“The Elvis Tooth” is a novel, set in Black Mountain, North Carolina, in which a tourist is inexplicably sent from 2013 to 1948. He desperately wants to get back as he is due to get married in a few days and he thinks it might be awkward if he didn’t show up. He works his way back and along the way discovers some truths about the past, the present and the value of nostalgia.
So, how did I come up wit this idea?
Three things drove me to write this book. (All my art is created out of a desire to get an insistent idea out of my head. Some ideas won’t go away – I have to write or draw them out.)
First, a crazy little clock store that has literal piles of clocks in it. It seems like a sort of elephant’s graveyard for clocks. The name: Pellom’s Time Shop, has all sorts of nuances that set my mind a play.
Second, the old dance hall above the hardware store where I worked. No one was sure what had gone on there, but it was certainly a secret side of the is little Norman Rockwell town. As I went up and down the stairs, I composed the beginning of the story that became “The Elvis Tooth.”
And third, the stories I had gathered doing oral history for the town. We put a lot of them in plays, but some we didn’t and some were too good not to use again.
And fifth, the title; I thought that was a great title for a book. Finding myself this deep in the story, I had to write myself out of it!
Art and “American Sniper”
I saw “American Sniper” last night and thought it was a good, post-modern war movie. It had all the tropes a war movie needs: hero, battles, two dimensional enemies, sacrifice, tender moments, and triumphant resolution. But it also, if you can see them, presents the moments of doubt, pathos, and dehumanizing that my left wing compatriots are so up in arms about it lacking. The Chris Kyle I saw was a simple, straight forward cowboy who wanted to serve his country, and did so doing what he did best- shooting long distances. I saw a decent man, deadened inside by the arcade-like quality of his work, whose manly facade would not admit doubt – his or those of his wife and (a few) fellow soldiers.
So, art.
We see what we want to see. Think of Riefenstahl’s “Triumph of the Will.” Today, we find it chilling and discuss the fascist film techniques that make it so. But Germans of the day probably found it uplifting and beautiful. And, significantly, if the film had been about the US, our immediate ancestors would generally have had the same reaction. The movie “Mash” was a bold middle finger to the establishment when it came out. I watched it recently and was appalled by the blatant sexism. The movie didn’t change; I did.
Context helps.
I was not a particular fan of Pablo Picasso’s work until I saw a series of photographs of him working on “Guernica.” What is fascinating about his work is his process. How he got from, say, the five naked women sitting in front of him (reality) to the image he abandoned on the canvas, “le demoiselles d’avignon” (art). His genius was to break away from the necessity of depicting reality ( which art can never do, anyway) and explore form and color. Fascinating.
So, “American Sniper.”
Clint Eastwood knows how to construct a good movie, And this one is good on it’s own terms. It’s even good for someone who believes Iraq was a mistake and that war has consequences for the survivors. If you’re old-school “my country, right or wrong,” you can love this movie and Chris Kyle’s life on those terms. If you’re a post-colonial American, Eastwood has touched on those hesitancies, which I understand were not in the book.
You see the movie, or the painting you want to see.
Inside the artist’s studio
How is sausage made? What REALLY goes on in an operating room? What do super-models talk about when they’re not pouting? These questions have plagued mankind for generations. Another, perhaps lesser, subject of conjecture has been the goings on in that cauldron of creativity, the art studio. Here’s the classic image:
Just a bunch of folks hanging out with Courbet while he creates a masterpiece. I especially like that there’s a semi-clothed metaphor looking over his shoulder. Nudity is a reoccurring theme:
As is the artist’s sartorial selections:
Reality, unfortunately, is not so romantic, or even Romantic. Here’s a guy you might know….
Well, Picasso probably deserved an entire mansion for a studio. By way of comparison, images from my little (too little) den of artiquity:
Notice there’s no room for a semi-clothed metaphor, even if I had one.
How to Make a Picture
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Here are the steps I use to create an architectural image for a client. They are the same steps for drawing/painting any urban environment.
[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”3183″ media_width_percent=”100″][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”3185″ media_width_percent=”100″][vc_column_text]Reference photo. Second attempt ( first was a bad angle) A challenging subject… what to leave and what to cut?[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”3186″ media_width_percent=”100″][vc_column_text]First Sketches (later colored with prismacolor pencils for painting reference) Note non-straight lines, forced perspective, opening and closing doors, moving cars. Aesthetics trump reality![/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”3187″ media_width_percent=”100″][vc_column_text]Final pencil drawing. Traced with light box onto watercolor paper.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”3188″ media_width_percent=”100″][vc_column_text]Aborted ink drawing. Line of far building’s roof sagged too much. I draw freehand and want “organic” lines- that one was a bit TOO organic[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”3189″ media_width_percent=”100″][vc_column_text]Finished ink drawing with crosshatch shading and photoshop clean-up. Client will use this version in some applications.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”3190″ media_width_percent=”100″][vc_column_text]Aborted ink drawing used as color test.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”3191″ media_width_percent=”100″][vc_column_text]Final watercolor. Note deeper contrasts and slight changes in this drawing.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
The Miracle of Recorded Art
Just reading Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird” and laughing out loud at some of her drolleries. It struck me how marvelous to put something out in the world that can cause physical pleasure twenty years after you laid it down. How some guy you’ll never know in North Carolina is At This Moment appreciating your voice. Then I thought of Shakespeare, who is – as you probably know – long dead. The immense joy his brief years of work have brought, long beyond his knowing or caring. (He, in all probability, cared most about the day’s receipts in the cashbox. But maybe, hopefully, not.)
Of course, this applies to other media. Crying along with Patsy Klein as she admits, “She’s Got You”; shaking your head in amazement at Vermeer’s brushwork in “Girl with the Pearl,” basking in the beauty and originality of Marlon Brando in “Streetcar Named Desire.” And it is pleasant to think, on some much smaller stage, that my books and drawings might well bring pleasure to some child on another continent (thank you, Amazon), or cause some yet-to-be-born husband to ask his yet-to-be-born wife, “what are you laughing at, honey?”
“Oh, a book by some dead guy,” she’ll say.
And that’s just cool.
Although, I admit, I do spend some time wondering what today’s receipts are like ( and I’d bet Anne Lamott occasionally does, too). But the unparalleled treasure is the one I’ll never see, but one I get only hints and echoes of.
A Poem
And if you white, middle class dinosaurs
Think the boys in blue in Bagdad drag
Have nothing to do with you,
Just wait
Just wait ‘til you’ve had enough
enough sixteen dollar chicken
enough seven dollar milk
enough five dollar gas
With nary a raise in a decade
With nothing but a big empty smile
From your “elected representative”
And you bow up a little
And say, “Hey, ain’t this my country too?”
Like the people of Ferguson said
Like black people been saying for 150 years
See how the answer comes
Hard as a rubber bullet
Fast as a teargas wind
Direct as the boot on your neck
And the bought cop in “riot gear”
Whose boot it shall be
Says
“Get down on the ground, motherfucker
Bow out flat to the New American Empire
Of which you, too, now
Are a little bit next to nothing”