Futility Now

So far I’ve been spending my summer in the studio (which keeps getting referred to as “the dungeon,” since it is in the basement — I don’t like the connotations of that reference, though, so I’m thinking about giving “the underworld” a shot) rather than on impressive home improvement projects. I did break down and get some decent curtains for the living room this week, though they currently hang unhemmed, bottom 18″ pooling dramatically on the floor. Yoshi thinks this is a brilliant idea.

The yard, however, would brook no such negligence.  A very wet spring (yes, even for Portland) meant we’d avoided being outside much at all, but once the heat & sun did arrive, our plants seemed to think it might be their only chance to grow — ever.  So they did.  Luckily, “the mum” (as jmags calls her) came up for a visit and provided the guidance and confidence we needed to really tear some things out. As you can see.

All this brute labor convinced us we deserved some sitting-around-in-bars time. When I managed to look away from this suave fella I found some captivating color palettes.

tomato red, pale warmish grey, milky chartreuse, black

goldenrod, slate grey, caramel brown, more tomato red

caramel smoky brown, shadowed orange, black and brick

And I’ve been holding on to colors from an image that I couldn’t catch on film because I happened to be driving when I saw it: stormy slate grey (sky), emerald green (painted side of brick building), ivory and black (striped power cable overhead crossing them both).  I wonder if I’m being drawn to color groups just because of the really marvelous light we’ve had in Portland lately, or if it’s because my own work is so achromatic that I’m working with a vitamin deficiency?

Here is Yoshi staring balefully out of the bathroom window at me.

Here is a raccoon that was asleep in our yard this morning.

Here is Yoshi staring balefully out of the bathroom window at the raccoon.

Here are some pictures. The first two are the three of us getting some snacks at the Doug Fir before anything exciting happened, and the second is a picture of whatever it is ladies use to put foundation on next to a purse whose decorations managed to mark it. Hazel and I thought it was pretty cool.

So we watched our “My First Place” episode at The Jupiter. Amusingly, the first place I went in Portland on the trip that set in motion the events that concluded with me moving here was The Doug Fir, the bar attached to The Jupiter. I don’t give much in the way of credence to the notion of synchronicity (although I do like “Synchronicity,” with the obvious exception) because it’s basically halfway to religion, but even I am capable of finding such things enjoyable.

At any rate, the episode was pretty horrible. I was fat as a walrus, and my head looked like a greasy sphere. Hazel’s hamming translated to hectoring in the editing room, and nothing interesting remained of the process. I took heart in the fact that the difference between my in the episode and me now constitutes a sort of testament to what a good idea doing Kung Fu turned out to be.