When I was young, probably in college, I’d occasionally hear a person talking about this or that luminary, describing them as a “Rhodes Scholar.” My lack of awareness at the time meant that I’d only ever heard the phrase, not seen it spelled out. I had no idea. In my adventurous young mind, I heard it always as Rogue Scholar, and that turned itself into something I longed to be. Was it some sort of philosophical pirate? An intellectual outlaw? How did one arrive at an occupation or a moment where ‘actual’ scholars began describing one as a rogue of same? There was an implied concurrence that such a person was, indeed, learned, an expert— but somehow off the beaten path, or got to it by some unknown route. Delicious. Intriguing.
I realize it all sounds rather silly, but the idea has never disappeared from my mind; it has percolated in the recesses. In retrospect, I’m sure I knew it was my own fiction, but I was loathe to lose or destroy the whim. It’s probably still what I want to be when I grow up. Perhaps, if I ever found a grant for creatives, recipients thereof will be known as Rogue Scholars™. (The title alone will act as the first phase of weeding, of triangulating appropriates* for the honor.)
*Ha! That’s an appropriation of an inappropriate word. Maybe appropirates.
Here’s a scene from the deck of our little house in Cherry Grove. I had it in mind that I’d start with some color then go in and add structure with pen, but I quite liked how serene and unfettered this looked so decided to leave it as mere suggestions of the pool and flower pots.
Last night, sitting on a blanket on the ersatz turf of the sporting field behind the Old Stone House in Park Slope, I enjoyed the production of Macbeth by South Brooklyn Shakespeare, now in their fifth season.
Set in a post-Vietnam timeframe, fatigues comprised much of the wardrobe, and the weird sisters in proto-punk variations on kilts, a playful reminder of the setting (and I wish I’d drawn them, too).
The sky, too, was dramatic, the wind never ceasing in its toil to keep the endless tide of clouds moving overhead, first unveiling then covering over the moon, and over and over.
(For anyone still tallying up: these bring me to 81 / 100 people )
Here’s one I did the other day, but just finished it now, especially for the Thursday post. It’s my bicycle, a Globe Daily 1, and I love it. Its (his?) name is Boric, named by Z, back when he decided my witch name is Lizzie Boric.
The basket on the back is one that’s intended for handlebars; my bike mechanic gave it to me and I decided it would be more useful on the rack, so it’s affixed with a handful of zip-ties.
Here’s a sketch I did on the weekend; the view from a corner table. There was no place to sit at the bar, and the whole length of it was occupied by men. hence the snarky little title in the upper left. This is perhaps a 15-20 minute sketch done directly in ink.
Last evening I went back into it, first with my grey markers, and then with watercolor. Getting down some tonality before hitting the colors allowed me to distribute darks and lights. (I’m better at doing it in monochrome). I do enjoy the combination of alcohol-based and water-based media, it’s great to be able to layer back and forth.
The third image shows it in full color, and where I decided to leave it. Also: for anyone else who’s still counting, this brings me up to 73 people (from one week 100 people, now on week 3, haha!)
Saturday: it’s windy and feels like l’automne; fans dormant and kitchen window lowered almost shut, so things on the table there don’t wind up on the floor.
I was traveling in some parallel Europe; Scandinavia, and without much in the way of maps or even plans. Improvising. I followed a couple out of a stalled subway train, assuming they were also traveling locally, only to find myself on a large, old intercity bound for Nice.
I was visiting my brother, who’d taken up residence in a box-shaped apartment in Manhattan. The interior was the same green as those buildings in Gowanus. I’d been elsewhere, somewhere rough, and a friend of his found a dried up bird leg tangled in my hair.
She was revolted.
I was fascinated— where had that come from? I felt I’d imagined it into being, as I’d been hallucinating things— there was a dog’s snout stuck in the glass of the window. It hadn’t broken through but kind of sunken in and got stuck, as if the glass had been still soft, just for a moment, The rest of the dog was gone; just the end of his snout, teeth bared.