Time Out For Robins

Earlier this Spring I noticed some bits of grass and litter hanging from the light beside our back door. Then something happened, weather turned cold for a few days and we didn't go in or out that way. Maybe we went out of town for the weekend - I don't remember exactly. But the next thing we knew the bits of grass and scraggly neighborhood debris blossomed into a Robin's nest. At first we were OK with the Robin and the Robin was OK with us but the Robin laid eggs which eventually hatched. We were OK with this as well, we had no interest in molesting the little hatchlings. In fact we wanted to see them grow up be successful Robins returning to our neighborhood every year to announce the arrival of Spring. Above our back door seemed like a nice safe place to nurture a successful individual of that sort.

Unfortunately the Mother Robin wasn't clear about our attitude toward her children. To her we were just a couple of large nasty alley cats scratching around back looking to prey upon baby birds.

At first, when ever we went in or out the back door the mother Robin would just fly over to fence and sit there letting out loud calls to the father Robin who was usually in the neighbors tree. I personally tried to assure her that we meant her and her new babies no harm however she continued to be agitated whenever we used the back door.

Eventually, a few days later after the babies had grown up some, she became aggressively territorial and would swoop toward our heads repeatedly while screaming. This was most disturbing.

The biggest problem was that my work table, the place where I work on my new paintings/drawings whatever you want to call them is outside, next to the back door right beneath the Robins nest. I have to work outside because the materials are toxic and I don't have a properly ventilated indoor studio space.

Well, to say the least it was impossible to work out there once the mother Robin became so violent. As I stated before, I never meant her or her babies any harm. She however, figured that the best defense was a good offense and wasn't letting me any where near her nest or consequently, my work table.

It was a rough last week or so. I occupied myself illustrating new International Robot designs rather than working on my toxic paintings due to the protective mother bird. For a time it seemed like we might never get our patio back and that I would never be able to work at my table. Fortunately young Robins leave the nest after about 14 days so everything worked out. Over the weekend they left. As soon as the nest was empty I took it down - Robins can lay eggs up to three times in a season and although I was willing to tolerate them once this Spring, I need to work outside and grill on the patio - I wasn't willing to go through that again.

Above is one of my tar pieces, the first one in fact. I gave it to my Mom for her birthday.

New Work!

The warm weather is finally here allowing me to work outside. My new work involves a lot of stinky tar and oil paint. I'm scraping through layers of paint onto tar coated boards and heavily primed canvas to create textured linear images more in step with drawing than painting. I'm really excited about this new medium. It feels like something I've been searching for. For the first time my pieces are resembling the things in my sketch book; crude, linear and textured.

Working like this encourages spontaneity and the pieces are piling up.

The Beach At Frankfort MI.

When the ice on lake Michigan breaks up and gets blown to shore it piles up like this. The more ice the better the piles. And when there is no ice and the wind is right people actually surf near this beach.

Nuts

It's been busy. New things on burners I didn't even know my stove had while stuff at the back continues to simmer.

Many people don't realize this; when your year revolves concentrated periods of work, the time after those periods can be difficult. I do not know any other way to describe it other than difficult. Difficult to know what to do today, difficult to plan for tomorrow. You started out the year with certain expectations, maybe the events that followed lived up to those expectations, maybe they didn't. When you have a disappointing year, like this one was for me, and you find yourself in a position you were not planning for, the days can be very difficult. Difficult to know what to do today difficult to plan for tomorrow.

At least the election is over. I couldn't stand it anymore. It was really beginning to stress me out. I think a lot of people felt this way.

Which reminds me of something sad. Follow these links in order:

Beginning


Middle (Children To The Rescue)


End


What's is worth noting is that the editors of the Traverse City Record Eagle were so amused by this and the community so worked up by the events at Hampel's Key And Gun, that on Sunday they re-ran the first story in the "week in review" section.

I grew up about a block away from Hampel's Key And Gun. Really I did. I remember going in there maybe twice. Most likely I accompanied an uncle or cousin. Inside it is about as cozy as it appears to be from the outside in the picture accompanying the first article (notice the militia man featured in the mural. Remember the "Michigan Militia," that wacky paramilitary group that gained national attention after Timothy McVeigh blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City? Actually before the Oklahoma City bombing the Michigan Militia was already getting a lot of local attention. But I don't remember anyone ever taking them as seriously as they took themselves. Well, they were ridiculous and only helped to further shame residents of Michigan. Having two of our formerly great cities noted for their murder rates wasn't enough). I mention this because many locals refer to Hampel's as "the arsenal of the Michigan Militia." They have a lot of guns and paranoid nuts in that little cinder block bunker.

What is most interesting though, is the house next door. They own that as well and it is full of ammunition. A two story house full of ammo. At least that is how most in the neighborhood viewed the adjoining house. It is definitely used by the gun shop and contains inventory. Is it full? I can't be sure but it always seemed that way.

But the best part of this story is the Epilogue:


Letters
More letters
Yet more letters

When I learned about what was going on at the local gun shop in my beloved home town last week, I was shocked angered and deeply disappointed. I really go out of my way to defend the people of northern Michigan from those who assume they are all a bunch provincial small minded and often racist people, because they are not. Northern Michigan is a little isolated, which is what makes it interesting, but it is just like anywhere else. All types of people live there and since it is now 2008 fewer and fewer northern Michiganders, just like fewer and fewer west coasters and fewer and fewer east coasters are racist assholes.

Earlier tonight before I logged on to Blogger I was browsing the Traverse City Record Eagle website (a newspaper I delivered as a boy, I might add, for seven years - longer than any other paper carrier). When I saw the overwhelming disapproval voiced by those who wrote letters to the editor in regard to Hampel's, I was proud.

Good night.

Did those of you who read my last post really understand what I was trying to say about rhythm? It was important. If you read it and got hung up on the David Byrne part, re read it. You may have missed the point.

Rhythm

Last week I went with my friend Brook to see the Elephant Six Holiday Surprise tour in Pontiac. A rare opportunity I couldn't miss, the show was good (and very long).

At one point during a short break I went to the restroom. On the way back some one shouted from behind me "David Byrne is an asshole!" I swung around and saw two diminutive hipsters pretending to ignore me while faining interest in some far off point in space. I turned back around and continued on my way.

Earlier that evening while standing in line Brook and I were discussing the Talking Heads. Our mutual friends are big fans of the Talking Heads but the two of us agreed that although they were good, we just weren't super fans.

The point I made was that for whatever reason the personality that comes through the music, in spite of the quality of the music itself, doesn't quite jive with my own. Brook agreed. The only way I could describe that feeling was by stating that "David Byrne seems like kind of an asshole, you know what I mean?"

Now, I don't know David Byrne and I do like the Talking Heads (although I think they get a little too much credit for popularizing world music). I've never read a book about the band or David Byrne, maybe I will some day if I suddenly can't stop listening to their music. I am a huge fan of Brian Eno, who produced some of their albums, so it possible my interest in his work could lead me to learn more about David Byrne and Talking Heads. So far that has not happened. I only have an abstract feeling about the music that I was trying to express as best I could and with a bit of humor I thought.

So these two midget hipsters (they were both very short) standing in line behind us earlier in the night thought it would be funny to mock me later by shouting out "David Byrne is an asshole!" I don't mind being made fun of. Everyone knows I do more than my fair share of fun making myself. But if your going to eavesdrop on me and then use my own material against me, don't misquote me. I didn't say "David Byrne is an asshole." I said "David Byrne seems like kind of an asshole."

This is important because it is an example of something else I was speaking about with my friend Patrick. A lot of our taste for art, he says, be it visual, books, film, music or anything else expressive, has to do with how well that artist matches our own rhythm. That in and of itself is an abstract idea but I don't think it is difficult to prove.

When some one really enjoys a piece of art, their reasons for enjoying it usually include some notion that relates the object to themselves. Often times, I know for myself, that is just a feeling, a fleeting sense of the artist experiencing some thing in a way similar to myself. Other times it is obvious. A simple example: some one likes a landscape painting because it reminds them of a place they know or love. The painting is matching that persons rhythm in a very basic way.

The majority of the time though, I think this phenomenon is much more elusive, too abstract, too deeply personal and intangible to really be pinpointed. It is fundamental, it is as Patrick says, "rhythm."

I guess that was what I was trying to express when I said what I did about David Byrne. David Byrne's music is good. I like it. But it doesn't quite sync up with my own rhythm closely enough. It's as though I can feel the differences in our personalities coming through.

And that's rhythm.

Joe goes dutch

Finally it's over! The last presidential debate. I considered not watching it in an effort to alleviate stress from my life. This election has me constantly preoccupied. If I look like I'm sitting at the table eating spaghetti, talking about who was at the farmers market, it is only an illusion. I'm not. In truth, my thoughts are lost inside a maze of politics and current events. Accomplishing anything important is impossible.

I want to talk about interesting ideas, even lame ones would do, however these thoughts are impossible to hold on to. All conversations turn back toward the election or the economy.

But none of this is the point really. I want to say something about Joe The Plummer, a man who probably had no idea that he would be going down in presidential debate history.

You know how when you make a big pile of money (or maybe I should say, "remember when you used to be able to make a pile of money?") you take your friends out to eat or have drinks? You say, "hey everybody, it's on me." You know, "share the wealth" so to speak. It's a pleasant, charitable state of mind. It feels good to be in a position to take care of not only yourself, but those around you as well.

Apparently Joe The Plummer doesn't feel that way. He has no interest in "spreading the wealth."

October night