A quick story

Have you ever met someone famous? Was it a good meeting? I would love to hear stories of your encounters. Please use the comments to share.

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As a teenager I had a few odd jobs. Usually my job was 'be the cute white girl sitting at the front desk and answering the telephone'. For a few years though I did some office work at my father's store, bookkeeping and collections mostly. I loved helping out, and it gave me enough pocket money to buy tickets to some great summertime rock concerts. Good times.

My dad's place was in the village in New York City near Canal street, which was a half-hour walk from home.  Using my feet instead of taking the bus or the train gave me a chance to get some exercise, do some window shopping, and listen to some great tunes on my walkman.

One day I was zipping along my usual path; straight uptown on Broadway approaching the shoe stores that lined the avenue near St. Marks. A man was walking quickly toward me. He was crazy-pale white, wearing a grubby tee-shirt, a black jacket and tight black pants, which was fairly typical attire for 1988 in New York City.

He was walking so fast and I was going so fast that I only caught snippets of him, just tiny puzzle piece images. He was really skinny, I remember. I think I could have wrapped my hand around his ankles they were so small. As he passed me I caught a glimpse of long black hair draped sloppily over his face, a prominent nose, and a definite sway to his walk. It was more of a lope, actually, like his whole body went up and down as he took each long step; and he was moving along at a good clip on those teeny tiny legs.

Only after he passed me did the entire image of him come together in my mind, and I stopped. I know him. How do I know him? Who was that? Why do I know him? Was that...Joey Ramone?

I immediately started walking back downtown as fast as I could. "Was it really him?" I thought as I walked. Maybe it's not him. Maybe when I see him up close I'll see, it's definitely not him. He's moving fast, can I catch up to him? Should I be chasing him? All these thoughts came in a quick jumble as I tried to justify why I was now walking really fast away from home, trying to catch up to a guy who maybe, maybe was a member of the Ramones. "I have to know", I thought. I was literally running at this point and about to turn around, when all of a sudden there he was.

I scuttled up and said quickly (slightly out of breath), "Excuse me, are you Joey Ramone?", thinking again, "I have to know." He stopped. He looked at me, said, "Yeah" and I knew, I knew it when held his hand out, I knew it when I shook his hand, I knew it as I looked at his face behind his hair. I must have watched the movie Rock 'n Roll High School a dozen times in the past year, I was certain it was him. I shook his hand, he let go and slung himself away again. He was very quickly out of sight.

I stood there for a moment just letting the experience sit in my belly. Joey Ramone. He said "Yeah". Actually, the way he said "Yeah" was kind of like the rest of him, I reflected, long and drawn out with a bit of a twist in the middle.

I turned around and headed home, repeating the story in my mind so I could tell all my friends later; and now, I've told you. So I guess we're friends then. :)

Did you ever have one of those experiences that went exactly the way you wanted? Yeah, that was one of those times for me.

Janet

An art history lesson

I've read that the act of creation can have real empathetic roots. I think that's because we have to think about who we are creating something for, and what they would want. Perhaps we're trying to give them what they want. Perhaps we're trying to do the exact opposite.

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I was very lucky growing up - I was able to attend a specialized high school for the arts. I was a visual arts major - which meant that each year I took at least two classes alongside my regular academics. I would come in to school and paint, draw, sculpt, glue, sew or otherwise try to represent the things placed in front of me.

One year I took oil painting. We had a routine - first set up your station, pour the turpentine, squeeze out your paints on your palette, pick your subject (or use a subject already set up from the previous class) and paint. I loved the process of painting. I would squint at each form and shadow and see colors that I didn't see before - yellow in the reds, blue in the browns, and lots and lots of greens. As I moved my brush I moved my colors around the picture like I was decorating a cake; I wanted each bite to have a bit of purple, a taste of orange. I wanted the viewer's eyes to follow the trails of hue around the image.

One day, the teacher came over and said to me, "What is that, that spot of blue there?" I said, "It's right there, in the shadow of the apple, see?" She looked at the apple, then at me. She said, "You can't make stuff up - that's not what this class is about. You have to paint what you see. You are training your eyes and hands. Learn how to paint what you see first." She walked away.

I remember feeling mad. I was going to paint WHAT I wanted - and if she didn't like what I painted because she couldn't see the colors I could see, then I would just have to paint something she couldn't see. For my next subject, I looked out the window. While everyone else painted the still life on the table (an arrangement of plastic fruit, broken instruments and drapery) I painted the cars on the sidewalk four stories below. While everyone else painted a lamp, I painted the forest and highway a few miles away across the river. The next time she came around and asked me what I was painting, I told her. She just looked and nodded and walked away.

I wonder if creativity for me is not so much about empathy - and more about stubbornness. :)

Have you created anything lately?

Janet

Is an artist an expert? A discussion of High School and Drums

I've spent time trying to become an expert, and I really enjoy the feeling. In high school I wanted to become a drummer. I took the only lessons I could find, at a local music school, from a fantastic guy. His first lesson to me was 'forget Ringo, you need to listen to Steely Dan'. He taught me how to hold a stick, and how to listen to the drummer and not just the singer, he taught me how a drummer is supposed to be. I learned respect for the craft from him, and no matter where I go if I see a drummer playing I give him my full attention as a result of the time he spent teaching me.

I remember one day I was waiting for my lesson to start, and I had been sitting outside, tapping my left foot for half an hour. Just tapping, trying to build up my calf muscle so I could play the high-hat really, really well. A weak left foot means a weak sounding k-TSHHHH and I wanted it to be STRONG.

I had practice pads at home and a drumkit, but I couldn't play my drums at home because it bothered the neighbors. Something about living in an apartment building made it impossible no matter how many pillows I stuffed into the bass drum. So instead, I hoofed downtown to a practice space that was mostly used by the local bands. My memory of the place is a little hazy but I do recall that there wasn't really a bathroom so much as a urinal in the hallway. Yeah, eeew.

I paid a few dollars to the scummy guy at the counter to use the drumkit in one of the rooms (always a piece of junk, but at least it was LOUD) for an hour. The rooms were supposed to be soundproof, but when I wasn't pretending to be Larry Mullen, Jr. I could hear the metalheads banging away next door and the In-Living-Color wannabees around the corner. It was really, really great, and totally worth the time. I closed that door and I was a rockstar!

After a time (a year or so, I think) I stopped lessons with the music school, and started taking a class from a guy at NYU. He was really focused on technique, and we worked quite a bit on reading music and jazz drumming. One time he took me to the Bitter End to see him and his friend's band play. It was a great, great night full of weepy bluesy singing and loud times. And amps. Big, big amps.

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I really wanted to be good, I really wanted to be in a band. My first band was a group of girls that liked to play Deep Purple and compare each other's bra sizes. We called ourselves Crimson Tempest (yeah, Steely Dan influence). Oh and I was the small one, comparatively. :) We played a few practices together and sang and had fun. That was all until they kicked me out - I'm sure I deserved it since I've blocked the memory of why they did.

I was in another band (the Keys) with some close friends, and we really had a great time but mostly spent time writing songs. I still have them locked away in a box, friends! I can get them out anytime you want!

I tell myself that one day I'll play drums again. We'll see. I think I was close to being a really good drummer, and one day I'd like to be there again.

Have you ever gotten really good at something? Did you consider yourself an artist, or an expert?