Richard Jesse Watson: My Inner Zoo

Gifts From Deep Dark Space

2012-02-07T15:08:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-04T17:08:00.000-08:00

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

2011-10-19T20:46:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-15T22:52:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-23T15:23:00.000-07:00

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"

ART BEGETS ART

2011-07-18T12:34:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about what makes a poet a poet. Well, his mother. And before that, his father. And before that the twinkle in his mother's eye. But once the poet is up and running, how does the poet know that the poet is a poet?

Chewing on this bit...the poet discovers it is a poet when it gets wounded. Many kinds of wounds. Beauty can wound. A wounded poet bleeds poetry.

poet

poet wounded

poet bleed

poem

There is an old Turkish saying, "I have a problem, and I would not trade it for a thousand solutions".

I posted the image of this tree before, but now it has a new raison d'être. This painting was an obsession, a problem for me. But I did not want it to go away. It was my therapy for many years. I dabbed a daub of paint here and there, then put it away. Months later, bring it out and bend a branch. Put away. Get out. Put away. Until I finally had to let it go.

Now my friend and poet, Mary Bradley has written a poem about it.

Waiting for Springtime in the House of Leaves

The wind

that’s mourned for weeks beneath the eaves

and blustered, drifting snow on wet dark earth —

is hushed.

In dusty rooms

the silence settles like a solid thing,

until I’m wild to leave the house.

and walk in air that’s brisk and bright,

to roam the ancient woods above a surf raked bay

and listen to the distant drumming of the sea,

and search for shoots of hyacinth among the trees.

In dwindling light of day,

a ghostly moon is rising, soft as smoke,

among colossal branches of a stately oak

that stands as it has always stood upon the shoulders of the world

—grown tall and greatly patient, darkly beautiful and good.

And in the tree’s unhurried heart,

concentric memories of a hundred years—

the blur of wings, tranquility of clouds,

the sweetness of a summers’ temperate rain,

the blaze of living canopies gone red and gold,

the brand of lightening’s kiss along its grain.

If only I could be a child again,

alive in fairytales of simpler times,

I would not leave,

but stepping through its bright enchanted door,

would climb an inner stairway to the topmost branch

and fall asleep,

dreaming the restful dreams of gentle trees,

waiting for springtime in the house of leaves.

--Mary Bradley

c. 2011

WE ARE FAMILY

2011-07-13T14:02:00.000-07:00

BE HONEST. Don't you just want to kiss that sweet mug? Such sincerity. Such give and take. Such je ne sais quoi. I think he looks like George Clooney. Matter of fact, George has one these hoofers in his actual mansion. No lie. Hey, maybe this is George's pot belly pig! Must have knocked over that Ming vase. Or eaten the Hope diamond. No worries. Wait a day or two, take it out and hose it off. Good as new.

See how happy he is. He might be a she. I didn't really check. But I did get to do a book signing as part of the fund raiser at the Center Valley Animal Rescue in Quilcene, Washington.

This place is amazing. They take pets that have conquered their not-too-bright owners, or animals that need help. It is a no kill shelter for iguanas, llamas, parrots, ferrets, emus, turtles, goats, horses, chickens, rabbits, sheep, cats, dogs, piggy wiggies, and even hermit crabs. What?

I love these guys. Look at this gorgeousness! Oh, my gosh, I am currently working on a prehistoric picture book character, and hello!! Anybody home? I could really use this animal in my studio. Course, I'd have to keep it at 100 degrees with 100 percent humidity. But they eat salad, not grandkids. So I'm really close on this one. Did I mention that these are five feet long?

This parrot is smarter than you are. Deal with it. They talk. Like several languages, including pirate talk.

Rooms full of cats. Little kitties. Old cats who will live out there lives in comfort. Millions and millions of cats. ( Zounds! There's an idea for a children's book. { :>)

Director, Sara Penhallegon, wrangles the coolest volunteers you can imagine to care for more animals than you can imagine. What a place! Animals are available for adoption. Drop by for a visit, and a brain cleansing. Seriously, it will inspire. I was quite moved. See their site:

http://www.centervalleyanimalrescue.org/

Cute butt, or what?

Special thanks to Candy Raab for one of her famous pies. We're talking pie so good that you loose your sense of time/space. Sear. Ee. Us. Lee.

Writers are Wrestlers

2011-06-21T16:37:00.000-07:00

Photo by Miho Fletcher

When I make art, I say, "I'm an artist, so that's that." And I go ahead and jump into the volcano of weirdness. And everything eventually works itself out.

I mean I am in the business of making books ~ sometimes I'm illustrating, sometimes writing, and sometimes staring at snails. But the outcome can be so satisfying. A good yarn, brings lots of smiles. So whether the "book" arrives in the traditional form, like on papyrus, or whether it zaps us via digital whatchyacallits, stories can captivate.

But when one begins writing, "they" swoop down from Valhalla's underbelly and block the path. I'm talking about the guardians. "Sorry, you can't get there from here," they insist.

Pay them no mind, and don't give them eye contact. Close your eyes and let the daisies flow out of your brain. It doesn't have to be daisies. But I have been writing about daisies and I have to tell ya, I've gotten quite chummy with them.

I find that when writing, it's hard at first to tell what's real, what's reflection, and what's ridiculous. It always starts out as a wrestling match. But in the end, one of you will win. Unless it's a draw.

I'm wrestling with this poem to say what I mean:

Writing is like
A scarf that won't silk
A cow that won't milk
A corpse that can't die
And a fish that shan't fry

The butter don't melt
The hat's not felt
Why it's a dog cain't hunt
A football won't punt

A fly no fly
Glue no glue
Thought no think
Stopper no sink

Pig no sty
Blush no shy
Pen no write
Plane no flight

Flower no bloom
Rocket no zoom
Clock no time
Poem no rhyme.

Writing is wrestling
With thoughts
That have thoughts
Of their own.

Garden Gladiator

2011-05-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

Early this morning when Dawn was still dressed in her lavender nightie, I heard a "flinking" sound. Flink. Flink. My subconscious folded the noise back into a dream omelette. The flinks got louder. Then it dawned on me that someone was throwing something at my window.

I hauled my achin' bacon downstairs to the kitchen, instinctively reaching around for a coffee cup. Scratching my head, I wondered if this was a happy dreamwalk, or...FLINK!! It hit the window hard! "What ...?"

A robin bobbed up and down outside on a branch and glared in the window. He looked pissed. And then he hurled himself right at the glass! FLINK!!! Again, and again, and again.

With open mouth, I noticed a small figurine on the inside window ledge. An antique porcelain blackbird used for venting hot pies. Maybe that bird outside is a mother who is trying to rescue her poor chick. Awww... Her baby has fallen into the evil clutches of humans who bake chirrens into pies.

"I'm coming my darling!"
"I'll rescue you!" FLINK!! WAM!!
[Or] perhaps the blackbird appears to be a threat? Nah, it's too cute.

I remember when I was four years old my mother sang, "Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie..." Sick. As I remember, the birds' relatives hired hit men, rather "hit birds" who came back and pecked off her nose. Which goes to show yah.

I was a wide-eyed child thereafter. Waiting. Watching. Expecting any moment for those bad boy birds to come calling. and so after all these years he's come for me. FLINK!! WAM!!

After a couple weeks of this hell-bent, and now beak-bent bird-brain smack down, I realized that he was fighting his reflection. I overheard the following:

"Hey you! What are you doin' here?"
"You talkin' to me? What are you doing here?"
"I own this yard!"
"Oh, yeah? I own this yard!"
"You're a stupid looking bird."
"You're the stupid one!"
"I will fight you!"
"I will fight you!"
"I'm not kidding!"
"Me neither!"
Swoop! FLINK!! WAM!!
"Owww.. That dude has a hard head."
"What? You still here?"
And so on.

"We have met the enemy. And he is us."––Walt Kelly

Chickens And Their Friends Come Home to Roost

2011-02-27T15:11:00.000-08:00

Usually when one says, "The chickens have come home to roost," they mean that the chickens are not nice chickens. Or that the chickens have come for revenge. Or could be that the Fates are using them as ironical weapons in their war games against nearsighted humans.

I guess it could also mean that a farmer's chickens were out free-ranging, and have returned to lay eggs for the benefit of one and all~especially at breakfast.

But I am referring to the chickens of the mind. Those bawking thoughts that peck around the cerebral cortex looking for stray electrons, or juicy bugs. It might be some concept that we are trying to develop which lives in the tangled brain bushes. Don't you often find that a "great idea" will scratch all around because it's not sure where it lives. For me, most of these pithy poultry are stories that have made a nest in my brain. I can't get rid of them until they are good and ready. When they are, they squawk like Valkyries and fly right out of my meatus acusticus externus ( ear hole).

Here is one that I had a recurring dream about. It's a story that is presently hatching.

Here is another. I don't know if dream tigers lay eggs. Sure, why not?

This guy is taking over my studio. He's everywhere!

When these "chickens" do finally hatch, I become a busy den mother. It's now my job to keep them warm and feed them with a dropper. And lastly I need to find them all a nice home.

Maybe some day they will come live in your bookshelf. Do you have chickens that have come home to roost? Are they nice chickens?

Walking On Air

2011-01-24T20:08:00.000-08:00

Making a book is a labor of love. When I began to illustrate The Lord's Prayer, I wondered if I would survive the process. I guess I wonder that with every book. Never-the-less, I just received the new book in the mail. Whew. A lot of mixed emotions, because the journey is always challenging. And wonderful.

If you ever see someone who is walking about three feet above the ground, they are probably an author or illustrator who has just seen their newly published book. I feel really privileged to be in this business.

When I was trying to figure out how I would illustrate this interactive poem, I thought about family and the wonder of one generation following another. In the Magnificat, Mary sings of God's mercy
from one generation to another.

How does one illustrate stuff like that? "Oy vey", says me. I have to be careful not to freak out at the beginning of a project. Breathe. Calm. It's all going to come together. Trust the process. OK, so I set up a photo shoot with my son, Jesse, and his son. When I painted the illustration I actually combined my hand with Jesse's holding the little hand~his son, my grandson. I found the whole experience powerfully moving.

I enjoy the ritual of applying the gesso and meditating on the imagery to come.

I tried several other gesso colors.

Then experimented with silk screen inks in combo with the gessoes.

Next, I did an under-painting of alizarin crimson with sap green. Someone told me that the Italians liked this method. Gee, that makes me hungry for spaghetti. I'm not trying to be cute or stereotypical. It's just, you know, Pavlov.

Now I'm adding some silk screened patterns.

Alrighty, more silk screening on top of the other patterns.

Hey, since we're here, let's add even more. Yeah!!

I can't stop myself. Pull the rip cord, pull the rip cord!!

Well, maybe just a little more. I am after all using the sun as a metaphor for the glory of God. Yes, I know, I am so in over my head. Who could ever do justice to the grandeur of the sun, let alone the glory of God? Not me, for sure. So I'll just do what I do and hope for inspiration and understanding.

I am always amazed by the wonders shown us by astronomers, especially when they use different kinds of telescopes to see the different wave lengths of light not normally visible. I played a little with that in this painting. I could have gone on for months experimenting with layers and subtleties, but... well, you know.

"To see the world in a grain of sand and Heaven in a wild flower hold infinity in the palms of your hand and eternity in an hour"~ William Blake

Dinosaur Crashes His Way Onto Magazine Cover!

2011-01-07T17:49:00.001-08:00

Last summer I was asked to illustrate a magazine cover. And it is finally out! Above is the 2011 Jan/Feb SCBWI Bulletin cover. YAY!! For those of you who aren't familiar with SCBWI it stands for The Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. A fabulous international organization for anyone interested in publishing books or digital content for children, middle grade, and young adults.

Photos by my son, Jesse Watson

I had a lot of other ideas which I thought I might use on the cover, but a "friend" of mine convinced me otherwise. You have heard the phrase, "If you give a mouse a cookie..."
Yeah, well try, "If you give a T-Rex raw meat and teach it how to enunciate with its lips..."

There are certain rules of etiquette that simply elude a young T-Rex. I mean honestly, how rude! To go for my jugular just because I was a little late with his ground round. I guess I should be glad he's not picky whether its fresh or month-old road kill. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.

Rexy was quite pleased with my progress on the cover art. Naturally, he wanted to put it in his mouth. You just can't turn your back on a T-Rex. Really. Trust me on this one.

The only stipulation for the cover art is that it has to have a kite somewhere in the image. Since my cover was a winter cover, I took my kite out in a blizzard and tried to fly the thing.

After throwing it up again, and again, and again it started to climb towards the heavens...

Orrrrrrrrrr not. I feel your pain, Charlie Brown.

The Free Range Tea Pot of Sanity

2010-10-21T14:06:00.000-07:00

"...To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
An by opposing end them?..."

Alright, hold on Willy. There is another option.
Get yourself a "Venti".
A Roman Empire sized coffee.
If that doesn't quite arm you against a sea
of troubles, then
Try engaging in a "Venti-Fest".
Perhaps a creative activity
to...you know...vent.

I don't seem to be able to help myself from painting these "Venti's". It works so well for me that my subconscious sometimes shoves me over and sits in the driver's seat. As it were.

I enjoy making them because I discover so much about Color. Line. Energy. Shape. Shape~Shifting. Mood. And stickin' it right back to "outrageous fortune".
It is a way for me to slay the dragons of the mind. But also to befriend some.

Under the surface of the mind thoughts convect like magma. What surfaces may be new or ancient. The image above made me remember aboriginal art that I had seen in Australia seven or eight years hence.

After I painted this I realized that it was inspired by a hike I took a couple of weeks ago with dear friends up on Hurricane Ridge in the Olympic Mountains. I added a couple of strokes to further suggest the mountain range.

Funny how things can simmer and make a nice tea. Or build in intensity for a proper and inevitable venting. What do you do to vent? How do you cope with stress, and other bogeys.

You Can't Keep a Good Man Down

2010-10-16T17:34:00.000-07:00

My son, Jesse, always liked to dress like a wild man, and imagined himself running through jungles in the tropics, eating weird exotic food and doing something important. Hopefully with a spear.

Jesse did indeed find himself in the tropics a couple weeks ago eating goat brains out of a goat skull. He didn't have a spear to my knowledge, but he did have a beautiful book to share which has taken on a life of its own.

When the devastating 7.0 magnitude earthquake hit Haiti this January, Jesse wanted to help. There has been a tremendous outpouring of support from around the world, but Jesse said, " As I sat at my easel and thought about the future of Haiti, I was sure of only one thing: we will forget".

He wrote and illustrated this remarkable picture book, HOPE FOR HAITI. The story is set in the tent city which was erected inside Port Au Prince soccer stadium. I am so proud of Jesse for creating a book that is beautiful and full of compassion.

Jesse is working with We Give Books, and his publisher, Putnam/Penguin through book sales is giving a generous donation to Save the Children's Haiti Earthquake~Children in Emergency Fund.

The earthquake killed over two hundred thousand people, and left thousands injured. Here's Jesse gettin' down with his pals at a health care and education compound. These are kids at risk, many of whom are orphaned. Jesse brought over loads of deflated soccer balls and pumps for the children. Needless to say, they were stoked.

Haiti was already the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere before the earthquake. Now the battle against chaos, violence, sickness and despair is intensified in ways most of us can't even imagine.

Jesse is also working with the World Vision ADP center in Hinche, and Artists for Peace and Justice, NPH, and St. Damiene's Hospital in Port Au Prince.

Here they are distributing food and supplies spearheaded by Bryn Mooser who has put his life on the line to help the Haitian people. Check out his inspiring and heart-breaking blog, City of Dust.

Here Jess is reading his book to the youngest orphans.

Jesse said that in spite of the crushing poverty, he sees hope for Haiti in these children. You can't keep a good man/woman/boy/girl down.

"You see, love is my foundation"--Jimmy Cliff

Left Brain/Right Brain~The Odd Couple

2010-10-03T21:01:00.000-07:00

My friend and fellow illustrator, David Hohn is teaching a class at the Art Institute of Portland. He asked me to share with him and his class, my method of design using overlays on a few of my illustrations. Okay Left Brain, try to make some sense of Right Brain...on three, two, one...

Here goes: For this painting from The Magic Rabbit, I took the Golden Mean and shot it like an arrow from my Golden Bow. The blue splots indicate where I used numbers and the pink doinks show where I scattered playing cards. In this book I was playing with concepts of time, space, magic, The Big Bang, and The Big Bang in reverse.

This illustration from One Wintry Night was intimidating to even begin. We had gone to the Middle East to do research for this book, and I had so much reference material that I was short-circuiting. I didn't want to drown in a terribly difficult painting--every concept sketch felt too complex. My son, Jesse, saw my frustration and doodled a rough sketch for me showing the two heads in opposition. "Isn't it a power struggle?" he asked.

Yes, it was. Big time. So the "stand off" solved my design dilemma. Thanks, Jess.

In this illustration from Bronwen The Traw and the Shape~Shifter, the girl hears a tapping at her window. Her world is about to be turned upside-down.

The picture pulls in two directions--the top half flashes a play of light between the girl, the flying squirrel, and her gardening "traw". The bottom half reveals her toys falling away from her secure embrace, tumbling out of the picture itself.

In The Legend of Saint Christopher, I painted this illustration of The Dark Knight by first painting a "Rorschalk test" type pattern with black on red and red on black.

Since the Dark Knight was a metaphor for the Devil, I attempted to show his turmoil and chaos by a tearing and push/pull against the otherwise centered composition. His sword forms an "X".

In The Boy Who Went Ape, written by my son, Ben, Ms. Thunderbum is a teacher who doesn't like little boys, especially when they act like apes! I patterned her after my second grade teacher and my piano teacher, both of whom hated me, or so it seemed at the time. No they actually did hate me. And all boys. And life.

DDDZZZzzzzz≠–¡!¡!¡!¡! See the negative energy zapping the poor chimp who acts like an ape because he is an ape? Ape, boy, ape, boy, same difference. Agree? Her presence bows out the room itself.

Here is Her Royal Significance ordering the little lambs to obey her every command.

I had so much fun developing her character. She is a force to be reckoned with. Notice the black broken glass jewelry.

In the same book there is a bank robber. I first used Jesse as a model, wearing a hoody, shorts, and flip flops, and carrying an Al Capone style tommy gun. The book was at the printer, when the Virginia Tech shootings happened. The book was postponed. We decided to do a more comical bank robber. A nut-job with a plunger and bunny slippers might give one pause, but is not so much of a threat.

I used DaVinci's Golden Belly Ratio as my design format.

What? Squirrel Head For Dinner Again?

2010-09-17T11:01:00.000-07:00

My cat is an animal. As in RAERN! Our cat, Wylie, was an animal too. She disappeared. Methinks foul play. We do have coyotes, bobcats, raccoons and on extremely rare occasions cougars. Most likely it was an owl or peregrine falcon that got her. Ah...having a nice stroll
when ¡¡¡Joink!!! Stars***then______________________∞

My friend Rick from Minnesota said a couple of his friends were walking in the snow in the woods at night, and one of the guys had on a fur hat. An owl mistook it for an animal and swooped down for the kill. It got the guy on the back of the neck and paralyzed him. I don't know for how long.

This morning my other (and last remaining) cat, Murray was having his repast on The Door Mat of Death. He was eating a squirrel. Head first. This is a weird post. Murray ate everything except the tail and some apparently nasty tasting organ that looked like a bota bag. Do your pets ever freak you out?

"Speak softly and carry a big stick."~Teddy Roosevelt

Messing Around With Fairies

2010-09-14T17:17:00.000-07:00

Fairies are tricky. They have a way of getting you to do strange things. Like agreeing to do an art demo in front of people. Paint on demand, as it were. So, no big deal, I've done this before. but then the fairies suggested that I do an egg tempera demo. In front of live people. In the year 2010. So... that's painting with an egg and colored dirt. While people watch.

Egg tempera is an old world medium. It can only be done slowly with millions of layers using a plethora of cross-hatchings. A whole army of plethoras. Think: fifteenth century. Doing an egg tempera demo is like performing rap in Latin.

In order to keep the audience from aging, I didn't complete the egg tempera demo painting. I merely dabbled a little to show the technique. I then brought the painting home with me from Abilene, Texas, and finished it in my studio. Then I sent it back with a couple of variations on a theme. They will reside at the National Center for Children's Illustrated Literature (NCCIL) in Abilene.

Fairies have sisters, you know. What I realized by dipping my toe in Faeryland, is that I am now a marked man. Part of me will always be there, and part here. I intend to explore these will-o'-the-wisps a great deal more.

My friend Kitty from Ireland at Into My Own, tells me that Irish farmers leave hawthorne and ash trees in their fields (they plow around them) just for the fairies. That is taking green to the next level. No wonder there are no fairies in the parking lots of America.

So, if you know any fairies, tell them I am interviewing, and when I plow, I will remember to leave green belts and a plethora of nooks and crannies. Woah, I used the word, "plethora" three times in this post. No, wait, counting that last use of the word "plethora", that makes four. Oh dear, it's actually five. Wait a second! The fairies are messing with me again~«««««

Swallowed By Art

2010-09-09T18:00:00.000-07:00

This happens a lot. I have trouble knowing where my art ends, and I begin. Or where my art begins and I, uh...hmmm.

This is a younger me, which I guess is true for every photo, unless it is streaming video. But even that would be a younger virtual visage because of the time it takes for light to go from image to camera to eye to brain.

Do you get lost in your work? Your art? Your passions?

The Telling Image: Art Exhibit at Bainbridge Island Library~Opening Friday September 3

2010-09-02T15:25:00.000-07:00

Spin a yarn with words and you are a story teller. Spin straw into gold and you are either in a fairy tale, or you are an artist.

As a children's book author and illustrator I weave words and images together to tell a tale. The art that I make for a book unfolds a visual narrative.

My goal is to illuminate the text but also to reveal subtleties in the story which may not even have been mentioned. My inspiration comes from dreams and from that calm land of elixir between waking and dreaming. Music, hope, and longing also seem to stitch themselves into each piece of art that I make.

This Friday evening~September 3~ from 5:00 to 7:00 during "ART WALK", I am exhibiting some of my artwork at the Bainbridge Island Public Library. I will give a short presentation at 6:00. Included in the show will be a range of work in various medium: oil, egg tempera, sumi ink and acrylic on elephant dung paper. Pâté de foie gras on Russian parachutes.

Truth in lending here, one of the above may not be true. But the rest are.

The exhibit will be up for the month of September. Love to see you there Friday!
BYOS&GL (Bring your own straw. And goose liver).

The Shape of Time

2010-08-30T09:18:00.000-07:00

I did not have time to play with time. But time had time to play with me. So I went with the flow and ended up at Ruby Beach on the coast of Washington way far away from everything

The "haystack rocks" thrust up along the shore. And the time-worn stones beckoned to be stacked.

At first I could not get anything to balance, I guess "hurry" still lingered as my mojo. But Susi had stepped out of stress's scrunch and the stones vied for her attention. Freeze tag is one of their favorite games.

Time and tide, tide and time, time and tide, tide and time, time and tide, tide and time...

Ahhhhhh.... one must sigh first. Breathe more slowly. Let the rocks tell you their stories.

There were other players. Birds. Light. Wind. Salt.

A time to work, a time to play.

We are all larger and smaller than we think. Time will tell.

GODZILLA COMES HOME TO ROOST!!

2010-08-11T16:50:00.000-07:00

•my art for the 826LA art auction•
based on my eye witness account
of the Great Summer of 2010 Rampage

Some artists are "out there". Dan Santat is one of them. Like, Ooo~Whoo...! Last week Dan and I were doing portfolio consultations at the SCBWI writers' and illustrators' conference in LA. I learned that besides being Lord Vader's valet, Mr. Santat has some rather unsettling super powers. He can bend a palm tree by strumming his ukulele, and he can make art that bends the mind.

Yes, bends the actual mind. For some reason, a group of artists found his new book, OH NO! exciting and inspiring. It is a (soon to go viral) little picture book for warped children. The good kind of warped. He says that his book is a sort of homage to Japanese rampaging monster movies. But I promise, it is educational too. I actually own a copy of the book. I love it. My kids love it. My grand kids love it. Maybe love isn't the right word. We eat it. We gnaw on it. We run screaming down the street with it. Yeah, that's better.

You can bid on and own a piece of the art that has been made (as a spin off from OH NO!) for the fundraiser. Proceeds go to 826LA which is a non-profit organization dedicated to supporting students ages 8-12 with their creative and expository writing skills, and helping teachers inspire their students to write.

I don't think it's a problem if an artist has a few screws loose. It all depends on which screws.

Check out Dan's site and check out THE AUCTION here: Eye Witness Reports There are some seriously stellar artists who have joined the fray. First EBAY auction online August 23-27

Ding Dong The Book Is Dead

2010-08-08T17:05:00.000-07:00

SAY WHAT?? Oh, man I hate hearing this. When Garrison Keillor announced in May that publishing was dead, a lot of people threw themselves out of ground floor library windows. Or at least threw out their cassette tapes of Prairie Home Companion. When I heard this I threw myself off the couch.

Rubin Pfeffer

When Gutenberg printed his big book back in 1450-something, a lot of calligraphers stabbed things with their quills and threw lamp black ink out their windows.

Having just returned from the SCBWI (Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators) conference in LA, I am inspired, pumped, and curious about this quantum leap in publishing. The times they are a changing. My agent, Rubin Pfeffer, in his key note speech (which rocked the house) urged the organization to transform itself into an ebook publisher. He challenged authors and illustrators to get a handle on the fact that "the world wide market for digital publishing will be very, very large".

Rubin took pains to emphasize that the changes are, "Not instead of, but in addition to..." (the traditional book form). I love the fact that he said, "Our challenge will be to remain high above all the poor quality material out there."

This is a huge discussion, which will unfold in ways we can't imagine. Pfeffer says, "With books being reinvented, we must be innovative in creating content that can leverage the multimedia capabilities of technologies like the iPad." . Although I don't have an iPad yet, I am making one out of cardboard, tape and tin foil just to tide me over.

Going to this conference was seriously inspiring, but also provided the occasional surprise. Such as helping Jay Asher, Rachel Vail, and Carolyn Mackler into their Cupid costumes. Those wings offer up engineering challenges you wouldn't believe.

I loved being back in L.A.. So-Cal is my stompin' grounds. You never know what you are going to see, like the space age gas station (above). Last time I was here the police blocked off the street during a bank robbery in progress, with me trapped in front of the bank.

In the lobby of the Hyatt Century Plaza Hotel, with writers and bloggers extraordinaire, Jolie Stekly, Jaime Temairik, Martha Brockenbrough, and Molly Blaisdell.

Me and blog buddy, Julia Kelley.

RJW with Ann Whitford Paul, and mi hijo, Jesse. Ann's book on writing for children is one of the best I have ever found: Writing Picture Books: A Hands-On Guide From Story Creation to Publication. Jesse has an amazing new picture book coming out in the fall, HOPE FOR HAITI.

Like musician and poet, Paul Simon said, "If you want to be a writer, find a humble pen." Or make that~find a humble digital device.

There is fo-sho a publishing revolution underway. Books will change, and books will stay the same. Both. But however we receive our content, remember this:

"Of the making of books there will be no end." ~Ecclesiastes 12:12

Summer Vacation~Old School

2010-07-22T15:01:00.000-07:00

I love old photos because they teach us the art of "Old School". "Hey kids, feed the bears some raw meat while I try out this pin hole camera." On the right side of the picture, notice some "Old School" photo-shop tools: i.e. get out the Buck Knife and scratch out the riffraff.

I hope this summer you can get down and dirty with some bit of nature. Yesterday I was struggling with a creative Frankensteinish what-not, and I did not have the upper hand. So, we went for a walk. Even if you can't raft down the Grand Canyon, or climb a redwood, you can go for a summer evening walk. It will cure what ails ya. Guaranteed.

For instance, on the walk I saw a sun dog. A glowing patch of rainbow, (but not a rainbow) otherwise known as a parhelion. It was on the edge of a misty, glowing ring around the sun. When I see such flabbergasters I know that everything is going to be good. On this same walk, yellow birds, blackberries, two herons, plus I found a thingy on the ground which will go into one of my flying saucer models.

Are you having any Old School fun this summer?

Lone Star Hospitality: Abilene~Part 2

2010-07-15T21:23:00.000-07:00

If you have ever driven across Texas, you have been humbled by its flat grandeur. We drove across it in a blizzard. In a VW bug. With a squalin' baby. They shut down the interstate, so we found back roads. Is that it? Noooo. We also had a flat tire. And the jack wouldn't go high enough. That it? No. We were really cold. Did you know they find cattle with their mouths frozen to the ground? Yes.

The National Center for Children's Illustrated Literature • Abilene, Texas

In Timothy Eagan's book about the dust bowl, The Worst Hard Time, he describes those southern plains, "It scares {people} because the land is too much, too empty, claustrophobic in its immensity...It scared Coronado, looking for cities of gold in 1541. It scared Anglo traders who cut a trail from Independence to Santa Fe... It even scared the Comanche as they chased bison over the grass...It scared the Germans from Russia and the Scots-Irish from Alabama...It still scares people...a place where the land and its weather --probably the most violent and extreme on earth--demand only one thing: humility."

Now hold your horses. There is something even bigger: Texas hospitality! The NCCIL hosted an art exhibit of the SCBWI Golden Kite award winners. Pictured above: Larry Day, Kristen Balouch, Alan Stacey, David Diaz, Pat Cummings, Priscilla Burris, Barbara McClintock, Diane Stanley, Cecilia Yung, and moi. We were treated like Princess Amidala. Although the guys wanted to be treated like Davy Crockett.

Nice expanse inside and artwork with a remarkable variety of technique, style and emotion.
It is such a beautiful show.

Stephen Mooser and I were fixin' to hunt buffalo. He even had a shirt made for the occasion.

Turned out it was easier to go to the Perini Ranch Steakhouse. You have to bring your own Bowie knife (also known as an Arkansas tooth pick), on account of the steaks that won't quit. We are talkin' steaks that will knock you clean off'n your chair if you turn your back on 'em.

Out front they have an iron armadillo the size of a tank. This is to scare away vegetarians.
Do you know what they call an armadillo out here? A Texas speed bump.

Eating large rare steaks does kind of iffy things to folks. Why that lady in the middle started pawin' the ground. Above: Liz Mertz, Stephen Mooser, Lin Oliver, Jacqueline Gramann, and Mark Mitchell. Seriously, Lin and Steve are the founders of SCBWI. They began with a handful of writers in their living room in 1971, and it has become a vibrant, international organization.

At Frontier Texas, these bronze sculptures by T.D. Kelsey capture the thunder of the cattle drives which are such a part of Abilene's history.

Thank you Sujata, Debbie, David, and the entire crew at NCCIL and SCBWI. I love y'all.

SKULLS and MEAT, GOLD and KITES: Part One

2010-07-12T14:19:00.000-07:00

I am about to tell you something strange and wonderful~oh, wait a sec, I mean, I'm fixin' to fill yer craw with some right fine viddles. Yer thinkin', "maybe he's a Texan, maybe not." Well, I just got off the wagon train from Abilene, Texas. I'm here to tell you, you either die and dry on that rugged dusty trail, or you eat yer way out.

I ate my way out. See that poor lady at the bottom of the photo? Not so lucky. Don't you know, there's slim pickin' when it comes to vegetables in Texas. Why, there's a law that if they find one, they have to deep fry it to make sure it's dead. And if you want iced tea, forget it, unless you ask for "Aas tay". Also, just so ya know, molasses is pronounced, "Mol-eye-sayess".

I went to the country of Texas for an exhibition of art curated by the brilliant David Diaz, at The National Center of Children's Illustrated Literaure, (NCCIL for short). This art opening features illustrations by the Golden Kite Medal and Honor winners. The Golden Kite is awarded annually by the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI).

There are around eighty original works of art from a mind-blowing array of artists such as Sid Fleichman, David Diaz, Diane de Groat, Alice & Martin Provensen, Tomie dePaolo, Trina Schart Hyman, Don Wood, Barbara Helen Berger, Susan Jeffers, Jerry Pinkney, Kevin Hawkes, William Joyce, Keith Baker, Robert Sabuda, Aki Sogabe, Janet Stevens, Uri Shulevitz, Laura McGee Kvasnosky, David Shannon, Kristen Balouch, Marla Frazee, Barbara McClintock, Larry Day, Yuyi Morales, myself, and many others.

This show will be touring the country, and if you have a chance to see it, don't miss it.

Above, Barbara McClintock sketching and telling stories. She and I had a marker pen duel, and she kicked my but with her robotic fox and its fifty ton tongue. I've gone into therapy and training for a re-match.

There are a lot of skulls around Abilene. This is on account of all the meat everybody eats. Here is Barbara McClintock, me, and a bronze buffalo. Barbara is the one with the sunglasses on.

At Perini's Restaurant in front of the catfish cook. Me, Kristen Balouch, Heather Powers, Diane Stanley, and Jacqueline Gramann.

Heather, Priscilla Burris, Cecilia Yung, David Dias, and Diane Stanley.

The heat and the meat can get to you after a while. Above, Larry Day laying around on the ground in his nice clothes. But this shows the dedication of the illustrator. It seems it was imperative to get a butt-shot of a bronze buffalo.

The Tortoise Crosses the Finish Line

2010-06-29T10:17:00.000-07:00

I just finished the illustrations for my next book, The Lord's Prayer. I have been working on it for about a year. Yeah, I know. These are some of the illustrations for the end sheets inspired by images taken around the world by World Vision International photographers. I used to work on their magazine and it often broke my heart to see the pain and struggle of the children of the world.

I wanted to set the stage for my illustrations of The Lord's Prayer with these images, because this simple poem begins, "Our Father..."

early title page concept sketch

I've woven a sun motif throughout the book as metaphor for the glory of God. Why the sun? It's the biggest thing I could get a handle on. Also I was born in the desert and the sun was always up there cooking my brain. Hey, maybe that's why my favorite color is yellow. The technique was an experiment combining serigraphy with oil painting.

This book was a painful struggle because life is a painful struggle. But it was also a time of many miracles, mountain top views of the cosmos, and life changing grace.

This is the cover. See the tortoise? That's me, slow--but covered by the lion.

Hello Sun-Goodbye Icarus

2010-05-31T12:51:00.000-07:00

I'm on a deadline, and have no business blogging. I'll make it fast. Have you ever fallen off a bicycle? Then you know what it feels like to be at the tail end of a deadline. Lack of sleep and hyper focus make for nice hallucinations, but make it hard to stay grounded.

For instance I once pulled a series of all-nighters on an illustration deadline. I went to the client the next morning and with a wave of his annoying hand, he asked for changes. I was too tired to trash his office, so I smiled, left, walked past a bank of windows and started down the concrete stairs. I caught my shoe on the top stair and fell head over heels all the way down the long, stairway. In full view of his office and all his minions. Concrete stairs.

I might have broken my neck, but I was so tired that I shrugged mid air, relaxed, and thought, "Well now isn't this poetic justice and really quite pleasant soaring through the air, as it were...".

The foolishness of Icarus was not that he flew too close to the sun. I would if I could, wouldn't you? I mean, "Ladies and gentlemen, kids, if you look out the starboard window you will notice the sun..."

But his big problem was not ego, wobbly wings, falling, or proximity to heat. His problem was he used lousy glue (made out of goat hooves probably). If he had had Elmer's, or Gorilla Glue, then he would have been fine. Super Glue, maybe.

I am almost finished with a book project that has taken me way too long, and perilously close to the sun. Above is a peek at a design element from the book where I use the sun as motif and metaphor.

One of the ways to survive the blithering economics which attend a difficult deadline is to have a fire sale. I just sold this painting, "Our Town", to pay 1/4 of a boring bill. Goodbye art, enjoy your new home in Texas. Make me an offer, I'm in the mood. I once sold a painting for twelve dozen tamales. They were really good tamales.

HI HO! HI HO! It's back to work I go, da dum, de dum, da dum de dum...

A Bed Fit For a Small God

2010-05-02T13:03:00.000-07:00

Beatrix Potter would, I'm sure, have knit them leggings. Now I am willing to look the other way so a hungry mouse can steal a few crumbs to feed her little waifs. But when they start wearing my slippers and smoking my cigars, I get nervous. Didn't somebody say, "Mice are to be seen and not heard"--no, wait, that's kids. Not my kids, mind you, but somebody's kids. Turns out mice have a penchant for taking over the world. So it's either nip 'em in the bud (i.e. go to the mattresses) or scoot over and hand them the remote.

OK, I have to admit I whacked a couple of them. But as penance I offer the following tribute to their perspicacity, and inventiveness--based on a discovery we made in a kitchen drawer.

Boing Bed

A mouse needs a cosy place
To rest his mousey head,
A comfy nest to curl up in
And make his mousey bed.

Not too big or spacious,
Not too cramped and tight,
But made with bits of stuff
And fluff, and formed just right.

Some mice will sleep on cotton,
Some will sleep on wool,
And they make their perfect beds
Without the help of human tools.

They steal your crumbs and cast-offs,
And snatch bright colored threads,
Tuck buttons, beads, and beans
To shape their waiting beds,

You may even one day find,
And cock your head with fascination,
That they've woven in some tufts
Of housing insulation,

Though most mice find it itchy,
Since it makes their dreams
SurREal, and twitchy,

The favorite stuff to stuff a nest,
Is all the stuff they like the best,
Like shreds of toilet tissue,
Or a torn up lovey-letter,

(If it's pink and perfumy,
That then makes it all the better)

But a mouse might re-decorate her bed,
If there's a need,
By sprinkling sawdust, coffee grounds,
Or just-so sesame seeds,

Now far and away the finest bed
In the world of mice and men,
That quite compares to any nest
Of feathered bird or fluffered hen,

Is a perfect bed I spied
In the corner of a kitchen drawer,
Close to the sink, not far for a drink,
But not too close to the floor,

'Twas a small square box of rubber bands,
No more than one small ounce,
A bed of boing, a cushiony spring,
A mattress full of bounce,

The mouse who slept here, was a well slept mouse,
Completely refreshed and well rested,
And never a mouse found a mousier bed,
Or a better soft place to be nested.

The Power of Book

2010-04-25T13:44:00.000-07:00

Lucy reading a book on our Mac.

René Descartes secured himself a place on MapQuest with his, "Cogito ergo sum" ("I think therefore I am"). If I'm not mistaken, they've updated it to, "Ab asino lanam". Um, that might not be right--no, sure enough that's, "wool from an ass". Wait, wait, this is as close as I can get, "a caelo usque ad centrum", which means, "from the sky to the center of the earth".

What the heck am I talking about? This: "I have wireless, therefore I am". "Ahhh," you all say, "He's so right". Yes.

The Watson clan had a super-charged visit from The Talking Potatoes and their folks, the lovely and multi-talented, Martha Brockenbrough and the remarkably cool Adam Berliant. Well, Adam is more of a hot, slow cooked brisket (check out his blog if you like to play with cleavers, skewers and fire: Blue State BBQ).

Many of you are oh-so-already-up-to-speed with all things digital. I have a long way to go. But my question for you is this: What are your thoughts on digitized books? They are a growing phenomenon. Accessible. Diverse. The world is your digital oyster. But what about our quiet friends,who wait patiently on shelves? You know, books. Old school brain food? Come on, you remember...made out of paper? From trees? Or papyrus? What are we, relics of Middle Earth? Will they survive this current hyper jump to light speed?

Witness Jaime Temarik. It was her book that we were all reading with laser-locked attention. It has not been published yet, but look out world! Think, Shakespeare meets Amy Tan meets Erik Carle. It is a good read about the adventures of Alice and Lucy. Stay tuned.

While the adults jawed on and on, the kids went to the dining room and drew the future onto paper airplanes. And yes, we do allow alligators to crawl on our furniture.

Anyhow, we were all inspired and fired up by Jaime's book-in-progress. The power of Book is that it connects us one to another, and to our world. Does it matter how the pages present themselves? From the sky to the center of the earth.

Why We Vacuum

2010-04-16T11:34:00.000-07:00

We vacuum to keep from sliding into chaos. Or because company is coming. If I were a genius, I would invent "The Life Vacuum". You could run it around your mind, your body, or your soul, and voomp away all the things you don't like. I'm not quite there yet, but the sketch above is part of my blueprint for perfection. STEP 1: Do a doodle. STEP 2: Make a copy of doodle, then flop that copy (make a mirror image).

STEP 3: Copy that, flop it, and stick it all together. Voila! You have a "Star Doodle". You have symmetry. Remember when someone showed you how to fold a piece of paper a few times, and cut out little holes in it? When you unfolded the paper you had a snowflake!

Now, this is where it gets interesting to me. These "Star Doodles" of mine are just random la-la-la ink doodles with no thought as to what the heck I'm doing. When you make them into symmetrical images, you get lots of unexpected surprises and new shapes.

Some are happy and pleasant, and some are odd and unsettling. Maybe that's why they do the Rorschach tests. Your response can go any direction, you sort of trick your subconscious into being a "Chatty Cathy".

One finds symmetry in nature, as in crystals, zygotes, snowflakes, and the human anatomy (to a point). But in nature, there are slight imperfections which give us character, and help us realize that things don't have to be perfect.

Symmetry is fun to mess around with, but asymmetry seems more familiar. Too much symmetry looks alien. So be glad for those freckles. For that droopy eyelid. That one big toe. Forget vacuuming, throw your peanut shells on the floor. Perfection is an illusion. Let the dog do the vacuuming, it's more natural and creates a smaller carbon footprint.

Sprouts

2010-04-02T09:15:00.000-07:00

We have been eating a lot of sprouts lately. Mung bean sprouts, dill, red clover, fenugreek, arugula, cress, radish, adzuki bean, alfalfa, etc. They are supposed to better for you than other foods, like, coffee.

Ideas are like sprouts. If they take root, they can grow into something unexpected. I love this story of The Last Supper because even though it contains tragedy, it contains bright hope. I grew up in a loving, atheist family, yet when I first heard this story, it sprouted like a mung bean. My friend Max Grover gave me this little clay sculpture. I think it is Peruvian.

I hope you have a Happy Easter.

Have You, Could You, Would You Fly?

2010-03-19T22:09:00.000-07:00

Not very long ago, flying was not really an option for humans, unless you fell off a cliff, or found yourself in the talons of a pterodactyl, who on a whim decided at fifteen thousand feet to become a vegetarian.

In the 1920's, my dad (above) used to build his own airplanes out of Harley Davidson motorcycle engines, and chewing gum. He hand carved the propellers using a spoke shave. He flew whithersoever he wished.

And sometimes he flew right into the ground.

This is a painting my son, Jesse did a while ago depicting himself flying. He wrote:

"It was like pushing off from the bottom of a swimming pool rather than flying. I hadn't actually flown before, but every kid has his own idea of just what it would be like. I didn't have to jump. Only gliding through the air. Nothing could be heard except the boats in the water and the sun shining on the lawns.

Stillness like nobody could describe. Realness like a truck with wood in the back or a paper cut from a love letter. The good kind of real. Free and real like the kind God allows only for a twinkle on this side of eternity."

This angel was drawn by daughter, Faith. Flying is a lighthearted leap! A sigh going the other way. Do you remember any dreams of flying? I used to have them as a child, and never wanted them to end. If I found myself waking, I would try so hard to crawl back into my dream.

My granddaughter drew this picture or herself flying. See her wings? In Madeleine L'Engle's book Walking on Water, she ponders a memory of flying as a child. She is certain that she truly did fly. I think I did too, but would never mention it to anyone. Oh, look I've gone and mentioned it.

When we are motivated by love, when we live in joy, when we follow our dreams and our deeper instincts, do we not also find ourselves flying?

When astronaut, Alan Shepard was silently hurtling through space, he looked back at the Earth, and he wept.

Running Away With the Gypsies

2010-03-04T19:05:00.000-08:00

Life's pressures get intense don't they? It helps to have an escape hatch. Mine has always been to run away with the Gypsies if things get too wonky. A dear artist friend told me yesterday, she may loose her house, but "is looking forward to the adventure of sleeping under bridges, or living with the Gypsies."

My mother told us kids that we were all dropped off on the back porch by Gypsies. I believe her. It explains an awful lot. For one, I like the idea of singing to your draft horse and wandering the back roads. What could be better than cooking an omelette on an open campfire with fresh picked sage or rosemary?

The Gypsies, or the Roma people have music that fires the soul. When I hear it, my feet literally can not sit still. You must dance or die. In their music, they have somehow captured untethered Passion. Pathos. Yearning. Joy. The Pizaaz of life in spite of the miseries.

A couple of my favorite movies along this vein: Gypsy Caravan, Latcho Drom, and The Pied Piper of Hützovina which stars the irrepressible Ukrainian punk musician, Eugene Hütz, who with some of his band, Gogol Bordello, also starred in Liev Schreiber's film Everything is Illuminated.

So what's your escape hatch? You could put on big silver loop earrings and you would be halfway there. Locate you inner Gypsy. Do it. Dance when no one is looking, or better yet dance when they are. If your folks won't level with you, ask your grandparents, "Was I brought here by Gypsies?"

Facing Your Inner Critic

2010-02-22T23:18:00.000-08:00

What does your inner critic look like? What does he/she sound like? Lately, mine looks like this (above).

We all have thoughts. Agreed? And usually we are in charge of them. We call the shots. Rule the roost. We are the emperor or empress of the whole of Rome in our brain. Do this, do that, peel me some more grapes. That is, until The Critic arrives. Our inner voice that, well, criticizes the hell out of everything we do. His/her POV is that s/he is in charge of quality control.

"And you call yourself an artist. More like a fartist." Though this image is from Ben's and my book, The Boy Who Went Ape, the omni-max in red is my second grade teacher, Miss Foot, mixed in with my piano teacher, Miss Hand, or was it Miss Hook. Both hated kids. My inner voice looks and sounds like her sometimes.

I find that the inner critic can paralyze me from proceeding. Why bother when it seems so frikkin' impossible? One way to shut her/him up is to drag her into a scene. Here are some notes I jotted down from a recent tête-á-tête with my inner critic (loosely translated).

"Avast! Ye scurvy fog headed poltroon. Belay! Set to! Unfurl the mizzen you sorry wet dog. Goad the Fates and heave ho! You lard rendered lubber, you Jack-of-no-trade. Put your back into it , Sea Foam-For-Brains. Pull!! We're bound for the Outer Hebrides and sun burnt gold that glistens like sweat. Not that you've ever sweated, pig.

Haul yore rusted rump about, uncork that rum soaked noggin and burn yore oars, fire the crow's nest. What a far sighted fake. I've seen mermaids with more muscle. Show some fish guts, tan yore hide, slice the water and butter the bow. You call yourself a writer? Get me a bucket and a linen hanky, while yer at it."

We all need to self adjust. It makes us better people. We need to respectfully listen to others and to our inner critic. And then when we can't stands it no more, we make our inner critic walk the plank.

Are you listening?

2010-02-12T18:44:00.000-08:00

Some of my best friends are phantoms. This boy, for instance. I don't know who he is, but the photo speaks to me. Volumes. I've had this photo forever. It reminds me of my dad who made the first crystal radio receiver in Forest Grove Oregon, when he was a lad.

What is he listening to? It's blowing his mind, whatever it is. Or forming it. I like his button up shoes. The oriental rug. The doily on the table top. And that radio, with the Bakelite knobs, and the speaker horn-thingy.

Do you have old family (or otherwise) photos that stir your imagination? What do they say to you?

Fortune and Glory

2010-02-08T21:47:00.001-08:00

I painted this aeons ago using my daughter as model

It wasn't very long ago that my offspring were children. I'm not sure about the word "offspring". Sounds like what happened to our couch. Anyway, now my chirrens ( to use Mr. T's colloquium) have chirrens of their own. And my daughter, Faith, has just announced on her blog, a new contest: The Winter Word Olympics, a.k.a., The Writer Games.

Go. Just go. To: Sacred Dirt. Fortune and glory await. There be cleverness, and a chance to scale new heights. A different wordish competition with each post. Prizes. Self esteem infusions. Free tax advice. Facials. Thank you all for being great friends, and for being you.

Notes From the Underground

2010-01-29T08:06:00.000-08:00

Often when I am in a phone conversation or my mind is elsewhere, I find that I have been doodling. My subconscious is expressing itself.

I remember that this one was a difficult discussion.

One might call it Hypo Art. Images from down under. Sublimages.

These noodlings have survived because
as I was throwing them in the trash
I looked at them and thought, huh!

So instead, I tossed them on one of my piles.

Unconscious poetry, speaking from the dark.

What are my dreams telling me?

Who are these friends?

Where have I stuffed these emotions?

This kind of art is done without agenda. Without deadlines. Without ambition. It simply flows. And is what it is.

Mostly the ideas are nonrepresentational. But occasionally one of them peeks out to say hello.

Do you doodle? Are you giving voice to your shyer musings?

Giant Grapefruit Mistaken for the Planet Jupiter!

2010-01-16T21:37:00.000-08:00

It would be hard to imagine a more discouraging month. There was sadness, sickness, and wierdness up the wazoo. But it is turning out to be a great new year, full of promise, and a life time supply of grapefruit. Dear friend Cathy Bonnell, went out in her back yard, picked some of her other-worldly fruit, put it in a huge box, and mailed it to the dark, wet, cold, mist-shrouded, Northwest. Let me preface: she is the world's greatest librarian, and friend. Besides which, she lives in Arizona. You know, "sun, sun, sun, til daddy takes the T-Bird away". Come to think of it, she may live near Area 51.

To help you get a an idea of the size of these puppies.

The range of citrus: grapefruit, oranges, lemons, lime, tangerine, kumquat. They arrived just in the nick of time. I needed vitamin C big time, and this kind friend brought earth medicine, smiles, and an antidote to the blues.

At first these two didn't know what to make of each other. But after swapping stories...

It was best of pals. They became inseparable. Now they go everywhere together-- the beach, the cinema, hiking, they were even going to take in a jai alai game, but thought better of it.

Art Made From Plum Sweat

2010-01-08T20:24:00.000-08:00

This is an orphan plum. We rescued it from a life of rot and splat. In Port Townsend there are gleaner freaks. Waste not, want not, you know.

Our daughter, Faith, came over to do a bit of canning a while ago, while we kept the grandkids busy. Since the windows all fogged up from the steam of canning, we discovered a new kind of "canvas" for making art. If I'm not mistaken, Michelangelo began the Sistine Chapel on his grama's window pane, while she canned plums. Or was it pears?

Faces from the foggy mists of the past.

Smiley faces. Point, move finger, and ta da! Art happens.

Careful...just so.

This picture tells
of fairies, and
ballerinas, and a kitty, no wait, that's a cloud with a rainbow. And those are birds and a
porcupine. And I'm flying so fast.

Narrative Arcs: Part 3.3 Hot Oven

2009-12-17T12:34:00.000-08:00

The stained glass angel (above) was a gift to me from Nancy Willard. She wrote "The High Rise Glorious Skittle Skat Roarious Sky Pie Angel Food Cake". This was her way of saying "thank you" to me for illustrating her story.

She could easily have illustrated her own story, but let go of the young words, and watched them march down her front steps to take on a life of their own. The words found their way to me, and we bonded. Now, it can be irksome for an illustrator if an author meddles and tries to tell the illustrator, "This is what I was thinking for the art...". Einnnk!

But what Nancy did was firstly to send me a plaster egg. "Would you be so kind as to sign this egg?" "Ah, so that's how to 'egg on' an artist," I said to my moose. I took the bait, and made a little house for the egg out of Bondo auto body filler, papier maché, and gold leaf, then mailed it back to her. The game was afoot.

What did I know of angels? Not much. I have a dearest friend (who is rational, intelligent, sober, and honest) who has seen an angel. When writing or illustrating, I want to know everything I possibly can about my subject. As I stood in my front yard debating if I should even illustrate this text, wondering what angels were like, out of nowhere, a dust devil barged into our neighborhood. The dust from our dirt road suited this brisk wind, and he picked up a million leaves of all shapes and sizes. As I stood and squinted at the center of this mini-maelstrom I rather imagined each leaf as an angel. This was the gift I needed as I began my journey with this story. I'm pretty sure an angel blew in my ear and dust came out the other ear.

Russian lacquer box painting from the fairy tale, "The Raven".

Then there came the gift of dreams. If two people can dream each other's dreams, you get to a quiet place just above the tree tops. I find it fascinating that in the Scriptures, whenever an angel appeared to someone, they freaked out and fell on their faces very much preferring to die rather than hang out with raw light and power. Although the young virgin Mary faced Gabriel in her innocence and asked for clarification. The childlike drink freely of the divine. Adults need frequent swigs of skepticism.

Anyway, in one of my dreams I found myself outside in a hurricane. My shirt was blown off and I leaned into the wind to seek refuge. On the street corner, I found a U.S. mail box. Since I used to be a mailman I could unlock the box. Inside were dozens of parcels tied up with string, in the shapes of bizarre creatures. One was half bird, half airplane. When I asked Nancy how she sent the dream parcel, she mailed me the card above.

In this scene, the angels have smelled the girl's cake baking all the way from Heaven, and have come into her kitchen hoping for a taste. This book has a lightness of being, but it was baked in an oven of pain and grief. When I was working on my part of the book, I had some deep pain.

As I attempted to paint lighter-than-air, heavenly images, my father had a stroke, got his leg amputated, and finally died. I later found out that the author, Nancy, was going through some similar pain with her own mother who was dying. Our editor for this book, Bonnie, also had great pain. In particular, her mother had brain surgery to remove a tumor. She read this story to her mother the night before her surgery. The next morning, she brought her mother a little gift. "See what they found in your head?" And presented her with a golden thimble (as in the story).

Valentine from Nancy

I guess all stories rise like yeast from the full aggregate of our jumbled lives. Would I say that making this book was a piece of cake? No. No way. And yes. Absolutely.

Narrative Arcs: Part 3.2 Light and Dark

2009-12-09T23:46:00.000-08:00

When I first read the text to The Dream Stair, it beckoned me both ways. Go up the stair to your attic room. Go down the stair to your cellar room. Think about that.

Betsy James, herself an illustrator, set aside her paint brush and wrote this spare, dreamlike text, then sent it out into the evening light. Her publisher gave it to me to illustrate.

On these "stairs" we exchanged many letters. Betsy and I explored both light and heavy ideas, which infused my approach to the illustrations. She wrote that she "read Jung and realized that deep fantasy is universal and the root of spirituality."

As I began my work on the book, she sent the following note:

"Richard--I wanted to send you something by way of blessing for the beginnings of this work; puzzled over it; then found it pinned to my studio wall. So blessings, Betsy

A cow gave birth to a fire.
She tried to lick it, but it burned;
She wanted to leave it but she could not,
For it was her child.
--Etheopia

From another letter she sent (as therapist):

"No, I'm not in the least worried 'what some clod will do to my lovely creation.' What collaboration teaches us is that we own, and manifest, the world in common: when I can let go of my hoarded image of it to join with another's image, it grows and I grow. All light (and dark) and joy to you!"

A lovely slice of this book's story arc was inspired by our editor, Linda Zuckerman's request to make the protagonist Hispanic. I gave art classes at an elementary school in Hollister, California, in exchange for choosing one of the students to be the model for The Dream Stair.

Betsy reminded me, "All of us transplanted "U.S.ians", regardless of our origin, half want to remember and half to forget. It's the abuelitas who remind us, and hold the memories."

Con cariño

The Three Narrative Arcs in Making a Book: Part 3.1 The Stories Behind the Stories

2009-12-07T16:54:00.000-08:00

Each book I have made is inevitably wrapped up in many layers of life. While trying to write or illustrate a book, there is the narrative arc of bills which beckon like banshees, and kids with their soccer games. Babies are born, forest fires engulf the neighborhood, cars crash, elderly parents unwittingly set fire to their microwaves, and the power of love prevails.

But back in the refuge of my studio I find the privilege of working with various authors, editors and art directors one of my greatest joys. Each collaboration has a different and amazing narrative.

The first book that I illustrated was Bronwen, the Traw and the Shape-Shifter by Poet Laureate, James Dickey. Yes, he is the one who wrote Deliverance.

Strange and wonderful things come your way when you begin a book project. It's like we grow antennae or something. For instance, the Bronwen story is about flying squirrels. As an illustrator, I needed to find one. It's always best to see something firsthand. My editor, Susan Mihalic, says to me, "Oh, I used to have one as a pet". I'd never seen one in my life. But as I began the first sketches for the book, my cat caught a mitten-sized flying squirrel. Un. Real. By the way, I rescued the squirrel. My cat would not speak to me.

The night and "all-dark" of this story cast shadows on my world as I began to illustrate the text. It was the bill-banshees who required me to take a night job as a security guard. I drove around in the wee hours past midnight and would park and sit for hours guarding the homeowners from themselves. While sitting in the cab of my pick-up truck, I painted the illustrations for this nighttime story. One night as Halley's Comet brushed our sky, I painted it into the book. Can you find it in the scene above?

James Dickey and I sent letters of encouragement back and forth. Note: the publisher usually keeps author and illustrator as far from each other as possible. This is to protect both of them from the meddling claws and fangs of the other (worst case scenerio).

But I like to pick an author's brain. It informs my research as an illustrator to peer around the corners of their psyche. For instance, Dickey wrote to me, "What I feel is more or less essential is an imaginative use of darkness; everywhere we can suggest rather than depict we are coming out ahead (as) John Dryden suggested... the poet is engaged in 'moving the sleeping images of things toward the light'. In our case, toward the light but never quite into it."

I enjoyed these exchanges, although I did have to ask him to "back-off" just a tad with one of his suggestions. Otherwise it was lovely-dovey and fascinating to get his letters, which he signed, "Cordially..." or:

The Three Narrative Arcs of Making a Book: Part ll The Mushroom

2009-12-04T13:34:00.000-08:00

When I take the dive into making a book, I am aware that the book is already underway. Let me explain. It is like the mushroom. We see the fruiting body when the mushroom finally pops up after a johnny-come-lately-rain. But underground the mycelium, (a network of fine, almost microscopic filaments) have been at work for quite a while. So too the creative person has been subconsciously working out an idea, a concept, trying to get at an inner itch. Many of my best ideas begin in my journals like the one above. I jot a thought. I scribble a sighting (whether an "inny" or an "outy". These ideas continue to grow in the dark.

Eventually, an idea can take it no longer and pops to the surface to be harvested. Then I must act. The sketch above is part of the next phase where I take the random ideas and build some reference based on research. These sketches are "life" drawings that I did at the Oregon Zoo for the book, The Boy Who Went Ape. Every book takes me on a winding road of discovery and "nut gathering" or in this case banana gathering.

I sat in front of these chimps and sketched like mad. This was my favorite model, Delilah. After I finished the sketches, I showed her and she stuck out her lip with approval or looked away in pity. We are still corresponding through squirrels and ravens.

Once I achieve critical mass of reference material, I do thumbnail sketches and put them in some sort of order as in The Magic Rabbit storyboard above. After sketch-sketch-sketching rabbits, I hopped around with different story possibilities. For me as a picture book author and illustrator, the story unfolds with words and pictures leap frogging each other.

Often in my process, I will shoot models. Above is son, Jesse, posing as an angel for Nancy Willard's exquisite story, The High Rise Glorious Skittle Skat Roarious Sky Pie Angel Food Cake.

I play around with various medium to find out which way to take the final paintings. The study above was made with torn paper, egg tempera paint and gold leaf.

The final cover (above) was painted in egg tempera with neo-colour pastels and gold leaf. There are many more aspects I haven't addressed about this process, but to quote Larry from "Ground Hog Day" , "There's a heck of a lot more to it than that!"

There is an essential collaboration with author, illustrator and editor, which I will address in Part III.

I've skimped on some details such as editorial input, proofs, and more proofs, sending art out, and waiting. Then more waiting. Then Rip Van Winkle. And then finally, FINALLY! a biggish envelope arrives in the mail. It is the bound book! I turn off all ringers, get a cup of something hot, sit in my favorite chair, pet the golden lab, let the cat curl up in my lap, and read my new book. Oh, it is sweet.

So, there is a "story arc" in the actual making of every book. Each journey is both an exhilarating
free fall, and a long sweaty slog through the jungle. But! The reward is multifarious. It is satisfying to craft a work of quality and give children and adults a true gift. There are battle scars to show off, but the best part: good books to read and share!

"We see the brightness of a new page
where everything yet can happen"--Rilke

The Three Narrative Arcs in Making a Book: Part 1 Orange Crush

2009-12-01T18:35:00.000-08:00

When someone falls off a cliff, a story begins. When writing or illustrating a picture book, it’s easy to loose your footing. It can be discouraging and even if things are going great, it can still be overwhelming and a lot like falling. That is, until you turn it into flying. I’m sure many of you have seen the following, but if not, you gotta see it. Two points are made: a. You can turn a “fall” into a “flight”. b. Darwin knew what he was talking about.

Whew! O.K., back to story arcs. 1. There is the narrative arc of The Story Itself. 2. The narrative arc of Me Actually Making the Book. 3. The narrative arc of My Life and World During the Journey of making this book. Each of these has, basically, a beginning, a middle, an end.

The Story Itself: If you throw an orange to a friend, the beginning of this “story arc” is the orange leaving your hand. The orange is our protagonist, our hero, or heroine. And she is launched into this trajectory for some reason, some destiny.

The middle is the exhilaration (or terror?) of hurtling through the air-- the orange’s life passes before her eyes. This is life on the edge for her. She is in her prime after all; a plump, succulent citrus. Cold air rushes against her oiled skin. She has no idea where she is going or why and doesn’t care.

Then there is the ending. Is she lovingly caught, welcomed and caressed, gently placed in a blue bowl with her sisters of Valencia? Or does she meet a more sinister end? Dropped? Overthrown, and over the cliff? Does she meet the fate of so many innocent oranges, and end up grabbed by a barbarian and jammed into a juicer? Or worse yet, does she sing as she flies free, beaming at the birds, smiling at the curious ciphers of the high cirrus clouds, basking as she arcs under the also orange sun. Oh, the bliss. But wait, she notices a back lot baseball game coming into focus. Who are these scruffy kids? What are they using as a baseball? And then she knows…

Wet Fire Hydrants, Dry Wit

2009-11-30T16:59:00.000-08:00

There are basically two reasons for a wet fire hydrant. O.K., I suppose a grasshopper could walk up to one and lift his leg. But you all know what I mean. This huge dog can never be accused of hydrant hosing. He is a gentleman and a scholar.

Every time I come to the Tacoma Art Museum, I sit down with LeRoy to compare notes and swap stories. He is a good listener with a dry wit and a wet nose.

Sunday, I had a book signing at this very museum. I heard that some folks were there early waiting for me and gave up. I am really sorry that I missed you. Call me or e-mail, I'm happy to mail you signed and personalized books.

This delightful sculpture is called LeRoy, the Big Pup, created by sculptor, Scott Fife, born in Moscow, Idaho--1949. Medium: archival cardboard, carpenter's glue, drywall screws.

So, if you need a confidant or someone to tell your troubles to; go see LeRoy. Swap your best hydrant stories.

The Zen of Messy

2009-11-25T11:37:00.000-08:00

This is my studio. I was compelled to "confess" my space after seeing Elizabeth Blake's oh-so-Zen-space on the Chinook whatyacallit.

Whenever I hear about Zen this and Zen that I usually look down at my shoes. "Isn't there a place for me?" I mutter. I mean, do we all have to be so calm? And neat?

What can I say? I like interesting things. I collect...treasures.

For instance, this pile is a collection of actual U.F.O.'s that landed in my studio. That's right, you heard me. And some day they will show up in a book.

And this pic shows one of the models that I often make to "get me into a new world". Consider this: if Buddha was going to write a book about a T-Rex, he might just make a model of one out of papier maché. And he might have piles around his studio, maybe...

When the grand kids come to my studio, I simply do what any Godfather, I mean grandfather, would do. No, I don't make them kiss my ring! But they do have to pay homage to my almost real T-Rex with real teeth. It builds character for them to confront their fears.

One thing they all insist on is "riding" up the antique dentist chair. Up, past the trees, the clouds, the stars and planets. Way up there.

Hey look, some stones. That is pretty Zenny, right?

Do Muses Have Muses?

2009-11-21T13:09:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you. Or, for my Quaker friends: I don't know about thee. O.K., for my friends who live in antediluvian homes: I don't know about y'all. But my muse is skittish. Or maybe he's Yiddish. Come to think of it she might be Swedish.

Sigh. Someone said the difference between writers and non-writers is that writers find writing more difficult. Let's see... the difference between artists and non-artists is regular income.

"Hey! No negative self-talk!" I am told. Yeah, yeah. Or for my German friends, Yah,Yah.

Point is one day I was trying to find my muse; driving around town looking for someone to sketch, or something to write about. Sit. Sitting. Arch my back, roll my neck around. I'm ready. Anytime, lay it on me.

Nothing. Slack tide. Zippo. So there I am sitting in my car across from my favorite used book store in Port Townsend (William James Bookstore). As if writerly bravissimo might waft its way into my parched desert brain flats. And from the distance I hear, "chagoing, Chagoing, CHAGOING!!" getting closer and closer.

Down the sidewalk a gorilla on a pogo stick boinged by. I am not kidding. My mouth opened to call out, "Oh, Muse!! Over here, I've been waiting for you..." But then my decent inner civilian butted in, "This can't be real. Gorillas don't ride pogo sticks in this town. Don't you have work to do?"

"But." I said.

Whether the Weather Will Wither Me Mither

2009-11-16T20:56:00.000-08:00

I find myself speaking in rhyming couplets that don't rhyme or couple. My thoughts huddle like sheep while the storm slaps the house with rain.

Dollopy, dollopy,
Wap, wop, wap, wop,
Blip blip, drip drip,
Blapitty, splapitty,
Pitter, patter,
Splitter, splatter,
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
No...that doesn't work. At all.
The rain really wrecked the roses,
"It's not one of my favorite things,"
Said the cat, twitching her tail,
And turning her face again to the fire.
Hold fast, Richard,
Winter in the Northwest,
Has only just begun.
(Involuntary shudder).

My Abstractlettes Go Out Into the Real World

2009-11-09T22:20:00.000-08:00

Feelin' Groovy

Here are a few more samples of my art which I am exhibiting this weekend in Poulsbo, Washington, at the Knowles Studio. Drop by if you want an Art-in-the-Woods getaway.

Wonderful friends and visitors,
meet Cherubio (right). Cherubio,
meet some cool people. Where? They're right out there.
Just look...

This next one I call Escabeche, because I have a lot of fond memories of time spent in Mexico.

And my favorite quick meal is soft corn tortillas heated in an iron skillet, with "whatever" folded inside. Preferably fish (pescado blanco), cheeze, sprouts, tomato, avocado,
with squeeze of lime, and something hot like cauliflower and carrots
pickeled in olive oil and serrano peppers. Or, for
clear-your-head hot sauce: my son, Jesse
makes a Habanero sauce that's a nice, slow, good burn.

I call this one Albert.

Go For It (on the left) almost got away from me. I used Sumi ink on a surface with an unwitting resist. The ink would'nt do what it was told. I tossed it in with the other art on probation.

Every month or two, I would pull it out and glare at it. And then, one day I focused on the negative space and all at once it brought out the calligraphic "flaire that was there".

I am Dreaming of You. Quiet. Comfy.
I enjoy a snug gathering
of color and shape.

Most of these are quite small and inexpensive and hence I sell a lot of them. But they are, never-the-less, labors of love. And as I have mentioned in earlier posts, it is healing for me to paint them. I like what Tara commented on the last post, "play without any representational outcome required".

Dazzle Day

If You Paint It They Will Come

2009-11-05T09:14:00.000-08:00

Fox Trot

Who will come? The Little People. The Big People. The Fairies. The Ideas. That's right, often I don't know what I'm painting, until it's done. We were taking ballroom dance classes when I painted Fox Trot, and it reminded me of the dance and people on the dance floor.

Going With The Flow

When I paint abstracts, they are just that. I play with paint, or experiment, or try hard to capture an idea or mood. And sometimes it's simply screwing around. But the paintings go back into the pile unless they come alive. They are "exquisite corpses" which I come back and back to, tweaking, dab here, stroke there.

Mt. Doom Meet Frodo

I was thinking lava, when painting this. I had been on the Big Island of Hawaii. But this small painting sat on the pile for years, until I saw the ring shape. Then I foodled around with it and Voila! Frodo is taking the ring of power to destroy it in the Cracks of Doom.

In Other Words

I paint, therefore I am. I breathe, therefore I am. I eat Susi's pumpkin waffles, therefore I am happy. Yum! Mma Ramotswe frequently cooks and eats pumpkin. (From McCall Smith's delightful The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency).

Why Yes

This last one I called, Tomorrow Becoming Today. Which it has.

Segue From Halloween to...

2009-11-03T10:35:00.000-08:00

There are two kinds of geniuses: smart ones and dumb ones. But this is true elsewhere. Good cop, bad cop. Teachers who inspire, those who hate their jobs (and children). Fun pirates, avoid-at-all-cost-pirates. Mice can go either way, but really, how bad can a mouse be?

The ink drawing above is from Writers in the Kitchen, compiled by Tricia Gardella (smart genius) published by Boyds Mills Press. Inside are stories and recipes from children's book authors and illustrators. Ed Young, for example, shares a recipe for "Rawfish Gruel". Brian Selznick unveils "Thanksgiving Surprise, from my mother, who can't cook". My contribution was concocted when I was nine:

"Cat's Eyeballs in Blood with Gold Nuggets"

The following recipe requires ingredients to be obtained if at all possible
from Spanish pirate ships:

one can tomato soup
one cup (more of less) of KIX cereal
one cup cubed sharp cheddar cheese

The longer the KIX bob around, the slimier they get.

My brother had a redwood plaque with this message burned into it: "If yore so dang smart why ain't you rich?" When I was nine, I assumed I was a genius, and a super hero. Now I know that I am a brilliant simpleton, or a dumb genius.

Good Creeps Bad Creeps

2009-10-30T09:12:00.000-07:00

"Nothing says lovin' like somethin' in the oven..." so goes a harmless diddy which somehow went with cookies or flakey dinner rolls. But hum that at Halloween and everything gets wierded out. What is in the oven?

When I first met Susi, she said I gave her the creeps. I was crest fallen. Only later did she tell me that she meant the good creeps. You know like, oohhh-whoo-who. I guess. I'm not really sure.

Anyway, growing up (I know) I used to scour my folks library
and was drawn to books with wood engravings by Fritz Eichenberg (right).
He made everything look creepy. I felt like
it was Halloween year 'round.
Or maybe it was that I was reading Edgar Allen Poe and
Wuthering Heights.

But these are good creeps.

Like visitng my cousins. I would take the train
by myself from L.A. up to Palo Alto in the Bay area.

We road our bikes like bats out of hell.
I seem to remember riding to the graveyard a lot.
We were enthralled by the tombstones and
implications of those departed souls
and not departed remains.

Say hello to my little friend. Carefully laid out on my welcome mat, like my cat is a sushi chef.
Happy Halloween. You all give me the creeps. Good ones.

Molecular Barn Dance

2009-10-28T00:04:00.000-07:00

When I was a boy, my brother-in-law took me and my dad to visit the mile long Stanford Linear Electron Accelerator. It blew me away. Not literally, or I would be little floaty bits of dust.

Since then I have often played around with circular images. I find them provoking and comforting. Circles are a continuum. They are everywhere. Atoms, molecules, the pupils of your eye, Charlie Brown's head, planets, the sun, wheels, B.B's, pancakes etc.

A collector in Switzerland has the original of this painting. I had Swiss chocolate, a Fuji apple, and Ugandan coffee for breakfast. That's sort of circular...

Walk: Part II With Warning!

2009-10-26T13:06:00.000-07:00

Who knew that caterpillars were romantics? See the heart hole in the leaf above?

Here are a few more pics from our one hour walk. One post could not contain all the wonders. Above is the entrance to our friend, Beth's garden. These bits of pottery came from a favorite remote beach. Junk Beach.

O.K. brace yourself. I must WARN you! If you keep reading you will see a possibly disturbing picture of rust. Turn back now if you can't handle the rude, relentless and indiscriminate determination of iron oxide.

If this were my mail box I would be dealing with some form of depression. But since it's not my mailbox, I find it exquisite. It makes me smile all over. Isn't it simply elegant? Go rust!

White ferns among the green. A very faerie thing.

I like lichen.

I think that this truck belongs to Guy Smiley from the Muppets (or it might belong to artist Steve Kennel...).

A wealth of gold coins for free. Makes me want to go for another walk.

Marching to Pretoria: Going on a Walk, Part I

2009-10-23T19:23:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my family did a lot of singing in our 1949 GMC Carry All truck. One of my favorite songs declared, "We are marching to Pretoria, Pretoria, Pretoria...". I never realized where Pretoria was until we started boycotting South Africa because of apartheid. But when Harcourt wanted to do a translation of my book, Tom Thumb, into Afrikaans, I thought it a bad idea to boycott book making. So, I said, "Sure, do it; but also do a version of it in a tribal language." And they did also print a version in Xhosa. Cool.

All my life, however, I have imagined Pretoria to be a state of mind where good things greet you on a journey. So this evening we went on a walk to feed our friend's cat. A one hour walk can cure what ails you.

Plus, you meet pals along the way. I called these two, Chester and Marshal Dillon.

I am willing to wager that if you went on a walk from your front door, and looked about, you would find wonders to behold. Simple lovelies, and spots of beauty.

Furthermore, when you walk, you slow down and feel the earth and time turning. The wind messes with you, and the sky invites you to open up to the now.

Do you speak my language? Hey buddy, can you spare a tuna?

The Pacific Madrona tree (Arbutus Menziesii) is sensual in its beauty.

There are always surprises when you go for a walk, especially if you are marching to Pretoria. Here is a mermaid riding a bike. Haven't you wondered how they ride bikes? I can tell you I have laid awake at night wondering about just that. It's so simple! They swim through the air and hold on to the handlebars. This sculpture is the work of Port Townsend's own, Scott Jaster.

See what's waiting for you? Go for a walk with someone you love. March into the magic.

The Mysterious Whereabouts of Ben Watson, Former Blogger

2009-10-21T13:15:00.000-07:00

Have you seen this person? Ben Watson used to wield a pretty snappy blog keyboard, but alas, he has vanished Into Thin Air (which I am currently reading-great book-in fact Nancy Pearl says it is a practically perfect book), but I digress...

There are rumors as to his whereabouts: a bar maid said she heard he was mowing lawns in Portugal.

Authorities decline to comment on his role as an undercover writer.

Extreme rock climbers swear that they passed him on the Hilary Step at the summit of Everest. This is unlikely as Canadian coffee baristas all agree that he could never make it that long without his double talls.

While we wait for news, I thought I'd show you some of his earlier work. The pink thing (above) was his very first bound book. This was the scene with all the firefighters. I thought he showed great character development, pacing, and pretty colors.

This rabbit is one of his character-driven stories. It reminds me of Edvard Munch's Scream. Or it could be the Easter Bunny.

Here Ben was exploring nonfiction. See the bird?

This character is a knight with a glowing sword. Perhaps a light saber.

In this scene, Ben has drawn himself ensconced in his snow fort. Snowballs are flying. As I remember he operated with a hair trigger aiming to destroy anything that moved.

Portrait of the artist/writer's mother. Title? Mommy.

This was a Happy Hanukkah card for his mother. Funny, I didn't realize he had converted. Are those cool flames, or what?

This piece speaks for itself.

Well, friends, keep looking. Ben's out there somewhere. He might even be writing. Which would be weird, since he sure hasn't used the old bloggy light saber in, like, forever...

The Rain in Spain

2009-10-17T23:28:00.000-07:00

Does it even rain in Spain? When I was there back in Sancho Panza's day, it was hot. In the Pacific Northwest, however, it does rain. A lot. We had industrial strength rain last night, all night. The bummer part? "I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in and stops my mind from wanderin', where it will go..."

The good part? These Shaggy Mane mushrooms pop up when it rains a lot after a dry spell. Coprinus comatus is also known as Lawyer's Wig and Inky Cap. The young nubbin ones are delectable in an omelette with Dubliner cheese, tomatoes and sprouts. (Duh, use caution-don't pick wild mushrooms unless you know for certain!) My friend, Dr. Ben Hunt says that the most common cause of poisoning in Seattle is from mushrooms. Gosh, way to rain on my own parade. Back to rain:

Newts like rain. They hide under boulders. At certain times of the year they cross our road and get squished. Sad. They usually move soooo slowwwly.

Great, I just read that the Tarucha granulosa newt is one of the most toxic animals known to science. Perfect. The toxin from the skin of one of those newts could kill 25,00 mice. Or one doufus artist. They examined fifty different predators of newts (frogs, kingfishers, herons etc.) and found that they had all died from eating the newt. I don't think the guy above is the assassin type. But wash your hands after handling.

Another good thing about the rain is to go inside, wash your hands, sit by the fire, and read a good book while it does its thing outside.

When Life Kicks Art's Butt, Art Kicks Right Back

2009-10-12T22:53:00.000-07:00

I have a nasty art deadline for a book I'm working on. Actually the publisher wants to move the deadline up. Oh, goodie. So, I'm painting away, swish,swish,dab,dab,noodle,noodle...Then the mailman has the audacity to bring bills like they are bales of hay. What to do?

"Well, there is that studio tour coming up." " Yeah, but the front deck has turned to dust. The rain forest has re-claimed it." For real. "And I'm on a deadline," I whimper. "A book deadline!" Like that will silence reality once and for all.

I brought in expert help.

See, the deal is we needed the potential sales from the studio tour to pay an eentsie weentsie part of the bills. You know, for electricity. And waffle batter. But we had to fix the deck first or our studio visitors would have fallen into oblivion. Really. Yep, life got in the way of art. Again. But you know the saying, "When life gives you lemons, start throwing them." I'm pretty sure Sandy Koufax had a lemon tree in his yard. So.

Well, I couldn't have done it without Susi, Jesse, and Grandson T's help. Here the grandkids test out the finished deck. "Hey it works!"

Ringing the Cosanti bells (Paolo Soleri). A tradition when g.kids come to visit. The studio tour was a success. No one fell to the center of the earth. Lots of wonderful visitors. Thank you to everyone who made the trek to our studio. Thanks, Elaine and Said for responding to my earlier post and zooming all the way here from Kenmore. So nice to see everyone. We've made new friends. A bunch of art and oodles of books sold. A soupçon of bills paid. Art and life find an amiable resolution.

Port Townsend Studio Tour

2009-10-06T23:23:00.000-07:00

Yes, I did this art in the eighties.

Wahoo! This Saturday and Sunday loads of people will be visiting my studio, (and lots of other artists' studios in the area). The sucky part is that it means I have to vacuum. Come on by and visit. Time to get up close and personal. Hey, you can help me vacuum. You can see the whole enchilada of my art: sketches, abstracts, life drawings, paintings, and maquettes. We will have books available for purchase which I can sign and personalize, as well as limited edition prints.

I really hope you can make it. We are giving away Steinway grand pianos and full ride college scholarships to all of your children and grand children (while supply lasts). Poof! Whoah! that went fast.

So, that's an OPEN HOUSE AND STUDIO this weekend for the 11th Annual Port Townsend Art Studio Tour. Along with forty-six other local art studios, we will be open 10 A.M. to 4 P.M. on Saturday and Sunday, October 11-12. More details about our studio are available on the Art Port Townsend website http://artporttownsend.org/2009/richard-jesse-watson/.

Be there or be square (and idle)!

Before I Went Bananas I Went Carrots

2009-10-01T23:24:00.000-07:00

I was happy with this first cover painting for my book, The Magic Rabbit. But my editor wanted it a good bit brighter, with more room for the type. O.K., no problemo. Big SIGH. A litany of invectives usually stomp around in my wee little head canister when I have to re-do a piece of art. Especially when I am (like I said) happy with the thing. Giddy. Galopy, galopy pretend I'm a horse and canter around the room because I finished a book. Or so I thought. Nope. Re-do the cover. Go back to your studio, dog. Paint it again, Sam.

Ahem. Well on my next book, The Boy Who Went Ape, I was still kind of in rabbit world. The image above shows the ape in Benjamin's clothes at the library. Notice that the librarian, Miss Hush, is reading to the children. What's she reading? Gasp! What do you know? I could have put someone else's book. But I didn't. What can I say. Nancy Willard says that your last book lays its shadow across your next book. Especially if you painstakingly paint the shadow across it.

This is Benjamin (hey, he hasn't blogged in a while... what the heck, Ben??) back at the zoo finally making friends after some harrowing escapes.

Check out these two kind blog-o-rama reviews of TMR and TBWWA. First, a rabbit reviewed both books, (I kid you not) at The Adventures of Freckles and Deb, Bunny Bloggers. Thank you both. Heart, heart.

Next, Boy's Read reviewed Ben's and my book, The Boy Who Went Ape. Thanks a bunch!

Fall is the Faeries Fault

2009-09-24T07:36:00.000-07:00

Not everyone believes in faeries, and that's o.k.. Not everyone believes in taxes. There is something you should know. Fall is not caused solely by weather change. It is caused by pissed off faeries. When the faeries notice that the sun is retreating, they get angry. They are a bit like children. But they are wild and untamable too.

What they do is go around and yank off the leaves in protest. Some like to throw down colorful leaves, some prefer drab. Yank! Toss. Down floats the clueless leaves and clueless clonkers say, "Ahh, isn't fall invigorating, I think I'll go have some hot chocolate"

In my experience, faeries prefer spring and summer. Fall happens, as we discussed, due to repercussions from their leaf tantrums. To faeries, winter is utterly unhelpful. Wet wings. Wet garden parties. Intolerable.

These are some faerie doodles I did by going out in the woods in my leaf suit and sitting quite still. As soon as they realized that I was drawing them, they split.

Hot Topic

2009-09-20T00:57:00.000-07:00

The Volcanologist

Writers and artists are little Vulcanites. We fan the flames of our inner lava and hope for major eruptions. From Roman mythology we get a glimpse of Vulcan, the God of fire and craftsmanship. His robes are a mess, torn and smudged, his hair singed and smoldering. He smells like a mix of burnt feathers and flan with a shot of sulfuric acid.

But he sure knew how to party. Smokin' good time was had by all the survivors. I have always had a thing for volcanoes. Walking on Hawaii's wierd folded lava flows is a primal experience. The strong fumes can be unnerving and the bleakness feels like the end of all things. But then you see a dinky fern flourishing in a crack.

Champagne All Around!!!

2009-09-15T12:42:00.000-07:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Tomie dePaola!!

Today is Tomie's 75th birthday. This is my little tribute to Tomie, the godfather of children's literature. Tomie is a brilliant author, artist, and designer. He has been a significant encouragement to me and my family. Way back when, Tomie gave me my first break in children's lit publishing. We love you Tomie and all of your books. See some more tributes (here) gathered by the incomparable Gina and Jarrett Krosoczka. See more at Tomie's blog.

Writers, Wheat, and Giant Wagon

2009-09-14T15:35:00.000-07:00

Crack o' dawn. Stumble into car. Drive away from our house in the woods. Waiting for coffee to kick in. We're off to see the wizard...wait, I am the wizard. Off to present at the Inland Empire SCBWI Regional Conference. The ferry smooths us over to Seattle in the distant mist.

You must cross the Cascade Mountains
to find the Inland Empire.

Then you must brave the corn people, the prairie dogs, and the rednecks before you arrive at the Inland Empire with its strange wonders. In an earlier post I told of the last time I was in the Inland Empire and was doing a book signing at Barnes and Noble in Spokane. A pig came up to me in the store and asked for my autograph. This is true. Word. Ipso Facto.

Wheat fields, silos and tractors...

Spokane is a lovely city cut in half by a powerful river, with beautiful turn-of-the-century buildings.

There's evidence that Gulliver used to hang out in this town. His journal was originally called Travels Into Several Remote Nations of the World.... so now you know. It's not called The Inland Empire for nothing.

I spoke to writers and illustrators about letting your picture book story swallow you whole, as in Shel Silverstein's poem, I'm Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor.

Which reminds me, I once had python soup when I was in Singapore. It did not taste like chicken. It tasted stringy, like snake.

It was a great conference. Thanks so much to all the organizers and attendees. Among the highlights was meeting editor, Mary Kate Castellani of Walker Books for Young Readers. I was also happy to meet author, Judy Gregerson, and hubby, Scott.

I am still recovering from meeting Terry Trueman. He is a force to be reckoned with. He looked down at my Birkenstocks and said, " Yeah, well do your thing here, and then get out of town as quick as you can..." He drives like my life depended on it. He is, in fact, delightful. All things considered. Susi and I read his book, Stuck In Neutral, on our trip back home. Mind-blowingly good book. I'll do a separate post about it, later.

On the journey home from The Inland Empire we saw these scurvy pirates. They were no match for our newly restocked inspiration, and writerly resolve. With my illustrator's savoir faire I dispatched them handily to the bottom of Davey Jone's Junior High locker.

Galileo's Latte

2009-09-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

There is a saying, "Don't forget to show kindness to strangers, you may find out that they are angels in disguise..". Or maybe it was, don't be rude to the guy in line with you, he may be Galileo. Or Mother Theresa. Now celebs get plenty of air time, you know, like Jack Black. Don't get me wrong, he cracks me up. But down in the dust where we all live, how do we treat the shmuck next to us. What if we knew he/she had infinite potential? Do we regard one another as treasures?

Those that survived the chaos of life had help. Sometimes a kind word turns history. Joan Osborne sang, "What if God were one of us? Just a slob like one of us/ Just a stranger on the bus/Trying to make his way home..."

In Leo Tolstoy's short story, What Men Live By, a shoemaker facing starvation is confronted by someone worse off than himself.

These photos were taken by a friend of mine, Mark Chidester. He is an Earthwalker, poet, story teller, song writer, singer, writer, photographer, artist, giver. I've known him for almost twenty years, and he is a dear friend. Among his many mysterious talents, he can fix any car. In the dark, blindfolded.
He hates doing it, but he is a car whisperer.

I won't tell you how he took these stunning photos. But here is a hint: they are pictures of the moon.

Mark has traveled the world, fished for salmon in Alaska, worked with the Amish, sang on street corners, worked as a barista, saved my arse on many occasions, and his story will one day be a best seller.

Great spirits often have disguises. Let's give each other the benefit of the doubt. What would Galileo order? Double tall latte, organic milk, and some of those sprinkles, the ones that look like the moons of Jupiter..

Thanks Mark, for these remarkable images.

Squirrels and Their Nuts

2009-09-03T10:32:00.000-07:00

In late Spring each year I begin the hunt for firewood (to use in our wood stove, our primary heat source). I get the chainsaw out to fell leaning or hazard trees, or buy logs from a logger. Then I cut the logs into rounds and split them over the summer. By Autumn, I get antsy, along with the squirrels, to make ready for Winter. I try to split and stack about five cords of wood to fill my wood shed.

Now some people with higher I.Q.'s just flip a switch on their central heating. Which sounds better every year. But it is another one of those therapy things for me. And it is honkin' good exercise. When you sit at a drawing table for hours at a time, you need to get out and shake that thang.
Plus, I am in tune with the seasons. Lately the squirrels have been scampering around the top limbs of the fir trees, yanking off fir cones and throwing them down by the hundreds. We have a metal roof so..."bang!...whap!...clunk... clunk... clunk...bam!...bam!" sound the cones as they bop our roof. Well, that makes it a tad hard to concentrate on my paintings...

It is the call of the wild...so I join the squirrels as often as I can (if you can't beat 'em, join 'em...) "Ennnyaaa-aa-aa-aa-tuc-tuc-engik!" Which is squirrel for, "Winter is coming, you fools! Gather your nuts, chop, chop, out-a-my-way, dog, those are mine, don't look where I'm hiding these, ahhhh! I need more, more, more...get me some coffee, that should help, eeeeeenkk!!"

Young Potentates

2009-08-30T16:58:00.000-07:00

"Don't dig me up!" said one of my potatoes today. "Just walk away, leave me in the dirt. Ain't nothin' goin' on here. Just chillin' with me mates, and the others in the root clan. You know, carrots, beets, onions."

Well, potatoes are down-to-earth and usually pretty well grounded. But the guy above looked suspicious to me, and he was arming the earthworms with little blunderbusses. So I dug him up and made hash browns out of him. And ate him.

Most tubers as you know get light headed when you dig them up. "Hey, look at me I'm a French Fry, I feel so thin and by the way, where's my skin?" Others just hum, "Mash me, mush me, butter me up."

I do know two tater tots however, who are on the cutting edge of coolness. These two young potentates more or less rule the western hemisphere. Not only are they brilliant, they are cute and seriously well read. Check out their review of Ben's and my newest book, The Boy Who Went Ape. Three cheers for the Talking Potatoes!

Of Faeries, Fauns and Forests

2009-08-28T11:23:00.000-07:00

Forest Rogers is an artist who is rooted in the woods, in mystery, and in pain. She is a phenom. Her artwork is unbelievably well crafted, yet it is both worldly and other worldly. You must give it a look. If Michelangelo were around today, he would be visiting her blog. He would be asking for her input. "So, Forest, should Adam's pointy finger go like a this and touch? Or no a touch?"

Yes, I'm lame. But I'm trying to make a point. Great art.

The Passion of a Good Heart

2009-08-25T10:54:00.000-07:00

This is my baby (one of them). He is a beautiful son, father, and artist. Check out the interview with him in School Library Journal.

Also, checkout his brother Ben's post about sibling induced nightmares and pride.

Words that burn, cut, and heal

2009-08-25T00:11:00.000-07:00

I love the way poets cut to the chase. Here are a couple of gems from Mary Bradley's new collection of poems:

Give Us This Day

Have you ever gone out before dawn
To discover, on the door-sill of the day,

Geese asleep on the bank of the river,
Every long neck looped,
Every sleek head tucked under a wing?

Or seen a fox,
Her tail streaming like a flag,
Arrow home over frozen fields
To dissolve in the blink of an eye into the woods?

Or watched sparrows--drab and disorderly,
Quarreling in fat voices over oily seeds at the feeder,
feathers rucked up by the wind, as they
Teeter and sway on their toes like little drunks?

If you have, then you might know this secret--

How everyday gulls along the shore
Flare and take to the sky at first light.

Come kick off the covers of sleep
Accept your share in morning's gold beauty;

Payment enough for us,
Poor beggars that we are,
Living from breath to breath.

----

In Another Life

Imagine August sun.
Hot.
The willow pond is deeply cold.
The tire swing burns our bare feet
As we arc over the pool, then leap!
Icy water, closes over our heads, and
Silences the blue jay's scraping call in an instant.
This delicious day!
Screen door slamming after dinner,
We jump onto our bikes
And race each other to the meeting tree.
Making tomorrow's plans,
We track the summer nights
Across the hilltops of our childhood.
Finding the Big Dipper,
Counting shooting stars.
While time stands at a respectful distance,
Eavesdropping on our easy conversations,
While we grow up together in another life.

----

You may contact her at:
harmony23fem@aol.com

Talking Trees

2009-08-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

I always talk to trees, and they talk back. I have had tree friends whom I have known over the years. They bring comfort and quiet. They bid us to sit and be still. "Listen." They whisper. Sir Isaac Newton was doing just that when he got docked on the noggin by an acorn. Or was it a pomegranate? "Splat!!", end of day dream. There goes the three laws of motion.

It has been said that in Washington state, not long ago, every cedar tree touched every other. When you wander in the rain forests here, you can believe it.

I began this painting as a sketch of an oak tree in Tehachapi, California. I didn't know where to go with it, so I just played with the branches. I painted a couple of limbs, and then put the painting away. Then months later, I did a couple more. A couple of years later...three more branches...and so on for years. Finally I realized that I wanted to live inside the tree, which had become autobiographical (a self portrait). So I added the door. Then I was done.

I titled this painting, Waiting for Spring in the House of Leaves. Notice, there is not a leaf on the tree. But the potential for jillions of leaves is on the verge...like waiting for art. Or life.

Dog Gone

2009-08-15T08:29:00.000-07:00

Yes, I like lattes. But only if they are well made. In Port Townsend, there are some great espresso spots. Particularly the hole-in-the-wall spot uptown. Oh, man, those are make-you-drive-out-of-the-way-good.

My dog, Bubba, was the model for this piece of art. He recently passed away, and I miss him. When he was born, he had about ten brothers and sisters. They would all frolick out on the back porch trying to tear each other's ears off and chew the deck to pieces. But Bubba would come to the window and stand on his back legs to look in at the people. Well, that worked. We chose him and sent the others packing.

Not only was he a good barista, he was a good artist's model. He was a great squirrel hunter, tree bark stripper, stick chaser, car chaser, cat comforter (oddly enough), beach bum, and loyal friend. Make that a double please...

Back Yard Safari

2009-08-12T08:13:00.000-07:00

The other day my grand-kids went a huntin' big game. Frogs. "Letmesee-lemmesee-lemmesee." There were oh, maybe a million wee green flappers hopping through the grass. I love to be reminded of what pure joy looks like.

X-Über-Ants

2009-08-10T12:25:00.000-07:00

I don't sprekenzie Deutch, so I really shouldn't use the word über, and my sons Ben and Jesse will hassle me for it. But they will agree that their sister, Faith, makes art that is full of exuberance. This is the illustration she did for the invite to her twin daughters birthday party.

The girls colored in her line drawing. Isn't it fancy? The party was fit for a fairy queen. Of all the presents, they liked the big cardboard box the best. Those fairies are funny that way...

Sketch Like The Wind, You Fool

2009-08-06T11:45:00.000-07:00

I'm speaking to myself.

I can't show what I am working on for my next book, because it is still revealing itself to me, and I have a ways to go. But I can show snippets of sketch therapy. Writers must write to see if they are still alive. Artists must sketch to see if their pen still works.

Seriously, folks, if you are an artist, then you must sketch just for the halibut.

Sketching is to the artist what A-1 oil is to ball bearings. Or, if you prefer, sketching for the artist is what waffle iron bumps are to the waffle. We're talking Belgium waffles.

Oh, what is it with words, they just lay there and stare back at you. O.K., I've got it, sketching is like your piano exercises. Do your scales, Richy. Da,da,da,da,da,da,da, da, da. I'm bored already, what good are these? I'll play jazz instead. Oh, little did I know that my Bach inventions depended on those exercises.

I like to give myself challenges. So, sometimes when I am sitting in the car, or on the ferry or anywhere in public, I try to sketch passers-by. If you try this, it gives you anywhere from ten to twenty seconds to grab their image. Their essence. Their gestalt. The gist of them. Their locomoco.

These exercises are invaluable to me, when I want to lighten up in my work. I am not trying to do great art, but I am trying to see, to capture. Catch and release.

Sketching is like stretching before a soccer game. If it's windy out then it's like being a leaf. Go with the breeze. Just sketch what comes. I wonder if Bach played soccer?

Stealth Mode

2009-08-02T20:11:00.000-07:00

I used to want to be an Indian. This was because they got to wear moccasins and beaded belts and shoot arrows at cowboys. Oh, yeah and wear feathers. Eagle feathers. You had to catch the eagle first. Not so easy. In grammar school, my friends and I used to spy on each other. We wore sunglasses or Zorro masks, hooded sweatshirts and moccasins, and prided ourselves on walking like a brave. We tried not to snap a twig, as we tip-toed through the bushes around neighborhood houses at dusk. This was way before ninjas.

I could so have been shot. As stealthy as we were, we could have learned a lot from Bambi's kith. This fawn comes to our place early every morning, looking for tender shoots, or anything that we are trying hard to grow. The deer control agriculture in Port Townsend, the way the Mafia controls sanitation in Chicago.

But I mean who could be angry with such a dear, I mean deer. Dear deer.

Burglar/Trapeze Artist

2009-07-31T12:10:00.000-07:00

This masked man--make that kid--tromped around on my back porch this morning along with his six brothers and sisters. Mama stood aways off, encouraging a life of crime.

When I stepped out the door, they all split. "Cheez it! It's the fuzz!" one of them hissed.

Dreamer here didn't get the memo. He lingered, singing to himself, "I've been workin' on the railroad...," until he realized that he'd been skunked by his rat kin.

At first he didn't like the look of me, until he saw my press badge. Then he started busting some moves. "Check this one out," he tossed his hair, flexed his young muscles. Hanging ten, oh yeah, clearly this dude's got talent.

"Did you get that?"

These Boots Were Made For Stomping

2009-07-29T12:53:00.000-07:00

Cute, or what? Grandkiddos are, to use jaimetemairik-speak, the Bee's Knees. Or the Ant's Pants. Or the Kitten's Mittens. What else,... oh, the Dog's Clogs, or the Antelope's Cantaloupe...Help! Get me out of here. O.K., I'm not a poet. Or clever.

But this heat is like...hot. Last night at the Secret Garden Bookstore we had a fun book signing and talk. Thank you Christy, and Suzanne. Well, Ben and I had fun, the crowd, (make that Illuminati) were sweltering, and humoring us. Now, I looked up "Illuminati", and this crowd was not 16th century Spanish heretics, or George Washinton's Secret-Handshake-Bavarian cousins. These were the real deal.

A lot of times when I give a little talk, I realize that people in the audience are *way* ahead of me. Think, brilliant, Nobel Laureates, or writers whose words burn like molten magnesium. Artists who make Mona Lisa's mouth drop open. Such was the case last night. Thank you for coming, Chauni and Bill Haslet, lovely friends and stellar supporters of literacy, authors, and illustrators.

There were kids in the audience, the young kind, short children, who were apparently studying chemistry, and military ordinance, and two of them are book reviewers! I'm not kidding. That's right, none other that The Talking Potatoes. They could see right through us. Oy!

Back to the yellow rain boots. I loved those when I was a kid. Yes, rubber had been invented back then. And the color yellow existed too. Point is, Rain Boots. So, mateys, courage. Hold fast. It will rain again. And get cooler. So don't get all cocky, Sun, like you're so hot. This is the Northwest. Didn't you see Sleepless in Seattle? It rains nine months out of the year here.

The Oooo Factor

2009-07-26T13:42:00.000-07:00

There was a time when everything was amazing. As we get older and so very sophisticated, we should not forget how wowy the world is. I'm talkin' sparkles and things that make you catch your breath. It's o.k. to talk to animals and insects. Try saying, "I love you to the wind", or better yet to someone who needs their chin lifted.

I remember watching Fourth of July fireworks with my dad, when I was shorter than Bilbo Baggins, and telling him, "Daddy, let me go catch the falling stars." He was a pragmatist and probably said, "Not a good idea, its white hot molten magnesium and red phosphorus, you would burn your hand to a crisp." But to this day, I still think that if he had let me try, I might have been able to catch just one, and put it in a jar.

Then again... wait, I'm getting something...now that I think about that; When I was a young father, we took our kids and huge dog to see the fireworks at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena. Each year it's a serious display of pyrotechnics. Well, I wanted my little chickadees to be really close to fully experience that magic that I had pined for all those years. Sooo, we brought a picnic basket, a blankie, teddy bears, and our three wee bairns in their jammies all set for Daddy's surprise treat. Before the real action began, the hillside caught fire from a bunch of amateurs and their bottle rockets. This caused a little panic and some tourists burned rubber trying to get out in a hurry. We stayed put, this was the perfect spot right behind the Bowl itself. I was on edge after that, but the Pasadena Fire Dept. quickly got it under control.

As we waited for the fun, we sang sweet lullablys and calmed down to await the pretty sparkles. "It's going to be like Tinkerbell dust", said the father who hadn't thought things through. Turns out we were staked out right by where they fire off the rockets. All ten thousand of them.

What followed is a blur in my seared memory. A lot of deafening, KABLAMMMMS! KAPOWS! BOOSH! SCREEECH! KAJUNG! POW!! BLAMMO! BLAMMO! BLAMMO!!!..... You get the idea. Then there was screaming, and children running in opposite directions and the dog looked like one of those cartoon cats splayed out with fur electrified. He bolted off to hell. And the wifey looked at me like, "What kind of maniac father would do this to his family?"

Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. The good news is I don't think they remember much, at least the therapy hasn't brought it to the surface yet. The dog never recovered. Complete wacko. I am a little deaf ever since. Yeah, come to think of it, I don't need to catch the sparkles anymore, been there, done that, thanks anyway.

Sky Feather

2009-07-24T09:45:00.000-07:00

Breath of wind. Where did our breath come from? When did we first appear in a dream? Who first wrote our name? I looked up and saw the pen that was used to write new names. A feather quill made of angel laughter and cloud crystals.

Maximum Art

2009-07-21T00:17:00.000-07:00

There is something compelling about art that sits down and makes itself at home. My friend, Max Grover, does art that puts its feet up and grabs the remote.

His artwork is slightly unhinged, and yet brilliant. For instance, he is the only artist I know who has painted a still life of a sink full of dirty dishes. He often paints
the occasional ode to vacuum cleaners.

Get a whiff of these labels
that Max did for Sue Ohlson, the owner and
Master Roaster at Sunrise Coffee Company Ltd. of Port Townsend, Washington. These labels are a perfect matching of concept, technique, color and client. It would be hard to imagine this town without Max's art. Paris has its E tower, NYC has the ESB, and Egypt has its pyramids. PT has MGA.

I don't know about you, but a good label grabs me. When I was in Russia (before capitalism) they had plain brown bags labeled in red Cyrillic block letters, SUGAR, or TEA, or COFFEE. That's it. Well, they soitenly didn't grab me.
But those were desperate times, and people were glad to get anything. How did I get here? Point is, art makes the world more beautiful. And funky. Funky is good.

If you are into great fresh roasted coffee visit: http://sunrisecoffee.net/

Visit Max's site: http://www.maxgrover.com/index.html

What I like best about Max is that he is himself,

and his art is great art. To say his art is funky, is getting warm, but I am not sure there are words to adequately describe this wrinkle in the space/time continuum.

Let the Maxmoblile take you for a ride. You will find a whole new way of looking at things like bathtubs, red cars, baseball and asphalt. And coffee.

There's A Reason

2009-07-14T09:35:00.000-07:00

It's like Mae West said, "When your husband gives you a gift for no reason. There's a reason." All that to say, that the artist uses him/her self as a model for a reason. A lot of reasons. First, because we are all so cooperative. And good looking. Plus we work for peanuts.

Next, the artist can mess with his own head. So if we want to make us look fatter or skinnier, no problemo. Or if we want to make us look like idiots, then it's just straight realism.

Artists have done self portraits forever. Look at God, for Pete's sake. He made man in his image. Some of my favorite self portraits show the artist at various stages in their lives, bandaged ear and all.

We all, if we are honest, have those bandaged ear phases of our lives. It is not always easy to be so transparent and naked when painting a self portrait. But it is good for the soul, and tells the world a lot. Sometimes more than you might realize.

I enjoy it when people analyze a painting. "You may be right, or you may be wrong, are you gonna miss me when I'm gone..."-Leadbelly.

An interpretation of art says as much about the reviewer as the art. I was just at an art show and a woman was looking at a painting that was a simple self portrait of the artist standing by his canvas. And I heard her saying, "This artist was a lover. He knew that he had to grab the opportunity that was in front of him. He had such passion, such lust for life. He knew that if he did not commit to the love in front of him, it wouldn't be there if he left and came back."
Well, she was really talking about herself and her boyfriend. You see he was just leaving for a round the world trip by himself. I knew him.

Each of these paintings is a self portrait of myself. I used me not because I am an egomaniac, although, I guess I don't get to vote on that one, but because I was ready, willing, and available. A cheap date.

The top piece is from my book Tom Thumb, and I was a derelict tinker. As I said, realism. The elf dancing is probably more Freudian, but it is me, I like to dance, and draw with a really big pen. See, I say one thing and you think another. One of my favorite lines is in Ground Hog Day after Phil steals the groundhog, and Andie McDowell says, "Why would anyone steal a groundhog?". And Larry says, "I could think of a few reasons, ...pervert!"

It is like the icon. It is a window into the artist's soul, but also a window into the viewer.

The elf with the key was the first painting for my version of Clement Moore's, The Night Before Christmas. It is an accurate self portrait in that I did not know what kind of art I was going to do for this book. I could not see where I was going, like the elf with his hat over his eyes. But he is holding a gold key. So deep inside, I knew that I was on the right track, I just had to press on and I would find the treasure chest.

The guy on the left is me. I used my grandfather's watch. He was a watch maker, a strawberry farmer, and a circus performer. I used this image as a sign for our gallery that we had for a while in Port Townsend. I made up his vest. I wish I had a vest like that. Stars on the front with cresent moon buttons, and checkerboard on the back.

The rabbit who is reading, was a self portrait that I did as a demo for a class that I was teaching in Hawaii. I and the students did several self portraits, and it is a challenge, because you have to ask, "Who am I? What is it that captures who I was, am and want to be? What medium do I use? How honest do I want to be?" Since I was just beginning to work on my book, The Magic Rabbit at the time, I was totally immersed in all things rabbit. I was in fact, a rabbit.

Making a self portrait is a form of catharsis. Try it. Who cares if they will use it on the cover of Vanity Fair. It might however give you insight into yourself. It will surely be a gift for someone else.

This last one is me and tape. What can I say. I like tape.

In the jowls of the tale. Or tail.

2009-07-11T11:53:00.000-07:00

It's inspiring in a way, watching writers write. I don't mean sitting by them and staring as they clickety pickety tuck tuck tuck, back space, delete, delete... But watching their angst, and effort as they squeeze into their characters' heads and souls. All of my kids are writers and artists and each struggles mightily like Homer Simpson as he wrestled with an object yelling, "Why won't you be art?"

This sketch shows son, Ben getting into character. There be coffee of course. But what you don't see are the dog buscuits he just scarfed, or his teeth marks on the coffee table. And the fire hydrant...I don't even want to go there. But Ben holds his cards close, so I am always blown away when I finally get a peek at what he has been up to.

I don't want to jinx him, but the novel he is working on is somewhere between Hemingway and the Hardy Boys, William Carlos Williams and Martha Stewart's jail journal. The Desert Fathers and those little Hubba Bubba comic wrappers. You rock Ben.

Ma Chatte et Moi

2009-07-08T23:27:00.000-07:00

When my cat wants out, I put her out. Claw the glass, I let her in. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Why do I put up with this? Two reasons. First, she sometimes brings me breakfast: mice, rats, moles, birds, bugs. She is honestly trying to contribute to the welfare of the pride. And it nicely rounds out my poached eggs.

Second, the creeeching sound gets to me. You know it costs a lot to put a cat through Le Cordon Bleu Patisserie Acadamie. She toyed with the idea of being a butcher... Anyway, now she agrees to let me use her in my art. In this painting, she is a French pastry chef. I would like to be a French pastry chef. I would like to eat some French pastries right now. Notice the delectable marzipan mice. Oui? C'est magnifique, n'est pas?

I sketched a lot of other not so tasty looking mice before I came up with these beauties. Moin! (That is French for kissing your fingers with the yummy gesture). Oddly enough, Susi just read outloud from her MacBook, "...a man died from falling into a vat of chocolate...".

Book of Mud

2009-07-06T12:33:00.000-07:00

You will be hard pressed to find anything that does not come from mud. Try. Everything you are wearing was grown in mud, or grazed on grass growing from mud. Your homes and buildings came ultimately from mud. Okay, maybe gold and some other prima donnas from the periodic table have their own shtick, but chances are they spent some time in mud.

Gold prospectors find flakes or nuggets in good old garden variety mud. Even diamonds are compressed mud. Basically.

"What about meteorites?", you ask. Oh, I don't know...maybe someone else's mud.

The writers from antiquity tell us, "The Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground." Dust plus water makes mud. What water? Maybe God's tears because he knew our pain to come.

My parents often recited this bit from Langdon Smith's poem, Evolution,

When I was a tadpole and you were a fish
In the Paleozoic time,
And side by side on the ebbing tide
We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip
Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
My heart was rife with the joy of life,
For I loved you even then.

Photo by coolest photographer I know (and awesome brother): Steven Dean Davis

Lookin Fer Gold

2009-07-02T22:47:00.000-07:00

I think their names were Elsie and Dr. Drummond. Intelligent, hard working, true gypsies at heart, and weathered, rugged souls. The mules that is. I don't remember his name. Maybe it was Delirious. We passed him time and again on the two lane highway in the Mojave desert, where I lived til I was seven. My dad pulled off the road in our GMC Carryall and took this picture in 1954 or so. Delirious would be arguing with the sage brush and cussing at tortoises. It honestly got as hot as 130 degrees in the summer. Your loftier thoughts would simply boil inside your head. You wanted wet water in the worst way, or Coke or Orange Crush, Seven Up, Grape Soda, anything cold, why you might just suck on a cactus. The roof of my mouff iss dry juss ssccthinking about it. Water, wadder, wa-er....

He would go up into them hills and look for gold. His bones may still be bleaching in the sand somewhere out there. There used to be a lot of wild burros in the desert. I don't think they were looking for gold, per se. Animals know how to find treasure. They graze. Right here. Right now. They know that it is right in front of you if you just take the time to look.

The Moon Moves Us

2009-06-30T20:15:00.000-07:00

The moon moves the tides and tugs on the earth. Earth and Moon have an arm's length relationship. They love and need each other, but sustain a powerful tension. Lovers cannot get enough of gazing into her face. Our animal brethren and bug cousins behold with wonder the lunar waxing and waning. Moon calls our dreams out to dance with jumping and stomping, twirling slowly, then gradually faster and faster. So fast. Is that green glitter or star laughter in the deep night's cavort?

Some friends commissioned me to paint this for their anniversary. They are rabbit people. And moon people. When was the last time you held the moon in your gaze, and let the moon hold you in her's?