A corner will be turned

It has been a couple of weeks since my last blog. The mood has been a tad sombre. Following medical advice I have been making a serious effort to become a marginally healthier lump of flesh and bones. Apart from that, and there has been a bereavement in the family.  The death of a 90+ year old grandparent still has to be coped with as best one can even if it is not an unexpected event. I don’t want to dwell upon the emotional aspect of bereavement; it would be strange if one didn’t feel sad on these occasions, and I guess we all have our own ways of grieving. Quite apart from all that, it occurs to me that such a death causes seismic tremors within the social structure of the family. Death forces change, whether you want it or not, especially when it is the death of a grandparent. Grandchildren find themselves nudged a step further into or towards adulthood; parents become the older generation overnight. Nobody stays the same.

Lately I have been experiencing dark moods and I think this is not unrelated to the things I have just been talking about. I have not been in a bad mood, as in grumpy; it has simply been a case of the blues. Yesterday I met with my good friend Tom for what used to be our date with the full English breakfast. I ordered a couple of poached eggs on dry toast and drank my coffee black. One of the eggs was poorly cooked but I didn’t want to make a fuss and have to wait for another one to be done. This time, the plate of eggs on toast amounted to no more than food – victuals that I merely ate – whereas previously the full English had always been a feast that I looked forward to devouring with considerable relish. That is the stark difference.

Be that as it may, I enjoyed talking with my friend over breakfast. I was telling him about what had been going on in my world and he said that his sister had a good way of looking at these kinds of situation. He said that she would say that a corner would soon be turned. I find that way of looking at things to be very attractive. Change is accepted, even if forced upon you, and eventually embraced enthusiastically.

No way forward

It is perhaps coincidence, but this principle was illustrated to me this morning in a very concrete and almost literal fashion. I had decided to go for a walk along the beach at Seaham. I checked the tides before I left my house. High tide had occured a couple of hours previously and so the tide was going out. I parked on the cliff top, walked down some steep steps to the beach, and headed North. It is not safe to walk north on an incoming tide since you can get cut off by the cliffs. I felt confident that things would work out just fine. However, after several minutes of trudging I noticed that the waves were rolling in right up to one of the headlands. I walked as far as I could without getting my feet wet. Although I could probably have run around it by carefully timing the dash to dodge the rollers, I decided against doing this because I could not see whether there was any exposed beach on the other side of the cliff that was effectively barring my way. I felt rather fed up about this. I had only been walking for about 10 minutes and had been looking forward to going much further along the coast. It was too cold to stand around waiting for the tide to go out another 20 or 20 metres, so with heavy heart I retraced my steps.

Clambering about the rocks

I was about to climb the steps back to the cliff top when I noticed a concrete path running in the opposite direction from which I had come, along the sea defences at the foot of the cliffs (I would hesitate to call it a promenade but the presence of dog-walkers and fishermen indicated that this was its function). I found my way onto it and walked for 10 or 15 minutes until I came to another headland around which I assumed lay  Seaham harbour. I left the path and clambered up over the rocks. I have to say that I found this positively exhilarating. Had the way ahead not been blocked by the sea earlier, I would not have explored this part of the beach. The sun was glinting, the breeze was light, and my body glowed from the exertion of leaping from rock to rock. I was happy. I did not climb out to the tip of the headland. The reason for this was that I did not have my mobile. I was wearing good boots that gripped the rocks just fine and I did not think that I would fall, but if I had done so, it would have been difficult to summon help. I shall return again one fine morning with a fully charged mobile phone in my pocket.

I had the wind on my back as I returned to my starting point; I strode out at an easy pace and let my mind wander. I looked at some of the dogs that were being walked on the beach. Many of them looked nice, but some appeared to be related to vicious breeds, at least to my untutored eye. I have occasionally had dogs bark angrily at me at the beach. Usually, the owners have sorted them out and called them away. I started to think about what you could do to protect yourself from a vicious dog when you go for a walk on the beach. The obvious solution would be to wear a full suit of medieval armour. Of course, this might make walking a tad cumbersome but if the purpose was to get some exercise this could be a point in its favour. In terms of energy expelled, a walk of 1 kilometre in full armour might be equivalent to one of 5 or 10 kilometres wearing jeans and a sweater, for example. I guess that armour entrepreneurs would not be slow to push into this growing market. A system of bite marks could be devised with three bite marks embossed on the shins of the suit indicating that the steel is guaranteed to protect against Rottweilers and Alsatians. Some folks might prefer an altogether lighter suit with the two bite-mark protection against the labrador/retriever class. The single bite mark would be reserved for cheap plastic suits that were effective only against poodles. Life guards patrolling the beaches would have to be trained in armour plate recovery techniques to deal with the poor sods who slip on a bit of seaweed and can’t get up again. The authorities would design beach buggy cranes so the guards could cruise the sand and shingle, winching up the fallen for $100 a pop.

I have to go eat some lunch. I’ll speak to you later, my dear blogophiles.

Robin redbreast

Robin for company

It is a bright November morning and I am going to do some tidying up in the garden. I shrug into an old sweater and a pair of jeans. I briefly pause to shovel in a bowl of meusli and then put on my gardening trainers; I keep them handily by the conservatory door. I walk around to my shed and workshop. I inspect a border running the length of a pathway which is frequently trodden by the postman. It is not too bad, since I attacked the worst weeds back in August. I get out my seccateurs, lopers, tine-rake and brushes. I embark on an exercise in cutting back. Sometimes I snip delicately; sometimes I hack savagely when an intrusive fir branch darkens my mood. I am not engaged in measured or skilful pruning; I come to conquer. The debris starts to pile up on the pathway. I collect it into an old dustbin and then make several trips to empty the dustbin into my recycling wheely-bin. I look with satisfaction upon the fruits of my labour and take my tools and implements back to the shed.

I return to the kitchen and make myself a salad for lunch: lettuce, bean shoots, cucumber, red pepper and celery all piled high over a lean slice of ham. I place the plate, together with a bottle of spring water, onto a metal tray and take it back out to the garden. I put up a sunlounger and sit munching contentedly. With my gillet and wooly hat I am warm enough to relax. A curious robin watches me eat, perched upon the twigs of a bush only a couple of metres away. I take its picture with my compact digital camera. Although a telephoto lens on a bigger camera would have been better for the job, it would have had the unfortunate effect of shifting the meaning of the episode too far in the direction of ornithological photography; I was eating lunch and I didn’t want that. Talk to you later, my dear blogophiles.

 

Tweaking the life style

I explained in a previous blog that I am easing off with my typing at present, owing to tingly fingers. I don’t want to let things grind to a halt, so I am writing a short one now. Following a routine check up at my health centre, I am attempting to tweak my lifestyle in a small but positive fashion. Today I go to Seaham to walk along the sea shore.

Cliff top view

…Vroom vroom… Leaving the city behind, I bring my car to a halt on the cliff top car park. Grunt… grunt… I’m out of the seat and hear the door close with a satisfying clunk. A couple of key presses and it is locked. I stride over the grass to the edge of the cliff and pause to take a pic, looking north. This is where I intend to walk.

 

 

I take my time getting down the steep cement steps leading to the beach. It feels good at the bottom, as if I have entered another world. Civilisation is up there, behind the cliff face somewhere. Here, there is just me and the sea. Of course, there are the inevitable dogwalkers too. The tide is out and I walk onto some rocks near the water’s edge. They are like stepping stones, fringed with a green lace seaweed. Getting out on these rocks and hopping across dry patches of sand takes me closer and closer to the foaming surf and removes me from the beach and even from the frollicking dogs. The boundaries of my personal space bubble dissolve and blend into the cloudy sky and the frothing foam of the breakers. I am supposed to be walking for exercise, yet I am drawn to squatting upon a rock in silent contemplation. I sniff the salt air and head back to the sandy beach.

Waves rolling in at Seaham

I am walking into the wind and the going underfoot is as squaggy as it is squelchy. My boots are definitely up to it, but I make a mental note to purchase a fine pair of wellies; after all, a lifestyle tweak deserves the proper equipment and clothing. I shift up the beach slightly to avoid wet pools of sand and get on to the pebbles. There is no other sound like that of trudging on a loose pebble beach; my thoughts are immediately swept back to my childhood and Felixtowe beach. I reach the rocks that lie at the foot of the next headland and decide to turn back. I have the wind behind me now and this makes the going much easier.

Stones at low tide Seaham

I pause to look at the pattern made by a series of large stones half-buried in the wet sand. I take a pic. I might use it for wallpaper on my laptop. I reach the steep steps and start to climb back up the cliff. By the time I reach the top I am panting hard. If I do this on a fairly regular basis, I shall be able to take these steps in my stride, literally, in future. I take off my old leather bomber jacket and get into the car. I am still breathing hard from the climb. I open both windows and savour the breeze. Then I put the key in the ignition, fire up the engine, and pootle off home. The adventure took an hour. I am glad I did it. When I get home, I put on some potatoes to boil. I prepare a plate of lean meat and quarter a tomato. I listen to the radio while the potatoes finish cooking, then dish them up. Today, there will be no butter melting in droplets down their cut cliff faces. I treat myself to a boiled beetroot; if one can’t have salt, one might as well have a bit of colour. I enjoy my lunch. I feel as though I am off to a good start. Speak to you later, my dear blogophiles.

Hair returns rampantly

Cup of coffee regenerates hair growth

I was having a cup of coffee and suddenly I experienced massive hair regeneration. Sadly, the effect appears to be short-lived. I did have a curly perm back in the 1970s when my hair was long. This was done by Pino of Sunderland, if I remember correctly. As for the colour, I seem to remember Henna being very popular among the social science postgrads I hung out with at Sheffield university around that time.

Sketch for a friend

Although not full-blown repetitive strain injury, my fingers have been a bit tingly lately. This has happened to me before and I have to cut down on the amount of time I spend typing, playing keyboard, and playing guitar. So I shall be brief and shall be posting less frequently for a while. Fortunately, it does not affect drawing. Speaking of which, one of my friends asked me to do a sketch of her daughter and here it is:

My friend's daughter

Ok. I’ll keep this short n sweet. Talk to you later.

Improving the sound

I have been reflecting upon my sketchbooks. I have several of these but there is one that I tend to use for watercolour and pen & ink sketches. Those that I do for this blog I attempt to get more or less right, first go. This runs counter to the advice that I was given last year at university by the illustration tutor who urged me to generate loads of paintings or drawings quickly and freely, scanning in the best to work up digitally on computer. I was once told by a professional photographer that he would shoot a whole film on the basis that maybe one or two pictures might turn out well, or at least could be salvaged in the dark room (nowadays, digitally in Photoshop or whatever). He suggested that that was a major difference between him and the average amateur photographer who would try to make each shot count; would try to get the perfect picture with one click of the shutter.

There are parallels to all this in music. In the studio it is possible to lay down endless takes of all the tracks one might need for a song, and then to craft the perfect version in the mix-down. Let me extend this to Second Life music. It is possible to produce an excellent backing track ahead of time in the studio working in this fashion (I believe some folks actually buy professionally produced karaoke tracks). The advantage to the singer is a perfectly executed backing, with no fumbled notes and no sloppy rhythms. The disadvantage, of course, is that the singer is then mechanically tied to the tempo and emotional expression cued by the backing track henceforth on every performance of the song; not my cup of tea at all.

I think the reason for my distaste of karaoke stems from many years in the contemporary folk music tradition of singing live in English pubs. Although I am now extremely critical of most pub gigs (singing to a bar full of people talking, shouting, laughing and generally ignoring one’s performance is no longer my idea of fun), I have put in a lot of hours doing it in the past. The excitement of live performance seems to be coming across in the blossoming of Second Life music jams in first life (there has just been one in Texas, and there was a very successful one a few months ago in Montreal).

Car sponge mic sock

Be that as it may, the thing that is occupying my attention right now is the quality of my vocal sound as I stream it up for my Second Life shows. After much thought, I have decided to complete change the position of the vocal mic I use when singing with piano. This has required hammer, hooks, clips and the re-routing of cables around my mini-studio at home. I need to check the sound levels out this afternoon before I play my show this evening at Club Falling Waters. I don’t wish to give away all my secrets but the wind sock I made for the mic out of a car wash sponge seems to be working extremely well!

Before I can do this, I have a feeling that I am going to be called upon to be taxi-man for a trip to the city and after that there looms a mid-week trip to the supermarket. Somewhere in amongst that I am hoping for some time to ponder on the advice my piano teacher gave me this morning. I had better get on with things. Speak to you later.

Shirt as objet d’art

Shirt as objet d'art

I wake up and creak down the stairs to the kitchen. Kettle on; I brew tea. Plod back up the stairs and swing left into my little studio. Point bottom into Ikea easy chair and dunk the first biscuit. Assume some brain activity going on but to call it thinking might be taking it a bit far. Dunk second biscuit and focus eyes on the clean shirt which last night I hung on the back of my swivel office chair. Extend right leg, hooking foot under seat and pull it towards me. Chair becomes footstool. Look at shirt, vacantly. I have to sketch this shirt today. Don’t know why, just have to.

Still in PJs. Get out sketchbook and a 2B pencil (Staedtler, my favourite). I am having difficulty with the left shoulder; this is not going to be done in 10 minutes.
 

Interruption #1: I put on a pair of jeans and some shoes, slipping a leather bomber jacket over my PJ top, and take the recycling bins out ready for early morning collection.

Back up in the studio I ponder the fact that I cannot both sketch my shirt and wear it at the same time, at least not the way I have posed it now. This reminds me of my friend Tom’s decision not to photograph our full English breakfast as a project last week because it would have interfered with eating breakfast.
 

Interruption #2 I find another shirt to wear for today.
I am having problems with the pocket. I realise that there is something structurally adrift when I look at the negative space formed by the line of the shoulder, the arm the top of the pocket and the row of shirt buttons going up to the neck. I work on this for a while.

Interruption #3 I have to drive someone somewhere. This is not a surprise, since I had said I would do it last night. I would have liked to have sorted that pocket out.
I decide to play some piano, now that I am back home. This doesn’t go too well. I return to the sketch and start to put in some detail and a little shading.

Interruption #4 I agree, reluctantly, to drive somebody into the city.

I am now home and instead of continuing immediately with the sketch, I make some lunch. Back in the studio I finish the pencil sketch and start to mix the colour for the watercolour washes I want to use on the shirt and chair upholstery.  This is going well; I am enjoying myself. I put the wash on the shirt first, then dry it off with an old hairdryer I keep for the purpose. Then I put on the second wash and finish things off. I scan the pic and then upload it for the blog here. It is now 4 pm and I  am feeling sleepy, so I am going for a nap……

…. That’s better. I popped some spuds on to boil for my dinner and slung some supermarket quorn and mushroom pies in the oven. My watch timer is on; I have about 20 minutes to finish this blog, unless I continue during or after my meal. While I was getting the potatoes ready, it occurred to me that this post has been primarily about my sketch. In an illustrated journal the illustration should provide comment on the primary diurnal activity. I seem to have gotten things round the wrong way at present. Yesterday was the day of the boot, today that of the shirt. I shall get this posted now, so I can eat in peace. Speak to you later, my dear blogophiles.

Lottery

I am writing this to avoid slipping into a blogging block. I think I am already in a sketching block and this might be impacting on my writing here, since I had hoped to establish this blog as an illustrated journal. In order to kick start a blog, I open a simple word processor, such as Notepad, and then let my fingers dance around the keyboard; the stream of consciousness becomes the choreographer. I wish the equivalent would happen on the page of my sketchbook when I pick up a pencil, but it seldom does. Danny Gregory urges me to draw every day and, in his book, gives me lots suggestions as to how to overcome the sort of block that I seem to have.

 

Not a Guptill boot - pencil 26.10.2009

Arthur Gupthill, writing back in 1922, advised me when I was reading him before I went to sleep last night that I should start today by drawing an old boot. At first, I didn’t think I would be able to do that, but here is a rather pathetic attempt at a modern boot (as opposed to Gupthill’s 1922 boot). 

 

I thought about taking a few reference photos in my garden but it is windy and that makes the close-up photography difficult. I abandoned that idea and went down to the local newsagents shop, instead.

I found that I had won GBP 10 on the national lottery. I spent GBP 8 on an entry per week for the next two months and pocketed the remaining GBP 2. I then spent £1.05 of that princely sum next door at the bakers on a loaf of bread. My winnings most certainly would not have stretched to a bottle of champagne. I have to say that I am ambivalent about doing the lottery. On the one hand it does seem to offer support to a lot of worthy causes but, on the other, it thus seems like a form of indirect taxation.

Progress on the piano continues to be painfully slow, although I have learned a few new songs on keyboard over the past few weeks. I shall stop this post now, and struggle with the decision between tickling the ivories or sharpening the pencil. Speak to you later.

Cherylesque

Cherylesque - pencil sketch 21.10.2009

This blog features a pencil sketch of Cheryl Cole and, once again, I do not claim an accurate representation. I therefore follow  the convention I established in naming my sketch of Marilyn Monroe as Marilynesque, and I title this one Cherylesque. I arrived at the decision to draw Cheryl somewhat obliquely. Woody, from Cascadia in Second Life, had suggested that I might look into the Pet Shop Boys repertoire for possible covers. I’ll come back to this in a minute, but Neil Tennant hails from Newcastle and I started to explore other pop singers from the North East, setting aside Eric Burdon and the Animals, and discovered that Cheryl did too. I am not terribly familiar with Girls Aloud songs but I have now listened to Cheryl’s single. I have to say that it didn’t do very much for me; just not my sort of thing. Still, she seems to be a very attractive young woman and I felt that it would be a challenge to draw her. Hence the sketch.

I know little about Pet Shop Boys, although obviously I remember some of their hits from the 1980s. I think I enjoyed their music for dancing to at parties. At the time I was into worthy folk singers, such as Ewan McColl, and I did not devote any time to seriously listening to PSBs. Yesterday, I read a bio in Spotify by Jason Ankeny and immediately became curious. I then listened to the 50 minute track by track commentary by Neil and Chris on the Yes CD tracks. This is an excellent commentary presented with intelligence and good humour. I now wish that I had followed their musical career more closely but it doesn’t matter too much; I can enjoy delving into their past albums over the coming weeks instead.

As for the Cheryl sketch, I have decided to start signing my artwork. Last year while I was taking the life drawing class at university I spent some time playing with ideas for a signature or mark. I have always disliked my real life name (John Smith) because of it being so common. This is a problem when you want to put your name to creative works, be they songs, poems, pieces of fiction, sketches or paintings. When I joined the Performing Rights Society back in the 1970s they insisted I use my full name and so I published my vinyl LP in 1982 as John Lewis Smith. One of the ideas I had last year for signing my sketches was to write my name as if it were a swan (the S of Smith providing the main shape in silhouette, with the J and L fitting into the head and making a beak). So, today sees the first public outing of my signature logo.

Time is moving fast. It seems only a moment ago that I was having my early morning piano lesson and now it is time to make lunch. Speak to you later.

Middlesborough guitar show

Autumn leaves

It is a bright morning and the leaves are moving to their autumnal hues. This tree is glinting in the sunlight as I wait for my lift to the Middlesborough Guitar Show. I see the 4×4 approaching. It is so off-the-road rope and pitons might be helpful. Clamber… grunt… clamber.. I am seated in the back. Sigh of relief and some good humoured banter with my mates as we make the drive to the show. We swing into the car park of a brick built 1960s hotel, gleefully savouring the ambience.

We pay in  and reconnoitre the stalls.  The unanimous conclusion is that the fair is smaller than the one we went to in Gateshead about six months ago. At this point Alan dives off to buy pots and bits and pieces for the mandocaster he is building (don’t ask). I mooch around in a much more leisurely fashion with Tom and he talks me through some of the ukeleles that are on display. There are some very nicely made wooden ukes going for about GBP 100 (the baritone does look good). They do come in a case, although the salesman keeps apologizing for the fluffy pink lining. Me and Tom quite like the lining. I move away from the stall, since this would amount to a major purchase and I did not come out prepared for that. I content myself with buying a 10 foot guitar lead for GBP 6 and a steel bottleneck for GBP 3. Tom snaffles some Elixir strings for a snip at GBP 6, too. Suddenly we are standing in front of another uke stall and listening to a much more extroverted sales pitch and demo. The ones on display here are made of plastic, sound passable and are going for GBP 17. The issue is no longer whether I buy, but rather what colour to opt for. I reject the yellow and red and plump for the blue. And off I toddle, the owner of a little uke.

Bacon Banjo

We meet up with Alan again and decide to get coffee. As we join the queue, I notice a makeshift menu and am attracted to the idea of a bacon butty. Tom and Alan inform me that another name for that is a bacon banjo, and this seems highly appropriate for this occasion. I present a pic of the said banjo for your inspection. It is a bit dry in the eating; I should have taken a pat of butter for it but I can’t be bothered to go back to the counter. We discuss the show and our strategy for the remainder of the day. We decide to got to a demo of guitars by a company that makes vintage guitars but with contemporary design and equipment improvements.

 

Gavin Coulson

The demo hall is almost full; I leave Tom and Alan and find a single free seat. A very pleasant and unassuming young man with extremely long hair takes the stage and starts to explain what the company he represents (he is Gavin Coulson of John Hornby Skewes & Co  Ltd) has to offer. Gavin then starts playing the guitar and an awed silance descends upon the audience. At one point he plays a bass guitar, fingering the bass notes and picking out a classical  tune with harmonics on the higher strings. He finishes his demo by playing a Gary Moore piece on one of their flagship guitars. I have heard some good guitarists in Second Life but this guy just puts all that into a very parochial context as far as I am concerned. The demo ends. I go up to Gavin and ask him if I can take a pic for my blog and then hook up with Tom and Alan again. They could barely speak; they seemed almost stunned by the brilliance of Gavin’s technique and the emotional quality of his sound.

We shuffle out and make one final lap of the exhibition. Then it is a case of hauling on the rope and pitons once more into the back of the 4×4. A leisurely pint of Guiness in a delightful hostelry down by the river wraps up our day out. When I get home I mess about with my uke for a while and soon have enough chords to do a very basic accompaniment for Girl of the North Country and I play that at my Cascadia show. Speak to you later, my dear blogophiles.