Benched Week 71: framing our differences

I am standing in front of a painting of a city bridge with my artist son.  This has caught his eye, I think in part because it reminds him of this city he has adopted.   I ask him what he likes about the painting.  He comments on the colors in the shadows, the details, the rendering of the people.  I observe how the artist breaks up the strong vertical of the smokestack.  It is good to view it together.  To see it differently.



This trip to Pittsburgh is for just this thing: to hang out with Nathan and slowly let observations on life roll out as they will.  The bitter cold (minus 3 on the way here) has driven us inside.  But we have, for a long time, wanted to visit an art museum together.  This is the perfect chance.

Here I find my bench.  And my muse embodied.



Nathan and I are quite different in our approach to art.  And he frames that contrast in a way I had not considered.  He makes the distinction between a hobby and a project.  He is a hobbyist.  Art for him is an ongoing, open-ended exploration.  Art for me, he thinks, is more about completing projects: there is a goal and finite length.  Once completed, a new project arises.

It’s a simple contrast, but I recognize the truth in it.  I am drawn to projects.  Like this blog.   Like my winter doodles.  Like a new idea I have for drawing simple portraits of “winter walkers” – people bundled up in layers of clothing, sketched from quickly-captured reference photos during my travels.



And suddenly we have our middle ground.  We share stories of how hard it is to take photos of people in public.  I tell of the older woman in a park who pointedly asked me if I liked taking photos of children.  He recalls the person who ran after him to get him to delete the shot he had just snapped.  It’s fun to share stories from the trenches.



Near us, a small class of children is sketching an object on display.  It pleases me enormously to see this, for it reminds me of the times I took my kids to do the same.  And it makes me think of how my children are the biggest project I’ve undertaken.  But for all parents there is a line where the noun project can become a verb.  Across that line, we begin to project on our offspring our own unfulfilled dreams.  Or, in my life, an approach to creating.

And I’m thankful that Nathan has discovered such a refreshingly different way to make art – seen in the angular planes of wood he paints, but also in his hobbyist’s enthusiasm.

How good it is to have a fresh pair of eyes.  And a new framework.

Benched Week 70: flames to fan

If ever a room needed a bench, it would be an art room.  As I have learned, benches are the perfect place to think, to observe, and to sketch.  At least, that’s what I told middle school students this week.

And since this particular art room didn’t have one, I assisted the art teacher in lifting a bench from the school lobby.



Dawn is an old friend.  Up until my schedule became too demanding, I came in six times a year to teach a simple watercolor class to seventh graders. 

Over the fifteen years of those lessons, she and I talked much about art and teaching and kids.  She’s passionate about all three.  I knew she’d be game with my odd seating request.

I went in twice this week to meet with the Art Clubs.  It was a treat to show my work to young artists who are intent on pursuing their own creativity and skill.

Day One: I showed slides of my art and answered questions, telling the students that the one thing they could do to become more creative is to buy a small notebook to carry with them and write down or sketch what they observed.  As fun as the hour was, I walked away thinking I had lost an chance to co-create with them.  Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll change that.

Day Two:  I raced through my presentation, fielded a few questions then turned the tables on the kids.  “You’ve asked me about my art,” I said.  “Now I want to know about yours.”  I directed them to two large sheets of paper with a simple question.

Without hesitation, they spent the remainder of the time drawing and writing their answers.  Roaming the room behind them, I realized that as fun as this was to watch, I had still missed the goal.  We weren’t co-creating.  I was a bystander.

But maybe something more important was in play.  Perhaps my most important role in these two brief hours was one of cheerleader for creativity.  To applaud that innate spark of a desire to capture our view of the world visually – a spark we all had as little children but only some fanned into flame.  I suppose it was my turn to wave that fan for a few kids.

The girl drawing this came to me on the second day and told me, “I went home last night and had my mom take me out to get a small sketchbook.  So I can do what you said.”

It made me smile.  I guess I’ll have a tiny supporting role in her life of creating going forward.  Sometimes the best collaboration is to encourage – then watch what happens.





Something a great teacher like Dawn could have told me.

Benched Week 69: getting my docks in a row

There are two things that strike me about January.

The first is the cold.  Lately, it’s been a literal striking, as I vainly tried to outlast its pummeling on a bench in Brooklyn.

And in Bethlehem, PA, I didn’t even try.  I mean, look what it did to this woman.

Today, walking along the shoreline park in Chicago, it seemed like only the geese and the joggers were willing to join me in the stiff wind that sliced through my winter coat.
 

It made me empathetic for this sculptural captain, who I was dressed like, except my ski cap made me more of a common sailor.

The second thing that stands out to me about January was brought to mind when I found my bench looking out over an empty marina.  Without all the boats, the rhythmic geometry of the structures can be seen.  When the weather warms and the boats all come back, that simple overview will get lost in all the colors and movement and people.  Life will get in the quay.

January is like those docks.  It’s when we can see a line-up of the months to come.  The calendar awaits all the hand-written activities (in our house, only in black pen, please).  January is when we can clearly see the structure before, like at the marina, all the hubbub moves back in.

Hey, ships happen.

It’s fashionable to dislike resolutions.  I’m not sure how the tide turned on those.  I like to christen the launch of each new year with a personal slogan, something to keep in mind while the view of the docks is still clear.  This year’s rose out of lessons learned from last year’s bench-sittings: Watch for the small things.

Each day, regardless of the larger activities that may dominate, there are small moments that are worth paying attention to and investing in – passing conversations, small gestures, chance interactions with strangers.  I want to catch more of them.  And when I can, include a bit of writing or drawing.

Take this drawing I left for Diana, the housekeeping cleaning my room in Brooklyn.  She left a note afterward saying she would frame it.

Come to think of it, it touches on both of those January distinctives.  Small gestures and the warmth they bring.

Benched, Week 68: the smallest strokes

Sometimes, it’s not about what you write, but how you write it.

I hadn’t planned on posting during our family’s pre-Christmas trip to Williamsburg, but there I was, on a bench inside the Visitor’s Center, waiting for Alison and Grace to finish their shopping for something to remember the beauty of the season in colonial times.



Across from me sat a lonely Ben Franklin.   In front of him, three quill pens angled out of an inkwell like an emaciated headdress. Books, CDs and business cards filled out the table around him.  Ever the entrepreneur, that Ben.



“Book signings can be lonely vigils,” I commented.

He agreed.  And just like that, we began swapping stories of promoting our work, presenting in schools and finally, our interest in handwriting.

Ben’s alter ego was Mike, a former homicide chief detective from Baltimore.  In his retirement, he had discovered a fascination of old-style penmanship.  He was eager to demonstrate.

Dip.  Shake.  Scratch.  The pen moved carefully over the paper.

As he wrote, he informed me that a flourish was added below to keep someone else from turning a signature into a promissory note.  (“Ben Franklin… owes Bruce Van Patter a dozen Ben Franklins.”)



When he finished, I tried my hand at it.



It probably comes as no surprise to you, gentle readers, that I love lettering.  A good pen is like a found treasure.  I regularly study new typefaces, reveling in the nuances of different tails, legs and bowls.  (Type-geek speak, sorry.)  I seek to flourish in flourishing.

But more importantly, I’ve found that purposeful lettering is one of the simplest ways to add a little delight to someone’s day.  Recently, I’ve been taking an extra couple of minutes to fashion a note to housekeeping in hotels.



It’s a good analogy to hold onto as we peer expectantly into the new year.  Grand acts of kindness have their place, but cultivating a regular practice of little, regular gestures of unexpected grace may be more impactful.  For me, it could be a hand-written note to a stranger or lettered verses, specially selected for my wife and kids as a Christmas morning surprise.

To stroke the right note: a small thing with a big potential to bless.

Benched Week 67: anticipation

One of the great things about traveling is anticipation.  I look forward to seeing a new place – however briefly.  And meeting up with workmates I enjoy.  And the spontaneous art I create.  Most of all, I cherish coming home.

These bench outings, too, are filled with expectation.  I love the improvisational nature of heading out onto the streets of a city or town, not knowing what it will give me in return for the investment of my time.

Today, under brilliantly blue skies and into spring-like weather, I explored downtown Atlanta with high hopes.  With any luck, I’d find something Christmassy along the way.

High as my hopes, a Ferris wheel greeted me as I entered Centennial Olympic Park.




But the park itself was a disappointment.  Plenty of benches – but many of them were occupied with sleeping old men.  Without running water in the fountains or green on the trees, it was a sad landscape.  Even a snowman display looked a bit odd and mildly creepy.



Other parks were the same: tired old men and little else.


I admitted defeat at the final stop, a corner square framed by a wall of water, where I settled for watching guys play what I might describe as High-Intensity Profanity Chess, judging by the loud conversations.



And interacting with this lively guy, who was convinced I was a reporter and posed for the newspaper article.  He was entertaining, though a tad scary.  Especially when he started telling me about his half-brother Jesus walking on water.



For me, there was no great Aha moment in the afternoon's wandering.  No gripping realizations.  Just the pleasure of being fully present in a place and time.

Here’s the thing about anticipation: you can’t guarantee the actual can match the expected.  And maybe that’s good.  Because sometimes what shows up, though unexpected, is better than what we’ve convinced ourselves we want.  We might desire what is wrapped tidily and prettily in our mind’s eye when what we really need arrives wrapped in something far more ordinary.  Like swaddling clothes.

If these Benched posts have taught me anything, it’s to look for the quiet, small surprises that usually go unnoticed.

But then, either to reward me or contradict me, I received this gift: as I walked back to my hotel, I turned a corner and discovered a giant wreath, radiant in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight.  Stunningly beautiful.



The ordinary and the spectacular.  The glorious brought down to earth.

I guess I found something Christmassy after all.

Benched Week 66: buoyed by rain

Sometimes, rain can be welcoming.  Seattle, living up to its wet reputation, greeted me this afternoon with the meteorological equivalent of a sloppy kiss on the cheek.  A steady drizzle met me as I left the hotel.

Why then head out in the rain to find a bench?

I wondered that very thing as I sat down on my chosen seat in a park just off the edge of the shopping district in Bellevue, WA.  What could such a dreary landscape hold for me?

Turns out: a heavy dose of calm.

Just what I needed.

The day started with a jolt of adrenaline.  Ready to make my long drive to Dulles, I started the car in the driveway to warm it up and somehow managed to lock myself out of it!  Panic surged through my body as I realized the implications.  My heart pounded.  I shouted in frustration. 



Between calls to Alison and AAA, it was resolved quickly, but a pointed lesson had been made. Besides to never do that again, the loud warning was: You’re not handling the pace of my life as well as you thought.  As clear as a road sign.



So, I sat on the bench, the rain lightly drumming on the umbrella above me, and willed myself to slow the pace of my thoughts.  Take some deep breaths.  Soak in the scenery.



In the distance, people happily skated in a covered rink. (Cue the Vince Guaraldi Peanuts music.)



Nearer to me, a young mother pushed a stroller around the circular path that passed by my bench.  Her umbrella was a welcome splash of color in the drab and darkening scene.

It’s funny how when you slow down, things ease up into your attention unbidden, like the quiet friend who stays behind after a party.  As I sat there listening, I suddenly realized the sound of the rain on the umbrella reminded me of something.

Rain on a tent.

And just like that, a sweet memory flooded back.  I’m a boy of eight.  I huddle with my family around the picnic table under the screen tent adjoining our pop-up camper as the rain quarantines us for the day on our trip across the country.  I hear the shuffling of the cards being dealt for another round of cribbage.  I feel the checkered plastic tablecloth under my bare elbows.  I smell the aromatic smoke of my father’s pipe.  I taste the sweet tang of Tang in a plastic mug.

Smiling at the remembrance, I get up and walk back.  I feel lighter inside.  And the rain seems to match my more buoyant spirit, transforming the streets into a diffused reflection of the Christmas lights.

Cheered by a rainy day.  Seattle style.

Benched Week 65: thankful

Dallas on a cold, December Monday wasn’t very inviting.  But I stepped out into the cutting wind and empty streets with a purpose: to get to the church I had seen from my room window, nestled in among the newer buildings like an elderly aunt at the kids’ table on Thanksgiving.



That’s why I wanted to find a contemplative space.  I wanted to give thanks for two things I’ve learned in this year and a half of bench sittings.

1.  Senses wait to be used.

When I park myself on a bench, I take out paper and pen and start writing down all the things I hear, see, smell, feel.  (As a rule, I try not to taste things on public benches.) These senses are not small things.  They are tremendous gifts, and underutilized ones at that. I’m constantly surprised and often delighted by the sounds and sights that exist just beyond the narrow spotlight of my attention.

It’s like an archeological dig. Obvious things, like the enormous pipes that dominate the front of this church’s sanctuary, lay on the surface. 

Only time and a willingness to keep looking can dig up the deeper treasures, like the radiant watercolor feel of the stained-glass windows.

Or the subtle curves of the descending dove.

I’m thankful for the ability to perceive and appreciate the pleasant contrasts of light and dark, of smooth and bristly textures, of rich green against dark wood.

2.  Stories wait to be discovered.

Look at these hanging bells.  I found them to the right of the altar.

There are people behind these simple ornaments.  Those who crafted them.  Those who hung them.  Each of them has a motivation, a story behind their part in the placing.

I’m thankful for the ubiquity of narratives, because they are links between people.  Between the teller and the hearer.  Between the artist and the audience.  Often, we don’t get to hear the stories behind the objects and art around us, but just the presence of purpose in them makes them meaningful for us.   That building, that sculpture, that bench is there because someone made it and put it there.  For a reason.

Be forewarned: exercise your senses and you’ll develop an appetite for stories.  One leads to the other.  But don’t worry – there’s a veritable feast of narratives for those who will take the time to sit at the table.

And for that, I am truly thankful.