Oil Portrait Study " Peter" with Process

This final 5"x7" oil painting came to be after a lot of stops and starts, scrape downs and wipe offs, re-shapes and adjustments but I'm content with this result:

First steps were sketches in charcoal and some light washes :

Gradually building up layers:

I was pretty happy at this stage, since it was very loose and expressive:

 I revisited it the next day because I wanted more detail and also felt there wasn't enough volume to the head, the darks and highlights weren't quite right yet - I wiped down the forehead and neck/shoulders:

And then attempted to bring the shadows/highlights back in but it was still a mess:

I also felt the likeness was off - I was working from my own reference photo and knew it was off. I took this last pic of the painting into photoshop and compared it to my source and could see where the position of some of his features were off and the width of the face was wrong. Had to wipe elements away - that was scary but I knew instantly that it was the right thing to do:

As I re-worked the face, I could see it coming together - the head was more of a 3/4 turn (as it should be) whereas the first efforts had mistakenly flattened the face to the viewer:

And done:

"Peter Study"
5" x 7" Oil on wood panel

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Regrets/No Regrets....High Top Fade Always in Style

Man No. 3

5"x7" ink on paper

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Clash of the Not-So-Very Titans

I've always had a soft spot for Flash. We've had our squabbles, our out-right wars, but in the end we know that we're stuck with one anudda. He's my brother-in-law. And after 15 years I think we've finally settled in to an easy, warm friendship.

And Flash has also become a steady fixture at our cottage when we spend time in Jamaica. Much to Rudy's dismay.

Although Flash lives in the family yard in Sav La Mar, he is often stationed on Negril beach, "a werk 'im a werk". Lord knows where he sleeps at night. All I know is that when I get up early in the morning to make myself some coffee, Flash is already out on our verandah, heating up a pot of water for morning tea or cleaning callaloo for our breakfast. Rudy, on the other hand, will still be asleep on a beach chair that he'd drawn up in the shade, still wearing his shoes.

They each adore Peter, the definite alpha male of the larger community of bredren. They are his foot soldjahs and, I think, silently vie for top lieutenant status. Ok, well maybe just reaching the rank of Corporal is the most they can hope for. In typical yardie fashion, each receives a verbal bashing at full volume for the slightest infraction -- not setting the fire right, not cleaning the pots thoroughly, not sweeping the verandah first thing -- the list is endless, perfection is always beyond their grasp, at least in the eyes of their commander.

Yet they each know they will be well cared for under the commander's watch -- food in their belly, the occasional fresh shirt, jeans or new shiny boots hurled at them when they least expect it or the invitation to hop in The Unit for a drive to 'town. Life is fresh and exciting when we come to visit and they don't want to miss a moment.

But they still have to "werk."

One morning, a fellow guest at the Whistling Bird was up at the bar getting coffee. Rudy overheard her complain of an itchy skin condition, whether it was from sun or bug bites, I can't quite recall. Seeing an opportunity to assist AND earn, Rudy offered to make her up a special Natural Salve to cure her ills. She gratefully accepted. Rudy hustled back to our cottage and asked Flash if he knew how to whip up some special Aloe and what-have-you concoction for the specified ailment.

Flash, after all was the real country man who knew the how-to's of bush medicine, and Rudy, well, Rudy was more of the advance man, as it were. Flash offered his own suggestions and went about collecting the appropriate bush with which to make the medicine. He whipped up the salve, in a gooey aloe base, poured it into a jar and gave it to Rudy. Flash went back to working on our breakfast while Rudy casually strolled back up to the beach front.

You can see where this is heading.

Rudy helped the woman apply "his" miracle medicine. It provided much relief and the woman graciously offered Rudy 500 jays, a little less than ten bucks. A werk 'im a werk, every dollah helps.

And Flash felt the same way. Flash is no fool, it didn't take him long to figure out that Rudy was sure to come into some cash for the miracle medicine and he wanted his cut. That's when the fireworks began. A cut of ten dollars may not seem like much to you or me, but to the hardscrabble hustle on Negril beach, that is apparently something worth fighting for.

The shouting and the cursing escalated, the "bumbaclaats" lobbed back and forth, followed by threats, insults, the usual. The melee traveled out to the beach front of the property and, unfortunately, dear Jim, the owner of the Whistling Bird, finally had to step in. He's always been gracious about accommodating the cluster of bredren that typically spend time on our doorstep throughout our stay. They, in turn try not to step on any toes or hassle the guests.

Except for that day.

And the shouting and yelling and overall carrying on was beyond the pale. When it threatened to turn violent, it frightened the other guests. And remember, this was all about splitting ten dollars. Who deserved it, the hustling salesman, without whom there would not have even been a sale? Or the knowledegable bush doctor, without whom there would not have been a cure? It's not for me to say.

I'd gladly give them each ten bucks to just be quiet and stop them from pummeling one another or drawing blood. But this was Jamaican male turf and I knew better than to stick my nose into the middle of their business.

Thankfully, in every Jamaican tragedy, there often lurks some comedy. A bit of black humor, as I saw it. Jim later told me, after sending both men on their way, unbloodied but with the issue still unresolved, "One was waving a knife, and the other was swinging a plastic soda bottle."

He sighed and shook his head, "It just wasn't a fair fight."

Souljahs in Jah's army, still Privates, first class.

Clash of the Not-So-Very Titans
Ink and watercolor on paper.

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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Rude Bwoy

I don't have a good story about Rudy today -- I have a hundred good stories about Rudy. None of which he'd probably like me to share with you.

Our constant companion from the minute we arrive in Negril, Rudy has become like a member of the family, albeit the black sheep. I'm told that Rudy used to dress sharp with "shiney genkle-man shoes an' trousahs well pressed an' neat", but lately Rudy looks like a hundred miles of back-country road.

In the wake of some rather poor "career" choices, the consensus among the bredren is that Rudy is "wert-less" and "his brain bun out". Still, no one gives up on Rudy, hope springs eternal. My husband harangues him and brings him new clothes, insults him and loads his plate with double helpings, bought him a cell phone and makes him do the heavy lifting when we unload our bags.

Sometimes it makes me cringe. When I ask my husband to fetch me a drink from the bar or refill the ice pitcher, he sends Rudy. When the girls agree that jerk chicken is what they'd like for lunch, Rudy makes the trip up the boulevard. And when Peter tells Rudy to fetch him some brown stew chicken from Noah's but Rudy returns with escoveitch fish, guess who gets a slap upside the head and tirade of insults about his mental capacity? But then settles down on the verandah when Peter shares out the food with him.

It's an odd relationship.

"Petah come like mi bredda," says Rudy. "He more like mi family than mi real breddas."

But Peter has brothers. Many, in fact. And tomorrow I'll show you one in particular and share the story of Rudy's clash with Flash.

Rude Bwoy
Ink and watercolor on paper.

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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My Bodyguard

This is Antsman, one of my bodyguyards. Heh.

Well, at least I didn't realize he was one of my bodyguards until several years later. It didn't occur to me that a 30-year old woman would be assigned a 13-year old bodyguard but I see in hindsight that was the intention. He and his 14-year old cousin Zeelo, stuck to me like glue whenever Peter wasn't around.

I thought it was just because they liked me.

In retrospect, I believe they were under strict orders to:

1. Keep me company,

2. Keep me comfortable and

3. Keep the wolves away

Funny, I enjoyed them immensely and I think they really liked hanging out with me, assignment or not. We were windows into one anothers' worlds. Not too many New Yorkers set up camp in the yard for extended lengths of time, of that I am certain.

Likewise, he and Zeelo were my interpreters for all manner of "flexin'" in the yard. I got the susu and backstory on every character who passed through as well as the origin of their nicknames. They provided me with rudimentary patois lessons and were willing runners to the distant shop for a cold drink or snack -- "I'll buy, you fly" was understood. They were funny and curious and kept me from going crazy during those long, hot afternoons when "nuttin a gwan" in the yard.

Antsman was the quiet, sheepish one while Zeelo was the older, confident leader. They were an inseparable pair in those days but their paths have diverged significantly since.

I think Antsman could have used a bodyguyard of his own.................

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Some like it ROUGH

Or shall I call him Courtney? In hindsight, that name seems downright ridiculous. He will always be "Rough."

I can't recall if I met Rough during that tumultuous Accidental Weekend but odds are that he was drifting in and out of that experience, well below my radar, somewhere in the background.

Rough eventually became a constant fixture on my Jamaican landscape.

Rough could sleep on a two-by-four propped up on two piles of bricks. And if he tumbled off during the night, he'd drop asleep again before the dust settled. Man need fi sleep, so 'im jess sleep.

He once rode as the passenger on the back of a Ninja, as Peter drove them like one lightnin' ball from Westmoreland to Kingston, with speeds reaching above 120 mph. Big deal, you say? Mebbe so, but Rough would ride upon the back of that bike, lean his head gingerly against Peter's back and quickly fall fast asleep. Man need fi sleep, so 'im jess sleep, even at over 100 miles per hour.

But I remember that Rough liked his ladies soft. The bredren would chide him, tell him to clean himself up if he wanted to find a nice 'ooman. They'd scoff, "yuh frownsey, mon, yuh greeen an yuh need fi go bade" and hurl soap at him. But he didn't seem to lack for the ladies' attentions, particularly the full-figured women. Rough liked his ladies "mampey-sized". He couldn't have been much more than 5 foot 5 himself,  small in stature, but he loved those ladies who tipped the scales at well over 250 pounds.

I remember driving through Mobay with Rough in the back seat, the windows rolled down, of course, and listening to his commentary on the various ladies we passed. He suddenly leaped up and leaned half-way out the window, shouting "Heeeey, MY-Size!" to an enormous woman who was slowly strolling along the shoulder of the road. They grinned at one another and she waved at him as we sped off.

He eventually made it to the States. The paperwork was a bit shady, in typical Rough fashion, but it got him here. He had a baby mother and young daughter in Canada and hoped to work his way northward and settle down. Ahh, we thought, but he was still Rough. How would America treat him, and how would his rough ways serve him so far away from home?

Sadly, not too well.

Rough was stabbed to death in a San Francisco coffee shop.

There will always be someone else who is tougher than tough, rougher than rough.

Some Like It Rough
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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There's a new Sheriff in Town

This is Reggie. And it wasn't really his fault that my leg was shattered.

Well, at least for about a dozen years I thought his name was Reggie. Turns out his name is Cleveland. I guess if you are a young man growing up in rural Jamaica, you are as anxious to shed the name "Cleveland" as you are to shed your status as a likkle bwoy.

Cleveland became Reggie after repeated bredren viewings of "48 Hours", wherein Eddie Murphy, aka Reggie Hammond, announces the aforementioned sheriff line. I didn't learn this bit of history until many years later, when addressing a piece of mail and was laughed out of the room when I wrote "Reggie" on the envelope. It wouldn't be the first time I mistook a nickname for the real thing.

Anyway.

It was Reggie who was riding on a motorcycle in front of ours, his spiky short dreads held in place by a bright red beret. What is it with these guys and berets? I thought it hysterically funny that in the late 80s to early 90s, a stretched-beyond-recognition beret was a common choice of rasta headgear.

And the red beret, much like that infamous red balloon of classic French cinema, went sailing past us as we cruised into Whitehouse, just beyond Bluefields, on the south coast of Jamaica. Ever thoughtful, I tapped Peter's shoulder and signaled that we should turn back and collect Reggie's chapeau. We slowed and began a u-turn into the other lane.

In so doing, we were hit broadside.

Peter saw the oncoming car and leaped from the bike, later remarking, "Mi jump fram di bike but me look back and see yuh still 'pon it", referring to me, the passenger, and shaking his head in wonder. Well I wasn't "pon it" for very long. I shot into the air and had enough time to contemplate whether or not the absence of a helmet was going to be a problem.

You see, the car behind us chose that precise moment to overtake our bike and as they say in Jamaica, don't be an overtaker, or you'll soon meet the undertaker. And here we were jus the u-turn-maker. I hit the ground after what seemed like an eternity in the air, and landed foot first, to the sound of several loud Ca-RACK,CA-RACK,CA-RACKs, then landed on my backside, and finally, felt my head drop back onto the asphalt.

I immediately sat upright and grabbed hold of my skull to make certain it was intact. Skull in one piece? Check! My right leg, however, had a sickening, snakey curve that I knew was not quite right. The audio soundtrack of the previous 30 seconds gave me my first clue.

So.

I guess it wasn't really Reggie's fault. I guess it was my own. And that's how I ended up flat on my back in the women's surgical ward in Sav La Mar hospital.

I met a cast of characters that fateful weekend, a cast that continues to grow and expand, move on and pass away. The Sheriff is no longer in town, but he still lays down the law in a new corner of the world.

I hope we'll see him again real soon. Sans chapeau.

New Sheriff in Town
Ink and watercolor on paper

Purchase a print of this painting here.

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There is a little place called Whistling Bird--

And this fine old gentleman was the carpenter who gave its cottages such a warm and inviting serenity. It's a pretty, pretty spot in Jamaica, the Whistling Bird. And good old Mendez can take at least some of the credit for it's natural beauty and charming character. Julie and Jim take alllll the rest.

And speaking of character, Mendez is a Jamaican original. From back in the day when Negril was nothing more than a sleepy fishing village, with a few scattered structures on its pristine 7-mile beach. Sand like powdered sugar. The beach is still pretty, the Whistling Bird is a little preserved niche of jungle-like beauty.

And Mendez is still at work with his hammer and nails.

I believe he's a bit younger than he looks (he could pass for 70). He has few of his original teeth but still manages an engaging smile. And, at first glance, seems incredibly hard of hearing, but he manages to find out the names of the ladies who come into view.....

The twinkle in his eye gave all that away, tho' didn't it?

Mendez 
Ink and watercolor on paper.
Purchase a print of this painting here.

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