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At this point I’ve learned enough about Stan Getz’s face to picture it and describe it without looking at a photo: Pale. Nose slightly aquiline. Short but not weak chin. Deep-set eyes, with sockets sloping upward toward the middle of the face. Ears small but protrusive. (Birth trauma trivia: Stan’s poor mom, Goldie, had 35 hours of labor. The doctor went in with forceps. Stan’s head was so big one of his ears was almost torn off and needed suturing. The doctor said they couldn’t leave with Stan until they’d paid an additional $52–a huge sum of money in 1927–for the ear work. “$52?” Al Getz gasped. “That’s too much. You can keep him.” Then he paid up.)

Here is a first take on a solo headshot of Stan Getz. There will be four more.

stan getz 030615

Words:

Smoothened F then sharpened G
Talk with tune of what will be
Anthemed improv free of rust
No one’s catspaw no one’s klutz

stan getz from beak to bell 030515

Now it can be told: My recent interest in the saxophone and the world of jazz is due to my acceptance of a commission to do a portrait of Stan Getz, the tenor saxophonist known as The Sound. I knew next to nothing about Getz, and was completely unfamiliar with the structure of the saxophone. Now, with several drawings under my belt, armed with the critically praised STAN GETZ: A LIFE IN JAZZ by Donald L. Maggin, and (just as important) having listened to some Getz sides, I am well on the way to meeting my deadline of April Fool’s Day with some familiarity with Mr. Getz and the world he inhabited. This is an enjoyable project, and I think I’ll come out of it a better artist. I’m a long way from the finish line, though!

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One thing Clark Gable and Jackson Browne have in common is the nonuse of their first names. Wikipedia says they were born Clyde Jackson Browne and William Clark Gable. Another thing they had in common was their alleged scandalous involvement with movie stars. Mr. Browne was with Daryl Hannah and Mr. Gable was with Loretta Young. Ms. Hannah has alleged that Browne physically abused her; Ms. Young alleged that Mr. Gable fathered her child. One story has been discredited; one has not.

Both of these fellows indulged in derring-do. Jackson Browne wrote one of the greatest protest songs of the 20th Century, “Lives in the Balance.” Mr. Gable flew combat missions in WWII.

And why do I put myself in their company? Well, my hair is straight and used to be brown, like Jackson’s; my moustache is semi-sparse, like Clark’s. All three of us did some time in California. None of us is 99 and 44/100 % pure. And all three of us have had a woman close to us die before her time.

But that isn’t it. Not really. The thing is, Jackson Browne and Clark Gable both possess a quality I want. They have both been Champions, and so I wish to be. I’m not a Champion yet, but I’m encouraged by my Champion’s Training of late.

No need to wish me luck, Friends. If I have it in me to be a Champion, Luck is something I won’t need.

Five years ago Thursday I was watching Jack Evans, “the Godfather of Phoenix poetry” according to Phoenix New Times, co-host and perform in the Caffeine Corridor series, and I was fortunate enough to have pencil and scrap paper on hand and a ringside seat, so I did a sketch. That that was five years ago attests to the longevity of Caffeine Corridor, and of Jack.

Today I was delighted to see that Jack had made that long-ago sketch his Facebook avatar, probably in acknowledgment of the five-year anniversary of my sketch. Jack, you REALLY MADE MY DAY, doing this! Thanks so much!

jack 112009

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I once loved a girl, her skin it was bronze.
With the innocence of a lamb, she was gentle like a fawn.
I courted her proudly but now she is gone,
Gone as the season she’s taken.
Bob Dylan, “Ballad in Plain D”

When you see through love’s illusions, there lies the danger
And your perfect lover just looks like a perfect fool
So you go running off in search of a perfect stranger
While this loneliness seems to spring from your life
Like a fountain from a pool…
Jackson Browne, “Fountain of Sorrow”

It was a time I won’t forget
For the sorrow and regret
And the shape of a heart
And the shape of a heart
Jackson Browne, “In The Shape of a Heart”

The dance was good. Now let it end.
Roger Zelazny, “A Rose for Ecclesiastes”

I did love a girl. Her skin it was bronze, especially when she sunned. On June 14, 1971, I fell for her hard. In January of 1979 I left her. In August of that year we went to Colorado together for a week, but things were not the same between us and would never be so again. In midsummer 1990 she called me and asked me to come see her, and I did, and it provided some closure for me, and I hope for her. In March of 1993 I did a marathon in the city where she lived (and lives), staying as a guest in her house while she stayed with her husband-to-be. I haven’t seen her since. We used to call each other on our birthdays, but we haven’t done so this century.

There’s a lot left out of the above paragraph, just as there’s a lot of detail lost in the page I scanned and selectively deresolutioned. Restored, it reveals a portrait of her very young self and a double acrostic poem based on her name. She deserves her privacy, and I need a shorter leash on my spilling-my-guts tendency. But this blog, which will be the chief trace of myself left over after my death, is intended to be holographic, and I could not leave her out of it.

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This courtly gentleman lives where I work. He is shamanistic, a lover of music from Mozart to David Gates’s Bread, a lover of dancing, of our Verde Valley, and of his fellow human beings. There is something about the tipping of day toward night that wakes him from a nap. There is something about the joy he derives from everyday life that brings an easy smile to his face, and then the faces of the people he talks to.

I’m glad to know him, and I wish the Earth had more of him.

Here are the words to the acrostic of his name:

Can o p t i m i s m come to be
Around when some unhappily
Reflect on spires that do not gleam
Lost love, lost chances, darkened theme?
Of course! Just find a friend who’s fair
Shake Shakespeare and confound Flaubert

Shakespeare wrote HAMLET and KING LEAR and MACBETH and ROMEO AND JULIET and TITUS ANDRONICUS (“probably in collaboration with George Peele,” says Wikipedia) and OTHELLO and other awfulness-containing tragedies. Flaubert is chiefly known for MADAME BOVARY.

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Today my good friend and Leader of the Facebook Poet Pack, Socorro Olsen, clued me in on an article about words Noah Webster had in his pioneering Dictionary. The article had a word for every letter in the alphabet, and also mentioned his popularization of Americanisms such as squash, skunk, hickory, chowder and applesauce. I had a great deal of fun getting familiar with the words and their meanings by writing this poem with at least one of the words in each line. NOTE: “PACpals” refers to the members of the Facebook poetry group Poets All Call, which Socorro created and in which I enthusiastically have participated for years.

To Noah Webster, Socorro Solis Olsen, and My PACpals

Uptrain us, please, O Webster, N,
We Yoke-mates need our fun.
To bloom and Vernate well and then
Trill Zuffalo and pun.
Though Xerophagy leaves us dry
And makes us Maffle oddly,
An Ear-erecting noise awry
Makes Kissing-crust more godly.
And we may Sheep-bite from your words
Though at first Tardigradous,
No Rakeshames, we, just avid nerds
Whose Babblement’s unmade us.
Such Hugger-Mugger came before,
And now we, After-wise,
Won’t Daggle-tail the couch or floor
With Packthread o’er our eyes.
We may choose to Obambulate
To gain Longiquity
Nuncupatory deals relate
To Wranglesome decree.
Illaqueation sets the trap;
A Quadrin we don’t need,
Our Cycopede will cut the crap
For Fopdoodle to cede.
No dummy, no Gastriloquist,
Just ham on wry Jackpudding,
We’ll Squash the Applesauce, then twist
The Skunk tail, would-should-coulding.

L’Envoi

Old Hickory took a powder.
Hey, buddy–pass the Chowder!

…stole. A copy of Smithsonian Magazine was open to an ad for the DVD and Blu-Ray editions of Ken Burns’s THE ROOSEVELTS. The cover of the items for sale was photo-based but with an anachronistic twist. I initially wanted to do some portrait practice on Franklin, but I ended up doing them all, pencil-reporting and preserving (stealing) the positioning and the anachronism. I did try to add a little more inner beauty to Eleanor, a little more wide-eyed goodtobehere to Franklin, and a little more walrus to Theodore.

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I also stole the design of the cover of a memo book produced by Mead Products, LLC, but only to the end of getting some black background, the amazing letter string “memo,” about which more later, and the occlusion of “Mead” so that it might also say something else, like “Meanderlust” or “Meant Not To Be.” Art critics love stuff like that, based on historical evidence, but, honest, folks, I did it because it was the right thing to do!

As to “memo,” not only does it start such magical words as Memorial and Memoirist, it also splits into “me mo,” which is falseghetto for “I want more.”

I don’t think there’s a very high probability that I’ve created a great work of art with this, but I hope it and this annotation give satisfation as something more than portraiture exercise. I wanted to illustrate through caricatured example that what we think of as ART requires more than what the artist does on paper or canvas or stone or sheetmetal; it also requires the thoughts and opinions of others in the Art Business.

For the record, I don’t think stealing makes me a Great Artist. Hard work, skewed thoughtlines, and perseverance MAY do that. It is for others to judge my worth.

Lastly, I’ll steal a terrific seven words from Allen Ginsberg:

“I forbid you not to touch me.”