Rollie

It was the day before I left Miami. I'd hung around after Art Basel to watch the down artistically deflate and met some other stragglers, muralists who's ride back home had left them high and dry. We took to painting the spots left over from Basel week. One such spot was a huge warehouse which a friend of mine was granted permission to cover top to bottom in paint. I jumped on board the project after half of the wall space was covered with graffiti pieces so I did backgrounds and characters. I became a valuable asset to the team, and stayed in a hotel to be close to the spot to paint it whenever I chose. The morning which was to be my final morning in Miami I thought to get an early start to painting. I took a city bus towards the spot, then walked a few blocks. When I came near the spot, I saw a dog running accross a busy intersetion with people chasing him. I heard a woman yell, "Get that dog!". I thought to myself, 'Dammit, I'm going to get this dog'. I chased it through a gas station parking lot, and tried to tackle it in a gravel and plant display at the entrance. The dog slipped away from my arms and ran out into traffic. I ran after the dog yelling for cars to stop and waving my arms frantically, as the last thing I wanted from this chase was a dead dog. 

The dog's name, I later learned was Rollie. He was a mutt from the pound, a fast one. He was thin and athletic. I thought at first that he was an italian greyhound, but he was likely closer to a labrador crossed with a rat terrier. He was pitch black and gaunt. Today was Rollie's big day- the day which he would meet his new family, who had driven three hours up from Key West to pick him up and give him a second chance at a good life. 

I chased Rollie down the street and down a side road. A beautiful woman came walking from behind a building, breathing heavily from running herself. "Did you catch him?" Her name was Tobi. She was blonde and tall. She had beautiful posture. She wore a white dress. I replied that I saw him (the dog) go down the street and cut back to the main road. We agreed to split up and try to corner him, which may have worked if the two of us were olympians. We surrounded Rollie a few times (a feat in itself) but he eludued our efforts. He took a dash out of our sights and into a neighborhood. We began asking residents if they had seen a small black dog. No one had seen him. We flagged down a car which came from the direction which we suspected Rollie had run and asked them if they had seen a little black dog. They replied no but agreed to help us look for a little while. Tobi and I exchanged phone numbers, and I got in the car with the two gentlemen to be the eyes of the impromptu search party. Tobi ran to her car and began driving around herself. My new friends and I circled the neighboorhood, then tried a couple alleyways where we suspected a loose dog might be drawn to. In one alleyway, we came to a pile of cement blocks, about a foot and a half tall. The driver inquired aloud if he could make it. The answer was an obvious no- we were driving a low-riding crown vic, but I thought to keep my opinion to myself. He didn't really want an answer it seemed, as a moment after asking the question, without response from me or the other gentleman passenger, he pushed on the accelerator. The car lurched forward and came just shy of airborne as the front wheels contacted the cement blocks at the front of the pile. It was like watching a trainwreck. The car came to a hault and we heard a scream from the engine revving as the front wheels lost contact with the ground. The air grew heavy. The car sat helpless, like an upside-down tortoise. "I think we're stuck" the driver said. I silently questioned his level of sobriety. The passenger and I got out and took a look at our predicament. The car was fixed on the pile of rocks by the undercarriage, about one third the way into the length of the vehicle. The driver directed the passenger and I to 'get in front and push'. With the two front tires hanging in the air, I thought that our efforts would be in vein, but after some rocking bcakwards and forwards, with periodic clearing of chunks of concrete from under the car, we made progress. As I stood in front of the car and pushed, the final rock on which the car teetered came into contact with the driver's-side front wheel and shot out from the underbelly, skipping down the alleyway like the last boulder of an avalanche. The car crashed to the ground with clamor. We were free. Our passenger friend and I got back into the car and resumed searching for Rollie, but after a few minutes, declared it more trouble than they had time for. The gentlemen dropped me off at the corner from which they had graciously picked me up. I called Tobi. She swung by in her car, picked me up, and together we resumed the search. She told me about Rollie's story. Just a few days prior to this adventure, he was on the 'kill list' of the Dade County Humane Society, (known to be the clinic with the nation's highest euthenization rate). Tobi, a member of a anti-kill animal rehabilitation group became aware of Rollie's fate, she stepped in to save his life and foster him until he could find a family to live out the rest of his doggy life with. Rollie recieved his vaccinations, was neutered, and recieved surgery for a problematic tumor, before finding his adoptive family, from Key West. After a few days of foster care, Tobi put Rollie in his crate to transport him to his new owners, but upon arriving at the agreed upon spot and opening her car door, Rollie caught a glimpse at freedom, (or escape or a hotdog or something) and jumped out of the car, and took off running. Tobi felt horrible about losing Rollie, but we came to the agreement that it was not her fault, it was just what happened. We drove aorund the block several times, looking for either a speedy little dog or roadkill that resembled Rollie, but found neither. We agreed that it would likely be best to make flyers in the afternoon, post them around the neighboorhood, and hope someone called him in. Tobi drove me back to where our adventure began, nearby a clothing boutique which she owned and managed- The Fox House. I enjoyed her store, though it catered almost exclusively to women, I appreciated her curatorial senssibilities. We talked about the shop and I told some stories from my time so far in Miami. After discussing solutions to the Rollie dilemma, I said goodbye to Tobi and left for the afternoon. I walked back towards the wall to begin painting, but on my way ran into my friend and painting companion, Optimo, who needed help with a wetern Union transaction. He did not have an ID so we organized routing the money to my name- this was a four hour operation complete with a walk across town, calls, texts, stoop sitting, waiting, etc. Optimo's orginizational qualities are not his strong point. Optimo had to catch a bus so I ended up fronting him the cash while we waited for the Western Union order to process, which worked out. Afterwards, I returned to the wall, (so much for an early start). The sun was beginning to set. Upon arriving at the wall I saw a little black dog crossing the street in front of me. He had a unique gate in that his back legs stayed close toghether in his trot and ticked from side to side. I recognized that gate; it was Rollie! It was a miracle! I figured he would be tired after the chase from earlier in the day, and I assumed he'd done quite a lot of running since our initial attempt at capturing him, now five hours prior. I started after him in a relaxed jog, at first matching his pace, then quickening to close some distance between us. He noticed me in pursuit and sped up. It was on again. This time I thought to use some food that I'd been carrying in my backpack to try to lure him in, a beautiful Italian sausage at that. I took off my backpack, unzipped, and reached in, all while keeping pace with the dog. I took out the treat and held it out, now kneeling to show that I came in peace with an offering. Rollie did not break his trot, he did not care. I put the treat away and took to running again. I sprinted a few times to see if I could catch him on the assumption that he would be tired, but he alluded me with ease. By this time Rollie and I had run together for about 10 blocks. I was feeling very tired, and I thought I would ask the first person I saw on a bicycle to trade me for... I don't know what... whatever they would take for it. Just then a gentleman on a scooter pulled up to a four way intersection that Rollie and I were running through. I appealed to him. "Excuse me, please, I'm chasing this dog and I'm super tired. Would you help me chase him down on your scooter. I'll pay you, please." The gentleman took to the mission as quickly as I had and responded with a "Jump on!" I hopped onto the back of the scooter and off we went in pursuit of the marathon dog. We caught up to him quick, and I felt confident that I could catch him now. I jumped off the scooter when we slowed down a bit for an intersection, and made a mad dash for the dog, but again, no luck. I thought my new scooter friend would let me back on but he became so inspired to catch the elusive dog he took off after it. Now I was chasing a dog and a scooter, and they were going at full clip. The gentleman on the scooter took it upon himself to honk his horn at the dog repeatedly while in pursuit, attracting the attention of all in the neighborhood. We had become some type of loud joke; I being the punchline as I ran a few blocks behind the setup. Some residents asked me to explain the joke as I ran by, "Is that your dog?". 

"Well, kind-of." I'd say in between heavy breathing, "it's a long story." as I trailed away. Others just laughed at the spectacle. I laughed with them, it was all I could do. 

My scooter friend kept his position just behind Rollie, blaring his horn. I felt bad for Rollie, I imagine he felt like an antelope being chased by a lioness. After ten more blocks, scooter man, Rollie, and moments later, I came to a dead end culdesac. There was a house on the left, and a gated apartment complex on the right. Rollie went right, Scooter-man and I followed. A group of children heard the commotion and came out to watch what was happening. I sprinted towards Rollie, it was now or nothing. I took off my backpack and tried to throw it at the dog to trip him. Rollie dodged it. Moments later, Rollie ran into a dead end in the chain link fence which surrounded the apartments. I caught up to him and swiped my leg under him to take out his spindly legs. He fell to the ground and I jumped on top of him, grabbing his torso and neck. he turned his head back and bit into my hand. His teeth punctured my skin on my left thumb and he gnawed with all of the strength that he had left. I grabbed his muzzle and subdued him. He was wet under his belly, and he smelled like game. I could feel him yield control to me. It was done. I turned to Scooter-man and the small crowd of children spectators which had gathered for the spectacle, holding Rollie up as the prize of the hunt. As I caught my breath, I relayed the story to the curious on-lookers about the Runaway Rollie. I told them everything that Tobi had told me, that Rollie was rescued from death at the hands of the humane society, and had a team of people working to place him in a home. Rollie bagan to look like a celebrity, and after such a big day, he kind-of was. The evening's chase had begun about twenty five blocks back, and I asked Scooter-man if he would be willing togive me a ride back to where we started. He obliged and introduced himself as Henry. I thanked Henry and wished him a good night, handing him twenty bucks for his troubles. I called Tobi with the news, "I have your dog." I could feel her joy through the phone. She agreed to meet me in front of her boutique. I asked her store-front neighbor, a neighborhood barber shop if they had a vessel for some water for the fatigued Rollie, holding him up in a cradled position to show his state. My left arm, visibly bleeding, held him under his torso while my right arm crossed over his muzzle and eyes, as it seemed to calm him. His legs practically dangled as I carried him. The gentlemen in the barber shop were happy to respond. They brought a bowl of water for Rollie while we waited outside for Tobi to arrive. Rollie was too tired and likely disoriented to drink. When Tobi arrived, Rollie was gracious and excited to see her. We put Rollie back into the her car. Tobi opened her shop and helped me clean the wounds. 

Later, I learned that a cash reward was posted for Rollie's safe capture and return. Days later, Rollie underwent another surgery to extract a tumor whic compromised his health. He was placed successfully into his new home where he is recovering well. I recieved the cash reward, one hundred dollars, which was a blessing. 

I set out to leave Miami the following morning, but not after making a trip over the the Fox House to see Tobi and hear how Rollie was doing. Tobi showed gratitude to me for rescuing Rollie. She picked out a t-shirt that read 'My Life Story Will Be A Good One'. It was beautiful. I put it on and rode off to the greyhound station. 

Thank you Miami, thank you Tobi, thank you Rollie. What a beautiful memory to have and share!

 

Paint paint paint.

This mural project is a great gig; Wake, paint, eat, paint, hang, paint, sleep, paint. Repeat. 

Murals

The murals are going well I have a circus scene in the works at the warehouse on 36th street rocking above three graffiti writers whom I really respect. I hope to do the peices justice. While painting the warehouse, I talked with the local homeless gentleman. His name was William. He has set his mind to teaching me his craft; the art of palm (frond) weaving. I have sat down with him once and have learned a lot already. 

This afternoon Johnny came by the warehouse wall and offered another wall which he'd already begun in Wynwood. I agreed to join him, some change in scenery couldn't hurt. 

Johnny had already started the wall the day prior. It looked like an acid trip. We talked about it a bit then went to work, interpreting forms and shapes as they came. We worked well into the night. The Second Saturday Art Walk event was happening, so there was a constant stream of spectators and friends. I met a dear old friend from Tallahassee tonight which was such a blessing. 

My friend and hotel-mate, Optimum, has secured a few fine art portrait gigs and such has decided to stay in town for another week. I agreed with his logic in staying. I believe I could stay here also. I'll give it a try. 

Murals

The murals are going well I have a circus scene in the works at the warehouse on 36th street rocking above three graffiti writers whom I really respect. I hope to do the peices justice. While painting the warehouse, I talked with the local homeless gentleman. His name was William. He has set his mind to teaching me his craft; the art of palm (frond) weaving. I have sat down with him once and have learned a lot already. 

This afternoon Johnny came by the warehouse wall and offered another wall which he'd already begun in Wynwood. I agreed to join him, some change in scenery couldn't hurt. 

Johnny had already started the wall the day prior. It looked like an acid trip. We talked about it a bit then went to work, interpreting forms and shapes as they came. We worked well into the night. The Second Saturday Art Walk event was happening, so there was a constant stream of spectators and friends. I met a dear old friend from Tallahassee tonight which was such a blessing. 

My friend and hotel-mate, Optimum, has secured a few fine art portrait gigs and such has decided to stay in town for another week. I agreed with his logic in staying. I believe I could stay here also. I'll give it a try. 

Post-Basel

I spent the final days of Art Basel hanging out in Wynwood. As the story usually goes for me, what seemed like an opportunity to do nothing quickly filled with things to do. I found myself bicycling quickly around to meet with friends (new and old) for lunch or coffee, or to help somehow with their projects. I met many incredible people, and artists. 

As the festivities began to wind down, friends began to go back to their homes. The party came to a close. I found myself alone again, and I was greatful. I rode around Wynwood, with all of my posessions in a pack on my back, and in a box I carried under my arm. I spiraled out from the main drag into the surrounding neighborhoods. I thought to casually find my way to a bus station where I would buy a departing ticket. After some time, I found myself in the design district, where I recognized my friend Kalinska installing a mural. I approached her and struck up a conversation. She got the gig to paint this one final wall (for commission) before she left town. I wished her the best of luck, then carried on with my bike ride. I circled the building and was excited to see the other side being painted with graffiti murals. I recognized my friend, See, and hollered out to him. He explained that he and some friends had just essentially legally commomdeered the building for a mural project, and that there was likely empty space if I wanted to collaborate on it. I agreed with excitement. Johnny, the boss of the project, came down the ladder from the rooftop that he was painting. He looked through my sketchbook and some photos of my work to see if I was up to snuff. I passed the litmus test. He showed me a section of wall where I could start. The wall in question was beautifully painted with four letter pieces from old school New York writers. I shook Johnny's hand before heading off to a nearby hotel. I knew that this job would require more than a day. I checked in to the hotel, bought paint, returned to the wall, and began that evening. 

I started with a letter piece in the top left corner to block in a big empty space. The space was narrow so I thought either to do an elongated character or an elongated letter piece. I chose the latter because the balance of the wall I felt depended on it. After the piece, I sketched a hand on the opposite side of the wall. The sketch was lovely, so I left it to be finished later. I began filling in big sections of the background of the wall with color, creating compositions which assisted the flow of the eye across the wall in an infinity symbol fashion. The wall was coming out well. 

I spent that night at the hotel. In the morning I felt an itch. Perhaps I was allergic to the spraypaint as it came into contact with my skin..

I spent that whole day painting. Another night in the hotel. My skin was itching and I began to feel assured that I was reacting to something.. 

I spent the entirety of the next day painting. In the evening, I met Optimum, another painter from New York. He was a charachter. He wore a tophat and had many exciting stories to tell. Johnny kept us company for some time before leaving to visit his lady friend. Optimum and I finished painting for the night. I offered to hos thim in my hotel room if he wanted a place to sleep. He agreed. I told him about my itching sking and inquired if it could be an allergic reaction to paint. He said that it looked more like bug bites, perhaps bed bugs. We stripped the beds and searched for bed bug signs, but found nothing. Slightly paranoid, we climbed into our respective beds and turned in for the night. 

In the morning, I awoke to Optimum's shouting, "Dogg, wake up! Bedbugs!"

It was true, the room was infested with bedbugs. We turned on the lights and began searching in the sheets. Optimum went right into action mode documenting the scene for legal amunition if the situation called for it. We found two bugs crawling in the sheets, and catured them as specimens for evidence. We went to the front desk of the hotel and asked for our money back. I was refunded one nights' worth but was declined the full three nights' payment, as the manager was off premises at the time. We agreed to wait for the manager, as we had a strong case. When the manager arrived, Optimum and I recounted our experiences. He noted that if I did not complain the first night, then I failed to identify the problem and therefore was not able to recieve reimbursement for the stay. I emphasized to him how thus far I had been cooperative and sompassionate to the hotel's situation, and that I had yet to tell any other guest about the situation, or for that matter use the word 'bedbug'. I told him that I meant to be respectfull, but that I intend to recieve full reimbursement for the duration of my stay. I then turned around, unzipped my jacket, and showed him my back. I had around 50 bites across my back. It looked awful. I put my jacket back on and turned to face him. His expression showed concern. I could see him processing the potential lawsuit. He agreed to my terms, and I recieved full compensation for the stay. On our way out, we saw that the room was being stripped and prepared for treatment. 

We went to the wall and painted all day. Optimum painted over my sketched hand to put up a character. His seniority assured that I would not second guess his decision, though it drastically changed the dynamics that I felt pulled the wall together. In the evening, we did our laundry, then checked in to another hotel. 

Miami

Miami has been a bad trip then a good trip. The quality here is astounding.  I had the most beautiful experience talking with new friends tonight that brought clarity. I wish to send a blessing to you my friends and family something that I find high in quality.

 

http://innerislands.bandcamp.com/album/dark-river-welcome-light

Fence Spot

Today I rode to the beach with Shaun, Overstreet and Murphy for brunch. after parking and reserving a table, we took separate pre-meal walks. On my walk I met my friends who where out and about trying to rent a scooter. They had no license and asked me to help them with the rental paperwork. I obliged and went with them to the nearest scooter rental place. The rental was a success. 

Later I went to Wynwood to walk around. I came across a mesh fence in a cutty alleyway with tags on it. It was well lit and close enough to the main drag that it had a constant stream of viewers. I thought it would be a great place for a piece. I bought a couple cans of Kobra paint and banged out a piece. The alleyway immediately improved the more work I did. It felt good to be a positive influencer of experience and interpretation. 

I met a guy named Thor who was an incredible artist at the beginning stages of a notable art career. I stayed out talking with him until 5.

Bicycle Trip

I flew back to Florida to spend a lovely thanksgiving with my parents and Grandmother, Donna. 

I appreciated the time for readjustment and processing of the trip, as I'd been away from my parents home for four months. It was refreshing to take a shower with hard water and shampoo.  

I felt that it was good to have a small Thanksgiving. I was happy to have time to speak with Donna, I'm learing from her wisdom and courageousness. 

After Thanksgiving proper, my mother and I began decorating for Christmas. I helped with stringing lights around the house and made an illuminated representation of a Christmas Tree around a royal palm tree. I planned to go to Miami for Art Basel with some friends. The first rideshare option, with friends Bobby and Morrison seemed like too an elaborate a plan. As a result, my stay with my parents was prolonged, which gave me time to finish a few projects. I was happy to have this time to organize and plan the next steps. I planned to take a bicycle trip to Miami, over the course of three days. When I reviewed this to my parents, I felt that the idea was not recieved with openess. My father was conderned with the lack of bicycle trails and my mother was concerned with the saftey of areas of Miami. I thought their concerns were unfouded, but we came to a compromise when we researched other options. The new plan was to leave from Lakeland, Florida. I would ride my bike the 80 miles south beginning early the following morning. 

Today I woke early, as the bike trip was posed to be a race against the clock. My mother generously offered to drive me an hour out of town to give me a head start, which I happily accepted. We stopped in front of a bike shop, situated to the Withlacoochee Trail, the longest bicycle trail in Florida. Our timing was perfect, as I had a break pad fall off of the bike while assembling it at the same time as the owner of the bike shop arrived for his morning routine (an hour before his shop would open its doors). He offered me a replacement brake pad for one dollar. I fixed the new brake pad into place, said goodbye and thank you to my mother, and was off. 

I made it to the end of Florida's longest bicycle trail after 30 miles. (note: I started halfway through), before reaching a two lane highway with a narrow shoulder. I rode the narrow shoulder for five miles or so. It was a nightmare. The cars that did see me, often were not respectful of giving me distance. I made it to Dade City, where I began to explore my options. I came across an Amtrak station, which upon inquiry, I learned was no longer in service. I learned however, to counter this, Amtrak had a bus taxi departing at noon to connect with the next train stop. I was on hold on the phone with Amtrak for some time before deciding that I would be better off hitchiking if I did it right. I went to a nearby gas station and saw two respectable looking gentlemen. I approached them and asked if they were going south and if so, I could jump in for a lift. I offered them 15 bucks. Their names were Paul and Mike and they were on their way to Fort Lauterdale. I dissassembled my bike and jumped in. They were very friendly and Mike and I shared good conversation about the harmful dogmatism of the local forestry department. They dropped me off in Lakeland, where I reassembled my bike and rode to the Amtrak station. I checked my bike and boarded the train. 

Basel, Miami

I'm at art Basel and hustling for walls. No big wins yet but a few good small ones. Sleeping very little. Eating well. Hanging with old friends and meeting plenty of new ones! 

Iceland

I arrived in Amsterdam with only a few hours to spare. I tried to call Josine to no avail. I would not be able to re-visit Bloemgracht. I grabbed lunch at an incredible burger joint before meeting up with my beautiful lady friend, Leah, in Dam Square.

Upon walking into Dam Square, I recognized Leah immediately. She was donning an alpaca hat, a rather substantial one. We found a hostel for the night. In the morning we went to the Noordermarkt to try to equip ourselves for adventures ahead; later that day we would board a flight to Iceland. Leah sought to complete her alpaca look. After some time, we found a full length coat made from faux white fur. It was beautiful. Truly.

We boarded our flight and landed in Keflavik a few hours later. Leah had reserved a car, but we made a choice to downgrade to a more affordable, two-wheel drive manual transmission vehicle upon learning the conversion rates- not favorable. We shifted the rental into my name, and opted out of the insurance plan. I figured since we were already on top of a bunch of shifting tectonic plates and volcanos we were already in sort of deep-might as well go all in. I did not know how to drive stick, but had plenty of experience with driving motorcycles.

In Iceland, everything was magical. The drive from the airport was magical. The landscape, the food, the people. We fell in love.

We reserved seven days to circumnavigate the island, counterclockwise around highway 1, or the 'ring road'. Our plans were no plans. We stayed the first two nights in Reykjavik, preparing for the journey ahead. Both Leah and I bought boots, as our sneakers proved insufficient even for the snow in and around Iceland's largest town. We went to a convenience store where we bought supplies for the road: a lighter, yoghurt, cheese, bread, and dehydrated fish. Setting out, we didn't know what we were in store for, but we'd seen previews from our short drives the days prior. On the third day, we bought a Björk album, and a book of Icelandic folk tales, and set out. I felt that Björk guided the journey. perhaps I cannot describe it to it's fullest, but I felt as though the one album, gosh I don't even know the name of it, was our trip. It was confusing at first. Neither Leah or I knew much about what was happening; such a foreign place, such a foreign experience. As some time passed, it became clear that we were being romanced. We fell for it and after one week had passed, we found ourselves only half way around the ring road. We cancelled our flights and extended by a week. We began to know the Björk album quite well, as we listened to it on repeat. There was a chorus sequence on the album which without fail would inspire me to look out of the car window at a landscape that mesmerized me like nothing else. As I type this, I can feel the energy form the rocks, I can see the Icelandic horses. I remember hours of driving in the mountains, where all you could see was white white white white white, with yellow markers noting the shoulders of the road on either side and stopping the car five times within an hour to just walk to a rock or a small waterfall, which probably did not have a name, but was more beautiful than  anything. We spent the night at a horse lodge. We swam in geothermic pools whenever we got the chance. We woke up early and drove to the shore of a frozen river to watch the sun rise over distant mountains. We threw snowballs. We checked into a hotel where there was no one else staying; we were the duke and the duchess. We explored trails. We fed wild horses. We sat by a lighthouse a the edge of the world and talked about death. We ate well. We slept in. We took time.

Another week passed. Leah flew out one day before I.

After Leah flew out, I drove back to downtown Reykjavik. I grabbed a cup of coffee at a cafe that we'd become acquainted with in our first days. I'd met a gentleman there who was working on a beautiful drawing. His name was Steindor. He was full of great insights about Iceland. I hoped to see him there again on what was to be my last night in Iceland. It was a couple hours into my cafe visit that Steindor walked in and came to my table. We struck up conversation as if no time had passed. I mentioned that I would like to spend my last night out in the car somewhere away from the city lights. He noted that there were several places that would be suitable, and offered to show me if I gave him a ride. We walked to the rental car and got in . We spent the next two hours driving around Reykjavik while he told stories of different areas of the town, and in what ways Iceland has changed in the past ten years. Steindor spoke with authority, and his opinions were sound. He illustrated the financial crisis and Iceland's recent shift in economic priorities towards tourism (rater than fishing). We came to a rural area where he said I would likely be safe, noting that the only other people out here were smoking weed or having car sex. Seemed like a fine camping spot to me. We went back into town, where I dropped Steindor off at his house. I drove around for a long time, revisiting all of the areas which Steindor had made note of, preparing for the cold night ahead. I made my way into the wilderness on a single lane road. The road became unpaved, and after some time I found a pull-off that would be suitable for a night's rest. The sky was overcast, no romantic stars. It was a cold night, and during my sleep I periodically awoke from chill to restart the car and heat up the cabin again.

In the morning, I took a walk. As was a theme for Leah and I, I was pleasantly surprised by my surroundings upon waking, as they had been shrouded by darkness prior. The landscape was astounding. Mosses over volcanic rock, virgin snow patches remained in the shadows of trees. Small pools of water reflected blue morning sky from atop boulders. I came across two large caves, and walked slowly back into its dark interior. My eyes slowly adjusted and I took a seat. An immense experience. I left.

Switzerland, Italy, Germany

I was in Basel. On my way to the Tinguely Museum, I got off at a different stop and found myself in a free zoo on the outskirts of town. The zoo was modest and well designed. I was happy to observe the animals in their peace of mind. It set my thoughts toward letting go of worldly desires, perhaps a pivotal moment toward what was to become my discontent with the work of Tinguely. 

At the museum, I gained the impression that the array of pieces (not all of which were Tinguely's), that the work was forced. The work shown was highly conceptual and often technicalities of the work sucked the spirit out of them. For example, one installation was called 'A Singing Room For A Shy Person'. The room was a kind of booth with a microphone. The participant was prompted to step inside and sing into a microphone, which was the only feature in the room. The audio from the participant was then sent through a computer program, which was connected to a set up of mechanical instruments, with electronically triggered hammers, to re-interpret the digitized audio back into analog sound. I suppose what killed the piece for me was the way that the audio was reinterpreted; it sounded terrible. As the participant, you might sing 'fal lah lah', then there would be a delay, and the instruments would respond loudly in a way that seemed like some nightmarish audio accident. 

Most of the works in the Tinguely Museum similarly missed the mark. Throughout, I felt like I was being punished for trying to understand the intentions of each respective artist. A phrase that my friend Carlos Granger said to me when I showed him a book of works by a Dutch printmaker kept repeating in my head; "Well, the work is done, but not felt." Throughout the museum, I thought the works were done but not felt. 

As for Tinguely's works, his sculptures look like some type of realized dark Dr. Suess illustrations, made out of industrial garbage. The majority of them had motors and animation components. In front of each animation sculpture, was a pedal on the floor which could be pressed by the viewer to activate the work. The idea was brilliant, but next to the button was a sign that read 'to preserve the sculptures, run time is limited'. This meant that upon pushing a button, you might activate the sculpture immediately, or you might wait for five minutes before the governor allowed electricity to flow to the work. The result was a feeling of some type of artistic pavlovian, jack-in-the-box re-programming. Many of Tinguely's works had a surprise element, like a loud noise or jerky animation, so the delay was especially unpleasant, like you were being punished for trying to enjoy art. 

Aside from the presentation, I had a hard time placing myself in the art. The maker's hand was evident throughout and it seemed like Tinguely was aiming for the 'misunderstood crazed genius' persona. I didn't buy it. 

He did many collaborations with Yves Klein, which to me reinforced my opinions. 

I will say that the building itself was incredible. I am not sure where the money came from, but I imagine it has something to do with the state. I suppose being a big time artist in a country which houses the world's money has its upsides. Again, I don't know where the money came from, just speculating. 

In the evening, I boarded a train towards Venice, with the intention to see the Biennale. On the train, I took my seat at a table across from a woman. Two other women took the remaining two seats and we were each humored when we pulled out our meals for the evening. We set up a kind of family style dinner, sharing portions. It was beautiful. After the meal, I began drawing, which aroused inquiries. I showed my sketchbook to the table and shared some of my story. The woman across from me, Brigitte, gave me the name of a publicly recognized graffiti artist in Basel, that I might contact upon my return. She also recommended that on my way to Venice, I might take a day to explore a town called Domodossolo. She noted, "There isn't much there, but you might find it beautiful."

The next stop was hers, she repeated, "Domodossolo", and left. The romance was overwhelming. I became lost in fantasies waiting for Domodossolo station.  When the station came, I grabbed my bags and left the train. A sense of mysticism was in the air. I felt that whatever my next move, it was the right one. Magic. 

I checked into a hotel. The walls were adorned with original drawings of pastoral scenes dated from the 1800s. My room had an odd hyper-european sense which I'm not sure how to put into words. The patterning of the purple and gold iridescent comforter, the small television from the early 90s, the jade green carpeting, the tiny bathroom with a bidet. It felt authentic. I set my bags down and set out to explore the town a bit. I walked fervently at first, then slower, then slower. I began to fall in love with the architecture, and the lighting. Warm yellow, poured over curved and crooked corridors from the 1700s, perhaps earlier. It was gorgeous. The bricks in the road, the alley ways, the spaces between things, all sang to me. I felt in love. There was no moon in the sky, and no indicator of geographic location. It felt like another world. 

I stayed up late. 

In the morning, I had breakfast in the lobby, from the window, I could see mountains, beautiful mountains. Being an American, I knew I had to find the tallest one and climb it. 

I set to walking the streets in the morning light. The whole town was surrounded by mountains as far as the eye could see. It was noon when I made my selection, a particularly rocky mountain to the southwest. I walked towards the base, through the town, then through a series of farm roads, on a narrow foot path, then on an embankment on the edge of a river, with the date 1742 inscribed into one of the cornerstones. At the base of the mountain, I sat by the river to gather my thoughts and focus on the goal ahead. I looked deep within myself and reflected on the path which brought me here, before rising and turning to the mountain. I began to climb. At first I thought, about why I felt compelled to climb a mountain. Then what climbing a mountain represents. These thoughts subsided as the climbing became more and more treacherous. The face of the mountain became increasingly steep, and soon I found myself near vertical on a rock wall. I managed several features which I was at first unsure about. The features of the mountain became riskier. Some of the rocks were slick with algae from the layers of wet leaves. Some of the trees, were in fact rotting, and were unreliable handholds. A sense of foolishness began to creep in. If I were to learn something from the mountain, perhaps it was not what reaching the summit felt like. 

I reached a trail which traversed the mountain. I was about one eighth the way up, and feeling slightly dizzy. I sat and looked from where I'd come, not far. But the trail was much safer than the rock walls, so I left it to chance and walked to the left. The trail went up and down and after some time I was at a similar altitude, but on the other side of the mountain. It was getting late in the afternoon. and I knew that my options were narrowing. I managed a less dangerous route back down to the base of the mountain, back to the river. There was no bridge in sight, so I took off my shoes, rolled up my pants and forged the freezing water. 

I hiked up the banks and onto a mountain road, where I began to walk back into town. I deviated from the road a few times to parallel it from a trail, but followed it cardinally. I found a bucket and some styrofoam which I picked up, to leave the place cleaner than I'd found it. After such a day, I felt a sense of American guilt that needed to be cleansed, though this is certainly not the first time that I'd taken to collecting garbage. By the time I reached the town, I'd filled the bucket with garbage from the sides of the road. I found a bin, and dumped it before heading back to the hotel to check in for another night. I would try to climb the mountain again. 

That evening I felt a heightened sense of being. After all, the following morning I would embark on a climb which I knew to be treacherous. When I looked at people, I felt that it was the last time I would see them, and that they might be among the last few to see me alive. 

I bought the following supplies at a grocery store: dried plums, two cans of tuna, almonds, a sausage, two bananas, an apple, and a chocolate bar. I bought a knife at a hardware store. 

The next morning I awoke earlier, but not early. I had a large breakfast by European standards, and checked out of the hotel. I carried both of my backpacks, the main one full of clothing and the day pack full of food and survival gear. I walked towards the mountain. I thought this time I was prepared not only to climb it, but to spend nights on the mountain while doing so. At the base of the mountain I stood for some time. It looked much steeper this day. In fact with my new luggage arrangement, it looked near impossible this day. Though I was prepared to spend the night, and to eat in the wilderness, and to build a fire, and to construct a shelter, I was not prepared to make one mistake in terms of a hand or foot hold. The climb would do me in surely. 

I waited for a sign. 

I flipped through my sketchbook. There was a drawing that I'd done in Berlin, a sort of divination drawing which explored the concept of when there is nothing left to let go of but the idea of nothingness. Depicted was a representation of myself climbing a mountain, a small town in the distant background. Surely, this was my sign. Before heading towards the mountain, I checked my phone once more for train times to Venice. To my knowledge, the next departing train was at 10pm. When I checked however, I found that there was a train leaving in 40 minutes. Yes, this was my sign. I walked towards the station but had a thought that perhaps I could hitchhike to Venice instead. I Made a sign, 'Milano', in my sketchbook and stood near a gas station by a highway entrance ramp. After twenty minutes or so I could tell it was not going to happen, and walked to the station to catch my train. 

Domodossolo will always hold a special place in my heart. Perhaps I will return to climb that mountain someday. 

I arrived in Venice in the evening, checked into a hotel, and took a walk around the town. It was incredibly enjoyable, as there were very few people to cue me in on which streets were thoroughfares and which streets were dead ends. I was tired after the walk and got to bed early. 

In the morning, I set out to further explore the town and maybe see some art exhibitions. I stumbled upon several pavilions including Kuwait, Italy, and China. I particularly enjoyed China's because the art was attuned to traditional eastern thought pertaining to nature-based spirituality. The art was peaceful, technically strong, and unpretentious. Throughout the day, I ate well and enjoyed exploring. I talked with two street artists and bought a drawing from one and a painting form another. The drawing man talked to me about his experiences of being a professional artist. He talked about remaining humble and calm. He mentioned that he had a wife and two children that he supported with the income from selling his drawings. I realized that his circumstance was unique in that his market was tourists who wanted to remember how romantic the streets of Venice were. His line drawings captured their charm nicely, and his presentation was lovely. He sold a pack of postcard prints for 30euros, but they were beautifully presented and conceptually strong (he had a set of 'Wells of Venice' and 'Bridges of Venice'). I bought an original drawing which he'd done on an interesting yellow fibrous paper. 

Another street artist, a watercolor painter, shared some good conversation with me as well. He had mastered creating imaginary Venice compositions from his head, and painting them in beautiful warm light. I bought a small painting from him as well. 

In the evening, I sat down in a little restaurant, and had an interesting dish of pasta with cuttlefish sauce. The sauce looked like dredging from the bottoms of the Venetian canals, it was sedimentary and black. The dish was intimidating but tasty. A gentleman at the restaurant helped me find a hostel for the night, as it was close by his house. I went back to my hotel to pick up my bags, then hiked across town to check into the Hostel. It was modest, and authentic. It seemed as though the owner of the hostel just converted his apartment rooms into small dorm rooms, each with two or three beds. I slept well that night. 

I woke early in the morning to some sound in the kitchen. Two gentlemen from Japan were preparing for their day. I made instant coffee for everyone, then set out to see more art. I found the Arsenal first, but was early, I had a seat outside by some industrial garbage and wrote about the presumed sanctity of the gallery space. Why isolating objects which might occur naturally (that is, both organically and as a byproduct of industry for example), gain significance or new meaning  when seen as art. I sought to sort out some of the 'art' which did not speak to me on the basis of its coded and primarily poetic quality. I was happy to have the time to think through some of these things. Some ideas that I had for an installation began to evolve and refine. After sufficient pondering, I went into the now open Arsenal building where I saw more Chinese art. An introduction to the show read something like 'The artists in this show may differ in one way or another, but important to each of them is that China not be perceived as a global threat'. I paraphrase, but the gesture lifted an incredible weight that I did not recognize existing. The east versus west, country versus country thing which seemed implicit in an international art exhibition was addressed and dismissed eloquently and without judgement. To more liberally paraphrase, 'This is art, just enjoy it.'

I spent a long time in the Arsenal. Many of the works spoke loudly to me. None of the 'industrial byproduct presented as art' quagmire was applicable to the exhibition. 

After leaving the Arsenal, I wandered around, ate a beautiful cuttlefish and abuergine lunch, and casually looked for more pavilions. I found several others, but none rivaled what I saw in the Arsenal. 

I'd been in conversation with my long time friend, Morgan about meeting up while we were both in Europe. We agreed to meet in Dresden on the basis that it was relatively close for her from Budapest, and on my way back to Amsterdam. I boarded a train in the late afternoon from Venice. The trip was a big one, twenty-two hours. On the first leg, I met a friend on the train from France. He was living in Austria, and happy to inform me on his adventures around Europe. We shared stories and talked about politics and economics. We parted ways. I did not get his name, I asked and he said something quickly, but I am not sure if he was privy to share. We'd just discussed hesitations of Eastern Europeans to open up and network, for example, and the lack of exchange of contact information seemed to imply that the good conversation on the train was just that, good conversation. 

I arrived in Dresden the following day. I met Morgan at the hostel that she'd picked. It was the largest hostel that I'd ever seen, but she assured me that it was about typical from what she's experienced in her travels. She had come to Europe by way of Dublin, then explored south through Spain, east through France, Germany, Croatia, and Hungary. Her style was to spend under a week in each place before moving on to the next town. 

It was great to see her. Morgan is the friend more than any other, that I can meet anywhere, anytime, and we can pick things up quite naturally. I dropped my bags off and we set to walking. She'd already done a lap of the town, so she played guide for a while. Dresden was beautiful. It was bombed hard during the Second World War, and such had many remnant scars. Many of the sculptures were reconstructed. Sections of old pieces merged with sections of new pieces. It was interesting to see. It brought new significance to the works and features of the town. 

In the evening, we walked through a young artistic part of town, where we had an incredible dinner at a Thai restaurant. After dinner, more walking; we went out into the outskirts of town where we found shanty houses for miles. We could not figure out how the houses came into existence historically or economically, and wether the were actually occupied or not. It was a slightly eerie feeling, supplemented occasionally by an abandoned mansion with barbed wire around the perimeter. We walked back towards the hostel, stopping for a drink at a pleasant bar. We arrived back quite late. 

In the morning, we set to finding a cup of coffee. We found a nice cafe in the historic district of Dresden. Afterwards, more exploring by foot. We walked all day, through the historic district, on the banks of the river, in residential neighborhoods, we even came across a big abandoned mansion which had been architecturally fused to a nightclub. We jumped the fence and explored. We found a glass greenhouse, which was long retired. The windows were broken, and just the rot iron skeleton remained. We walked around the property before jumping down from a wall (the house was built by the river) onto the banks of the Elbe. We walked through the evening, and ate at a Chinese restaurant before I caught my train to Amsterdam. 

Kunstmuseum

Today I went to the Kunstmuseum. I started in the cafe with breakfast. I knew it would be a long day with such an extensive collection. The museum quickly became one of my favorites, as they had works from as far back as the 1400's through contemporary, with beautiful rooms and consistent pacing. I particularly enjoyed their temporary exhibition of Piet Mondrian, Barnett Newman, and Dan Flavin. Each of these artists were involved in abstraction using vertical lines and limited colors. I was fascinated that Mondrian trained as a landscape painter before becoming farmiliar with the works of Paul Klee, Kandinsky, and the like. His abstractions are quite extreme. He uses black, white, gray, and the three primarys, in vertical and horizontal compositions. Barnett Newman was thirty years younger than him, but took influence from the limited palette and vertical compositions. He aslo made large monochrome paintings in line with Rothko, which I found moving. Barnett destroyed all of his work prior to the age of 39. Dan Flavin was thirty years younger than Barnett, so the time differences, being equal, created a profundity beyond direct aesthetic influence. Flavin's work involved light and space. He installed neon and flourescent lighting, in primary colors and white, directed at different focal points in the room. One piece for example, illuminated a corner from two vertical flourescents installed on the wall in blue light, creating the illusion that the corner was soft (breaking down components of space and architecture). From the same lighting rig, red light shot forward onto the walls of the gallery space, creating a warm/cool contrast. Last, yellow lights were directed at the viewer, transforming thde viewer as a part of the work. I found that Flavin's work, (perhaps because I saw its direct predecessors and influences) was stronger to me than works from similar light/space artists, (though, I suppose James Turrell's Guggenheim installation is hard to beat). 

I also appreciated that the Kunstmuseum gave the Picasso works and the Braque works some space from each other, though this may have had more to do with thier collection than a distinctive ordering system. 

The Giacommetti sculptures in the collection were beautiful. I'd never seen anything from him except his signature tall figures, and his portraits, but today I was quite pleased to see a sculpture titled Reclining Woman Who Dreams, and another called Suspended Ball. 

I made a number of study drawings from Picasso, Durer, Holbein, and other earlier artists whom I cannot recall off the top of my head. ( I did document the artists names in my book). I enjoyed seeing works from Ferdinand Hodler, whom I'd never heard about prior . 

I left the museum after close to seven hours. I thought I would have time to see the Tinguely Museum afterwards, but it was not the case. I will have to stay another day in Basel. 

I had a great evening back at the hostel after accepting that I would be here for one more night. I did laundry and took a shower. I will not disclose exactly how long it had been since I'd last done these matters of hygene, but I will say it feels incredible to be of a neutral scent and in clean clothes. 

I spent some time on a drawing that I'd begun a few days ago, a gift for a friend of mine. More work to go on it, but I'm enjoying the loose process using ink, and whiteout. 

Basel

This morning, I arrived in Basel. I knew nothing about the town and had not contacted my friend, Jafet to announce my arrival. I found a cafe and had a cup of coffee. I wrote a short story and made some illustrations for it. Perhaps I will have an opportunity to turn it into something, but mostly I consider this one a morning excersise. I looked up Beyeler Foundation, I believed it was in Basel... and a hostel. 

The hostel was close by. They offered to store my things for the day before I went out for adventures. When I checked in, I was happy to see the walls painted with graffiti. I walked upstairs to find my room, where I could smell spray paint. There was something being painted at that moment! I followed my nose and found two artists from Newcastle, England. who were installing a stencil mural in the upstairs common space. Their names were Chris and Jamie. After years of preparation, the two had made the committment to becoming full time artists. They bought a van, cut stencils, and arranged a mural tour through Europe. Over the past few weeks, they'd traveled through Belguim, Germany and Switzerland, painting murals in hostels in exchange for free accommodations. With the support of thier local community (notably a paint sponsorship), a passive income stream in the form of a rental property back in England, and an active income stream in the form of selling stencil paintings in markets, the two of them have found a sustainable lifestyle for the time being. I was thrilled to meet them and hear their story. They were excited to share anything and everything, and I feel informed as to how to embark on a similar journey should I choose to do so. 

After talking with them for some time, I made my way to Beyeler Foundation. Basel is not a particularly large town, but it is beautiful. Beyeler Foundation was featuring works from Thomas Schütte, one of the foremost contemporary artists. I drew studies of two sculpture pieces from the collection, each of which took 30-40 minutes. After the Schütte exhibition, I continued through the Museum to see works from Picasso, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Calder, Rothko, Klee, Modrian, Giacometti, and others. I was struck by the beauty of the collection of Calder sculptures, which were of a much larger scale than I'd previously seen from him. A room of paintings from Rothko also had a strong effect on me. I felt that Picasso's paintings dominated the space. My affinity for his work is growing substantially. His boldness and exposed techniques provide many invitations into his paintings. It's refreshing to see a painting that communicates effectively without hiding behind a bag of tricks. I believe a Picasso painting to be an efficient work of art. 

I bought some groceries after leaving Beyeler, and made sandwiches for myself and the boys at the hostel. We hung out while Chris painted stencils on old twelve inch vinyls, (which is their road-merch). The hostel had asked to buy ten of them. Once Chris had finished, they set out on the road for Baaden, where they would install mural number nine on their European tour. 

So tired... Tomorrow I plan to go to Kunstmuseum. 

Leaving Berlin

My days in Berlin this time around were fantstic. I spent the final two days painting with my friend Rikard, who had traveled to Berlin to experience the graffiti scene. We met on Wednesday morning and painted all day. I made another tribute painting for my friend, Wizard. In the evening, we shared dinner then parted ways. We'd come close to finishing our paintings, but had some work left to do, so we met again on Thursday morning to finish up. (admittingly, Rikard had little work to do. I had a couple more hours with of work to do on mine.) We arrived and to our satisfaction, our pieces had not been painted over- the walls move quickly in Berlin. While I finished up my piece, a camera crew came by to gather footage for a street culture film that they are putting together. They said they might have it assembled in a year's time, at which point they will send me an email. I was pleased with how my piece came out. 

After we finished, we still had a couple hours of daylight, so we took a walk to the abandoned ice factory where we painted a couple pieces on a rooftop wall. 

Rikard and I walked back to his hostel, where I gave him the remainder of my paint. I'm happy to have a friend like Rikard. I'd like to visit him in Sweden at some point. 

I made my way back to Braden's place where I packed up my things and set out for Hoptbanhof, to catch a train out of Berlin. I had not definite plans, I just assumed I'd jump on an overnight train to Switzerland or Venice. On my way to the station, I looked up train times and found a convenient train to Basel, Switzerland leaving in fifteen minutes. I took a cab to the station, then ran to the termninal and just caught the train. The sleep on the train was rough, and there was a seating change in the middle of the night which I did not expect. When I arrived in Basel in the morning, I was tired and disoriented-primed for more adventures. 

To Switzerland

Market Day

This morning I set out to sell some paintings on the street. I had a location selected from last week by the East Side Gallery. Braden and I shared a cup of coffe in the apartment. He gave me some business advise pertaining to pricing and presentation. It felt like the first day of school. Braden also gave me a box, which was used for hos airmattress, which I sit on while composing this post. I put my drawings in the box and was off to Kreutzberg. I arrived as the sun began to some out. It was closer to morning than mid day but there had yet to be any direct sunlight. I found a lovely section of a piece of furniture which I thought to use for a table to display my apintings. I dragged it out from its garbage heap and carefully laid out my works one by one on the white canvas furniture. I took a seat and began to make refinements on a drawing while I waited for my first costumer. Within on e minute of sitting down, there was a strong gust of wind which sent all of my drawings into the air. I sprang up and chased them down. Some bystanders helped me collect them. I set them up again. The wind blew again. I decided to change locations. I relocated to a bridge, on which I'd seen plenty of buskers. I thought that surely the wind wouldn't be a problem in the interior of a bridge corridor, but I was mistaken. My works went flying as before. I packed my things and set out to find a solution. I walked by my friends, Vier and Jacob whom I'd met the day before. They were painting using a cherry-picker outside of a large music venue. They inquired what I was doing with such a large box, to which I showed them my drawings and told then my plans for the afternoon. Vier suggested that I find some souble sided tape to stick them to the surface by their backings. I thought this was a great idea, thanked him, and went to a nearby shop where I found some tape. 

Tape in hand, I walked back to my original location. I dragged out the piece of garbage furniture as before and taped the drawings down to the canvas surface. The system worrked quite well. I made a sign that said 'My name  is Kemeys Goethe. I hope you're having a lovely day.' and another that said '15 euros'. 

I talked with a woman who was interested in my drawings. Her name was Marian. She was a graphic designer and thai chi enthusiast. She'd lived in Berlin for most of her life and shared stories about how she has seen it change. She also practiced calligrapy and mentioned that she would not have the patience to make drawings as I had with a ballpoint pen. I had a bottle of ink and a brush with me and sked if she would demonstrate her work for me in my sketchbook. She happily obliged, and I was grateful to see her become quite playful and curious with her expressive markmaking. We talked about the power that art has to liberate the mind. She totally got it. 

I spoke with another woman about the drawings named Anne, who ws traveling from Barcelona, then another woman from Stuttgart. People seemed interested in the drawings, and interested in me, but not interested in dropping 15 euros on a coaster. I can't blame them. I trashed the sign that said '15 euro' and replaced it with another drawing that I'd just finished. I was honest with myself that this was less about the money and more about the experience to share my art, and talk to beautiful people.  Once the price sign was gone, more people began to come up to me and ask me about my drawings. I was much more plesed with the fact that our conversations had finances out of the equation. With the more natural flow of conversation too, the observer could ask about  buying as he/she felt comfortable. A couple from Luxembourg bought a drawing for 6 euros after I requested that they pay as the see fit. Another woman bought two drawings for 2euros a piece. And my final sale of the day was for three euros and fifty cents. 

I came to several conclusions during my time selling work today. I believe that leaving a price sign out can be intimidating for eople that amy otherwise be interested in talking and buying a piece. I believe that people want to support me and my passion for drawing, but not to the tune of 15 euros a piece. I believe that if there is an exchange that is most favorable for both parties, it is one that is inexpensive and practical. 

Practicality- I believe that the drawings on coasters are charming, but not totally practical. One woman suggested that I clear coat the coasters so that when she uses it, the drawing won't be ruined. I hadn't thought that upon buying one, it would return to its use as a coaster. Surely, I had transformed it into a work of fine art, seperated from the world of practical applications (I jest). This notion sent me into thinking about what these drawings can do for people- without effectively communicative content, not much. There is a quote from and NPR article discussing the definition of creativity. They say that creativity is something that is both novel AND useful. I felt that my drawings were novel, but not useful. And for something not useful, overpriced. 

Although each coaster took close to an hour to draw. I was happy to sell them for 2 euros a piece, 3 euros a piece, because that is what the customer wanted to pay. 

I felt quite happy the whole time I was sitting by my drawings, taking with people. It felt like a more managable and organic version of an opeining reception. The subject matter was usually already understood to be your work, so ther was a natural starting point. Further, an easy out for people is buying a drawing, and going on thier way. 

In the late afternoon, my friend Carl (who has dressed as the 'Neighkid Horse' and played guitar for change every day for the past three months here in Berlin to make rent and pay for living expenses) came to join me in the busking quest. I was happy to see him again and to meet his friend Liz, from Vancouver. Liz was considering buying property in Berlin and I was curious as to how she was going about it, being a foreighner. She was courteous to walk me through the process which she'd used to find apartments, and to place a down payment. I took Liz to be a very smart woman. 

Carl decided he'd made his money for the day and the two of them set off. Moments later, my friend Rikard arrived as planned for our painting date. We went by the paint shop, where I used my money from sales to buy spray paint. We set off for the wall which I'd been to the day prior, to paint something quickly before the sun set. I managed a charachter and Rikard managed a small piece. We did not get good pictures due to lighting. Afterward, we went to a doner restaraunt where we sat for some time and drew together. I taught him about letter structure, as he was interested in graffiti, but had not been painting for long. Our server was named Huseyin. I thought to draw his name in graffiti letters, but it seemed quite long. He sensed my hesitation, and suggested that I draw the name of his wife, Anna. I spent the next two hours drawing a full page of letter designs for 'Anna'. When his shift ended, I gave him the drawing and wished him a good night. Rikard and I left shortly after. I walked back to Braden's apartment. 

Rikard and I plan to meet again tomorrow morning to paint pieces in the daylight. 

Drawing Day

I spent the morning with Braden. We went to a cafe in Kreutzberg, then split off for our own adventures. I walked around the block and across the river by the east side gallery. I saw a couple murals painted by Blu, an incredible street artist, and walked to take a closer look. At the base of the murals was a squat community. Tents and shanty houses abound. I walked in through the gates and stood in front if the murals. The community was just waking up. People were walking out of their tents and stretching. They were very friendly, nodding good morning to me. I walked around a bit and found a nice seat by the river, one of several chairs set around a fire pit. From my chair I could see a gentleman rolling out a section on the graffiti wall, to paint a mural. I began drawing on my coasters and there I sat through the morning, afternoon, and early part of the evening. He approached me to talk and inquire about my drawings. We talked for some time. his name was Julian. He was from Nuremburg. His painting ws of a dove in flight. He told me that he enjoys paintings birds because his last name is vogel; German for bird. 

I kept him company while drawing. When he finished, I helped him take pictures with his piece. He wrote next to the painting 'A new bird is born', because during the painting, he recieved a phone call from his brother that his sister-in-law had just delivered a beautiful baby girl. Julian had become an uncle. I helped Julian get his supplies into his car and saw him off. He will continue to travel and paint for the next two weeks. 

In the late evening, I went to antoher cafe with Braden. Through the course of the day, I'd made 13 drawings, which brought my total to 20. I'd reached my goal. In the morning I would try my hand at selling the drawings in the street. 

Berlin: Round Two

I recieved yet another extenison to my stay in Amsterdam by one day so I could wrap up a project. 

Once I'd completed aforementioned project, I set to minimizing befor I left town. I had some spray paint left over and decided to try to use it up. I went to Henxs to inquire about a good legal wall. My friend Lucanne referred me to Flavo Park on the Northeast side of town. I packed my bag and rode my bike out to the bridge which she said was an understood legal spot. By the time I got out there, the sun was setting and I was racing with daylight to make the painting. I decided to paint a charachter for a friend of mine who goes by the nickname wizard. I was pleased with the result of the painting, though by the time I'd finished, it was dark out. I was happy to be done with the cans of paint. I believe I put them to good use. Hopefully, I will be able to get a good photo in daylight next time I'm in Amsterdam. 

 Early the following morning, I left for Berlin. My route involved one train change in Hanover. I slept on the first train. I noticed a woman sitting a number of seats in front of me. I was taken back by her beauty and charming smile as she spoke with the ticket inspector. At the Hanover stop, she got up and picked up a gorgeous dog which I'd not yet seen. It was a French Bulldog. I used the layover time to grab some lunch, then I found a seat on the ground at my next train platform. The beautiful woman appeared on the platform with her dog and took a seat next to me. I commented that I found her dog beautiful, and inquired if I could pet it. We talked about the dog, Lilu, then began delving into each other's stories. Her name was Judith. She was a stylist for a company which recieved contracts from high end fashion labels. Her job involved making aesthetic decisions pertaining to hair, makeup, and most importantly, clothing during photo shoots. She'd worked in Augsbourg for the past 6 years, and makes a weekend commute to Berlin to visit her boyfriend. Lilu was not hers, she was dog-sitting for a friend, which I believed was palatable in their affection for each other. It seemed new and fresh. Judith spoke english very well and our conversation felt natural. We boarded the train together, and due to overcapacity, found seats on the floor. We kept each other company and shared the task of managing Lilu on the train ride to Berlin. I drew three portraits of Lilu on the train ride, though I did not have a good opportunity to observe her features while I made the drawings. Consequently, the drawings missed the mark in terms of likeness, but I did manage to capture some spirit. We arrived in Berlin in the afternoon. I gave Judith her choice of Lilu protrait, and thanked her for the company. 

I took a metro to the apartment of my friend Braden, who has bravely traveled to Berlin to find employment for the duration of one year. I hosted him while I had my apartment, so he was happy to return the favor. When I got to his house we shared stories of how our past week apart had gone. Braden had mostly been fighting the German visa beaurocracy, to document his accommodations and place of employment. I'm happy to have a friend like Braden. He is committed to his career as a programmer, and incredibly efficient at attaining his goals. Beyond that he is incredibly easy to get along with. 

After some time of conversation, we both eagerly put our noses back to the grindstone. He began creating an automated system for application testing across multiple software platforms, and I continued a series of character drawings, which I'd been working on over the past few days. My intention while here in Berlin is to create twenty character drawings on coasters, then set up shop on Tuesday at the East Side Gallery (where I met my friends doing the same last week). 

I'd like to know that I can make 50euros in one day from my work. All focus is on this short term goal. So far I have six drawings.

Windmills

I met with Tin Tin this mornig as planned in front of Cantraal Staion. We bought our tickets, and headed toward Koog-Zaandijk, where we understood ( by refrence of her travel guide) there would be windmills. A woman on the train gave us the run-down on the best way to see the windmills. We were happy to take her advice and upon arriving at our stop, set out in accordance with her directions. We came across a bicycle rental entrepreneur. Tin Tin and I agreed that it would be a lovely day to ride bikes, so we each rented one from the kind man, and set off. The weather was gorgeous and we soon saw windmills on the horizon from the town of De Zaanse. We rode across a beautiful modern bridge and were soon at the village. De Zaanse was at one point a functioning cocoa mill, and grain processing hub. Today it is home to one of the largest tourist traps in Holland. There were lovely paved walkways along the stretch of manicured farmland. There was a line of seven windmills, four of which were turning in full force. It was beautiful to see among the crowds of other tourists. Each windmill, though part of the same attraction, charged admission between one to three euros. There were strupwaffel stands which sold individual waffels (note strupwaffel is very much different from a stanfard waffel) for a euro a piece. We chose to reserve our money, and spend our time instead riding our bikes around the town. We got off the beaten path a bit and found ourselves riding on a path through a field of barley. The grass was tall and the soil was moist. We got off our bikes and began to walk. After some time we came to a narrow bridge which we used great care in crossing with our bikes, as it only had on guard rail. We came across more bridges, these with both rails, which we forged. We used one bridge as a photo opportunity. I posed in a handstand in the center of the bridge and Tin Tin captured a great photo of it. We found a bench which overlooked the farmland, windmills in the background. We sat and took out or sketchbooks. Tin Tin brought a large drawing pad, and filled the page with observational drawings from her vantage point. I accentuated a drawing that I'd done earlier of a windmill. After finishing our respective drawings, we went to the De Zaanse Museum. We skipped past the ticket desk without paying. I was happy that we didn't pay. Inside, we found what was essentially another tourist trap, filled with a collection of rural antique whatever-the-fucks, most of which were poolry lit and unlabeled. There were several paintings whose frames cast a harsh shadow across the center of the painting. There was however, no shortage of things which could be purchased. We skipped out on the gift shop, and rode back to our bicycle entrepeneur friend to return the bikes. On the way we found a brilliant skatepark underneath a bridge, with beautiful graffiti adorning all of the walls. We spent some time taking photos and watching the skateboarders before continuing on and returning our bikes. We took the train back to Amsterdam, where we set off walking to the Houseboat Museum. upon arriving, I split off to return to Bloemgracht and prepare for travels ahead. Tin Tin offered that I come visit her in Paris, or during the summer months in Cheng Du, China. I returned the offer, and we parted ways. I will be hapy to continue our friendship. 

Extra Time

I was prepared to leave today, at least that was the initial plan. I worked through the early morning, and afternoon preparing the house for the arrival of the Dennis Family in coming weeks. Karen had agreed to store a painting or two while I traveled, a generous offer which plucked at my already resonating strings of attachment for two of my larger, unfinished works. I thought to use the offer to further postpone the completion of the paintings. The house shaped up well but by late afternoon, I began to feel the implications of leaving such a large task to be dealt with at the end of my forthcoming travels. It would mean that upon returning to Amsterdam, I would need to find accommodations, find a studio, transport the paintings, work for days straight to complete them, then deal with their packaging and shipping. The paintings, though they had taught me a lot, were beginning to look more like garbage. I called Karen to consult our options. She showed kindness in extending my stay by two days, so that I may come to the most-right decision. With the accommodation extension, I felt a heavy burden lifted from my shoulders. Time is an illusion, but one that I'd felt behind on. 

I notified Josine and Carlos down in the gallery of my extended stay. Upon leaving the gallery, I was asked by a beautiful young woman where the Houseboat Museum was. I fif not know, but thought my friends at the local corner cafe might, so we took a wak together. Nobody at the cafe knew the answer to our question, so we consulted our phones. The museum was just down the street by a few blocks, so I walked with her. When we arrived, we saw that it was closed. I asked if she wanted to geab something to eat, and she agreed. Her name was Tin Tin. She was visiting on holiday form her studies in Paris. She was a graphic design major, but has come to the decision that upon returning, she would like to pursue children's book illustration. She was happy to hear about my stay in Amsterdam, and excited to see my work, of which I had my Berlin envelope paintings with me. I showed her some other works of mine from my cell phone. We walked through the red light district, looking for a cheap fish and chips place. She had yet to enter the red light district, and wanted to see some of the girls. She commented on how beautiful they were. I mentioned that they were Eastern European, but did not get into discussion about human trafficking and sex-slavery, be it the case or not. We found our spot, Bobby's Diner, where I had a slice of cheese pizza and Tin Tin had fish and chips. We discussed illustrators and academic plans. I had been carrying a shipping envelope throughout the night. I placed the envelope on the table, took out a pen, and made a gestural scribble. I placed the pen in front of her as an offering. She understood. She took the pen and continued drawing from my scribble. A few shapes, then she handed the pen back. It was sexy. We continued drawing throughout our meal. She sat accross from me, so what I drew right-side up, she would interpret upside-down and visa versa. Intermittently, we would turn the paper around to work it from a new perspective. Our meal was finished, and our table was bussed, but we continued to draw. The back and forth was taking too long for her, so she did the hottest thing, pulled out her own pen. It was a blue ballpoint, smooth and bold. We worked the drawing harder and stopped talking. The page began to fill, and we began blocking in spaces with values. Shapes and forms were reinterpreted liberally, often reading differently from different angles. We began to stand up, and sit down, and walk around the drawing, and look at it while squinting. Towards the end, we began trouble-shooting; pushing things back and placing focal points with contrasting values. We'd spent four hours in the restaraunt. The drawing was done. 

I signed it "The pizza eater" and tried to give it to the waiter. The waiter, to our astonishment, was incredibly rude. He did not want to take the drawing, and criticized us for spending such an extended amount of time in his restaraunt. He insisted that if we want to spend four hours somewhere, it shoulf not be here. He noted that he didn't mind, but the fact was it was a restaraunt. He was the only one working and I thought afterward, "If he didn't mind, then who did?" 

It should be nmoted that through the duration of the drawing, the Bobby's Diner was close to vacant. We left, saddened by our friends lack of enthusiasm. We wishes him well. I now know of one place in Amsterdam not to go back to, 

Tin Tin and I walked to Centraal Staion, where she offered that I join her the following morning to see the windmills. Overcome with serendipity, I did not have to think about saying yes. We agreed to meet again in the morning at a designated meeting point outside of the station. I saw her onto her train back to the hotel, then walked back to Bloemgracht to turn in for the night. 

A Romantic Day

 I'd had a difficult nights sleep as I was disrupted by hunger pangs from fasting. I woke with the sunrise, and brought the garbage out to the street. The weather was pleasant, so I took a walk and picked up some good garbage to draw on. I planned on drawing a street scene from my vantage point at "De Hoek" Cafe, which I'd attempted two days prior, but upon arriving, saw that the cafe was closed until 8. I used the time begore its opening to draw instead the Westerkerk Cathedral which could be clearly seem from a nearby bridge. The drawing was difficult, but I was not wholly dissatisfied with the result. When I finised the drawing, it was nearly 9. I decided instead of breaking fast at De Hoek, that I would extend the fast until I saw my beautiful friend Giulia. With this new goal, I walked across town to Henxs store, where I knew she would be working. The store didn't open for another hour, so I used some time to explore the neighborhood. I came across a market, where I bought two juice drinks and a modest boquet of flowers. I stood at the corner of the intersection where I speculated Giulia would ride by, hoping to suprise her before work with gifts, but the time when I expected her came and went. I walked back to the store. I knew it would be open at that point, perhaps she had taken another route to work that morning. When I arrived at the shop, I was informed that Giulia had gotten the shift covered by a friend in order to travel to London. I walked home, and called Giulia to confirm. Indeed, she had booked her flight the night before and was due at the airport shortly to get on a plane. By this pointm, my fast had gone for 48 hours. I thought I could meet her at the airport, it was after all a matter of life or death. But instead I acknowledged her holiday and wished her safe travels. I sat by a window, broke fast with one of the bottles of juice, and prepared a vase for the flowers. The church bells of the Westerkerk sang out as I finished the bottle of juice and the sun poured in through the open window with a wintery clarity. I thought to myself, surely this is a magical place. 

I finished the Siddhartha book and made a few drawings in my sketchbook in the early afternoon. Afterwards, I went to the gallery downstairs and helped Josine wrap paintings with packing materials. She will have to clear out all of her collection shortly, after being in business for 20 years. 

The evening was spent preparing belongings for the road. I shipped a couple boxes back to the states filled with books and small paintings. I will soon be on the road, lean. 

Letting Go

Today I fasted, a continuation from yesterday afternoon upon which I began reading Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse. The abstinence from food and drink has allowed me further distance from my thoughts and I have felt a sense of calm throughout the day. 

I set to packing up some of my belongings, and shipping them back to the states. I accomplished this by noon and thought it owuld be a good time before Case arrived to retrieve my bicycle which I had left at the Rijksmuseum on Friday. I found my bicycle without problem, then rode to Henxs Shop, where I hoped to see Giulia. She was not there, but I was happy to learn (after checking every day since I arrived in Amsterdam) that she will surely be working tomorrow. I rode back to Bloemgracht. 

Case came over to the house in the afternoon to apply a dry brush around the stain work that he'd begun the day before. After he'd finished the work, he came ustairs to join me by the front window. He'd brought over the body of his samples of stains, pigment blends, and oil paint swatches, which he meticulously catalogued over the course of three months in interest to perfecting his craft as a restorationist. His attention to detail has been refined throughout his career and it was refreshing to see his living excitement over color interactions. The majority of his oil samples composed of the color in its pure form, name variations, applications of zinc white, applications of black, and applications of greys. It was incredible to see hues change into seemingly complex chromatic greys through tints and tones alone. 

There is more work to be done before I head out on the last leg of this European sojourn. Tomorrow I will need to make some moves toward vagabonding. 

I remember as a kid, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would reply that I wanted to be a hobo. I messaged my mom today to let her know that my dreams were soon to come true.