The Bunker is a Mess

As I look around the Bunker all I see is a big mess. Boxes piled up in the corner with cobwebs, paint brushes stuck in jars, tubes of oil paint stuck to the shelf because they like to leak, paintings still hanging on the walls undisturbed by months of apathy, trash everywhere.

I hate moving.

The Bunker is my studio in Marin County. It's the size of a one-car garage, finished out nicely by the owner who originally wanted to lease it out as office space. A narrow staircase leads to a basement I use mostly as storage space. It is amazing how much junk a person can collect. I had no idea moving the contents of the Bunker was going to be such a hassle. 

The idea of moving is never fun. It is well known that relocation is a top-three stresser for people, right along with death and taxes. So I know it's going to be a major headache.  

The junk is piling up. I hate moving.

The only saving grace behind a move is that it provides an opportunity to fill up a dumpster with unwanted junk. That tennis ball I saw in the parking lot, which I thought at the time would be a nice desk ornament, goes to the dumpster. The used artist stool, en plein air easel, and ugly second-hand frames are being tossed. The dozen large burlap coffee bean bags I collected from the coffee shop I will keep; they are like works of art, after all. I try to keep in check my tendency to collect junk. It's clearly not working. 

To make the move easier I rented a small storage unit. Storage facilities are creepy. When you visit, it's like entering a mausoleum. Cool, quiet, calm, eerie. We all collect junk we will never use. I think most people are hoarders. They don't admit it. Like me, they hate moving, too. Storage units are junk magnets. 

I'm glad I have the time. Moving is hell when you are under the pressure of having to meet a deadline. I have a three week window to get things done. Time is on my side for a change, if I don't waste it. Tomorrow I'll make another run to the storage unit and hope I have room for that old soccer ball I found while walking a trail in the foothills of Mount Tamalpais.

Seven Things I Learned From My Battle with a Hornets Nest

I spent three days with a hornets nest this week.  Here are seven things I have learned.

1.  Be prepared before going into battle.

Just above my doorway, behind a porch light, in the small hole leading into the netherworld between the exterior siding and the wall boards, I hear them. Buzzing. Thousands of hornets are building a condo inside the wall near my front door. I can hear them moving in. They began attacking me a few days ago as I left the house, swarming around my head. I hate snotty neighbors.

The field of battle. Persistence paid off and I survived.

I knew a fierce battle was about to begin.  I had a can of spider spray I used recently to kill a black creepy crawly thingy in my basement.  I used the remaining spray on this new threat, but evidently spider poison is like dessert to hornets. The buzzing continued. I was pissed. Be warned, spider spray will not kill hornets.

2.  He who hesitates may get stung.

I made a trip to the store and purchased a spray can of RAID hornets and wasps poison. "That will kill the little bastards!" Returning to the field of battle I began to spray the buggers, but forgot to twist off the safety nozzle. Nothing happened. As I hesitated, trying to figure out what I was doing wrong, they attacked! I ran inside the house, slamming the door, cussing my pathetic show of force.

3.  Strength in numbers does not guarantee success.

After twisting off the safety nozzle, I practiced a shot of spray by taking target at the trash can. Yes, it's working now! I'm ready to go back on the offensive. They have me outnumbered but my secret weapon, a spray can full of poison will take them out. You may have more men at your disposal, but I have the fire power.

4.  Watch your ass when fleeing the scene.

Satisfied I was winning the battle, if not the war, I turned to leave. A soldier hornet assassin decided to take revenge on me and targeted my left ear. I slapped the little buzzer but it got away. "Get the hell out of my ear you little fuckterd!"

5.  Spies may live among us.

I won a massive and decisive battle, killing most of the invaders. However, to clinch the victory my plan was to caulk up the hole and seams of the exterior siding, effectively closing off any remaining hornets cowardly hiding behind the wall. It wasn't easy. I had caulk all over the wall and my clothes. I went inside the house to clean up. A very angry hornet followed me in, taking a seat on the rim of my trash can. Die, sucker! "Say hello to my little friend," I said, as I sprayed the hornet with what seemed to be a gallon of wasp poison.

6.  Size doesn't matter.

Bees, hornets, wasps, flies, mesquitoes. I hate them all. They can do a lot of damage. How can things so small cause such problems? I'm not worried about the large dangers in life, like getting hit by a bus or struck by lightening. I'm concerned about the smallest of things. A cancer cell can be really scary. Hornets can all die a painful death, as far as I'm concerned.

7.  Persistence wins battles.

I'm reminded once again that persistence is the key to overcoming most problems. Giving up should never be an option. Also, remember spider spray is only for spiders.

The Idea of Time: How Do You Perceive Time When Looking at Art?

I came across an interview with Christian Boltanski the other day. Boltanski is a French sculptor, photographer, painter and film maker, most well known for his photography installations and contemporary conceptual style. He brought up the concept of time, and it’s influence on art.

“Being a painter means speaking with visual things. But it’s also interesting to note the difference between filmmaking and painting. The question of time is the thing here. When you watch a video piece (or painting) you can stand there for two seconds or two hours—there’s no beginning or end and you can move around while you’re doing it. When you see a film, on the other hand, you sit there watching it from beginning to end. In films, novels, and music there is always this issue of time; when you’re looking at a static image, there isn’t that progression.” 

The idea of time. It raises questions. Film has a beginning and end. Painting does not. I might stand before a painting and study it for an hour, or walk past it after a few seconds. Reading a novel, though, requires an investment in time. Watching a film takes time, too. Films, music and novels have a beginning, middle, and end. The dramatic structure is based on Three Acts, with an arc of movement that progresses over time. A painting is different. It just exists in its own space and time, without past or future. It just is, hanging there on the wall. How does our perception of time influence the way we perceive art? Has the perception of time, the way people use their time and perceive it, changed since the rise of the Internet? How has it changed? Are people less patient?

The study of time in the sciences is continuing. Research is underway to study how we perceive time. The use of language is important. Studies have shown that the words we use, the language we speak, influences how we perceive time. (It could also be the other way around, the perception of time in certain cultures is reflected in their language.) Different languages frame time differently. Swedish and English speakers, for example, tend to think of time in terms of distance—what a long day, we say. Time becomes an expanse one has to traverse. Spanish and Greek speakers, on the other hand, tend to think of time in terms of volume—what a full day, they exclaim. Time becomes a container to be filled. These linguistic differences, according to a recently published study in the Journal of Experimental Psychology: General, actually affect our perception of time’s passage.

I’m interested in how time is experienced in the observation of a painting. Studies suggests that our perception of time is based in memory (Thank you, St. Augustine. Augustine postulated that when we measure the duration of an event or interval of time, it is in the memory.) The assumption is that we measure time by remembering what just occurred, providing a reference for what is happening in the present. “How long have I been staring at this painting? About five minutes? I remember when I first started looking at it. I am now still looking at it. I think it has been about five minutes.”

 All of this makes my head hurt, but it also makes me think: some paintings grab my attention in an instant and won’t let me go. I have to keep staring at them. Conversely, some paintings fail to make an impression on me and I keep walking, never giving them another thought. “Not wasting my time looking at that!” On Instagram and Facebook, this becomes even more profound.
As I’m scanning paintings online, which ones make me stop?

 This brings me to the Internet, and how images of art are perceived online. What images make an impact and stop a viewer in their tracks? What images fail to register at all and barely get a glimpse? Is art perceived differently online than in a gallery or museum? Let’s assume a certain painting in a gallery immediately impacts a viewer and makes them stop cold, forcing them to take a longer look. Post that same painting on Facebook. Does it have the same impact on viewers? How important is context, the venue, the set up, of the art?

I assume people walking into a gallery or museum spend more time looking at art, than they spend time scanning images on Instagram. Perhaps in a gallery, your painting has 1 to 3 seconds to get someone's attention. On Instagram, you have tenths of a second, maybe less. We need more research in this area. As visual artists, we need to know the best way to display our work online, and in the gallery, in order for our paintings to have the impact we desire. Time is of the essence. When viewers online scan thousands of images per second, how do we get their attention?

I also wonder what role memory has in the perception of art, and how it impacts the amount of time a viewer looks at a piece of art.

The Best Advice May Be: Don't Take It

I"m not sure how I feel about self-help books. I've read my fair share. Giving advice is a billion dollar industry and the Internet has made it that much easier for marketing the "how-to" book.  I like reading them. As a writer and artist, the books, web sites, blogs, YouTube videos and social networks provide a lot of information to help me do what I like to do: write screenplays and paint pictures. 

But I can only take so much. What am I really learning?

Alexander Woo, writer and co-executive producer of HBO's True Blood (2008), who is currently working on a series for AMC, suggests "throwing away the book." Maybe he's right.

Sometimes I feel overburdened by advice-givers.

The danger is watching all of those YouTube videos and reading all those blogs is that we might become burdened with a lot of baggage. Our minds may become saddled with systems, techniques, and methodologies like a donkey dragging a cart full of goat dung. I mean really, do we need all the advice?

Naturally, I'm giving advice here: watch out how much advice you take. The hazards of advice-taking are enormous.

The reality is we are unique. I am not like you. I am not like Picasso or Stephen King. I am me. I have my own ways of getting the job done. You do, too! Sometimes we might need to just toss out the self-help book.  Why not watch El Capo on Netflix instead of a YouTube video on "painting like the masters?"

I like what Alex told me, "Instead of seeking out what works in the minds of others, find out what works best for you." We all need motivation. We need to learn new skills and study our craft. However, no one knows me better than me. Right? I like writing and drawing in a journal, for example. That's one way I like to organize my thoughts. You may be different. You might hate the idea of journaling. We have to find our own path. 

We are encrusted by years of advice. Like lumps of clay stuck to our brains, we have been told how to do things right. It's time to free ourselves from the burdens of others telling us the best way to achieve success. No best way exists. It's a myth. 

What matters is my way, my methods, my work ethic. I have to discover for myself the best way to achieve a level of success that is right for me. If I have any advice to give, it's this:  take whatever I write or say with a huge grain of salt. Find your own way.

I Had a Doozy of a Dream Last Night

Dreams can be very strange, as you know. My dreams have overtly weird the last few weeks. I usually don't remember details, but lately I taste them, feel them, live them for a few moments after I wake up. It's odd. I'm not a person who normally remembers his dreams.

The reason may be my diet. I began a lacto-ovo vegetarian diet on June 1. It's a vegetarian diet with dairy products and eggs allowed (I like my cereal and omelets). For the last forty one days I've eliminated meats and sweets form my daily meals and I'm starting to take notice. My sleeping has deepened, my dreams becoming more intense.

I had a doozy of a dream last night. The details were noted in my iPad immediately just after waking up. I didn't want to forget it. These are my notes, just as I wrote them:

white van
blocked path bikes
lawn chairs to the right too narrow , branches left took the right path, cleared the debri
house...can't get the van through the house won't throughbthe kitchen garage door too narrow
we are st u.k.
what to do finally hit me...either go back the way we came, walk out and abandon the van or blast our way through...we can rebuild the house later we were going.
to tear a door down but a mechanical device working the garage door was in the way so we saw it wouldn't work
we did all three, some were sent back, some walked out, i decided to blast my way through
we were preparing to blow the house when i woke"

The dream-narrative went something like this. I was in a white van with a group of men and women. I was with a woman, someone familiar, we were a couple. I remember flirting, touching, arguing. Other couples were with us. The middle of the road ahead was blocked by foliage, thick brush and trees. To the right side, the path was blocked by a bicycle and stacks of lawn chairs. To the left, the path was open but too narrow for the van to pass. Tree branches were hanging down and blocking the way. I tried to drive through the narrow path but the van began to scrape the sides.

(I told you this was a doozy.)

We cleared the right path of the bicycle and debri and continued on. Instantly we were inside the garage of a house and the van was going nowhere. We tried to figure out how to drive the van on through the house. I saw the kitchen and asked, "Will it fit? Can we go that way?" "Not possible," the woman said. "The door is to narrow."

In my dream, my last decision was to blast my way through the house.

Then, one of the men was going to tear down the garage door to allow the van to move on. But I told him it would not work. I showed him the black piping and mechanical works of a gear system attached to the garage door. Tearing the door down won't help.

We were stuck.

At this point I remember thinking, "But we really aren't stuck. We have options. We can either go back the way we came, or abandon the van and walk out of the house and move ahead, or we can blast our way out." Since this was my dream, and I was the one making the decisions, I told the group we were going to do all three things at once. "Some of you head back the way we came. Some of you start walking ahead. I'll blast our way out."

That's when I woke up.

I'm going to state the obvious lesson here, and the reason I wanted to take note of this dream. Whenever we see our path blocked, and we feel stuck, there are options:  we can go back the way came, move ahead by abandoning our current method of travel, or we can blast our way through.

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.