JoeHigginsMonotypes.com

The light is pale and bluish gray, a pallid gray. The air is frigid, there’s no reason to go out even to see the holiday lights downtown, unless there’s good company waiting.

It is perfect for reading, and reading is perfect for Squishtoid. Reading’s cheap and there’s plenty of time, the light is actually good for reading. I was foresighted enough to see this day coming, so while it was still warm, I went out to the garage and dug out some books I’ve been meaning to finish. Richard Powers; John Barth; a Lennon bio; Neil Stephenson, Baroque Trilogy; nothing too heavy, heh,heh. I’ve got food, down cover and radiators, so time is on my side, if the temp isn’t. The cat is pretty happy with this state of affairs, too, though I worry she may be caught in a book-alanche.

I’m reading- officially- The Return of Depression Economics, by Paul Krugman. I say ‘officially’ because it was lent to me as a result of a turkey-day bitch session about the general mess the right wing has gotten this country into, so I’m sort of honor-bound to read it and spread the word. It gives a very clear and concise explanation of the crash, despite being written by a Nobel Laureate from Princeton, and I can already recommend it.

But naturally, the tea-baggers and other haters aren’t much interested in facts, especially the kind a Nobel winner from Princeton might present. So until the social dynamic in this country changes to favor the lower and middle class as much as it does the upper and upper middle classes , knowing how economics works is unlikely to make the economy more user-friendly. In the gray tundra of the Great Bush Recession, facts about how we got into this mess offer light but no real warmth. Hurry, Spring!

So in a quest for more cheery reading, I’ve found another book, Barcelona, by Robert Hughes.
This is more like it, sun-splashed, sea food-devouring Barcelona with the exotic design and architecture. A place to escape to.

I first got interested in Barcelona the way everyone does- through its football club. (it actually has two, but even the Mets get more love than Espanyol). Barca, whose starting 11 could pass at a masquerade for the #1 ranked Spanish National team with whom it shares its red-and-yellow strip, has been dismantling opponents with fascinating and surgical precision.

The way Barca beat Manchester United, a legitimate contender for the English treble- titles in the league, Football Association, and against Barcelona in the Champions League -was typical. Quick 10-yard passes strung between perfectly positioned midfielders, a mesmerizingly efficient game of keep away, until suddenly someone is free right in front of the open goal. Barca’s goals are rarely spectacular except as part of the amazing build up that leads to them. Perfect proof of the simple fact that football is only boring to people- Americans- who are too easily bored.

And Barcelona, the city, seems to follow the same pattern. Hughes intends to make a case for Barcelona’s more spectacular sights being the product of a fairly workman-like approach to art, life and politics. It’s the first time I’ve read a full dose of Hughes, and though he has moments of snide crankiness about, for example, Post-Modernism ( in regard to Barcelona?), he also has a gift for conducting a reader through the labyrinth of Catalan art and politics, and how they intertwine. It’s absorbing reading on a frigid winter’s night. I wish I was there right now, eating sea food.

Cute, huh? Yes, isn’t it pretty to think so? The reality of the situation is different, far different. The reality is, if I were to approach to warm my cold, numb blogging fingers on that toasty warm sheepskin or that nice radiate-y radiator, I’d be placing myself in grave danger. Let alone that fuzzy wuzzy fur, which, like Maxwell’s Demon, is designed by nature to absorb every heat molecule in the apartment, while excluding all the cold particles; and is jealously guarded by a creature that lives in, and can see in, the blackest void.

And, I found out (belatedly) that it’s against the animal cruelty laws to turn off the heat. Dang that fascist/socialist Democrat(ic)(sic) Party nanny state!

So, it’s off into the frigid gray December I go, to help hang the Open Press Small Print Show.

Won’t you come down Friday, 6-9 PM, or any of the 3 following Saturday or Sundays 12-5 PM, to have a beer and give a Squishtoid a hug?

A while ago, here, I posted some thoughts about Facebook. I’d noticed that people who haven’t bothered to join seem to dismiss it out of hand as superficial, as if most day to day interaction in any medium isn’t superficial. I generally praised Faceplant while acknowledging its triviality and weirdness. Now let’s look at another side of its weirdness.

I have a number of friends, in both the real world- and FB-sense who, for whatever reason, don’t really post much. I get little messages from Facebook alerting me that so-and-so is not with the program. Sometimes there are weirdly quantified and vaguely ominous statistical judgments: “Jane Doe is only 35% active”. The implication is that they need to be dragged back into the party I guess, that they are not pulling their weight with the Balloon-Boy jokes or status-postings about breakfast fare.

I don’t want to make too many assumptions about their lives, whether tech-averse, or introverse. So, I snooped. I got a prompt from FB about one friend I’d re-connected with in the past couple of years, and went to her “wall”, where some of her activity is visible. She posts every few weeks, mostly concerning family, social and charitable events in her area. The most recent wall item was from her daughter, thanking her for help on her college application. Another bizarrely quantified ‘status bar” thingie on the left informs us that her “progress” is 80% (?!). She seems pretty “active” to me, and I assume she can decide on her own “progress”. What should I do- get on there and chide her for not playing enough Mafia Wars?

Yes, I made a case that FB can be a valuable tool for a very fulfilling kind of connection-making. But coming from a family full of certified luddites and techno-recluses ( I’m the only one even on FB), I have a bit of sympathy for those whose lives do not revolve around the key board. A lot of this sort of thing comes from the enclosed world of office culture- how many of us have been encouraged to feel shame by otherwise sensible friends for not checking our e-mail twice a day? And isn’t it a bit ironic that some pasty-white cube-rat in Silicon Valley is sitting in judgment of our “activity” level?

Leave the techno-recluses alone! They’ll join the Facebook “revolution” when they’re good and ready.

Probably to bombard us with invitations to play “Mafia Wars”.

Standard Disclaimer: Squishtoid is not now, nor has he ever been, interested in playing “Mafia Wars”, so don’t send any more invitations, or he will “hide” you, and “poke” you to death.

Yes, indeed there is one hidden in a recent post, and 2 peeps have found it. Will you be the next?

Other doings: For those of you in Denver, I’ll be participating in the Open Press Small Print Show 2009 on First Friday, so c’mon down to 40 W. Bayaud (garden level) and say hello. Here is the Event Page Post on Facebook.

Discussions are beginning with several other Denver printmakers about a portfolio project for spring. I’ll keep you posted here. We’ll have 4-5 artists contributing prints, and will be aiming for a very reasonable price on what will be sort of and instant art collection.

I’ll be sending out more info about 2010 shows after the holidays. The Spring Monotype class will be registering soon, too. You can e-mail me if you like e-mail newsletters, or keep checking back here. Don’t forget the Fan Page ( link above).

I put the last layer, which was the 7th, 0n a couple of weeks ago. I like it, but wonder if I could do future ones in less layers with better planning. This post will get you caught up with the earlier stages; here is the last post. Did I go to far? Not far enough? You be the judge.

I did have fun posting the stages, and people seemed to like it (many responded, in various media), so I’ll do it again after the holidays. There’s another big one, an interior this time, I’ve been working on.

For now, it’s time to wrap things up on a very interesting year. I usually like to take the holidays off, then come back fresh in January. There are always loose ends, of course, such as the holiday print (l. Red Sonata, 7×9″, 2009), and a small art show at Open Press that I’ll announce on my FB Fan Page soon.

I hope everyone has a very nice Thanksgiving, and the first five peeps to leave a comment, or hit the ‘follow’ button, get a Holiday print. You can email me your street address. My crack mailroom team will get it out to you, and many years, the Holiday print has been known to arrive by Valentine’s Day.

I’ve been slowly (yeah, okay, glacially) posting albums of artwork from various years on my Facebook Fan Page . Hopefully they will provide a bit of a retrospective overview, especially for newer friends. For me they generally bring back vivid memories of what I was doing, and what I was trying to accomplish in the studio.

Strangely, that didn’t happen for 2002. Then I remembered: Oh yeah. That year. Does anyone else have that experience of sort of being in a daze after 9/11?

Anyway, the pix, along with my current interpretations are there, along with albums for several other years, too.

You don’t meet many people in this life who can a) quote the Buddha, and b) land a jet fighter on a pitching, rolling aircraft carrier deck. So Tuesday, I put on my suit and tie and drove down to Ft Logan to observe Veteran’s Day early, in the best way I know how- by celebrating a life.

Francis Xavier Rozinski was not perfect (just ask his family!), but he was a hungry mind; generous of spirit and not afraid to get the most out of life. The Marines are not perfect, either (though in the Halls of Montezuma, they simply did what their country asked them to do. As for the Shores of Tripoli, there may not be a more important moment, post-1789, pre-July 3, 1863, in assuring this nation would be around today). But when the Marines and FX got together, amazing things happened. Frank got to fly, over Korea, and many other places, besides. Later, he joined the Caterpillar Club (had to eject, and “hit the silk”).

He had a large family, retired, and flew private clients, including the bands Yes and Chicago, around the US. His and Leona’s house was filled to bursting with friends, good Polish food, attractive daughters and their boyfriends (this is where I come in), and the expectation that every one of them would become their best, and strive to be happy.

In the same spirit, he wandered the art colonies of the Southwest, then retired to Colorado Springs, one suspects, to tell the more dunder-headed members of the military just what he thought of them. He read and talked about things; then joined a club so he could read and talk some more.

Why is it that no matter how hard one tries, one can never find words adequate to a life before it is done? Perhaps no one understands this gulf between words and actions better than the military. Before the USMC honor guard on that beautiful Tuesday morning had even finished unfolding the flag over his bier, most of the women were sobbing. I was dabbing my eyes when the first volley of a 21-gun salute went off behind us, making everyone jump, and the geese on the lake howl in cacophonous protest, as if nothing living could imagine Frank ever dying.

I don’t know where Frank is now, but he lives on in a wonderful family. He always wanted to fly, and at this moment, I’m positive he’s doing just that. And, if I were religious I would say, “Get ready, angels!”

People who aren’t participating in Facebook often put it down as trivial or superficial, a safely ignored passing fad.

They’re mostly right, but they’re missing the point.

The other day, a beautiful Sunday afternoon, I went to a gathering at a local restaurant. Its purpose was to rally in support of a fellow artist who was about to begin chemo treatments for prostate cancer. John’s prognosis is actually good, and while chemo will undoubtedly be hard on him, the mood of the gathering was rather celebratory. As was intended by its organizer, Renna, a Denver writer into collective action and shamanism. She wanted to have a gathering of the tribe that for once, wasn’t a memorial (we’ve lost several well-loved Denver artists lately). That there was a need for that was quickly apparent. I wasn’t the only one who had to apologize for not remembering the name of someone I hadn’t seen in years.

One subject that kept popping up- Facebook. Not surprising, really. The gathering had largely been organized through Facebook. It could all been accomplished by e-mail, flyers or phone tree, but it wasn’t. I’m sure there was some of all of those, but they couldn’t have created the sort of family reunion type atmosphere we instantly got. Emails are too business like, flyers too time consuming, phones too invasive for such a far flung group. Letters? forget it. Facebook was just right for turning a semi-private event into public knowledge. It’s viral, so word got passed along from friend list to friend list. It’s somewhat passive and undemanding, so one could simply rsvp regrets, or ignore it altogether. It didn’t make too much, nor too little, of John’s challenge. And it allowed Renna and his other friends to set the tone.

Even the folks who I do remember, I haven’t seen in the flesh much. A grinding day job, playing catch-up with a family or creative life, an unanticipated, but very powerful need to go to bed at 10:30- as the years go by, these things mitigate against the kind of daily contact needed to nurture the best friendships. But inexorably, Facebook had brought us back together around health care diatribes; photo sharing and You Tube video links, and now it had gotten us out of our offices and studios to compare bifocal prescriptions and gray hair, and give John a pat on the back or a hug. And, it provides enough superficial info about people you once saw on a daily or weekly basis, to allow one to dispense with the awkward small talk and get to the big talk right away. How did your last show go? How does that feel now the kids are off to school? Are you still a Downtowner? For a bunch of 40-50 somethings, just staying connected is half the battle. It is precisely because Facebook IS trivial and superficial that it is not a fad.

Facebook’s show announcements, polls and coffee-cup haikus allow you to pop in on lives long drifted from you, and even the assorted silliness provides companionable banter in a world where all too often, the only kind you hear is from the get-a-life crowd in the Broncos jerseys. And this is not to mention the more transcendent moments such as last Sunday, or the Mexican food I shared in downtown Albuquerque with my high school friend George, whom I hadn’t seen in over 30 years.

The terminology is stilted (“friending” ? “status” ?), and its mostly mundane content a gold mine awaiting exploitation by The Onion, but its power to create (or revive) affinities among the strivers, dreamers and street-level pundits buried in the detritus of the info age is unmatched. In the numbing triviality of the workaday world, it is almost indispensable to those who haven’t given up on the fine art and pure spontaneous joy of bending -or lending, an ear.

Two friends in the group I was in, pre-show, at the Irish Rover on Broadway remarked separately that having seen the Pogues, it would be possible to “retire” from live shows. With streams of whiskey already flowing (o’Squish wound up driving, so didn’t participate) and the band’s catalog blasting non-stop on the juke box, one guy showed us his sleeve-length Shane MacGowan tattoo. Reports from other cities indicated the boys were in form, and Shane mostly upright. Excitement was high, and we piled into a cab to find out, I guess, whether Rock and Roll can ever die.

Well, not if Rachel Nagy has anything to say about it. “Enjoy the FUCK out the Pogues, she yelled as the Detroit Cobras left the stage after a strong set under the difficult circumstance of a full house awaiting breathlessly its first brush with Poguetry.

The lights went down, and out came the musicians, some now bald, many re-habbed, a cancer survivor. And shuffling behind them, the shambolic bard, shapeless, toothless in a handmade sweater. The general tone of commentary on Shane’s later career, with his sweet rasping whiskey voice now reduced by 5 million cigarettes to mainly rasp, has been: He could’ve been someone. Well, so could anyone! And “Streams of Whiskey”, “If I Should Fall From Grace With God” and “Broad Majestic Shannon”, the traditional show-starting triad, proved that there is nothing wrong with the Pogues that 2,000 stomping, jumping fist-pumping 18-54 year-olds can’t cure.

I had predicted here that tears would flow as “Thousands” was played, but it took less time than that. As the band launched into the blistering main body of “Young Ned of the Hill”, a hail of those glow stick thingies, beer cups and the glittering, trailing plumes of the blessed beverage they had held filled the air, and there were tears on my cheeks. At that moment I was as happy as I’ve been in years, and I’ll remember it all my life.

I can’t recall a single disappointment with the show as it stood. Oh sure, ‘Fairytale of New York”, their iconic, junkie Xmas song was left out, not for lack of snow (the Pogues very resourcefully bring their own), But for a Kirsty MacColl or Emma Finer to sing it. The band was out of its mind, James Fearnley still jumping and diving, accordion in hand. Shane was in strong voice and chatty. Shane’s Ray-Bans came off briefly during “Old Main Drag” where the singer complains that they “messed up my good looks”- priceless!

I got to sing along to “Dirty Old Town” and “Thousands Are Sailing”, and did in fact “raise a glass to JFK”, and 8 musicians besides. I was unprepared for the barely contained chaos that was “Fiesta”, in which one of humankind’s nobler inventions, the beer tray, gave its life on Spider Stacy’s head. I tried to get a picture of that, but by that time, the place where I was, the first riser above the mosh pit, had turned into a second mosh pit itself. Don’t mourn the beer tray. Reflect instead, on what could possibly get gray-hairs with high blood pressure and people who weren’t even born yet when the song was first played bouncing sweatily, beerily, shoulder to shoulder. Can we apply that to health care reform?

I can now slide contentedly into middle age, though if the lads want to come back next year, I can easily put on my Docs and step back out. I never saw The Clash or the Ramones, and it’s too late now ( Joe Strummer joined the Pogues after strung-out Shane was finally kicked out, and “Straight to Hell” plays before every show). But Rock and Roll has never been about what you didn’t do, but what you did. Whiskey, heroin, peace and love, any which way the wind may be blowing. Mosh on, 18 year olds, you’ll be glad you did.

A lot of the simple graphic intensity does get lost as you add more layers, but there’s a richness to the color. I’ll probably do one more run-through, for straight black, which can sometimes add a lot of punch. Still no title, so I’m running out of time on that basic requirement. Obviously, there is both isolation and hope in the image.

I have another large print I’ll start on next week. It’s an interior, a bit more semi-abstract. I’ll post a progress report on that next. I don’t anticipate as many layers for the next one, as I’m not sure all the fine tuning really added much to this one. Interesting to find out, though!

Here are some links to previous incarnations of this print.