BANJO MAN

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SKETCHES AT THE TRACK

Thought I'd try something different and take my sketchbook to the dirt track. I soon realized I can't draw when racing is going on, but I got a few crowd scenes worthy of sharing. The one above of a Dale Jr fan turned out pretty good; I might could turn it into an aceo. Here's another quick sketch:

I like how this one came out like he was not a very willing subject. In reality, I don't think he noticed.

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POST #301: SINGIN' FARMER

I'm resuming my eBay art career with this guy, SINGIN' FARMER. He looks like he's off-tune, but I'm sure no one minds. He's singing

I am a man of constant sorrow
I've seen trouble all my day.
I bid farewell to old Kentucky
The place where I was born and raised.

That song was in the movie, Oh Brother, Where Art Thou? which the wife and I have yet to see.

Also, I think I can tie this in with the latest ILLUSTRATION FRIDAY topic, Juggle, as I am trying to juggle owning a house for the first time, my regular job, and this art thing.

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311 SPEEDWAY

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HAPPY FARMER

Most of the time I start out with a plan, the plan goes out the window, and then I pretend the end result is what I intended all along. That makes doing portraits VERY HARD.

I was trying to do a passable Hiriam Williams for a couple of weeks now. Personally, I don't think I've come even close yet. BUT, I like how this attempt turned out. This has a nice happy farmer look to it. So I've titled it HAPPY FARMER.

Hopefully, someday soon I'll be a happy farmer. More likely, I'll be a neurotic farmer. I will keep a copy of this guy for inspiration.

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PAUSE FOR POSSIBLE NEW HOME PICS

Here are some pics from what COULD BE our property. Iris won't let me post pictures of the actual house because she thinks that would be bad luck (it still has to be inspected). I don't believe in luck, at least not in that manipulative capacity, but I do believe in angry wives. So for now you will have to make do with views FROM the house, not OF the house.

This is a window from this workshop:

Where I plan on creating my lawn sculptures or something. Maybe take up welding. Build my own stock car.

Walking to our pagoda. I will likely turn this into a dojo, where I'll teach Happy Kung Fu.

Our meadow, perhaps where the lawn sculptures will go.

From our porch, the workshop.

Our little lizard friend.

Now all I need is a tractor.

Ach, I can't help it. Iris will have to be mad at me. Here it is, home sweet home:

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THAT AIN'T BLUEGRASS

The kids, looking to the past for their edge, walked into the backroom of the gas station where the old-timers hung out. They, the old timers, have seen it before: the new set proudly pulled out their mandolins and dobros and guitars and banjos (no fiddle? thought Rooster, one of the regulars), proudly playing as fast as they could from their bindered music book.

"That ain't bluegrass," muttered Rooster.

And thus beganeth the lesson.

Here's a closeup of Rooster:

And here's the work in progress:

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ILLUSTRATION FRIDAY: CARS

Junior Johnson, from bootlegger to stock car driver to team owner to Country Ham salesman back to moonshine (this time legit). A true American hero.

Art-wise, I'm trying out the spotty shading technique instead of the crosshatching. Like? Here's a closeup:

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RED BYRON

Now that GOD OF WAR II has been completed by the wife and I, life can resume.

True story:

Robert "Red" Byron raced in unorganized stock car races in the 30's until he served in WWII. He came home with a destroyed left leg, so when he got back into racing he put on a steel stirrup which was bolted to the clutch. He won.

He was also the first official NASCAR champion.

Here's a close-up:

ILLUSTRATION FRIDAY UPDATE:

The topic is Signs. Since this is a NASCAR aceo, would the sign Left Turn Only apply?

Ugh. That was terrible. I hate the "left turn/NASCAR" jokes. Yeah, I get it. You find NASCAR to be monotonous because they only turn left. Isn't it ironic, though, that the same joke is made EVERY TIME to make that point?

Just saying.

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SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS: (UN)ROOTED

The trees grow really tall around here in NC. And you know what they say about tall trees: big roots.

Yup, that's what they say.

"Trees have fallen and continue to fall," said the park ranger on a very windy day last week. "Enter at your own risk."

You can tell what kind of person you are by how you read that last sentence. Most people probably read "Enter at your own RISK." I read "ENTER at your own risk." But years of self-restraint/denial overrode my unhealthy desire to see trees falling, so I waited until the next day to see the carnage aftermath.

Here are a couple of non-paint pictures to show what I saw:




So I exaggerated the size of the tree a bit in the painting. Artistic license.

There they were, all the roots and inner workings of a tree on display, covered in red Carolina dirt.

The easy thing to do would be to draw some lesson from this - like the capillary action of the roots drawing water from the ground (too much analogy?) - about the impermanence of life and how all that once nurtured you will knock you down and leave you exposed to the world. But I'd rather say:

Dude. Big weather event. Destruction. Cool.

Does that make me insensitive? I hope so.

Sunday Scribblings.

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CRAZY SINGER

There's a great restaurant called Hillbilly Hideaway. It's one of those one meal on the menu style places. They also have music in the barn out back (NO DANCING, DRINKING, OR CUSSING). There's an old man who I believe owns/previously owned the place singing in the barn every time we go. He'll forget words, sing a little off key, the usual stuff that will get you kicked of American Idol, but he's very entertaining. That's who I was trying to draw.

Instead, this crazy looking dude is what materialized. Funny how life can be.

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SECRET

Rooster Hanshaw plays a mean guitar. He's not a pro - pro guitar player anyway. He IS a pro auto mechanic. He just plays his guitar to get the sounds of drilling and revving out of his head.

He also has another hobby, one that no one knows about. He's not ashamed, mind you. He just knows no one would understand and he doesn't want to try to explain anyway.

He has a blog with his essays on the intricacies of Austrian Economics.

That's right. This dude from the mountains of western North Carolina engages in flame wars with both loony lefties from the left coast to wretched righties from the right. To them, he's a professor type from George Mason University who wears crooked glasses and a suit. They don't see his greased-stained keyboard. Or know that his friends call him Rooster.

And when the computer screen ceases to amuse, he goes back staining the frets with car guts.

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JOE THE LUNCH LADY

I think there are more New Yorkers in the South than Southerners, and they're all living in my apartment community. One neighbor (who moved from Jersey, but is from the Bronx) is Joe. Couldn't possibly be a nicer guy; as we chatted while I was jumping in the trash compactor (not for fun - it's part of my job. But, it is fun...) I learn he's a retired super and was hoping to get a little extra income working at a school cafeteria.

"You're gonna be a lunch lady?" I asked.

"Yeah," he laughed, "but I'm not gonna wear a dress."

"I don't know..." I reply, "there might be a dress code. Things are formal down here."

Don't worry, Joe. I didn't put you in a dress. But you are wearing a hairnet.

Here's how I did it:

The preliminary sketches


Then I lightly draw the image on the card


Add more ink detail


And then the final picture, as you see above.

Sometimes I go the other way - I paint first, then ink it. I'm unpredictable - just ask my parole officer.

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SOUTHERN IMMERSION NIGHT

The wife and I, we like to understand the culture we're living in so we can appreciate it more. I mean, you wouldn't move to NYC and never try a bagel, right? Fortunately, we've made some friends who have taken on the challenge of explaining the ways of our new home. So last Saturday night, we had dinner at a place called Hillbilly Hideaway, an all-you-can-eat no-menu kind of place with fried chicken, ribs, cornbread, beans, coleslaw, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, some other kind of delcious bread, ham, cooked apples, and of course sweet tea to drink. No booze and no dancing, so bring the preacher kind of place. I gorged.

Out back, they had a little stage where bluegrass and country is played to aid the digestion. I successfully resisted the urge to dance. It wasn't easy. I wanted to go up there and sing along.

After a while, we headed out to the drive-in to watch Talladega Nights. I haven't been to a drive-in since I was knee-high to a grasshopper (the movie was Bambi. I've been a fan of venison ever since). Yeah, I said it. I'll say it again: knee-high to a grasshopper. Got a problem with that? Didn't think so.

Drive-ins are far superior to movie theaters. The movie was very funny, even though they mixed up Busch series cars with Nextel. I managed to keep my NASCAR snobbery to myself so as not to diminish the experience for others. Another thing that was unrealistic: they had Kyle Petty qualifying 4th at Talladega. Kyle, you're great, but you and I both know that won't happen.

Anyway, good times were had by all. Next week: moonshine and snake-handling.

PATH TO HERBIE'S

One of our concerns when the wife and I moved from Brooklyn to Greensboro was whether we'd ever walk again. Not that the move did anything to our legs, mind you. It's just that now we have a car, and things are farther away. Fortunately, there's a wooded path that leads right to a great little diner called Herbie's.

It makes for a great Saturday morning stroll. Lots of trees, cardinals and bluejays fighting epic battles, squirrels and chipmunks competing in the "Who's Cuter" contest, fawns prancing, the seven dwarves whistling, bunnies hopping, the whole kit n' kaboodle.

Also note the Mrs with her nice purse and sweater. I'm going for the country vs city contrast that exists in reality.

Herbie's, by the way, is awesome. We easily put back all the calories we lose on the walk over. As it should be.

Want it? You know what to do.

WE'RE NOT IN BROOKLYN ANYMORE, TOTO

The wife and I attended our first local track (Bowman Gray Stadium in Winston Salem) evening of races. This is one of the reasons we moved. What's that I hear? Some lame, tired joke about left turns? What's that other sound I hear? Ah, that would be the dulcet tone of me smacking you upside your head.

Here's the evidence:

DEMOLITION!!!

Ballparks are overated:

And a gratuitous rib-eating shot:

Now, back to your regularly scheduled artyness.

JUNIOR AND ME

What's this? Open borders AND a NASCAR fan? That's right, baby. Don't try to fit me in a box. No, seriously. Don't. I'm claustophobic. If you need me to explain the appeal of 43 drivers all going as fast as they can inches away from each other, well, as the poets say, I can't do nothin' for ya, man.

Now, I tried not to be a Jr. fan. It was too easy - everybody likes Dale. I'm more of a great-driver-under-who-doesn't-get-his-props kind of fan, ie, a Kenseth fan. But Dale is one funny dude. Of all the drivers, he's the one you'd most want to hang out with. Gordon is uptight, Stewart is weird (he has a pet monkey, for crying out loud), Kahne would steal your girlfriend, and Biffle, um... his name is Biffle. I can't help it. I'll always root for Junior at least a little bit.

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(Where all my NASCAR peeps at? No sale again. Methinks this new style is unpopular. Maybe it's time to move on.)