Archive for December, 2010

From the Editor’s Perch

December 26, 2010

Edtior’s Note:  Well, the Muse was with me, and I finished this story Christmas Eve… well in time to post.  But the Computer elves were not.  My computer failed me until today, when I was able to Google a help thread with the use of my Blackberry.  Hooray!  So here is the remainder of our tale.

A Christmas Story

Part Two:


Still, things remained pretty slack.  So I took any sort of work customers offered.  As Moliere used to admonish his troupe (to paraphrase a bit), “When the King wants to see a performance you don’t tell him you’re not ready.”  I drew from small and poorly lit snapshots.  I drew pets.  A lady brought me a two inch by two inch poorly lit snapshot of her shaggy dog, standing against the wind, with its hair being blown backwards across its face.  The only identifying features, besides all of the yarn-like hair, were three dots.  Two suggested eyes, the other a nose.  A magnifying glass got me that far.  But for the rest of the fifteen dollars I had to invent a lot of dog.  I drew babies…  Most babies’ features are near identical.  Their expressions are fleeting.  In fact, whatever they do is fleeting.  The key to recognition is in accurately recording the distance between their significant features: such as the eyes, the nose-eyes-mouth triangles, how far off are their ears?  And their mother’s brains are built like airport scanners that can pick the terrorist from a million other faces.  That’s not him!  “That’s not my baby.  That doesn’t look like my baby!”  (Well, what part of it do you think does?)  What I’d do for fifteen dollars!  One of the first things I did with my newly made money was to purchase a bigger magnifying glass. 

You had to watch the jokes.  Don’t tell a sweet little girl, “You move, and I’ll punch you.”  The mother’s gasp, just behind me, sucked  all of the air from the room.

Nice things happened.  A lot of people left very pleased that you’d noticed the same special quality about their loved one that they knew.  Some felt you’d done an ‘honest assessment’.  And some thought the chin was too long.  (Actually, the nose was too short.)  The best were younger children with dark hair and dark eyes.  You couldn’t miss.  And it was fun to observe their silence, or their chatter.  And I didn’t worry too much if they moved a bit.  Most humans (and animals) repeat the same gestures.  Patience worked.  I just had to be sure to finish in around twenty minutes.  Otherwise, it could become a tedious experience. 

The only exception to this were the pretty young women who would sit for their portrait, draw you into conversation and then ask, with a rather demur turn to their voice and a slight quiver to their eyelid: “Have you ever drawn women nude?”  This is the sort of experience you earn as a portrait artist.

Like any young man, most of the women I met were on the job.  One was a psychologist:  “I don’t think that you can actually produce the quality of portrait you have on display in the twenty minutes you have to do them in,” she suggested.  I didn’t argue with her.  I also didn’t say that anyone who won’t cheat or steal a little for their art, probably hasn’t the balls to get anywhere.  The last conversation I remember having with her, she insisted I was depressed.  I told her I didn’t think I was depressed; that I was just feeling the way it was.  You don’t understand she said, “Depression is a very, serious disease.” 

Well, I would agree with her partly there.  Art is a very, serious disease.  This is probably why parents become so concerned when they detect signs of it in their loved ones.  And there was the police officer who I went out with for a drink.  “Well,” she said, “if it’s not working out for you, you can always do something else.”  You go silent as an artist when you hear that.  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I thought.

A thought that slowly dawns on you as an artist is that most of the way you experience the world and/or ‘feel’, is illegal.  In the eyes of normal people, you are not simply describing failure and how it feels – you are suffering from a very, serious disease – and/or you’re a whiner, loser, complainer… (You go to the Thesaurus yourself.  It’s too depressing.)

I finally happened upon someone though, who it seemed I connected with.  And it happened through the first (and only) blind date I had ever arranged for myself.  One day I was finishing up a portrait of some …little girl, I imagine.  A small crowd had gathered.  And as the girl rose to claim her drawing I heard this high pitched squeal from behind:   “Oh.  Would you draw me?!!”

I turned.  And there was Miss Piggy.  A pretty tall, Miss Piggy, in a big pink foam head and flannel costume, and, of course, with those long flowing blonde locks and batting eyelashes… lovely round nose.  She had me from hello.   “Sure,” I said.  “Sit yourself down.”  “Oh goody,” I imagine she said. 

I started on the portrait; made a show of needing a much larger piece of paper.  She stayed in character.  I imagine we traded in Sesame Street gossip.  But as the crowd dissipated and I finished up – we made a date to meet at the base of the escalator when she got off around seven, (I think).

It was a delight and surprise to find I’d just made myself a date with a tall, healthy, good-looking, honey-haired blonde who looked a lot like Candice Bergen.  Turns out she was a highly intelligent, down on her luck professional tennis player who happened to have ended up broke in Seattle after losing one too many matches… and latched onto the first job she could find.  We attended the theater.  I believe I cooked dinner for her once.  She spent a day visiting with a famous young woman tennis player she’d coached who came to town during the Virginia Slims tournament.  (Have I remembered that right?  Did a cigarette company actually promote a tennis tournament?)  And going broke trying to do something seemed the most natural thing in the world to her.  Or, at least, I can’t remember talking about it.  Anyway, the last I corresponded with her, she had written me a note from the Bahamas where she was coaching at a plush resort.  I sent her some ash from the Mount Saint Helens eruption.

But they don’t call it the Christmas Rush for nothing.  You get down to those last few days and the shoppers become like desperate fish who will bite on anything.  They are literally tossing their money at you.  And my business picked up too! 

Time was money, and I’d never worked so hard.  You have to make hay while the hay is making.  And I worked hard right up to the line. 

By late afternoon, Christmas Eve, I was emotionally exhausted.  At the drawing group I attended we had a curious Chinese fellow who would check the arrangement of the features of our model with a measuring tape.  We’d be drawing away as he pulled the Carpenter’s tape out.  Then there would be a “snap!” as he got the measurement he wanted and left the tape to recoil.  I didn’t draw like that.  I judged the proportions – and everything else – by feel.  And by mid-afternoon Christmas Eve I was totally numb.  I had no idea what I was doing.  I still knew where I was.  But I would look out at a face; then look at the easel without any memory of recognition whatsoever.  I was moving by rote; winging it on a hope and a prayer.  You don’t turn down money.

The store was closing when my very last customer appeared.  He was a disheveled, quite drunk, pudgy, thirty-something year old male with a very red nose.  “I want you to draw my portrait,” he said.  I helped him to sit.

I did the best I could.  And he did the best he could.  He said he had been walking around for hours and just couldn’t figure out what to give his parents for Christmas.  He happened by my display when it hit him!  That what they would like would be a portrait of him.  I nodded, as I drew, as if that were very thoughtful.  For the life of me I couldn’t tell what the hell I was doing.  So he finally decided he would give me some help by stepping around the easel.

“The nose is too small,” he said.  This is very funny.  Because the standard cynical definition of a portrait is, “a painting in which the nose is too large”.  (Maybe Whistler said that.)   I worked on.  He sat.  Time passed, until finally even he was becoming restless and/or nodding off.   “You about done?”  He said.  “Just another minute or so,” I answered, softly.   I kept looking but I just couldn’t get a reading on whether or not it was right.   He awoke again:  “Because I have somewhere to be.”

All I could think of was the time in medical school when I lost a hooked needle in the bloody scalp of a drunk.  When you stitch a bloody scalp laceration, you’re never supposed to let go of one end of the needle with the clamp, until you have the other end securely clamped.  So how can you screw up?  I still don’t know.  But after a loud, drunken interrogation about what was “taking so looong?  Do you know what the fuck you’re doing!”   And I still couldn’t find the needle.  The intern finally bailed me out.

I looked around.  To my surprise all of the lights in the store had been turned out, and we sat within the one lamp which illuminated him, and the one drawing lamp which illuminated my easel.  Just on the perimeter of the circle of light I heard a ‘whimpering’?  I squinted further and there were three Dobermans standing patiently in choke collars about the perimeter, backed by their handlers in black leather jackets who were doing a last sweep of the store.  “Are you going to be much longer,” the most authoritative one of them asked me.  (With remarkable deference, I thought at the time – apparently to my ‘artistic needs’!)

“No.  I think I’m done right now,” I said.  I presented the drawing to my ‘customer’.  He looked it over.  Said thank you, as if however it looked, I had solved a big problem for him.  He paid me and left.  And I packed up and left immediately after.

I rode the number 7 home that Christmas Eve with about half a bus load of other non-committal passengers; just a portion of the left-out people of this world, not late for anything or needing to be anywhere.  I walked to my house and scooped up some dinner from the crock pot meal I had left simmering all day.  I sat in my bare living room in my one overstuffed chair and footstool, with my two cats layered on my legs for warmth, and watched the many colored lights on my jade plant twinkle.  One strand of indoor lights will go ‘round and ‘round a tiny jade plant.  And it shone brightly as a burning bush.

The End


Photo by Carl Nelson

Fashion with Chris

December 24, 2010

The fashion word of the week is brendy (trendy, but also flexible enough to withstand seasonal changes)…


Photos by Carl Nelson

From the Editor’s Perch

December 23, 2010

A Christmas Story

Just about forty years ago my college career was drawing to a close, (I hoped.)  And my dream, if I could have described it, would have been to have lived in a small studio on the edge of town – out on the prairie – where I would live and paint.  Just make paintings, I had no idea of what.

My high school had what was called a Dutch Uncle Program.  As a senior, you could pick what sort of career you hoped to have, and they would match you as best they could with someone in the community who did just that.  And you got to spend the day with them.  I had never considered what I wanted to be.  I was completely overwhelmed just trying to placate the various factions who competed to run me.  The present (and past, I suppose) had me absolutely pre-occupied.  But when I heard the news, a voice rang out clear in my head as if a bell had rung and it said, “I want to be a writer.”  This was odd because I had never heard a voice in my head before.  And, I had never considered becoming a writer.  But I wrote that down and handed it to the teacher and it went off somewhere into the gears of the administration where it was processed, while I waited.  I had read Hemingway in class and was very taken with his simple, poetic way of expressing himself.  And across from our lake cabin where we spent a large part of our summers lived a fellow who it was rumored had retired from being a big game hunter in Africa.  So, in my mind, I conflated the two, and pictured spending a day in a writer’s bungalow – where he ‘wintered’ out on the South prairie – talking (and maybe even drinking a bit) with a guy who looked like Papa Hemingway and had large animal heads and trophies hanging on his walls.  What I got was a tired, pasty complexioned, middle-aged reporter in a black suit and shoes who wrote the obituaries and military news for the Spokane daily Chronicle behind a downtown office door with guilt letters on a wavy glass pane.  I, and another student from across town, met with him at the newspaper offices and chatted.  I tried to ask intelligent questions, and in return he wrote an assessment for the school councilor that said he believed I could achieve a career as a reporter.  This marked the start of the two worlds I tried to live in.

I didn’t move out on the prairie and start writing.  I didn’t really consider it.  Instead, I went to the local state university seventy miles south of town, because everybody in our family went to college.  Every day now I feed our dachshund, Noodle, and then take him out to “pee and poop.  Because that’s the next thing, Dad!” (as I imagine our dog, Noodle, saying).  Well, college was the next thing.

There was always a point in here when I imagined the pressures of the competing factions would abate, an opening would appear, and I’d escape through the grate.  Unfortunately I was either too dutiful a student, or too good at college, and I got into medical school.  Never pick something to placate people and then tell yourself, ‘Well that can’t happen.’  Because damned if it won’t. 

So there I was lifting the body flaps off cadavers and trying to have relationships with people who just wanted to get well (thank you very much).  But this time, after four years, I slipped away.  Because it became plain to me that if I tried any longer to do something which didn’t interest me, it was going to start killing people.  I joke, when people say, “what a waste of an education” – that I have probably saved more lives by quitting medicine than a lot of doctors have by continuing! 

A lot of my humor doesn’t get a laugh.  But I’ve learned to live with it.  (And you will have to also!)  Anyway, there’s the background, and now to the point of this story. 

So, I’ve set myself adrift from medicine and decided to become an artist.  This is about 35 years ago.  Well, the first thing you do is suffer.  There are no paid entry level jobs as ‘artist’, and the homeless have more status – because people, I suspect, in a grudging, horrific way, respect the homeless.  They’re real.  It’s actual.  It’s authentic.  Somehow, seeing oneself as an artist is neither real, actual, nor authentic.  And on the sliding scale of how normal  people think, you go right out the spit valve.

This suffering will continue until you suffer a personal enlightenment:  ‘What does it matter what they think?’  It’s not like they’re doing me any favors.’  Then you wrap that flowing scarf around your neck (bohemian), or get that ‘gawdawful’ tattoo down your calf (contemporary) and stride forth proud and undaunted. 

But you still need a place to live and work and money to eat.  And though I might have qualified for a better job, I didn’t want to have one – because I didn’t want to think about what I was paid to do.  So, as an artist, I often ended up doing a job where I was “not paid to think!”  (Fine by me!)

Unfortunately, people who will hire and pay you not to think, won’t pay you very much not to think.   And it was soon apparent to me that I was going to have to work all the time, just to eat and keep a roof over my head.  So how was I going manage time to do my real work?  (This is what aspiring artists call it: their real work.  A term which only estranges them more from the normal crowd.)

I decided I needed to lower and stabilize my living costs.  I liked certainty, so instead of leasing a loft I decided I would buy a home.  My top price was fifteen thousand.  But I wasn’t looking for nice.  I was looking for large.  And I found one: a repossessed, fixer-upper, in the poor southeast end of Seattle.  Say whatever you want about minorities, but they keep the prices down.  And this place was packed with everybody.  My neighbor two houses down, Hwang (I think), worked as a friendly cook downtown.    The Southeast Asians in the neighborhood would squat as they smoked at the bus stop.  Hwang and I discussed making his garage into another bedroom for his relations.  Kiddy-corner across the street was a quiet, comely single black mom with a shy young son who seemed – quite beyond anything she did – to attract rouge males: normals, Superflys, the gamut…  And, of course, there would be the dust-ups.  Early one morning (around 3 am) I remember waking up to the sound of pouring rain and some fellow yelling his head off.  I rolled over and remembered saying to myself, “I wish someone would shoot that Son-of-a-Bitch!”  “Pop!  Pop! Pop!”  That was the last I heard.  The rain continued.

Anyway, I succeeded in lowering my living costs to house payments of around $103/month.  And my studio was as big as the numbers of walls I decided to knock out.  I hadn’t anything to steal.  And I’m big enough I generally wasn’t bothered.  I purchased a wood stove, and one side of the equation was solved.  (I remember how outraged I was at the time when insurance and taxes had caused the payments to climb to around $130.)

The other thing I wanted to do was to make a living from my art.  It didn’t need to be grand, but I wanted that sense of moving forward and relishing each day.  (Forget marriage and having kids for far….. in the future.)  Drawing portraits seemed like it would fill the bill.  I’d watched others seemingly make a living at it.  Flattery and narcissism have given employment down through the ages and it hasn’t stopped yet!  I liked figure drawing, did it twice weekly, the face included.  Moreover I thought I could bring something to it, as they say.

So to get my feet wet I started off at the beach at Alki.  Not many customers and it was illegal, so I was run out of there fairly quickly.  The Seattle Center required all sorts of bureaucratic rigmarole.  The downtown waterfront looked ideal, what with the continual flow of tourists, but that area had been homesteaded long before I got there.  I considered paying the meter and setting up shop in a parking stall just under the viaduct, or better yet, right along Elliot.  Then I had the grand idea of going into business with Ivar.  He was our local restaurateur legend.  In all the ads he was very homespun and friendly.  He had run with the local art legends.  There is a statue of him now on the downtown waterfront feeding a bronze seagull.  Part of his building along the street was unused at the time. 

 Ivar wasn’t big on the idea.  He had plans to add on.  It seemed to me that live portrait art done in a front section of his business would be just the thing to attract the tourist crowds and “add a bit of artistic elan to the enterprise!” But when I pressed him on it, Ivar said, “What do you think?  I’m lying to you?”  (No, no…)

So, I ended up at the Market.  The Pike Street Farmers Market is where a lot of artisans ended up.  For around $3.50/day (I believe that was the fee) you could rent about 4 feet of counter space to show off your wares to a seemingly endless flow of people.  It was outdoors and cramped, but it had the crowds.  And it was romantic.  You had to show up early, around 7am, while they were shoveling in the ice at the fish stalls because that was when the stall placements were made.  Then you’d set up, and maybe go in for coffee at either Lowells or the Athenian (breakfast, if you were making money) until the crowds arrived.  You’d walk past the alcoholics at the bar setting up for their first drink of the day.  One of my friends there related how when the alcoholics arranged themselves before their first drink of the day, they would use a bar towel draped across their neck so that with one hand they could guide their other shaky hand with drink to their mouths safely, so as not to spill.   After a days work, we’d put our stuff away and have a beer ourselves.  (Again, if we’d made any money.)

Unfortunately, I wasn’t making any money to speak of, and as November arrived it was getting damned cold.  I dressed warmer.  I stood on cardboard.  I cut the ends out of my mitten fingers.  And I was getting tired of passing the time.  When you’re not making any money, there really isn’t a lot to say.  You’re not in the mood to talk.  You’re glum.  I started looking around.  A bright spot was the playing of the metal kettle drums.  That particular metallic banging for money carried down the Market concourse and out into the street – then seemed to echo and return until the cold air was a jumble of hovering notes.  The world, at times, never seems as beautiful as when you are poor.

But I was going to settle for less beauty and more money.  So I made my way uptown to the department stores.  Somehow or other I found myself in the office of the Manager of the Bon Marche (now Macys).   I showed him my portraits and pitched him.  When I think of a lot of the people I’ve liked, a large percentage of them are businessmen.  They tend to be honest and decent.  They’re tough, but then it’s very hard to be decent in this world without being tough.  Anyway, I liked this fellow.  And I think he liked me, for some reason.  We agreed on a percentage and hours and he took me to a spot in the lamp department at the head of the escalator on the 5th floor, which he thought would do.  (Later, I’d seen they’d even made up some posters for publicity.)  I commented on the way up the escalators that it had never made sense to me why we had to walk all the way around to continue our climb to the next floor?  Mr. Smith (that may have been his name) said that was because it gave them a chance to show off their merchandise on each floor as the customer walked past.  As we descended he added, “And know exactly how long it takes for a customer to descend the escalator, and what he can see of the floor below during each second of his descent.”  I found this very interesting.  I’ve always liked watching things.  And as I sat in my artist’s perch day after day watching the activity around me it was apparent that a department store is not the still display of wares the occasional visitor might think it to be.  Nope.  “If merchandise does not start moving within the first half hour that it is placed out there, it is either moved or replaced,” Mr. Smith said.  And I witnessed this, as I sat there through the Christmas rush.

I think the manager might have also been a nice guy, as I wasn’t doing that great a trade – yet he never threatened to can me.  “How’s it going?”  He’d say on one of his passes through the store.  “I don’t know,” I said despondently one day.  “I think I could take off all my clothes and I still couldn’t get their attention.”

“Well.  Don’t do that,” he admonished.

No matter where you are in this life, if you just sit still, you’ll see a lot.  If you sit in a department store, you’ll see how mobile all of the merchandise is – as I’ve said.  If you sit at the head of an escalator, you’ll get an idea of how dangerous they can be.  They would eat shoes, rubbers.  Childrens’ small fingers and mittens could get caught in the moving handrail, where it curved at the top of escalator to return.  There was an emergency button to stop the escalator which someone rushed to press.  An older wizened Jewish woman ran the lamp department with a younger middle-aged daughter who looked to me like a gypsy.   I think I was commissioned to do her portrait.  But I don’t think they must have particularly liked it, as I don’t remember them saying anything.  I couldn’t decide if the mother were trying to line me up with her or not.  On the whole, I think not.  She was too canny to want to introduce her daughter to a portrait artist.  Plus, she seemed a little old for me.

But it wasn’t like I sat still and waited for things to happen.  I changed my display samples.  I saw that sensitive pencil drawings just weren’t going to make it.  I saw that what sold were things with ‘punch’.  So I upgraded to charcoal.  And line-shading was risky, as much as I loved it.  It was hard to do correctly.  Moreover, a public portrait artist has quite a bit of surface to cover in 20 minutes.  The bigger the better, for pricing.  And there is nothing like smudged charcoal to cover that ground.  So, much as I detested it, I began smudging my charcoal – then discovered that the smudge sticks of rolled paper work like fattened pencils.  Sometimes a compromise bends your way.  And I added a conte crayon line.  I worshipped the drawings of Michelangelo and Da Vinci, and conte seemed as close as I would get to pencil with a ‘punch’. 

Still, things moved slowly.  As I’ve aged I’ve realized that some people have charisma and attract a crowd.  Some don’t.  I’m in the latter group.  It was said of the famous modern mathematician (Godel) that he was “anti-charismatic”.  He once voiced the answer – in the midst of a mathematical society meeting – to a conundrum which had eluded mathematicians for 2,000 years.  He was ignored.  I’m not maintaining that my anti-charisma is on that level.  But I would say that when I speak, around two sentences in, people lose interest.  By three sentences I pretty much have to step around to block their exit.  

Anyway.  I notice that customers are attracted by other customers.  So I would always try to either be busy drawing from a photo, or, I would see a face I liked and cajole them into sitting for me.  Unfortunately, it seemed to be that rule that whoever had an interesting face, judged themselves to be ugly and a portrait was the last thing they wanted to sit for.  And those who judged themselves good-looking were almost invariably uninteresting – you could almost hear the pencil yawn and the eraser sigh. 

I thought that perhaps my prices were too high.  So, I had discount prizes.  I would draw a face, smudge it over  –  and then offer, at half-price!, a portrait to whoever could name the famous person that it was.  They usually won!  Hooray!  “You are very clever!”  (Have a seat!) 

(“No.  It’s not Mr. Ed.”)  

Then, considering some might have a limited budget, I tried selling  just ‘a nose’ for 75 cents, or an ear for 50.  I put them in the the cutest little frames, (I thought).

(To Be Continued… )

Editor’s Note:  This story should complete by Christmas Eve, Elves willing.

Drawing by Carl Nelson

Fashion with Chris

December 18, 2010

The Fall Layered Look 

Photos by Carl Nelson

" The U.S. Constitution guarantees your right to "BARE ARMS". And with "guns" like these, who needs bullets?!"


" To accentuate the indoor effect of your camo-pants FLEX your manly tummy muscles!!!"


” Whip AWAY from the face if you opt to perch your glasses jauntily atop your egg noggin!!!”
” Protective glasses are a fashion “DO” when brandishing a sassy “whip”!”

Fashion with Chris

December 18, 2010

Outdoors with Chris   (Continued…)

" Is that a pumpkin in my lap or am I just glad to see you? Right on both counts!! "

Photos by Carl Nelson

” No, the sky isn’t falling! It’s merely colrful aAutumnal leavery!! (And I AM wearing pants! It’s just the fall camouflage at work!!”


"How do I look, Ma? GREET? (A forced Magritte pun. I should be ashamed! But I'm NOT!!!) "

Fashion with Chris

December 18, 2010

Editor’s Note:  We’re dashing through Fall to get ahead of the Christmas rush, here.  But these fashions should hold true, at least until the first signs of Spring.  (Photos by Carl Nelson)

The FALL Line-up:



Fashion test: does the outfit still work even if the model is anonymous???"

" Proof positive the the Autumn camo pants DO work!!!"

" On the run from the Fashion Police? Best to remain somewhat out of focus... "


Work, work, work… with Rita Andreeva

December 18, 2010

Mental Oil Spill

“Well, I’m doing some freelance work in the Web design and maintenance. Was just working on entering a whole bunch of names and companies into a new site. After a while my brain started singling out certain names as names that I subconsciously came across here and there, and as was entering those, I’d mumble things like this:
“Richard White – got to be a manager, like operations manager or general mgr… Ortega – everyone with a last name Ortega is a jerk… Johnson – hmm, don’t mess with them Johnsons, they can be real nasty… Write – oh, yeah, in construction business, why is it that all Writes and Wrights are in constructions… Kendra – there’s a foxy lady, don’t mess with her either… Bishop – either a judge or a serial killer…”
I think I’m losing it…”   – Rita

Photo by Carl Nelson

Seattle Celebrity News!

December 17, 2010

Trapping Sound for AV/The Movie

AV/The Movie to Have Screening

A/V The Movie, which travelled south to Tinsel Land for a while to get its post-production make-over, is having its first screening for participants and guests at the SIFF Cinema in McCall Hall, here in Seattle, January 3rd.  Visit their fine website at: 

Yours Truly did stills of this production.  They were a fine crew.  And the food was great while the money held out.  After that, well, we tightened out belts and suffered (but not too much)  for our art.  I think you’ll really enjoy the results.  I’m hoping to interview John Silva, Writer/Director of AV soon.  Stay tuned!

Photo by Carl Nelson

Fashion with Chris

December 14, 2010
Editor’s Note:  What do artists do when they finally break through the clutter and achieve recognition and success?  More importantly, for this column, what do they wear?  Well, as the movie offers and deals pour forth in the wake of the response to  Chris’ two most recent film premieres
 and Mochasexuals) Chris reconsiders ‘the suit’:

"This modern day Ebeneezer Scrooge says: BAH! HUMBUG!!" to boring fashion in this smart black & silver ensemble. And if you don't agree, he'll toss Ichabod Crane's flaming head at ya!!! "

" Lost in the woods, or merely searching for Mother Nature? This brave businessman is covered by his trusty bumbershoot, & his loyal laptop will get him out of any sticky situation!!! "


Photos by Carl Nelson

From the Editor’s Perch

December 7, 2010

We're Busy Manufacturing Winter

In case you call and no one answers…

Photo by Carl Nelson

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