5 figure drawings

young man 11.16.13

female back 11.19.13

young man 11.26.13

left hand

right foot

2 Portraits

Rebecca

Kevin

Lovers on Bart

Lovers - 11.23

Lovers - 11.24

Lovers - 11.19

11.21.13 -

Sanraku's tuna sashimi board

The sushi chef taking the torch to Sanraku's legendary Giants roll.  I am definitely going order this room soon.  Carmelizing the slices of uni on top of this roll must produce a divine flavor!

Bart #14 - Powell St. Station

11.20.13

Sebastian the artist painting at Linden Street figure drawing studio in Oakland.  He organizes Tuesday night sessions and is a great guy, offering beer, snacks, and a wonderful creative environment for fellow artists.  He also brews his own beer and makes great guacamole from avocados and lemons growing in his back yard. 

Lake Merritt at night.  A glowing necklace of light encircles the entire lake.  It is a beautiful sight, and must be wonderful for those who run here in the evening.  I'd like to run around Lake Merritt one day.

The Grand Lake Theater's colorful marque.  My friend's husband Darin Nellis' JFK film that he executive produced screened here that night.  It's a very good film shown in a beautiful old theater that is very much like SF's Castro Theater.  I saw pics on Yelp that show a man playing an old organ, too, just like at the Castro.

The auditorium at the Grand Lake Theater.

Late night burger joint on Grand

A mysterious old Victorian house I spotted on Lakeshore drive in Oakland. 

11.19.13

     Another unexciting picture of a person riding Bart.  I've been taking numerous pictures like these lately.  I suppose they can all together be considered a photographic series.  Not a very exciting series, honestly, but one I currently feel compelled to make.  I see it as a passive series motivated by a reflexive compulsion that is not of my choosing.  Why did I take the picture of this individual sitting by himself?  I spend so much time on the Bart system now that I live in the east bay.  I sit on the trains, I wait at the stations.  Yesterday, for example, I spent nearly 2 hours of my life in the Bart system, just to go to Oakland to draw.  I am compelled to see and make images of forms that catch my eye.  And lately, since much of my life is spent on Bart, I find myself making these mundane, monotonous images.  That being said, I do like certain things about them.  People are quiet, they wait, playing on their devices, reading, napping, or staring blankly into space.  They are typically solitary figures in my pictures.  They seem often isolated, and sometimes appear deep in thought, sometimes sad.  Anxiety can be found at the edges of their mask like expressions.  If I'm lucky, I catch this.  But what pleasure do I feel from looking at this series of images?  It is like being tasked by Fate to perform a painfully uninteresting job, and then expecting to be thrilled about it.  Seeing through the eyes of someone who isn't invited to the party, who missed the dance.  The feeling of being imprisoned often overtakes me these days.  Stuck in the confined, limited space of my life.  The Bart seems to be a kind of incarceration, rolling me along in an inescapable box with the Others along for the ride.  

Bart #11 - Man in blue shirt with handheld

Young man writing on Bart

Bart #12 - Sleeping man with BMX bicycle

Bart #13 - Elderly couple wearing yellow bead necklaces

11.17.13

I went to a place called My Tofu House yesterday evening for dinner.  My body felt a cold coming on, so I decided to try to ward it off with a sizzling pot of hot tofu soup.  I like the look of all of the small bowls of appetizers that are set out in a single file on the table here.  Visually, it's warming and bright.  It is a cheerful affair, eating with wooden chopsticks from these small porcelain saucers, nibbling strips of meat here, strings of sprouts there.  Clutching fried fish.  An inside out experience.

Lonesome brown fried fish laid out on a plate.  To find company for this little nibbler, I would need to come with a friend.  This image is a great self portrait of my life.

A hot bowl of tofu soup with beef, shrimp, and clam.  Boiling like a witch's cauldron, this dish delights my senses.  I wish I could have a bowl every day until my dratted cold shies away.  It is so pleasing to eat hot, to feel the heat of each mouthful as it slides down you throat, making its way into your belly.  What is cold warms so much with every morsel of spicy added to the whole inside of you.  I can become this hot tofu soup, which in itself ignites every cell nucleus in my body.

     The ritual of pouring some kind of tea or broth into this empty bowl of rice, which dislodges the toasted brown remains stuck to the sides and makes a rice soup, is I think unique to Korean cuisine.  I can't think of a better way to serve up toasty kernels of rice.  And the gray stone pot with its stone lid I do wish I could make a part of my dwindling collection of kitchen clapboard fillers for special occasions, or for display.

At Cafe du Soleil, I spotted this little dog sitting in a peculiar way while waiting for its master to reappear.  It's a half sit, half stand kind of song and dance.  This little dog likes to skirt the wily orange cones and show frogs, goats, and llamas who rules the realm, crowned king of the lower Haight.  Where's the nearest dukedom?  That's my new home country.

A street car that travels from Castro to Fisherman's Wharf.  Some day, I'll remember with a touch of sadness and resignation how I once rode one of my favorite streetcars from east to western San Francisco.  Awaiting at the end of its line dangled a freshly baked Argentine beef empanada.

Waiting for a Baroque ensemble to perform, I took a picture of this man waiting for a Baroque ensemble to perform.  The harpsichord has his full attention.  Does he play the instrument?  When I see harpsichords, Bach always comes to mind.  I look at the device with wonder, too.  People don't play it anymore.  The piano completely dominates in this case.  Hearing it played takes you back a few hundred years, at least.  In his imagination, this man is centuries away, I like to believe.

My fellow audience members before the start of the Baroque ensemble show at the SF Conservatory of Music.  I may have been the youngest person in the room, apart from the musicians themselves, that is.  Times are tough for senior citizens as well, so there's nothing like a free stringed instrument and harpsichord performance to lure them out of their homes and into the city.

All Night Vigil_11.16.13

     Last night, I listened to the San Francisco Choral Society sing Sergei Rachmaninoff's All-Night Vigil at St. Ignatius Church on the USF Campus.  The acapella chorus was over 200 singers strong and they sang the entire 15 part work in Russian.  About 2 hours in length, the concert was very enjoyable, even though I don't understand the language.  The choir sounded great in that big church.  I have never listened to a choir that large sing Gregorian or Romantic style religious music, so hearing so many voices singing in harmony together was a beautiful new experience.  There were tons of people there for the evening.  When I arrived, I was dismayed to see a long line stretching down the hill.  The line moved briskly, though, and within minutes I was inside the church, observing the crowd and admiring the decorative sanctuary.

     I like St. Ignatius Church.  It's visual forms are attractive to me.  They remind of me of travel, of all the churches I've seen in Europe.  I feel like a visitor in ornate religious environments.  When I was growing up, I did not experience this kind of church.  The churches I attended consisted of a cross, usually hung on the front wall, a pulpit, and a table.  Musical instruments usually sat onstage, with a flower arrangement set in a vase atop the piano. But that was all there was to the visual representations of religious belief in my father's church.  Unlike old European cathedrals, where was no ancient feeling of reverential belief.  Marble statues, mosaics, oil paintings, tapestries, stained glass, candles, bas reliefs, wood carvings, crypts, tombs, holy bones, robes, pointy hats, incense, processionals, Latin, chanting.  The art and artifice of both occidental and oriental religious belief did not really exist.  Perhaps this absence of representations of faith explains both my current fascination with churches like St. Ignatius as well as my feeling of being a tourist in these churches.  I cannot experience the real feelings on display, the sincerity and depth of faith, but I see it and wish to record it.  Nostalgia for a faith I once felt could be the underlying motivation here.

  

From my seat in general admission, where I found myself behind one of the columns because I did not arrive early, I recorded this image of people sitting in the preferred section.  I like all of the heads and faces here, how their are distributed in the fore and mid ground.  The people provide base weight for the image, while the columns, which divide the top part of the image, root and ground the image and simultaneously point your gaze upward, to pause at the Stations of the Cross paintings before rising up into the arches and illuminated ceiling.  It's a square picture, edited and adjusted in Snapseed, which I've come to love as a photo app.  All of these jpgs were shot and edited on my iPhone, which I use as my primary camera now.  Though it's more tedious to import images and post onto this blog, I have come to appreciate what app editing can do, both through Instagram and now Snapseed.  I don't think I could have made this image look as graphic and 'painterly' without the app selections.

 

 

     Here is my view of the choir from behind the big black column.  At least I could look around it to get a view of the singers.  They sung the Gregorian chant 'Hodie Christus Natus Est' to begin the evening, and from the very first sound of echoing notes I was transported.  The beauty of voices singing in perfect harmony, in high, middle and low registers, with cathedral acoustics, is dramatic and pleasing to the soul, to bite off the cliche.  Once the choir got into Rachmaninoff, the experience began to extend itself and expand into something of a personal experience deep with individual significance.  The singing begins and continues in the present, which second by second becomes past.  The music pushes time constantly forward, in a sense, leads the listener through the present temporal moment, and pulls up thoughts, images, memories, feelings and sentiments that are colored by the musics specific tone of mood.  Here it may be reflective, downhearted, or sad, while there it may be joyful, full, striving and light.  One's inner journey while listening to work like the All-Night Vigil is a private thing, but witnessed in a congregation, in a church sanctuary.  Until the Vigil ends, and we go our separate ways.

11.16.13

     These violinists played music that was beautiful and emotionally moving.  It is a different experience to hear stringed instruments compared to vocal or piano performances. Feeling and connection to the music and its sound can be seen all over the musicians faces.  For most of the song, their eyes remain closed.  They have memorized, and internalized, the music.  I enjoy seeing this internalization the most, and when I draw their faces, I try to capture this essence of their art. Most of the musicians played known classical greats-Bach, Beethoven, Brahms.  One violinist, a young woman named Amy Hillis, played 'Dancer on a Tightrope,' a piece by Sofia Gubaidulina.  To me, this piece sounded more modern and expressive-more 20th Century.  Also, I seemed to be hearing Asian influences reminiscent of Noh and Kabuki music.  Spare, spine tingling notes that build and shatter consciousness, that shred the sensibilities.  Music as threat and horror.  You feel the imperative to flee, but fascination and curiosity keep you riveted to your seat.  The emotions were rawer, anxiety-inducing, dramatic, with a terrifying edge at moments.  Brilliantly performed by the violist and accompanied by a pianist, Kevin Korth, who plucked the piano's strings like a laid out harp, and who used a glass jar to distort the sound in ear-bendingly skittish ways.  I was too mesmerized to draw, and wished I could have made a video recording it or taken jpgs.  I was tempted, but it is prohibited.  'Dancer on a Tightrope' will have to live in my memory, where I hope it won't be forgotten.

Part of my finger got caught in this frame.  On the Bart again, taking jpgs of passengers.  Here is a musician on his way home, I suspect, from an evening busking on the streets somewhere in SF.  Possibly 16th & Mission, where a horde of poets, musicians, and street performers congregate at night.  I like the silhouette this fellow makes, all dressed in black from head to foot, with guitar strapped to his back and black milk crate his portable stool.  Music in his heart.  I hope he had a memorable evening.

adjustable piano bench - sfcm

11.14.13

     I sketched these portraits last night during sfcm's voice recital.  From the second row, I sit quietly and looking up at the stage I draw one portrait after another in quick succession.  Each face is drawn during the singing of a song, and one song is sung each.  Some heads are unfinished- missing hair, ears, a jaw or neck.  Everyone's eyes, noses, and mouths are captured, I believe.  The important defining features.  I like that everyone's mouths hang open in great song.  I also enjoy seeing everyone in one page.  They are a choir singing together in harmony instead of individual performers singing their own songs.  I like the illusion of community in this drawing that fills the entire page with it.

     Here I shot the Steinway.  Whenever I walk into the main concert hall at sfcm, this piano usually can be found on the stage.  With patience and silence, it waits for the players, performers, and music, which will be made on it's black and white keys.  I like the tranquility that seems to be flowing out of this quiet waiting instrument.  My mind is calmed and alerted to the promise of beautiful musical moments to come.

     Though this salami and cheese grilled sandwich doesn't look appealing, I find it beautiful.  The lighting conditions were far from ideal, with the plate perched on the counter of a low lit bar called Thieve's Tavern in San Francisco's Mission district.  On the surface, the melted cheese over circles of salami remind me of what singed human flesh  may look like.  Personally, I've never seen burn victims, but I can't imagine the sight being too far removed from what is represented here.  Nancy the evening bartender makes free snacks with her portable electric sandwich grill at one end of the bar.  Sometimes it's tacos with guacamole, tomato, cheese, spices.  Last night, she ran out of tomatoes and avocado, but made me what you see.  I appreciate her generosity and kindness, and this is what I see in this image:  something made and given, a gesture born out of a open heart.

surprised by toy

     Lincoln Logs.  I could not believe my eyes. I walked into my friend Jason's computer room and found this box with its wooden pieces covering the floor.  His young son Hunter must have been playing with them early yesterday morning while his parents readied themselves for work.  It has been decades since I last encountered Lincoln logs.  When I was a kid, I loved building log cabins  with these carved wooden pieces.  They fit togethere so neatly, each piece, and it pleased me set each piece down, to construct a wall with my own hands.  Completing the green roof and finally seeing the finished log cabin made my little heart leap and smile.  Joyful old feelings immediately came over me upon seeing these green and brown pieces again.  Long lost memories and instant recognition, pleasing to the senses.  Visions of early childhood flooded my mind. 
     Did my parents get them for my brother and I, or did a friend or relative give them to us?  Was the set a hand me down?  I can't remember, nor does it matter.  What is true, I believe, is that Lincoln Logs were the first toy that I played with in America, when I was four years old.  This little piece of long forgotten memory that has somehow broken away from its rooted past and traveled many years to visit me here, in my present moment.  It seems a kind of miracle, something I did not know I dreamed of, wished for, until it happened.  The texture of the wood, its rounded shape, its sanded surfaces, its carved-in edges, it's simplicity of design - my new American life.   Those patient little hands worked slowly and quietly then.  Wonder and delight in my eyes.

11.12.13

Rainbow Coop vends menorahs, I discovered.  Here they are bunched together on shelves beside cartons of soy milk, almond milk, rice milk, beside Marcona almonds from Spain, across from pearled farro and bulk rice.  A worker eyed me with mildly curious glance before walked away toward the baked goods.  Branching menorahs huddled together on shelves.  If all their wicks were flamed, imagine how bright this part of Rainbow would be.

11.11.13

I found this full sized fully dressed dummy on the construction site at Dolores & Market street late the other night.  It was very eerie to see because of its size, which gives you a sense that he is life like.  He seemed like a dead man slumped over on the corner at night.  The feeling confuses, tricks, and fascinates all at once.  For these reasons, and for the way the images looks visually shredded, but tonal as well, I had to make the picture.

Here is an image from the Recology disposal facility.  If you have refuse to dispose of, you haul it here, back it into a space, and dump everything onto huge piles of trash.  It is dusty, it smells, it is loud, and it is vast.  You can look into an adjacent CostCo like space and see an immense mountain of garbage.  This is why seagulls constantly flock above this facility.  But you can also see collections of objects that workers have salvaged and placed along the nearby hillside - a sculpture garden of discarded things.

As I waited for The Marriage of Figaro opera to begin, I snapped what was in front of me.  I like the colors here, as well as the graphic quality of the set.  The old man's bald head provides an audience - a set of eyes beside my own that has come to be entertained by the spectacle, or to be moved by the music and singing.

 

Here is a woman sleeping on Bart.  I've been taking a series of Bart riders since I began relying on the trains myself.  I find my rides enjoyable because I can see the people, observe their behavior, sometimes eavesdrop, and sometimes draw portraits, if I am discreet about it.  So many different faces I see on a daily basis.  My eyes feast on what enters its field.