Rey Residency Day 14 - Lots of Drawings and A Daring Robbery!

Day 14 - My last day as Artist in Residence at the Margret and H.A. Rey Center in Waterville Valley is one filled with a surprising amount of emotion.

I'm primarily emotional about the fact that I have to lug all my stuff down three floors without being able to conscript my kids into doing it for me. Because they aren't here.

I considered calling the police to see if that's a service they offer here in town, but it seemed ill-advised for some reason. Especially after the whole Barbie thing.

As I packed up my belongings, I thought it might be fun to take a look at all the work I've completed here.

I began laying out my drawings on the floor. I had to push a table out of the way. Then a foot rest. Then a couch.

It was a lot of work.

Somehow, in between searching for garden elves, hunting for purple chairs, searching for letters in bottles, chronicling Barbie's last precious hours on earth, collecting bottles of wine, going to dinners, hiking mountains, and searching for elusive gazebos, I did a lot of work.

I could have done more if it hadn't been for that stupid Barbie and those enticing gazebos. Oh, and the wine.

I spent a lot of time during the residency thinking about what an amazing opportunity it was. I feel so lucky that I was able to spend two carefree weeks, focusing on nothing but my passion. By which I mean art; not wine. Wine isn't my passion. It's a hobby. There's a difference.

I cannot even begin to express my thanks to all the people who made it happen. The Margret and H.A. Rey Center Board of Directors, The Rey Center volunteers, the staff and students at Waterville Valley Elementary School, and all the new friends I made in Waterville Valley who showed me around, invited me to dinners, sent me on snipe hunts to find gazebos that do not exist, made me eggplant calzones, opened their homes to me, gave me wine, cleaned my house, posed for ridiculous pictures, and generally made this one of the most wonderful experiences of my life.

I thank you all very sincerely.

I'm certain that I will never have any idea of all the work that went into making this all happen, but as the first Artist in Residence, I hope that this is the beginning of a long tradition. It was an incredible honor and an opportunity I hope many other artists are able to experience in the years to come.

As the last few items were shoved into the car and the bike was strapped on to the bike carrier, I went over to Chris and Len's house to say goodbye and thank them again for letting me stay in their guest house and for their incredible hospitality throughout my entire stay.

Chris and me. Len was taking the picture. We should have had the dog take it so Len could be in here with us!

I climbed into the car and, with one last photo of my lodgings, headed home.

Actually, I'll be back because I found out that I accidentally brought home a piece of Chris and Len's Tupperware. Sorry, guys! I'll return it sometime.

One last time, most sincerely, thank you all so very much.

Day 12 - Missing Gazebos, Giant Squids, and The Supreme Inadequacy of The Northern Lights

Day 12 dawned bright and sunny and I was eager to get in a lot of work.

And by work, naturally, I mean wandering around through the woods and looking for a gazebo and dipping my feet in the lake.

You will no doubt be delighted to hear that I achieved my goals and, in fact, exceeded them by putting my feet in the water more than once.

Three times. Because I am an overachiever, apparently.

Before heading down into the town square, I decided to find the last, most elusive gazebo in town. Being a hot-shot visiting artist guy, I have an in with Margaret, a town selectman, who sent me detailed direction to the hidden gazebo, which is apparently only known to a few people in the universe.

I followed her direction precisely–direction, which I feel I must say, included biking up a hill that was longer and steeper than Mt. Everest–and wound up here:

Private Property. Keep Out. We Mean It.

I gasped a bit, still catching my breath from the grueling bike ride up the hill, and poked around a bit, thinking that I may have overlooked the path somehow.

I followed one small trail a few dozen feet before it petered out. Not wishing to wander too far and wind up on the news (Stupid Artist Dies of Exposure 13 Feet From Huge House. And Gazebo), I grabbed my bike and headed back to the house to pack up my supplies for a few hours of work downtown.

Ready for action!

 It wasn't until I arrived in town that I thought that perhaps this was not the best way to bring my recycling to the recycling bins.

I stopped in the local bookstore and demanded to be allowed to sign books, whether they were mine or not. "I AM AN IMPORTANT PERSON! LET ME SIGN BOOKS!" I cried.

"Is that a bottle of wine in your backpack?" the kind lady behind the counter answered.

"I HAVE A PEN!" I bellowed.

It's lucky that they did have a delightful display of my books on hand, or I would have wound up signing some frightful diatribe by Rush Limbaugh or something.

After my grueling few minutes acting like a famous author, I spent a few hours alternately working and dangling my feet in the lake.

This is the dangling station. Please note the tragic lack of a message in a bottle on the raft. It is a loss that will haunt me forever. WHAT DID IT SAY?

This is my feet in the water. Because you needed to see that.

This is a close-up of my feet in the water because I have nothing else to write about or show you.

This is the water. At this particular location, it s full of weeds and probably 60 foot squid-like monsters, just waiting to drag me under and swallow me whole. Or not whole. It really doesn't make much difference at that point, does it?

A few people stopped and asked me about the boat rentals. I explained that I didn't actually work there, but when they kept asking, I offered to collect their money and send them off on the boats. Then they left me alone so I could work.

I was hard at work on my plans for starting a black-market boat rental business when Kerri called and said that she was coming up with the kids for the night so we could go see the northern lights.

I was, of course, delighted to have them come up, but obviously didn't give that impression. I may have stressed how easily I had adjusted to the life of a childless bachelor. I may have stressed it a few dozen times during dinner. Or a few hundred.

Despite my calloused disregard for the feelings of my nearest and dearest, they did not ditch me during the meal and we went off in search of a good place to view The Northern Lights or, as I now like to call them, The Whole Buncha Driving Around For Nothing Lights.

We did not locate them, although I did snap a few pictures of the night sky.

The night sky. Please note complete lack of beautiful lights.

For comparison, here is a photo I accidentally took of the inside of my pocket the other day.

My pocket. Please note spectacular display of colors.

Next time, I think I will just stick my head in my pocket and save the gas.

No matter how quickly I acclimated to childless bachelorhood, it was a great night with my family and I was delighted to have them join me even if they refused to put their heads in my pocket to see the awesome view.

Day 11 - Draw, draw, draw, draw, draw, draw, draw...

Day 11 of my tenure as the Artist in Residence at The Rey Center was marked by rain.

Lots of rain.

I mean - lots of rain.

So, rather than idly wandering around town seeking out gazebos, wine, and drowned Barbies–as I had been squandering my time before–I actually buckled down and got work done.

A lot of work.

I didn't quite realize how much I'd done yesterday alone until I photographed it all. Sadly, the pictures didn't come out as well as they could have, but here's yesterday's output.

I did some work on an incredibly tasteless, fart-intensive personal project.

Then I finished up the last of the rough sketches for an upcoming book with Islandport Press.

Then I worked on finished character designs for that same book. I'm really happy with these. I tried to give an idea of the personality of each kid through the body position.

This is Albert, the main character.

I'm sad to say that the rest of these characters remain nameless, although I think the Asian girl should be named Kim, after my intrepid editor at Islandport, Melissa Kim.

Please feel free to send along name suggestions for any of the kids. I'm always happy to steal other people's ideas.

Is it you, Melissa Kim? Yes!

And, that's it for today, y'all. Seems like a pretty good amount of work for one day.

Tomorrow,  I'm off in search of the remaining gazebos in town.

Day 3: The Rey Residency - Grand Theft Adirondack

Well, after nearly getting lost forever and starving to death yesterday (I had lunch almost an hour after I normally do), I have started to settle into a routine and get a lot of work done.

I spent the morning today working on a painting for an upcoming book. I managed to get quite a bit done and I'm happy with how it's coming out.

You can see the obvious influence of Curious George, right? Right?

After slaving over a painting all morning, I biked over to the Curious George Cottage and started on a sketch for an alphabet book I'm illustrating for Sleeping Bear Press.

Having trouble with the kid in the front right. I might just change him into a fire hydrant or something. That will teach him to be hard to draw.

I also did some work on a personal project.

Don't ask.

And created a new Olde Tyme Portrait.

This is how I've been grooming myself during the residency. I look dapper.

I decided that the day was too delightful to spend all of it hunched over a drawing board in a cottage, so I biked over to the town center and hunched over a drawing board in a different location.

Work, work, work...

I was looking for a spot to sit on the delightful beach and found, to my great joy, that there was one plastic chair sitting all alone on the deserted shoreline. I quickly stripped off my shoes and socks and dragged the chair to the edge of the water and sat down to draw.

I had been working for 15 or 20 minutes when I sensed a disturbance in the force. A feeling that I was being watched.

Turning around, I saw a lady in a sun hat sitting next to the spot where I had dumped my belongings, staring at me.

Hard.

The kind of stare you give people who drive down the breakdown lane and then squeeze into traffic that you have been patiently waiting in. The kind of stare you give people who have 19 items in the 14 items or fewer line.

The kind of stare you give a guy who took your beach chair.

I patted down the hair on the back of my neck and went back to work, assuming that if it were actually her chair, she would say something. She never did say anything, and the next time I dared to turn around, she was gone.

So, lady, if it was your chair, I'm sorry, but I thank you. It was very comfortable and I hope to steal it again later today.

Eventually I tired of stealing chairs and headed back to my glorious abode to make dinner (pasta with spinach, feta cheese, and pesto if you're wondering).

Along the way, I took the time to take another picture of the inside of my pocket to share with you. Because I care.

This particular piece looks alarmingly organic to me. Maybe my camera can see inside my spleen or something.

Then I spent some quality time working on another personal project that involves staring at my friend Dave's beard for excessive period of time.

His beard is hypnotic. Do not stare directly into it. Do not look at it while driving or using heavy machinery.

I decided to head off to bed a bit early then, because I want to get up early to go stalk chairs by the lake.

Day 2 - Lost and Starving (or at least a bit hungry) In The White Mountains

Day 2 of my tenure as Artist in Residence at the Rey Center was marred slightly by my near complete inability to locate the nearest grocery store (about 20 miles away).

After spending many tense minutes deciding which balcony I should drink my morning coffee on,  I was naturally near a state of complete mental exhaustion. (See yesterday's post for all the gruesome details.) I dragged myself into the shower, cleaned up, got dressed, and headed out to load up on provisions for the coming days of artistic solitude, which require much in the way of sustenance.

In my car, I rolled down the windows and sang lustily along with Aretha Franklin as I rocketed down the highway and right past the exit I should have taken to get to the grocery store that I was assured by the locals folks, did, in fact, exist.

I left the highway one exit too late and found myself awash in new students, eager to begin the school year at Plymouth State College. Dodging the students, most of whom seemed intent on self-destruction, lunging into the street heedless of the traffic surging around them, I drove ever onward, farther and farther from groceries.

I pulled over and resorted to using Sybil, my GPS, to guide me to the store. I entered the name of the store and was given a location 27 miles away. I cursed freely and expressively and remembered that someone had told me that the grocery store was near a Wal-Mart. I'd rather chew a handful of hobo toenails than shop at Wal-Mart, but I wasn't above using it as a means to my end: groceries.

I asked Sybil to deliver me to Wal-Mart and was directed to one a mere 2 miles away. Just down the street was the grocery store, where I shopped with the heady abandon of a husband and father who no longer has to be concerned with his family's food foibles (Wife: no seafood; Daughter: no meat; Son: nothing spicy).

I loaded up on spicy Indian food, meat, and seafood and returned to my living quarters a happy man.

I spent the remainder of the day working on art in various locations around town. I biked everywhere so I could get a feel for the town and figure out where I'm going.

This is Waterville Academy, a world-renowned ski school.

If you go to the ski school, they make you race down this ramp,  hurl yourself into the air, and land on the inflatable pillow at the bottom. Personally, I think they should inflate the pillow, but I'm not a ski instructor, so what do I know?

This is the town library. I wandered through in the afternoon. It's just as adorable on the inside as it looks from the outside. They did not have any of my books on the shelves, so I stormed out in a huff.

This is the inside of my pocket, because I am a great photographer.

After a few fun minutes deleting the 50 or so picture I had taken of the inside of my pocket, I continued my tour of the town.

This is the town square. See the tent? A carnival is not coming. Don't spend a few hours sitting under there waiting for the show to begin. Trust me.

These are some shops and restaurants and The Rey Center.

See?

This is a horrible photograph of the front window of The Rey Center, where they have displayed one of my paintings and the drawing that I donated to them.

This is how you know where you are.

This is how you know where I am. These are posters which are splashed all over town. These made me laugh. I'll stop laughing if I find out that they are actual, real wanted posters and the police are scouring the area for me.

This is the town center from across the pond.

This is town center ten feet down the road from the last picture I took, because I am such a great photographer.

I continued my tour of the town witha visit to Margret and H.A. Rey's actual cottage.
When I arrived, I met my pal Birdie, who explained that she had just stopped by to see me (I was a bit late due to my harrowing grocery-related ordeal) and that the building's alarm was going off and we would likely be swarmed by police at any second.

Birdie managed to disable the alarm, despite that fact that she steadfastly refused to try my suggestion of smashing it with a rock.

Thanks to her brilliance, I was able to tour the cottage without being arrested.

The cottage. Note conspicuous lack of police.

A nice, sunny porch.

And in we go...

Large, monkey-friendly living room.

Original art by H.A. Rey.

Back door for easy escape during impending police raid.

A great room for doing crafts with kids.

And a wide selection of children's books. None of mine, however. I'm going to fix that...

It was too nice to work indoors, so I plunked myself down on the porch outside and got busy on some art.

Yesterday's output amounted to this:

Pencil and chalk on toned paper, complete with artist's thumb. Because I am a great photographer.

Don't ask.

In the evening, after my spicy Indian dinner, I  spent some time working on painting a spread for an upcoming book.

Then a bit of yoga, some reading, and off to bed.

That is the worst ending I've ever written.
Let me try again:

As I sat at the table painting, I heard a long, low growl from behind me. I spun around and screamed...


Yeah. That's better.