What's New
Thursday, March 17, 2005
DUST TO DIAMONDS
Jean, who takes a morbid interest in television “news,” reports a new, highly commercial disposal scheme for human remains. It’s diamonds.
According to the pitch, you can now have your loved-one’s ashes put in a pressure chamber that will convert the body’s carbon content into a sparkler to wear on your finger, around your neck, on an ear lobe or even, I suppose, in your navel. If endowed with several dearly-departed, you could build yourself a necklace or a stunning tiara.
For reasons I don’t want to know, the gem is a little yellower than your normal diamond. I am curious to know, however, why the size of the gem varies with the amount of money you put down. For $5,000, you can convert your ever-loving to a modest gem, but for a five or even six figure sum you can get a whopper.
Now the carbon content of the human body, I believe, does not vary as much as the price range suggests. If you go for a biggie, how can you be sure that you’re not getting a conglomerate? Someone else, perhaps a complete stranger, maybe even several strangers, just may have contributed to that yellowish luster.
This innovation, of course, puts a new twist on funeral rituals. Viewing the remains, for instance, would mean trooping up the aisle to inspect the newly acquired ring on the grieving survivor’s finger or for the younger set, perhaps a stud in a nostril. For the modest investment, the viewing might require a jeweler’s loupe, but apparently you could view the big ones from the back of the church. How the clergy will handle this only god knows.
Certainly, there are advantages. When times get tough, you could always trot dad down to the pawnshop. Or as I suspect Jean is planning, you could simply offer the keepsake directly on the wholesale market.
SCROLL DOWN
Jean, who takes a morbid interest in television “news,” reports a new, highly commercial disposal scheme for human remains. It’s diamonds.
According to the pitch, you can now have your loved-one’s ashes put in a pressure chamber that will convert the body’s carbon content into a sparkler to wear on your finger, around your neck, on an ear lobe or even, I suppose, in your navel. If endowed with several dearly-departed, you could build yourself a necklace or a stunning tiara.
For reasons I don’t want to know, the gem is a little yellower than your normal diamond. I am curious to know, however, why the size of the gem varies with the amount of money you put down. For $5,000, you can convert your ever-loving to a modest gem, but for a five or even six figure sum you can get a whopper.
Now the carbon content of the human body, I believe, does not vary as much as the price range suggests. If you go for a biggie, how can you be sure that you’re not getting a conglomerate? Someone else, perhaps a complete stranger, maybe even several strangers, just may have contributed to that yellowish luster.
This innovation, of course, puts a new twist on funeral rituals. Viewing the remains, for instance, would mean trooping up the aisle to inspect the newly acquired ring on the grieving survivor’s finger or for the younger set, perhaps a stud in a nostril. For the modest investment, the viewing might require a jeweler’s loupe, but apparently you could view the big ones from the back of the church. How the clergy will handle this only god knows.
Certainly, there are advantages. When times get tough, you could always trot dad down to the pawnshop. Or as I suspect Jean is planning, you could simply offer the keepsake directly on the wholesale market.
SCROLL DOWN
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
CRY UNCLE IV - Generosity
Although not an artist, he was an enthusiast, and he had a good eye, another way of saying that our tastes agreed. Certainly, I liked many of the things he collected, and, thanks to Uncle Don’s generosity, most of his treasured prints are hanging on our walls today.
They include a John Taylor Arms etching entitled “Cavendish Common,” a Warren Tittle drypoint of Joseph Conrad in profile, and a Paul Landacre wood engraving called “Poachers.”
The dollar appreciation of these prints is astounding. The John Taylor Arms alone sells these days for $1,600. Don bought it for $20 back in the 30s or 40s. The Tittle and the Landacre are also quite valuable, but Don bought each for less than $25. Most of them he acquired while working for Zeigler’s Books, a famous shop in Los Angeles prior to World War II. Of course, his prints now reside in a locked room, which is unfortunate.
Don worked as a part-time accountant in the bookstore, and paid for the prints over several months through deductions in his pay. There are others, including a Roi Partridge etching and a smaller Landacre. During our visits to Mendocino, I would drool over these prints, and back in the 80s, after I had established my own printing studio, Don gave me the lot.
“I want them where they’re appreciated,” he said.
Don’s wife, Lee, also extremely generous, owned Gallery Mendocino, a small shop, dedicated mainly to framing. Although display space was limited, she took me on as one of her select artists. To my surprise and delight my stuff sold, and I began getting a monthly check, modest at first, but larger and larger as the years passed. This encouragement came at just the right time, and I know Don and Lee were as delighted as I was.
Lee also gave me lots of advice on marketing. She taught me how to cut mats and prepare a certificate of authenticity to go with the prints. She also had sound advice on pricing.
With each monthly check she listed my buyers so that I could start building a mailing list. It all made me feel very professional.
Lee, an artist herself, put most of her energy into framing other people’s art. She found time, however, for community projects, and was often asked to draw maps when they were needed for brochures and such.
Don was helpless as a frame cutter, but he handled the books, and often manned the store when Lee had to be elsewhere.
If my uncle ever tried drawing or painting himself, I never saw the results. He did, however, encourage talent, and soon after tasking charge of the post office, he opened the lobby walls to rotating shows for local artists. He and Lee soon knew every artist in town, and they, in turn, knew and appreciated the Burlesons.
SCROLL DOWN
Although not an artist, he was an enthusiast, and he had a good eye, another way of saying that our tastes agreed. Certainly, I liked many of the things he collected, and, thanks to Uncle Don’s generosity, most of his treasured prints are hanging on our walls today.
They include a John Taylor Arms etching entitled “Cavendish Common,” a Warren Tittle drypoint of Joseph Conrad in profile, and a Paul Landacre wood engraving called “Poachers.”
The dollar appreciation of these prints is astounding. The John Taylor Arms alone sells these days for $1,600. Don bought it for $20 back in the 30s or 40s. The Tittle and the Landacre are also quite valuable, but Don bought each for less than $25. Most of them he acquired while working for Zeigler’s Books, a famous shop in Los Angeles prior to World War II. Of course, his prints now reside in a locked room, which is unfortunate.
Don worked as a part-time accountant in the bookstore, and paid for the prints over several months through deductions in his pay. There are others, including a Roi Partridge etching and a smaller Landacre. During our visits to Mendocino, I would drool over these prints, and back in the 80s, after I had established my own printing studio, Don gave me the lot.
“I want them where they’re appreciated,” he said.
Don’s wife, Lee, also extremely generous, owned Gallery Mendocino, a small shop, dedicated mainly to framing. Although display space was limited, she took me on as one of her select artists. To my surprise and delight my stuff sold, and I began getting a monthly check, modest at first, but larger and larger as the years passed. This encouragement came at just the right time, and I know Don and Lee were as delighted as I was.
Lee also gave me lots of advice on marketing. She taught me how to cut mats and prepare a certificate of authenticity to go with the prints. She also had sound advice on pricing.
With each monthly check she listed my buyers so that I could start building a mailing list. It all made me feel very professional.
Lee, an artist herself, put most of her energy into framing other people’s art. She found time, however, for community projects, and was often asked to draw maps when they were needed for brochures and such.
Don was helpless as a frame cutter, but he handled the books, and often manned the store when Lee had to be elsewhere.
If my uncle ever tried drawing or painting himself, I never saw the results. He did, however, encourage talent, and soon after tasking charge of the post office, he opened the lobby walls to rotating shows for local artists. He and Lee soon knew every artist in town, and they, in turn, knew and appreciated the Burlesons.
SCROLL DOWN
Sunday, March 13, 2005
THE PARTY ANIMAL
You won’t believe how I once enjoyed parties. I could roam through a crowded room, waving greetings, kissing cheeks and slapping backs with great enthusiasm, and at least half the people I slapped or kissed were people I actually knew.
As long as the law of averages held, there were no major complaints, but then my ability to recognize people began to slip. I grew aware of an attitude of annoyance among my fellow revelers.
Loss of hearing, usually gets sympathy, but loss of the faculty of recognition, other than a general, geriatric complaint, has not yet been isolated as a medical phenomenon. Fortunately, I have company, Jean started having difficulty, too.
This first became obvious when fellow guests came up to us with kisses or back slaps. They knew our names, but neither Jean nor I would have a clue.
Self-introductions provided further embarrassment. I’d approach someone with extended hand and say my name only to be reminded that we had already been introduced a few minutes earlier.
At a party in the old days, as soon as Jean found someone to talk with, I would begin roaming with my hearty greetings. When I located the wine, my confidence grew, and if there were music, I would be the first to dance. The moment Jean found me, she would grab my sleeve and hiss in my ear. “You’re drunk. We’re going home.”
Why is it at these affairs that early departures always attract more attention than late arrivals? I was humiliated, but I usually remembered next day that up until the moment of departure, I had enjoyed myself thoroughly.
Some parties are much more difficult than others for seniors. The worst are the ones where the hosts hide all their chairs before the first guest arrives. The idea is to pack as many people into the house as possible, and this can only be done with a vertical, shoulder-to-shoulder format. Finding a familiar face is impossible except maybe one or two among the catering crew. These people will often chat for a minute or two, long enough to remind you where you saw them last.
Once, thanks to such an encounter, I gained entry into the kitchen, put on an apron and began washing dishes. It was the first time I ever felt useful at a party. I was even asked to pull a cork now and then. It was grand, and the party was almost over before Jean found me and tugged my sleeve.
Almost everyone had left when we got to the door, but there was a tired, distraught woman I spotted on the way out who seemed to need help. I asked if we could drop her anywhere. She turned out to be our hostess.
I quipped that she didn’t need a long drop, but from her weak smile and matching handshake, I assumed she didn’t get my little joke.
“No sense of humor,” I said as we got in the car, but Jean laughed all the way home, hysterically.
Jean is in denial yet about her loss of hearing, but I wear a hearing aid. It’s about as effective as a pork chop, but when people see it, they tend to speak up, and they usually do it with sympathy.
At our last party, or maybe out second to last, a young woman took me aside, and tried to confide something to me. Of course, I was intrigued, cupped my hand to my ear, and asked her to repeat. This happened three or four times until the entire room learned that my fly was open.
After zipping up, I turned to thank her, but she had vanished into the hostile crowd. I mumbled something about casual dress and headed for the wine table.
Actually, that was our last party. It was five or six years ago. We don’t go out any more and never will. Now, aren’t you relieved?
SCROLL DOWN
You won’t believe how I once enjoyed parties. I could roam through a crowded room, waving greetings, kissing cheeks and slapping backs with great enthusiasm, and at least half the people I slapped or kissed were people I actually knew.
As long as the law of averages held, there were no major complaints, but then my ability to recognize people began to slip. I grew aware of an attitude of annoyance among my fellow revelers.
Loss of hearing, usually gets sympathy, but loss of the faculty of recognition, other than a general, geriatric complaint, has not yet been isolated as a medical phenomenon. Fortunately, I have company, Jean started having difficulty, too.
This first became obvious when fellow guests came up to us with kisses or back slaps. They knew our names, but neither Jean nor I would have a clue.
Self-introductions provided further embarrassment. I’d approach someone with extended hand and say my name only to be reminded that we had already been introduced a few minutes earlier.
At a party in the old days, as soon as Jean found someone to talk with, I would begin roaming with my hearty greetings. When I located the wine, my confidence grew, and if there were music, I would be the first to dance. The moment Jean found me, she would grab my sleeve and hiss in my ear. “You’re drunk. We’re going home.”
Why is it at these affairs that early departures always attract more attention than late arrivals? I was humiliated, but I usually remembered next day that up until the moment of departure, I had enjoyed myself thoroughly.
Some parties are much more difficult than others for seniors. The worst are the ones where the hosts hide all their chairs before the first guest arrives. The idea is to pack as many people into the house as possible, and this can only be done with a vertical, shoulder-to-shoulder format. Finding a familiar face is impossible except maybe one or two among the catering crew. These people will often chat for a minute or two, long enough to remind you where you saw them last.
Once, thanks to such an encounter, I gained entry into the kitchen, put on an apron and began washing dishes. It was the first time I ever felt useful at a party. I was even asked to pull a cork now and then. It was grand, and the party was almost over before Jean found me and tugged my sleeve.
Almost everyone had left when we got to the door, but there was a tired, distraught woman I spotted on the way out who seemed to need help. I asked if we could drop her anywhere. She turned out to be our hostess.
I quipped that she didn’t need a long drop, but from her weak smile and matching handshake, I assumed she didn’t get my little joke.
“No sense of humor,” I said as we got in the car, but Jean laughed all the way home, hysterically.
Jean is in denial yet about her loss of hearing, but I wear a hearing aid. It’s about as effective as a pork chop, but when people see it, they tend to speak up, and they usually do it with sympathy.
At our last party, or maybe out second to last, a young woman took me aside, and tried to confide something to me. Of course, I was intrigued, cupped my hand to my ear, and asked her to repeat. This happened three or four times until the entire room learned that my fly was open.
After zipping up, I turned to thank her, but she had vanished into the hostile crowd. I mumbled something about casual dress and headed for the wine table.
Actually, that was our last party. It was five or six years ago. We don’t go out any more and never will. Now, aren’t you relieved?
SCROLL DOWN
A recent painting by Connie Mery of Point Reyes Station
COMING TO THE GALLERIES
Two fascinating shows are coming soon to Point Reyes’ major galleries.
At Gallery Route One, Mary Mountcastle Eubank’s “Givens and Reclamations” will be featured in the main gallery. “Trashed: The Dark Side of the American Dream,” in Project Space, will include the work of David Herveat, Jeff Hvid and Michelle Waters. Zea Morvitz will show Prepared Books and Field Notes in the Annex.
The dates are March 25 to May 1 with a reception from 3 to 5 on Sunday March 27. Gallery hours: 11 to 5 daily except Tuesday, when it’s closed.
Connie Mery will show her recent work in Toby’s Gallery through April with a reception from 2 to 4 on Saturday, April 2. Gallery hours: 9 to 5 Monday through Thursday, 9 to 6 on Friday and Saturday, and 9:30 to 6 on Sundays.
SCROLL DOWN
