My Father's Hand

Moving to Wordpress

2008-05-23T17:25:00.000-07:00

I have not updated this blog in some time, but have decided to continue with periodic updates on Wordpress. Myfathershand.com will still be the current URL, but myfathershand.blogspot will become inactive and serve as an archive for those who have not updated their linking information.

Please be aware that comments to the archive will no longer be accepted. You will need to make them on the Wordpress site, located at myfathershand.com.

Book

2007-09-10T19:53:00.001-07:00

Book, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

3 x 5, pencil on paper

Red Tie

2007-09-08T21:19:00.001-07:00

Red Tie, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

3 x 5, pencil with wash

The End of the Beginning

2007-09-08T00:25:00.000-07:00

I started this blog with the idea that I would give the world a little of my father's talent, one that he kept hidden away, and write about him a little, as a way of getting to know him.

I have done that; I have started with the ending, an ending I saw coming from many thousands of seconds from now. My thoughts live in seconds, not minutes or hours. They thrash about before making it to the page, before my fingers tap, tap, tap so lightly to engage the current that carries their signal to the screen, and—tap—through cables and ether to yours. But this ending, that of my father's life, was an eon within a second. An achingly short moment that will last forever in my mind. And so, it saddens me to say that this beginning of his ending is now over. My father passed away on September 1st, shortly after 9 a.m.

He had grown ever distant, depending on my mother's care, rarely speaking, but existing as a monument to his own life, a mystery and an icon in the lives of his family, a face turning away, towards something only he could see, a hand that once expressed desire through lines, now clutching a blanket.

He was my father, yet I hardly knew him. He is the greatest unsolved mystery in my life, and I know not what to do with him, except give him to you, here, on the page. I have clues, through writings and drawings, of what he really felt about a life that changed abruptly at the close of the Viet Nam war. It was the end of the largest chapter of his life, and he closed the cover to the contents within, ciphering quiet secrets at the end of his pen.

Today, I open a Mead notebook, dated 1969. I want to find something of him in the quoted material he obsessively wrote down. He would not dare to write his own thoughts, but in copying down feelings and thoughts he could attribute to others, he may just be revealing some of himself. And now, as I read these passages again, I stumble and stop, because I can hear him speaking to me:

"We like to figure things out and make them come out right."

Book of Drawings

2007-06-24T23:55:00.001-07:00

I am considering making a book of my father's drawings, or a book of this blog available for purchase as through Blurb. Anyone with an interest or ideas for this, please leave a comment. Thank you!

CLOSED

2007-06-22T08:58:00.001-07:00

CLOSED, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

Here is a photo I took of one of the file drawers of my father's. He obsessively cut out images from magazines and categorized them according to what would make the most sense in terms of a reference for figure drawing. I haven't counted how many folders he has, but I wouldn't be surprised if the number topped 100.

Knee

2007-03-13T18:30:00.001-07:00

Knee, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

Just a little shading is all you need...

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Flirt

2007-03-09T00:23:00.001-08:00

Flirt, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Float

2007-03-06T12:46:00.001-08:00

Float, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

I love this one. I think it would make a great painting.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Watching the Past

2007-03-02T21:50:00.001-08:00

Watching the Past, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

The strength in her face is almost masculine. It makes me think of my father's unspoken fears about his own past. I think that he locked himself away from the world partly out of a conviction that someone, someday would step out of the shadows and take him unawares.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Roman Head

2007-02-28T21:48:00.001-08:00

Roman Head, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

Here is one of my father's sculptures. He went through a phase doing these, and I really like their chunky quality. There are quite a few on my parents' bookcases. Some of my favorite books as a child are to the right of the head. Tintin!

Neck Study

2007-02-27T11:26:00.001-08:00

NeckStudy, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Singer

2007-02-23T19:30:00.001-08:00

Singer, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Sport

2007-02-22T15:10:00.001-08:00

Sport, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Fighting

2007-02-08T01:36:00.001-08:00

fighting.jpg, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Rue

2007-01-28T23:43:00.001-08:00

Rue, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

There's something sort of "Stan Laurel" about this sketch. The expression...is one I remember well!

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Summer Dress

2007-01-25T23:42:00.001-08:00

Summer Dress, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Cufflink

2007-01-24T18:05:00.001-08:00

Cufflink, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

Here is another hand sketch. I like the way he has blocked out the fingers, and can almost imagine this being carved out of some big hunk of stone.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Grasping

2007-01-23T13:34:00.001-08:00

handgrip.jpg, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

A quick hand study. So simple but so rich.

3 x 5, pecil on paper.

Lost in Thought

2007-01-21T22:46:00.001-08:00

lostinthought.jpg, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

If I were to do a portrait of myself, I think it would look something like this. I have always been a quiet, thoughtful person, and if the outside accurately reflected the inside, I imagine that during periods of intense thought the "faraway" look would cause my body would fade and become sketchy the further away I drifted, and perhaps a little fuzzy ball with flickering images would show up in the foreground, representing that place that I really might be...

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

The Towel

2007-01-06T22:24:00.001-08:00

The Towel, originally uploaded by Living in Monrovia.

8 x 10, ink on paper.

Between the Lines

2006-12-29T12:22:00.000-08:00

I have often wanted to write about my father, but the process has been fitful, and more like a journal than a book or story. It is more of a puzzle, really. I have bits and pieces of him available to me, and the rest is speculation. Or perhaps all of it is speculation. I knew him but I didn't know him. When he was hit by a car three years ago, his mind was already failing, but that event pretty much eliminated any hope we had of any kind of substantial recovery.

We were just glad he was alive. Many long moments in the ICU stretched into uncertain hours, and when it was finally time to wheel him out of the hospital we thought the worst was over. But that long moment never ended. It ebbs and flows now, and most days he says nothing and does not look at us with any sort of recognition. It is a happy event when he smiles and makes eye contact, and worth a phone call when he speaks.

The peculiar part of all this is that it doesn't feel much different than before the accident, except that he can no longer disappear or make unexpected withdrawals from the bank account. My mother knew that his forgetfulness was getting to be a problem when her bank balance fluctuated by the thousands, and my father had no knowledge of why. When she started finding wads of cash in odd cubbyholes and at the backs of drawers, she knew that it was time to get his permission to restrict the amount of money he could take out of the bank.

Before his decline, when his memory was intact, the distance between us was shorter, but there was always a filter: alcohol, tobacco, or a closed door. He chose when to make contact, and did not welcome unexpected visitors. He did, however, welcome any and all queries about his drawings, and would stay up all night talking about it if you wanted to. Although he wasn't interested in showing his work, he did appreciate individual attention, and would often give away his best pieces to the people who appreciated it most.

8 x 10, link on paper.

Rescued

2006-11-22T15:14:00.000-08:00

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

Hanging Up

2006-11-18T14:28:00.000-08:00

8 x 10, ink on paper.

The Manicure

2006-10-30T18:11:00.000-08:00

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

Man on Bench II

2006-10-26T09:10:00.000-07:00

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Head Strong

2006-10-24T23:55:00.000-07:00

This one looks kind of like Ron Howard to me, but it was never my father's style to draw celebrities, so it's probably a coincidence. Rather he liked to focus in on certain features, such as this man's heavy brow and full lips.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Gypsy Wine

2006-10-23T21:54:00.000-07:00

This sketch is part of a group of studies and so even though the head is clearly not the same person as the one holding the glass, the fact that they share the same page makes me think that perhaps a man was offering this woman a glass of wine, or perhaps drinking it in her company.

3 x 5, pencil and color wash on paper.

Nose

2006-10-22T12:34:00.000-07:00

My father was very diligent and self-motivated to study and sketch all parts of the body until he got it right. Here is his study of a nose.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Man on a Bench

2006-10-21T12:38:00.000-07:00

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

The Look

2006-10-20T15:24:00.000-07:00

There is something very haunting about this woman's look. I love how he achieved such tonality between the lights and the darks. It is from a 3 x 5 pencil sketch.

The Gift

2006-10-20T12:55:00.000-07:00

8 x 10, ink on paper.

Searching

2006-10-18T14:08:00.000-07:00

Not only is this a delicate image because it was done on newsprint, which is very thin and yellows easily, but it has a vulnerability and an unselfconscious nakedness like many of the others do not have. I feel that this woman is very concentrated on what she is doing, and is thinking of anything but her own bareness. She seems to be intent on finding something that she has lost.

It reminds me of the time when I wore a pair of my mother's favorite earrings out to a fancy party. They were gold screw back earrings, as neither of us had pierced ears at the time. These earrings were in the shape of a teardrop, a little gold teardrop "cage" containing a single pearl and they would sway with the movement of the wearer. They were a gift to her from my father. She leant them to me with the admonition to be careful not to lose them.

They must have been magic earrings because I felt like the belle of the ball. I danced all night and felt on top of the world, flush and breathless. Finally it came time for the evening to end, and I said my good-byes. I returned home and recounted the nights happenings to my mother. I reached up to take off the earrings and I felt only one. The other one was not there! I felt a panic rising in my belly. This could not be. I had checked them so many times during the evening! I was horrified, hated myself, and the evening's pleasure drained away in an instant. A darkness engulfed me, and I wanted to die.

My mother was crushed, but tried to be cheerful about it. I could see by the look on her face that it made her sad. I called the party hosts but nothing had been found. I cried and told her how sorry I was. I had lost something precious to my mother and could not get it back. To this day none of the gifts I have given her have been able to erase the guilt I felt for the childish abandon of that night that caused me to lose them so long ago. I still hope beyond hope that the missing earring will turn up some place unexpected and, like the gift must have done when she first received them from my father, bring a rush of joy into my heart.

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on newsprint.

Comtemplation

2006-10-15T12:51:00.000-07:00

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

Modesty

2006-10-13T10:35:00.000-07:00

I love the old-fashioned grace of how my father has captured this woman's form. For me it feels as if the focus is off the page, into the forward distance where she is covering herself from the gaze of someone in her eyeview. This gives us a sense of her tenuous privacy, gives us a way of identifying with the woman, of knowing her intimately. We see the beauty of her form in its secret, half-protected offer.

Resting

2006-10-11T10:30:00.000-07:00

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

Emerging

2006-10-04T22:02:00.000-07:00

My father rarely did bright watercolor like this, but I think it gives the image an extra sense of place, as if this man is emerging from a very hot bath. The pose is rather feminine, as is the long hair, and yet the figure is masculine. I like images that have contradictions like this.

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

1981

2006-09-30T18:12:00.000-07:00

My father would take on various inking and lettering projects, the most notable being a Robinson Crusoe comic. He also had a few students that corresponded with him in order to get his thorough critiques. This is one of the few images that exists of him at his drawing table.

Sinfonia

2006-09-26T01:34:00.000-07:00

Who is she? She is a composition, a work of art, a jumble of tiny marks, chugging and enduring until the pen is lifted from the paper and a new line is begun. Her face, at once sensual and stark, has a hint of madness. Her hair is unkempt.

The paper is old and worn, with spots and wrinkles, but she burns her essence into my retinas. Yet her gaze is empty. I can imagine her, standing in front of a Florentine church, catching a man's interest. He is holding a paintbrush and lets his careful eye linger on her longer than she is used to. She hurries away, late to the market.

10 x 10, felt pen on paper.

Cowpoke

2006-09-23T12:46:00.000-07:00

It's funny that I didn't notice right away that this cowboy's right arm was drawn in two different places. I was focused on his face and his hand, and wondering what he might have been thinking about.

My father was a master at misdirection, or the art of hiding things in plain sight. He also enjoyed changing placement of objects in the house so you would notice some little joke going on later. Figurines were especially tempting for him. Usually he would place them in some sort of humorous predicament, so that we would happen to notice when walking past.

Best of all when my mother and I spotted something at the same time and my father was in the other side of the room, and we could all enjoy the joke together. More often that not, though, I found myself giggling by myself, sharing the joke with him when he wasn't even there.

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

Infinite Sky

2006-09-21T18:56:00.000-07:00

My parents were married on the eve of World War II. As with most women of that era, my mother remained a virgin until marriage and, because of circumstances, even afterward.

She was head-over-heels in love with my father, and then he was whisked away to storm the beaches of Normandy. They could not be together to consummate their marriage until many months later, and he was off again. More months stretched into years, with visits short and precious. Goodness knows how she was able to stand it.

I think of her in this picture, wondering where he was, sending her love to him across the wide open sky, hoping he felt it, wherever he was at that moment, halfway across the world.

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

In the Moment

2006-09-18T10:46:00.000-07:00

Available as prints and cards in the Cafépress store.

8 x 10, ink on paper.

Not My Mother

2006-09-16T10:47:00.000-07:00

I am drawn to this portrait because the woman in it resembles my mother. I imagine she was interesting to my father for the same reason. It is also curious to note that the face looks somewhat detached from the hair, almost as if it is a mask behind held by the hand. I suppose one could write a whole story about this. I wonder what a Polish artist would do with this?

I have seen many terrific Polish posters done for plays and films that exploit such visual ambiguities to bring out a duality of meaning. Masks and faces are very popular for this reason. This one could represent a man's wishful construct of a woman that wasn't really there. I suspect if this were indeed done more fully as a painting exploring these ideas, that a hint of my father's own face could be peeking out from behind the mask...

5 x 7, graphite on paper.

Lena

2006-09-13T19:28:00.000-07:00

5 x 7, graphite on paper.

Cleft

2006-09-12T00:47:00.000-07:00

I spent many countless quiet moments watching my father draw, and I can see by the thickness and character of the line the certain movement of his hand, a sure flick of the wrist as his hand left the paper momentarily, and he breathed out in quiet triumph of this small, yet infinitely large, accomplishment.

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

Thank you, Yahoo! Picks

2006-09-11T15:42:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to say that "My Father's Hand" has been listed in "Yahoo! Picks" (Sept. 9th) and has been receiving more than 500 visitors a day for the last several days. Of course, if the nice folks at Drawn! hadn't noticed, none of this would have happened. Thank you to everyone who has left a nice comment.

My mom has put two more packets of drawings in the mail, this time some more detailed portraits, so I will be scanning and posting more very soon!

Not Dancing

2006-09-10T01:37:00.000-07:00

There is something very peculiar about the feeling of this sketch. The woman is posed as if she might be dancing, but her face seems to be completely expressionless, and in a way, taunting.

My father was a very private man, and kept some very big secrets. For me, she seems to represent some sort of secret he was forced to keep, one that never sat down or kept still, but rather danced provocatively in front of his eyes, unable to give anything to him but a vision of something that could not be.

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor on paper.

Top Hat Bareheaded

2006-09-07T18:23:00.000-07:00

Here's another drawing of the man I like to call "Top Hat." I think he's an alter ego of my dad—the happy Santa version that was jolly and dressed for anything!

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor on paper.

Self-Portrait in Pencil

2006-09-04T01:24:00.000-07:00

One of my father's self-portraits, done on a page of a 3 x 5 pad. He used to buy these small unobtrusive pads and keep them in his front pocket. He liked to ride the bus during the day and surreptitiously sketch people sitting across from him. At other times, he was his own subject.

3 x 5, pencil on paper.

Waiting

2006-09-01T03:19:00.000-07:00

Much of the part of my father's life that I was witness to was spent in quietude. He was always contemplating something, and when it was not a figure model, it was oftentimes a vigorous ant trail crossing my parent's back patio. Oddly enough, I think he related to them more than he did your average person. He spent most of his life in the military, and he liked to remark about how much he admired their organization. He was also fond of science fiction, and had scads of used paperbacks crammed onto homemade shelves in his garage office.

I never knew him to have a job, as he had retired from service by the time I was 6 or 7. When he showed up to live at home in the late 60s, I was frightened, as I didn't recognize him. I don't know that I ever really succeeded in getting to know him, as he worked very hard at being obscure. He answered questions with questions, and kept people off balance with his vaguely off-center remarks. It really wasn't a rewarding experience to make any sort of inquiry at all, and so I kept my distance. He preferred it that way, and I never had a better relationship with him than when I lived in Italy, thousands of miles away. He was a very faithful letter writer. I looked forward to his letters, as they nearly always contained a bit of wisdom from a sage philosopher or two.

And so, this brings me to the title I have given this image, and the part of my life in which I place this woman. She sits quietly, waiting, watching, dreaming, interpreting, trying to understand this man that draws, day in and day out, to pass the time.

Blue Ribbon

2006-08-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor on paper.

Backscape

2006-08-28T15:28:00.000-07:00

One of my favorites.

8 x 10, ink and watercolor on paper.

Cafepress Shop Open

2006-08-24T23:53:00.000-07:00

I have started a fledgling Cafepress Shop for the drawings. Right now I only have greeting cards available, but in the near future I will be adding prints. Please let me know if there is anything in particular you would like. I am thinking of creating a list on the right hand column for anyone who makes a purchase or a donation and have a link to their site. So far no sales yet on Cafépress. Who would like to be the first?

Advice from Tophat

2006-08-24T14:40:00.000-07:00

This is the first in a series of drawings done on very delicate paper. It seems that he has used himself as a model for these, but added a bit of corpulence!

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor on paper.

On Yellow

2006-08-22T21:08:00.000-07:00

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor on paper. Available on greeting cards.

Flying Dream

2006-08-21T12:33:00.000-07:00

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor in paper. Available as prints and greeting cards.

Between the Lines

2006-08-20T16:42:00.000-07:00

8 x 10, Ink on paper. Available as prints and greeting cards.

Looking Left

2006-08-19T22:51:00.000-07:00

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor on paper. Available on greeting cards.

Red Ribbon

2006-08-19T22:46:00.000-07:00

8 x 10, Ink and watercolor on paper. Available on greeting cards.

My Father's Tools

2006-08-19T22:36:00.000-07:00

My father eschewed modern conveniences, and he never owned a power tool. He wasn't into polished metal either, and let nature take its course on everything he owned. Naturally, in their weather-beaten state his tools were perfect to photograph, and a good friend of mine did the honors with his large format film camera.

Stretch

2006-08-17T16:44:00.000-07:00

I'd love to see this bigger. Perhaps I will do a super large print of this one. The simplicity and grace of it are outstanding.

I've added texture in Photoshop and adjusted color for this one.

Not sure what came over me, but I just had to see this one on a wall.

8 x 10, Felt pen on paper. Available on greeting cards.

Downward Gaze

2006-08-17T03:44:00.000-07:00

I love the feeling of this one. Beauty, peace, waiting, wondering.

8 x 10, Ink on paper with watercolor wash. Available as prints and greeting cards.

Bend

2006-08-17T03:30:00.000-07:00

This reminds me of Olympic sport for some reason. A skater or skiier changing direction? Maybe with one more these would make a good letterpress series.

8 x 10, Felt pen on paper

Crouch

2006-08-17T01:49:00.000-07:00

This makes me think of a runner coming out of the starting block. Appropos for a first post, I suppose. At the same time, it could represent a man hiding, which in a way, my father did for the latter part of his life. He hid away from the world, most of the time, drawing, comtemplating nature, reading and writing.

He only ventured out for his daily jog, a bicycle ride to the store, or a drive in his beat-up van to the life-drawing class at his local community college. when they offered him a show of his work, he declined politely.

8 x 10, Felt pen on paper. Available as prints, on apparel and on greeting cards.