I hope they wear shawls

No one wears shawls anymore. Maybe they do in Venice, I've never been. John Singer Sargent would be bummed if they didn't. So much of "Street in Venice" depends on her shawl.

When you are a writer and your first job out of college is working for an art museum, you start to think, and write, about art. Sargent is one of those guys that struck the right balance for me in style, substance, emotion, palette. And like some of my favorite writers, he went after every day life. He didn't miss the moments where everything comes to a head. That singular moment where it's all happening, but it's up to you to figure out what.

The girl with the shawl. The cat to the right who can't take his eyes off of her. Her walk, the way she kicks her skirt. Where she is in the street, her pace, the idea that she is going to be out of view soon, so if homeboy wants to say something, to get her attention, he better do it. But he can't, he just stares, struck.

I don't think he has a chance anyway. She is clearly thinking of other things. Maybe she's just left being with her guy. Maybe she's contemplating if it's time to get out of Venice, go somewhere new. Maybe she needs a drink.

Red wine is good for warmth.

Venice seems like a place you'd drink red wine. I don't guess the craft brew movement has caught on there.

Maybe she's got a Josh Ritter song stuck in her head.

It's only a change of time.

Maybe her shawl isn't doing it's job, it's cold and her heart can't keep time's changes. Maybe she makes these walks more than she wants to.

Each time I start shaking, shivering, have to breathe.

It's the shawl though, the skirt hem. I lose Venice for them. I lose the guy's gaze. It's what's on her mind. Whether it is life, whether it is love, whether it is want.

I still want a chance. More than anything.

I've never been to Venice. I don't know how people dress there. But I hope they wear shawls.

Skate to Create

"Skateboarding is not a crime." That was one of many bumper stickers on the blue Ford LTD station wagon that was my first car. From Tony Hawk to Powell Perelta, Alva, they were all skate-related, but that was the sticker that seemed to snag a worldview and spoke my truth 22 years ago. Funny how I've thought about putting that same sticker on my truck today.

I just read an article about pro skateboarder Danny Way in Men's Journal by a writer and skateboarder named Bret Anthony Johnston. As he's wrapping up the article, he throws this out there:

"Think Picasso, Hemingway, Dvorak. Think Laird Hamilton, Chuck Yeager... Consider the likelihood that these men don't possess qualities the rest of us lack, but instead have within them intense voids, empty and expansive chambers of possibility. Maybe these voids--which the men fill with what can only be called art--are innate, or maybe they're the result of damage or sacrifice or failures the artists have endured. The origin doesn't matter. Nor does the medium."

Johnston was talking about Danny Way's approach to skateboarding and life and expanding that approach to other artists; other practitioners of life who become great, distinguish themselves, separate themselves in some way through a sustained effort and focus; seeing something in their field that the rest of us haven't.

I've never given myself over to skateboarding in that way, nor have I ever been good enough to justify doing so. But skateboarding has, from the beginning at age 13, represented a worldview for me. It has been one of the few experiences, still today, where the rest of the world melts away when simply cruising or carving or pumping atop asphalt. Like trail running or writing or meditation, where I can be completely in the moment without realizing it.

At age 15 I remember thinking to myself and saying to a few others that skateboarding would be a lifelong passion and activity for me--whether skating or writing about it, etc. I doubt I would have thought about longboarding then, or  long distance longboarding, but that has been the co-evolution of the sport/art and me and where I find my stoke. In addition to writing about skating and skateboarding a few times a week, Bret Anthony Johnston is the director of the creative writing program at Harvard. He's got a book of short stories set in and around Corpus Christi, Texas, and another on creative writing. Someone who gets and shares the stoke.

Of Trees and Caves

"When the Bough Bends," oil on canvas, by Susan Applegate, used with permission.

Maybe the artist lives his or her life seated out on a limb. They are at risk. Not safe necessarily, it can get dicey. But that's part of it. The risk is worth the perspective. Or it isn't and you move closer to the trunk, so the bow doesn't break and baby won't need therapy.

Maybe the artist turns Plato's cave on its ass. Calls bullshit on the shadows and walks into the sunlight. Where does he or she buy shades for that kind of trip?

Maybe the artist stands to the side. Outside. At the edge. Whether it's in a tree or a cave. It's not a privileged perspective, just different. The distance. A key to sanity is being able to traverse it. Bridge it. And to realize that, though you're paying dues, a different perspective doesn't put you in an exclusive club. You're still accountable.

A jazz writer wondered why up-and-comers aren't smitten by Charlie Parker the way they used to do. He blames sound and technology. He's probably right (though I still dig your licks, Bird).

Maybe though, history teaches lessons like people do. Neither tolerate egos greater than or equal to talent. Maybe the moral of the Bird is don't be a dick or people will leave you on your branch or roll a boulder in front of the cave and there you'll sit.

Maybe perspective isn't enough on its own. Maybe you still need a kinship. A connection with others and all. A sense of play. Love, but that's another rant.

Maybe the key to branch-sitting or sun-staring is having a way to deal with the wind blowing a gale or the light full on in the face. Being able to move freely about the branch, allowing it to bend but not break. Or finding a shady spot to scope the sun. I don't know. But sunscreen and a hat are always a good call.