Persistence and Talent

While I was at college, I had the opportunity to share studio space with a breathtakingly talented illustrator named David Linn. To this day, he’s one of the most talented artists I’ve ever seen. David was getting awards from the National Society of Illustrators before he even graduated.

David was the closest thing to an rock star we had. Girls used to come up to the studio just to watch him paint. Seriously. And most of them would say some variation of the same thing as they left. Something like this:

I wish I had talent.

David’s response was almost zen-like in its truth and simplicity. David would usually say something like:

It’s nothing a million hours of practice wouldn’t do for anyone.

Most people would laugh as they left. Once in a while, someone would challenge him on it.

C’mon. A million hours?

David would then recite a litany any artist, writer, musician, or athlete would recognize instantly. He’d speak of spending his days painting when others were off riding bikes or playing basketball. Of sketching in class, in church, in front of the television. Of spending his summers painting rather than surfing. Of what it really means to be an artist. He’d sum up with:

So, by my estimation, I should pass a million hours sometime next summer. If I’m not good after a million hours, I probably ought to quit and do something else, don’t you think?

The older I get, the more I’m convinced David was right. Real talent comes from from persistence. It goes way beyond some natural ability to a soul-deep desire to do something all the time, and to do it better every time than the time before.

If you have something you love doing — something creative — do it. Every day. Write. Draw. Cook. Play your guitar. Run. Play hockey. Whatever your thing is, push yourself. Be better today than you were yesterday. Because that’s where talent comes from.

A Quick Note

Between the new job and some personal matters, I haven’t posted in a while. I will be back online shortly, with an essay about how we crash-landed the most powerful economy in the world.

A Pair of Parker 51s

Pretty much everyone who knows me — or has followed my blog for any length of time — knows I use fountain pens to write and to draw. I’ve done so ever since college, when I realized my drawing pens were easier to use and laid down a cleaner line than any of my other pens or pencils.

Sooner or later, using fountain pens will put you in touch with fountain pen fanatics. And fountain pen fanatics always seem to ask some variation of the same question:

So, do you have a Parker 51 in your collection?

You see, most collectors regard the “51” as possibly the most innovative fountain pen ever made. And since Parker made well over 1 million of them, there are still plenty of them around.

Still, I resisted. I felt the Parker 51 was “too ordinary.” It looks like a million other fountain pens. It was made in America. Boring. By contrast, my Rotring Art Pen has a long body that looks more like an old dip-and-scratch pen than a fountain pen. Very unusual. And made in Germany.

I was wrong.

I inherited a small box of fountain pens and pen paraphernalia when my wife’s uncle died a few years ago. It had an old Hero fountain pen from China, a Sheaffer “Snorkel” pen, and various bits and pieces of other pens.

And an old Parker 51.

When I lost one of my Art Pens, I pulled it out, filled it up with Noodler’s Eternal Brown ink, and tried it out. And never looked back. I’ve drawn with it. I’ve written with it. It’s a great pen.

It’s entirely possible that it’s older than I am.

Then, a couple of nights ago, lightning struck again. I was digging through some old drawing tools and spotted another one. This one belonged to my grandfather.

This time there was no hesitation. I filled it up with Noodler’s Luxury Blue and put it to work.

Back to the Land

About eleven months ago, our mortgage bank informed us they’d be foreclosing on our house. It hurt, but we made arrangements to rent a small house on a bit of land less than three miles away, and we moved.

And with that, the adventure began.

You see, our new home sits on about an acre of land dotted with mature fruit trees and grapevines overgrowing about fifty feet of fence. From the way things are laid out, I’d say it was once a nice place that has since been let go.

So, quite a bit of my spare time has been spent coaxing it back into shape.

I’ve built new fences and rebuilt old ones. I’ve put in new gates, rebuilt old gates, and even partially rebuilt a shed. I’ve pruned ten year’s neglect out of pomegranate, fig, and olive trees. I’ve cut back rampaging grape vines and dug up a foot or more of rotting plant matter from around their roots. I’ve raked up Volkswagen-sized piles of leaves. And I’ve discovered something.

I love it.

I’m generations removed from the land. My father is a University professor. His father was a high school teacher and entrepreneur. And his father was a professor as well. But I’ve learned there’s something wonderfully right about digging in the earth and helping things to grow. It puts one in touch with the rhythms of the earth, with the seasons, with the pulse of life itself.

And there’s something extraordinary about picking pomegranates for lunch, clipping a bit of rosemary to season the chicken for Sunday dinner, or just grabbing a handful of grapes off the vine for a snack.

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t even know what I’ll be doing for employment. But I do know I want land — enough land to grow a garden, some herbs, and a few fruit trees.

Matt and the Positive Practical Joke

When I was a Junior in High School, my best friend David’s cousin moved in with him. Matt was a year older than we were and had moved to our small Utah town from the beaches of Southern California.

That made him the coolest person we knew.

Matt’s impact on our group was immediate and long-lasting — but it didn’t have anything to do with surfing or beach life. It was his ideas. Matt was subversive; Matt was different; Matt was cool.

Matt invented the positive practical joke.

It started at church. The leader of a Mormon congregation isn’t a minister or reverend; it’s a Bishop —just like in the New Testament. Ours was Bishop Talbot. He was strict but friendly, with a ready smile and a well-developed sense of humor.

And a nearly dead Volkswagen.

The running boards on Bishop Talbot’s Volkswagen hung down from the sides of his car like like a rusty rubber skirt. It never started on the first try. It backfired. It stalled if he turned too sharply. We used to joke that it actually ran on fasting and prayer.

For weeks we’d been joking about doing something to Bishop Talbot’s car. We’d thought of turning it sideways in his carport, of burying it in snow, or of wrapping it in toilet paper —something playful and, to our thinking, harmless.

Matt said we should fix it.

We stared at him blankly, wondering if he was serious. Then he made a statement that hooked us completely: He said we should fix it anonymously.

The more we thought about it, the more we liked it. The image of Bishop Talbot calling members of the congregation to ask if they’d fixed his car had us smiling for days.

The logistics of such an undertaking were significant — for a group of teenagers, anyway. Matt took the fourth member of our group, Rick, and began scouring wrecking yards for a usable set of running boards. David worked in a carpet warehouse after school, so his job was to locate enough leftover carpet to redo the inside. I picked up a kit for rebuilding the carburetor. When Matt and Rick found some good running boards, they tore into them with naval jelly and steel wool to remove any traces of rust and to restore their shine. They even used some new miracle treatment called Armor-All to restore the vinyl.

We were ready.

We struck on a night when the Bishop had a whole series of meetings. We deployed in the parking lot like a silent formula one pit crew. Rick tore apart and rebuilt the carburetor, adjusted the gaps on the spark plugs, and reset the timing. I bolted on the shiny running boards and re-bolted a sagging bumper. Matt and David completely carpeted the inside of the car, then gave the interior a thorough cleaning.

Then we vanished.

I still laugh when I remember listening in as Bishop Talbot told my father about walking right past his own car — despite the fact it was the only car in the parking lot. He spoke of finally trying the key and of his surprise when the door opened. He eventually put the key in the ignition and fired it up, only to shut it down again when it started up on the first try. Poor Bishop Talbot actually checked the registration before driving it home.

The aftermath had us laughing for weeks.

Matt was subversive. Matt was different.

Matt was a genius.

What Happened to the Bread-and-Teenager Ladies?

My mom was our neighborhood’s designated bread-and-teenager lady. If you had moved into our neighborhood, my mom would sweep in with a loaf of hot homemade bread and a teenager before you could open the back of your U-Haul.

I know, because I was the teenager. When I went off to college, my younger brother took over.

Before you were completely aware of what was happening, my mom would sweep in, organizing, asking names and birthdays, introducing kids, helping put things away, and keeping up a constant conversation about schools, stores, and everything else one would need to know to thrive in our neighborhood. By the end of the day, you would have felt you’d spent the day with lifelong friends.

And, more often than not, you would have.

I’ve since learned that my mom was not the only bread-and-teenager lady in the world. At one time, any neighborhood worth the name had one. Some actually had two.

Then something changed.

I first noticed it a few years ago, when my mother died of cancer and left a fair-sized piece of Logan, Utah without its bread-and-teenager lady. At her funeral, I looked around the church — filled to overflowing with all those she’d touched — and realized she probably wouldn’t be replaced. Bread-and-teenager ladies have joined typewriters, fountain pens, Poloroid cameras, and the CBS Radio Mystery Theater; they’ve been lost, or driven into small pockets of eccentricity.

But at what cost?

As our houses have grown larger, we’ve retreated into them. Our homes are closer together, but our families are farther apart. We have gas grills, but we never get together for on a Saturday afternoon to roast hot dogs. We have landscaped yards, but our kids have never heard of kick-the-can, let alone played it. And I can’t remember the last time I saw kids playing baseball or soccer in the street — with one of the younger kids assigned to call out when cars were coming.

To be fair, we still have communities. When wildfires ravaged parts of San Diego, there were so many volunteers they actually had to turn people away. What we’ve lost is neighborhoods.

Come to think of it, I have a breadmaker. And neighbors.

Perhaps it’s my turn.

Morton’s Fork: The Politics of Fear vs. the Politics of Deception

John Morton was Lord Chancellor of England under Henry VII. He asserted that if one of the King’s subjects lived in luxury, he obviously had money to spare for the king. He also asserted that if of the King’s subjects showed no sign of being wealthy, he must have substantial savings and could therefore afford to give it to the king.

And so, rich or poor, all had to surrender their money to the King. There was no better alternative.

This forced dilemma has come down to us as “Morton’s Fork” — a forced choice between equally unpleasant alternatives. It is more commonly expressed in colloquialisms like “between a rock and a hard place.”

And that is where we find ourselves: Forced to choose between equally unpleasant alternatives.

On the one hand, we have the Republican candidate for President, John McCain — a war hero and nearly life-long civil servant. On the other, the Democratic candidate for President, Barack Obama — an every man who has pulled himself from humble circumstances to the corridors of power. On one hand, the politics of fear and on the other, the politics of deception.

John McCain was proven, literally, on the field of battle. He has served two terms as a U.S. Congressman, and, since 1984, has served as the U.S. Senator from Arizona. He ran for President in 2004, but was defeated in the Primaries.

Having been defeated by a fear- and smear-based campaign in 2004, McCain now appears to have immersed himself in running one. The race has gotten ugly, with innuendo after innuendo unleashed in an effort to see which will sway the voters.

To quote Time magazine, as they compared the candidates, “(Obama) seems a grown-up, in a nation that badly needs some adult supervision”

The Democratic candidate, Barrack Obama, seems to have come out of nowhere to explode onto the national stage. The first most of America heard of him was his speech at the Democratic National Convention four years ago. Now he appears to be leading the contest to become our next president.

Time and time again, Mr. Obama has shown a willingness to change his positions on key issues. This, of itself, does not render him unfit for office. Any thinking, reasoning person can change his or her mind as greater experience or new data come to light.

It would show great ignorance not to.

Mr. Obama, though, explains any apparent inconsistencies away as though they never existed. He has raised political spin to a new art form that renders it difficult to discern the truth.

An example: Mr. Obama openly opposed the “surge” that seems to have brought America to the brink of success in Iraq. Mr. Bush implemented the policy anyway, and it seems to be working well.

Yet when questioned about the surge, Mr. Obama said, in effect, “Bush is finally doing what I called for a year ago.”

What?!!

It doesn’t take much to figure out why Mr. Obama can’t admit he opposed the troop surge: it worked. And, unfortunately for Mr. Obama, it was championed on Capital Hill by John McCain.

Unfortunately, this is not an isolated example. Mr. Obama seems unable to say “I changed my mind,” unless there is political capital to be made for doing so. And from time to time Mr. Obama’s attempts at spin cross the line into deception.

And so, with Election Day fast approaching, we find ourselves at Morton’s Fork. On one hand, the politics of fear and on the other, the politics of deception.