Anne.

When it comes to level of difficulty in art, painting a live female model has to be at the top of the list. After not having done it in a couple of years, I gave it a shot this past week, with the result being Anne (oil on canvas board, 14x18").

The Devil Just Put On His Winter Coat and Mittens.

Something went frighteningly awry today. I purchased a book titled, National Audubon Society: Field Guide to Birds.

Hell must have frozen over. I hate birds. Absolutely loathe them.

I'm not sure what happened. I can't explain it. It's possible I was drunk.

It's like I don't even know who I am anymore. A stranger unto myself. I mean... I bought a book... on birds.

Maybe a pigeon slipped something into my drink. They hate me, you know.

And I, them.

(Especially the rock pigeon -- columba livia -- whose ancestral nests used to be made on high cliff ledges. It's average length is 13 1/2"... oh my god... what the hell is happening to me?)

Frozen Pen.

When it comes to achieving creative goals, there are helpful hints but no secrets. If you want to become a writer, write. If you want to become a painter, paint. It's that simple.

Mostly.

For various reasons, I have a tendency to make the artistic process complex.

I sit down and know I want to create some art. But what medium? What subject matter? How should I render it?

Accompanying these questions is my desire for everything I produce to be perfect. It's a hard way to begin -- knowing that you can't make a mistake or fail.

All of these phenomena feed together to form a maelstrom and it causes me to feel overwhelmed and when I feel overwhelmed I simply shut down. Nothing gets done.

To combat this, I try to remove decisions and judgments from the equation.

It started eleven years ago when I moved to Sacramento after graduating from college. Every evening at 10pm I would turn the radio on and listen to Loveline with Adam Carolla and Dr. Drew. Routines are effective.

My goal each night was simple. I had to either complete a drawing in my sketchbook or write 500 words that formed some semblance of a scene or short-short story. The story didn't have to make sense. I didn't ever have to look at the drawing again. When the goal is straightforward -- to simply have something by the end of two hours and to do it every evening -- it made things less precious. It was about completing the task. Personal criticism was eliminated. I actually got things done.

Recently, I have found my creative output to be random and haphazard. My intent is earnest. But as soon as I sit down at the drafting table I find myself feeling overwhelmed. I shut down. The blank paper remains blank.

I want to be artistically prolific. I want to create beautiful things.

I had to get locked back into that evening routine that proved successful in the past. Once again, I found my savior on the radio. The local station, 94.9 FM, has a program that airs every night from 10pm to 2am. It's called Big Sonic Chill. It's pitch perfect as it provides a laid-back, eclectic mix of songs that establish an ideal mood and ambience. You can check out a recent playlist by clicking on this link. Not only has it provided a great atmosphere and established a disciplined routine, but it also lets me discover new music (for example -- I'm infatuated with Sia's song, Breathe Me).

Every evening my pen has been moving and it feels good.

Pass the Ketchup.

I've been watching the Discovery Channel's beautiful and engaging series, Planet Earth. The cinematography is stunning. However, despite the enraptured and layered enchantment of the series, I quickly realized that an animal's life consisted solely of eating, not being eaten, and humping.

Watching the series, I became preoccupied with two thoughts.

The first thought.... You can tell me that an animal has an extra thick layer of fur. An extra layer of fat. Oil in their skin. Or air pockets between their feathers. But regardless of this information, I can't believe that these winter animals aren't freezing. I can't wrap my head around the science that says animals sitting in a pile of snow or amid a freezing stream are warm. And if you watched this series with me you'd understand this because every two minutes I'm saying, "That animal must be freezing its ass off."

The second thought.... Last night I watched a leopard eat a monkey and a lemur eat a moth. In both cases, I said out loud, "That must taste horrible." And I'm saying this as a person who is not a picky eater and will eat anything. But still. If someone told me that monkey tasted like chicken I would think him a liar. Do animals have particular palates? Do they have preferences or is meat simply meat? Does taste factor in? A predator has neither condiments nor spices. I've eaten deer, pheasant, rabbit, squirrel, elk and even an elk's heart -- all can be tasty. If given my druthers, I'd use my extra leopard energy to pursue a quick deer even if it made me tired. But you could put a three legged monkey with arthritis next to me and I'm not budging. Has there ever been a leopard that's spotted a lazy monkey sitting on the ground and said, "I'm starving, but monkey tastes like ass. I'll pass."

Recent figure drawings.

Stephanie Sitting (Pen on paper. 4x5". 3/07)



Zara Laying Down (Graphite on paper. 8.5 x 3". 4/07).



Jill Sitting (Pen and colored pencil on paper. 5 x 5". 3/07).



Jill Standing (Pen and colored pencil on paper. 3.5 x 5". 02/07.)

Playing guitar the day after Amber's Goth-themed party.

Why Your Girlfriend Will Smile When You Give Her Syphilis.

It may be too late for this Valentine's Day, but maybe next year you can give your girlfriend syphilis (check-out the link).

...

My life is simply a series of obsessions. I abandon one only to immediately pick up another. Some occur almost daily, like art (although I do rotate through different mediums). Others appear in my life randomly. Most of the time, the obsessions are benign. The only time when it becomes a problem is when one obsession accompanies a simultaneous obsession with ebay.

Right now I am completely infatuated with the rock poster art form. Tube after tube has arrived in the mail, each one filled with beautiful rock posters.

I'm starting to become more familiar with certain rock poster artists as well. Some of my newfound favorites include Diana Sudyka, Todd Slater, and Adam Turman.

However, my obsession may be costly in more ways than just financial. I've been scouring San Diego Country trying to find printing classes and thinking about attending art school.

...

Speaking of obsessions... three songs that I can't stop listening to:

• Eric Bachmann - So Long, Savannah
• Mike Park - Supposed to Be There
• Pete Yorn - For Us

...

In November I found myself torn between two lovers.

Juliana and I went to see my other love, Regina Spektor, perform at Cane's. Here's a pic of Jules and I pre-concert. As you can see, I looked strikingly handsome.

Regina put on an amazing show. For one song she played the keyboard with one hand, using the other to rhythmically bang a drum stick against a bench -- both while singing off the beat. Regina is originally from Moscow, and started singing a song in her native language. Jules leaned over and enamored with Regina said, "I think I have a girl crush. I want to learn how to speak Russian." We both watched mesmerized and awed by Regina's talent.

One man in the audience expressed my thoughts when he exclaimed, "Regina, will you marry me?"

"That does seem to be the big sentiment this tour," Regina responded from the stage. "Let me tell you one thing: Because a girl sings a nice song doesn't make her a good wife."

Well said. Although I still want to marry her.

An intriguing highlight occurred during the finale. For the last song Regina played one of my favorites, Hotel Song. Half-way through the song she swung her arm wildly signaling the band to stop playing.

"Can we get the security guard over here?" she asked. "There's a girl about to pass out in the front row." Regina, being genuinely concerned, asked the girl if she was okay. After the girl received help, Regina wanted to continue the song where she had left off.

She looked over to the band and keyed them with the next line of the song.

"Let's start with 'A little bag of cocaine.'" After saying it, Regina giggled realizing how odd that sounded. It was endearing. And then they launched into the remainder of the song....

A little bag of cocaine
A little bag of cocaine
So who's the girl wearing my dress
I figured out her number
It's on a paper napkin
But I don't know her address

Wonderful, wonderful show. My favorite of 2006 (and I saw lots of damn good shows last year).

...

When I first saw the Cold War Kids play live, it was at the Casbah in September. Their debut album hadn't been released yet so I was familiar with only two songs that had been promoted on KEXP's Song of the Day podcast. Although leading up to the concert I had probably listened to Hospital Beds three dozen times.

Their live show was dynamic, spectacular, and full of verve, and I found their songs to be immediate and engaging.

I believe that the order in which things are encountered is important. I believe that you filter your perception of the second through your experience with the first. It is the power of the first impression, and how it affects everything that follows.

For instance... if your best friend wrote poetry and after many years she handed you a poem to read... wouldn't your interpretation of the poem be affected by having known her? What if you read a frightening and morbid horror story from an author, and then later on you happened to meet the author in person? Wouldn't you wonder how that mind could create something so sinister? How could you not perceive that person to be slightly odd? But it's quite possible that the author is the nicest person alive. What if you had known the author first and then read the horror story?

Some people like to be familiar with an artist's music before seeing the artist live. But if given my druthers, I'd prefer to see a band live before hearing their recorded music. I enjoy bringing all of the live visuals to a song when I first listen to it on the ipod. For me, it adds an element that enriches the normal listening experience.

I've been listening to the Cold War Kids album relentlessly since its release, and saw them play live at the Belly Up in January. So I've gone from seeing them live and knowing a few songs, to listening to their album nonstop, to seeing them live after becoming very familiar with their album. I like the order that I've been introduced to their music.

...

Juliana has moved in and has brought her violin along with her. I'm infatuated with the violin and cello, and always wished I could play these instruments.

Juliana busted out her violin today and I played it. I've never played violin before so as a guitar player I did the only thing I could on a violin: I played Smoke on the Water, poorly.
...

My new guilty pleasure for television watching... Beach Patrol: San Diego on CourtTV.

...

For some reason my sleep pattern has shifted the last week so that I wake up early. I discovered that there's this thing called a sunrise. It's kind of nice.

Because I Heard That Real Estate Was A Great Investment.

I just purchased a four bedroom, two bathroom house. It needs paint, but the fireplace makes it cozy.



Okay -- so maybe it lacks landscaping, plumbing, or full height walls, but how many houses can boast of a detachable roof?



I love architecture. It pulls from so many areas that I find engaging. It incorporates art, design, aesthetics, construction, problem solving, the visual, and grand scale.

It was a career choice I pondered. But that dream evaporated when I took a drafting class in junior high school and realized that 90% of drafting involved tedious tasks, like penciling electrical outlets every eighteen scale inches and marking rain gutters. I don't do well with tedious endeavors.

But sometimes -- like George Costanza -- I'll just lie and say I'm an architect at parties. Same same.

I took an architectural boat tour along the Chicago River that rocked more than anything can rock. Aaaahh... water, bridges, and architecture.... throw in some beer and casual nudity and it would have been perfect.

For architectural foreplay, the boat tour was preceded by a visit to the Art Institute of Chicago (my favorite art museum in the world) and a tour of their architecture collection. It housed so many amazing drawings and models. I can't begin to describe how fascinated I am by those little models. I'd like to build them myself but I would require a team of interns to do all of the tedious things like cutting, gluing, painting thousands of tiny windows, building diminutive balconies, planting fake teeny trees... well... I guess doing just about everything.

For now, I'll settle on buying them... if I could only find out where. I have no idea how to locate those miniature marvels. I bought the balsa wood house on ebay. It was an architectural project constructed by a student in 1961. But there weren't any other related items revealed by my search.

Eventually my goal is to acquire an entire city so I could be mayor and boss around tiny fake people while charging exorbitant rents. Although I don't know where I'd store the models. I'd need to buy a real house to hold my fake city.

Block Print (White Elephant).

White Elephant (Lino-cut block print. White ink on black paper. Series of 14. Inked image measures 6x4").

Defunct Rock-Paper-Scissors.

Jules and I were about to leave for the zoo. I was getting ready in the bedroom.

From the living room she asked, "Who's driving?"

"I don't know," I answered, hoping that she would volunteer.

"I'll rock-paper-scissors you for it," she queried.

"Okay," I said, and then immediately began predicting what she would choose. My instinct told me she would select rock. I then started to traverse all of the scenarios and worried that I was like Vizzini in The Princess Bride. Confronted by two chalices of potential poison, he went through an elaborate verbal process of anticipating every possible permutation. But I didn't want to over-think. As first thought was usually right, I stuck with the counter-attack of paper, and went out to the living room.

One-two-three-shoot.

As I sat in the passenger seat on the way to the zoo, I thought about rock-paper-scissors (it appears that the zoo sparks inquisitive asides).

"What are the origins of rock-paper-scissors?" I rhetorically asked Jules. "Has anyone stopped to think that it makes no sense and isn't even clever. Two of the objects aren't even related and don't trump each other. I can understand scissors cutting paper, but how does paper covering rock make sense? I mean -- has anyone ever heard of a paperweight? Oh -- it's just a rock that sits on top of paper and holds it down. And don't even get me started on rock-dynamite-scissors."

Because of the inaneness of rock-paper-scissors, I felt it imperative to develop my own system. One that actually made sense.

It begins with the Exterminator. The two downward fingers form legs, and the thumb represents the exterminator's wand of death (a.k.a. the hose and nozzle connected to the tank of poison).



If you want to use a female exterminator -- because I'm nothing if not equal opportunity -- bend your knuckles slightly to form boobs.

After seeing my female exterminator, Jules thought of her own representation for the male exterminator.

So what does the Exterminator beat? The Termite.



For full fun effect, feel free to wiggle your fingers, especially after a victory. What constitutes a victory? Termite eats Dilapidated House.



And how does this come full circle? The Exterminator lives in the Dilapidated House. Sadly, this house will tragically collapse on the Exterminator, killing him in the process.

It is beautiful and related and complete and circular.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're saying, "Bryan, of course your new system is brilliant, but it doesn't roll off the tongue. Rock-paper-scissors may be heavily flawed, but it's easy to say. How am I supposed to whip-out Dilapidated House-Exterminator-Termite in a decent amount of time?"

The answer is simple. I've removed all of the leg-work, because we're going the acronym route. You won't say Dilapidated House-Exterminator-Termite. Instead you'll simply refer to it as DHET, conveniently pronounced like debt. Do you see the poetic nature of the name? Because when you play this game, the person who loses will be in debt to you for something. It truly is a remarkable creation.

Please think of your own circular relationship, although I'm sure it will be inferior to the magic known as DHET.

Block Print (Pigeon).

Pigeon (Lino-cut block print. Ink on paper. Series of 5. Inked image measures 6x4").

Block Prints (San Francisco and Point Loma).

Here are a few more recent lino-cut block prints....

San Francisco -- Financial District (Lino-cut block print. Number 3 of 8. Ink on paper. 4x5").

Point Loma, San Diego (Lino-cut block print. Ink on paper. 4x6").

Block Print.

Last month, Jules and I walked along the Embarcadero, when we stopped in one of my favorite San Diego bookstores. I pulled out a book on German woodcut prints and showed it to her, saying how much I'd like to try making my own prints sometime.

For the first time since I've lived in California -- almost eleven years -- I have a Christmas tree.



Presents sat anxiously at its base. Being each others' greatest enabler, we had the following conversation:

"Do you want to open presents now?"

"Yes."

Five days before Christmas, wrapping paper exploded across the living room.

The best presents are those that reveal the other person was listening when you felt you were just blathering, and support endeavors that are important to you, even when you felt you were being idealistic or fanciful.

Jules had bought me a woodcut block printing kit. It was perfect.

(She also got me the most amazing alarm clock ever, but that deserves its own entry.)

For woodcut block printing, you are -- in essence -- making a large ink stamp. You carve a design into a wood block, apply a layer of ink, and stamp it onto paper.

This medium forced me to thinking differently about the image and process. Planning was important. There was no such thing as an eraser. The technique of carving and process of stamping reduced the amount of detail that could be given. How would I render an image using scratches? Simple often worked best. For my first prints, I would use only black ink. Therefore the image would have to work in two tones (black ink and the color of the paper). When you wrote in pen, the mark you made was black. However, in block printing, the line you cut would be light -- it is the uncut sections that were black (ink). I had to think in terms of negative space. In addition, the image was reversed left to right (like a mirror). I had to figure a way to transfer my sketch to the block so that it would be flipped vertically during carving, and therefore appear correct when stamped onto the paper.

Conceptually, making a block print was simple, but there were some steps involved.

As the gift meant a great deal to me, I wanted the subject matter for my first block print to be special as well (the kit contained one 4x5" block). I chose the Flatirons located in my beloved Boulder, Colorado.



This has been my subject matter for a few pieces (an oil painting, pen sketch, and a watercolor -- all done while sitting before the Flatirons).

I took this black and white photo four years ago.



I drew the image in my sketchbook to the same dimensions as the wood block (5x4").



I traced the design onto wax paper and transferred it onto the linoleum layered block by flipping the wax paper over and retracing the outline again.



After the image had been drawn in pen on the block with the image reversed left to right, I started carving.



It turned out that inking the block was almost an art form in itself. I thinned the sticky ink with a few drops of water so that it laid on the block correctly. The type of paper also made a considerable difference. But after some experimenting, I created my first official print.



I produced 14 total prints for this series -- each hand inked and pressed.

Walk #3.

Juliana and I have begun a routine of going on weekend walks throughout the city.

Walk #1 found us at Cabrillo National Park. The lighthouse, subject matter for my eponymously titled painting, sat perched atop the hillside. At the shoreline, we enjoyed the tidepools...



and searching for crabs in the cliffs.





...

Walk #2 led us along the Embarcadero.

...

Undecided on a destination for our next walk, we consulted the book Afoot and Afield in San Diego. I purchased it with ambitious intentions upon moving to San Diego. I had romantic notions of traversing the county, accompanied by a walking stick, fedora, and whip (to rescue myself during a possible rope bridge collapse, of course). But outside of book marking an urban curiosity that intrigued me, it sat neglected on my shelf, and had not spawned a single journey.

I showed Juliana the bookmarked page.

"Where the hell is this?" she asked. "I worked downtown and have passed this place a hundred times. I never knew this existed."

And thus began Walk #3.

...

Our journey started in Banker's Hill at the corner of 2nd and Spruce, located sheer minutes from downtown, the airport, and Balboa Park.



We first encountered the Quince Street Footbridge, with views of the airport and the bay in the background.





Quickly and conveniently, Juliana found a condo she wanted me to buy her.

After crossing the bridge, we descended into the canyon below. It was amazing how one could be located in the middle of an urban setting, yet feel completely removed from it. I hoped that the thick brush and overhanging trees provided enough wilderness for me to wear my adventure hat without fear of ridicule. I had bought it in Colorado four months back, and was looking for any excuse to wear it.



I have an inkling that I may have looked dead-sexy in it.

We continued along the canyon floor and talked about how wonderful it was to find this hidden gem.



"I keep expecting a dinosaur to run out of the bushes," Jules said.

"What would you do if you saw a dinosaur?" I asked.

"Crap my pants."

"That would definitely hamper my desire to rescue you."

...

Maple Canyon dead-ended on Dove Street. We followed it to Curlew Street, passing by beautiful and charismatic houses -- the type that make you wonder what your life would be like if you lived in them -- and found ourselves at the Spruce Street Suspension Footbridge. It hovered seventy feet above the canyon floor and swayed with each step.



The bridge was built in 1912. The suspension cable was anchored by an assembly that did not spark overwhelming confidence.



The whole walk seemed like an amazing discovery.

...

We ventured over to Mission Trails for Walk #4. We started at the visitor's center...



walked two miles to the plains area....



and meandered over to the Old Mission Dam.



We were tired and our feet sore after walking four miles and we still had a half-mile uphill climb remaining.

I turned to Juliana and said, "I wish that I was the Beastmaster so that I could conjure animals for help."

"Who the hell is the Beastmaster?" Jules asked.

I was stunned, unable to fathom a life without knowledge of the Beastmaster. They really need to teach this stuff in schools.

"You haven't seen The Beastmaster? He was a barbarian who could communicate with animals and get them to do things. He could see through the eyes of a hawk and get a panther to fight people. Plus he got to see Tanya Roberts naked."

"Why would you want to see through the eyes of a hawk?" she asked.

Obviously she was having problems seeing the incredible benefit of hawk eyes.

"Well if you had enemies approaching and you wanted to know where they were you would call for the hawk and have it fly above them."

I erupted with a loud and bellowing, "CA-CAW," simulating how I would call for my hawk.

Juliana laughed. I disarmed other hikers who passed. They should just consider themselves lucky that I didn't send my panther after them.

"How would that help us get back to the car?" she inquired.

"Well, I could get a large bird to carry my backpack...."

I then stalled upon realizing that there weren't any large animals like deer or bears in the area that we could ride back to the car. Could you round up enough squirrels to carry you? Probably not. It was then that I realized my Beastmaster folly. It wouldn't have been very helpful (outside of the seeing through a hawk's eyes -- that would rock). It was also chilly and if I was the Beastmaster, I would be wearing a leather loin cloth.

And on a long hike like this, the leather would probably cause chafing.