Amuse Your Muse With Duct Tape

This Sunday, May 5th, as part of  the Eric Carle Beyond Books Exhibit, the Tacoma Art Museum will be hosting my Muse-Busting Character-Building presentation and workshop. 

 ART as MUSE

Think Physically with Richard Jesse Watson

Sunday May 5th

Lecture and book signing 2:00 pm

Workshop 3:30 pm

All ages welcome

For more information: http://www.tacomaartmuseum.org/

 Wouldn't it be great if your muse was chatty? "Tell all!" you beg, and the muse says, "Well...have you heard the latest about your character?" "No, what did they do? I've been trying to find out for weeks."

Sometimes I wonder if my muse has lockjaw. "Hello?" I lean over the edge and call into the void.... Not even an echo.  Spooky.  "Yo! Anybody? Yoo-hoo! Ko ko! Knock, knock?" Nothing. Plum blossoms float by on no breeze. The dogs are sound asleep, the birds are all asleep. My feet are both asleep. 

 Fine. If that's the way you want to play. Then I will unmake you. And put you back together again crooked.  Or maybe I'll make you again based on weird random images from the backwater of my mind.  Yeeahh, and I will use junk to make your essence. That's right, rubble, rubbish, cast-offs, recycled garbagio, as it were.  Then I will breathe life into you and make you dance! And not just some flappy-arm noodle dance. Something complicated from Bulgaria.

In my stint as a god I have discovered that you can turn the tables on your muse. Now YOU are calling the shots. If the old Muserator won't tell you about your characters, then play around with recycled materials and stumble upon them in the dark recesses of your Freudian dust bunny village.

Oyo, were you inside my head?  Eeugh. Maybe some paint would help.

This guy I made out of a broken vegetable steamer and a dishwasher drain vent. His job is to do battle with errant knights and rescue stressed out maidens. I know, I know.

Through these maquettes my characters are actually coming to life.  Is your muse giving you a hard time? Duh. That's their job. But you don't have to take it lying down. You can give them a makeover. Invent someone or something new with glue. Or duct tape, masking tape, epoxy, papier mâché, sticks and stones--or whatever you have.

So, if you happen to be in Tacoma, Washington, this Sunday, May 5th, swing by the Tacoma Art Museum and join my Muse-Busting ~ Character-Building presentation and workshop. 

 ART as MUSE

Think Physically with Richard Jesse Watson

Lecture and book signing 2:00 pm

Workshop 3:30 pm

All ages welcome. 

For more information: http://www.tacomaartmuseum.org/

Why the Chicken Crossed the Road

My friend, Max Grover, told me a chicken joke. "How did the punk rocker cross the road?"
Answer: "By stapling a chicken to his ear."  It makes sense.

But last night I went for a walk with Susi and our grandson, Clay. We wandered through the woods 'til dark, and upon our return saw a chicken standing by the side of the road.

Clearly it was debating whether to cross the road or go back to its peeps. We said hello and talked about the weather, then bid the biddy goodbye. But she protested. "Don't leave me," she begged.

"Now, go home darlin'," I said. But it would not. It followed us all the way up our street.  Well, I could not abandon a chicken in distress so I took it in.

 There is a dark side to my story. First, there was this ghost ship. Look at the thing in the back. Looks like a ship with trees growing out of it? That is exactly what it is. Nobody seemed to notice. But I did. And the sister of the chicken did.

 A walk can heal what ails ya, as I've said before when I actually used to blog. I apologize for wandering around Neptune. I'm back, I hope, and noticing odd things along the way. Like this dog who said, "BEWARE the chicken!"

"Good dog," says I.  A little further down the road I see Mary up there with some pigeons. I think if she lived in Port Townsend, she would in fact be feeding the pigeons.  Saint Francis had a way with animals because he listened to them and let them sit on his head and shoulders.. He would have taken the chicken home.

How nice to look for friends along the way. Along the path.

So then, about that chicken's sister. I did find the owner of the chicken the next day. But he said that she had a sister who also escaped from the coop last night. Apparently she had been spooked. I think he may have mentioned the ghost ship. The next day they found a pile of feathers next door.

So why did Henrietta cross the road?   1. To get away from ghost ships. 2. To find a safe place to snuggle away from the coyotes. or 3. For love.

Gifts From Deep Dark Space

I hear my mother, "You never know from where you sit, who from the balcony is going to spit". This always rang true to me, the boy, and I still never sit right under the Balcony Spit Zone.  But the Outer Space Zone is another matter.

Meet my new black cat.  Showed up on my back porch on Halloween.  "No way," I chortled. "Go away you apparition," I hissed at the thing. I mean, come on. Halloween? I've read Nataniel Hawthorn, Snow White, and MacDonald's Photogen and Nicteris. I wasn't born yesterday.

But the so-called cat was clearly starving. It had twigs and waify things in its fur. "Not falling for it!"  I opened and slammed the back door for emphasis.

Well, I couldn't let it starve could I? A few tidbits.  Next day the same. Now the cat owns me.

What does one call a seriously black, Halloween cat. I thought of the blackest things I could think of. Charcoal. Inky. Midnight. Trite, trite, trite. Tar? Skid marks. Oil spill. Burned carrots. I was pulling hard for Atramentaceous, but try saying it three times in a row. Susi said, "What about Olive?" For a boy?!!  Maybe. "What about Space?" I beamed. "It's so dark out there. And the weird cat might be from outer space. Acts like it."

"For a cat?" wife doesn't look up from laptop.

We were at loggerheads. What does that even mean? "We'll let the grandkids decide," I proclaimed.

They listened to our closing arguments like diplomats. Held counsel and announced, "The name should be Space Olive." Whoah. Profound. Think about it. What could be blacker than a black olive in outer space? Especially when you climbed inside the hole.

Art inspired by another almost all black cat, Wiley.  Holding marzipan mice.

Well? 

 I hate to be wasteful. So when my cat puts poor dead creatures on my door mat. I first lecture the cat. Then I sketch the offering.

You learn so much from observation. A must for artists. Writers. Superhero costume makers.

I even used my cats when painting this lion to see the way the fur layers.

Sometimes I hide things in my art.  In this illustration of the expulsion from Eden, I hid a cat in the flames.

See the cat? 

Hairless Rats Make Me Feel Warm and Fuzzy

 I had a great day signing books at The Center Valley Animal Rescue in Quilcene. Santa was there among the amazing collection of rescued animals, many of which are up for adoption.

"What do you want for Christmas, Richy," he asked.  This particular Santa, a.k.a. John Franklin, has been with the Port Townsend Fire Department for twenty-nine years (apparently he goes back and forth between here and the North Pole).

 At the open house, a young girl adopted this rat and his siblings.  A ONE-EYED HAIRLESS RAT! You don't meet those everyday do you? Do you? Well, if you visit this remarkable animal shelter, you'll meet a lot of cuddly critters who need a home.

 To get to Quilcene you first have to journey to the outskirts of civilization.

When I arrived at the shelter, they set me up next to the cage of an enormous parrot named Peanut Butter. In his cage he perches quiet as a dead mouse, and likes to bob up and down to the inner beat of distant Amazonian jungle drums.

Then when you are happily signing away or cooing at the turtles or bunnies, he lets out the loudest scream you have ever heard. As in, Nazgûl scream. Your brain actually does a 180˚ turn inside your cranium when this parrot SKREEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeCHS!!! But other than my frayed noives, we DID have some in depth discussions about global warming and manners, and I wish I could take him home.

A fellow who was at the open house told me that he had A.D.D. and has two screeching birds at home. He confided to me that the sudden screams in fact calm him down. So.

 Here is the director, Sara Penhallegan holding Maya.  I learned that the bulbous things hanging on his jowls are called "false eyes" and the flap hanging down is called his dewlap.

 I would love to have this cuddly bear in my studio, but I would have to mist it throughout the day and set the temperature at 80 degrees.

 This dude's name is GODZILLA. Notice the blood on his lip. Seems he busted out and tried to kill one of the other iguanas. But not to worry, they are vegetarians, I'm told. Yeah, right. How many vegetarians do you know who have blood dripping down their lips?

Have you ever met a chinchilla?  This guy looks a little sad, because he had just gotten fixed. My heart goes out to you, man. Nevertheless, this furry rabbit/mouse/mink type animal had the softest fur I have ever felt. Like a cloud, only softer.

 Hi there.

 This is a feline version of "dog pile!"

Scotties rrroool the werrld.  Will ye pop over and toss me some shortcake, laddy?

 I'll bet one of you needs a pony.

Alright, I will.

But the ones that you really need to beware of are these sheep with the glowing eyes. They were rescued from the Sand People near Beggar's Canyon.

Powerful Magicians Eat Pi, I mean Pie

 Every child is a powerful magician.  They can imagine new worlds with the snap of a finger. SNAP! Whoah!  Suddenly I'm a talking rabbit. Fine, I can deal with that. Munch, munch, chew, chew. Why am I chewing my fingernails? Now I'm gnawing on my desk.

As a wee rabbit, I liked to draw magical things. Like clowns. Notice the black hat. It's a magic hat.  Clowns must have incredible self esteems because, I mean,  look at the pants they wear. They don't care if you stare. Clowns pull flower bouquets out of the ears of people who stare.

Speaking of magicians, a friend of mine baked me a pi, I mean pie. Actually two. I met her at the Central Valley Animal Rescue (see my July 13, post).  Her name is Candy Garrison, a powerful pie magician.  Her pies are so good that people lose track of time and space.   Candy is in fact famous around here for her pies. 

.

A perfect pie crust is no mean trick. Hard to do. But I am convinced that great and small alike are swayed by the perfect crust, be you king or carpet layer, alchemist or mesmerist.  Pies are powerful,  magical.  Archemides knew this in 202 B.C.  He was no clown, but he was a bad speller. He spelled pie, "pi". At any rate, those remarkable ancients came up with their brilliant math insights because they ate pies. It's so obvious.

I'm pretty sure his motto was, *Will work for pie* Of course with his little spelling problem his sign read, *Will work for pi*

People like Archemides worked up an appetite dealing with irrational numbers.  For instance, the first 1000 decimals of Pi are:

3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679821480865132823066

470938446095505822317253594081284811174502841027019385211055596446229489549303819644288109756659334461284756482337867831
652712019091456485669234603486104543266482133936072602491412737245870066063155881748815209209628292540917153643678925903

600113305305488204665213841469519415116094330572703657595919530921861173819326117931051185480744623799627495673518857527

248912279381830119491298336733624406566430860213949463952247371907021798609437027705392171762931767523846748184676694051

320005681271452635608277857713427577896091736371787214684409012249534301465495853710507922796892589235420199561121290219

608640344181598136297747713099605187072113499999983729780499510597317328160963185950244594553469083026425223082533446850

352619311881710100031378387528865875332083814206171776691473035982534904287554687311595628638823537875937519577818577805

321712268066130019278766111959092164201989

And this goes on infinitely with no repeating pattern. I ask you...
Well, pies are infinite. They are round. And once you have eaten a pie with perfect crust, it lives on in the FAV section of your memory.
Do you love pie? What is your favorite? Please tell me. π

The Poetry

There is a tree that likes to sprout and grow from a well composted life. I have never claimed to be a poet. Come to think of it, I have never claimed to be a human. If I did...I AM HUMAN!!... you might have second thoughts. So the claim department is closed today. Nevertheless, here is one.

The Poetry

You wander
Longing for the shade
Kicking dirt-clods
That both wet and dry
Have made.

Your tree
Will not appear
Unless both wet and dry
Have molded, squeezed and baked
You dear.

Yes, you, clod
Kicked along the path
Pounded, trod on, smashed
To dust, then formed again
By tears, or fears, or bliss, or wrath.

You sigh...
You murmur, you moan, you curse
You have no choice, really
But to find the words
And rant for better or worse.

You roll your eyes,
Such bare-assed honesty
Happens in spite of you
In the dirt at the base
Of your poet tree.

***

Another Poet Tree, this one wrapped in bacon, I mean a mystery, which hails from the Scottish Poetry Library:

http://community.thisiscentralstation.com/_Mysterious-paper-sculptures/blog/4991767/126249.html

A Book With Kick For Boys

I love a good read. Especially when I get a behind-the-scenes peek at the roots. Greg Neri's new middle grade novel, Ghetto Cowboy, is a great read. My son, Jesse, collaborated with Greg on another novel, Chess Rumble.  In this latest book, Jesse's illustrations  provide backdrop to Greg's street-strong text.

There is a serious need for good books targeting boys aged 10 and up.  Here's a book that  begs you to read it. Starting with first glance, the cover talks back, "So what are you lookin' at?"

Greg says this book was inspired by the real-life inner-city horsemen of Philadelphia and Brooklyn.

An excerpt: "I peek inside the hole, but it's dark 'cause all the windows is boarded up.  But man, it really smells like animal in there.  Suddenly something big moves in the dark and I jump back.

"That's Lightning," says Harper.

My eyes adjust to a pair of dark eyes staring back at me. It's a horse. He's got a horse in the house.  No wonder Mama left him.

Harper must see my eyes buggin' out, cause he smirks, "Welcome to Philly, boy."

Check out this YouTube video:
 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xcEMghqgjc"This American Life: Horses in North Philly"