The Art and The Plumber

Posted on 05/08/2016 by Andrew Reynolds

I am a believer in the notion that to create art, one must breath in art.  It’s impossible to sit at a keyboard and bang out stories or poetry if you don’t also breath in stories and poetry.  I’ve also learned that not all stories or poetry is confined to words.  Some poetry is in a painting.  Some stories in a sculpture. Words flow out of a dance and music can invoke the full range of human emotion.

In that spirit we took a trip up to the new San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMOMA).  The museum closed in 2013 for a major expansion which is now complete and officially reopens on May 14.  We found out that members could get tickets for an early preview so Heather went on-line and now we’re members and got tickets for yesterday.

We arrived just in time for our 12:30 ticket and took the elevator to the 7th floor to start at the top and work our way down.  There were a lot of people there and at times we had short waits to see some exhibits.  Actually there were more people there than I would have expected for a member’s only day.  I wonder what the crowds will be like when the general public can buy tickets?

My first impression of the place is it’s vast size.  The galleries are on floors 2 to 7 and each floor is huge, seemingly going on forever.  More than once I thought I’d got to the end of an exhibit only to find a doorway leading onward.  There was a lot great art and some that I didn’t understand why it was in an art museum.  I’ll admit there were a few times I’d look at a painting, sculpture, or whatever they called it, and think, “Heather paints better than that,” or “If I found old urinals and put my initials on it, would that make me a great artist?”

That’s the problem with modern art – often it pushes at the boundaries of what art is and sometimes misses, or fails to explain it’s relevance to me.  I guess it could be that the curator’s definition of art and mine aren’t in alignment.  I’ll dare to ask the question, “What is art?”  It’s a difficult question – as it pushes us to consider our basic concepts and put them into words.

About twenty years ago the subject came up in a Humanities 1A class I was taking at community college.  It was your basic art appreciation class and the first topic was, “What is art?”  In a group discussion with other students, we came up with this definition: “Art is a creative expression intended to create an emotional response.”

Let me explore that a little more.  Art is an expression of our creative self.  We do it to communicate ideas, stories and feelings.  A song can make us feel happy or sad.  A dance can tell the story of two lovers. A painting can tell us of the beauty of flower while a sculpture lets us view concept from more than one angle.

When we see a work of art we have a reaction to it.  It could make us take a breath, remember a love, or set in our spirit a longing that we can’t name.  Good art moves our soul, spirit and emotion leaving our mind and intellect to try and catch up.  Viewing a picture I often have to consider for a long time before I can find the words in my mind to explain it.

It is the notion that, “art creates emotion,” that drives my mind as I walk though a gallery.  Always I am asking, “what feeling is this giving me?” When the answer is “none,” then I feel that the artist failed their job.  This definition also drives my own approach to the creation of art, either in my wood shop or at the keyboard writing poetry.  It is my intent to make you feel something with the object or words.

I would like to note that not all art is aesthetically pleasing.  Ugly stuff is art when the artist uses their creative self to conjure into being an object or experience that makes you feel angry, disgusted, hurt or any negative emotions.  We like art that looks good because we like to feel good, but sometimes it’s the artist’s job to make us look at the darker side of our nature.

At SFMOMA, I found the higher floors to have more art that I reacted to.  I’ll also add that I like exploring artist’s process and sometimes find the information card about an object to be more interesting than the object itself.  Sometimes it’s fun to try to figure out how an object was made – that is what material and methods were used to create the thing I am viewing.  Some times that offers a glimpse into heart and mind of the maker.

The 7th floor contained works by contemporary artists that I found interesting.  There were a couple of film exhibits that were interesting.  One was a short film of a large soap-bubble floating through an empty house.  You could hear sounds from outside, dogs barking, doors closing.  The effect was eerie and made you long for the bubble’s release either by finding an open window or just popping it and ending it’s endless wanderings.

It would take a long time for me to describe all the art and my reaction to it so I’ll have to skip a lot of things.  The next interesting exhibit was on the 6th floor called, “German Art after 1960.” This was a large collection that featured a number of artists reacting to a changing Germany and the last effects of the Nationalist Socialist party.  One artist working with canvas, paint and straw, created vast dark scenes of war and a world being burned.  We spent a long time on this floor.

The 6th floor also had an exhibit titled, “Typeface to Interface” that traced the changing world of graphic art over the last 60 years.  It started with a display of 1960’s typewriters and end with computers and computer generated art.  I’ll admit that this was more of a walk down memory lane for me as I remember using the equipment in the displays they first came out all those years ago. I guess, nostalgia is an emotion.

The 5th floor I didn’t get.  Titled, “Pop, Minimal, and Figurative Art,” it featured comic book art, a few Andy Warhol pictures and a whole room of what appeared to be to be colored sheets of plywood, cut into geometric shapes and nailed to the wall.  The only emotion they generated was of a longing to get to another gallery where I might see something. This floor also had a little cafe were we stopped for a cold drink before wandering down to the 4th floor.

I’ll have to admit that by this point I was getting a little mentally overloaded and I found little on the 4th or 3rd floors that caught my attention.  Until we found a gallery titled, “California and the West.”  This had a number of great old photos of historic California and we spent a good deal of time in here.

The second floor is really the main entrance level where the ticket counters are.  Just as we were about to head down to the first floor and to the museum store we came across what we thought was just a small gallery.  It turned out to be huge and contained many interesting works from SFMOMA’s permanent collection.  You could have spent a whole day in just this one section of the museum studying and appreciating just this collection.

On the way home I was both mentally drained from taking everything in and creatively excited.  So many projects and things I could do, rushed through my tired brain.

When we arrived home we were greeted by an unwelcome sight.  Just outside the front door was a large pool of water that shouldn’t have been there.  At first we thought roof had leaked but I couldn’t see water dripping from up high.  Then it dawned on me that the water heater was just the other side of that wall.  A quick inspection showed that the water heater was leaking and needed to be replaced.  Not something you can really get done on a Saturday night so I decided to use my limited plumbing skills to shut off the water to the tank and drain it.  We’d be out of hot water, but at least the house wouldn’t flood.

It would have worked if the cutoff valve still worked, but it just spun and didn’t turn off the water.  We called the plumber, who didn’t answer his phone and I figured we were stuck.  After considering the possibilities, I decided that with a few parts from the hardware store I could cap off the water supply to the heater and the plumber could deal with it on Monday.  Lucky for me he called back just as I was opening the car door and said he could be right over.  He capped it, drained it, and will be back on Monday with a new heater.  In the mean time we’re a “cold-water” house.

But my creative mind is in action and I am thinking of having the plumber leave the old water heater in the driveway.  Then I’ll find my axe, sledgehammer and maybe a few cans of spray paint. Then I’ll start on my art work.  The modern sculpture will be titled, “Domestic Bliss.”

Now, who do you call at the museum to donate a piece of art?

Till next week,
Andrew

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Friday Wisdom – Shop Rule

Posted on 05/06/2016 by Andrew Reynolds

I started my working career as an electronic repair technician at 19.  Our company made printers, data concentrators and microfilm readers. One day I cut my hand while working on a printer and my boss gave me this very valuable advice that I still use today:

“Don’t bleed on the equipment!”

Such fond memories of a very caring man.

More wisdom next week,

Andrew

Posted in woodworking | Tagged , | 25 Comments

Wednesday Woodworking – More Mystery Project

Posted on 05/04/2016 by Andrew Reynolds

I made another planter box this week plus made some progress on this gift project.  Here’s the latest picture of the parts:

Now I've got six things.

Now I’ve got six things.

And I bought a new tool toy:

My new belt/disk sander.

My new belt/disk sander.

It not exactly professional grade, but for a hobbyist like me it will do just fine.  This really helped with the sanding on the project above.

That’s it for this week.

If you need me – I’ll be in the shop,
Andrew

Posted in woodworking | Tagged , , | 15 Comments

Traveling with Mother

Posted on 05/01/2016 by Andrew Reynolds

By nature I am a bit of a homebody.  Left to myself I’d never leave home.  Well, except for trips to the grocery store, Starbucks or any number of lumberyards, hardware stores and quilt shops.  But generally, I like being home.

My mother was the opposite and had a wanderlust that was unquenchable. I doubt there is a place in the United States she hasn’t seen.  She also traveled in Europe, Mexico, and parts of Africa. She had this ability to get behind the wheel of a car and drive for 12 or 14 hours without getting tired.

When I was a child my parent’s marriage had problems.  Father drank a lot and the pair of them argued all the time – well, anytime Father came home.  By the time I was six Father had stopped taking us on family vacations.  Mother couldn’t just give up traveling so she’d save up money and just after school was out she’d pack up me and my two brothers and off we’d go in an old beat-up 1963 Chevy station-wagon.

I suspect we looked more like a family out of the pages of Grapes of Wrath than a middle class family out for a bit of summer fun. Mostly we camped as hotels and motels were too expensive for our limited budget.  We had clean clothes and plenty to eat, but our equipment was mostly army surplus.  The tent was a heavy canvas thing that would look more at home in a World War I army camp.  Cooking pots were mostly from the Goodwill and even the stove was at least 20 years old.  It was hard to light and once lit, hard to turn off and had a tendency to flare up from time to time.

In that old car, we’d set out around four in the morning for an adventure with mother.  Over the years she had us boys in every state west of the Mississippi River and we’d camped in almost all the National Parks, a fair number of State Parks and lots of KOA camps.  Her favorite though, was the great south-west and I’ve been in more desert country than forest.

There is nothing like the view of Monument Valley, The Badlands, or Bryce and Zion Canyons.  Such memories always come back to me as the weather turns from Spring to Summer.

Try to imagine the scene. It’s 1968 and you’re camped with your regulation family of Mom, Dad and 2.5 kids in your newish car with modern camping gear.  Perhaps you have a nice camera, some toys for the kids, and a new bag of marshmallows for the campfire. Then just about sunset this old wreak of a car pulls into the campsite next to you and out steps an overweight woman in her late thirties.  She starts surveying the site as a boy about fifteen opens the back of the station wagon and begins hauling out old cardboard boxes, and canvas bags.

From the top of the pile of a boy about eight jumps out and starts carrying things to the table.  The last person out is a handicapped boy who doesn’t look very stable on his feet, shuffling rather than walking and only having the use of one arm.  As the scene unfolds you can’t be sure if the woman is brave or crazy.

The older boy in this scene is my brother Bill.  He has cerebral palsy and has little control over the right side of his body.  He can walk and loves camping.  He’s the mechanic of the outfit and has fixed the car on more than one occasion. The fifteen year-old is my brother Rick.  He’s on the track team in high school, excels in math and has an active imagination.  I was the eight year-old.  When we would pack the car, we’d roll out a sleeping bag on top of all the camping gear and I’d crawl up into my little nest to watch the world out the back window.

We rarely stayed in the same place for more than one or two nights and we had a well rehearsed routine for camping.  Mother did the cooking and dish washing. Rick and I setup the camp – unloading the car, pitching the tent, setting up bedding and getting the temperamental stove working.  We’d fetch water, forage for wood for the campfire and I’d climb over every rock or small boulder I could find.

It wasn’t uncommon for one of the nearby campers seeing us to come over and offer help.  Often a husband in the next camp sent by a concerned wife.  Sometimes they’d share food, firewood or a bag of marshmallows.  Just as often these Good Samaritans realized that we boys knew how to light that lantern or stove they’d been struggling with and either Rick, or I, would be dispatched to help.

In the morning, usually early, we’d reverse the process and Rick and I would breakdown camp while mother cooked, and Bill checked the oil, radiator and tires before we hit the road looking for the next adventure.

One adventure I remember was in Northern California.  I don’t remember exactly where, but we were traveling from Mount Lassen to Mount Shasta.  We were driving down this winding road just above a small river when I heard Mother and Bill exchange worried words.

Soon we were parked in a little turn out and Bill had his head in the engine.  Even at eight I knew it was a hole in the radiator hose and the engine was overheating.  We were some 60 or 70 miles from the nearest town – I know that because I was sent to read the maps and check the AAA guide books.  Yes, I could read a map before I could balance a check book.  You had to, if you were driving with mother and her natural ability to get lost.

There were no phones and we hadn’t seen another car since daylight.  We weren’t certain that the highway patrol ever drove this way so we came up with a little plan.  It was weird, because I don’t remember any of us discussing it – we just did it.  Bill found a roll of electrical tape and got an old rag and sealed up the leak best he could.  Then Rick and I gathered up all the canteens we had, and made our way down to the river.  We refilled the radiator and canteens.

After the engine was cooled, we all piled back in the car.  I kept checking the map, Rick kept an eye out for good places to get to the river and mother drove with two hands locked in a death grip on the steering wheel.  Bill would watch the dashboard and would call out, “Too hot,” when the temp gage went into the red.

Then the emergency drill would start.  Rick would point out a good place to turn out, I’d try to figure out how much further we had to go and mother remained quiet and stoic.  When we’d pulled off the road, we’d have to wait awhile for the engine to cool enough to open the radiator cap before we could start to refill it.  Rick and I would make two trips to fill canteens while Bill did what he could to shore up his patch.

It took hours, but just about four in the afternoon, we came to a small town with a gas station. You know, one of those 1960’s stations that did everything for a car – gas, tires, repairs and wash your windows for 30 cents a gallon. The man who came out to check on us, must have been the owner and he was clearly taken aback by what he saw.

Mother explained the problem as the man looked in the engine.  He asked who had done the patch and was more than surprised when Bill shuffled around and claimed responsibility.  Rick and I were always the foragers (and always hungry) and naturally asked in there was coke or candy machine nearby.  The man pointed towards the back of the station where the pair of us soon head off to, counting our spare change and calculating how many Cokes we could get.

The coke machine turn out to be an antique one from the 40’s and at first we weren’t sure how to get the bottles out.  Yup, Coke from a machine back then came in bottles, not cans.  I don’t know how long we stood there, but the man appeared, took out a key and opened up the machine saying, “Here ya boys, get one for everybody.”

We didn’t need much encouragement, we grabbed four bottles and were off back to the car.  I recall going back to the man later and offering him a handful of coins which he refused saying something like, “You get a free Coke with every tank of gas.”

It didn’t take too long and we had a brand new radiator hose.  The man gave Bill a lesson in repairing radiator hoses and lectured Rick and I on how long we should let the engine cool before trying to put water in it.  He suggested we stay at the local motel for the night and told us that the diner had great food.

Mother thanked him, paid the bill in cash and we all piled back in the car. We boys knew there wasn’t going to be a motel night or a meal in a diner.  We all knew the campground, was fifteen miles down the road and AAA book said it had a small camp store.

And I still had 45 cents in my pocket. Coke, or a candy bar, or what if they have ice cream?

Till next week,
Andrew

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