The challenge word this week on Monday Artday is “paris”.
On July 3, 1971, The Doors’ Jim Morrison died of a heroin overdose in the bathtub of his Paris apartment, essentially ending Robby Krieger’s career.
I see that a band calling itself “Riders on the Storm” is on tour, with a stop near me in Atlantic City, NJ. I’d like to change my comment to John Densmore.
The challenge at Monday Artday this week is “illustrate a Beatrix Potter story”.
Beatrix Potter was born in London in 1866. She was educated at home by a succession of governesses, and had little opportunity to mix with other children. Even her younger brother was rarely at home. He was sent to boarding school, leaving Beatrix alone with her pet animals. She had frogs, newts, ferrets, a bat and two rabbits. Every summer, the affluent Potter family would rent a country house. Beatrix immediately fell in love with the rugged mountains and dark lakes, and learned the importance of trying to conserve the region, something that was to stay with her for the rest of her life. From the age of 15 until she was past 30, she recorded her everyday life in journals, using her own secret code which was not decoded until 20 years after her death.
Beatrix began an interest in biology, specifically fungi. She was later one of the first to suggest that lichens were a symbiotic relationship between fungi and algae. At the time, the only way to record microscopic images was by painting them, Beatrix made numerous drawings of lichens and fungi. As the result of her observations, she was widely respected throughout England as an expert mycologist. She also studied spore germination and life cycles of fungi. Potter’s set of detailed watercolors of fungi, numbering some 270 completed by 1901, is in the Armitt Library. She also lectured at the London School of Economics several times.
When Beatrix was 27, she sent a story about rabbits to the young son of her last governess. She was encouraged to publish the story so she borrowed it back and made it into the book entitled The Tale of Peter Rabbit. She struggled to find a publisher for it and eventually had 250 copies printed privately. A year later, Frederick Warne & Co agreed to publish 8,000 copies in a small format, easy for a child to hold and read. Beatrix was asked to re-illustrate it in colour. It was extremely well received and by the end of the year 28,000 copies had been printed. She followed Peter Rabbit with The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin. The popularity of these and subsequent books rewarded Beatrix with a substantial income from their sales. She also became engaged to the publisher, Norman Warne in 1905, against her parents’ wishes. Their opposition to the wedding caused a breach between Beatrix and her parents. However, the wedding never occurred. Norman fell ill and died within a few weeks. Beatrix was devastated.
Beatrix eventually wrote 23 books, all in the same small format. Her writing efforts finally ended around 1920 due to poor eyesight.
This illustration is for Beatrix’s book “The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse”, written in 1910. It is the story of a fastidious woodmouse named Mrs. Tittlemouse. She obsesses over keeping her home clean, constantly sweeping and chasing out unwanted visitors. She is horrified when a big, sloppy, wet frog named Mr. Jackson enters her home looking for honey.
Look! I can do cute!
The challenge word this week on both Monday Artday and sugar frosted goodness is “olympics”.
There are things I don’t like. I don’t like being manipulated and told what to like. The media in the United States has been manipulating and telling us what to like for years. The influence of the US media combined with the complacency and short attention span of the average US citizen creates an awesome power. Most recently, we, as a society, are told by the media to give our allegiance and adoration to Britney Spears, High School Musical, American Idol, Hannah Montana and countless others. We are guided, influenced and swayed to follow the every move of someone or something that the media deems “a star”. Sure, I know it’s not a new thing. I watched “The Partridge Family” when I was a kid. My female classmates in elementary school pored over Tiger Beat Magazine. And as the years go on, the manipulation intensifies.
I watched the Summer Olympics in 1972. In the years before cable television, we only received four channels, so there wasn’t much choice. The afore-mentioned Partridge Family was pre-empted, so we watched. I remember cheering that porn star-mustachioed Mark Spitz and his incredible swimming accomplishments. I remember my mom digging Mr. Spitz for other reasons, as highlighted in his famous poster. We marveled as deadpan Russian Olga Korbut executed impossible gymnastic routines. I also remember watching live coverage of the ominous horror as the Olympic Village in Munich was infiltrated by eight Palestinian terrorists. I watched the 1976 Summer Olympics from Montreal, where Romanian darling Nadia Comăneci simultaneously won the hearts of viewers and the highest scores from judges and made us forget Olga Korbut.
In between the two Olympics in the 70s, life went on. Regular television programming was resumed and interest in discussing the Olympics waned.
From 1980 until now, I have watched approximately three minutes of the Olympics. I thought about that. I have come to believe that the Olympics are much more popular in other countries than in the United States, much like soccer. The United States media attempts to whip up interest in the Olympics because so much money is sunk into it by advertisers and NBC. Unlike professional sports like baseball or football, where fans can follow a player’s career for years, Olympic participants appear in one (maybe two) Games and then retire from their sport. With each new Games, we are presented with new athletes and their stories about which we are expected to care. They are offered in such a way that we are told “these are the people you must watch for and care about.” We are commanded to watch sporting events that, aside from two weeks at the end of summer every four years, no one gives a shit about.
I have heard more stories about Michael Phelps’ facial hair and his daily calorie intake than I really care to. He seems like a good guy. I guess it’s a good thing that he can swim fast. I suppose winning eight gold medals is good. But he’s a swimmer! A swimmer, for Christ’s sake! A guy who swims in a goddamn swimming pool! He’s not a brain surgeon. He hasn’t cured cancer. And after his endorsements run out when the “next cool athlete” rolls around, he’ll be wearing a paper hat and asking if you’d like to try the hot apple pie.
The Olympic Games have grown to over 11,100 competitors from 202 countries. Have you been following the careers of these 2008 Olympic gold medal winners?
Samuel Sánchez
Masato Uchishiba
Satu Mäkelä-Nummela
Pak Hyon Suk
Chen Ying
Elena Kaliská
I didn’t think so.
The US Olympic Men’s Basketball team brought home an unprecedented nine gold medals between 1936 and 1984. In 1996, the previously amateur basketball team was comprised of the best-of-the-best of the NBA. They easily took the gold medal in Men’s Basketball. Yesterday afternoon, 2008 US Men’s Basketball teammates, Kobe Bryant and LeBron James giggled on the bench as they watched their team trounce the Australian team by 31 points. The Coubertin Medal is awarded to athletes who exhibit the spirit of sportsmanship. It is named for Pierre de Coubertin, founder of the International Olympic Committee, whose ideals are illustrated in the official Olympic Creed:
“The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.”
The original ideology of the Olympics was noble. The current ideology of the Olympics is bullshit.
*Footnote: My wife is watching the Olympics as I make this post. They just presented a story during Women’s Beach Volleyball (Yes, THAT’S an Olympic event). The story told about volleyball team member Misty May-Treanor and how she brought some of her mother’s ashes (as in cremated) to sprinkle at the volleyball venue in Beijing.
I hate the fucking Olympics.
The challenge on Monday Artday this week is “1 character, 4 panels”.
This challenge was posted on August 4 as a two-week challenge because the person who mantains the Monday Artday illustration blog was going on vacation. So was I.
So, I’m walking across Harbor Boulevard in Anaheim, California, with Pudge’s Mom and Captain Wow. We were headed to Disneyland. While walking through the tram and bus loading area, I asked them for suggestions for the challenge. Pudge’s Mom says, “How about a strip of photos from a photo booth.” Captain Wow, at the same time, says, “Ha! You should draw Mr. Potato Head!”
Instead of doing two drawings, I combined both ideas because I’m lazy.
The Monday Artday challenge word this week is “summer”.
I love summer. I was born in the summer. I wait all winter for summer to come. I dislike the snow and the cold weather. Summer has always meant warm weather and vacations.
Elsewhere on my blog, I have talked about going to pre-casino Atlantic City when I was a kid. Part of my family’s ritual of going “down the shore” (as they say in Philadelphia) was a trip to the beach. The beach in Atlantic City is one of the last free beaches at the Jersey shore. By “free”, I mean that most other beaches require bathers to purchase a beach tag for admission. Beach tags are a small pinback button-like deal and are sold at the municipality’s City Hall for full season admission or by lifeguards at the beach for a daily pass. The money collected for beach tags usually goes toward maintaining a clean and safe beach experience. The beaches within the Atlantic City limits remain free of charge and it shows. The casinos glitter and sparkle on the famed Boardwalk. Just a few feet away, you’ll find one of the dirtiest beaches you’ve even seen.
It was different in the mid-1960s. I played in the sand. I built sand castles. I threw sand at my brother. My brother threw sand at me. My mom drank her world-famous iced tea from a big orange Thermos jug. My dad went into the ocean in his usual costume of a short-sleeve, button-down shirt, sunglasses and a cigarette.
One of the high points of a ’60s beach day was waiting for the ice cream guy. As soon as the blanket was spread and the umbrella was set up, I begged my mom for some coins. Although I was playing, I kept one eye open and one ear cocked for the ice cream man’s call. Every summer, we saw the same guys — Sal, Chas and Leo. They were three guys, looking back now, from which one wouldn’t dare dream of purchasing a food product. They were weathered and tanned with skin that resembled a well-worn catcher’s mitt. They dressed in sun-faded, torn and stitched ragged clothing. Some wore beat-up sandals on their filthy and calloused feet. Some just wore their filthy feet. It was 1967, so each sported long, unkempt hair — usually tied back in a ponytail — and a beard in desperate need of a trim. With the support of a duct taped nylon strap, they toted a huge, white cooler. It was covered with dents on the outside and filled with dry ice and frozen confections. You could hear them approach with their calls of “Fudgy Wudgy HEEEE-AHH!” A Fudgy Wudgy was a rocket shaped Fudgsicle with an extremely-fake, laboratory version of banana flavored stripe around the middle. There were also twin popsicles and tri-flavor dixie cups (with a little wooden paddle that served as a spoon). My mom always got a Good Humor Chocolate Eclair — vanilla ice cream on a stick coated with tiny bits of vanilla and chocolate cake crunchies. I remember loving the ice cream buying experience, but not the ice cream itself. The products were so rock-hard, frozen solid that taste was nonexistent. They melted in the hot summer sun, but the ice cream still had a flavor reminiscent of stainless steel.
I continued to go to Atlantic City as a teenager. In the late 1970s, my friends and I would descend upon Betty’s Rooming House for several beer-soaked weekends every summer. By day, when we weren’t drinking, we would head to the beach to watch girls, but usually ended up throwing sand at each other. But, still, we always bought ice cream. Still from Sal or Chas or Leo, now several years older and looking it.
My son just reminded me that my wife bought ice cream for him as a child, in the early 1990s — from Sal or Chas or Leo — on the beach in Ventnor, just south of Atlantic City.
My wife and I are going to Ventnor this weekend. I haven’t been to the beach in years, but I won’t be surprised if I see Sal or Chas or Leo shlepping their frozen wares. It wouldn’t be summer without them.
The Monday Artday challenge word this week is “opposites”.
Bewitched’s Samantha Stephens was a typical late-1960’s housewife. She was demure and straight-laced. She had a loving husband, Darrin, a hothead who was incompetent in his job. She had an adorable daughter who followed in her mom’s footsteps and an infant son. Her mother, Endora, who was estranged from her father, disliked Darrin. Oh, and Samantha was a witch.
Samantha had a cousin Serena. Except for her dark hair and heart-shaped birthmark, Serena was Samantha’s identical twin. However, they were total opposites. Serena was a wild, free-spirit hippie with an affinity for psychedelic miniskirts. She kept company with prankster Uncle Arthur and she loved rock and roll music, once teaming with 60’s singers Boyce and Hart. Oh, Serena was a witch, too.
Although popular for eight seasons, Bewitched met its demise at the hands of a more progressive show - All in The Family. Sadly, Elizabeth Montgomery, the actress who played Samantha, passed away on May 18, 1995. Pandora Spocks, the actress who played Serena, passed away at the exact same time.
The challenge word this week on Monday Artday is “steampunk”. This may be an unfamiliar concept to some, so I’ll do my best to explain it. According to Wikipedia, the Internet source for everything (including a little bullshit), steampunk is a genre of fiction that came into prominence in the 1980s and early 1990s. The term denotes works set in an era or world where steam power is still widely used—usually the 19th century, and often set in Victorian era England—but with prominent elements of either science fiction or fantasy, such as fictional technological inventions like those found in the works of H. G. Wells and Jules Verne, or real technological developments like computers occurring at an earlier date. Clear on that? I didn’t think so. Well, If you are one of the six people who saw the Will Smith-Kevin Kline movie “Wild Wild West“, you get the idea. That said, let’s get to my illustration.
In the late nineteenth century, a field game called base-ball was becoming popular throughout the countryside. With the game still in its infancy, participants sought ways and means with which to gain an edge over their adversaries. Long before the abundance of steroids infiltrated these contests, players relied on technology to enhance their performance. One such player was C. Abercrombie Wheatsworth III. “The Crom”, as he was known to be called by spectators, was the mid-short fielder for the Manhattan Island Gyroscopes of Greater New York State.
In the late summer of 1896, The Gyroscopes were embroiled in a brutal struggle with the Cleveland Steamers, their league division rivals. Tempers were high and nerves were on edge as the score stood in a dead heat at 3-3 in the crucial bottom of the ninth inning. The winning run was on third base. “The Crom” approached the lime-delineated batter’s box and keenly stared down the hurler on the mound. The Steamers’ pitcher, Dirk T. Sanchez, was a mysterious foreign import who had previously played for the Mexican League in Zihuatanejo in the western part of Guerrero.
“The Crom” motioned to the equipment boy to bring his secret weapon. The boy scampered to the dugout and returned with a gleaming length of polished brass, chrome and wood, topped with ornate and elaborate wind deflectors affixed to the massive barrel. “The Crom Pulveritizer” he called it. These were times of limited equipment stipulations and few regulated ordinances. The lanky Sanchez deftly pitched the cowhide-covered projectile at full velocity in Wheatsworth’s direction. Wheatsworth reared back and struck the orb squarely across the brown leather stitches. The sphere rocketed high and far. With his chest puffed out like a Christmas goose, “The Crom” triumphantly circled the bases and once again was the hero of Old New Amsterdam.
The challenge for this week on Monday Artday is “cocktail lounge”.
I’m sure the topic of “cocktail lounge” conjures up images of swingin’ little cozy hideaways where a cool cat can order a hip martini-du-jour and smooth-talk a sophisticated chick. Think Frank Sinatra, Buster Poindexter and Dean Martin with a bit of Lord Buckley’s silky speech.
I admit when I saw the topic, the first thing I thought was “loser”.
I don’t drink. I haven’t been in a bar or cocktail lounge in twenty-five years. And my only frame of reference is Steve Buscemi’s directorial debut “Trees Lounge”.
The film, Trees Lounge, was about a cocktail lounge filled with losers, talking about their loser lives, hanging out with their loser friends and screwing up every opportunity to better themselves. It was a really depressing movie.
I highly recommend it.
The challenge this week on Monday Artday is “hair”.
The details of Julia Pastrana’s early life are sketchy. She was discovered in Mexico where she worked as a housemaid. She had hypertrichosis terminalis. She had a beard, was covered in glossy black hair. Her ears and nose were unusually large and her teeth were irregular. Theodor Lent discovered her and purchased her from a woman who might have been her mother. Lent taught her to sing and dance and play music, preparations for Julia’s introduction to the circus sideshow where she would spend the rest of her life. She joined a traveling circus when she was 20. She was regarded as some sort of hybrid or other “freak of nature” that did not fit in the order of things. Some doubted that she was even human, as a flyer from 1854 proclaimed “its jaws, jagged fangs and ears are terrifically hideous… nearly its whole frame is coated with long glossy hair. Its voice is harmonious, for this semi-human being is perfectly docile, and speaks the Spanish language.” A sense of mysticism surrounded people and creatures that deviated from “normal” and even into the mid-19th century, it was worried that even looking at Julia would cause women to miscarry or have monstrous births of their own. Her appearance was often considered to be an obscenity not fit for the public to view.
Lent married Julia during the course of her sideshow career. She became pregnant and gave birth to a son, also covered with hair. Her son died after only 36 hours and Julia died two days later. Julia’s death did not stop Lent. He had the bodies of Julia and the child mummified and took them on an extended tour of Europe, putting them on display at any chance available, for a quick buck. Victorian England loved stories of apes, lurid tales of savage gorillas coming in from Africa and the scientific description of animals. Rather than being some monstrous aberration meant to make people turn their gaze to God, Julia now represented a “missing link,” and the popularity of apes was just too tempting for Lent to let his wife rest in peace. Julia’s mummified remains were easier to approach and many people still turned out to see her body and discuss her anatomy. Ultimately, her body and that of her child wound up in a hospital storage room in Norway where they have disappeared and resurfaced multiple times since the 1860s.
Once again, Monday Artday is using one of my suggestions as the weekly challenge. The challenge this week is “my hometown” — illustrate something specific to the city you live in or the city you are from.
Funny. When I make suggestions for topics, you’d think I’d have an idea in mind. I don’t. Not at all. I actually came up with this idea when I was driving to pick up my son at the radio station where he works in Philadelphia. He does not drive (by choice), so on Sunday nights, I drive from the predominantly white, predominantly Jewish, predominantly affluent suburb of Elkins Park, through an interesting array of neighborhoods, to West Philadelphia….. and it got me thinking.
Philadelphia is the sixth largest city in the United States. For such a large city, it is merely a series of neighborhoods all strung together by the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers. The neighborhoods are mostly formed by ethnicity, religion, culture. Philadelphia has the second largest Irish, Italian, and Jamaican populations and the fourth largest African American population in the nation. Philadelphia also has the fourth largest population of Polish residents and the third largest Puerto Rican population in the continental United States. Philadelphia has one of the largest populations of Vietnamese, Cambodians, Chinese, and Koreans in United States. Philadelphia also has the fourth largest population of Indian Americans. The city is one big melting pot in the truest sense of the concept.
Besides that we have soft pretzels, Peanut Chews and we’re the home of Comcast.
Benjamin Franklin lived here.
We have a big bell with a crack in it.
And our baseball team hasn’t won a World Series in twenty-eight years.
Powered by WordPress
