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I have an old, yellowed print hanging on the wall in my studio that reminds me to never give up. I saw it in an antique shop years ago, and commented to my wife how much I liked it. She immediately formed a plan to buy it, and on my next birthday she presented it to me as a gift.
It is a framed reproduction of a 1907 pencil drawing by an artist named Malcolm Stewart. A fairly extensive Google search has not yet revealed any facts about who Malcolm Stewart might have been. Nevertheless, I have chosen to assume that he has depicted himself in the drawing. It is a picture of an artist sitting at an easel, with a large pallet balancing on his left arm. He is leaning forward, with his right hand holding a brush against a canvas. Surrounding him in his sparse and dilapidated studio are several other canvases, some of which have a word written on them that no one ever wants to accept - REJECTED.
The print is a constant reminder to me that no matter how bad things get, there is always another day, or another idea, or another plan to change whatever issue or scenario may be getting me down. Over the years, I have faced rejection in many forms. When I was in my teens, I often submitted cartoons to national magazines, only to later receive a rejection letter. I have, occasionally, finished a painting that either I have rejected, or unfortunately, my customer has not been totally enthralled with. I applied for an arts grant that was not approved, sold art that was never used as intended, and have been passed over for jobs for which I had applied.
Regardless of the reasons, I learned a long time ago that it doesn't do me any good to feel sorry for myself and complain or quit. Through a combination of self-examination, analysis of the issue, and sometimes prayer, I have learned to accept these negative events, and usually gain valuable lessons and wisdom from the experience.
The title of the old print is perfect: Hope Springs Eternal in the Human Breast.
I can't believe it has been a whole month since my last entry. It seems only a few days ago that I confronted that mouse in the bag, and chauffeured him to his room for the night.
My better half has been reminding me that I need to come up with a topic, and since it has been so long, it had better be a good one. Boy, the pressure is on.
I have a notebook that I jot down blog ideas, and many of my previous entries have originated from that. It's filled with 1-or-2-word thoughts to capture an idea (e.g., clones and Norman Rockwell), and memories of the past (e.g., basic training) that may trigger a story. Sometimes, an idea just pops into my head, the words start flowing, and I must immediately go and write (e.g., Where's a clothespin? and Napalm in the Morning).
It is not unlike the process of painting. I keep a small sketchbook to write down art ideas, or draw something that I observe and want to preserve for reference. This book is full of plans for future masterpieces, and yet it seems I spend as much time scratching my head about what to paint as I do with a brush in hand. Sometimes, the more ideas I have (for both art and blog posts), the more paralyzed I seem to become. The paint tubes cannot squeeze themselves, the brushes will not dip themselves into paint, and words will not appear on the computer screen until my fingers start typing.
But, then, a breakthrough! An idea from my notes or a photo from my files, or perhaps a unique feeling about a topic will push me to create. It doesn't always have to be magic. It doesn't have to pour out wisdom, and it certainly will not always make someone laugh. (Of course, some of you may laugh at things I say when it isn't necessarily intended to be humorous.) After all of the painful delays, and the agony of creative indecision, the colors begin to build and the words begin to swim through my mind. With my eyes closed tightly, I can see a vision of the finished piece, and hear the words of the text singing with anticipation.
That's just about the time that my stomach starts to growl, alerting me it must be time to eat.
I got a phone call at work today, with a frantic voice on the other end begging, “You’ve got to come home right now! I’ve got a mouse trapped under a bowl!”
As soon as I was able to control my hysterical laughter and dry my eyes, I inquired if the caller was serious. My wife (who, incidentally, is nicknamed Mouse) said she was “serious as all get-out” about the trapped mouse, but only half serious about needing me to come home immediately. When I suggested that she slide a piece of cardboard under the bowl and take the whole mess outside, she suggested that I might be crazy.
When I got home, I was firmly guided directly to the storage room in the basement, where I found a round, yellow Tupperware container, upside down on the floor, and a metal Christmas reindeer standing on top of it. One thing’s for sure, that mouse was not going to get away with that reindeer standing guard!
I assured her that it would not be a problem. I went upstairs to get a thin sheet of steel that I intended to slide under the bowl, effectively sealing the mouse inside. When I returned, my wife had emptied the floor of every box, basket, chair and bag, to give me all of the elbow room I could possibly want while I gained control of the little rodent. Joe Mauer could have made one of his famous swings, and not touched anything in that room!
I carefully slid the steel under the bowl, held the metal and container tight so the mouse couldn’t escape, and quickly placed him and his Tupperware prison in a grocery bag to take outside.
“What are you going to do with him?" my wife called out. "Don’t let him loose too close to the house,” she added. "He’ll come right back in.”
I said I would dispose of him.
“Don’t kill him.”
Now, I’m not squeamish about getting rid of a mouse, but when I opened the bag and found him looking up at me with those round black eyes, and one tiny pink foot stuck in a mousetrap, I just couldn’t do it.
Still, if I were to let him go in the yard, he would most assuredly find his way back into the basement, meet another mouse, have babies, meet more mice, have more babies... .
Sorry, Mickey. A night outside in the bottom of the garbage can, in your cozy grocery bag, is all I can offer you. You'll have to work out your next move with the trash collector.
Sleep tight!
I’m not sure how often I am absolutely, positively, 100% satisfied with a painting when I finish it. Generally, artists are quite hard on themselves. Our self-esteem is often under attack while we attempt to create a memorable work of art. We struggle to build a perfect composition. We strive for a message that is powerful and meaningful. We painstakingly endeavor to maintain a quality standard. Frankly, we need to back off a little!
An unknown author once said, “Perfectionism can create excellent results, but the cost of getting there can cause stress. So instead of striving for perfection, I am for excellence in all I do.” I believe that is the key. To strive for excellence in my art, I can let go of the self-imposed charge to create the perfect piece, while allowing myself to explore and pursue new directions in technique and subject matter. Salvador Dali said, “Have no fear of perfection - you’ll never reach it.”
The path of a painter is no place for a perfectionist. Only God is perfect. If we attempt perfection, we will never be happy and never reach our goals. Indeed, some of the most appealing and beautiful features in a work of art can be the result of an accident while painting, or a wild brush stroke that speaks boldly, or simply knowing when to stop and call it done. This is not to say that we should stop working hard to create good art. We can’t allow our work to own us and cause us so much pain. And overworking a piece will ultimately ruin it. I know! I often don’t know when to quit.
I really like the quote from photographers David Bayles and Ted Orland, “The seed of your next artwork lies embedded in the imperfections of your current piece.”
I can’t say that I have now solved all of my problems with regard to the excellence of my art, and I still don’t always know when to stop working on a piece, but I try not to beat myself up like I used to. And, I have learned to throw out a poorly conceived or rendered painting, rather than trying to salvage it when it is terminal.
That relieves stress!
What a year ahead!
First we learned of our younger son's engagement, and plans for a September 2010 wedding.
Then our daughter and son-in-law told us that we are going to be grandparents in May.
Now our oldest son has asked a wonderful gal to marry him, and she has answered in the affirmative!
It's not even New Year's Day yet, but I'm ready to start celebrating! Woo-hoo!!!!
I’ve been reminiscing lately, and thinking about how blessed I am to have these memories of Christmas…
As a kid, picking out a Christmas tree at the corner lot with my dad and brother. I especially remember the light bulbs, hung across the lot, illuminating the trees.
As a dad, the adventure of taking my kids to a “cut your own” tree farm, in search of the perfect Christmas tree.
Many years of "Family Christmas" at Crabtree’s Kitchen, where we enjoyed a wonderful meal and then a horse drawn sleigh ride through the woods. Grandpa often claimed to spot Rudolph through the trees, and the "real" Santa always paid a visit.
The warmth of our home on a cold, snowy Christmas Eve.
Melting butter and paprika sprinkled on top of the mashed potatoes, served with a Christmas meal at Aunt Irene and Cousin Kris’ house.
Uncle Vern and his tape recorder.
Moving from upper to lower Edgerton Street during the week between Christmas and New Year, and having a fully decorated tree in the trailer with the rest of our belongings.
Singing Silent Night, while holding a lit candle in the darkened sanctuary of our church during Christmas Eve service.
Peeling dried, cooled wax from my fingers.
Ornaments, hand made by us kids, and as ugly as they were, Mom still hung them on the tree.
A mountain of gifts under the tree, and the anticipation of opening them.
Taking a nap during the afternoon on Christmas Eve, to make the time go faster.
Rice pudding, and a prize awaiting the lucky person to find the walnut hidden somewhere in the bowl. I never ate the pudding, but was allowed to hunt for the nut.
My mom, scurrying around getting the meal on the table, and always the last to sit and eat.
One of my fellow employees, coming to our door on Christmas Eve and asking for food.
Barney, our dog, and his appetite for discarded wrapping paper.
“Christmas lights out mom’s side!”
What are your Christmas memories?
I initially wrote this blog a few days ago, but when my trusted editor (my wife) read it, she told me it was a real downer. From my perspective, I thought I had simply shared some thoughts about working life. My intent was not to complain or garner sympathy, but when I separated myself from the topic and reread it from your perspective, I realized it could come across negatively. So, with that in mind, and in an effort to satisfy my editor, let me try to present the subject a little differently.
We have all heard the expression, “Find a job doing what you love, and you’ll never have to work a day in your life.” If I am honest with myself, I’m not sure I can say that I have loved my job consistently over the 40 years I’ve worked. By no means do I wish to be pitied. It’s not that I have hated every one of my 10,000+ workdays. It’s just that if I may have had a “higher calling,” I didn’t hear it or answer it, and I now find myself looking inward, contemplating how I would like to spend my waking/working hours. It’s an interesting process to pursue.
CLARIFICATION TO APPEASE MY EDITOR: While I have not necessarily loved every one of the 4.8 million minutes I have worked (not counting overtime), I have enjoyed many, and have been blessed with steady employment for all but 8 weeks of this period. I have liked working with 99.9% of the people, and consider some of them to be good friends even now, 30-40 years later. I still come home each day with a smile, to get a hug and a kiss from my loving wife, and a squealing, tail-wagging doggie greeting. It’s tough to beat that! No complaining here!
In my early years, I needed to work just to keep gas in my car, and spending money in my pocket. Like many others my age, I had no concept of planning for a long-term career, and my idea of preparing for the future was to plan for the following weekend.
CTAME: Yes, I admit I was a bozo, one who didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life, and thought he would just figure it out as he went along!
As I gained experience in the working world, I was fortunate to move from one position to the next, always staying near the front end of graphics technology. Indeed, there were years in the 80’s and 90’s when I was receiving calls from headhunters at a rate of about 3 or 4 per year. Besides the ego boost that interest afforded me, I was able to do some traveling as I considered offers. Those calls gradually decreased as I entered my 50’s, and it is evident that older guys aren’t as highly regarded in my business.
CTAME: I don’t get many headhunter calls anymore, so what. That’s OK with me. I know that I’m at the top of my game, and my experience and knowledge is immeasurable. I don’t want to move to another state and start over, anyway! The majority of my family is here, and I enjoy traveling so I have plenty of opportunity to see the cities I’ve passed up over the years. (Besides, if I changed jobs, they would probably want me to tweet!)
So now, it’s the eve of 2010. I have successfully climbed the management ladder. I have met most of my career goals. While I have no clear desire to start my own company, I would not rule that out. I presume I have 9-10 years of full time work ahead of me, and who knows how many years beyond that to be active. It makes sense to spend that time doing something I really enjoy.
CTAME: I love the thought of having a relatively short time left to work before retirement, but the fact of the matter is that I will never stop working. I will simply change what I’m doing each day, and you’ll have a different phone number to reach me between 7:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. While I enjoy the role that I have as the “wise ol’ boss,” and I find it amusing that younger workers sometimes affectionately call me “Pops,” I am excited for the future, and all of the unknowns. One thing for certain: from this point forward, I’ll be buying a lot more oil paint.
Stay tuned!
