Illness is your body’s way of slowing you down, and the slower you can get the better.  In the past 72 hours, I’ve learned that I’m TERRIBLE at being sick.  Here’s a little run-down:

Tuesday Morning: I first feel a little under the weather.  A big day was planned, and I decide to carry on with the plan of driving North out of the city for the day.  I feel a little better around midday, then worse again that night.

Wednesday Morning: I’m officially sick, and I’m immediately upset about it.  I know it’s thanks to an absurdly late night I indulged in over the weekend, and now I’m paying the price and feeling lousy.  But there’s much to be done, and I decide that if I’m not going to make it to my studio, I’ll sure as heck get some computer work done.  I sit at my desk in the cold and struggle through some photoshop and wordpress tasks.  I hit snags at ever turn, forced to contact tech support and chat with numerous representatives supposedly named “Mike”.  I miss out on a chance to hang out with a friend.

Wednesday afternoon: I take a short nap but don’t feel well enough to make it to a reunion dinner, so I’m forced to pull out.  I put myself to bed at 9pm sharp, determined to sleep this damn thing off.  I toss and turn for more than an hour, thinking about how I wish I wasn’t sick, and of all the things I have to do tomorrow and how I absolutely need to feel better and how this sleep just has to come.  It doesn’t, and finally I have to get up and use the bathroom, and I’m aggravated to see it’s well past ten when I get back in bed.  I read for a little while.  I TRY to relax.  Finally, I fall asleep.

Thursday morning: I feel a little better but I’m not “better”.  I get up early anyway, and push myself down to my studio to get some things done.  I don’t get much done.  I can’t focus and I can’t make decisions.  I start a project and it doesn’t quite come out right and I leave it.  Then I realize It’s not a project I want to do, and, tired, I go home.
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Fantasy sports can get pretty serious.  Depending on how much energy you decide to invest in your particular league, making the playoffs, missing the playoffs, or losing your best player to a season-ending injury can have very real emotional consequences.  Football has been on my mind a lot this year.  Perhaps it has something to do with the Buffalo Bills’ hot start, or maybe it’s that the NFL is just downright more exciting this year than ever before. Whatever the reason, Fantasy football, as a result, has also been particularly compelling.

I play in a league with high school friends.  We’ve been going at it on the virtual gridiron since the early 2000’s, and although a small cash prize is awarded to the winner, it’s pride and bragging rights that really make this league tick.  There’s trash-talking, early-morning waiver pick-ups, and a good dose of playful animosity.  This season, as the playoffs approach, I’d like to put my friend on blast for his under-handed and cowardly conduct that will likely cost me a spot in the playoffs and a shot at the title.
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During my year abroad in Barcelona, I frequented a nightclub called “Nick Havana”. And I do mean frequented. A friend was a promoter for the club, and since it was located a short 10-minute walk from our apartment, we found ourselves there at least once a week. I had some good times, some so-so times, and quite a few awkward moments. One particular night, however, I experienced a moment so awkward it will no doubt go down as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

I’m not sure how, but I found myself at the bar ordering a drink. It was early still, and the club was relatively empty. Nobody was really dancing yet, just a few folks clustered around the bars and standing near the walls, chatting and looking cool. Two Spanish girls came up to the bar to my right, and miraculously, they started talking to me. I don’t remember what started the conversation, or what we talked about. I just remember feeling really excited to actually be speaking with girls, and Spanish girls at that.

So I had my drink and they had theirs and I turned slightly to face them and I said something awful like “la música está bien, no?” (the music is good). They smiled and nodded.
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This Danish film, like all good movies, is real.  We get to meet characters in a real world and watch them take steps in their development as humans.  There’s love, some pain, and joy.  It’s the best movie I’ve seen in a while.

Kristoffer and his friend Geir work for an advertising company pasting posters on billboards.  They cruise around some Norwegian coastal city in a dilapidated little VW van-truck.  Like Thierry Guetta, Kristoffer is an obsessive filmer.  He carries his camera everywhere recording the antics of Geir and their reclusive roommate Stig. They make a sort of milder version of “Jackass”.

Kristoffer’s love life drives the movie, but along the side there’s drama to be found in Geir’s past and Stig’s fears.  When some tapes are discovered by a TV station, the three roommates get thrust into sudden stardom, adding an extra layer of excitement.  All along we grow to love Kristoffer for his sweetness and naivete, his broken heart and his awkwardness.  We love Geir for being a good friend and for becoming a man, and we love Stig for facing his fears and sharing his true feelings.

We love these people just as we love anybody with a good heart, and we want desperately for them to be happy.  And while we see where we want these characters to go, how we want their lives to work out, there’s nothing so elaborately developed or abnormal as to make the ending obvious.  So we sit and we watch and gradually things unravel and reach a tipping point, and then our characters step up and speak their truth and show who we’ve really known them to be all along, and everything collapses back into place in the most satisfying fashion.

I guess I don’t need much of anything in a movie besides truth.  I just want to believe that these people could exist, and I want to see them grapple with the rich experience of life.  100 minutes later, I can feel my heart stirring as the ending credits cruise by.  It won’t jump out and shock you, but “Buddy” will remind you of how perfect life is.

Today I’d like to share a fantastic interview from Tulsa public radio.  Stanley Lewis is a force of nature in the art world.  You will never meet a man more excited about painting, committed to his work, or genuinely interested in the artistic growth of his students.  Above all Stanley lives life with a childish sense of wonder and a firm presence in every moment—characteristics that make him a joy to be around and a legendary painter.

Stanley’s work is currently on display at The Hogue Gallery on the University of Tulsa’s campus, and he took time to discuss his painting practice with Rich Fisher.  It’s 30 minutes well spent, and here are some highlights:

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At the Chautauqua School of Art where I studied this past summer, the studios are situated in a horseshoe-shaped block that opens onto a grassy quad.  In the quad are picnic tables and a big shade tree, and art students often congregate here while not at work in their studios.  There’s a covered walkway that goes around the front of the studios, with lateral beams spanning a row of white wooden columns.  It is on one of these beams that I managed to experience one of the most embarrassing moments in my life.

The beams hang about nine feet above the ground, and early on last summer I discovered that with a full leap I could touch the top of the beam with both hands, and with a serious commitment I could jump up and grab on.  I found the process both frightening and rewarding, as I’m terribly afraid of heights, but once up on the beam I could do a few pull-ups and gently drop back to earth, which made me feel very strong and manly.

I made a point to attempt this maneuver a few times each day—usually right before meals.  I felt that I was slowly conquering my fears with each leap, steadily making myself into a better person and a stronger man.  Each time I would make a couple of practice jumps, then steel myself for the big leap.  Each time I had to overcome my fear and commit fully to the jump, I had to visualize my fingers securely over the edge of the beam, and then throw myself up there with all my might.  Sometimes, after a couple of practice jumps, I’d chicken out and head for food, but I usually got up there at least once a day.

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Today I’m excited to begin a series documenting some of the most embarrassing moments in my life.  We’ll go in reverse chronological order, starting here with an event from late September, 2011.

It seemed like a great idea.  Months ago I’d completed a culling session of my dresser and come out with two things that absolutely had to go: a pair of brown Gap corduroys that puffed out too much at the bottom, and a blue wool half-zip sweater I’d bought at Macy’s for $25 and had begun to pill after just one wash.  Discovering that the Goodwill on Castro and Market had already closed, I decided to try offloading the clothes at Crossroads Trading Company.  I’d get some store credit to boot, I thought, and maybe walk out with a chill pair of pants.

If you’re unfamiliar with Crossroads, it’s a consignment store that sells trendy threads for less.  They get their clothes primarily from drop-in sellers—buying on the cheap and selling back to the public for profit.  It’s like a thrift store, but more expensive and without the creepy housewares section.  I’ve made some nice finds at Crossroads, including my favorite blue blazer and a soft, fuzzy wool vest, but this was to be my first time selling clothes.

I strode into the store in the sunny center of a weekday.  I was all smiles, freshly unemployed and happy to be out and about in the quiet time between rush hours.  I proudly announced my intention to sell some clothes to the two girls working the counter, and was instructed to head around the corner and sign in.  I checked my backpack, stuck the tag in my pocket, and rounded the counter to the middle of the store, signing my name on a list behind a couple of other clothes-sellers and starting to peruse the pants.  After a few minutes my brother called, and as I scooted out the door to speak with him the alarm went off, blaring loudly but fortunately stopping as I jumped back inside and handed the tag to one of the girls behind the counter.

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It’s Sunday afternoon.  You’re sitting on your back patio, settling into the next chapter of your 955-page book, and sipping a glass of water, when you get a text message that ruins your whole afternoon: “Hey you heading down to HSBG?”.

At first glance, this may seem like anything but an afternoon-ruining message.  A good friend of yours has just invited you to join the festivities at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park.  But as you consider your current state of being, envision the event in motion, and imagine the journey required to get there, you realize you have suddenly come down with a serious case of San Francisco’s particularly virulent illness: Festival Guilt.

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Sunflowers 10.10.11
Charcoal on Paper
18 x 24

Today I finally got to drawing the beautiful bouquet of sunflowers I purchased last Friday. In the background is one of my paintings on the floor.  Check out more of my recent work here.