As usual, I have limited time before I am supposed to be somewhere, checking out someone’s castle for potential painting opportunities. I did get up early, checked what limited info is available to make a guess on whether it is worth it to drive a distance, or a greater distance to possibly find surf. In the circumstance where there might be an opportunity for the closer trip, I would, of course, text the client and claim one or more of the various contractor excuses.
Didn’t happen, but I did do some coloring on a drawing I finished during a frantic, frustrating day… yesterday, and then had the original reduced so I could do the coloring and the scanning. Okay, so, as usual, the illustration, based on a photograph taken by Reggie Smart out on the actual northwest Pacific coast, is kind of over-drawn.
I scanned the colorized version a few minutes ago and… surprise, it is also over-colored. Some colors kick ass on other colors and take over. The most wrong of the colors. Wrongest? The ones I don’t want standing out. Luckily, I got five prints to color up.
Back to the lack of time. Gotta go. Next time, a hopefully, not overcolored version.
The temperature outside our place had dipped down to fifteen degrees Fahrenheit (that’s minus nine point four four four four… for Celsius fans) at the stroke of midnight, Pacific Standard Time, before un-dipping to a slightly less deadly twenty-one (minus six point one one one one… at… checking… eight: forty-six a.m. (ante-meridiem for Latin lovers, or ‘before noon’ for those who… okay, I’m thinking the difference between lovers of breakfast and fans of brunch, and, now, because I am thinking, I’m considering dawn patrollers and surfers who prefer seeing what we’re paddling out and into; and, remembering my days in crowded California waves, I can’t help but mention that the onshores usually started about 10:30 am, brunch; but, yes, P.M. stands for ‘post meridiem,’ or, for those who like to time a siesta before the afternoon glass off, um, yeah, afternoon).
So, HAPPY NEW YEAR!
You might be thinking about how low the bar must be set for 2022 being better than 2021. Try not to.
I do have a new drawing. BUT FIRST, since I did mention my friend Stephen R. Davis’s recent diagnosis, he did spend some time at the University of Washington hospital, did see a specialist in lymphomas (pleural), and was told that what he has (and Trish did look up all the scary shit) is imminently curable.
He did give up coffee, switching to smoothies. Surprising to me, since every time I’ve worked with, or surfed with, or casually run into Steve, he asked (past tense now, I guess), “Hey, Erwin; you have any… coffee?” And this is him with a bit left in a fancy store-bought cup with the wraparound finger-protecting paper. “Yeah; of course, I brought enough for me… in a thermos. Folgers. On sale. Costco.” “Oh, okay.”
Still, Steve wasn’t a coffee snob. I did ask him to return the thermos I gave him. He says he will try to find it. Steve is going back in a couple of weeks to get started on a program.
I do know other who have life-changing if not life-threatening conditions. Here’s what we do: We keep going. That was kind of the point of my drawing, originally meant, maybe, as a holiday card; now, perhaps, I can say it’s a Happy New Year’s illustration. Forward, onward, sideslipping down the line.
Next post might be, “What’s Wrong With ‘Swamis’ and how I’m fixing it.”
I’ve been using whatever ‘creative’ time I have to plod forward on the manuscript for “Swamis.” Maybe it’s because the exterior painting season seems to end around Halloween, and because it has been raining like it’s already November (and now it is), but I have spent little time on drawing.
Well, I’ve worked on a couple, drawing, doing some magic at the PRINTERY in Port Townsend with the help of STEVEN, master copy magician. I have another one ready to get reduced, black to white switched, reduced… stuff like that. I have had some requests for ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRTS. Sorry, I have none. I am still hoping Tyler Meeks will reopen the DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE. We’ll see.
It didn’t quite fit on my printer. Almost. Yeah, the “Original Erwin: part is a little, um, shouty, and, since I’m being critical, Trish thought the surfer looked like a space alien, some guy waiting to get something else copied at the Printery said he thought the surfer had a ‘nice ass.’ “Oh,” I said, “it’s an alien.” “Oh.”So, the magic. Reversed in several ways. Shortboard Aaron said it would be cool if, rather than a reflection, I could turn it into an A FRAME wave. Sure. Cool.
OKAY, quick story. Because we don’t use the printer all that often, and don’t have an actual, you know, like, office, the printer seems to get stored in the hallway. Trish is going to a GHOST CONFERENCE this weekend in PORT GAMBLE and needed tickets printed up. Naturally, the paper in the back was all twisted up, a piece fell off the printer, I had to figure out how and where and… yeah, I was surly about the whole thing. BUT NOW, since the printer’s out and I’m using it.
OKAY, I’m through. Hope you’re finding some waves. I’m still recovering from the ‘no booties, no earplugs, sudden sets’ session.
While simplifying my manuscript for “Swamis” has actually become more complicated, I have also spent some time complicating illustrations; adding more color than necessary, going full psychedelic. Maybe that’s all right and even acceptable; the story does take place in Southern California, 1969.
You’re most likely too young to have any memories, or, if you were there, it may be more flashback than memory. A former cliché that may, through disuse, may have reached the statute of limitations on repeating is this: “If you can remember anything about the 60s, you really weren’t there.”
Okay, I googled it. The quote has been attributed to: Paul Kantner, Robin Williams, Paul Krassner, Pete Townshend, Grace Slick, Timothy Leary, and others. If you know who all of those people are… whoa! Look at you!
So, here are my latest workings:
overdone positive, line bending negative.
ANYWAY, I’m still getting my stuff together for the ZOOM event with the Port Townsend Library, Thursday, August 20, 7pm. There’s supposed to be a slide show of some of my stuff so people who tune in don’t have to look at me. Here’s a link: https://ptpubliclibrary.org/library/page/art-and-writing-erwin-dence OKAY, so how do I make that all blue so you don’t have to type it all out.
Oh, some of these and others are available at Tyler Meeks’ DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE. Stop in when you’re cruising out to the Peninsula, Thur-Sunday, 10am to 6pm.
I am discovering more about the art and science of printing, particularly about how yellow seems to overwhelm other colors. Here is a version of my latest “Swamis” illustration:
inspired by 1960s Ron Stoner photograph
SO, I wanted to wait to see how the scanned drawing, now pixels on a screen, compares to the illustration I stuck in the scanner. Ummm, pretty close if I tilt the screen until it shows maximum color. This is taken from the color image, reduced to fit on eight and a half by eleven, which, because the yellow was too pervasive and some of the other colors were washed out, I attacked the drawing with colored pencils.
Okay, yeah; now if I could only get the drawings straight. They are, I swear, properly placed in the scanner. ANYWAY, I’m dropping a couple of framed pieces off at TYLER MEEKS’ DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE this afternoon, very limited edition prints with color added. Yeah, like on the actual drawings. I know there is no surf, but drop in on your way by. He’s open Thursday-Sunday, 10am to 6pm.
MEANWHILE, I am trying to get farther along on my latest edit (possibly not the last- but maybe the last full manuscript/big change version) of “Swamis” the novel. MORE INFORMATION is forthcoming on the upcoming ZOOM discussion/reading, with, if I can get it together, a slide show of my artsy works. Keith Darrock is setting it up with the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY. Thursday, August 20, and, yes, I will be putting more information out there. Here. Out here.
Stay safe, wear your fucking mask when appropriate; see if you can convince your friends and acquaintances who are obviously obstinate if not completely stupid refusers and deniers. to, at least, put on the fucking mask when they can’t fucking stay the fuck away. Yes, I am using profanity; not that that is unusual; but seeing people who think they’re making a statement by pushing into a store without a mask, expression saying, ‘yeah, say something,’ and I’m trying to buy a newspaper and a quart of chocolate milk; not risking getting whatever you’re spreading.
And wait, for all else I think I am; I make my living painting houses; and I do want to give a little praise to the other blue collar working folks who take a step back, grab their masks, and put them on when being able to socially distance isn’t possible. AND, YES, I know I do surf tiny waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, but, really, two feet isn’t six feet, not even here.
All real surfers have experienced those moments when we think we’re at the surface, suck in some air, only to find it’s foam; unbreathable. There are few things scarier than the inability to catch one’s breath. That’s what this virus brings; along with searing headaches, high fevers, delirium. It’s real, it’s around, and it’s more luck than any sort of inner strength or goodness that has kept us from getting it so far. So far. Through preaching.
I have a version of this headed for Disco Bay; hand colored
It was almost coincidental that I found a photo from Ron Stoner of Swamis in about 1966, a year or so after I started surfing. Here it is:
Okay, the one on the right. The left photo is of the Malibu Invitational, in, I believe, 1965. My dad took my sister, Suellen; I declined to go. Too far away. Note the pre-drone angle.
So, here’s my version:
I believe I showed more than my usual amount of discipline.
Usually I can’t keep well enough alone. I did several modifications to another possible illustration for “Swamis,” the novel I’m now over halfway through my latest rewrite/edit (definitely making the manuscript easier to follow if less, um, colorful- Still too wordy, too much dialogue). This drawing is based on another Stoner Swamis photo. Before and after, with another after in the neverland file.
SO, I have several copies of the newer drawing and will attempt to show some discipline and restraint in coloring them. Results forthcoming.
MEANWHILE, I am getting some drawings together in preparation for the zoom event with the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY. I was actually volunteered by PT ripper Keith Darrock; and, since I don’t really need folks being forced to watch me talking all about my writing methods and such stuff, the plan is to get a selection of my art works together and have a slide show. It’s all supposed to happen August 20, but I will certainly post reminders as the date approaches.
AS ALWAYS, stay safe, surf when you can. OH, oh, yeah; Stephen R. Davis is in Hawaii, flight delayed by a hurricane; not sure about his current status, quarantine-wise. Checking the Big Island forecast fourteen days out… hmmm.
I probably should start with the color version of the Ginny Cole illustration for “Swamis” before I get into anything remotely political. I am making progress on the novel; with at least one new character and so much concentration on how Jody’s father, Joseph DeFreines, Sr. died that I may have to severely cut back on the drama and adventure involved in the killings of Chulo and Gingerbread Fred.
Sequel? Not yet. Trish asked me if I wanted the drawing to be sort of mystical. Yeah, definitely; reflecting the time, 1969, and, more specifically, how a young person felt about the time, the place, life, love, surf, everything.
Fictional Ginny Cole on a mystical ride
I’m not actually through doing satirical political drawings. There is just too much material out there. For example, Ivanka Trump leading a public relations effort to encourage desperate and out of work folks to just ‘find something new.’ Yeah, like, um, with jobs at a premium and Republicans claiming the unemployed are just living it up on all the extra money; maybe what folks need is a new daddy. Works for her. Cake, yeah; let them eat cake; oh, and, because the owner of this outfit said nice things about her daddy; eat lots of Goya beans.
AND, I would like to do a drawing of Tucker Carlson, whose lawyers went to court recently to defend his right to tell lies; or, put in Fox-speak, Tuck-man is under no obligation to tell the truth. It’s not like he’s a real journalist. I would add, perhaps, a little sign that says, “Truth don’t matter; Ratings matter.” Yeah, it should be Truth ‘doesn’t’ matter; thanks for catching that.
I continue to struggle in completing a publishable version of “Swamis.” Mostly I’m struggling with myself. I respect the opinions of the people who have read part or all of my unexpurgated manuscript. I believe the feedback. Confusing, too many leaps in time; all true.
I AM, HOWEVER, stubborn. My most recent addition to the manuscript is included here, but first; and there may be a connection; here is a drawing I decided is too busy, too overdrawn; just not quite right. SO, I flipped the paper over, traced the outline on the other side.
simplifying is not easy
YOU MAY NOTICE that, included in this passage, is something that came from here, from realsurfers.net. It’s the chaos/dreaming/writing thing; and backs up what is, evidently, my method of writing and speaking; say enough, write enough, something accidently profound might just happen.
PROFOUND. Yeah, it’s my ego. I’ve been humbled by the process; but my goal never was to write a novel, maybe one of a series. ANYWAY, stay safe, stay sane, try not to panic, stay tuned. OH, and, not sure if this passage will make the final cut, and do bear in mind this is (mostly) fiction; here it is:
CHAPTER SEVEN- TUESDAY, JANUARY 21, 2020
I’m sitting in my de facto office, folding table in my mother’s nearly-empty condo, part of what she called the “Great Condo Wall of Del Mar,” looking out at a scarred ocean, rip lines, squall lines, light pollution; gray on gray on gray. There might be waves, weakly pushing off the ever-refreshed rip rap protecting the ever-eroding bluffs. Can’t tell. A dark line halfway to my horizon can appear to be a wave. It would be a big one.
This is where I am, not where my mind is.
I have to decide right now, at this spot in my latest edit of “Swamis,” if this is a memoir or a mystery. If it is a mystery, I have so much material to cut, I’ve been advised, to keep from losing the reader. That’s you. That’s free will.
Painful. I wanted to include little bios of people I ran into, little details, things that would let you, the reader, know that it was real, that I was fucking there.
Does adding the ‘fucking’ make me seem angry? I am; even though I realize why it makes sense to cut out and condense and to make sure the narrative is, most importantly, clear.
Okay. Thank you for reading, but here’s the thing: I’m telling the story. To you. I know who I am; what I don’t know, what I have to constantly worry about and wonder about, who I have to adjust my storytelling for, is you.
I don’t know you.
Again, thank you for reading. If I’m trying not to lose you by burrowing into some peripheral background information on a background character, some wordy journey to another side story that I believe offers some possible explanation as to why I or someone else behaved in a certain way; I will also endeavor to not try to fool you or withhold information in order to create some artificially engineered intrigue.
Still, I will be saving (some of) the unnecessary scenes elsewhere, some other file, like those little plastic things for resealing loaves of bread, hundreds of them, in various colors, that my mother kept in a dedicated drawer and that I threw away; like the notes my father kept from his encounters as a deputy and then a detective; like miscellaneous nuts and bolts kept in jars for some day. Some day. Okay. Move the cursor. “Cut.”
FEAR OF MISSING OUT is heightened when what you’re missing out on, if you surf somewhere with VERY SMALL WAVE WINDOWS, is good surf. That’s probably all I should say, but, of course, I’ll keep ranting on. If you live and die by the forecasts, you’ll probably miss out occasionally. “I could have gone” is a surfer’s lament I’ve sung many times.
Surfing is a gift; having decent or better waves to ride is an extra, a bonus.
Easy to forget.
“SWAMIS” UPDATE: I just got the feedback on my manuscript from a professional writer and editor. I had texted him a while back, after I got some other feedback, to please stop reading. The novel needs a lot more work, and I have been making progress on a massive rewrite. The book doctor claims he didn’t get the text, and completed the editing, with commentary and a full-page overview.
I should, first, say that when I asked the unnamed writer/editor to read something from “Swamis,” quite a while back, he said he’d read it when it was completed. Meaning, not before; not the feedback on my writing style I wanted. Okay. SLOW-FORWARD to when I thought “Swamis” was complete enough to get a copyright.
“This might take a while,” he said. And it did.
Because I had given him a thumb drive, I had to wait a couple of days before I could retrieve it. Anxious days. When I stopped off to pick it up, he declined to tell me much. Like a written work, the review/edit would speak for itself. “I can’t believe you actually read the whole thing,” I said. “The reason I did is because I said I would. The reason I agreed to read and review it is because I never thought you’d finish it.”
Obviously I haven’t.
“Take a week,” he said, “cry, get mad, hate me, whatever, then go back to writing.”
I’m pretty sure it’s been a week and I’ve devoted a lot of my thinking time to figuring out how to make “Swamis” work. The good news is I have already deleted a lot of the parts he thought, rightfully, were deletion-worthy, off-topic, not contributing to the story.
AND, his comments were all accurate.
HOWEVER, he seemed to, from the beginning, keep asking why Jody wasn’t more focused on finding out who killed his father than on who killed Chulo. I have an explanation for that.
ALL THANKS for the help and feedback from the (so far) unnamed professional and the others who have read part or all of the UNEXPURGATED VERSION. Believe me, I’m expurgating the shit out of it.
TYLER MEEKS’ DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE is back OPEN. I’m not sure what the hours are, but if you’re passing by and it’s open, stop in.
I’ve been trying to do a few more illustrations for “Swamis,” particularly of characters. This drawing came from a small photo in the back of an old “Surfers’ Journal.” I drew it once; pencil and pen, used that version to do this simpler, cleaner one; then did a third. Too dark. The original photo was from the 1970s, and was of… I probably shouldn’t say.
MEANWHILE, if you just found out some surfer who went looking for waves just because it fit into his schedule, and scored; try to get over it. Cry, hate him… just take a week and… try to get over it. BETTER YET, get even.
I just cut another mini-chapter in what I’m calling the ‘massive edit’ of “Swamis.” I’ve passed page 200 of what was 300, and I am, for better or more better, adding words in some places while I cut in others.
As such, I added a couple hundred words to a part on the real life swell of December, 1969. There should be surfing in a surf novel, and, although it’s not a ‘Big Wednesday’ climax, it’s not just background, either.
First, here’s a pencil and pen drawing:
I am trying to capture a certain feel- working on it
Before I get to the outtake, I could explain where it came from. I never attended a surf movie alone (or any movie at any theater or high school gym, or went to any sit-down restaurant), but I also never went with my surfing friends. I first saw “Endless Summer” with my mom and sister. I went to a movie at Hoover High with Emily, my chemistry lab partner. I was supposed to drive down in my Morris Minor, but it was, as it frequently was, broken down, so Emily and I got to get dropped off by my parents, on a date of their own. Dropped off. Embarrassing.
I went with Trish, but, for some reason (probably the broken car, again) we got to ride with my sister and her boyfriend, Alan, who might have passed for a surfer if he hadn’t, the very day, shaved off his mustache. Trish looked good, might have acted as if she enjoyed the movie. The embarrassment increased when we, as was the custom, stopped at the Carnation ice cream place. It was some time in 1969, I was a senior at Fallbrook High, and had competed for a second time in the KGB/Windansea high school surf contest. Thor Svenson, president of the Windansea Surf Club, and some members, came into the restaurant and, maybe it was my startled expression rather than Mr. Svenson actually recognizing me, but he nodded, and I nodded, me sitting in a booth with more-chic-than-necessary Trish, my sister, Suellen, and her farmboy-looking date.
I survived, and did push Trish into a couple more outings, one at Mira-Costa Junior College, closer to home; and at least one at the local Junior High in Pacific Beach, after we got married and moved there.
But, to explain where this outtake came from, a girl whose Navy doctor father had just been transferred from Virginia came to Fallbrook, mid-term, 1968, and took a seat across from me in English class. We talked surfing, I said I’d show her around, and we went, that very day, after school. I discovered, after we went to the Surfboards by Heck (it’s still mentioned in “Swamis”), that she wasn’t really interested in actually surfing. Because I was her first date in Fallbrook, probably, and because I… because I was me; Phil or Ray, or Phil and Ray called me up to see how it went. “Hey,” my father said, walking past; “A man doesn’t talk about what happens on a date.” “Nothing happened,” my mom said; “I’m sure nothing, nothing happened.” She was right, of course; other than, as mentioned, the girl figuring out I might be a real surfer, but I wasn’t even or even close enough to her on the social status scale. Fine. Different scales.
Here’s the piece:
SURF MOVIE- HOOVER HIGH- SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1968
This was all kind of normal at surf movies, sixteen-millimeter productions shown at high schools and rented theaters, even after “Endless Summer” had made the leap to the big screen. I had attended a few, Hoover High in San Diego; fifty miles from Fallbrook and at least fifteen miles from the ocean.
This time I was with, rather than one or two of my friends, a date; a girl from my History class, who’d just moved to Fallbrook from Hawaii, said she surfed and would love to go to a surf movie. I discovered she wasn’t really a surfer by the time I showed her the third or fourth surf spot (Grandview or Beacons, both looking pretty good) on the way down. She discerned I probably wasn’t in with the rich or popular kids before we got to Windansea. I drove back on 395. Closer. “Fun,” she said. “Yeah,” I said. “See you.” It wasn’t long before she started dating a rich popular kid and I became her “I was new in town” story.
Still, I had enjoyed the movie. I always enjoyed the scene; surfers hooting, laughing, making that sort of whooshing sound for a slow-motion ride; or being reverently silent; all in unison, all at the appropriate times. And, even if she wasn’t an actual girlfriend, it was a date; she was pretty cute. She did look like a surfer.
Real Surfers 