First Exams

I've had a terrible cold, because let's face it: kids are basically disease vectors, and I spend a great deal of time riding sealed capsules called campus shuttles filled to capacity with college age kids hacking up lungs. Granted, many of them think they are immortal and indulge in the insanely stupid habit of smoking (if anyone saw how either of my parents died they would never even consider smoking), but this cold which made the rounds was of Medieval-plague proportions. I had a headache which pounded like a kettle drum, and during a simple Art History quiz after spelling such Italian jawbreakers like Gentile da Fabriano and Brunelleschi, my brain vapor-locked on van Eyck. I got the 'van' part but for the life of me 'Eyck' froze my synapses. I think wound up scrawling 'Eyke.' Oh well--I found out he doesn't count off for spelling as long as you don't try an ambiguous cover-your-bet dodge like combining Ducio and Giotto into 'Duciotto.'

So this coming week we have an actual exam MONDAY in Art History, and another in Italian on TUESDAY. I have been studying diligently and am curious to see how I'll do in Italian. Art History I have on lockdown. After all, this is the Italian Renaissance. Italian verb conjugations are giving me a bit of a tussle but I'm gaining on them. I think I'll do okay.

The two studio classes are challenging. We do three-four paintings a week and two-three major drawings. Being obsessive, I really can't just toss these things off; I have to put in a lot of work and effort. So I think I'm probably devoting about twice the work most people are doing. Back when I was a productive artist, I think I may have done four or five paintings every six months so this pace is interesting to me. The drawing lab is very fast-paced and we'll often begin another project before the previous one is complete, and switching gears this fast is, I suppose, part of the program.

I have a still-life to finish this weekend and I need to do it before my vegetables wilt any further. My cold is much better and I feel a surge of energy returning. I look forward to the exams and to seeing how much of this new erudition is sticking.

World's Oldest College Student?

I don't know, but it seems that way. After successfully navigating Indiana University's sometimes bewildering bureaucratic labyrinth, a process that took most of the summer and fall, I was accepted as a student November 11th, 2011. I discovered that IU was like most monolithic bureaucracies; that is if you don't get the answer you want the first time you ask, keep asking and eventually you will get the answer you want from someone. In this case, I wanted to enter IU as a transfer student in the Fine Arts department with credits transferred from UT as well as my Mechanical Engineering degree from another school. After asking Admissions, Transmissions, Omissions, Submissions, the Department of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the Department of Redundancy Department, I found out if I entered as a General Studies Major, my wish would be granted.

I attended UT in 1982, Pellissippi in 1992. Therefore, some of my credits were in the archaic quarter system and some in semesters. After calling in various necromancers to translate my credits, I consulted with an adviser in the Fine Arts department to determine my academic standing. My plan is to graduate with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree and go one to a Master's of Fine Arts Degree. She was stunned to find I had a total of 142 transferred credits. You need 120 to graduate. "Excellent," I said. "I can go on to Grad school."

"Well, "I was told. "We like you to have 20 credits on-campus in studio."

"I understand, but I'd like to go on to Grad school."

The good news was I have all math, English, history, etc. long satisfied. However, due to changing standards I have a language deficiency, so must take Italian. Cool, my Graduate thesis will be Renaissance studio techniques so it will be handy to read those old manuscripts in the original lingo. Plus Twenty hours of painting and drawing lab, no big deal. Then on to Grad School.

But the hilarious item of this bon adventura was I was required to attend New Student Orientation. I tried to get out of it; I really did. Piteous e-mails to every official I could pin down was ineffectual. I even attempted bribery. No avail nor solace. I had to go.

I arrived early, as is my obsessive-compulsive wont, and realized I was going to orientated by kids young enough to be my children. I befriended a couple of them posthaste and learned that everything we would cover that day--and I mean everything--I had already accomplished.

So after the opening obsequies, and after several well-meaning people attempted to steer me to the room where Parent's Orientation was taking place, I found an adult and explained I had already registered for class and displayed my schedule. I also explained I had already had three appointments with an adviser. She looked at me in surprise. "You're already registered for classes?"

"Yes, here is my schedule, and I have seen my adviser, she's the department head."

"Well, all you need to do is get your books and Student ID."

"I already have those." I showed her my ID, with a picture of me grinning like a rottweiler.

She looked a little offended. "Then you don't need to be here. You can go."

Which is what I had been trying to tell them for three weeks. I tried to toss her a bone. "You mean it? I'm kind of disappointed."

She actually snorted. "I'll bet." She crossed my name off of some computer list, or perhaps made a note on my PERMANENT RECORD: "Troublemaker: Too Smart For His Own Good. Acts Independently. Doesn't Run With The Sheep. Keep an eye on him.

I've been going to classes for two weeks now and the process is a lot easier than it was in 1982. Transportation is more efficient. There are on-line resources that make studying a cinch. I watched a video for one of my classes that placed so much emphasis on attendance it pretty much promised if you just showed up for class, you would get a passing grade.

I'm delighted, almost giddy with the realization that I am back in school, continuing the thread that broke in 1982. Yet I feel a little slow. Perhaps the weight of my years and experience lay heavy on me. I was watching my fellow art students and realized they still sailed toward something they saw on the far horizon. It didn't bother them that their artwork was flawed because they knew someday they could be great artists--they had time. I know I have no horizon. I don't care about the finished product of my artwork--the drawing or painting-- because when I paint or draw I do so for different reasons. I'm more fascinated by the process itself. I don't care at all about the finished product. I can't. If I did, I would be in utter despair, because the product itself is unsatisfying compared to the effort put into it. I more often than not give them away.

I know I'll never be a great artist, or even a good one. But I can be a better artist, so for me the process of creation is where I find my satisfaction, and if I find an incremental improvement, or some discovery along the way, or learn something about myself or the world, there is my art.

Monday: Two quizzes. How exciting.

Year End

For a little while my piano was inundated in Christmas accoutrements as we moved it aside from its corner location in order to erect our Yuletide tree. This year we gave our much-serviced artificial tree, which had stood tall for the past five years, to Goodwill and bought a live tree. Our cats love this, as my Lady cat lays beneath it like a panther and my male cat drinks from the reservoir. I took about a week off from playing and practicing as I concentrated on performing at Holiday parties and taking care of school preparations.

So this week I've played a little bit, and my teacher and I have taken several steps back: I'm concentrating on improving my sight-reading. Last lesson we spent working through several children's songs while I avoided watching my hands. I intend to practice this while I go to school until I gain proficiency. It's a real weakness, I think, that I can play some fairly advanced music but if I forget a part, I can't look at the music and instantly recognize were I am. I can't always rely on my memory. When I'm tired, or playing an unfamiliar piano, my memory sometimes fails me.

But then we have this other somewhat large shadow looming ahead of me: returning to school. I honestly don't know what I'm getting myself into. I may coast right through. Or it may take a while to catch my stride. So what to do about my piano practice? I don't know.

I guess I'll just have to take it a day at a time.

A new year is just ahead, with new challenges and new adventures. I'll turn fifty-two right in the middle of next year. When I was in High School I never thought I'd make it this far. And I'm going to go to college. Wow.

First Piano Recital Ever

I Just returned from my first piano recital, at a retirement center here in town. I estimate about twenty-five people were in attendance. The weather was a rainy, sulky, slightly cold day. Six of us performed for the residents. Some of the little kids were very good. I went on third, and played The Entertainer and Cristofori's Dream. It was the first time I've ever played for anyone (seriously, the first time) and it felt weird, because I couldn't see the audience like I can when I perform my act. I had that feeling between my shoulder-blades you get when a predator is about to pounce. I tend to be slightly distrustful of people I don't know, and it's worse when I can't see them, but it helped that my teacher and her husband were there and I knew they had my back in the event the residents rose up in force like the villagers in an old Hammer movie to burn me at the stake. Most of the other players there had a fairly elaborate support group in place: parents, family--this was a big thing to them. I showed up alone. Nobody up here really cares enough about what I do to show up at my recitals, or to congratulate me that I was accepted at Indiana University to pursue my Master's Degree--a big step at age Fifty-one--or that I have begun drawing and painting again in pursuit of that goal: a Masters of Fine Arts. Am I feeling sorry for myself? Perhaps a little. It would be nice to have a cheering section at home. But perhaps it's the time of my life to go it alone for the time being.

But the recital was a new experience and I learned from it. Nobody threw anything at me so I guess it was fun, and the old parties didn't hit us with their canes so we survived the experience.

A Holiday Memory; or Why My Gigs are Better Than Your Gigs

I was once performing walk around palm reading at a New Year's Eve party, and a friend was playing steel guitar with his band on the stage (we had both been booked by the same agent). I took a break and was sipping a cold drink near stage listening, when he nodded at me to indicate a young lady on the dance floor. She was quite intoxicated and dancing without inhibition of any sort. Her male partner was spinning her round and round, and she surrendered willingly to the forces of gravity and inertia. The effects were fascinating as her ample attributes were barely--and I mean BARELY contained by a very low-cut denim bustier. The band members were all grinning like Cheshire cats as they enjoyed the floor-show.

At this point her equally-intoxicated partner gave her a vigorous spin, and as she reached the apogee of the orbit, snapped her arm to reel her back in. All of Newton's Laws kicked in and the top three buttons of the bustier gave way, freeing with considerable energy that which had formerly been contained. The spectacle was magnificent. As a man of artistic sensibilities, I applauded God's divine handiwork. My friend's steel guitar, up to this point so melodious and measured, emitted several discordant squawking sounds. The other band members carried on with heroic stoicism, although several jaws seemed to have dropped.

After what seemed like a very long time, the object of every male's attention noticed what had happened, screamed, attempted to draw closed the curtains of discretion, and ran from the dance floor, leaving us all poorer in spirit but richer for the memories.

I Tackle Bach

I've made some headway into this magnificent arrangement--by Camille Saint-Saens no less--of J.S. Bach's Sinfonia to Cantata # 23 Wie Danken Der Gott Wie Danken Der. This has always been one of my favorite pieces of music, usually played on the organ, using multiple stops and pedals, and is an amazing piece. I wondered if there was a good (operative word: "good") piano transcription of this and I began my search.

It took a while but I found the Saint-Saens transcriptions, as well as a video of a chap playing the living daylights out of it. I brought it to my teacher, who was quite excited at the prospect. We began to work on fingering. With Bach, fingering is essential.

I've pretty much memorized the first page and have made some headway into the second. It's such a dense work that this is barely a minute into it, but it's a start. I would never have believed I could play such a piece, not to mention even begin to tackle it after less than two years of lessons, but here I am. But on the other hand, a year ago I had only intended to learn the first part of The Entertainer and save the second part--which seemed incomprehensible to me--for my second year. Now I can play the entire doggone thing.

I'm going to New York City next week to attend the Metropolitan Opera for the first time in my life, as well as visit MOMA and the Guggenheim. I'll be so thoroughly steeped in culture I hope it fuels my way through the Sinfonia.

On December 4th I'm slated to play Christofori and the first two sections of The Entertainer at a recital, so I'm curious to see how this goes. I've never played for anyone before.

God No, A Review

Charles Cicardi Scott sent me this book, which is subtitled "Signs You May Already be an Atheist and Other Magical Tales." Charlie told me he found it on the clearance rack at B&N for a buck, so if you want to read it, there you go. One dollar and about three hours of your life you can't get back.

I read it at Starbucks and at the allergist, where I go once a week to get my immunization shots, after which I have to sit for twenty minutes to see if I'm going to die from anaphylaxis. If I die, I want the last thing found clutched in my claws to be a book howling with atheist blasphemy. And this book fills the bill with interest. Penn loves to write about two thing: his genitalia, and how much he hates religion. Each page drips with contempt for piousness and descriptions of his dangling doodle.

I am not a fan of P&T. I don't like anyone who attacks the belief system of others for entertainment or for promoting their own agenda--and despite what P&T have said in interviews, both their show and Bulls*it are both redolent with Libertarianism and Atheism idealism. Both of which, oddly enough, I share, although not to the fanatical point of shoving down anyone's throats--which they seem intent on doing. So as both an atheist and Libertarian you would think I would like them. But I don't. People who rant and preach tend to make me tune out and go to my happy place, where large costumed people sing opera very loudly and 200-piece orchestras drown out conversation for miles around.

But about this book. If you like rants, it's pretty funny in places. He name-drops more than Kreskin (who, in one chapter, he trashes mercilessly and calls a scumbag) and it's obvious he craves attention and if he doesn't get it, he just yells louder and drops his pants--LITERALLY--and like a lot of fat guys (Chris Farley and John Belushi come to mind) he seems to be obsessed with getting naked as often as he can in public. He does this, he says, because he's a freedom-fighter who's making a statement in defense of the Bill of Rights. Groovy, but I'm a Libertarian too, and I have never appeared naked in airports. Perhaps he has blurred the subtle difference between "Libertarian" and "Libertine," which I have also done on occasion; an understandable malapropism.

Penn says there's no such thing as an agnostic. He says this is just an academic weaseling from people who are afraid to commit one way or the other. I find I tend to agree with this. Either you believe there is a Higher Power or you don't. Like being a little bit pregnant, this isn't something on which you can hedge your bets. He says "I don't know" is a perfectly acceptable answer and I also agree with this. So did the early, original skeptics who concluded absolute knowledge of anything was impossible. On subjects like creator God, origin of the universe, the existence of a soul, the Buddha said, "Don't waste your time. Work out your own salvation with diligence." Not that I'm comparing Penn with the Buddha. Penn is an oleaginous slob with the social skills of a twelve year old, and I think this book is at least 60% self-serving flapdoodle; that he paints himself as far deeper and more reasonable than he actually is. Like a carny barker, he's presenting himself as a professor of erudition he doesn't possess. He's hung out with smart people and picked up some of the lingo but when he parrots it, it rings hollow. I keep in mind he's an illusionist, and that he's continually going for shock reaction, and that he hates religion. The chapter where he feeds bacon cheeseburgers to fallen Hasidim Jews and gloats with demonic glee is a good example. He's not content to simply dismiss the idea of God; he wants to take a crap on His head. Nothing seems to please him more than to piss off a pious person through some expression of outrageous blasphemy. This, to me, is childish. It was funny when you did it in high school, but like wearing a Karl Marx T-Shirt, once past the age of twenty-two it's no longer edgy and rebellious, it's just a lame cry for attention.

If you're going to read atheist literature, I guess this is a more entertaining read than Dawkins and if you can get it for a dollar or two why not?