April 2005 Archives

A couple of weeks ago we saw a wonderful Norman Rockwell book in the St. Lawrence antique market. Since it was 200 dollars, we just had a real good look through it, and I discovered that I like Rockwell a lot more than I thought. Good thing we didn't buy, cause today at the Saturday auction at Goodwill we managed to buy two almost as wonderful Rockwell books for 27 dollars! The auction alone was already great and exciting fun. People from all walks of life bidding, commenting and connecting in strange ways. A much more social event than just plain shopping. I'm really happy with the Rockwell books, I like Norm best when he is completely over the top. And it's interesting to discover the regularities or patterns in his compositions, or maybe even tricks. Very shrewd things these Rockwell paintings.

Bought today in a Toronto thrift store. An anthology of young poets, 1960. About half the names are unremembered. I'll read you "A foggy day in Rotterdam", at least the title is in English. I saw Cor Vaandrager -or what was left of him- sometimes in Rotterdam, late eighties, when I lived there.

Je kent het wel: een middag wachten
tot het gaat misten. Wachten
tot het donker wordt. Of avond wordt. Hij
(ik heb het over hem) kijkt,
ziet lege bussen
die koppig starten, de stad in - op zoek naar meer mist?

Stemmen van mensen. Oproer? Bijval?
Hij herkent ze, de stemmen. De mensen
kent hij niet - nooit gekend.

Je kent het wel: pijnlijk nauwkeurig
kan hij je zeggen (maar hij doet het niet):
"Nu gaat de telefoon"
En dan gaat de telefoon. De angst
dit aan te voelen. En de angst (nog groter)
zich na tien, elf juiste voorspellingen te vergissen.

De mist is binnen.
Reeds zijn de radiatoren verkild.
Hij trekt zijn benen op. Wacht.
Het wordt donker. Of avond.
Hij trekt huiverend een haar uit zijn pols.

Seven-o-lai, said the girl in the pharmacy, she meant seven-o-nine. At Home Depot I was sent to the twooth row, instead of the second aisle. It doesn't matter, my own English is also far from perfect. I don't think anybody really minds. A new language will emerge here. One of the things people in Holland get totally overexcited about, oh oh our language. In Canada nobody seems to mind. Or I don't see it, that's also possible. The Dutch enrage themselves over stuff that happens over here just as well, all the time. Big city problems, people from all over the world, refugees, mess, trash, hash and caboodle. It puzzles me, alledgedly there is a wave of new Dutch immigrants wanting to come to Canada to escape these things in Holland. Yesterday one of Piffin's teachers came up to her at school to tell her he read about it. It's so weird, I find the reasons those people want to leave Holland xenophobic and racist. They don't seem to realise that Canada is much more multicultural than Holland, and that there are so many things that you just don't do or say or even think here, whereas in Holland the mere idea of political correctness has become a malediction. I don't think they know you can't even wish people merry christmas here.

Back to some significant culture. This is the only known cartoon about my dear husband. And Bob Blechman made the only known website full of animated gifs that doesn't get on my nerves. Very cool.

May the force be with you.

Half way with the colours. Feierabend. And I finished reading Joe Speedboot, damn it. Yes, it's speedboot, not speedboat, Dutch spelling is insane. Best book in ages, says she. So it must be, because it is such a boy book. And I am such a girl. The Island of the Day Before was also an extreme boy book, I had trouble finishing it because of that. I had to start over four or five times before I could read it through to the end. Not so with Joe. Worse even, everybody in the house is wanting to read it, even Otger.

The changes are subtle, but maybe you can still spot them. This whole thing is making me more and more spiritual. I noticed I can suddenly speak through George. Or George is psychic, that would be much more likely, come to think of it.

I always feel like I can only start working when I'm this far. Change things around, think about the colours...

I am researching my mildly ironic spiritual drawing, find nice things. Tomorrow it will be sixteen years ago that I gave birth for the first time myself. Around about the time I am writing this the midwife ripped my membranes and I went for a bicycle tour through Rotterdam. I was 43 weeks pregnant, so it was about time. Early next morning Piffin was born. Big, strong and healthy. She still is.

Dr. Hubert Airy, migraneur, 1838–1903. I should have listened closer to the weather report, stupid me. Yesterday 27 degrees and today stormy and 7. Guaranteed migraine attack. I see exactly what Airy drew, only more flickery and shiny like glass or silver. With vision loss around the aura's. And I had extreme enhancement of smell, Michiel had to put away everything with the slightest smell. Here's a funny bit by Marvin Minsky, Raising children as atheists:

***One day, at age 17, I was walking alone at night during a snowstorm in a singularly quiet place. I noticed that the ground looked further away than usual, and then it seems that I was looking down from a height of perhaps 10 meters, watching myself crossing the field. Well, having some education, I recalled some descriptions of this fairly common type of hallucination, and exclaimed to myself, "how interesting; I seem to be having a mystical experience. I'd better put a stop to this right away, or I might experience a conversion or something," recalling some observations of William James. So I quickly ran over to a nearby dorm and started a social conversation with some students. Another time, I forget the circumstances, I was looking at a tree and noticed that it was flickering strangely, sorta like a burning bush. In particular, I observed that it had acquired a sort of colorful, jagged, pulsating outline. "My goodness," I exclaimed to myself, "it would seem that I'm experiencing a scintillating scotoma, and it looks just like the picture I remember from Duke-Elder's Textbook of Ophthalmology. I'd better get ready for a migraine headache." (I had had what aseemed to be migraines before, but never with this phenomenon -- which was actually rather gratifying, because it confirmed an otherwise inconclusive diagnosis.) I always wondered if Moses (presuming that there ever was such a person) had migraines, too. Only a few such patients hear sounds as well. So let's add to the rest of this useful discussion a new point: make sure that your children learn about the 7 most common forms of mystical experience and whatever is known about their neurological mechanisms. ... Of course this is good advice only for those who like their minds the way they are.***

Appropriate this, because I am just starting an illustration about spirituality and such. And I can be mildly ironic too, hip hip hurray.

Cat again, been up to no good at all today. Let's make it a theme, a sort of blog break. It's not as if nothing happened, half of the Toronto police force came screeming into our street this afternoon. Some domestic violence of the bloody kind, but I don't want to write about that, that's too sad. I'll give you a nice quote from my book: "One must exaggerate or feel oneself a pygmy." Quite. And a nice triviality from the same book: it seems penis-bones of raccoons were very popular as tooth picks in an earlier day.

When one doesn't know what to blog, one is supposed to blog a cat. So here ya go, two fab cats.

"Before Theodore Seuss Geisel found fame as a children's book author, the primary outlet for his creative efforts was magazines. His first steady job after he left Oxford was as a cartoonist for Judge, a New York City publication. In 1927 one of these cartoons opened the way to a more profitable career, as well as greater public exposure, as an advertising illustrator."

One funny thing did happen though, today. Otger told me he has a new nickname at school. Albert Newton. Because another boy was already Albert Einstein.

The guests are gone, but I assure you everybody was there, and Michiel also tore out the bedroom floor, oh and yesterday the hideous chain linked garden fence! It has been a tearing out weekend. After this we went to Mimi's, the neighbourhood Vietnamese but über-Canadian restaurant. Last time we were there Mimi commented on us being too quiet. Today she told Michiel his eyes were bigger than his tummy. His Tummy! For crying out loud. Michiel had a durian milkshake. We told Mimi about the "Golden Durian", the Dutch literary prize for the worst book. And that the shake kind of tasted like a bad novel, and still tasted good. Don't know if she got it. The sugar cane with shrimp glop around it was delicious.

Sorry about the blog today. I had an incredibly severe allergy attack, I was sneezing till noon! It's something in the house, dust most probably. So I sat out on the porch all day, reading my book. And how does a day of sitting on the porch end? By a gathering of neighbours of four different houses ordering pizza's together. I did manage to cook a pudding for desert.

"If any fingerprint is not recorded, give reason. If amputated, deformed or injured, give date." Erica said to write some angry letters, but I don't think bureaucracy would be at all impressed. I offered officer Krupke some DNA, but he declined. Sort of bizarre, these fingerprinting businesses are run by retired police officers. This one was selling water colour paintings on the side. A buck is a buck is a buck.

Over two years in Canada and still immigrating. Now we need Führungszeugnisse. (Das Führungszeugnis ist eine auf grünlichem Spezialpapier mit dunkelgrünem Bundesadler gedruckte Urkunde, die vom Bundeszentralregister in Bonn auf Antrag für jede Person ab 14 Jahren ausgestellt wird. Im Führungszeugnis wird unter Aufführung der vollständigen Personalien hauptsächlich verzeichnet, ob die betreffende Person vorbestraft oder nicht vorbestraft ist.) Police checks from Herr Generalbundesanwalt in Bonn, jawohl. 13 euro each. But with all the money order fees this became $54.44. And then we had to get our signatures certified at the German consulate, $64.20. Waiting for Michiel at Starbucks untill he was done with his conference call and ready to come to the German consulate was $5.18. And registering the letter to Germany another $12.45. Totals $136.27, just to prove we are innocent. Oh, add 8$ for the streetcar. Tomorrow we have to go get finger printed, halleluja.

This might not seem revolutionary to you, but it is to me. I am actually gardening! Plants have always instantly died if I so much as looked at them. But I decided no more. I bought pots at Value Village, and flowers at the corner store. And soil. I have also sown flowers in the wasteland behind the pots, but it's such a long wait for them to start growing, so I decided to also buy some finished ones. Maybe I can put some seeds in pots too. What kind of things does one sow in pots? Tomatoes? Tomatoes would be fun.

Not only do we live in Chinatown east, our neighbourhood is also sort of the Toronto gay district east. The real gay district is around Church Street, how ironic. In our hood live the happily married ones, with pets and children. Yesterday our neighbours invited us to a rally in their church to support Bill C-38 which is going to be voted on in parliament tomorrow. I still feel weird in protestant churches, as if I'm on enemy ground. More out of place as a catholic among protestants, than as a heterosexual among queers. And more so even, because it was a completely cross religional thing, with rabbi's and imams and everything. But no catholic priests, shame on them. Although I do believe one lost sheep signed the petition of religious leaders supporting the Bill. The imam was particularly great, wow. Was he ever infuriated. I am sooo sorry I forgot to take my camera.

I am quite proud of this one, and thank god on my bare knees that Michiel helped me with a 3D sketch. Here's a big version.

Michiel's parents sent him a very appropriate book for his birthday.

Zille zeigt die existenziellen Abgründe aber auch den liebenswerten Alltagshumor des Berliner proletarischen »Milljöhs« auf. Sein Werk ist eine Mischung aus Mitgefühl, Sarkasmus,Witz und solidarisch empfundener Verbitterung. Aus seinem Werk klingt das Lachen der Elenden, das Befreiung aus der Not für Sekunden bedeutet.

***Domestic Anouncement***
The last couple of days it has been virtually impossible to post comments, I am sorry for that. Somehow too may words ended up blacklisted. Should be all right again now.

And again, I love it. This time in "Informeren", a magazine for employees of an organization for regional, academic and forensic mental healthcare, no less. I'm in good company there, not only do they recycle my NRC illustration, but also the NRC "Fokke en Sukke" cartoons. About the two world-infamous ducks "Fucky and Sucky". (I warned you before about the language used in this upscale newspaper.)
A couple of days ago a discussion about second use on the illustrators' mailinglist. About how much to charge for second use. Most illustrators seem to get about 50% of the original price. And so do I. One of my collegues said he charges more for second than for first use, up to 300%! Because the second client doesn't bear any risks, he knows what he's getting. I find that strange. Apparently hiring him as an illustrator is a risky business. And according to his reasoning anything custom made should be cheaper than off-the-shelf products, interesting. Of course this is talking about illustrations made to accompany textual content, not complete books sold to a second publisher or things like that, these could be different stories all together.

Today, April 7, is the birthday of my kindergarten friend Dorie Meijer. So strange, how you just never seem to forget certain things. Like I also still remember our first telephone number ever: 24487. I bet even Eindhoven telephone numbers grew a couple of digits meanwhile. What irrelevant ballast do you carry around in your head?

Michiel tells me the guys at Alias are interested in seeing the 3D sketch for the road rage drawing. So I stand and deliver, such is the nature of my occupation. I don't know whether it's a promotion or a degradation, but I am now considered a living rendering program. A good thing really, after all I am rather soft. I would show you the bicycle close up, but I can't find where Michiel put that file. He built me the bike, the car and the scooter are poorly modeled free crashing internet finds.

A typical Amsterdam street scene. The girl in the picture is meant to be the journalist who wrote the article. If I told you what the cab driver calls her you would never again visit my weblog. The Dutch are not afraid of words, not even in the newspaper.

I thought I was ready with the line work, but suddenly I notice it looks like the girl is barking at the dog in stead of the cab driver. Maybe I'll change that tonight. Too tired right now. Dinner break. Lasagna in the oven. NoFrills lasagna.

My favourite things to draw, cars and bicycles... It'll be all right though, I have Maya help. It'll look much better than this sketch thing Saturday in the newspaper. I hate showing sketches, but I was asked for one, so I oblige.

Today I invited a guest writer, my one and only husband. I figured he would put things into words way better than I ever could. And no misunderstandings: I show the Martha Rich image because we thought hers were by far the strongest pieces in the show, although she is very visibly a Clayton Brothers student. Here's the review:

We went to see the Boy's Club Show at Xpace. The work of 12 women illustrators, "looking for an opportunity to exhibit [their] work outside the confines of the magazine page and to express [their] ideas beyond the latest advertising assignment".

These works make every effort to be as unabjectionable as possible. That must be a habit their creators picked up from working for the magazines. Unobtrusiveness is their one virtue. Their goal is to disturb the page as little as possible. They are carefully, sometimes even skillfully, crafted to reflect the page without causing any ripples. Freed from the confines of the page, they become empty reflections, and it is now painfully obvious that there is nothing to see. These are very simple works posing as art, as if to say "Look at me! I'm a real painting!" They have no *need* to exist as paintings, other than to satisfy a market that is unwilling to deal with the complexities of real art. I began to suspect they were done in Adobe Illustrator, and then transferred to canvas. Their inability to excite, arouse and disturb makes them about as sexy as a woman who spreads her legs and sighs "Oh well, all right then."