Cookie Monster

My Dad bought cheap cookies every week. He usually chose large packs of dry, creme-filled wafers that tasted sweet but dull. He ate them at work when he took a coffee break midmorning. Caffeine and sugar gave him a boost that carried him through to lunch.

He started out as an operator of a screw-making machine, became a machinist, and trained to become a toolmaker. He worked in factories manufacturing cash registers, machine parts, auto repair parts, and RV windows. Most of his supervisors got used to him taking midmorning breaks as they witnessed how hard he worked. His production more than made up for time lost during brief pauses.

He ran into trouble one day, however, when the owner of an auto parts factory came through on an inspection tour. The owner saw Dad taking his customary break and reprimanded him. The owner also told Dad’s foreman to report any more violations. Dad would be fired if he stopped working at unscheduled times. Dad complied and saved his treat for lunch time. But his co-workers never let him forget the incident. They nicknamed him, “Cookie Monster”.

The owner came down on the floor a few months later. He wanted to congratulate the hardest worker in the factory, the man with the highest production rate. The owner didn’t remember Dad when the foreman ushered him over to Dad’s workstation. The owner shook his hand and asked Dad’s name. Before Dad could answer, the foreman interjected, “You’ve already met him! This is the Cookie Monster!” The owner recalled the incident, flushed with embarrassment, and retreated.

Dad worked part time after he turned 62. His legs swelled if he worked a full day standing on concrete. He fully retired at 65.

After Dad turned eighty, he began to suffer more and more from crippling arthritis. Last spring, his body began to shut down, and he became bedridden. My mother took care of his needs as best she could. She told me that he often called out to her just as he was about to fall asleep. He wanted her to bring him a cookie. Eating a cookie would help get him through the night.

The Disappearing Class

I started with 12. One woman never showed up even for the introductory class. Then, her name mysteriously vanished from the roster. So, I’m down to 11, but only 9 show up regularly. One guy attends, draws, and produces work but never turns in an assignment. His grade is 0%. He’s there but then again isn’t.

Last night, twenty minutes before the end of class, I advised students to go outside to spray their charcoal drawings. I told them to come back so that they could add another layer of soft vine charcoal. Perhaps they could even venture into using…charcoal pencil…

Five out of nine didn’t come back in time to finish their drawings. When the clock hit 9:30, I crept to the back door to see where they had gone. I saw two huddled in a dark shadow. An eerie glow lit one woman’s face a phosphorescent blue. Her thumbs twiddled at something she held in her hand…One stood apart and stared at the black silhouettes of a stand of trees. Only one sprayed.

I opened the door. A chemical fixative fog struck my nostrils. I gasped and said, “It’s time for you to come in and add the second layer. There’s only five minutes left.” Like ghosts staring at a mortal who interrupts a solemn graveyard ritual, they met my speech with mute indignation.

Four of the nine did not linger outside. They managed to spray their drawings in the customary five minutes required for the task. But the dallying five sauntered into the room right at the quitting mark. The late returners stone-faced me when I reminded them that they had also failed to come back punctually on Monday. A bemused look crossed one guy’s face when I said that their drawings were incomplete without a second layer. Communication with him felt like shouting across a gray void. Only my voice’s tinny echo came back. I began to wonder if I was the one who had begun to fade.

I plan to have them draw a four-object still life next week. They’ll have to spend two classes working on it. 11 have already dwindled to nine. Five out of nine have become semi-transparent. Will only four escape the clutches of a dark ennui that drains willpower and drive? Who will be left by next Wednesday?

Long Waits

Judy and I had an outdoor, masked get-together with longtime friends on Monday. The last time we’d seen them in the flesh was in October 2020. Coronavirus spikes and other complications had postponed other attempts to meet. We caught up on family news and planned an outing to Leu Gardens.

On Tuesday, a repairman from our internet service visited to root out the cause of a weeklong outage. He couldn’t find anything wrong with our router or phone line. He discovered that we hadn’t been included in a restart after a system wide shut down. He used an app on his phone to reconnect us. He wore a mask, answered questions patiently, and told us that long waits and problems communicating with customer service were the new norm.

I took Judy to a doctor’s appointment on Thursday and parked in a place I hoped would put distance between me and a spot where coronavirus test takers gather outside a pharmacy. (I stay in the car to avoid prolonged waiting room exposure.)

On that day, groups of three, five, and seven milled around outside a pharmacy during my forty-minute wait. I had my window down to keep the temperature comfortable and kept hearing two women speak a language that sounded like French. A few more arrived, and they too conversed in “French”. After a while, I decided that Portuguese was the likelier language with its soft consonants and bouncy rhythms. But I still couldn’t figure out why everyone waiting there spoke it. Orlando doesn’t have many transplants from Brazil or Portugal. I discussed the mystery with Judy after she returned, and she proposed that the test takers had stopped on their way to the airport. That made sense for two reasons: the pharmacy’s location is twenty minutes from OIA; some countries require tests before take-offs during the recent spike in Omicron cases.

Another workman arrived at our house early Friday morning. Our air conditioner had persisted for three months in dripping water from the coils onto the filter. Three previous service visits had failed to solve the problem. The tech diagnosed dirty coils. Cleaning them required a removal of the unit from our hall closet.

I offered him a mask before he entered. He grumped that wearing one would make his job harder, but I cut him off by saying, “I wear a mask when I teach.” Brian grumped some more, refused the mask still held in my hand, and said, “I’ve got my own.” Three hours later, he had checked gas pressures, cut through a metal pipe with an acetylene torch, wrestled coils out of a tight space, thoroughly hosed them down in our driveway, wrestled the coils back, reattached everything, and stuck his head in a space below the unit as it ran. No water dripped on his forehead or the filter. Sweet success. Gladness and light radiated from him as I signed the invoice and paid.

But Brian had frequently vented frustrations whenever the job gave him unexpected difficulties. His running commentary reminded me of working beside my father, so I understood his need to work through problems and relieve pressure by vocalizing. And his language showed a lot more restraint than Dad’s. But I had to take a break from him about halfway through the job. I went outside, took off my mask, stood at the curb watching a breeze sift through the neighbor’s trees, and sipped coffee from a mug.

Faculty Show 2021

Judy and I drove to Valencia today to see a faculty show. I have four paintings in the exhibition but hadn’t gotten a chance to see them on site.

Mine hung together on two walls near a corner. When I saw them, I had the usual reaction: pieces I considered somewhat weak looked stronger than previously favored paintings; I wished that I could take them down and rework passages that now looked awkward. Judy reassured me that they looked fine and said that the largest oil appealed to her now that it hung in a larger space.

The show featured a wide range of media including prints, sculpture, conceptual photography, painting, and ceramics. Artists working in the same medium exercised their talents in opposing styles. I saw abstract, semi-abstract, and realistic paintings and drawings.

Some works had a conceptual bent. They featured imagery that repeated with variations in grid compositions.

The ceramicists made bowls and plates decorated by shell forms and nature imagery (a bird, leaves on stems).

Two sculptors exhibited shallow relief wall pieces featuring layered forms. A third showed ceramics that looked like mineralized fossils or the fragmented remnants of geological events.

The arrangement of the show felt harmonious despite the varied styles and media. The curator took time to find formal connections between separate bodies of work. And low-level lighting created a subdued mood throughout the exhibition.

As we walked back to our car, I felt an urge to see more work by individual artists in the show. I’d only gotten quick tastes of each exhibitor’s work. However, one-person shows of a faculty member’s work have rarely graced the gallery. Internal conflicts would ensue if some professors received the opportunity while others did not.

The curator wisely bestows solo shows only to outside artists. If I want to see more, I’ll have to go elsewhere.

Ax Man

I had a live oak cut down in my backyard six years ago.  Lightning strikes had split the trunk near the juncture where it diverged into two main branches.  A heavy windstorm could have caused half of the tree to come crashing down on the back of my house.  A large stump remained. 

I ignored it for the most part until the beginning of this year.  Ferns and bushes had grown up in the gaps between the roots.  The growth had spread so wide that the twin paths around it narrowed down until it became difficult for my wife to pick her way past on her daily walks.  I began by pulling up ferns.  Odd translucent bulbs surfaced as the plants came out of the soil.  Some of the ferns grew on top of the stump by sinking tenacious roots into the crumbling surface. They made a tearing sound like separating strips of Velcro when they finally gave way.

After stripping the foliage back from the stump, I attacked with an ax.  The outside edges split off easily enough, but as I cut nearer to the center, I encountered darker, denser wood.  The tough stuff sometimes deflected the ax blade, and I had to be careful to keep my feet nowhere near the strike point.  It occurred to me, after a long session that left me winded and covered in sweat, that I never would have made it as a pioneer.

Wood chips began to deflect in all directions.  I once heard a metallic ping as a chunk struck a bird feeder standing fifteen feet away.  One ricocheted off the back window.  (I began to rake the yard after each work session to pick up scattered bits and fragments.)  I considered buying a wedge and sledgehammer to pry bigger slabs off the trunk, to speed up the process, but decided to use a regular hammer to drive the axe head deeper after a good strike.  After two weeks of intermittent work, I’ve cut the stump’s circumference in half.

I began this project to clear room in the yard and to save the money I’d have to spend to hire someone to grind the stump.  After the difficulty kept increasing, I thought that I had engaged in a never ending fool’s errand.  And each time I went out with my axe, I ran into another physical issue.  My hands blistered, back and hips complained, and I often had to stop to catch my breath.  On cold days, my exercise induced asthma kicked in whenever I took a break.  I compensated by wearing work gloves, doing yoga, and wearing a mask to keep my breath warm (to counter the asthma).

I think I’ve persevered for three reasons:  I want to accomplish something requiring endurance, to meet a challenge;  I want to get outside and away from my computer; and I want to wear myself out every time I watch too much news about recent events. It’s hard to feel anxious when exhausted. There’s less energy available.

Work, Exercise, Meditate, Booze

I’ve got a survival plan worked out to help me through the closing days of the election.  I stole the idea from “Eat, Pray, Love”.  My version is: work, exercise, meditate, booze.

Instead of binging on political news and commentary to feed my adrenaline addiction, I’m going to focus on work. Getting things done eases the nagging feeling of burden that builds during the week. Crossing items off a to-do list creates an illusion of control during a chaotic time. 

My classes are all on-line, however. Working on the computer involves remembering how to upload videos, send e-mails with content embedded within documents, take and edit pictures of demonstration drawings, etc.  These activities tax my patience and test my confidence. 

Exercise relieves some the negative effects brought on by work.  I do a set of stretches and isometric exercises recommended by the Indian guru, Yogananda.  These clear my head and rearrange kinks in my spine.  Yardwork helps also.  Pulling cat’s claw and skunk vines, trimming bushes, and digging up invasive camphor seedlings provides an outlet for aggression.  The battle never ends in Florida:  there’s never a time when my property nears a manicured presentation.

Meditation takes me further toward a peaceful attitude.  I can accurately read my stress level during initial stages of quiet centering.  Representations of buried irritations, of bad memories, and of the cumulative weight of daily responsibilities parade across the mind’s eye.  The procession eventually runs out of floats.  The tinny music lingers sometimes but gets fainter and fainter.  Then a sense of calm and well-being descends.  For a few minutes, I can let go and commune with a deeper presence.  I view my worries with a better sense of proportion.

Meditation doesn’t always take me far enough.  I’m not that adept.  Agitation and tension remain only partially relieved.  And failure to take enough time to come out of a deep meditation sends me into a sensitized state where minor annoyances magnify, and the subconscious muck stirred to the surface during beginning stages returns to torment me with the manic insistence of a carload of evil clowns.  A traditional remedy calls to me then.

A bottle of whiskey, like a glass-enclosed fire alarm, can be broken into during emergencies.  Coping isn’t the therapeutic strategy at this point.  Anesthetization is.  I prefer a Russian stout for initial treatment.  Bourbon or Irish whiskey is applied to deeper wounds. Truly desperate times call for the addition of a cigar.   

If you pass my house and see me seated beneath a magnolia tree, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigar in other hand, do not attempt to engage me in friendly conversation. If communication is absolutely necessary, approach with caution.  Tobacco smoke is my defensive force field. The stink is your official warning.

Volunteer

My wife and I volunteered to teach art and science sections of a Vacation Bible School program at our church. Judy initially thought she’d assist two teachers who would develop science projects and lead lessons. She discovered, too late to back out, that she was the only volunteer. I knew that she’d have difficulty getting through the week by herself, so I agreed to be her assistant.

We ended up having a good time working with interesting kids. Some were unwilling attendees who needed gentle coaxing to participate. We taught them about rocket propulsion by firing balloon-powered missiles along strings running to a planet Mars target. We gave them materials and let them work out designs for Martian landers. Their payloads were marshmallows. If a lander set down gently and didn’t dump cargo on the floor, the budding engineer could eat the marshmallow. One girl made a parasail out of construction paper and string. Her lander floated down slowly with stately grandeur. Her marshmallow barely wobbled at touch down.

Judy and I didn’t know if any of the projects would work and felt trembly at the start of each day. Flopping in front of groups of fifteen to twenty kids can be painful. But by the end of the week our confidence grew, and we had the satisfaction of watching kids learn to enjoy science as they tried new things.

****

Earlier this summer, Judy and I took a short vacation at a state park in northern Florida. The cabin had a screened-in porch where we sat mornings and evenings to catch a breeze and look out over a lake. I studied the construction of the porch, the screen door and the deck. I made the mistake of saying, “I think that I could build something like this on our front porch.” Judy’s eyes popped wide open. Oops.

I started on the porch at the end of June. I finished the supports this Monday. I’ve got two weeks left before my regular work schedule kicks in. Three steps remain: fill in gaps between the support frame and the porch roof; build and hang a door with a latch; make screens and install them in the support framework.

I had hoped to finish the project by our anniversary in late August but know now that I’m not going to make it. Perhaps I’ll reach completion by the end of September. Problems keep multiplying, but I’ve been able to figure them out so far. When I run into difficulties, I stare at a trouble spot until an idea pops into my head. Then I discover as I cut, sand, paint, and drill whether my plan works.

I’ve never done a project like this before, and in some ways it feels like I’ve jumped from an airplane without fully understanding how my parachute works. The experience is stimulating and somewhat terrifying. But this exercise in physical labor and problem-solving has given a lot of satisfaction. Every time I step back and take a look at the porch, I see tangible evidence of progress. That doesn’t often happen to me any more.

Exploration, Editing, Consolidation, Next

Work life moves forward in stages unless interrupted by abrupt catastrophes. I’ve noticed four sequential steps: exploration, editing, consolidation, searching-for-next.

Exploration means learning a new skill, figuring out a job, searching for basic anchor points when working on an unfamiliar problem. Unknowns and unpredictable turns make this step exciting and fresh or scary and bewildering.

Editing comes once the basics have been figured out. The former novice looks for more direct ways of accomplishing goals and discards paths leading to frustration and failure. Surprises still occur, but challenges become less severe and threatening.

Consolidation arrives after the surprises all but stop. A seen that, done that method of operation takes over. A relaxed sense of mastery establishes itself as experience’s reward. Two problems arise near the end of this step: complacency; and loss of ability to adapt to new situations.

Searching-for-next makes its entrance after boredom grows from a sense of comfortable dullness to soul-killing despair. The master of his/her domain starts looking for an escape hatch when hunger for something new counterbalances the fear of the unknown.

I’ve gone through this cycle about five times since graduating from a masters program in painting. A professor told me long ago that it’s important to maintain interest in the act of painting. Once any style, subject, method becomes stale, it’s time to move on. I no longer see the rise and fall of any particular body of work as something to fear, celebrate or mourn.

Some jobs and relationships seem exempt from periodic change. Renewal comes from within an ongoing discipline. Some artists find enough material and room for experimentation to maintain a style throughout their careers. Their work evolves.

Teaching still challenges me student by student, class by class. My subject matter hasn’t changed much in the last 25 years, but I still look for ways to keep my lessons fresh. Every time I teach a new style or technique in class, I learn an alternative approach that may influence my work. The job only becomes stale when I feel too tired to look for opportunities to expand and strengthen my practice.

Late Night at the Donut Shop

We cleared stale donuts from the display shelves and threw the discards into empty flour bags.  I stuck my head out the back door to check for bears before I threw them away.  Raiders from nearby woods marauded late at night to ransack our dumpster.  We put out fresh cake donuts (the yeast donuts still rose on trays in the incubator) and dealt with a rush of  2:00 drunks.  The bars had just closed, and our staggering, bleary, mush-mouthed clientele wanted coffee to counter the booze and treats to sweeten the bitterness of oncoming hangovers.  The shop cleared around 3, and Katie, the night manager, called a break.

She lit a cigarette at her table in the corner and stared out the window.  Harry, the lead baker, kept her company but didn’t eat a mid shift meal. Anyone who sat with her could smoke, drink coffee or eat a donut, but  sandwiches, fruit, and microwaved left overs were forbidden. She couldn’t stand to watch people eat anything but candy and breakfast food as her father had abused his little girl every night as she struggled to choke down her suppers.

I took a seat at a booth with JoJo, and she talked about her boyfriend, her muscle car, and her obsession with the band, “White Snake”.  She noted that I drove a beat up Mazda and wondered about the virility of a man who owned a rusty beater that wheezed when it climbed up a gentle incline.  I told her that I couldn’t stand to listen to another White Snake song, and that the band members were nothing but Led Zeppelin wannabes.  She threatened to punch me, and our nightly ritual came to a close.

A grizzled man wearing an old coat slumped through the door and sat at the booth at my back.  After a few minutes we heard him moan.  I turned to look and saw him clutching his chest.  He gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes tight shut and moaned again.  I said, “Hey, are you all right?”

He slumped to the side, turned his head so that he could look me in the eye and groaned, “My heart…”

JoJo jumped up to sit beside him and held his hand.  I  rushed to the office and called an ambulance.  I saw the stricken man sitting more upright when I returned, and he smiled sadly as he whispered his life’s sad story in JoJo’s ear.  She patted his shoulder.

EMTs arrived a few minutes later, and the lead guy rolled his eyes when he saw the victim.  He said, “Hey Charlie, how’s it goin’ tonight?”

Charlie pointed to his chest.  The EMT said, “Another heart attack Charlie?  Third time this week, isn’t it?”  One medic leaned idly against a booth, and the lead slowly pulled a stethoscope out of his bag.  He gave Charlie a once over and said, “You’re fine.  Just like always.”  The medic turned to me and said, “He’ll live to 100, just you bet.”

Charlie hurried out as soon as the EMTs had packed up and gone.  JoJo and I finished our coffees and trudged back to the kitchen.  We glazed the yeast and filled the cream donuts.  JoJo kept dashing out for cigarette breaks, and I cursed when I dropped a pan of chocolate icing on the floor.  We worked on the specialty donuts and the eclairs around 6 a.m., and got into a fight about how long I’d taken to do my share of the work.  JoJo repeated her claim that she did most while I lagged behind.  I told her to work another shift if she didn’t like mine.

We glowered at each other as we punched out and went our separate ways.  Charlie was the real target, but he was long gone.

My Feet Hurt

Quantum Cubist Self-Portrait, graphite, 12×9″

Woke up at 5 for reasons unknown and watched a grainy black and white youtube video of the 1952 Yankees/Brooklyn Dodgers World Series.  Jackie Robinson played second base for the Dodgers and Roy Campanella played catcher.  Young Mickey Mantle led the Yankees to victory.  The batters swatted at pitches with wide, flat swings.  Baggy uniforms billowed and made the athletes seem slow of foot and wide of ass.

Drifted off, woke to my alarm at 7:30 feeling much groggier than I had at 5.  Stumbled through making breakfast, cooking lunch to leave behind for Judy, and packing an apple and a sandwich to take along.  Felt rushed and slightly hassled as I drove to work but arrived five minutes before the doors automatically unlocked at Valencia Building 3.

The classroom was only partially wrecked from the last class and the Friday clean up crew, so it took just ten minutes to move easels and chairs into position.  Set out three models of human skulls on upright wooden boxes for my Drawing I class.  Arranged a complex still life (a skeleton, fabric, bricks, boots, cow femurs, an angel statue, and a lamp shaped like a horse’s head) on the gray stage for my Drawing II students.

2/3 of the students showed up on time.  Did a brief intro for Drawing I and then switched to Drawing II.  I showed them Picasso’s early cubist paintings, had the students draw 9×12″ boxes and divide them into 8 sections using curving lines.  Told them to draw chunks of the still life in each area.  The kicker was this:  each time they drew another section they had to move to another position.  Cubism=multiple viewpoints rammed together into one shifting, churning space.

Cubist Still Life, graphite, 8×6″

Drawing I drew skulls and learned portrait proportions.  Then they drew me and themselves, and after lunch they paired up and drew each other.  Usual mistakes:  eyes drawn too large, faces elongated, heads turned into bowling balls with facial features attached haphazardly, noses shortened and shrunk to Michael Jackson proportions, necks too spindly to hold up a head, mouths too small and narrow to chew a hamburger, brains shrunk to subhuman proportions, facial proportions of the drawer transplanted onto drawings of other people.  Students struggled for a while, but improved.  A poor student surprised me by drawing an accurate portrait of another student after having butchered my face.

 

Gave my usual speech about proper etiquette when a model is present (our first model comes next week).  Told them not to make remarks or jokes about the model, not to touch the model, not to fraternize (the model is not a future date), not to photograph the model, and in short, to treat the model with respect.  These rules are based on bad behavior by previous students.  I concluded: “If you have an issue following these rules, then I will have an issue with you, and then I will issue you out the door.”

Two students stayed after.  One wanted to show me her latest work in computer graphics.  I gave her a few color theory tips.  The other wanted to convert me into becoming a computer artist.  Told him that I like the tactile experience of working with my hands, of making things out of physical materials.

He persisted, so I trotted out my standard and most effective argument.  I asked him, “Would you rather make love to a woman or look at porn?”  He stammered and said, “I’ll have to think about that.”  Discussion ended.

Put away wooden boxes, still life props and skulls; arranged easels in a circle around the room; erased the blackboard, locked the closet, turned off the spotlights.  The weekend cleaning crew came in while I packed my bag, and I told them that the paper towels were out in both dispensers.

Trudged through the building and met two students in the lobby.  We cringed greetings to each other sharing the hope that neither student or professor would feel obliged to start a conversation.

The day had turned hot and muggy while I worked inside, and the walk to the car seemed long.  My teaching adrenaline faded away, and the effects of walking on concrete floors became apparent: my knees felt numb and my feet hurt.