LoveUbecause … my duck found a home
Purchasing art. Art and stories. Sometimes the creation is the story, sometimes the purchase is the story …
I have often said that though it may be several years in coming, there is always an owner, or buyer to match with a particular piece of art or photography.
There is that moment when all comes together in artistic happen stance - which sometimes is admittedly a little more confused and disorderly than necessary - when that image, those strokes, that composition, for whatever reason, circumstance or appeal, finds its rightful home and owner.
I went to a fund-raiser this past weekend for a large organization that promotes the preservation of wetlands and migratory water fowl – ducks in particular - throughout North America. I was invited to attend as a “guest artist”, as I provided an artistic donation to be included in the live auction.
I have to confess that I had trouble deciding what to donate. My style of painting is expressionistic and sometimes borders on the abstract. I was concerned that anything I brought would not fit in with the theme as “I have never painted a duck in my life”. As I explained to the audience prior to the bidding, this presented me with a quandary. What should I contribute?
Fortunately, though a “duck-less” painter, I am also a photographer – or as I prefer, “ an artist with a camera”. I am familiar with the functions of most of the buttons and switches on my Nikon, but in my estimation, I am a little lean on the technical side. I often have to stop and think about an f-stop of 22 in comparison to one of 8. Will it let in a large, or small amount of light? Oh those dang technicalities!
Fortunately, in spite of any technical shortcomings, I am told, I have a “good eye” for composition and the “interesting angle”. This is presumably true, as my photographs
"Thinking About Lunch!" ©2009 Andrew Neil Olscher
and photo illustrations have been displayed in art galleries, sold through stock photo agencies, used in magazines and promotional materials and on a vast variety of web sites . So, by donating a nicely framed photograph, I wasn’t providing anything short on quality, in comparison to a “duck-less” painting. Moreover, I had just the photograph in mind!
I spent quite some time finding the photograph in question. You see, just as the artistic attic of my mind tends, at times, to be somewhat cluttered with unsorted thoughts, so always is the hard drive on my computer, with disorganized photo files.
I had a clear vision of the image I was seeking and easily managed to find a low resolution, unprintable version. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember what year, or where exactly, I captured “the shot.” and this particular version of the photograph was missing the original digital time-stamp. Finding the high resolution, printable version proved an unenviable, eye straining, patience testing task.
Imagine typing “*.jpg” into the search engine on your computer and almost 30,000 images appear! Very slowly, little icons dotted the screen, begging to be examined for one particular duck – and that was on only one hard drive! There were also the DVDs, the 500 gigabyte external hard drive - thankfully not quite full - and let’s not forget the older collection of CDs - all image laden!
As this is not the first time I have found myself in this predicament - helplessly trying to track down one particular image amongst thousands – the requisite unpleasant oaths were muttered. Restless sighs of frustration were loudly “sighed”. It was all enough for my wife to suggest I “stop that”, as she passed by my office door.
Of course, the thought to “one day” organize all these photographs into a logically indexed, collection crossed my mind. Imagine at a moments notice being able to select a long ago, captured scene from my own Google-like, organized, electronic, image albums! Well guess what, “that ain’t never going to happen, Stanley, ’cause I’m too busy trying to find lost pictures!” – and don’t ask me who Stanley is, though I am sure I have a picture of him on my hard drive, somewhere!
As I said, sometimes my thoughts get a little cluttered – point proven! Now I shall quit ranting! Back to my ducky story …
“And so it was”, as they say in those epic tales, as the search achingly slowly became, the elusive duck was eventually found – just as I thought - in a directory with a whole lot of photographs of butterflies! Well, I guess they all do have wings. All so very logical – Google-like, sort of - not!
I always liked this photo. It is a fleeting moment unexpectedly captured in an unusual circumstance, but like many of my photographs, it was not taken with a particular use in mind – it never had a “home”.
I recall that I once spent endless hours squatting on the muddy shore of a lake in Florida. There I was, the duck Paparazzi, unsuccessfully attempting to keep my feet and bottom dry and go home with the ducky “money shot”. Ironically, it was on a photography outing to a butterfly sanctuary in British Columbia that I inadvertently turned, noticed this bird sitting at the edge of a pond, hungrily, eyeing the large, gold fish passing through the water beneath. As is my nature, I spontaneously, without concern for F-8, 11 or 22, snapped the shot. Voilà! “Thinking About Lunch” came into being. Florida? Forget about it!
Now I am quite certain that the gold fish, actually closer in colour to the ”l’orange” in duck, was never actually devoured. But I must confess, I am hoping that the fowl in question was indeed a duck! Hopefully the “duck people” were not just humouring me, as I expounded upon my avian tale. Wouldn’t that be a lark … duck … whatever.
In retrospect, as an artist with little talent for ornithological identification, I could have, though well intentioned , presented a photograph of the very rare, short-tailed, Peruvian, green-winged pheasant - should there be such a thing. Let’s hope not – that would be embarrassing! And Lord knows, such things just don’t happened to me!
I know the sum of my duck knowledge may not extend much past the delicious, crispy skinned, breast that I used to thoroughly enjoy at a restaurant, of the same name, “The Duck”. But I am indeed pleased, that “my duck”, or perhaps obscure duck-like creature featured in “Thinking About Lunch”, did indeed find a good home!
Wayward, disorganized and difficult to find as it was in the electronic habitat of my computer’s hard drive, the hunt for the duck - the only kind of hunting I do - was , I think, well worthwhile.
I was happy to have contributed to the preservation of our environment and fair feathered friends. But just as important, the first print of “Thinking About Lunch” found a home and owner and what the heck , it makes for a good duck story!
“A” the “O” in L
VE!
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LoveUbecause … you are my motorbike!
Call me a narcissist, or perhaps delusional. Put it down to being born at home. Gracing this world’s stage, not to be greeted by a crowd of cheering medical staff, or blinding, bright hospital lights left me a little wanting.
I prefer to think it stems from being cast in the role of an “auxiliary angel” in the school nativity play. Some kid called Ronald got to portray Joseph, the “headliner”. I didn’t get to say anything – just look awe struck when Jesus, played by a plastic doll, arrived – even he got more applause than me! There were no spotlights aimed in my direction, no curtain calls, or kudos for looking just plain angelic!
Consequently, I admit, spending much of my life looking for just that – a comfortable place in the glow of the spotlight, with a few cheers thrown in for good measure! What can I say – I shall just have to admit to being, at times, a bit of an insecure fellow.
Childhood shyness and innate nervousness didn’t really help. Neither did an upbringing, where acting up in school, bringing attention to myself in anything but a scholarly, or “within the confines of the rules” sort of way, was frowned upon. This hopeful extrovert, wanna-be-class-clown, would have to wait.
Timing, as they say, is everything. At age five, I watched Jimmy Stewart, fuddle and muddle to stardom as trombonist, Glen Miller in The Glen Miller Story. Miller struggled hard to create an original, big band sound, valiantly trying to make ends meet - winning the girl - almost losing the girl - winning the girl - so romantic. Well, perhaps not the part where he dies in a plane crash!
Nonetheless, for a time, destiny smiled and Miller’s band was wildly popular. In my child’s mind, what better way to blast myself into the hearts and minds of the public than to play the trombone?
Forward several years. After a good music test, some insufferable whining and a familial appreciation of the note, as my mother is one mean accordion player, it was agreed. At age eleven, I could have that shiny, brass horn! Blast I did – though elementary school, high school, university and beyond. I played lots of good notes and my share of bad. At one time, some agreed I was relatively accomplished. Whatever the review, timing had the ultimate say. Newsflash! The mass popularity of big bands faded, pretty much, thirty years ago! Duh! Go find something else to do, “Glen”!
I moved on. I wrote songs, recorded some tunes – ok, that country record was stretching it a bit. Finally that wanna-be-class-clown was released as I earned a living acting for a time portraying a demented scientist in a rather silly play. For years I also played doctors, lawyers, soldiers, policemen and a host of other characters, flashing by in the background as an extra in television shows, movies and commercials. Oh, the glamour of Hollywood North! Begrudgingly, I admit it went nowhere! Forever waiting for the “Über-audition”, the “big break” – sadly, there were no Tony, or Grammy nominations in the cards – Oscar, well that’s just the name of one of my cats - though Catherine O’Hara did once tell me she really liked the sweater I was wearing. What more could a fellow ask for?
Finally - the art! Discovering a flair for the application of paint to canvas, I found several reputable galleries willing to display and sell my work over the past sixteen years. The possibility in centuries forth, of discovering an “Olscher”, dusty and long forgotten, somewhere in an attic in a number of different countries, is actually there – the value of which - to be determined! What more can a fellow intent on gaining a certain measure of notability hope for? I even “Google” well!
Now it may be naïve to think that one can ever top the applause that a plastic Jesus gets in a school play, but I am definitely happy being an artist! Especially with some reassurance that once I take my easel and tumble off this mortal coil, hopefully into the froth of painterly heaven, at least I will be able to say I once had some practice at being an angel – albeit, not well lit!
But here’s the kicker! Ironically, recognition, or perhaps call it “fleeting, mobile, anonymous celebrity”, has shown itself in an unexpected and oddly satisfying way.
Several summers ago I walked into a local motorcycle shop. There sat a gleaming, classically designed, sidecar equipped motorbike. Was I nostalgically jarred by memories of such machines in old films I habitually watched as a child with my grandparents on Sunday afternoons? Was it the spectacle of similar vehicles that trundled by as an addendum to the London to Brighton, antique, automobile race my father once took me too? I don’t know, but I had to have it!
With promises of summer, afternoon jaunts through the lush, green, countryside and romantic weekends spent winding down the road from one B and B to the next, my wife was an easy sell.
As a neophyte rider, I took a safety course and a little nervously, the possession of our bike. Prepared for the reaction? Not! A vehicular oddity, for sure!
People stopped, stared, pointed and waved. I was flagged down, thinking something wrong, only to be questioned whether I was driving a BMW - an antique? No – it’s a Russian Ural of the 2003 vintage, actually!
Once, a van pulled up beside us on the wrong side of the highway and just stayed there! Were they trying to pass and just ran out of steam? No, the passenger was taking a picture. My goodness, Paparazzi – at last!
It is like being the only float in the parade. My wife has perfected her queenly wave and I, the expected manly nod, for occasions unsafe to remove my hands from the grips to return a salute from another passing biker. Little children, smile and jump up and down in delight. Grown men, in pickup trucks, break into broad grins as we pass. School bus loads of kids jovially jostle at the windows to get their glimpse and
"A" on his Ural - © 2009 Linda Anne Olscher
give us a thumbs up. I have been followed by mothers, with youngsters, who want to see the bike up close when I stop. “Just like in that Dalmatians movie!” they exclaim. Donut shop and mall parking lots are a haven for the curious and old men wishing to recount and briefly relive there memories of driving similar machines in younger days. A conversation piece? An understatement!
This three wheeled chariot can be driven, using a little common sense, year round. We don’t expect to win any races, but flipped into two wheel drive we have negotiated back roads that have turned into streams, mud and snow. Nothing like the 85 km ride we took one New Years Day! Talk about curious onlookers!
Admittedly there have been a few ups and downs with some rather quirky, old style technology, but our dealership has given us good service when required. It would be hard to outweigh the sheer pleasure of driving this machine.
Waving, cheering, we don’t even have to try! There is nothing better than finding pleasure in the unexpected and apparently bringing joy by being the unexpected. And strangely in our anonymity, what better way to spend a Sunday afternoon. What better way to enjoy life!
Enjoying the ride …
“A” the “O” in LVE!
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ve! 