Whodunnit? I Did

Yes, I wrote a novel. And that's scary.

Not that writing the novel was scary. Quite the opposite, in fact. An injury to my neck and spinal cord required surgery this past spring. And while the surgery was successful, the recovery is expected to last well into next year. The recovery includes regaining the use of my dominant hand, which means that woodcut printmaking and cartooning are on hold. As I struggled with that, I remembered that at one time my eyes were set firmly on the goal of being a writer. So I finally sat down to work on ideas that I've let live in my brain for decades. I soon discovered that I really enjoy the process, and it has allowed me new avenues in the craft. Twenty-five years ago, when I was just starting to get some publishing credits under my belt, I became disillusioned with not just the publishing business, but with what I was writing -- dark, plodding literary tales of the human condition, often with no resolution, point or purpose other than to, I don't know, maybe make the reader feel something. Even if that something was mostly bad.

But then, during my convalescence I started to watch a lot of old TV. Columbo, The Rockford Files, Quincy are my favorites, but then I'd mix in a little Murder, She Wrote, Diagnosis Murder and Matlock. Through it all, I consumed the entire Bosch series to wash it down like whiskey chasing birthday cake. And it was glorious. And when I was done, I realized that a lot of the ideas I'd had over the years were essentially in the same vein: eccentric folks in normal situations, normal folks in odd situations, and the like, and I always like to surprise the reader with a little twist (ahh, there's my Rod Serling right there!), and I realized that it was time to get my fingers tapping to see if I could actually pull it off.

So, no, the writing of the book was not scary. Not the pace i'd set for myself, or the deadlines I'd made, and not even the half-dozen rewrites (and hey, guess what -- I've included plenty of misspellings and errant punctuation just so you know it's handmade!) were scary.

The submission process has changed a lot since 2002 -- everything is electronic, which is great, and it's generally understood that if you don't hear back in two weeks, you've been rejected (back in the old days, you'd mail off your precious query and a few chapters, with a SASE, and then check the mailbox daily hoping for a thin white envelope in return (my wife will tell you that to this day, I check the mail right away, sometimes twice a day, because I was conditioned to do that for over 12 years). This time around, I shopped the novel to agents, hoping to have someone else do the legwork while I worked on a followup. The agent-seeking process is bloodier than the editor-seeking process, mainly because the market is saturated, but also because the field is shrinking due to mergers, and also low pay (agents average a yearly salary of $29,000/year). So, before an agent will consider you, you will need a website and a following, and will need to prove that you've been selling books in the thousands.

So, I decided to go right to the publishers, and it was about then that I realized that this project didn't have legs. And while it was hard to admit that, what made it easier was knowing that I really like this book. I love the story, and the characters, and I am very proud of the work that I did.

But what to do? I used to work for Borders Books, where I was the store's local interest curator and buyer for a few years. Most local interest books in the late 1990s were poorly written, generally unedited blocks of junk, bound in the cheapest way. An author would come to me with pleading eyes, insisting that their book would be a hit if we'd just stick in near the cash register. Then there would be the lonely book signings with the authors, smiles painted on their faces, their eyes full of disappointment. And in those days, if you self-published a book, that meant you spent, usually, at least a couple of grand. And the more optimistic you were, the more money you spent -- and the more boxes of unsold books you had in your garage.

Amazon -- and developing technology -- blew the flopsweat model out of the water by creating "on demand publishing" (if my recollection serves, I believe ODP was pre-Amazon, but Amazon stole whatever ball was on the field and ran it to the end zone...over and over and over. And so, Amazon now does it the best.

And by best, I mean it's absolutely free. Publishing this book cost me nothing but time. I made it a Kindle Unlimited book, so if one is a KU subscriber, it's free to buy. If not a subscriber, it's only $4.99, and because that's just an electronic file, whatever money Amazon gets is just free cash. And if someone wants a trade paperback, it's $12.99, and it costs Amazon's publishing robot less than $4 to produce, so they get a chunk of change on top of paying the printing price, for every book they make, because every book they make is a book they sold. Genius. I hate it, but it's genius.

Okay, so back to what scares me. It's a vulnerable thing, putting something out for public review. Even though I have nothing but pride tied up in it, even though it was a project I did for fun, it's still hard to stand up and say "Look what I did." Maybe it shouldn't be difficult, but it is. 

So here it is, anyway.

"The Coldest Case" (originally called "Rise of the Cleveburn Biddies," but I really wanted it to have the exact same name as two dozen other mysteries, one by James Patterson in order to really make it hard to find) was inspired by the real-life murder of my great uncle, Sidney Payne, in Asbury Alley off the Chippewa Strip in 1966. The real story is not a mystery -- the killers were found after a nationwide manhunt, there was a lot of local press about the murder and trial, and the killers spent their lives behind bars, with one of them escaping for a time, and one of them figuring loosely in the trial of a Watergate conspirator. A member of a local motorcycle gang also figured in the trial. I know, I know, you're saying "Well, damn, I'd read THAT book." No, you wouldn't. It was overall just a sad story.

In 1988, I stopped down at the apartment in the Elmwood Village that my grandmother, Ev, shared with her sister Babe, who was Sid's widow. Babe lived alone in the apartment for 12 years before my grandmother, widowed for about 5 years, sold her cottage in Angola and moved to the city. I got to witness their sibling spats, their mutual admiration, their teamwork, and their pride in their home. I also got to observe the cast of characters that lived on their street -- it is a tiny stub of a street, with about a dozen houses, most of them duplexes. Som characters drifted in and out, others were old-timers who had lived in the neighborhood from the time Niagara Falls was just a dribble. As I enjoyed a plate of homemade chow mein, I mentioned that I was changing my major from pre-law (yeah, I know) to journalism (also not a smart move, but more sensible). Babe's eyes lit up and said "Oh, you're gonna be an author!" I'd never even given that idea a thought (so blame her for my delusion of the last 35 years!), but I started thinking about it a lot. And haven't stopped since.

Babe got up and went to a cabinet and returned with a small envelope stuffed with newspaper clippings about Sid's murder and the trial. "Maybe you'll write about this," she said.

I hope she'd be happy with what I came up with. Babe became the brash, emotional Toots; Ev was now fretful but deceptively resilient Vi; Troubled Sid was now tragically heroic Sam. Babe worked at the much-remembered Merlin's as a cook, much like Toots keeps the kitchen in order at The Camelot. Beyond that, though, the characters and situations are all drawn from bits and pieces of people, places and things. A novel is a mosaic of shard of experience.

So, I hope you'll give my little effort a try. I am at work on a Christmas-themed follow-up with the same cast of characters, along with a few more, and even more outrageous antics from....

The Cleveburn Biddies!

 

"Harbor Lights"

Eleven color reduction woodcut print, "Harbor Lights." I'm very, very happy with how this turned out. I wish I had been bolder in the sky colors, but I wasn't going for the bleeding sky of Munch's "The Scream," but more the gentle sunset of a warm summer evening on Lake Erie. But I've opened up a new avenue for the use of bright pigments in my work.

Developing Story

As I've often said, reduction woodcut is like watching a Polaroid develop. There are stages, early on, when you aren't sure it's going to look right. Then, the image comes into focus, and panic turns to anticipation. What I love is that the colors begin to pop as I near completion.

Floating An Idea

Etsy shop is now back up. Just click on the picture of my press!

Whatever your impression of Buffalo, you haven't experienced it without a Kayak trip down the Buffalo River (not to confuse it with the Niagara River, on which a fellow DID try to navigate Niagara Falls once; that didn't go so well). A blend of rich history, the heroic reclamation of the land by nature, rust vs wood. Stop by the shop for more details!

It's All In How You Look At Things

A quick glance at the "Mamma Mia" movie poster and recalling my general mood while watching the first (Lord, to think there's TWO of these atrocities out there is almost too much to bear) brought this image to mind. It brings my two least favorite things -- MMA fighting and pop musicals on film -- together for a delightful battle Royale romp.mamma

"Canyons of Buffalo"

(For step-by-step photos, see last post, "As it Happened.)

Last summer my wife and I went kayaking on the Buffalo River, a twist industrial waterway with huge gray cliffs of ancient grain elevators from the city's storied past. The rust, concrete and water made for a striking image.

This print (9x7, oil on Masa paper, shina plywood, printed on an antique book press) was an epic joy. With 14 colors in all, it is a record for me. Can't wait for kayak season!

As It Happened: "Canyons of Buffalo"

This was a fun print, and it was a lot of fun walking you through the process.



"Buffalo Greyhound" 2018 Jeffrey Dean
Reduction woodcut, image 9"x7", Renaissance Graphic oil ink on Masa paper, 10 colors printed from a single shina plywood block, pulled on an antique cast iron book press and hand spoon-fed. Edition TBD

Almost Home

One last color will finish the job. This building, which still stands in the 600 block of Main St. in downtown Buffalo, opened as the Greyhound Bus Lines station in 1941. Designed by William S. Arrasmith, a St. Louis-based architect who designed hundreds of stations for the company, the station was operational until the 1970s. After a stint as a police station, the building, in the center of Buffalo's Theater District, now houses the Alleyway Theater.

I first noticed the building many years ago as I took the subway down Main St, probably returning from Buffalo State College. The rounded windows, curved edges and stainless steel stripe across the canopy, along with the blue tiles, suggested that it was a little too retro to be authentic, and I assumed, up until fairly recently, that it was a 1980s homage to art deco. But authentic it is, and I'm glad that it has kept most of it's charm. As you can see, the canopy, which I'm told was neon-lit, extended up ward and included a tlied sign for the company. The sign doesn't show well here, and it has long since disappeared, but the scar where it attached to the building next door is still visible.

Lost & Found

There is no shortage of songs about the love of the American highway. It's in our DNA, whether we were born here, came here or long to be here. Often the songs that celebrate the freedom of the open road take a melancholy bent at some point. Because the open road, as exciting and mythical as it can be, is also fraught with fear and loneliness, and very often travel leads one to take in the unexplored expanses, uncharted roads, and dark alleys of the heart.

One of the finest lyrics to define this ache of self-exploration amidst the thrill of exploration comes in Simon & Garfunkel's "America":

"Kathy, I'm lost", I said,
Though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and
I don't know why."

New Arrival

I hate traveling. I live in constants (unrealistic) fear that we will win the lottery, and my wife will drag me all over the world. Ugh. I mean, I like BEING somewhere, I like SEEING things, but traveling, I just don't enjoy it. Unfamiliar places put me into a small panic. I love Chicago, but we arrived on a Sunday evening, and downtown was as desolate as Buffalo on a Sunday evening. Looking for a cheap place to get a quick bite, we found nothing but a Subway restaurant. Thrilling. I'm sure there were other places, but, like I said, new places put me into a mode of constant worry.

I'd love to SEE the world, I'm just not keen on how to GET there.

Oddly, I love to drive, long aimless drives to nowhere. But if you give me an itinerary, I'd rather be....why, I'd rather be down in the studio!

Night Lights

"Sans Furniture" Reduction woodcut print, 8 colors, printed on Masa paper from single shina plywood block using Renaissance Graphic oil ink on an antique cast iron book press with additional burnishing via wooden spoon. Edition TBD. First print of 2018.

I love this print. Folks familiar with Hamburg know Sans Furniture, which has occupied a mid century modern building in the heart of the Village for my entire life time and beyond. While their bold storefront dominates on Buffalo Street, the rear Pine Street entrance, seen here, is cosier and more inviting. I pass by often at night on weary walks home from the bus stop, peering into the windows warm with the golden glow of artificial homescapes.

As a color mixer by trade, I'm most proud of the colors here. The sky, yellow gray with the aura of street light, the warm interior. The ceiling was a crap shoot -- I left it unfinished in my drawing, unsure how to execute.

It may be my most favorite print yet.

Come On In

It's hard to name artists who inspire me -- the list is too long, and always growing. My first art infatuation was Picasso, when I was just 11. Then the usual suspects for a kid -- Dali, Warhol, Pollock. Anyone weird. I still respect them all, but when I look at this print with just two colors to go, only two names come to mind -- Hopper and Burchfield. Contemporaries, Burchfield, in my opinion, was the far superior artist, with his work approaching and crossing the boundaries of abstract expressionism. Hopper is revered for his "commentaries" on isolation and desolation, a notion he had scoffed at, admitting that he was only trying to study light. Both geniuses, both inspiring this print.
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Space Exploration

 It wasn't too long ago, but it's been a few years since "DeSoto Motel" (right). The print was similar in that it was a study of light and dark, though my chief concern was more the light of the sunset, the lights of the outdoor roof and the neon. I wasn't happy with the print though, for several reasons, one being my dismissal of the interior of the hotel office.

The current print is partially concerned with making amends for my ignoring space. Though I am still focused on the effect of light ( in this case, the orange glow of sodium arc municipal lighting), it was vital to explore the inside of the building. The image is only 9"X7", and shina plywood becomes brittle as the block gets inked and wiped, so I can't get as detailed as I might sometimes like. But I can feel the space here, and with 3 colors to go, I'm pleased.

In the introduction to his novel, "Birdy," William Wharton offered the following poem:

"There are bird tracks
And nothing in the sky
Something lived, left
And left something"

That speaks to what I find fascinating about these storefronts, aglow as if ready to fling open their doors to commerce, but closed, locked, and still. Rest, repose, sometimes, in the case of the old empty Woolworths I used to peek into, dead.

Think of your desk, or your garage, or someplace untidy with the folderol of life, and imagine you never return to it again (let's not be maudlin -- you moved, you retired, you stepped out to get a giant Paula's Donut, you are creating new bird tracks on another beach somewhere). What would someone coming on the scene think? What story is being told about you in the universal language of stuff?

Seeing the Light

Ten years ago, when we lived in Buffalo, I took a side job delivering newspapers in the southeast corner of the city, a somewhat rough and rundown area called, ironically, Lovejoy. I'd deliver my route somewhere around four or five in the morning, just the darkest time. I saw some crazy things in that neighborhood, as the drunks stumbled home, the skunks roamed for a snack. But the solitude of that hour was calming. The houses with the droopy window eyes, the yawning garage doors, the whole world lulled to slumber by the lonely howl of a train off in the distant railyard. Or maybe I'm remembering Snoopy as the World's War I flying ace in "Great Pumpkin." Anyway, one day I had to go to that neighborhood during the day. I couldn't find my way around -- the garish colors of the houses, rotted roofs and torn sidewalks that we're rubbed out and faded by the charcoal of night's dark. Daylight sure has it's beauty, of course. But the dark of night offers a glorious pallet, and a warmth of its own

Seen here, three pools of color, trying for the perfect one. Sometimes you have to go on faith. Reduction printmaking is deep on faith -- you never no if it will work out until the end.

Floored

For most of my formative years, up until the last decade or so, I was a night owl. You could find me at 2:00 am walking the quiet streets. A favorite place to go was the village shopping center. I loved to wander up and down the concrete walks, looking in the empty shops, quiet and cozy, with only a few lights left on. Woolworths, Pleasures & Pastimes, Ulbrich's Stationers. I can't say why I was drawn to these vacant night scenes, or why I still occasionally wander over there (P&P is now a Tuesday Morning, Woolworths is a closed tanning salon, and Ulbrich's was long ago demolished to become a Rite Aid parking lot). But a few things around there stand up against time....

Pop the Cork!

Happy New Year, folks.  I'm starting a little late on my first print of '18 -- I decided that it was time for a new brayer and new knives. Now that they're here, I've begun. Feels very good.

I want this print to be revealed as I go. As you see it develop, I'll add some observations and insight into this print, which I hope will lead to a larger exploration of the subject.

I live in the town I grew up in, a small pretty village South of Buffalo. I spent many late nights as a kid walking the streets in the wee hours, watching the business district change over the years. I saw it bustle with shoe stores and grocery stores and liquor stores, dissolve into vacant shopfronts and demolished buildings, rouse again with offices and new structures, empty out again as the economy collapsed, then surge back to life with an infusion of hipsters.

Through it all, though, there have been a few constants.....

Christmas Tradition: The Thoughtless Gift Guide

Back in 2004, when for one bright shining moment I was actually putting my college training to use, I was publishing regularly in the Buffalo Beast, a always very political, often very funny and offensive at every opportunity free newspaper circulated in the city of Buffalo, NY. The paper -- co-founded by a guy named Matt Taibbi who, I've heard, left to go work on some rag called Rolling Stone, or something -- is long gone, but my clip file endures. One of my favorite pieces, from Christmas 2004 is reprinted without permission below. Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!

Buffalo Beast #65

Ho-Ho-Hum:

The Thoughtless Gift Guide

By Jeff Dean

It's noon on Christmas eve and you've just learned that cousin Todd has been paroled and will be coming to Christmas dinner, or maybe you are "secret Santa" to the new kid in shipping who eats his lunch in the john. The clock is ticking, your credit card is scorched and suddenly you've gone from jolly to humbug. Don't panic. There are plenty of options for the last-minute gift-giver who has neither the thought nor the cash to put into another gift.

It goes without saying that you will start your hunt at a discount chain store such as Wal-Mart or Target. These stores have anticipated your arrival and have stocked their doorways and front aisles with dozens of thoughtless gifts, most under $10.

For the less-than-special woman in your life, consider a scarf and glove set, handsome winter accessories that are colorful, yet as protective as cheesecloth. Slipper sets are also popular because, hey, everyone has feet (though, with the war, you may want to check first). Resin fountains and musical water globes sporting fairies, angels and critters are also a favorite with the get-in-get-the-hell-out shopper. Why not splurge and pick up a matching resin garden stone inscribed with wispy verse?

There is no shortage of thoughtless gifts for the gent you have to buy for. Motorized tie racks, TV shaped remote control caddies, talking pedometers and 3-in-1 anythings abound at holiday time. Particularly obnoxious are the miniature pool or dart sets. Imagine the hours of fun you'll have imagining your lame-ass brother-in-law actually shooting pool on his lame-ass 5x7 inch table. And who doesn't like snacks? You could go spend an arm and a leg at Hickory Farms, or you could just stop at the drugstore and pick up a box from the Chestnut Creek Country Snack collection. For less than $5 you get smoked cheese spread, crackers, tea and sausage. The peace of mind is free.

A very popular "oh shit" gift is the mug set. Usually packaged with coffee, cocoa or soup, these handy packs come with mugs or bowls emblazoned with popular logos. This year, among the traditional Campbell's and Hershey's packs, you will find sets from John Deere, Field & Stream and NASCAR.

Maybe you've given the mug set too many times to the loser on your list, but you still don't want to come off like you care. No problem, with Kammenstein's hardwood mug tree, which prices at about half of what another mug set would have set you back.

If your budget is a little more flexible, consider a multipurpose watch. Toolmaker Stanley has lent its name to a line of watches that, in addition to, presumably, telling time, also open bottles, drive screws flash lights and offer level gauges. The watches come in metal replica toolboxes that can also double as an attractive casket for small pets.

For the ladies who barely blip on your emotional radar, seek out a nice shrink-wrapped tub of hyper-allergenic lotions and soaps, such as Wal-Mart's 20-pound Comfort & Care set, which includes bubble baths, shampoos and loofahs wrapped in a huge gilt basket so tasteless Donald Trump would roll his eyes.

If you want to be more subtly obnoxious, spring for the Febreze ScentStories player. Clocking in at just under $30, this useless gem uses fragrance cartridges to tell a story, such as "Walking Barefoot on the Beach" or "Relaxing in the Hammock." The cartridge cycles through different scents as it plays, supposedly telling an olfactory tale. Sounds ridiculous, but just try to find one.

There are so many choices for the thoughtless gift-giver, you'll wish you were obligated to put more names on your list. But instead, just relax, have a cup of Harley Davidson cocoa, maybe a bite off the sausage log, and be glad it's over for another year.

A Stab of Color

I enjoy revealing prints to you one color at a time, because that's how I see it. Even though I know what the end image will be, I'm usually working off of a pencil and marker sketch. Like watching a Polaroid develop, printing each state reveals more and more, until at last the image is whole.

Here, you see the dome of the Buffalo and Erie County Botanical Gardens is complete, bright against a bright blue sky.