Winter itself is exhausted; kicks and screams against its scheduled retreat nonetheless

ink drawing of a sick thing on the rocks

I think the original title of this was A sick thing upon the rocks in the very early morning. It’s from when I was a teenager in college. (I think the sketch that precipitated this ink drawing originated during an acid trip; that coming down feeling—)

As I see it now, looking through the archive, it looks to me like a personification of the tail end of winter. Fighting in vain against the sun; unwilling to exit stage left; refusing to retreat for its Persephone months—

Those during which she must return to where she’d been abducted. By absent-mindedly eating the pomegranate seeds proffered by Hades, she doomed herself to a third the year in the underworld, thereby depriving the surface of the world of green things growing during her absence.

That is Winter, which doesn’t like to take its leave quietly, gracefully.

.   .   .

(TBH, the way I wrote the title of this post reminds me of nothing so much as the GOP, but that’s a different sort of post altogether.)

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how things move altogether too quickly and smoothly once a pattern is imposed

linear drawing of a suburb, view'd from above

Above: sketch of a suburb— viewed from the spire, as it were. A suburb represents, to me, a place that lacks the most wonderful parts of both cities and wide open spaces*; A pattern imposed; a restrictive one— made to serve its developer’s purpose rather than its inhabitants. Sometimes, life feels that way, no?

(how things move altogether too quickly and smoothly once a pattern is imposed)

 

It‘s what patterns are for.

It’s both good and bad; comforting and regrettable. Like choosing to stay in and get a good sleep when it’s a big wondrous and scary blizzard out. You know what I mean; one feels torn, a bit. Yet resolved. It‘s life— that feeling of contradiction that somehow fits because we‘ve been socialized and trained to accept that it fits.

Days, weeks simultaneously dragging and speeding by. It‘s the unquantifiable aspect of time that math-science is less equipped to deal with than psychology-science. Viz. feelings and other ephemera more in the realm of the social sciences, aka art literature poetry philosophy— the realms comprising questions and not so many answers (yet every answer, too)†.

Math-science satisfies the Libra in me (picked up perhaps from proximity to my balanced Libra brothers). The designer in me thrives on the practicality of measurement; of the quantifiable. The artist (Scorpio) in me prefers to live the questions, as Rilke put it.

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On messing about with the interplay of color, briefly

abstract geometric watercolor composition

Here are a couple watercolor studies I did last night involving compositions of overlapping shapes. I haven’t touched my half-pans in months, and it was nice to get out the brushes again.

These are related -somewhat- to elements of a small design system I’m in the midst of at work for an upcoming event. In particular the top one, where the colors are doing their natural combinations when overlapped.

abstract geometric watercolor composition , another

This second composition was rather a departure or experiment that, while some interesting things happened, rather collapsed the visualization of the colors’ transparency. By removing the natural order of color interplay, the whole thing flattened out altogether to the eye. There’s no reason or logic to it.

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These are the last; there will be no more

sketches of people at the dinerOn offer today: some marker and pen sketches of folks from the last Friday night at Hope & Anchor. Officially closed as of Sunday, and as I understand they had a sort of second line jazz funeral for the beloved diner and karaoke joint of Red Hook.. It’s a place I’ll sorely miss; another casualty of the sweeping change that’s been a kind of secondary storm in the wake of Hurricane Sandy.
pencil sketch of people at the diner

Life is what happens while a series of dreams or ideas play out; and then you decide what you’re willing to own.

pic of me, ten years ago, in snow

This photo is from awhile ago, but it’s still one of the truest portraits ever taken of me (thx Tarikh). It’s who I am, want to be, ever will be. (I miss that coat, I’ll always be a bit of an 80’s punk rock kid, for better for or worse)

.   .   .

Aside, here’s what remained or came out of a brief, untethered dream after falling asleep on the couch and waking at 2 am—

Something equivalent to the lie in my eye
Every time I pass with a smile and a shrug—
But in my soul I’m screaming_
You don’t know me,
And I don’t owe you

Anything.

A hundred eyes look upon us but cannot see us

b&w photo of a building facade with many windowsA hundred eyes look upon us but they cannot see us

b&w photo pf brookly nbridge, manhattan bridge in distanceTwo bridges in fog and no one to cross them

A Moominvalley morning in full sun

Photo of Moomin book and coffee in a Moomin mug

I love the world Tove Jannson created with her wonderful Moomin books. The writing and illustrations are top notch, full of subtlty and wistfulness and the complex emotions we don’t always allow children* to have, or forget they have. Her works are up there with Edward Gorey to my mind, and the beautiful animations made of Charles Schultz’ Peanuts gang (especially the Christmas special).

The other week I showed a friend my pencil animation in progress and he said it reminded him of Edward Gorey meets Peanuts; as you can imagine it made my day 🙂

Happy Saturday, readers!

.   .   .

*or ourselves