Assemblage

In the ever continuing rearrangement/refurbishment of my studio, here in the apartment, I just put together a new desk chair I bought at Ikea. Honestly, we have a ton of things from Ikea; in our apartment, if it isn't old/antique, it's probably a product of that Swedish company. Bookcases, tables, bed, chairs, curtain rods, lamps. Everyone jokes about the horrors of assembly-required items from Ikea - the hieroglyphic instructions, the unintuitive build order, the odd fastenings and the "foreign-looking" included tools - but I really enjoy putting things together. I'm pretty good at it.

I always say that with more than a bit of pride. Putting things together is something that always linked me with my late dad. He put things together, took them apart, and put them back together. For a living. He was an airplane mechanic, in the Air force and out. I don't know if there's any genetic possibility that I could have inherited this particular sort of intelligence from him, but I like to think so. My younger brother, Brian, certainly got none of it. I've always been quite gloat-y that I had this quality in common with our dad, while my slim, athletic, non-sissy brother didn't. My brother has many excellent qualities; they will more than suffice.

My dad and I certainly loved each other, even if we never really had a lot to talk about. But my fondest memories of him are of the two of us working together - when we couldn't procrastinate any longer - on some maintenance or repair project. The last time we did so, we rebuilt part of the low wooden fence around my grandmother's Japanese style garden. We had to disassemble one side of it and replace three or four of the fence posts. We said little in the hours we spent doing this, but we seemed so very much in tune, working together, figuring out how to accomplish what was needed. At one point or another, I suggested something that made something easier to do or made it work better; I don't remember what it was. He seemed impressed with my ingenuity, my good sense. And it made me so quietly happy to have that recognition. To have my father's respect was such a wonderful thing.

***

Putting together my new chair, this is the page in the instructions that shows how to assemble the base:

Ikea is famous/infamous for having no-text building instructions. It's one of the things that makes people craziest when they're struggling to get their new purchase up and running. At the other extreme, for anything where they would consider written language necessary - fabric content and care, cautions, etc. - they share it in all 29 (!) of the languages spoken in the various countries where Ikea has plopped down retail establishments.

I laughed out loud when I saw that one was told to listen for the "click!" Click. With an exclamation mark. (For the record, it didn't make that sound at all. It was more of a vague but still reassuring thud.) For a moment I pondered whether "click" could be the same in every language? Well, of course not. There is also the question of alphabets....

In line with Gigi's and my recent decamping to French when discussing Nick's "number two"s, I got out the French dictionary for a little rough investigation. We find petit bruit sec (literally, a little dry sound - charming!). And we also have clic, cliquet, and déclic. Not too far off, those. Click might be comprehensible with French as a starting point. But I can only assume things are not quite so simple when we arrive at Turkish or Thai.

Artist nightmare

I'm in my studio, working on a painting that's close to being finished. It's on a large, horizontally oriented Ampersand panel. [Gesso-covered Masonite mounted flush with a two-inch-deep birch plywood framework.] I don't know what the image is, but on a large expanse of what seems to be flesh I notice an odd, slightly darkened round-ish patch. Small, about the size of the end of a pencil eraser. The surface of the painting is wet. I put my fingertip on the discolored place and rub slightly, and the paint - and gesso - come away, leaving just the bare Masonite. I'm not particularly alarmed; the small section that came away is just fairly flat color, and should be not too difficult to match. I tilt the panel back, catching the light differently, to examine the surface for any irregularities I might not have noticed previously. What looks like a taped join - under the paint, under the gesso - going vertically and through the point where I found the problem is fairly obvious in the otherwise perfectly flat surface of the Masonite. I tilt the painting back down and now I notice another small section of paint loss about four inches to the right of the first, and the apparent join has become horizontal rather than vertical; both areas of paint loss are along that line. I turn the large panel around to the back side and see that, indeed, the surface is actually in two pieces, taped together with what looks like a few layers of that wide brown paper tape they used to seal boxes for shipping. The top edge of the tape has mostly come away from the surface of the panel, the edges curling out and then back toward it. I turn the panel back around to the front, only to see that the butted seam has shifted now, making about an eighth of an inch separation - the edges still in contact - most of the way across the panel. Along the length of the dislocated seam the paint surface has lifted slightly from the two edges of the Masonite, stretching and in some places torn. I'm still more annoyed than shocked. And pragmatic, thinking first that I should just replace the brown paper tape. Then deciding it will be much better to put the panel on its face and glue a piece of wood to the back of the seam, doing this all on a nice flat surface to ensure that the front of the panel will be as smooth as possible when the repair is finished. Then I'll repaint the damaged parts of the painting. I can do this. I'll fix this.

Two other words that start with G

Blogger's spell-check doesn't recognize the very-important-for-painters word gesso. Its only suggestion for correction/replacement is . . . Gestapo.

Numbers and attention and love

Yesterday's date - if you somehow failed to notice - was 11/11/11. And it also included two opportunities to experience the time posting of 11:11 on 11/11/11. A lot of people thought that was pretty cool.

Many believe that eleven is a strongly energetic number, and that seeing 11:11 on the clock is a moment powerful with potentiality. And therefore a moment to focus one's attention or even a moment to pray. I've been lucky, most of my adult life, to quite frequently stumble upon 11:11s. And I always use those minutes - or fragments of minutes - to slow down my breathing, think positive thoughts and/or ponder my goals and desires. Also, numerologically, I'm an eleven. While any eleven ends up being a two, of course, many numerologists believe that it's pretty powerful for an eleven to be the penultimate sum.

Anyone who knows Gigi and me at all well, and knows the story of how we found each other, knows that Rufus Wainwright was crucial to us. At the end of 2003, we both had a newly minted mania for his music; we "met" on his website message board. G had happened to be visiting Portland, saw a show of mine and wrote me a sort of fan letter. I responded, we became long-distance friends and, eight years later, here we are. Even though our enthusiasm for Rufus and his music has cooled quite a bit, we'll always be very grateful to the fellow.

His first album to come out after G and I met had a song on it titled "11:11". Never one of our favorites, musically, it still felt fairly directed at us. (It even included the line, "...wasn't in Portland and I wasn't in heaven.") Because right from the beginning, at least once we were in an in-person relationship, G and I have always witnessed 11:11s. (G's always seen them, too. And eleven has always been her favorite number.) And if we happen to be together, we must have a small kiss to mark the moment. Silly I guess.......but why not?! (Honestly, much of the time now, we look for them, we wait for them. Which isn't quite fair, I suppose....)

I had yesterday off, and since I hadn't listened to Rufus' music in a very long time, it seemed only right, considering the day, to listen to the album that contained that song. I put on two of his albums, actually. (And put them in shuffle with two albums of Holcombe Waller, whose music I love. It was a good combination; there are a lot of similarities in their music. And a nice contrast, vocally: Holcombe's pure, soaring instrument, and Rufus' mumble-y, powerhouse baritone.)

When I really love an album, I'll play it over and over and over. Until I've heard it so much, sung along with it so much, heard it in my head even when I'm not hearing it - know it so deeply - that, gradually, it somehow disappears. And then I don't really even hear it when it plays. I've been so greedy for this thing I love, that I've devoured it and so don't have it anymore. That's certainly the story of those Rufus albums. The main reason I stopped listening to them is that I stopped hearing them.

I noticed an odd thing yesterday; I don't know that I've had exactly this experience before. When I listened to Rufus' albums, they remained partly disappeared to me. I still couldn't quite connect with them. I half expected that, even after all this time. But what surprised me was that these songs that I had known so well, sung at the top of my voice countless times, weren't entirely familiar to me anymore. As I tried to sing along, I couldn't always tell where the melody was going to go next. Rufus' progressions do often tend to be unexpected, but still. At this point, the music is so familiar that I don't entirely hear it but, at the same time, so distant that I can't follow the path of the tune. I wasn't prepared for this odd dislocation of memory.

The necessity of the appropriate "uh"

When G brought the doggie in from his first walk of the day, this morning, I asked if he'd done his "business". As new/returning dog owners, we spend an inordinate amount of time pondering and discussing his digestive tract and its production, shall we call it. But since we are also inordinately squeamish about discussing anything relating to that general topic I've suggested that, whenever possible, we speak of it in French. So when G announced that Nick had been successful not once but twice, I chimed in happily, "Il a fait caca deux fois!"

And then, of course, as happens any time I venture into my beloved French, I couldn't think of another bloody thing to say. My mouth was ready, my brain had stalled. But I noticed something about that anticipatory stance that I never had before: my muttered "uh" was in French. Really impossible to describe, the sound and shape of both the inside and outside of my mouth. Closer to an "ew" sound than an "uh", my mouth small and round and my tongue pressed against the back of my lower teeth. Even though my brain was currently void of French content, my mouth had the instinct intact. And somehow knew that if I ever would think of something to say, I'd be ready. Because you really can't get from a beautifully manufactured French to an American "uh", and back again.

I know you are, but what am I?

On National Coming Out Day

I never really had the chance to come out, since I never really had the "opportunity" to be in; some of us are more obvious than others. Obvious as what, though, hasn't always been so clear.

If you look at my life at all, and specifically my love life - slim file that it is - it gets confusing. Gay, straight, bi, some sort of transgender? How would I be labeled? Human consciousness and behavior isn't much subtler than that of other animals: we want to eat, have sex and, no matter how much we bellow and squawk, we're afraid of nearly everything. Our fear breeds our need to codify and label, to reassure ourselves with an illusory clarity. I've spent much of my life trying to find and fit a label for myself, discovering things about myself that felt definitive at the time, and then making declarations of "this is what I am". Only to realize soon after that, no, that didn't really explain it. Didn't explain me. I've never been a close fit with any of the clearly established categories of sexuality/gender, never really felt fully in synch with any of those groups. That's always been a cause of sadness and frustration for me; we all want to belong. (Especially when you're one of society's oddballs, and you don't even seem to fit in with any of the other oddballs.) But as you get older, if you're lucky, you stop struggling with things as much. Which often makes it easier to see what your particular truth is. And I've come to realize that I'm all of those things and none of them.

And knowing that helps me to recognize that, when it comes to sexuality and gender, most people are blended to some degree. Whether they know it or not, I don't believe anyone is 100% anything. Again, even if we're not aware of it, we also all make choices about how we present ourselves to the people we know and love, how we present ourselves in the world. I don't know if anyone is completely aware of their sexual response, completely integrated in their gender identity. So can anyone be completely honest about it?

Coming out - if you can, if you will - is about so much more than personal honesty, though. So much more than a brave act, a claiming of dignity and freedom. It's just as much a gift. A necessary and loving gift of expansion. To those who don't recognize anything other than their own preconceptions, and to those of us who fool ourselves into thinking we're fairly free of those things. When someone comes out - as grand or small a gesture as it may be - it gives all of us the opportunity to expand our feeble understanding of truth and reality. It's a reminder that all of us need to remember that nothing is ever really as simple as it seems. The world is incredibly complex - more than we can comprehend - and so are we. Each individual of us. I am me. You are you. They are them. And each of us is incredibly - perfectly - specific, just as one blade of grass is different from every other blade of grass.

New interview

I'm very happy to have been invited by novelist Laura Stanfill to be interviewed for her ongoing "Seven Questions" blog series. I really enjoyed answering the smart questions and, as I do more interviews where I'm asked to talk about my work, I'm getting a lot clearer, myself, as to why I do what I do. It's quite a privilege and a wonderful opportunity for me to be able to ponder my creative process. My focus is always on "production" - making the next painting - so it's great to just step back and observe what I'm actually doing. Thanks, Laura!

Post-Apocalyptic mutual admiration

We had a lovely time on Sunday evening, drinking champagne with two good friends - one of whom we'd never even met.

We'd met the other one, Rolfe, when he gave us a personal tour of one the penthouses that was part of 2009's Street of Dreams. He was one of the designers and had chosen a painting of mine as part of the decor. The apartment was wonderful; the response of color to the natural light was especially beautiful. I was so happy to have my work included in it, and Rolfe was charming and really very sweet to us, showing us around. After seeing his work and having some idea of his "eye", it didn't come as too much of a surprise that the house he and his husband, Stephen, assembled is amazing. I say "assembled" because that's really what it is: a rich blending of texture and patina, disparate, often salvaged, objects brought together and communicating in unexpected ways. Constantly evolving. Subtle and droll and very beautiful.

Just this year I started following Stephen's blog, Post Apocalyptic Bohemian. I can't actually recall how I found my way to it. But I've found it addictive. It's just my kind of thing: A blend of the very personal and social/historical commentary. And there's a lot of "born on this day in gay history", which I really love. I'm certainly no slouch in the history department, but Stephen always finds fascinating people to write about that are either new to me, or ones that he gives a new depth to. And often a lot of the enjoyment comes merely from knowing there are people out there in our silly, crude world who respond to and honor those things that are perhaps deeper and richer and more beautiful, the way Stephen does. And by writing about them, he's a sort of guardian, doing what he can so that the world doesn't forget. Doesn't forget our particular history, doesn't forget the artists who've given the world so much. And in a very real way, I believe that the way that Rolfe and Stephen live their lives, and the beauty they make and share as they go along, continues the line. Their example is so important to the nurturing and preservation of these often intangible things. Things that aren't any more than memory and sensibility and inspiration but that are, I believe, completely necessary to the health of our world.

Their house is relatively small and, even though their garden is, too, they've made a nice little paradise in the back. Perfectly chosen shrubs and flowers surround "the boy's fort", a continually evolving fair-weather nest, made of salvaged doors and shutters and old window frames. When we visited - last Sunday evening was lovely and warm - we sat out there and drank champagne. When we were leaving, Stephen grabbed some shears and cut exactly five stems of various things in the garden. The picture at the top of the page is those five in a vase - they arranged themselves - just the simplest, most elegant thing....

A day of birthday.

Yesterday was my birthday. Happy to say I didn't really have the hideous run-up depression I usually get every year as the day approaches; I just slid into this one. After hemming and hawing about whether I should call out, I went to work like I would any Friday morning - though I did wear a nicer shirt than normal; tea-colored linen. G and I walked together and talked and talked. (on Friday mornings we get to walk to work together, now; it's the only time in our workweek when we start at the same time.) During the day I did my work, my phone buzzing in pocket all day from all the lovely birthday greetings I was getting on Facebook.

(Say what you will about Facebook - and it is quite capable of sucking out huge segments of your daily life - the ease with which we can all be kind to each other there is a pretty damned lovely thing. And as much as I wrestle with my evil birthdays, if I were honest, I'd have to admit that I really do want a right regular outpouring of affection on that particular day. I do want to get that rush of knowing I'm appreciated or even loved. And then being able to send that affection and show of appreciation in the other direction, too. As childish as it is to wait until that 365th day of the year to tell someone they're special, I really do enjoy wishing someone a happy birthday. Saying, I really like and/or love you - thank God you were born, eh? And I don't think the ease of doing that on Facebook cheapens the gesture at all. With all of that said, after the much-appreciated love-fest of yesterday's birthday greetings, I'm practically jonesing today; doesn't anyone love me today?!)

When G and I got home, I puréed the strawberries we got at the farmer's market the day before, poured the gorgeous ruby-red mixture into glasses, and topped it with good champagne. Then I got to open my cards and my wee presents from G. (We aren't really supposed to give each other b-day presents, but I already broke the rules at her birthday, last month, so....) G's pretty lousy at keeping a secret, so I'd already guessed what my gift would be.

A few weeks ago, we bought up a large number of DVDs from a video store that was closing. We had brought in a list ahead of time - at their suggestion - and got almost all that we'd asked for. One of the few we didn't was Fellini's "8 1/2", and I vocally lamented that fact. So, when it became obvious what variety of present was coming - G said to ignore a package if it came and, when it did come, I found the Amazon box at the mailbox - I was pretty sure I knew what it was. But yesterday, there were two little wrapped, DVD-shaped presents. I had guessed right about "8 1/2" - yay! - but the other was a total surprise. "Babette's Feast", a movie we both adore but hadn't remembered to put on that list until it was too late. As our best, most frequent entertainment is watching movies in bed while eating yummies, what movie could be better? An inspired surprise, G!

Then we went across the street, sat outside, and had a lovely dinner. I won't go into all the evening's entertainments but, later - too late, as it turned out - I wanted to play with one of my new toys, as it were, and we decided to watch "8 1/2". About half-way through we both started to droop and drowse. Even the intervention of the chocolate dessert we'd brought home from the restaurant didn't help. We're both very ashamed of ourselves, but we had to turn in and go to sleep. (Oh, how we hate it when that happens!) We have seen it before, several times, but still we owe a big scusi to Fellini and his masterpiece.

[That was not exactly the most dramatic tale - fairly dull to read, I'm guessing - but I certainly enjoyed living it. My day. My life.]

Spring on the hill

Just got back from my first-of-the-season hike up in Forest Park. Beautiful. I was rather worried about how I'd fare; I haven't been to the gym in a few months, and the only exercise I've had has been when I could put down the paintbrush long enough for a brief, manful prance about the neighborhood. But I did very well. I accomplished that first, all-uphill mile with goat-y elan.

I got out much earlier than I did last year. I was able to negotiate the muddy bits well enough - I loathe mud - and there were still lots of dainty flowers blooming. Really too late for the trillium - I always miss them; it's the mud issue, don't you know - but there were a few latecomers, including one beautiful white one: small, precise, elegant. It appears I didn't require my inter-cranial Muzak, today. No Reynaldo Hahn waltzes, no moaning Bessie Smith - well, not until half-way through when "I used to be your sweet mama, sweet papa, but now I'm just as sour as can be" wedged itself, sideways, into my feeble dome. And it looped.... Until then, the sound of all the birds singing, and the tinkle of thin rivulets careening down the hillside was more than enough to make me a very contented fellow.

I saw very few people - which is always nice - but when I do, I find it interesting to see who will greet me and who won't. At least not unless I do it first. Men almost always do, running or walking. Women are harder to figure, though. Sometimes they will, sometimes they won't. It doesn't appear to be related to age or fitness level or apparent economic stature. But it does get easier to predict if they have a dog with them. Yes. I've done an exhaustive study and, after much data analysis, I've discovered that the more attractive the dog, the more likely its female owner is to say hello to me first. I don't know why this. But just today, I had additional proof.

On the return loop of my hike I passed a woman with a pretty little Cocker Spaniel. She smiled at me quite warmly and said hello. Just previous to that, I encountered two women with two really appalling looking dogs. I love mutts - prefer them - but these were the kind of dogs who looked put together from spare parts, who didn't so much have coats, but furry Cubist quilts. I'm sure they were very sweet dogs, but their owners had rather a different aspect. One glowered at me, while the other averted her eyes nervously. When I passed them and said hello, the glowering one garbled out the same back at me, through gritted teeth. It will take a bit more research, of course, but I begin to think there is a more specific connection: The less good-looking a women's dog, the more likely she is to see me as some sort of sexual sadist, or someone equally unfortunate to encounter in the forest.

Toward the end of my hike I saw, coming toward me, a handsome young fellow wearing nothing but small black shorts. He was only walking, but I'm aware that there is a trend right now for running barefoot, so I'm thinking that had something to do with his ostentatiously spare wardrobe. Pale skinned, with hair almost as dark as his shorts, the only other item attached to him was a small pack. Fastened at the chest - right under his pecs - rather than the waist. The pack itself must have been in the back, because the thin strap was all that was visible from the front. As he walked toward me, it looked like nothing more than that his black brassiere had slipped down, exposing his tiny nipples. He looked very calm and content - dreamy, even - loosely putting down one bare foot, then the next. The sun was in his eyes, but when he got close, he looked up and gave me a breathy, languorous "hi-i-i-i...." Fun.

I hope the weather continues like this a bit longer.

***

Note to mother-in-law: I had my phone. Mwah!