Friday, May 25, 2012

Last class


So, most of May I've been working on this still life in the studio.


As always, you start with the dots


Eventually developing the contour, and then, as I said, go on to refine, refine, refine.


...and refine...


Finally, you move on to values.


Ultimately, the thing that I wanted to know is how do you draw something white on a dark grey paper using black charcoal. It's quite the balancing act, getting the values to go back down the scale far enough to imitate reality. It's hard to explain.




Stephanie painting her lemons is doing the same process only with the added level of aggravation of colour.


Here's where we left it today.






One more class left to finish tomorrow.

Then I'm going to have to take a long break. I've been doing well, racing out of the house every morning to get the 8:06 train into Rome to get to class by ten. Class is three hours, on your feet, then the train back to S. Mar or the office to spend the rest of the day working. It's been going just fine, but I've started to reach a limit and am now getting really, deeply tired. Tired in a way that it difficult to get over in just one night's sleep. So, a break.

Also, I am totally out of money. I've paid up to the end of April's classes, but am now back in the red to the tune of about 1200 Euros, so for a while anyway, classes have to stop. I'm so broke, in fact, that it's why there aren't more transition photos in the still life posts. I ran out of both batteries for my camera and money at about the same time. For a while at least, doctor's bills are going to have to take precedence again.

And I'm going to love sleeping in!



~

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Eating cake

Well, here we go again.

I had an interesting conversation with the endocrinologist yesterday. She tells me that my troubles (which are not terribly serious...don't get all in a tizzy) are likely related to damage to my thyroid caused by the chemo. I have no clear idea what exactly the thyroid does, and I'm not that interested. She seems to know what she's doing and I'm too tired to look things up. So, I'm being sent back to the drawing board, in this case, the blood test clinic with which we have all become so familiar. The ladies will be happy to see me again, no doubt. And this time with hair!

I thought it was funny though, and a sure sign that I'm in Italy. Apart from telling me that my thyroid and various other things are probably all messed up, she spent a great deal of energy trying to convince me that my diet is "very restricted" because I won't eat pasta, bread or sugar. She kept trying to suggest that if I would only start the day with a small bowl of pasta for breakfast, I might feel better. I can see we're going to have an uphill battle.

Picture it, and you will get an idea of how surreal it is to live here. There I was, arguing with my doctor that no, I really wasn't ever going to eat junk food. Not now, not never. No way. You can't make me.

We're going to get on fine, I think. She's very sweet. I especially liked it when she said, very sympathetically, "Don't you miss a little treat? A little cake now and then? Don't you like cake?"

So cute. And soooooo Italian.



~

Pacey Soup for the Teenaged Soul

Couldn't find the embed.

I know LOTS of people who go to Comic-con, but I was never interested until just now.



~

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

A conversation between colleagues


Me and a fellow Catholic writer:

Me: Ever have one of those days when you think everyone else is doing better than you are?

Her: Ever have one of those days where you wake up and go to the bathroom?

This is someone with whom a few months ago, I had a conversation about how no one in our generation ever feels like a qualified grown-up. The whole concept of grown-uphood, the state of knowing what the hell you're doing most of the time, is extinct. We Gen-Xers and down, were all raised by people who thought that never growing up was their highest aspiration. (Or in some cases, were not raised at all by anyone.) Is it any wonder few of us are getting married before 30, and a lot of us are not getting married at all?

Hands up everyone out there who feels like they just don't ever know what the hell they're doing, what their life is supposed to be for, or how to do what is expected.



~

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

... and really,


who can resist such a cutie...

Yes, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, I am, in fact, a girl.



~

Monday, May 21, 2012

Be a man!


For God sake! KISS THE GIRL!!!

OK, I've been in bed, sick, since Friday. To keep myself amused while awake, I've been watching back-to-back episodes of Dawson's Creek and thinking about boys.

I know what you're thinking: That show, which was really bad, was mercifully ended several years ago now, so what are you doing? Why aren't you watching something with some moral and intellectual content like Buffy or Star Blazers? And yes, you'd be right, and I'd be embarrassed about it if I hadn't already admitted to you guys that I'd read all the Twilight books.

This show about rich teenagers, played by 20 year-olds, living in dream homes in some little coastal town in somewhere vaguely New Englandy/Martha's Vinyardy, so far, seems entirely to be about which of the two lead males is going to be the first to nail one or both of the two lead females. Glancing at YouTube videos of later seasons, I see that for the most part, this is what it keeps being about.

The writers seemed to think that the most interesting character was it's namesake, Dawson Leery, whom they present as a dreamy-eyed, 15 year-old, nice-guy who pines after girls but doesn't know what to do with the ones he gets, thinks Spielberg is the greatest film maker of all time and who keeps an ET "collectible" stuffed toy beside his bed. His "best friend" is a dewy, leggy, doe-eyed "Joey" who longs for the safe, cuddly, child-man to twig into why she continues, long after she has ceased to care about the art of film making, to come over and watch movies and sleep over in his bed (!!huh?!!) all innocent, like-when-they-were-kids.

In the first episode, Dawson-the-aptly-surnamed falls hard in crush with pouty-lipped ingenue Michelle Williams who has appeared in the tiny outback town to do penance by living with her (narrow-minded bigot Christian...zzzzzz) grandmother, after undergoing some dark and mysterious "bad thing" in the fabled opium dens and slave markets of Marrakech New York City. (I think she dies of cancer in the end because the writers just didn't know what to do with her when Whiney is finished with her and she ceases to be an interesting plot foil for the Perfect Bermuda Love Triangle.)

I hear the show was tremendously popular. And I think I recall hearing it's name bandied about some time in my mid to late thirties.

I've made it through to the end of the first season for one. single. reason: Pacey Witter, budding Real Man and Droopy's other "best friend" who spends all their mutual screen time together telling Blondie to man-up and Kiss. The. Girl! Any girl! just pick one and get going! Or decide not to. But for the love of Mike, fricken be a man about it.


Nice man-purse there dude, bet the chicks really dig it...

Pacey is supposed to be the dumb, smart-alecky "class clown" character who gives comic relief to the endless tedium of the emo teenybopper-talk. But in the 13 episodes I've watched so far, he has been the only character to develop the slightest shred of ... well... character. He's stoic. He keeps his feelings close to the chest. He has a rotten home life but doesn't perpetually moan about it. He knows that keeping up a cheerful demeanour, delivering one-liners, chasing (and catching) girls, punching bad guys and occasionally sticking it to the man, even at the risk of disaster, is more fun than his friend's perpetual hand-wringing and he spends a good deal of effort charitably smacking Blithery up the side of the head to try to jump start the wretched boy's testosterone generator.

Pacey is depicted as a smart-but-under-achieving good guy whose family has rejected him as the "loser" who will never amount to anything. Pacey thinks he is a loser, especially with girls and expects to be the one who stays behind in tiny Capeside pumping gas or tending bar. He's supposed to just be the sidekick.

In fact, Pacey is the one who, in the first ten episodes:
- Initiates an affair with his 36 year-old bombshell English teacher after plausibly falling in love with her
- Then when they're found out, manfully throws himself on the grenade for her, lying to the school board, saying the affair was a rumour he had started to make himself feel cool, destroying his own reputation to save hers;
- Tries to get a distraught Joey to stop drinking at a party after Mooney ditches her;
- Punches a much larger and older student making inappropriate advances on the now-drunk Joey;
- Steals the show with good natured manly charm at the snootily horrible Miss Capeside beauty pageant;
- Drives Joey to the prison in the middle of the night so she can be reconciled to her incarcerated father;
- spends all his remaining efforts boosting Twaddle's ego and pushing him together with Joey because it's what his best friend really wants but is too pathetic to try to get, even though he, Pacey, is now also in love with Joey;
- and finally is, in fact, the first one to actually KISS THE GIRL.

He has passion, charm, strength of character, is able to put his friends' needs before his own and comes through quietly every time someone is in a tight spot. He is, in short, the only interesting thing on the show, the only character so far that I care enough about to want to find out what happens to him, and the one on his way to secure, confident Alpha Maledom.

The thing is, and this is the point of the post, I think Hollywood thinks that he's not. I think the writers think that Drivelly and Joey are what the show is about. I get the feeling that the incredibly tedious, repetitive and irritating "drama" between Leggy, Snivelly and Pouty is supposed to be what the show is primarily about. But so excruciatingly dull has it been that I've just been fast forwarding over their scenes.

I've seen this before. Shows that were supposed to be about the politically correct, in-touch-with-his-feminine-side, safe intellectual, that often had a hulking, manly, doltish but ultimately well-meaning sidekick, nearly always end up being about the sidekick. Does anyone remember Meathead's real name? Can anyone now imagine Luke getting the girl? (Luke was so pathetic they had to make Leia his sister just to stave off the remotest possibility that Han Solo wouldn't get her.)

Did anyone see that British TV miniseries Life on Mars? It started out being about an enlightened, up-to-date, sophisticated modern man going back in time to the brutish streets of 1972 Manchester where he was supposed to show the barbarous thugs of the previous era a thing or two about modern policing, good nutrition, the dangers of sidestream smoke and being sensitive to the emotional needs of women in the workplace. Instead, John Simm got smacked around several times by Philip Glennister, ultimately learning how to drink, beat confessions out of suspects and chase women and bad guys in a '68 Mustang.

"The initial idea was for a humorous ... programme that overtly mocked the styles and attitudes of the 1970s." Then something strange happened. Modern, sophisticated, politically correct, in-touch-with-their-feelings British women fell madly in love with...Glennister, and emphatically not the weedy John Simm, at least until he'd toughened up a bit.

And this was something the BBC Actually. Didn't. Expect.

Unbelievable.

I don't actually remember a great deal of detail about my adolescence. And the bits I remember I wish I didn't. But I do quite distinctly remember the whole boy-girl thing. Having no parents around, I went through quite a lot more of it than perhaps I might have otherwise. It took me a long, long, long time to figure things out. And in the end, one of the big things I got was that I had no time for "modern" men.

Because, and here's the kicker, the Dawson Leerys of the world weren't actually the "nice guys". They were too weak. They had so much angst and enjoyed their angst so much that it made them useless.

So far, Flouncy has done nothing but wring his hands over whether he should or shouldn't "go out" with one, both or either of the two girls. This utter inability to gather up his gonads and act, for better or for worse, has made him useless as a friend to every other character, and has driven The Girl who (thinks she) is in love with him, to become so exasperated she is going to take a scholarship to France. France!

Moreover, after a school year of will-I-won't-I with Limpy alternately pining for her and rejecting her, Pouty's grandfather has a stroke and she has nowhere to turn but...dear heaven! the useless Dawson... who is so wrapped up in his little Hamlet imitation, that he utterly fails to be any use to her in the crisis.

The "nice guy" is such a pathetic dishrag he is incapable of being a good man.



~

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Ye still got it, bro...

My old bloggie buddy Evil Steve is tweaking the Traddie tiger's tail in Crisis, and it's just like the old days...
Never known for our collective charisma or charm, those who self-identify as “Traditionalist” can often be about as much fun as a leaky bottle of lemon juice at a paper cut party.

Steve, you just go to the wrong parties, man.



~

Expat Life

Something happens even to the most Anglo-Saxon, Germanic, rules-n-regulations Canadian brain when you live in Italy for a while. And if it doesn't you don't survive here. You run in a panic back to the lands where things at least make a modicum of sense. You can always tell the people who were cut out to live here and the ones who will run screaming back to the 1st World after six months of life in La Dolce Madhouse.

It can take a while to understand the way Italians think, and when you finally start to get it, it all becomes hilarious.

This is what it's like:
On the train to Fiumicino Airport there are never any ticket-checkers. Is ticket-checker even the right term? I have occasionally found myself debating with friends over the correct way to identify the person who checks your ticket on the train. I used to call them conductors, but Dr. J said, "If that's the conductor, then who's driving the train?" So I decided to call them ticket-checkers.

It might be that there's some residue of morality left in my brain after so many years in America, but I actually buy the ticket for the Roma Termini/Fiumicino line at least one out of every five trips to the airport. Out of at least a hundred trips to the airport, I've only seen a ticket-checker once, and that was because a man got robbed and the ticket-checker was needed to record everything for the police. So, technically, not even on that occasion was the ticket-checker checking tickets.

The price went up since the last time I bought a ticket. Now it costs €12. I asked the ticket-seller why the price was so high because I remembered it being just €7, the last time I bought one. The man rolled his eyes and fired back at me that tickets haven't cost €7 for "yeaaaaaaaars," upon which I surrendered my fare to the ticker-seller feeling that he had more than justified the price increase.

As usual the ticket-checker was nowhere to be seen and, as usual, I felt like a schmuck for buying a ticket. I looked around and began to scrutinize the people seated near me. I thought to myself, "I bet he didn't get the ticket... she didn't get one either... I'm the only idiot who paid the fare! Well, at least I am honest, and I'm helping the train company, which is going bankrupt anyway."

When I'm riding the train ticketless, I go through a similar thought process: "Oh no! I am the only one on the train without a ticket! Why am I such a cheapskate? It'll be soooo embarrassing if the ticket-checker comes. He'll give me a fine and everyone will stare. Look at him, I'll bet he has a ticket. She definitely has one. I had better go and look for other people who might be ticketless so we can share the blame for the train company's continued failure."

If, in the future, I ever do get checked by a ticket-checker while I am in possession of a ticket, I am going to come right out and tell him, "Yes I bought a ticket, but your company is full of lazies just the same and I can't wait until it goes out of business so the French can buy it and manage it properly!"

My own version of this happened when some friends visited. I picked them up at the airport, two friends and their wives, and I helped them buy the Fiumicino tickets, since they insisted that I had to be mad to suggest they just get on the train...So we went to the kiosk and they paid up after I told them what to ask for and we got on the train.

At Trastevere, I suggested that a cab to the hotel would be easiest but the tram would take us right there and would cost nothing. We got on the tram and again, they asked me about tickets. I pulled out my wallet where I keep my stash of "emergency tickets" and handed them around.

"Where do we get them stamped?"

"Stamped?!" I said in alarm. "You don't. I've lived here three years and have never seen the ticket guys on the trams."

But they are Anglo North Americans and are used to rules actually having meaning. So I said, "OK, just stand next to the stamping machine and I'll keep my eyes open. If the ticket guy comes on, just stamp the tickets like you just got on." This satisfied them and we had a more or less painless ride to Argentina. When we got off the tram (no ticket guy...duhhhh) they asked what to do with the tickets.

"Give 'em back," and I stuffed them back in my wallet.

You keep up the Rules Matter idea for a while living here, but eventually, everyone gets worn down. The country is actually set up that way so that the only way it works is if everyone cheats.

Here's an example: the train/bus/Metro/tram pass that I buy every month (yes, I do) costs me 63 E. And to me, that seems like a hell of a good deal. In fact, it's probably the best transit deal I've ever had, and I've lived in the two most expensive cities in Canada for many years each. I've also lived from coast to coast to coast, and visited and travelled around nearly all the major cities of my country, plus New York, Boston, Washington, Seattle, Chicago, London, Manchester, Birmingham and Liverpool, and in all those places, the transit system hasn't been as good or as cheap. In Toronto, if you live in a place you can afford to pay the rent (ie: waaaaaaaaay far away from where you work, in a horrifying suburb) you pay twice, once for a commuter pass to get into the city, and again for a city pass to get the subway, trolleys and buses. Here, it's all one thing, and the one thing is less than the Toronto pass, by a fair bit...even with the exchange. So I pay up, and don't mind it.

But when I was sick, I didn't buy a monthly pass for a year, and there were certainly times when I went in to the City for doc's appts, and forgot to buy a ticket (which is only 3.60 E one way). I got nailed twice. Once the guy just said, looking at my bald head, "Oh, you're going to Gemelli? Just buy a ticket when we get to St. Peter's." Another time, I was coming home from a day out, I think we did some museums or something. We had just barely made the train and I didn't have time to buy a ticket, so I did the thing you're supposed to do, and went to find the ticket guy to ask to buy one, (technically against the rules, but any ticket guy who refuses to sell you a ticket... possibly with a .50E fee... is a jerk). When I found him, he was chatting up a bunch of over-dressed women and when I ahemed, he turned around, and in a jovial tone said, "What's wrong with your hair?" I smiled and whipped off my hat and said, "Chemotherapy." He said, "Oh, go sit down."

The joke is that if you don't buy a monthly pass, and you commute in regularly, as long as you are coming and going during regular commuting hours, you will probably only get nailed once a month or so. And the fine is 50E. The pass costs 63E... so, you know...

Finally you learn that there just is no sense in throwing away good money. And that's the moment that you realise you've started to think like an Italian.

Or you go nuts.

Or you run back home.



~

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Sugar makes you stupid

Having just spent the evening dipping the tip of a dinner knife into the jar of Arancia honey, I can attest that sugar does make you dumb. Makes you dumb enough, in fact, to want to eat more sugar. Sigh...

This just in via a FB friend:

"Too much high-fructose corn syrup could do more than just make you fat: It could also make you stupid."

And, whatever you do, don't tell the truth about food, nutrition and health...

The North Carolina Board of Dietetics/Nutrition is threatening to send a blogger to jail for recounting publicly his battle against diabetes and encouraging others to follow his lifestyle.

Chapter 90, Article 25 of the North Carolina General Statutes makes it a misdemeanor to “practice dietetics or nutrition” without a license. According to the law, “practicing” nutrition includes “assessing the nutritional needs of individuals and groups” and “providing nutrition counseling.”

Steve Cooksey has learned that the definition, at least in the eyes of the state board, is expansive.

When he was hospitalized with diabetes in February 2009, he decided to avoid the fate of his grandmother, who eventually died of the disease. He embraced the low-carb, high-protein Paleo diet, also known as the “caveman” or “hunter-gatherer” diet. The diet, he said, made him drug- and insulin-free within 30 days. By May of that year, he had lost 45 pounds and decided to start a blog about his success.

The Diabetes Warrior tells us all about it.



~