement" (also translated as the "Critique of the Power of Judgement") is a 1790 work by Immanuel Kant. It's often referred to as the "third critique," following the "Critique of Pure Reason" and the "Critique of Practical Reason." The first part of Kant's critique of judgement deals with aesthetics, which is important to me since I'm a writer and artist. Kant discusses four possible "reflective judgements": the agreeable, the beautiful, the sublime, and the good. Deep, thoughtful, intellectual. This guy is obviously a lifelong learner. I am going to make a judgement about this man: it's good, even agreeable, to see an elderly man still reading classical philosophical works. What an inspiration!

I'm no longer a young man. I'm not exactly "elderly" yet, but I can see the years going by quicker and some day I'll be a 70-year-old artist and writer sitting in a coffee shop somewhere having a latte. I hope to God I have the ability to still read a book, to stretch my mind.

When the Bullet Hit My Chest I Knew I Was a Goner

I've done some stupid stuff in my life. My friends and family all said I was a daredevil, usually finding a way to add some danger to an otherwise boring life. For example, I once jumped off a roof into the swimming pool. I've always come out fine. Not even a broken bone.

But this latest incident was a killer, literally. It all began when I met Monalisa and fell in love. We both liked doing stupid stuff together. It was a shared nonsense and funny way to express ourselves. So when I mentioned to her that we should open a YouTube account and become famous, she was all for it. Man, if we could get 300,000 followers I'd throw a party and we both would be rolling in the cash! YouTube makes it possible for anyone to become famous and get rich.

We started off by doing dumb stunts. I'd climb a tree, find a weak limb, crawl out on it and then fall on my ass as Monalisa filmed it. Then we would slice together some scenes from our life together and interweave into these dangerous antics. Fame is only a few months away. That's what we thought. Our YouTube channel was our path to making it to the big time. Others have done it. Why not us?

I told Mona we needed to up the ante. Really do something spectacular. I owned a .50-caliber gold Desert Eagle pistol. What kind of stunt could we pull of with a gun, I thought. Then it hit me. Shoot myself.

I found a really thick book at the library, about an inch and half thick, and decided it could work. I placed the book on a chair in the backyard and shot a bullet into it. Sure enough, the bullet penetrated a few inches but failed to go all the way through it. The size of the hole was huge, some pages torn all to hell, but mostly the bullet just came to rest inside.  So my plan was going to work. I told Mona about my idea. She at first thought I was nuts, but when I showed her the book with the bullet hole in it I was able to convince her it would work. Followers on YouTube would go ballistic, I told her. Just think about the views we would get!

Here was my plan. We set up two cameras to record different angles of the stunt. I would hold a book, at least an inch and half thick, up to my chest. Mona would shoot me with my gun, point blank, about a foot away. We record the entire stunt and post it to our YouTube channel. What a laugh we would have. Watch our Follower numbers go through the roof. Man, I am pumped!

So, here I am now, wondering what the hell was I thinking. Everything was working great. The cameras were all set, Mona had the gun. After a couple of false starts (Mona was a little afraid at first), she raised the gun and pointed at me. I tightly held the huge dictionary to my chest, a Merriam-Webster behemoth almost two inches thick. I told Mona, "Do it. It's okay. I've tested it. The bullet will not go through. Trust me." Mona hesitated for moment then smiled. I love her laugh, and knew this was going to be great. I was excited to be sure, but confident. She raised the gun and pointed the barrel at dead center, right at the middle of the thick leather cover of the dictionary. And fired.

They say when you die you don't remember much about the loved ones you leave behind. That would be too sad for dead people. It would be much better if we were immediately transported to some beach, with a beautiful blue sky and bright sun, a real paradise, a place where you were present in the moment, and didn't think about the other place, the place you just left. But I know different. When you die a senseless death, for no reason at all, you are just left alone. Empty. When that bullet hit my chest I knew I was a goner. Now I'm dead and don't know why.

(Pedro Ruiz, 22, died this last Monday evening, when his girlfriend Monalisa Perez, 19, shot him in the chest. The stunt was filmed for their YouTube channel. She was pregnant with their second child.)

Pedro Ruiz III, and Monalisa Perez.

Automatic Writing, Stream of Consciousness, and 500 Words

I've been reading about Ernest Hemingway's early years in Paris before he became a big-shot. Gertrude Stein was a big influence. She encouraged him to try "automatic writing", the writer lets the words flow from the brain like drops of water onto the paper without regard to meaning or sense. Just let the words that enter your head land on the page.

I was reminded of Jack Kerouac. Kerouac had this way of letting a "stream of consciousness" take over and guide his writing. He would write a paragraph that might go on for pages, hundreds of words flowing out of his mind, often making no sense.

I have also played with this idea. It can be a lot of fun. So today, I'm going to write 500 words "automatically" and see if I can tap into a stream of consciousness. The setting for this exercise is a local coffee shop. I have head phones playing instrumental music, mostly from movie soundtracks via Pandora.

Here goes.
______________________________

Music in my head. My fingers typing, making mistakes, using the Delete. Why the hell can’t I type? People reading, drinking coffee, looking bored. A lady with a blue scarf, no, actually they have turned and it’s a kid, huddled together with another kid. Smart phone. Giggling. School is out. The shade just hit me in the shoulder. Warm. Buzzing noise. Breaks letting their air out. Trucks nearby. A Pepsi truck at the red light, turning, followed by a van with some kind of landscape materials. It’s cooler today. Not so hot. Shifting. Eyes. Shadows. Turning pages. The smell of muffins and burnt coffee. Someone needs deodorant. I hope it’s not me I smell. Music coming and going, beats. Movie soundtrack. I think I’m getting tired. Really? More words. Get the damn words down. Itching. My eyes watering. What the hell? Hard to think. Mom. Where is she? Hemingway said to believe in yourself. Yea. No one else will. Hard to think he was once a twenty year old who had doubts but could at least write. He knew he had to promote himself, take care of himself, believe in himself, because no one else would. Not even Hadley. She had her own issues. She looked after Hem, but still no one can care for you better than you. What was it like living in Paris. I want to go. When can I go? Is it safe? Why not? Find the right time of year so the weather doesn't kill you. Maybe stay there a year. Hem stayed there, but traveled too much. He was barely in Paris the first two years. Just traveling. He and I have some things in common. I was also a journalist, learned the newspaper writing craft. I also like to travel. He was also a fake, like me. At times I feel like a fake. Hem was always playing a role. Me, too. Can anyone really be themselves with another person? Not really. We are alone. No one but us. We are it. Shoes. The floor, twinkling with light and shadow from the morning sun. The feet cross over it, disturbing it. Clutter. My mind is cluttered. 500 words. Almost there but I shouldn’t care. Keep going. What is next? Silly. Goofy. Are people looking at me? I hope not. Leave me alone. All I want is to be left alone. Let me work. Don't mess with me. God people are messy. That lady is eating and chomping her food like a horse. Calm down. Coffee smells pink. Red. Yellow. Horns in my ears. Smiling. Laughing. Coughing. Gagging. The smell of toast or maybe eggs. What to do. Lots to do. Fingers. Lady looking for papers. Dressed in green pants, sweats. It’s too hot for sweats. Keep going. What is my brain telling me? Greys. Black. Artwork. I need to draw something, paint. Studio. Need to work. Money. Earn some money. Who needs money? I like money. Who doesn’t. We must have it to live. Done

(502 words)