The Art Of The Deal

By W.R. Jones

 

    Donald was his first name, I didn’t catch his last name but he looked familiar.  He had a very strange looking comb over with hair that looked like cotton candy sprayed with a black lacquer.   We were setting up to paint and he was standing between me and that blond beauty, Susan Gardner.

    I offered him $5 to change places; telling him I liked the light better on the other side.  He said he didn’t deal with such small sums.  I upped the offer to $10 and he said that wasn’t going to get it, and did I notice how good she smelled.  OK, I says will you take $15?  He smiles and points out  those form fitting white jeans.  Damn, $20 is all I’ve got, my last bit of money from the inheritance.  “You sure that’s all you got”, he questions.  Yep, I say.  “Good”, he says, “I like taking a man’s last cent.”

    I moved over and watched her set up the still life above.  The symbolism was blatant.  I suspect she was doing it subconsciously unaware I could read it like a book.  The clear bottle was me; it stood for clarity of vision and purity of heart and soul.  The blue bottle was her and represented murky depths that will always remain obscure and impossible to understand (actually, I suppose it represents all women).  The silver bowl stands for money.  You have to have coin to get close to this bottle (this too really stands for all women).  I should have painted my lost $20 in the bowl but didn’t have any sap green on my palette.

    So, there I was, painting next to her; I got what I bargained for didn’t I?  Not exactly; like the old saying “be careful of what you wish for”, that Donald guy skinned me.  He knew she was a smoker.  As soon as that still life was arranged, she lit up a cigar and started chomping on it like Mango on a baby back rib bone.

    The entire session she was blowing smoke in my face.  Between puffs she would put the cigar right in the middle of the set up.   For more than an hour I listened to ”Phhht, thwack” sounds as she spit the tobacco bits across the room into the trash can.  I’ve got to give her this; she was quite accurate.

    You doubt the story?  Hey, look at the painting, a picture is worth a thousand words, or about a 1/2 cup of gasoline.

    And me; I won’t part with more than $12 to paint next to her again.

Rembrandt Who?

by Lisa

       The above is a picture of a Rembrandt etching. On the cruise we went on, there was an art gallery that had a lot of really colorful artwork, and since the ship had a Renaissance theme going, they had several (really-out- of-place-in-the-colorful-work) Rembrandt “etchings”. How authentic they were I don’t know. Etchings are still being made today from those old plates, and I don’t know what that does to the authenticity. At any rate, there was a little contest going in the art gallery to guess the value of one of the etchings. This, of course, was a ploy to rope you into other events in the gallery because you had to put your cabin number on your entry form and you got lots of mail delivered to your room as a result. But I did place my guess and having remembered once that I had seen some etchings at the Fine Art Dealers Show, and was surprised by how cheap they were, I guessed at $30,000 (the range they established was $5000 to $200,000). I don’t know what happened to the contest, because I forgot to show up when the winner was announced, and you had to be present to win. I think the surprise you got was a Thomas Kinkaide print. My loss.

      A few days went by, and my husband and I got off the ship at Mazatlan to check out the town. A young couple (VERY young - Chase barely 20, and Ashley 18, and they have been married a year!!!!!) struck up a conversation with us on the trolley from the ship to the exit from the port. They had rented a car to sightsee in, and wondered if we would like to go with them. We took them up on the offer. At one point, in the insanity of the chaotic streets of Mazatlan and between my shrieks as we swerved to miss cars and pedestrians, the kids asked me what I do for a living. I was very impressed by this mature question considering my son is their age, and would never think to ask this, but then again, he has not been married for a year. I told them I was a painter. This sparked a conversation about the art gallery on the ship, and they told me that they were the lucky winners of a framed masterpiece of art. They wondered what I thought of the quality of the work in the gallery. I said, “Well, interestingly enough, they do have some supposed Rembrandt etchings”.  Chase responded, and I quote: “Is he an artist?”. It took me a moment to find the correct words to use that would not make him sound like a complete idiot. But before I got them out of my mouth he answered himself.  ”Oh that’s a toothpaste isn’t it?” And I will leave you with that thought.

      

 

The Fun Ship - NOT!!!

by Lisa

       Now for a quick review of my cruise. My husband and I took our newly graduated-from-high-school son and two of this newly graduated friends as a graduation gift to our son. If you can imagine, it cost a heap of money for this little vacation, but we knew it would be worth it for all the fun it would be for these three boys. It would be something they would remember for a lifetime. As it turns out, what it would seem they will remember will be the great degree of boredom that was forced down their throats in the confines of a ship without their wheels to make them look especially cool. The three bachelors had big designs on entertaining in their room (we had to pay extra to get them the “way cool” balcony room) and that just did not happen for three shy 18 year old boys. Mind you at 18, they are scared to death of any girls younger than them as they are “illegal” as they put it. Granted, an awkward age if you are looking for sex. Which they were. In great amounts. That and alcohol. They were delighted that they were of legal drinking age in Mexico. Had great fun at the ports apparently. However, did you know that when alcohol is substituted for water in a water bottle, and Security shakes it, it bubbles unlike water does? Neither did they. But they learned. The hard way.

     And back to the happy place. The Carnival “Fun” ship that we were on–The Pride–had a Renaissance theme to it which I found very entertaining. Why there were poor reproductions all over that ship that at least reminded me of the great masters. There were even huge riskee nude murals of Renaissance women “playing with themselves” as one of the comedians put it. Most amusing. I really wondered about conversations parents had with their young children on board about some of these depictions. “Well honey her hand is there because she is hiding her privates…of course she’s embarrassed…the smile on her face?…LOOK, a dolphin just jumped clean out of the water…”.

        There was even a large reproduction of the David in the special dining room named after him. Here is a picture from the elaborate winding staircase up to it. (Yes, the whole ship was this gaudy.) It was very popular to have your picture taken directly beside it and only capturing the statue up to the hips. If you know what I mean. Okay. I stooped that low too, but at least I will not print it here.

 

 

Sculptures in Puerta Vallarta

by Lisa

       I’m back from my cruise, and will post about it when I get a chance, but for now (and for the sake of Bill not strangling me because I have not posted in a while), let me leave you with these images of some sculptures on the beach in Puerta Vallarta that I just loved.

Canta Canta Pajarito

By WR Jones 

    This little fellow is singing his ass off.  Reminds me of myself in the morning shower. 

    When I was around 12 or 13 there was a wealthy man (by my hometown standards anyway) who had a pond constructed in his very large back lot.  He had this pond stocked with fish.  I don’t remember what all varieties he put in there but he did have bass.  All the fish he originally stocked were 5lbs or larger.

    He wasn’t all that gregarious, at least not to boys of our age.  This meant we had to commando fish the place.  This was fine with us.  We would sneak out of our houses around 1AM, fish and smoke until 4, then return to bed.  I had to set up a chair with a stack of books to reach the basement window through which I exited the house. 

    Getting back in was a bitch.  I fell twice knocking over the books and chair.  The first time my mom came down.  I was already out of my clothes and told her I was going to the bathroom and tripped on the chair.  The second time I got no response at all.  She was probably thinking, “it’s just Billy going to pee; clumsy little bugger.”

    We hadn’t completely thought this through on the first run.  We caught a few fish, kept them on a stringer and started home.  As we neared our homes we suddenly realized we had no way to explain the catch.  “What’s that in the refrigerator?  Don’t know; guess the fish fairy was here.”  We left them on someone’s doorstep.

 

Spots

By W. R. Jones

    Well, I have out done myself again.  I have reached a pinnacle of stupidity never before seen or heard tell of.

    A few years ago I went to a dermatologist to have her look at a spot on my leg.  It was OK.  I asked her if she thought I should come in for a yearly checkup.  She replied it wouldn’t be necessary.  Then she walked around past my left side to leave the room and exclaimed, “Oh Oh”.  Those were chilling words.  There was a dark spot inside my ear.  She said that should not be there.  A biopsy was negative but now she has me in every year for a full body check.

    I have lots of odd looking spots now.  They are benign old age marks.  Depending on where they are, she will sometimes freeze them.  Every touch of that “much colder than ice” qtip to my body is $90, and not covered by insurance.

    Recently I was walking down the isle of the grocery store and noticed a product for use in freezing warts.  It was only $10 for the whole can.  “Hey”, says that idiot little voice in the back of my head, “a do it yourself spot remover.  I can save a bundle here.”

    When you freeze the skin, you are really burning it.  The area turns black, then a week or two later the burned tissue falls or is rubbed off.  I, fool that I am, applied this wart remover directly to my face.  Now I look like a Dalmatian. 

    What the hell was I thinking?  What if these black marks are permanent?  I CAN NOT go to that doctor and ask for help.  You can’t explain this kind of stupidty to anyone.  I’m sure she knows I’m an idiot but I don’t like to make confirmation of first impressions such a slam dunk.

    My lawyer says I’ve got a great case here.  First of all there was no mention of trying the product on an inconspicuous area to test for color ruination.  Secondly there was no label saying this product was not for use by Compleaaaat Idiots.

    And me; I’m sitting here on the lawn in front of the fire station.  They’ve adopted me.

On Being A Painter

by Lisa

       As a response to my last post (you are all ARE reading the comments aren’t you?), Diane Mize suggested that I paint more and teach less. A wise suggestion if I do say so. However, I think I could simplify it to–I need to paint more. I only spend a total of about 11 hours teaching right now. If I have four classes it goes up to about 15 or 16.

       Part of the problem is this: teaching requires that you be in class during specific hours. Painting has no specific hours.  Painting requires that you not stop at the store, Starbucks and the bank before getting to the studio; that you not play tennis if someone calls you the night before and asks you to; that the phone call to your best friend in Miami can wait; that you not walk the dog twice around the park even if she gives you that puppydog look with those sad eyes; that you NOT post on your blog; that you overcome some OCD issues like making the bed (spiders crawl into an un-made bed during the day, talking to the roses (they’ll be gone by sundown if you don’t); picking caterpillars off the vegetable plants (with gloves-leather) and on and on and on. OR get up at 3 in the morning to do all these things.

       In other word, being a painter requires discipline. YIKES. That word scares me. How can I change this pattern that is hurting my career? I know. Maybe I will set up a studiocam at my studio and link it to this blog, and you guys can check in on me each day at a certain time. I’ll get in at say 9:00, turn on that camera and wave to you all. You would have to indulge me though, because if no one commented that they had seen me, it won’t work. I will be testing you. Maybe I’ll wear an old prom dress and see if anyone notices. I can slash a painting and you tell me which one it is. OR you can tell me WHAT I GOT DONE FOR THE DAY. I can hear the comments now: “Nice job Lisa, you got a long way on that stem today…love the prom dress”.

       What do you think?

                                                     

Partly Cloudy

By W.R. Jones

    I had a hell of a time with this piece.  It was cold and windy and the sun was bright.  I picked this meadow thinking it would be easy to paint.  After a series of failures I was looking for an ego pick-me-up.  Whoops.

    Too windy for an umbrella, I had to turn my easel 180 degrees from what I wanted to paint in order to keep the sun off the canvas and palette.  Then I couldn’t get the grass color right.  I resorted to holding a bunch of grass in my hand and comparing to the color on my palette knife. 

    First I compared them out in the sun, perfect; then I compared them in the shade of the easel, perfect.  Then I realised this was stupid, what I wanted was to have the look of grass in the sun on my canvas in the shade (i.e. as it might look inside a house, hopefully hanging on a wall, but more realistically at the bottom of a closet).  It really should be straight forward.  Put the paint on the canvas, compare to the grass in the meadow.  What can I say, it seemed to be beyond me.

    I painted for about 30 minutes in full sunlight, then came the clouds.  One hundred percent cloud cover, sheee….it.  Clearly, or cloudily I should say, it was going to be a gray day; start mixing again.  Another 30 minutes, not a cloud in the sky.  God was toying with me for that potty mouth I had been using for the last 5 paintings.

    A car pulled up to the edge of the meadow.  Two fat women with their two fat men got out.  They looked at me for a moment then one woman shouted, “We should use you for target practice!”  It gave me a warm feeling that they wanted me, a total stranger, to participate in their games.

    And me; the landscapes broke my spirit, I’m painting flowers now, in the safety of my room, like an old woman.

 

Water Aerobics

By W.R. Jones

    It must have been a ripple in my brain wave that made me to listen to Erin, the arerobics instructor at Oakridge, when she suggested I try her water aerobics class.  Admittedly, I do fit the bill as a candidate for the class alright; old.   

    What we are looking at here is a class of old women water buffalos, and now me, a wrinkle assed old man who looks like he has been in a tub for 3 days straight.

    I got out my old speedos and headed for the pool.  First a quick check in the men’s room next to the pool to see how sharp I was lookin.   ARGH… JESUS H. CHRIST… is that me?  What the devil; why oh why did I look in that mirror?  I was perfectly content with the image in my head.  Now that has been trampled into the standing water on the floor of the men’s room.   Oh my God, I look like a washer on a popsicle stick. 

    I tried to hide the washer by pulling my speedos up and over, i.e. until the stretched, worn elastic waistband was about clavicle high.  But then my boys dropped out the bottom.  This could cause panic out on the pool deck.  I had to lower the shorts back down and live with the exposed washer.

    The class, as you would imagine, was not that strenuous (although I did find it a worthwhile workout - and the water felt wonderful).  Here is a tip -  skip the squat and jump in the waist high shallow water.  It will shuck those loose speedos right off.

    I found myself looking at a set of trunks floating next to me in the water thinking, “how strange, a pair of swim trunks the same color as mine floating right here.  What’s the chances of that happening?”   I needn’t have worried, at my age you are invisible.   This was demonstrated later in the class when I got a horrendous cramp in one calf muscle. 

    I was certain I was going to drown.  Erin looked right at me as my eyes rolled back in my head like those wildebeests when the croc has them by the balls.  Clutching my leg I side paddled to the edge of the pool.  Then holding my ridged limb, it dawned on me my calf enhancer implant must have dropped out.  OK, dropped off,  I couldn’t face the thought of having my leg cut open during surgery so I had the doctor tape the calf bulkers on my legs.

   There I was, hanging on the edge of the pool, whimpering at my near loss of life, and Erin, who watched this entire episode, FINALLY says, you ok?   Like I said, at my age, you are invisible to the younger set.

    And me, got me some new red speedos, can’t wait to get back in the pool.

 

My Budding Landscape Painters

by Lisa

       My Wednesday morning class continued on with their impressionist paintings this week from what they had started last week. One student suggested that I have everything written out because it was so confusing with the first notes and the second notes, and the sun lit planes, and the cool planes. She was absolutely right except that normally I have Lois Griffel’s book on hand which I refer the students to when they are confused. THAT was my mistake. I cannot find that book, and instead of running out and buying a new one, I suffered through the consequences. I would like to say, in my defense, that if every student showed up on the first day at the same time (class begins at 9:00 people-refer to #12 on Lisa’s List of Pet Peeves) to hear my initial explanation and we all took it step by step together it would not be as confusing. Damn that Lois Griffel though. She had to go creating this whole complicated systematic approach that I insist on trying to teach.

       Here you see a few of my students doing the exercise trying to minimize their discomfort in three digit temperatures. Notice where they are standing. And they did keep moving with the sun. I think we’re going to try some cacti in Death Valley next.