Win a Drawing: Flash Fiction Writing Contest

This contest is closed.  

Please visit my website for an index of more competitions!
http://www.kenney-mencher.com/

 

It was a tie between Brian Newlin and Angela Readman.
Both will receive drawings.
 

Also, I'm going to have to make a painting of Chastity because Michael Gray's story was so good, so I'm sending him a drawing as well.

I LOVED ALL THE STORIES
 

Thank you all so much for participating.

Win this drawing of Chastity Beldt, graphite on paper 12"x9"

by writing a story about the Aviator, oil on canvas 30"x20"


The story you write should be a "Flash Fiction" which is a complete story in one thousand or fewer words.  Please post the story in the comment section, you will have to provide your name and an email address in order to be qualified to win or you can e-mail me at kmencher@ohlone.edu with your info.


The contest closes Monday October 25th 2010.


There is a problem with how many characters can post (only about 4,000) so if you cannot post it.  E-mail it to me at kmencher@ohlone.edu


More competitions are available on my website: http://www.kenney-mencher.com/


Here are some of the stories about "The Aviator" that were sent to me by e-mail.


_________________________________________________________________________

The Aviator by Brian Newlin

John had always loved the sky. The stillness. The wind. The sense of peace and clarity that it gave him. He had been born in the close, smoke-filled narrows of the South Bronx, with the black ribs of the Harlem Line obscuring the grey sky outside the apartment windows. It wasn't until his father had died, choking and rattling with soot filled rage in his lungs, that his mother packed him up for the wide open spaces of Iowa. Standing in the cornfield of his uncle's farm, John stared out into the endless crystal blue horizon for the first time in his life and with the sound of a thousand cornstalks rasping in his ears, he swore someday he would fly.

Years later, right after Pearl Harbor, John enlisted in the Navy. He waved goodbye to his mother at the bus station, never imagining this would be the last time he would see her. "Why the Navy?", she had asked. "You've never been in anything but that old rowboat." But it wasn't the ocean that John was looking for. It was the sky, and the Navy had announced a program that had gripped his heart like a fist. He had read about the airships, even seen one once on a newsreel at the movie theater, but could barely believe that he was finally here. The doors slowly rumbled open and John saw the blimp, it's logic defying mass swaying in the breeze like a cloud made solid. He found himself laughing, wondering what his mother would say back on the farm in Ohio. Ohio? No, it was Iowa.

Floating high over the foothills, John could barely keep focused on the controls in front of him, his eyes constantly locking on the openness of the skies around him. Every gust of wind caused the blimp to rock and sway, and there was a constant low hum of the engines that filled the cabin, almost like the sound of a strong wind through the corn. Or was it more like the rumble of the train past his bed when he was a child? It seemed so long ago. It took all his willpower to guide the airship back to base and land, he wanted so much to fly forever.

He saw her for the very first time at the beach. He and some of the guys had driven out to the shore on their day off. As they spread out blankets, John spotted her standing by the water, wearing a bright blue swimsuit and her sunshine yellow hair tied up with a red kerchief. For the first time in a long time, John found his eyes fixed on the girl in front of him and not up into the clouds. Feeling that powerful grip on his heart once again, he mustered up the courage to talk to her. Her name was Kate, and they walked and talked for hours. He had never seen hair so.... red? Brown? No, blond.

How could he ever forget that blond hair?

The first mission was over the coastline of Peru, scouting for enemy subs. John fluctuated between joy and terror as the airship floated lazily over the waters. He tried to keep his mind on the task at hand, but it kept drifting back to K--- and her blond hair. Kate. They never did find a sub, but John had used the long hours to make up his mind to marry her. The wedding day was like a dream, ----'s hair done up in a bun, her white dress like a cloud against the bright blue sky. His parents had even come out for the wedding. Hadn't they? John couldn't remember.

The following years were filled with joy. There was a house. It was yellow. Or white? His wife, he loved her so much. They had a son, and they named him after his uncle -----, who had a farm... somewhere. There was corn, he thought. Yellow. He remembered yellow. He wished he could remember her face. She was so pretty, even until she had passed away that morning. She wouldn't wake up. Sad. So sad. But there was always the sky.

"How is he today?", Peter asked the nurse. His father looked so tiny and frail, sitting in that wheelchair out on the lawn. "He's had better days. I couldn't get him to eat his breakfast but we'll try again later.", she replied, tucking the blanket around his legs. Peter hated what the disease had done to his father, thinking that the man had deserved better than this. It was as if his memories had floated away like balloons.

John's watery eyes stared out into the endless crystal blue horizon and he hoped his wife would be home soon. The rasping of the wind in the trees sounded so familiar, but he couldn't remember what it was.

---- had always loved the sky.

________________________________________________________________________________

Bright White by Angela Readman

  My Ma spoke only in questions. ‘Would you like a some eggs?’ ‘Another blanket?’ I shook my head. ‘I know, some soup,’ she said. Soup was her favourite. One with little noodle letters of the alphabet in it. I used to slurp the liquid off the spoon and spend time inspecting the letters scattered in the bowl. One day I thought I might find my name. There were never any I’s. Lots of Z’s, Y’s. She brought the soup one day beaming, ‘Would you like some more bread?’ I shook my head. I took a sip of soup and never noticed the letters, the ones that had taken her weeks to find. Dozens of cans of soup opened and sifted through to dry out the letters so one day I’d find my own name like a sign.

  She took the bowl away sadly, ‘Would you like to me save this for later?’ I said I didn’t think so. I’d been sick as long as I could remember. There’d been doctors, and hospitals and whispers about money between my parents I wasn’t supposed to hear.

  My father’s approach was different. He still bought me bats and balls. I didn’t touch them. I knew I’d never play again. And still my father persisted, sitting by my bed. He brought me old photographs and made me see them again.

  ‘That’s when we you helped me birth the breech calf, remember?’ he handed me the photo of a boy I hardly resembled stood at the back of a cow with bloody hands and a piece of rope. In the background behind me was a bright white smear.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said. I looked closely. It looked like wings.

I looked at the next photo and it was there again, a ghostly hand near my shoulder in the photo of the baseball team. The shape was on most of the photographs. I’d never seen it before, but then, I’d never had time to look so closely at photos before. They were my parents’ thing, a big deal. They didn’t own their own camera. Photos were rare, taken only when my uncle came to stay from the city, the guardian of my family’s memories.

  ‘That’s your guardian angel,’ my father said, pointing to the white smudge on the photo, ‘watching over, everywhere you go.’

  I closed my eyes and dreamt of bright white, something I couldn’t make out like a lamp on in fog. Sometimes I thought I saw something I couldn’t make out, like sun through a sprinkler, the shape of someone refracted into small beads like rain.

  No one could explain how I got better. But I did. I grew, the illness behind me, always sitting on the bench. I lived twice as hard, ran from it, paces behind me. I’m invincible I thought. I got my angel. I always won when me and my buddies played chicken. I climbed highest and thought of bright white spreading out to catch me if I fell. I felt it behind me, arms spread round my shoulders handing me to safety. When war broke I signed up while my buddies waited to be called. I never waited for nothing. I was excited. They were gonna teach me about planes. I was reading all about flying.

  ‘Zeppelins, the closest cows ever get to heaven Pa,’ I said. I told about their intestines, the gasbags in the zeppelins. My father snorted.

  ‘Dumb fool thing to do, sign up to get killed,’ he said. He was a simple farmer who had no time for heroes. Not even the mention of cows won him round.

  ‘I got my angel,’ I smiled.

My Pa got up from his chair and walked to the bible. From behind it on the shelf he pulled out glass my uncle’s glass plates. He showed me sheets of glass, the double exposure my uncle made on those old photo’s. It was how they made an angel. It was their trick to hope. I was angry, no white hands to cool cheeks, no feathers breathing lullabies in my ear.

My father shrugged and lit his pipe.

  ‘You love someone son, you lie when you gotta,’ he said, ‘You’ll learnt that.’

Son of a bitch. He could have waited.

  The day I left, I shaved slowly, no damn angel behind me in the mirror as the steel moved over my throat. My Ma went on tip toes to kiss me at the door and tucked a prayer in the top pocket of my jacket.

  ‘Take care,’ she said. She was wiping her eyes, hoping when her tears were gone only pride would be on her face, not fear. ‘My boy’ll be alright, you feel your angel behind you don’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘Ma, sure, always.’

Then I pecked her cheek. I looked up at the big blue sky and for the first time I walked out under it, alone.

__________________________________________________________________________________

THIS BIRD HAS FLOWN Dee Turbon

Warwick walked with a limp and he walked crooked, lifting his feet in short quick movements, as though he was stepping barefoot through fire. His back was bent, the weight of something on his shoulders, and his eyes kept looking up at the sky.

He watched the clouds and calculated wind speeds from their passing, and he held one wet finger up to test the air and the direction it moved in. Then he made a short penciled observation in a black moleskin notebook, nodded to himself and hirpled across the runway to a waiting plane.

It was a Piper Cub. Just over twenty feet long and with a top speed of 65 knots. He’d called it Angel and on one side of the plane was painted a blond-haired actress with swan’s wings at her back. Her name was Grace, the actress, and she’d been something in secret to him for more than twenty years. In the painting on the side of the plane, she showed rather too much cleavage for her to be a real angel and too much leg, but Warwick held his hand to hers, palm to palm, and he muttered a short prayer and he crossed himself before clambering into the cockpit.

He checked the fuel gauge, tapped at the glass so that the needle shifted and found its true reading. He flicked switches and turned dials. Then he strapped himself in and pulled the small window shut.

Tom was out front, slow and lead-footed, hands like shovels and an easy smile. He was tall and good looking, chiselled features and a shock of black hair that fell across his eyes. One for the ladies, Warwick thought. Tom grinned at Warwick and gestured with his hands, indicating that everything was good for take off. He seemed excited as the young can be. Warwick raised one slow thumb in the air to confirm that he was also ready.

The propellor turned and the single engine coughed and spat and the plane shook and the air screamed so loudly that Warwick could scarcely hear his own thoughts. Tom waved and nodded, everything a pantomime gesture writ large so that Warwick would not miss what he was saying.

The very air shuddered as the plane swung to the left and began to move towards the tarmac of the runway. A voice from the tower sounded in Warwick’s head, directing Warwick to the third lane, recording the time and making a rude joke about the painted actress and her painted ‘heavenly tits’, a joke Warwick had heard before.

The plane rumbled down the marked strip and picked up speed. Warwick checked his instruments and looked to the sky again. Then he closed his eyes and held his breath, his hands moving automatically through the flight sequence. This was the moment, almost the moment, when he felt suddenly light and a little giddy. The wheels left the ground and he was quickly airborne and the tower below him, shrinking to something as small as a child’s toy and smaller, though the crackle in his earphones was as loud as before.

Above the clouds he felt different, usually he did. His shoulders straightened, as though a weight had been removed, as though the cares of the world, his world, slipped from him. And the pain in his leg left him. That was usual. But it was different today. 

Warwick thought of Grace painted on the side of his plane. A black and white picture of her was stuck next to the altimeter and Warwick talked to her as though she was really there, a one-sided conversation that made no sense to the boys in the tower. 

‘Mad as a hatter,’ rasped the voice in his ears.

Warwick remembered something he’d read, something Sagan had said, about madness and love, and madness being the only sensible way to love. It felt right, like a truth new-discovered.

Warwick unfolded a map and he marked out a new course, not one he’d agreed with the men on the ground. He altered direction, the wings of the plane tipping and the sound of the engine rising in pitch till he levelled out again. 

The tower alerted him to the change and gave instructions to Warwick, adjustments he should make to be back on course. But Warwick pretended not to hear. He squinted against the sun and increased his speed, as much as a Piper Cub could. The voice in his ears fizzed and spat, more urgent with its instructions.

‘Grace,’ said Warwick. Just her name. Then he sipped brandy from a silver hip flask and he picked up the picture from the instrument panel. ‘The only sensible way to love,’ he said, and his voice was broken and something else broken, too.

‘Tower to Angel, course correction necessary. You’re way off line. For Heaven’s sake, Warwick.’

The sun was a bright whiteness in front of him, so bright that he could not see the instrument panel, could not see the picture of Grace in her swan wings. ‘This bird has flown,’ he whispered, and it also felt right, like the point of madness to one in love, like he was flying into heaven, which was not far from the truth.

Winning flash fiction stories will be integrated in with an exhibit in San Francisco at ArtHaus Gallery (April 8th for the reception). 

The show is called: Renovated Reputations: Paintings and Fiction inspired by Vintage Portrait Photographs

The exhibit will include a series of 20-40 paintings and mixed media works ranging in size from 8”x10” to 18”x24” framed with thrift store and vintage frames.  In addition to the exhibited works ArtHaus is publishing catalogs signed by me and as many of the authors as possible.  Catalogs/books will consist of image of the painting with the text of the “flash story” surrounding the image.  If I can get the authors to come to a book signing/party, authors would sign their pages for some of the printed stuff.

We're going to have a photobooth for the show for participants to play with and vintage costumes. 

Of course I'll send the authors free copies of the catalogs.


I will announce the winners the day after the closing deadline for the competition. I'm planning on doing one flash fiction competition a week every Monday from now until April.  You can preview the works I have so far completed here:
http://www.kenney-mencher.com/catalog/recent_work.htm

How to paint a glass of water.

Painting the Glass and How to think about it.

Buoy oil on canvas 36"x48"

The most important thing in painting a clear vessel of water is to detach yourself from the idea that it is a cylinder with distinct outlines around it.  Because the outlines of the glass dissolve and merge into the background and the curve of the glass and the water in it distort and change what is seen through it, visually what you are really seeing is a series of interlocking colored shapes and tones that often do not correspond to the outlines of the glass cylinder.

I began by first painting a neutral gray tone for the background with a mixture of black and white gesso.  On top of this neutral gray I did the under drawing in 2B charcoal pencil.  Usually I use a T square to create a vertical axis for any cylindrical object. In this case, however, I indicated the midline of the water glass and the ellipses by eyeballing them and then double-checked the ellipses with an ellipse guide. The rest of the details in the drawing are guides to show where the light and color breaks occur on the glass.  I think of the glass of water as a series of abstract shapes that are filled with value and color.  

In this painting, my underpainting of acrylic corresponds closely to the colors of the painting I will be putting on top of it.  The glass of water is the focus of the painting and sits in the foreground, so I painted everything else behind it in acrylic paint first. Water refracts and reflects the objects and colors around it, so as I painted the tablecloth I used some of the same colors in the glass of water.  I also observed and painted the light passing through the glass of water and the forms of light and shadow it created on the tablecloth.

Still working in acrylic, I rendered the shirt visible through the water glass.  The glass and the water in it did not change the colors or value as they passed through; rather, the water and the curve of the glass magnify, shrink, and in general distort the shapes of the shadows and colors that pass through it.

Having completed the acrylic underpainting, I began painting in oil.  I worked from background to foreground again, and since this painting took multiple days, I saved the colors that I mixed for the walls, tablecloth, shirt and flesh tones in plastic wrap to reuse later.  I planned to use some of the leftover paint in the highlights and reflections on the surface of the glass.  After painting the wall behind the figures and the heads and arms, I began work on the tablecloth, shirt, and glass. Then I painted some of the abstract forms the shirt made in the glass itself. 

 

Having rendered the tablecloth after the shirts and pants, I incorporated some of the tablecloth colors into the glass.  After rendering the arms of the figures, I let these dry overnight.  Again, I preserved all the colors I had mixed in plastic wrap.  The next day I returned to the glass.  Now that the paint was mostly dry or tacky I was able to scumble some of the highlights along the rim and the surface of the glass.  I also repainted some areas wet into wet especially the reflections of the flesh tones on the bottom of the glass and in the water itself.

 

Buy this painting on Etsy for $700

More "How to" Articles and Tutorials

• How I make a painting (In Martini Vertas)
• How I make a painting (Hat in Hand) 
• How I revise and work out problems in my paintings.
• How to Paint a Glass of Water
  
• How to Draw the Sphere in Charcoal
  
• How to Draw the Cube in Charcoal
• How to paint the Basic Shapes in oil paint monochromatically
  

I have a solo show until June 25th 2011
Renovated Reputations and Manufactured Memoirs
is a solo show at ArtHaus gallery and an illustrated anthology of short stories in which Griffin and Sabine collide with neo-noir fiction.

ArtHaus 411 Brannan Street  San Francisco, CA 94107
415-977-0223 
www.arthaus-sf.com

Show runs through June 25th 2011 

Trudy Ages 12"x9". graphite on paper

Hans Zoff and Bea Ware 12"x9"graphite on paper

A drawing of two of my favorite people from my collection of vintage photobooth photos.

Dr. D. Mencher 16"x20" oil, graphite on paper, and mixed media on masonite

I'm the cover artist for this book!

I'm the cover artist for this book!

John Woods is reading from my book of noir crime stories, Bad Juju & Other Tales of Madness and Mayhem at the Cornelia Street Café in NYC on Tuesday, Oct. 19 from 6-7:30 a.m. My co-reader is New York writer Jim Story.


Since its publication in April 2010, Bad Juju has had an amazing run. The editors of New Y...ork Magazine rated Bad Juju as highbrow brilliant in their cultural Approval Matrix for April 26, 2010, calling Bad Juju: “Hallucinatory, hilarious, imaginative noir.” Ben Fountain, 2007 PEN/Hemingway Award-winner, said: “Bad Juju is the product of a truly twisted mind, and I mean that in the nicest way,” while Scott Phillips, author of The Ice Harvest, called Bad Juju “. . . the wildest, funniest, scariest collection of stories I’ve read in a long while.” And Ron Rash, PEN/Faulkner Award-finalist and winner of the Frank O’Conner short story Award bleeped: “[Bad Juju is] not for the faint-hearted.”

Publishers Weekly wrote: “Violence, sex, and gonzo plot twists fuel Woods' diverting collection of 19 stories, most set in sun-and-blood-drenched borderlands. [The stories in Bad Juju] amp up the volume to 11...” Spinetingler Magazine dubbed me “the David Lynch of short crime fiction.” Ken Bruen, master of Celtic noir, quipped: “Woods has arrived fully fledged as a maestro…The writing [in Bad Juju] is of such a high caliber that I found myself reading the stories aloud to get the full flavour of Woods’ artistry.” Jay Parini described the stories in Bad Juju as “dark, often strange, [and] eerily radiant.” “Surreal, bloody, profane and often outrageously funny,” concluded the Howard County Times.

Prior to my New York visit I’ll have the honor of appearing at the 2010 Texas Book Festival with Mark Haskell Smith and Lou Berney.

I hope you can drop by the Cornelia Street Café on Tuesday, Oct. 19 to have a drink and listen to a couple of writers doing their thing. See More

Jonathan Woods reads from Bad Juju @ the Cornelia St. Cafe

Tuesday, October 19, 2010 at 6:00pm

Cornelia St. Cafe , New York, NY

Owen D. Bank, oil on masonite with mixed media, 11"x14"

Burt and Melba Toast's Thank You Note, 14"x11" oil on masonite, handmade greeting card, wall paper, and list

Melba Toast, 10"x8" oil on masonite

May Bea Later 10"x8" oil on masonite with found objects

Bob Frapples, oil on masonite panel, graphite on paper, with found objects 11"x14"

Edgar, oil on masonite, acrylic, and collage 11"x14"

Still Life, Lemon and Coffee 8x10 oil on masonite

I did this painting as a demo for my students in my painting class.

Betty Million 11"x14" oil and mixed media on masonite (wishbones, bookpages, ephemera)

Portrait Commision "Ella and Hugo" 10"x8" oil on masonite

This is a commissioned portrait of two of my all time favorite kids.  Valerie (my wife) and I babysit for Ella and Hugo and I was psyched when my neighbor asked me if I would do a portrait of them.  I spent one afternoon photographing (go to my blog for an image them and then had Julien pick the best set of photo to work from.  Digital photos are a godsend!  Here it is:

Here's one of the reference photos.

"Hope Ferterbest" 11"x14" oil and mixed media on masonite

The jar has a wishbone in it.

"Benton and Eva Destruction" 11"x14" oil on masonite with found objects. Part of my new photobooth series.

"Thalia" 11"x14" oil and mixed media on masonite panel

I've really began to wonder who these people are that I'm painting. The stuff that is mounted to the painting are things that I've found on my walks around Palo Alto. I found this little treasure trove of stuff laying out by some empty trash cans one day and I wanted to make up a story. I'm gonna post another one today.

Pat O. Butter and Melba Toast, oil on masonite 10"x8"

Pat O. Butter and Melba Toast, oil on masonite 10"x8"

A portrait of two friends I did from an antique photobooth image.

Eddie Bell graphite and pencil on paper 11"x8.5"

Eddie Bell graphite and pencil on paper 11"x8.5"

Irwin Greenberg, my teacher from Art and Design High School in NY

I've been thinking quite a lot about a fantastic teacher I had in High School. There's even a Facebook group devoted to his students. Irwin Greenberg. "Greeny" is really the person who taught me how to be an artist but also how to be a person.


He once wrote in my sketchbook, "Freedom is the recognition of necessity." One night when I was at my lowest, I opened that sketchbook and found it there. It literally changed my life. I spent the entire night thinking about what that meant. It made me go back to school and study art history and painting. A couple of years later I had a dream about him when I was lost again.

In my dream I looked over and he was standing in the door of bedroom framed in the light. (Like the back of Velasquez' "Los Meninas"and he asked me "Why aren't you painting?" I gave him some excuses about not having money or art supplies. He laughed and his glass eye twinkled and then he reached behind the door and threw out two shopping bags at. They ripped open and one was filled with money the other with art supplies. I woke up crying.

I actually called him up I think in 94 or 95 and thanked him. Told him about the dreams and he laughed. I still think about him almost every day and I talk about him incessantly when I teach.

Here's a link to a page with some of his paintings:
http://www.danxiety.com/Art&Design/OldHat_Greenberg.html

Here are some of the words of wisdom and things he used to say in class!

1. Paint every day.
2. Paint until you feel physical strain- take a break and then paint some more.
3. Suggest.
4. When at an impasse, look at the work of masters.
5. Buy the best materials you can afford.
6. Let your enthusiasm show.
7. Find the way to support yourself.
8. Be your own toughest critic.
9. Develop a sense of humor about yourself
10. Develop the habit of work. Start early every day. When you take a break, don’t eat. Instead, drink a glass of water.
11. Don’t settle for yourself at your mediocre level
12. Don’t allow yourself to be crushed by failure. Rembrandt had failures. Success grows from failure.
13. Be a brother (or sister) to all struggling artists.
14. Keep it simple.
15. Know your art equipment and take care of it.
16. Have a set of materials ready wherever you go.
17. Always be on time for work, class and appointments.
18. Meet deadlines. Be better than your word.
19. Find a mate who is really a mate.
20. Don’t be envious of anyone who is more talented than you. Be the best you can be.
21. Prizes are nice, but the real competition is with your performance yesterday.
22. Give yourself room to fail and fight like hell to achieve.
23. Go to sleep thinking about what you’re going to do first thing tomorrow.
24. Analyze the work of great painters. Study how they emphasize and subordinate.
25. Find out the fewest material things you need to live.
26. Remember: Michelangelo was once a helpless baby. Great works are the result of heroic struggle.
27. There are no worthwhile tricks in art; find the answer.
28. Throw yourself into each painting heart and soul.
29. Commit yourself to a life in art.
30. No struggle, no progress.
31. Do rather than don’t.
32. Don’t say “I haven’t the time.” You have as much time everyday as the great masters.
33. Read. Be conversant with the great ideas.
34. No matter what you do for a living, nurture your art.
35. Ask. Be hungry to learn.
36. You are always the student in a one-person art school. You are also the teacher of that class.
37. Find the artists who are on your wavelength and constantly increase that list.
38. Take pride in your work.
39. Take pride in yourself.
40. No one is a better authority on your feelings than you are.
41. When painting, always keep in mind what your picture is about.
42. Be organized.
43. When you’re in trouble, study the lives of those who’ve done great things.
44. “Poor me” is no help at all.
45. Look for what you can learn from the great painters, not what’s wrong with them.
46. Look. Really look.
47. Overcome errors in observing by exaggerating the opposite.
48. Critics are painters who flunked out.
49. Stay away from put-down artists.
50. If you’re at a lost for what to do next, do a self-portrait.
51. Never say “I can’t.” It closes the door to potential development.
52. Be ingenious. Howard Pyle got his start in illustrating by illustrating his own stories.
53. All doors open to a hard push.
54. If art is hard, it’s because you’re struggling to go beyond what you know you can do.
55. Draw everywhere and all the time. An artist is a sketchbook with a person attached.
56. There is art in any endeavor done well.
57. If you’ve been able to put a personal response into your work, others will feel it and they will be your audience.
58. Money is OK, but it isn’t what life is about.
59. Spend less than you earn.
60. Be modest; be self-critical, but aim for the highest.
61. Don’t hoard your knowledge, share it.
62. Try things against your grain to find out just what your grain really is.
63. Inspiration doesn’t come when you are idle. It comes when you have steeped yourself in work.
64. Habit is more powerful than will. If you get in the habit of painting every day, nothing will keep you from painting.
65. There are three ways to learn art: Study life, people and nature. Study the great painters. Paint.
66. Remember, Rembrandt wasn’t perfect. He had to fight mediocrity.
67. Don’t call yourself an artist. Let others name you that. “Artist” is a title of great weight.
68. Be humble; learn from everybody.
69. Paintings that you work hardest at are the ones you learn the most from, and are often your favorites.
70. Read values relatively. Find the lightest light and compare all other light values to it. Do the same with the darks.
71. Grit and guts are the magic ingredients to your success.
72. Let your picture welcome the viewer.
73. Add new painters to your list of favorites all the time.
74. Study artists who are dealing with the same problems that you’re trying to solve.
75. Have a positive mind-set when showing your work to galleries.
76. Don’t look for gimmicks to give your work style. You might be stuck with them for life. Or, worse yet, you might have to change your “style” every few years.
77. If what you have to say is from your deepest feelings, you’ll find an audience that responds.
78. Try to end a day’s work on a picture knowing how to proceed the next day.
79. Don’t envy others success. Be generous-spirited and congratulate whole-heartedly.
80. Your own standards have to be higher and more scrupulous than those of critics.
81. Pyle said, “Throw your heart into a picture and jump in after it.”
82. Vermeer found a life’s work in the corner of a room.
83. Rembrandt is always clear about what is most important in a picture.
84. If, after study, the work of an artist remains obscure, the fault may not be yours.
85. Critics don’t matter. Who cares about Michelangelo’s critics?
86. Structure your day so you have time for painting, reading, exercising and resting.
87. Aim high, beyond your capacity.
88. Try not to finish too fast.
89. Take the theory of the “last inch” holds that as you approach the end of a painting, you must gather all your resources for the finish.
90. Build your painting solidly, working from big planes to small.
91. See the planes of light as shapes, the planes of shadows as shapes. Squint your eyes and find the big, fluent shapes.
92. Notice how, in a portrait, Rembrandt reduces the modeling of clothes to the essentials, emphasizing the head and the hands.
93. For all his artistic skills, what’s most important about Rembrandt is his deep compassion.
94. To emphasize something means that the other parts of a picture must be muted.
95. When painting outdoors, sit on your hands and look before starting.
96. Composing a picture, do many thumbnails, rejecting the obvious ones.
97. Study how Rembrandt creates flow of tone.
98. If you teach, teach the individual. Find out when he or she is having trouble and help at that point.
99. Painting is a practical art, using real materials -- paints, brushes, canvas, paper. Part of the practicality of it is earning a living in art.
100. Finally, don’t be an art snob. Most painters I know teach, do illustrations, or work in an art-related field. Survival is the game.

An artist is a sketchbook with a person attached.

Think once, think twice, think three times.

Make it bigger, make it smaller, make it lighter, make it darker.

I think I'll cut my throat and bleed to death in the garbage pail.

Gone to the great sketch class in the sky.

Buckety Buckety back to work.

Buy the best supplies you can afford.

Too mucking Fudge.

Oops, says the brain surgeon.

Once there was a girl from Boston Mass who went into the water up to her ankle.

One Meatball…

Tolstoy

“If I can only have another day”, Hokusai on his deathbed.

Live Recklessly.

Remember during times of strife when you come into conflict with each other, the person you love is just as sincere in their desire to resolve the problem as you are.

No matter what you do, do your best. When you accept a commission, you've agreed to sign your name to something, so put your best effort into it; be better than your word.

Life is like a painting.

Once more into the breech for Harry and St. George.

Smack’em, smack’em harder.

There are two kinds of people in the world, potatoes and tomatoes.

Today is the day we give babies away with every pound of tea, so if you know any ladies who want to have babies, send them over to me, singing, Ohio my baby. Now what’s the color of horse shit? Brown, brown, brown.

Pull my finger.

Happy, happy, happy, fun, fun, fun all the day long.

Don’t let anyone piss on your head, open your mouth.

Cut the crap and let’s make sandwiches.

Speak softly and carry a big brush.

HONORE DE BALZAC
When things get too complicated for some people, they "DON"T KNOW WHETHER TO SHIT OR GO BLIND".

TOO MUCHIN FUCH

"I wish I could start where Rembrandt left off, unfortunately I have to start where he began." from Van Gogh

"Look three times, paint once." from Sargent

Let the action happen on stage.

Favorite compositional technique: "Discovered light"

"with a bare bodkin. Who would FART-les bear.", From Shakespeare

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace, from day, to day, to the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Life is but a poor player that struts and fret his time upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing". From Shakespeare

Stop pole vaulting!

"Let's have a little order!"

"Ham and Eggs!"

"Today is the day they give babies away,

With every cup of tea.

If you know any ladies that want to have babies,

Just send them around to me!"

Tada tara tan tat.....(bluesy) The Chocolate ma-a-a-a-a-alted!

A young man travels all over the world, obsessed with finding the meaning of life, he finally climbs the highest mountain in the Himalayas to speak to the oldest, wisest man in the world. He finally meets him and the following dialog occurs:

(Young man): "Oh wise man! What is the meaning of life?"

(Wise man): "Life, my son, is a loaf of bread."

(Young man): "A loaf of bread!!!!

(Wise man): "You mean it isn't?"

"Tell them what you are going to tell them, tell them, then tell them you told them". On writing.

Rubenesque

Lost fart in a hurricane.

Story about when he got home from the war. He had a friend who had false teeth. They would go out together and set their drinks on the bar. Greeny would take out his eye and put it next to the drinks and say, "I'll keep an eye on the drinks!" Then his friend would put his teeth next to the eye and say, "Yeah, and if anyone touches them, I'll bite'em!"

A load off my mind.

Pull my finger.

Dame.

Moullah.

You’re giving me a swell head but don’t stop.

A artist does not mature until they are 50 years old, that's when they do their best work.

You are a powerhouse.

He had posters on the wall of Rembrandt, Vermeer and Goya and as we entered the classroom he'd say,
" BOW TO THE MASTERS!!!"

He told the class how in his nineties the Japanes Master Hokasai looked out his window and said,

" I think I get it"

He also told us that as artists we had to make doing the work our priority...how if we had money we had to buy art supplies first, everything else second.
Tolstoy

I want to piss so bad, my bottom teeth are wet.

"Melba and Burt Toast," oil on masonite panel 10"x8"

I got a shout out on a very cool blog!

Hey! Check this out?
http://pasunautreblog.com/2010/08/03/stealing-time-the-art-of-kenney-mencher/

Buddy Yup graphite on paper 12"x9"

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Portrait of Hammond Cheese 10x8 inches oil on masonite panel by Kenney Mencher

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Claire D. Ayre 10x8 inches oil on masonite panel by Kenney Mencher

"Claire D. Ayre" is an unframed small portrait I did from an vintage photobooth portrait.
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Mister and Miss Match, oil on masonite panel 10"x8" by Kenney Mencher

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"Hans Zoff and Bea Ware," oil on masonite panel 10"x8"

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"Mabel Syrup" by Kenney Mencher 10x8 inches oil on masonite panel

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Tara Tory 10"x8" oil on masonite

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"Joy Anna de Lyte" oil on panel 10"x8"

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I went on vacation to Ashland and took a cool photo

May I ask whats your obsession with naked women?

Lisa said...
May I ask whats your obsession with naked women? Many of your paitings demoralize women, and some women might take offense. Comment?

What you ask is a completely valid question and some viewers may take offense at the fact that I paint a lot of pinup style nudes, but, in answer to your questions:
First, I’m a man and as a man I am fairly libidinous and obsessed with women in general.

For those who don’t like to look at nude women, I think that they just wouldn’t understand. I can say that there is a long historical record of men portraying nude or naked females from the Prehistoric era’s “Venus of Willendorf” to the so called "Snake Goddesses" of Knossos Crete, to the Renaissance era’s “Venus of Urbino” to today’s most contemporary painters such as John Currin and Lisa Yuskavage.

I don’t think that my painting demoralize or even denigrate women but rather celebrate their power as sexual beings. I do acknowledge that some people will not agree with my contention and for those people who find my paintings offensive, they don’t have to buy them or even look at them.

An interesting thing that sort of justifies my painting these kinds of images is that I get way more people looking at my nudes of women on Etsy than all my other images. (visit my Etsy Shop to see and notice the views for each item)

"Lucy N. DeSky" oil on masonite 10"x8"

Lucy N. DeSky oil on masonite 10"x8"
A painting from a photo booth portrait. Here's the step by step of how I "made" her.
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"A Memoir of Gambling" 14"x11" oil on masonite

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"Anne Teak" 10"x8" nude study oil on masonite

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Jewell Thief 10"x8" oil on masonite panel

SOLD

Ironweed 11x14 inches oil on masonite

Remember the Depression? Not yours silly but the country's. No not this one. . . The one from the 30's!

Buy this for $100 bucks on Etsy!

"Drop that Towel" 10"x8" oil on masonite.

SOLD

My Best Friend's Mom! oil on masonite 14"x11"

Reliving my childhood fantasies. Take "My Best Friend's Mom" home with you. You know you've always wanted to!
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"I Wonder if I ever Cross Your Mind" 11"x14" oil on masonite panel

Wishing you'd come sweeping in the way you did before
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind
For me it happens all the timeSOLD
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Can't Go Back Now 20x16 oil on masonite

Yesterday when you were young
everything you needed done
was done for you now you do
it on your own but you find
your all alone what can you do

you[you] and me[me]
walk on, walk on, walk on
cause you cant go back now

you know there will be days
when your so tired that you cant
take another step
now you will have no stars
and you'll think you've
gone as far as you'll ever get

you[you],and me[me]
walk on, walk on, walk on
cause you cant go back now

yeah,yeah
go where you want to go
yeah, yeah
be what you want to be
if you ever turn around you'll
see me

i can't really say why everybody
wishes they were some where else
but in the end the only steps that
matter are the ones you take all
by yourself

and you[you],and me[me]
walk on, walk on, walk on
yeah,you[you],and me[me]
walk on, walk on, walk on
cause you cant go back now
walk on, walk on, walk on
cause you can't go back now