In Vitro

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_vitro_fertilisation# 

Native New Yorkers can be wildly out-of-touch with typical American norms, as evidenced by our sophisticated tastes that fit "hand-in-glove" with our thriving street culture. It's both baffling worldly and crazily down-to-earth, as a mixture that both stumps and stupefies the provincials who reach our shores. What to do? Where to go? "Melting pots" stumble those who are new to its exciting mix that we thrive on daily. There's tons of flashing lights, and lots of colors, and movement, and sounds, like a toddler-packed "Cats" matinee musical for savvy adults not on Ritalin. That, unfortunately, was me. Sigh...what I won't do for family.

As it turns out, the same sentiment was shared by my co-workers at my very first publishing job in the historic Flatiron building, located in Manhattan. Your tourist photo op was my first office space, as it still is for the people working the house. While many of you struggled to adapt socially to a rather feminine young man, I was having interesting hallway chats with a very nice production editor proudly sporting a prominent "pink triangle" button to work, as he talked to me about being a Harvard grad and a gay grandfather who came out after marriage and kids. With a woman.

My first meetings in a professional setting were the production meetings we have in publishing. They are weekly check-ins with every branch of the house that works directly with the manufacture of books. There was so much for me to learn as an apprentice that I often didn't know what to ask, so I just listened and wrote stuff down, or scribbled doodles on my big lined notepad. Yay! Office supplies! I was really young. And the managing editor who ran (runs) those meetings was (is) an openly gay women who staged a sit-in at the administration offices while attending Oneonta, which meant we shared the same counter-cultural vibe. She's also from Rockland, and I think Metis.

Needless, I hit it off with that first group of people really well, which made the technical complexity of the work the bulk of my day, over in-house squabbles and political double-timing. I didn't have the power to do anything about it, anyway. But, my higher-ups were tackling the deepest societal issues you can imagine, and they did it while "on the clock" in a fast-moving office that keeps and prints every mistake we make as the core model of our business. 

The managing editor running our weekly meetings had a second-in-command who's also an "out" gay woman, along with my bisexual friend MaryLouise the production editor (her former assistant), plus the gay granddad who also worked in production editorial, and the girl who publicly hooked up with the butch design director at a company Christmas party one year, in what was once known as "the toy building". She was teased for years for sitting on her lap and making out in front of her co-workers. Yeah...that's how we rolled.

I noticed a pregnant woman at one of my first production meetings, and my boss (the senior production manager) chose it as a "teaching moment" that outed her in the process, too. You see, the pre-meeting discussion at the table (before the meeting minutes officially began) centered around Lisa's pregnancy and how her maternity leave would effect the titles in the schedule she was working on. A big part of production is re-assigning work depending on situations just like this one, because life happens all the time. 

She told me a bit about the company's policy on maternity leave, as well as some of the costs related to it that our health insurance covered, which left Lisa the production editor to fight some serious battles with her supervisor's help. And help she got. Not only is Lisa gay like her two direct bosses and other production editorial co-workers, but she was the first woman I ever knew who had an openly in-vitro fertilization process with her also-out female partner through a sperm donor. And that was called "Tuesday morning" at our house, in the autumn of 1993. What does your house talk about?

Leatherbound

Pressed leaf from a Ginkgo biloba tree.

As a publisher, I have books of all shapes, sizes, types, languages, and purposes. Most are for reading, but I am media-independent as a creator, which means I do not experience biases based on other people's preferences. 

A junior staff member from a small family business I worked at years ago was horrified to discover that my priceless going away gift, presented to a homesick Midwestern admin, was actually a one-of-a-kind art piece crafted from a hollowed out duplicate of a hardcover classic that's been in print for hundreds of years.  

A gift of a leather bound journal for whatever I want. Thanks, Jang!

Yeah, I know. It's why neither former female employee (not the gift getter, nor the assistant) works in publishing anymore. They don't understand that a book is more than text communication; it's also an art object. The very essence behind my success lies in my ability to transcend individual intentions (which are probably wrong) to ascertain real value, make something from it, and present it to all of you. That does not mean the people around me necessarily "get it", or see worth right away, because they can't. My job is to see.

I use bound materials the way any artist uses any medium in a serious way: by pushing it further than you ever could, and that's what keeps it so fun and fresh. Plus, I really enjoy the feeling of "shock and awe" on your faces that rings in "frontiering". Hey, parents get bored, too! Have fun this weekend and go make something, will ya?


"For those who fight for it, 
life has a flavor that the sheltered will never know."
- from the movie, Sucker Punch.

The Handprint

The Handprint  (Pearl River, May 2015).

In certain lights, a mysterious handprint is clearly visible on the door that opens from the studio's kitchen to the living area. From my futon, I can see that it's the size of a man's hand. It's strangely comforting, like a "good" ghost turning on the lights for you before you enter a room (if you believe in that sort of thing), or a benevolent, helpful robot (like Rosie from "The Jetson's") that has fresh coffee and homemade donuts ready for you every morning. 

http://net.indra.com/~dheyser/rockart.html

I've had this feeling before, and it is a deeply spiritual experience, not unlike looking at a picture of an ancient cave dweller's hand through the sands of time. There's a link between he and I that transcends time and space. We connect through this old house as humans who were (and are) here. 

We will always have this space to enter into, as people who have shared and bonded through a particular set of circumstances that ties us to this place forever more. Do you know what I mean? It's way metaphysical. Enjoy the cooler weather today, New York.

Figures

Reality, no airbrushing required.

My daily bathroom reading almost always includes excerpts from a bi-annual magazine called RISD XYZ (http://issuu.com/risd/docs/risdxyz_fall-winter_2014-15?e=0/10291099), produced, written, illustrated, and designed by my alma mater. It was no surprise to me when I saw a brief bit in the Spring/Summer issue about our commonly held attitudes toward the human body, which are analogous to those of a medical doctor. In fact, many RISD scholars also work in major scientific fields, or take coursework as students at Brown that strengthens their understanding of their core major, or serving as an important counterpoint to it. 

What's key to every artist's/scientist's path is the formation of bridges between the disciplines. It's what every person, place, and thing on the planet depends on us to do: rigorous scholarship that expands to fit the spaces and gaps between the average person's understanding. "Seeing connections", as well call it in our verbal form that is Design Intelligence. It means that we are so far ahead of the curve, we often don't reflect the current dynamic in society, and why would we? 

Studying the human form in every direction, light, and body type.

The crew of the USS Enterprise boldly goes where no man (or woman) has gone before, and that's a bumpy, rocky road indeed. We go it alone, usually without support, or kinship, even within our degree departments, because we are not there to seek approval. We are there to learn and observe and do, in an environment so strict, I called it "Art Boot Camp", sometimes bordering on the abusive, like the music students' instructor depicted in the recent movie "Whiplash". It's really intense, and for some minds it is not survivable, because of the intensity and maturity required to create great art.

Bodies as they are: not by Hollywood, or television, or magazine ads.

And so it is with our relationship to the human body. Our professors do not care what our "feelings" are regarding anatomy, but merely our ability to render it in whatever form we need to, so that we may accurately solve a problem. We drew bodies in space and motion that make the typical art school student have permanent night sweats: this large man has a hernia that has expanded his body in a unique way, requiring him to wear white compression tights while modeling (use your imagination); this woman had dreads, tattoos, and almost no body fat; this beautiful woman of 90 dozed as she sat half-naked in the slanting light of a tall studio window, while we struggled to capture just a bit of what made her "Pearl" in oils, an infamous painter's model who will live forever in our works. 

Serving up reality in each and every century.

Not bodies that would be considered by the warped weirdos of Hollywood as "perfect", or magazine-quality airbrushed photos, or body parts mangled and mutilated by multiple plastic surgeries, nor faked in any way, shape, or form. Here was a man "out of shape" due to an incurable and ongoing genetic condition, there a still-beautiful woman with limbs pulled down by the enduring weight of gravity: in short, I saw real bodies without interference or prejudice, for purely academic purposes, in a studio space that has nothing to do with sexuality or titillation, and everything to do with study. The human body is extremely complex and hard to draw, even more so when it is aged or infirm, which is exactly how our professors designed it to be.

Nudity in every medium and shade.

One RISD-oid focuses on eyes to become an Oculist for wounded vets, another dissects flowers regularly at the nature lab to produce textbooks on Botany. This one designs swimwear for women who have recently undergone mastectomies, as this shoe designer works in service to people with orthopedic foot problems. In short, how you think you look is irrelevant to us, which flies directly in the face of most popular media today.

It is a public space rife with anorexia, eating disorders, and seriously untreated madness. Every day and/or night of the week, I can turn on the t.v. to see women so fundamentally sick, they have formed an unnatural human shape made for media called "The Bobblehead" (a.k.a The Lollipop, or The Q-tip): a woman with a very round, large head who has dieted to excess and illness, to create grotesquely thin stick arms and legs. It's disgusting and abnormal, but so is "Reality T.V."; a format specifically designed to exploit the drunk and deluded, and the mentally ill or alcoholic alike. Why would I ever count on such a population group to guide and/or inform me about the human form?!

Capturing kinetic energy in each brushstroke  for "Gesture Drawing".

I never would, because I'm half afraid that my old college mentor would ring my doorbell or knock on my front door someday in the future, to take away my hand-drawn calligraphic diploma from the most difficult school on Earth. I would never disrespect their faith in me, nor the hours we spent as a community honing our skills to lead each and every major conversation that exists in society, in whatever language we want to, or whatever format we choose, a thousand times all around the world (thanks to Lao Shir Cindy Ming for that opening phrase in her form of Tai Chi). 

That's what a true master is about, and that's what you will always see from me; the work and the truth that I began in earnest as a teenager, with a foundation that existed way before my time. You can see the truth about who we are as a species here, because that's part of my eternal promise to you. Live on, humans.

Dark and light and "happy accidents" are part of the art-making process.

Bodies of flesh, blood, and bone not owned by some t.v. exec.

Who are you, really?

Men and women scrutinized under the gaze of our study for hours.

Bodies in motion, active and alive, moving through 3-dimensional space.

As individuals, and in groups.

Bodies that were both near and far, up close and also impersonal.

Please note: All images shown here are from my portfolio and are original works of art. You do not have permission to reproduce any or all of them, in any portion. Thank you, Marie.

Monumental

Saving history from destruction, one piece of work at a time.

I decided to continue building on yesterday's themes about service and stewardship by writing to you today about a real-life situation from the past, and it is this: saving our greatest artworks from oppression and evil. Hitler and his regime didn't have one sole purpose in war, that of killing an entire religious ethnicity to create some wacky "master race". No, they wanted to wipe out any traces of our cultural past by stealing and secretly destroying the best of art, design, and statuary. 

It's a powerful story that's been largely untold until now. A handful of priests, nuns, clergy, and other lay people united with a small group of self-appointed warriors (who were also artists, writers, scholars, professors, and curators), and the few military men they could requisition, to rescue some of the greatest works of art that we have as a species; works that were to be burned forever (as so many were, or gifted to the German elite who stole them), so as to wipe out our past as a people, on NO BUDGET, with almost no support, and no additional resources granted to them of any kind from any ruling government, relying instead on their own ingenuity, bravery, and heroics, on the worst killing fields of Europe during the close of WWII.

Chew on that the next time you feel like you can't do something in life. I often live with less to get through tough economic times, so I know firsthand that you can do it, too. What are you waiting for? Permission? OK. Permission granted! Do it now!  I think she was worth it. What do you think?

http://www.monumentsmen.com/

Chops

Extra cabbage my mom gave me from her Corned Beef dish will do nicely!

Years ago my boyfriend's sister (then live-in boyfriend I didn't want, then fiancé, and also including soon-to-be annulled tricky disaster of a faux first marriage) went to Le Cordon Bleu in Ottawa, financed yet again by his desperate parents looking for a rock star in their two kid rubble of a messy family. Never happened, but I learned a thing or two, just like I honed my innate business acumen and musicianship on the side: I don't have time for more art forms than the many ones that I already practice at an expert level daily, but I do love to dabble, with the understanding that my dabbling is also at the maestro level. 
It doesn't go away simply because my brain is solving other types of problems, even when I may want amateur status. I like the newness of anonymity, like any other careful observer does.

Voilà! My homemade cole slaw.

And so it is with cooking, too. I cook almost every single day of my life, out of habit and enjoyment, or from necessity and want, so now I cook at the master level. I don't ever want to be a professional chef who runs a kitchen (Oh, good! Another job for me that's hard, low-paying and takes years to pay out), but I like listening. My brief "sister-in-law" did the wacky school stuff like deboning quail and many mindless hours of repetitive chopping, but she did tell me some useful stuff from her classes like: 1) pairing wines with food is a matter of preference that serves the customer well above any other snobby food rule, because a pro kitchen exists to show people a good time, not embarrass them with their ignorance. Want a nice red with chicken or fish? Have it! The "correct" choice is whatever you want and/or what beverage you think tastes good, not what anyone else says about it, unless you specifically ask a Sommelier for advice sur la table. Nothing blows the deal of a deep-pocketed repeat customer than humiliating some bourgeois "Nouveau-Riche" type looking to impress people with their freely thrown cash, so don't do it. Skills!

At the stove every damn day, people!

Same with cookbooks: 2) they can't teach you how to cook because it's about flawless timing, countless hours of practice, and the spills and mistakes that come with real trial and error mixed with ingenuity and bravery, the hard-won experience of a daily habit. That's what I have, whether I wanted it or not, because if I want to eat really good food, I often have to make it myself. And so it was with cookbooks, too. I asked her what her best recommendation was, and she told me the truth, as told to her by one of her professors: 3) it's "The Joy of Cooking", any edition and any version, from any year. The author doesn't tell you how to do it; she gives you a basic template to follow, with versions and iterations based on your choices, preferences, budget, and/or or pantry ingredients on hand. She can't think for you. You have to do that. So that's what I do, in a nutshell, every single day of my life, and maybe some day you can, too, because I don't want to be single forever, people!

Enjoy the fresh new Springtime produce that's hitting our shelves soon. We've earned it.

Perfectly cooked medium/medium-rare lamb chop, a total Spring dish.

Another perfect chop: this one a pork "Scallopine" cut in brown butter.

Perfect sticky rice with sprig of fresh thyme.

One perfect (and tiny) leaf of thyme on a bed of fluffy white rice.

Classic Movie type

The Quiet Man.***

Since my introduction to the entrepreneurial world (which involves some hunger, a lot of anxiety, and much freedom), I've been cutting costs like a store having a fire sale the day after Christmas. All items must be sold! Bargain prices! SELL SELL SELL! 

I solved my "watching t.v. on a budget" dilemma through the acquisition of a cheap digital antenna and converter hooked into the back of my flat screen and...voila! There it was; the moving images we've come to know as modern t.v. The baddest part was the first channel it tuned in: a bitchin' classic movie channel aptly named "Movies!" with a capital "M" for a logo (which suits me just fine), airing a "Sinbad" movie with original Ray Harryhausen* stop-motion animation. WOW!

It's given me access to a host of golden oldies I wouldn't have found before, enhancing my education through the knowledge that humans really haven't changed all that much since the invention of modern cinema, because we really haven't. Families still struggle with dysfunction, powerful addictions, cycles of poverty, illness, and other dastardly things, albeit played by handsomer folk than that girl next door, but that's not very different than any other type of storytelling. 
If you're going to see a show, why not look at some pretty people? 
It'll make the time go faster.

The artist in me especially loves the opening credits, like a beautifully illustrated book with a gorgeously set title page. I've always preferred trailers over a full-length feature (for obvious reasons, like my time), and classics are no different. Check out some typesetting from back in the day, and bask in the knowledge that artists have always lead the way, whether you've realized it or not. You're welcome!

From the original 1943 version of "Heaven Can Wait".**

*     http://www.rayharryhausen.com/
**   http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0523932/bio?ref_=nm_ov_bio_sm
*** http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Quiet_Man

Turkey Neck

Love the light on this "selfie"....OMG, I have a turkey neck!!

A few weeks ago I was watching my typical Sunday morning program, when I suddenly found myself adrift in that desert of afternoon programming that is daytime network t.v. Oh. That sucks. No "Kung Fu" theater, no monster movies, not even a funny workout program that I can mock, or maybe roll out my mat and follow along with. Like, nothing but ads. 

Oh, well. It was kinda funny. Rght after this fundamentalist preacher sales guy (supposedly, like, wayyyy holy and stuff), was a paid advertisement for neck cream. Yep, you read that right: in New York, in 2015, some weirdo guy pretending to read the bible goes first onstage, and then it's "Fix your neck with expensive snake oil, you silly old hag" time. Huh. Kinda jarring, you know? Or, was it?

It seemed strangely analogous to my explorations as a female artist who uses themes about the self through a series of ongoing self-portraits. Oh! Uh oh. I think I have it. I think I caught "aging", maybe in some public place like the library, because I'm 45! Maybe I need a surgical face mask to protect me out in public, like an Asian fearing SARS would, or I need to coat myself in way more hand sanitizer. I don't know. Maybe t.v. will help me!

But, no. That cream just for your fucking saggy neck costs an arm and a leg. I mean, that's totally why you work so hard all week, right? To buy some fucking neck cream that'll make an on-air doctor rich! Oh, wait....no, that won't work. I'll be broke and still 45, and he'll be totally rich, with or without the snake oil neck cream that enacts a miracle cure for all life on this planet earth that we live on.

It was eerily similar to the slick carnival barker of a "Suthin" preacher who came before him in the Sunday programming line up. So, put that in your pipe and smoke it, dear reader, but first, send me a check for $45 made out to....at the following address....

It's cool. If "AMTM" has taught me anything, it's that you have to use your muscles when you pose. Done! Buh-bye turkey neck!

I practiced stretching my "Gobbler" from both angles, just in case a photographer catches me out in public unaware! Wait, that seems crazy...who cares?! I can't live my life like some out-of-it celebrity. No one will come up to me on the street from just the side, or underneath my neck. I think I'll go back to my regularly scheduled programming. Whew! The crisis is now officially over.

Come on and excel, human! Get with it!! I don't want to be alone anymore, because no man is an island.

The Perfect Studio

Ever since I was a child, I wanted to live as any artist would, either in some old Parisian attic atelier, or a big city loft, or a large one room studio. In my mind, it simplifies life down to the necessary essentials (with way less cleaning involved), plus there's plenty of Romantic tall windows pouring in natural light, which define my lifelong scholarship: the study of light and optics within the natural world as it relates to the human condition. 

But, time and money conspired greatly against me: I either had a family member to take care of, or I couldn't afford it on my salary, or some man and/or a college friend wanted to muscle in on my living situation, such is my ability to properly house myself on less.

And so, many, many years after I originally conceived of it, I finally realized my lifelong dream of "aloneness" and oneness in one simply beautiful, humble studio space that I can share with you all. I can finally say with a sigh of relief that I spent my mid-years according to my ideals of comfort, style, and simplicity, and that I willingly left my "Bachelorette" years behind me just as I foresaw and designed them to be; on my terms and on my home turf. I can have the luxury of saying to my loved ones, at the end of all my years here on earth, that I ended my bachelorhood as splendidly as I entered it: perfectly beautifully. See it here, for yourself.

 
 

The Perfect One-Room Studio (Pearl River, N.Y., 2015).

Dark Tree, Bright Snow

A Maxfield Parrish kind of day (Pearl River, NY - January 2015).