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Greeings All,

This first drawing is obviously a self-portrait. I worked on Fabriano Ingres paper with real Sanguine. It turned out alright. The eyes are a little big and the mouth is a little small. I was really trying to get at the overlaps in the contour, which made me look a little thinner than I really am. But on the whole I’m feeling alright about how it turned out. Sanguine is difficult to work with— it’s basically a rock, that you sharpen to a point.

I mentioned that we were doing a Carravagisti painting in our Figure Painting class. Here is the result after the first day of work. It is an interesting process. You start on a dark ground made of 50% burnt umber and 50% burnt sienna. Then you put down a couch (glaze) of sepia extra and paint opaquely into the light mass using a dead-palette (Yellow Ochre, Flesh Ochre or Vermillion and Blue Black). I understand that we will continue to add a sepia couch, painting directly into the light mass to continue the process. Not sure what the end state is to look like.

These next two paintings consumed the entirety of my weekend. I usually try to save a day or so to rest, but not this weekend. Both were begun as a perspective drawing using furniture from my imagination. I took photos of Bain and Tana (thanks guys!) to add figures to the compositions. I am really excited about the process; it is fascinating to me how one can use perspective to create a convincing space. I think that I will be using perspective in most of my work from here on out.

This painting consumed Saturday. It is done entirely with the warm-cool palette that Wade Schuman taught us (Transparent Red Oxide, Blue Black and Lead White). It still needs a lot of work, but I got a good start on it. I’m glad it is only 15″ by 24″.

Pretty much the same process for this second image, just today instead of yesterday. Another small image, 20″ by 24″.

I wanted these works to relate, they are about… well, gender issues. Hmm, hope that doesn’t sound pejorative; I don’t intend for the images to be so. Let me know what you think. I’m curious to hear what people see in them.

– Jeremy

All I can say is, wow. Actually, I can say a lot more than that, but will try to hold my praise to an appropriate length. An Instance of the Fingerpost was a masterpiece of historical fiction, masquerading at first glance in the more humble guise of murder mystery. I first picked it up having heard favorable comparisons with Umberto Eco’s Name of the Rose and Caleb Carr’s Alienist, always good signs in my opinion. I think the comparisons are accurate, though Pears’ writing is perhaps more readily accessible than that of Eco, whose work is scholarly enough to be off-putting in places; and the scope of Fingerpost is ultimately epic in scale compared with Carr’s serial murder story.

Fingerpost has, at its surface, a very simple premise. An Oxford don is murdered via arsenic, and his former servant-girl is condemned and executed for it as a result. The question of her guilt or innocence at first seems to be the focus of the book, which is written in four sections, each with a different narrator presenting his perception of the events leading up to her hanging. Yet as the narratives progress, and we learn more and more of the political and religious issues of Commonwealth and Restoration England, we slowly discover that there is much more at stake in the book than the fate of a mere servant-girl.

I loved the book right off the bat for the immersive quality of the narrative. Without resorting to the use of archaic grammar, the reader is entirely absorbed into the time period and world views of the four narrators, who come from a wide range of backgrounds and professions. The first is Marco da Cola, an Italian gentleman, a Catholic and ersatz medical student, arriving poor in Oxford as a result of problems with his father’s merchant holdings. The second is Jack Prestcott, an impoverished young nobleman who seeks to disprove the conviction that his father had been a traitor to the crown. Third is John Wallis, a priest and mathematician best known for his skills at cryptography. Finally, the book concludes with the account of Anthony Wood, an archivist and historian who draws together the intricate threads of the mystery in a way that is completely satisfying and almost miraculous.

Fingerpost is chock full of historical characters discussing and participating in important events in England’s political and religious history. It contains the conspiracy counterpart that I relish in this type of literature, without resorting to so-called secret societies or a need to conflate historical activities with contemporary ones. Finally, the story expands beyond its origins in historical murder mystery to such an epic scope that I am still processing some of the revelations at its end. It is the sort of book that one could read many times, and feel more and more satisfied with the conclusion each time the last page is turned. Yet amid the large-scale intrigue, the book’s themes are so well-grounded in the narrative that we still emerge with an acute sense of individual characters affecting the shape of history.

I hesitate to say much more in this review, fearing that I will say too much and spoil the experience for those who are interested in reading it. Perhaps the most helpful way I can conclude is to say that while I adored such books as The Name of the Rose, The Alienist, and Katherine Neville’s The Eight, and enjoyed others like The Dante Club, The Flanders Panel, or Angels and Demons, in my opinion, An Instance of the Fingerpost has the various strengths of those books and none of the weaknesses. I would highly recommend it to anyone with even a passing interest in either mysteries or English history, and can only suggest that you set aside a good chunk of time to read it with as little interruption as possible.

Today I had the opportunity, in which few outside of the medical community can claim to have participated, to view a flayed human corpse. Of course one cannot really prepare for such an experience. It is overwhelming. Bain tells me that in every group of first-timers, there is one who faints. Perhaps our group was not of sufficient size to include one of these, or perhaps art students are already innoculated by the objectification of the human body, but no one fainted today.

This is not to say that the experience was completely without effect. There is a moment of initial revulsion when first casting your eyes upon the excessively denuded, though not completely skinned, cadaver. This was particularly true for us as the subject was not in the expected horizontal position, but had been hoisted into a vertical position with a winch and metal rigging, attached via metal posts in the ear canals. Basically the entire body was suspended by the base of the cranium.

There was an hour-long talk in which many of the muscles groups were pointed out. Then we all put on latex gloves and were allowed to palpate the corpse for ourselves. There are so many feelings when one touches a deceased body. Even though you know that the body will be cold there is an unholy chill whe you first touch it. There is a bit of horror to the scene, particularly when small details of familar surface parts are juxtaposed next to unfamilar internal ones. And there is an amazing amount of beauty. Even in death, it is incredible to see how amazing the body is. Being able to see how muscles seamlessly turn into tendons is unforgettable. Watching the way muscle-groups interact and gracefully roll over each other is magical.

Then there is the smell. I had been told to prepare for that, but there is no preparing. What was surprising to me is that it is not a constant pervasive odor, but occurs intermittantly. One will be happily separating the semi-membranosis from the semi-tendonosis, when the stench slaps you across the face. Turn away and catch your breath, and the smell is gone. I have been told bodies that have not been enbalmed are significantly more noisome. I can’t even imagine.

It was a fascinating experience, though I was surprised to find that I was throughly exhausted after only three hours of work. I shall never look at a raw turkey leg the same way again.

– Jeremy

Haven’t posted any pictures in a while. Sorry about that. This first one is a drawing from my Figure Drawing class. We’re focusing on heads and hands at the moment. I’ve got to do another self portrait drawing for that class as well.

This is a sketch for the next in-class painting for Wade. I’m going to try doing an open-form type of painting, think Caravaggisti. As my form sense is generally more of the the silhouette-driven closed-form this should be interesting. Only 4 weeks to work on it as well.

I know I’ve posted a lot of images of this painting, and you all are probably getting tired of it by now, but we finished working on it last week and I wanted to have a picture of it in the final state.

Yesterday was the day to work on my self portrait painting. There are still some problems (particularly with the jaw line), and I’m not really happy with it. But the work needs to get done as there are four more paintings waiting in the wings.

I was hoping for a day off this weekend, but alas, there is simply too much to do. I’m going to a medical school in Jersey tomorrow aftenoon with some classmates, to see a human cadaver. (Note to self: don’t eat roast beef for lunch).

– Jeremy

Loki passed away this afternoon. She was an excellent ferret and constant friend. Despite her namesake, she was never much of any trouble — unless you count the times she would abscond with a ball of yarn. She loved to roll on plastic lids and play in tubes. She broke one of her canines in an unfortunate bathtub accident and had to have it capped, which earned her the moniker, Snaggle-tooth.

She was the cheerful Omega of our busyness, a position that she never relinquished, though three came after her. She was as quick to play with her humans as she was with her siblings, sometimes even more so. She enjoyed moving to one’s flank and pouncing on an exposed ankle, though she never did more than grab on with her paws.

Godspeed Little Loki, you will be missed.

At last I’ve taken a few pictures of recently finished projects and yarn acquisitions.

First up is the pair of picot socks improvised from the seamless toe-up short-row technique I am playing with. I’m sure it has been done before somewhere, but I don’t really know the name of the technique. At any rate, the socks fit great, and I immediately cast on for another pair of socks with some of my recently-purchased mauve Esprit yarn, using a tweaked version of the Diagonal Rib sock pattern on Interweave Knits’ website. As you can see, I’ve already finished one sock, and am just about to unzip the provisional cast-on to begin the instep on the second one.

Next is a project that has been waiting for finishing work since last summer, the Victoria Tank. You might (but probably don’t) recall that this tank needed a circular needle I didn’t have for the edgings, and I finally had the chance to get it when my parents visited. The fold-over picot edging came out beautifully, but was much more fiddly and time-consuming than I had anticipated. Thank goodness there were only a few ends to weave in.

I finished the AbFab afghan a few days before my parents arrived, and intended to get a picture of them with it… But I totally forgot, so you’ll just have to trust me that it came out great, and the single crochet borders weren’t as wonky as they might have been. I likewise forgot to have someone take a pic of me in my finished Braid-Edge Cardigan.

Moving on to acquisitions, I now have yarn for four new projects: a vest for my dad, two pairs of socks for my mom, and a… something for me (haven’t decided yet). Here they are:

For my dad, I’ll be making the Skye Tweed Vest from this spring’s IK, from Donegal Tweed in a lovely shade of blue that my dad picked out.

For my mom, we got two balls of Fixation, destined to become either more Dresser Scarf Socks, or Broadripple Socks. Any preferences? We also got a ball of Regia Jubilee Colors, which will mark my initiation into the world of self-patterning sock yarns.

Finally, I got some yarn to make myself a summer sweater (probably). This is South West Trading Company Bamboo yarn, in the Sahara colorway. It is gorgeous, very smooth and a bit shiny; knit up, its texture reminds me a bit of rayon. I think the color variegation is just strong enough to rule out any complicated lace or texture pattern, so I would like to keep it simple. I’m envisioning a V-neck and maybe belled sleeves, or else just a draped neckline, for a pullover; or maybe a cardigan with a drapey ruffle down each front. I’ve been scouring my patterns at home and scanning photos online, but nothing has precisely struck my fancy yet.

An unrelated tidbit to wrap up this post… Earlier this week I went home at lunchtime to mow my backyard in between rain showers. As I raced back inside to fix a bite to eat before heading back to work, I happened to look down and saw this, growing under my porch steps:

I have no idea how this little violet got there, but I hope it likes the neighborhood and brings its friends. Seriously, much better than the dandelions and blackberry bushes that keep showing up in our yard uninvited.

I try to avoid superlatives. I do not believe that we are living at the peak of human civilization or understanding. I understand that the time when painting held sway over the hearts and minds of masses has passed. Art still holds sway over the masses; it is just that the art form of the day is, or rather until very very recently was, film.

Sin City is a work of art.

That is not to say that it is a thing of beauty; but it is utterly sublime. In discussions with colleagues (thanks Bain), I have come to the understanding that the process of image-making has to do with achieving the sublime. My own realization came upon discovering that there are two paths to the sublime. Though no less valid, the more expedient of the two is achieved by looking into the deep dark places within and representing what one finds there staring back. The other is… well, so terrifyingly beautify that most don’t have the will to look upon it without (figuratively) going blind and making a clumsy or feeble copy. Sin City falls comfortably into the former, though there was a single moment of transcendent beauty.

Since the reign of film began there have been few masterworks of cinema. Lawrence of Arabia. The Godfather. Seven Samurai. The Seventh Seal. These were, much like works of the High Renaissance in Italian art, works of undeniable merit with which all that come after must contend. Since then, there have been few movies of such import as to transcend the medium.

For example, Fight Club is the demarcation point of the end of Gen-X, at least from the male point-of-view. Likewise, no film-maker, or indeed image-maker, can allow themselves not to be cognizant of the style exuded by The Matrix. Robert Rodriguez owes a debt to these movies, though one need not have seen them to grasp the style of Sin City.

Sin City does not exude style; it spews it forth. The hapless viewer is left drowning in a sea of style, with each passing wave of imagery acting as the ephemeral promise of respite.

It is an extremely graphic movie. Nearly every part of the human (and male) anatomy which can be amputated, is amputated; almost all with style and on screen. It was so terrible and traumatic to behold that, in a truly Aristotelean way, it became morbidly comic. Many in the audience weren’t able to contain their cathartic-nervous laughter. In this way, it functions much like the trauma-art of Andy Warhol—forcing the gaze of the view through the picture plane. Unlike Warhol’s art, there is no cold repetition to become inured to.

As a movie, one can not help but recognize that this is an adaptation of a comic book—um, excuse me, graphic novel. Rodriguez does not attempt to conceal this fact. Rather than attempting to hearken back to the illustrations, iconic moments in the film are allowed to simmer in banal lines, but are so lovingly represented than they feel like Roy Lichenstein paintings. The voiceover given by the main characters of each vignette also lends a graphic novel feel, though instead of furnishing the viewer with a comforting omniscient point-of-view, we are given a first-person account of things. It becomes impossible not to identify with the protagonist, not to feel concern for his well-being, and not to flinch when his body is brutally traumatized before our eyes.

What sets this work apart is hard to explain but easy to recognize. This is one of the first movies filmed completely within a “digital backlot,” which is to say entirely in front of a green screen with the backgrounds added in post-production. What this means is that the reign of film has ended. The single image a painter is able to present cannot compete with the flood of images that film perforce must present. However, film must necessarily re-present what exists. This was a limitation that painting has never had to contend with. Ever since Who Framed Roger Rabbit, the writing has been on the wall. Sin City has fulfilled that promise.

Film is dead, long live digital generation.

For the past several days , I have been fortunate to have a visit from my parents, who drove out from Colorado for their spring break. Due to an acute shortage of accrued vacation days after my time off with Jeremy, at Christmas and just last week, I was only able to take yesterday off to go out on the town with them, but I think we more than made up for lost time. After dropping by the vet to pick up a refill on Loki’s medication, we had lunch at Caprial’s Bistro in southeast Portland, and stopped in at the Yarn Garden, about which more when I’ve taken pictures. Rest assured I now have several new projects lined up.

This was followed up by a trip to Powell’s Books, with visits to Mio Gelato and Anthropologie while we were in the vicinity. I hadn’t been in the latter since it opened last fall, and ended up coming home with two lovely summer tops that I probably won’t be able to wear until June, now that we are back in a rainy weather pattern again.

After some confusion about where to turn near the Burnside Bridge, and much resultant frustration, we went to Oregon City for a short visit with my aunt, who cheered us up with homemade grape pie. We headed back down to Salem, and, after dinner, went to see National Treasure to round off the evening.

Now that my parents are on the road back to Denver and Jeremy is digging in for the end-of-semester crunch, the house will seem extra quiet and empty. At least for another week or so…

[To be continued...]