kagablog

Everyone is familiar with Sir J. G. Frazier’s anthropological tome, “The Golden Doorstop,” with its seminal essay on the decline of human endeavors, “It’s Waning Men” and its Seminole essay on Native American people from Florida, “The Orland o’ Milk and Honey.” But few people have crawled all the way to the end of the book to find a discourse on the decline of Angel Service Industries, specifically the team of the Tooth and Death Fairies.

For years the Tooth Fairy and the Death Fairy worked together making house calls, taking away teeth and life, respectively. And for a long time, they were quite close, happily stepping in for each other when necessary. In fact, there’s a humorous anecdote from the era of The Plague (which Tooth jokingly referred to as The Plaque). Apparently there was a mix-up one morning and the entire population of Malmö, Sweden woke up (oops) with no teeth and a sack of coins under each pillow.

But as the years passed, differences surfaced.

For one, their philosophies began to part ways on the topic of whether they should be leaving something behind. The Tooth Fairy thought that a token calling card (the coin under the pillow) let folks know that the tooth wasn’t stolen, but rather had moved on to a higher plane. Death, not wanting to deal with amortization charts, argued that there was no appropriate amount of money to leave when removing life, and if there was, he would quickly find himself in serious financial troubles. Besides, Death figured that everyone would know that it was he who had taken the life, so a calling card would seem redundant.

There was also the matter of who should get top billing. Not only was Death tired of being mentioned after Tooth in all the literature, but the teasings from the other Angels about being the Death Fairy were beginning to wear at him. So he changed his name to The Angel of Death, and switched from his mustard and eggplant color scheme to wearing all black.

As a final effort to keep the team together, the Angel of Death suggested to his partner that he change his name to The Angel of Gum, but Tooth (the traditionalist) would have nothing of that, and went off on his own, crestfallen.

I was drawing bones one day (yeah, I’m a hoot on a Saturday night) when I wondered what the skeleton of a clown would look like: red nose, big hips, three fingers, extra large mouth, big feet, empty pie pan….

This pose is based on Bernard Albinus’ 1745 series of anatomy drawings entitled “TABULAE SCELETI ET MUSCULORUM CORPORIS HUMANI.”

I did this cartoon in 1995 for Cori and my wedding program.

There’s a store near my home with a big industrial plastic sign out front. It’s the kind of sign that’s lit from within by long fluorescent lights. In big, bold letters it reads “WEDDING SUPPLIES.” I always read it as “WELDING SUPPLIES.”

Although I would have loved to, I did not wear a welding suit to the ceremony. If I had, I believe the nuptial event would never have occurred.

Homage to Pierre de Fermat’s old problem, which stated that xn + yn = zn has no solutions for positive integers x, y, and z, if n is greater than 2. This became known as Fermat’s Last Theorem.

There are many solutions for n = 2, such as when x = 3, y = 4, and z = 5. Fermat said he had a proof that n could not be larger than 2, but neglected to write it down.

For 350 years no one could prove whether it was true or not. Finally in 1993, Andrew Wiles (with help from Richard Taylor) solved the problem. Fermat was right.

In the mid 12th century, the bishop of Paris, Maurice de Sully, had the idea of converting two small basilicas into one larger building. Soon after that, Pope Alexander III laid the foundation stone for Notre-Dame de Paris. It was ultimately finished in the mid 14th century, and stands today as the most famous of the Gothic cathedrals, noted for its size and architectural beauty.

In the mid 20th century, my mom would pack a lemon in my lunch bag, that I would peel and eat like an orange. Yum. I knew only one other kid in 6th grade to do that, but he was weird.

This is my second drawing to include my mascot, Umberto Gecko (cf. Art Gecko).

I looked quite intently for a frog that looked like a teenager. A whole bunch of them looked really wrinkled and old, and there was a set that looked prepubescent. I finally settled on the Puerto Rican coqui. I love its suction cup fingers.

The monetary units aren’t necessarily dollars, but they do seem to be decimal-based.

I love words. For most of my life I have loved knowing the subtle distinctions between the meanings of different words; knowing unusual words; finding out where words come from.

I remember years ago getting quite excited when I heard that Elton John also loved words. I was half listening to the radio when I heard him sing “… and I guess that’s why they call it the blues.” Cool! I had often wondered how the blues got its name.

Sure, the color blue evokes emotion, but is this merely a result of cultural conditioning? Or is it something that is innate? And even if it is in us, wouldn’t someone still have been the first to have observed it? Now, thanks to Mr. John these questions would finally have an answer. All I had to do was wait to hear the song again.

“Time on my hands could be time spent with you” Huh? “Laughing like children, living like lovers” What the…? “Rolling like thunder under the covers” Hey! This isn’t the etymology of the word blues. “And I guess that’s why they call it the blues.” Why this is a stupid love song!

And at that fateful moment in 1984, I made a promise to myself: From that day forward I would never again look to popular culture for word origins.

As it turns out, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word “blues” is a shortened version of “blue devils” and goes back to an early 1600s expression meaning “a baleful demon.” Sometime around the late 1700s, blue devils came to mean melancholy or despondent.

And so my friends, years later I find myself older and wiser, and no longer fooled by the likes of Kris Kristofferson, author of “Me and Bobby McGee.” For though he can write a mean melody, he is no linguist. Freedom is not in fact a synonym of “nothing left to lose.”

A hart is a male deer.

A ford is a place to cross a river. So the Connecticut city, Hartford, translates to “where the deer crosses the river.” (Presumably, he does this to get away from the insurance salesman.)

Similarly the British city, Oxford, translates to “where the bull crosses the river,” because the word “oxen” comes from the genus Bos. In Istanbul, Turkey, there is a body of water that separates Europe from Asia. It is called the Bosporus strait, which translates to ox ford. It was named this because, according to Greek mythology, it is where Inachus’ daughter Io, crossed the channel in the form of a white heifer. Zeus turned her into a cow because he had fallen in love with her and wanted to protect her from his jealous wife Hera. Somehow he thought this would help.

Art Nouveau is an ornamental art style that flourished between 1890 and 1910. It is characterized by depictions of organic objects, such as flowers, insect wings and leaves, in long, sinuous lines. Some of the more noted artists in this genre include: the American glass maker, Louis Tiffany; the Spanish Architect, Antonio Gaudi; and the American architect, Louis Sullivan. The design for my drawing was greatly influenced by (stolen from) the Czechoslovakian graphic designer, Alphonse Mucha. Mr. Mucha became famous for his posters and magazine illustrations. He also designed theatrical sets and costumes, and became the principle advertiser of the actress Sarah Bernhardt.

A hart is a male deer.

Casters are those little wheels that bring action to otherwise fairly immovable objects, such as pianos, bed frames, and shopping carts. (Alright, so a shopping cart isn’t totally immovable - but I get fingernail-on-the-chalkboard cringings when I imagine StarMarket full of casterless carts being pushed through the aisles.)

The point is that casters make it easier to move things. In fact, one of the key features of the caster is its ability to swivel 360 degrees. This allows me to zip around the room in my office chair in any direction and stop on a dime - or a paperclip or any other small object that jams the wheel.

In the 1940s and ’50s, Jackson Pollock was associated with the Abstract Expressionists, a loose-knit collection of artists creating paintings that left the realm of representation and focused on depicting forms not found in nature. Mr. Pollock was a caster to the art world. He, along with the other Abstract Expressionists, swivelled the focus of cutting edge art from Europe to the United States. His paintings had always been very active, with compositions that filled every nook and cranny of the canvas, but in 1947 he took this to an extreme when he created pieces made entirely by dripping and pouring paint onto the canvas.

In 1950, Hans Namuth filmed Jackson Pollock in action. (The Pollock images I drew in this cartoon are based on shots from that film.) This, along with a story in Life magazine, made Mr. Pollock quite famous (even infamous) as it provided a glimpse into the process of the “modern artist.” It was Namuth’s film that helped inspire art critic Harold Rosenberg to write an essay on “action painting.” Although this label has been applied to him ever since, Jackson Pollock did not like it. He felt this phrase implied that the process of painting was more important than the result - something Mr. Pollock vehemently disagreed with. All the same, his paintings are alive with motion and action, around and about the entire canvas.

The wheel-jamming paperclip in Jackson Pollock’s life was flagging self-confidence. It drove him to drinking and (ultimately) into a tree.

Finally, we find ourselves in ancient Greece, where we meet the action-seeking twins, Castor and Pollux. Their mother was Leda. Their father’s identity seems to be in dispute. According to some sources, Pollux’s father was Zeus and Castor’s was Tyndareus (Leda’s husband). These same sources don’t explain how twins could have different fathers, but we’ll leave that alone for now. One of their sisters was the lovely Helen — that thousand-ship-launching beauty whose abduction by Paris triggered the Trojan war.

Among other adventures, Castor and Pollux joined Jason and his Argonauts on the quest for the Golden Fleece. Eventually, Castor (being the mortal brother) met his paperclip of doom. Pollux was totally distraught about being separated from his brother, so Zeus cast them into the sky as the constellation Gemini. Today, Castor and Pollux are the names of two of the brightest stars in the sky.

The caves at Lascaux (say “Last Call” in a drunken slur) in southwest France contain Paleolithic paintings. Produced between 15,000 and 13,000 B.C., these images are considered some of the most important prehistoric art ever discovered.

The depictions of horses, reindeer, bison, and mammoth are jaw-droppingly accurate. Speculation holds that the drawings were created for magical ceremonies designed to boost hunting success. Curiously, the representation of humans is almost completely absent, and the few that do appear are noticeably less accurate than the animal images. Perhaps this was done so that the magic would not be applied to the humans themselves.

The history of alcoholic beverages also dates back to prehistory. It was probably discovered accidently when some honey or fruit (like grapes or berries) was exposed to a warm environment for an extended period of time. Airborne yeasts acting on these substances would have changed their sugars into ethyl alcohol or ethanol (C2H5OH), an intoxicating agent. Some early humans must have liked its effect (as do some late humans), and figured out how to recreate it.

Thanks to the preservation of the cave drawings, we know the symbol in this Lascaux “language” for a variety of animals and hunting events. Unfortunately, we don’t know Lascaux for alcohol.

I was in Paris last week. I feel compelled to draw a cartoon about it, if for no other reason than I can begin, “I was in Paris last week.” Although I have been to the city several times, I had never been able to visit the Catacombs. Until now.

Catacombs are subterranean cemetaries. The origin of the word is unknown, but it appears to have been first applied to the underground cemetaries of the basilica of San Sebastiano, near Rome.

The Parisian catacombs are roughly 190 miles of tunnels under the city. Initially, they started out as quarries, but in the Eighteenth century, fearing epidemics, it was used to put the remains of the nearby overflowing cemetaries. It took many decades to (respectfully) cart the five to six million bodies of bones into the tunnels.

Today, the tour of the Catacombs takes you down a set of winding stairs about 65 feet. After a short distance, you come to a doorway with a sign above it: Halt! This is the empire of death (Arretez. C’est ici l’empire de la mort). You then wind through a maze of twisty passages, where the walls are built from human skulls and femurs. (I presume the rest of the bones are on the other side of these walls.) Along the way, you see plaques of aphorisms and poems, such as: “Where is Death? Always in the future or the past. As soon as he is present, it is already gone.”

The tour is only about a mile long, though it feels much longer. In order to keep you out of the other 189 miles of tunnels, they have set up barred gates. This is a good thing. I heard two separate stories about people who go lost (in the pre-gate days) and were found several years later.

During World War II the French Resistance set up their headquarters in these tunnels. They were also set up in the Parisian sewers (the other subterranean tour we visited on this trip).

My cartoon depicts the entrance to the Cattle Combs (”Halt! These are the cows’ combs”). While I was leafing through a book in the Sewer Tour gift shop (don’t ask), I saw a picture of a fellow who was living in the Catacombs. He was seated against the wall, with bottles strewn around him. Here, I replaced him with the cow, and the bottles with combs. I’m still searching for something interesting about combs for cows.

Here’s hoping I don’t get lost.

-March 2001

A milliner makes or sells ladies hats. The name probably comes from the obsolete word Milaner, for a native of Milan. Its usage dates back to 1530, when the British were getting some of their finer fashions from Milan. I got this information from the Oxford English Dictionary. We’ll have to take their word for it. They are word experts after all.

Expert. Where does this word come from? Obviously, it involves the roots ex for ‘not’ and pert for ‘impudently bold.’ Does this mean that the experts at the OED were once bold about words, but are no longer? If so, then why should I take advice from weak-kneed meaning-mongers?

I can come up with my own etymologies, thank you very much.

For example, I notice that the OED includes the word ner, which they define as an archaic use of the word nor. I suggest that milli-ner meant a thousandth (milli-) of a ner, as in “Neither this chicken, milli-ner that duck.” In other words: “It’s definitely not the chicken, but there is a thousand to one chance that it might not be the duck either.” Not a very strong statement.

In fact, people who frequently used milli-ner in their speech (I propose) came to be known for their lack of boldness, lack of pert, lack of enthusiastic flair or élan. A person who wanted to sell fashionable ladies’ hats might have done well to have such a personality - especially when dealing with wealthy, upper class clients who would required you to be agreeable to the point of obsequiessence. Hence, they were dubbed Milliners.

Okay, my theory isn’t perfect. I’m still trying to work out why this word was ascribed to hat sellers as opposed to some other weak-kneed folk, like, say etymologists. Perhaps these word experts have more gumption than I gave them credit for. I’ll have to test this out the next time I meet one. I’ll walk up to him, humbly take my hat in my hand, point to his spirit and ask, “Is that your fine élan, sir?”

- April 2001

I just finished taking an anatomy drawing class at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education. We got to draw lots of bones. Since I like drawing bones so much, I thought this would be a good time to imagine the bones of a pirate (or at least what was left of ‘em).

This is my second cartoon depicting a skeleton (I guess that means I now have a series). My previous cartoon, “Anatomy of a Clown” (see www.perspicuity.com/anofclow.html) was based on the 18th century anatomy drawings of Bernard Albinus. Here, in “Anatomy of a Pirate,” I based my drawing on the work of Andreas Vesalius 200 years earlier.

Vesalius was both a medical doctor and an artist. He believed that the only way to truly understand the workings of the human body was to dissect and study cadavers. This approach was unique in his time, when most physicians relied on the medical theories of Galen, a Greek doctor in ancient Rome to guide their work. Through his studies, Vesalius began to question Galen’s medical axioms. What he came up with was so useful and influential to the medical field that he is now known as the Father of Gross Anatomy.

In 1543, Vesalius completed his epoch work, De humani corporis fabrica libri septem (”The Seven Books on the Structure of the Human Body”). The cartoon above is a modified version of Plate 21.

On a lark, I checked to see if anyone had registered the domain name vesalius.com. Wow. What I found was “Vesalius - The Internet resource for surgical education”, a fascinating, yet gruesome Web site for an “emerging generation of physicians”. It provides “detailed narratives on surgical procedures and anatomy.” In one section, you might follow a detailed visual description of the procedure for fixing a hernia, in another, the steps for performing a tracheotomy. (Before you dive into the site, heed this warning: they don’t call it gross anatomy for nothin’!)

Until recently, I had been saving up for corrective laser eye surgery, but now I think I’ll just get myself a laser Heath Kit and wait for the good folks at vesalius.com to provide me with detailed instructions. That should save me a bundle.

I leave you with this word play poem. I came up with it while thinking about pirates.

A Buccaneer Beheadment1
With his head on the block, splayed the dreaded French pirate,
Whose nefarious deeds made his captors irate;
For his crimes he would pay an exorbitant rate.
Bread and Beef Bourginon were the last things he ate.
To the crowd his penultimate words were, “je te
dire que vous…2″ Chop! His last word began, “E…”

1 In workplay, a beheadment is the create of new words by starting with a word and removing one letter at a time.
2 French for: “I say unto you, that you…”

- June 2001

I recently decided to read some of my old journals. I chanced upon this undated entry of me in my more pensive moments. I figure that I must have been four or five when I wrote this.

“Today Mom took me to some fancy shop in town. She told me to touch nothing. I didn’t see nothing. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what nothing was. But, not wanting to be disobedient, I decided to touch everything, in hopes that I might chance upon it. Nothing doing. Mom apparently does not subscribe to a heuristic, discover as you explore approach to learning. It seems I am expected to have an a priori knowledge of nothing.

“But I don’t know nothing!

“When I got home I decided to look it up. Our family dictionary only says that nothing is something that does not exist. Hmmm. Dad recently told me that monsters don’t exist. Does that mean that a monster is nothing? Or that nothing is a monster? Well, it certainly is true that since a monster does not exist, then nothing is a monster - but I don’t feel any closer to nothing.

“Nothing to fear. Whenever I find myself utterly confused, I always turn to my good friend Jean-Paul Sartre for a simple, clear elucidation: ‘Nothingness does not itself have Being, yet it is supported by Being. It comes into the world by the For-itself and is the recoil from fullness of self-contained Being which allows consciousness to exist as such.’ Ok, so nothing could be clearer.

“Let’s try Dad’s library….

“Literature offers little. No useful definitions, only vague characteristics. This is what I’ve found so far: It is the significance of a tale told by an idiot. It succeeds just like success. It is gained when it is ventured. It comes of itself. It’s what you ain’t heard yet. It is even finer than to be in Caroliner in the morning.

“I have to stop now. It’s night-night time. And after a full day of looking, I now have plenty of nothing, and that should be plenty for me.”

Post Script. Many years have passed since I wrote this, and I don’t feel much closer. As Edward Dahlberg said, “It takes a long time to understand nothing.”

- July 2001

I originally intended to take this opportunity to rail against folk art. I don’t like folk art much, so I was going to talk about how it is art by people who can’t draw. I was going to talk about how folk art is quaint, which the American Heritage Dictionary defines as “charmingly curious, esp. in an old-fashioned way.” And I was going to talk about how I hate all things charmingly curious, and am not particulary fond of old-fashioned ways either.

But things don’t always go according plan. After visiting Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts exhibit on folk art and researching a bit about it, I found myself reexamining its value. The Encyclopaedia Britannica says that while folk art has been defined as all things homemade, or art produced by the non-elite or common people, or traditional art which “preserves a cultural heritage,” it must be acknowledged that it is the product of the non-ruling class. It is the art of those who don’t have the power; somewhat tautologically, the people’s art. It goes on to say that folk art can only exist in isolation, and that 20th century industries and communications have been very rough on folk art, since it is making it harder and harder for a people to remain isolated.

All of this brings to me a new, intellectual appreciation for folk art - although I still don’t find it aesthetically pleasing. I guess if I don’t think of it as art, it’s not so bad. It’s kind of like fast food burgers. If I don’t compare them to homemade, grill-cooked hamburgers, they’re not so bad. In moderation.

Still, what to write about folk art.

Cori suggests that I write about bad restaurant art. Jay says folk art’s value is that it is not for the masses, but typically constructed as a gift or token to a specific loved one. Miriam thinks they make great jigsaw puzzles, and John suggested greeting cards.

“Cally, what do I write about folk art?”
“I don’t know. My favorite piece of folk art is the Ukrainian flag.”
“Huh?”
“Blue over yellow. Sky over vast fields of grain. Must be the simplest instance of representational art ever made.”

I’m stumped. I think I’ll just skip the essay this week and let the cartoon stand on its own.

- September 2001

The paintings represented in this cartoon include Rembrandt van Rijn’s “Slaughtered Ox,” Pablo Picasso’s “Study of Lamb,” Chaim Soutine’s “Side of Beef,” and Francis Bacon’s “Head Surrounded by Side of Beef.”

November is Slaughtered Oxen Month. At least it was during late medieval times when it was considered one of the “Labors of the Month.” In the 16th and 17th centuries we see numerous Northern European artists (including Bruegal, van Heemskerk, and Teniers the Younger) depicting scenes with carcasses of ox suspended from ceiling beams. (Check out Teniers’s 1642 “Butcher Shop” on display at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.)

In 1655, Rembrandt van Rijn painted “Slaughtered Ox.” This painting was different from previous representations of beef. Here the carcass was treated not as a prop, but rather as the focus of the composition. Not only that, but Rembrandt painted the subject with a dramatic vigor not seen before in meat paintings. Additionally, there have been analyses of this painting which make reference to the Crucifixion of Christ.

Financially, the mid 1650s was a very bad year for Rembrandt. He pretty much had to sell everything he owned - including his paintings - to pay off his debts. Many years later, the Louvre Museum in Paris acquired “Slaughtered Ox” at a bargain basement price.

During the 20th century, when modern artists were hanging around in Paris, a number of painters were inspired by Rembrandt’s piece and rendered (so to speak) their own versions. Some of these artists included Picasso, Delacroix, George Segal (not to be confused with the banjo-playing actor), Francis Bacon (not to be confused with the 17th century philosopher, prototypical scientist, man of letters and lord chancellor of England), and Chaim Soutine (not to be confused with the Nabisco cracker).

Art history books love to recall the story of Soutine painting a rotting side of beef in his apartment. Purportedly he paid a young girl to bring him blood from the butcher shop, so that he could freshen up the carcass. His neighbors were constantly calling the police because of the unbearable stench.

The only other job that I can imagine smellier than this, would be that of a sewer worker. The most famous one I can think of is Ed Norton (not to be confused with Edward Norton the young movie star). The sewer working Norton was Ralph Kramden’s neighbor and buddy on the 1950s TV show “The Honeymooners.” He was played by Art Carney (not to be confused with Rembrandt’s “Slaughtered Ox”).

- November 2001

Introduction to the Perspicuity Review Web Site

The word perspicuous means clearly presented or easily understood. Perspicuity - which has a nicer ring and rhythm to it - is the quality of being perspicuous. Both share an etymological root with perspective: from the Latin perspicere, to inspect or to look through : per- (intensive) + specere, to look. (From The American Heritage Dictionary, 2nd Ed., 1985)

The Perspicuity Review’s primary mission is to eschew obfuscation.

Just kidding. This magazine’s primary mission is clarity. It will be a growing collection of words and pictures dedicated to clearly discussed ideas. Equally important is a focus on the process of creating and generating ideas — a process I call good thinking.

Good thinking is more than just critical thought. It’s an attitude which values the exploration for true ideas over the defense of preconceived opinions. It requires the self-confidence and self-assuredness to believe and trust in your thoughts, along with the ability to listen to and consider ideas which differ from your own. It requires the courage to modify your views when you see that they are wrong. It is the only process by which a person can understand why they believe what they do. Good thinking requires quiet time, requires an awareness of the environment, and to some extent, a shutting down of the senses. And good thinking is much more. It is one of the grandest adventures in living — for Spinoza there was no grander.

About Craig Swanson
Well it’s probably pretty easy to figure out the important stuff about me by looking at my cartoons and essays. What else? Well…

* I memorized T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland — with great annoyance to my friends.
* I have also memorized (among other things):
o elements of the periodic table,
o the Presidents of the United States,
o the Best Picture for each year,
o all 115 Supreme Court Justices, and
o I can draw a map of the U.S., one state at a time, in order of acceptance into the Union, freehand
o I can draw all of the countries in Africa, also freehand
(I’m studying to be an idiot savant.)
* I was born at 11:30 in the morning in Ridgewood, New Jersey on 26th May, 1961
* I learned my first significant lesson about justice in first grade. Whenever any of us were caught eating candy Mrs. Breece would always say “Did you bring enough for the whole class?” We would inevitably say no and she would make us walk to the front of the room and throw the candy away. Well one day I went into the drug store before school and bought an enormous amount of Big Buddy bubble gum — enough for the whole class. So during one of our reading lessons I deliberately took out some gum and began chewing. Since I was quite prepared for what would happen next, I chewed less surreptitiously than I might otherwise have. As I expected, she interrupted the lesson, asked me what I was chewing, I said gum, she said “Do you have enough for the whole class?” Dumping out the bag of bubble gum on my desk I said “Why, yes I do, Mrs. Breece.” She promptly made me throw it all away in front of the class.

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