The ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of work they produced, all those on the right solely on its quality. His procedure was simple: on the final day of class he would bring in his bathroom scales and weigh the work of the “quantity” group: fifty pounds of pots rated an “A”, forty pounds a “B”, and so on. Those being graded on “quality”, however, needed to produce only one pot — albeit a perfect one — to get an “A”. Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the “quantity” group was busily churning out piles of work-and learning from their mistakes — the “quality” group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts and a pile of dead clay.

David Bayles & Ted Orland from their book 

Art & Fear:

Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking 

So, quantity does make quality.

True for any art form, craft and profession.

Anything!

Ansel Adams

Another excerpt from Art & Fear.

Ansel Adams, never one to mistake precision for perfection, often recalled the old adage that “the perfect is the enemy of the good”, his point being that if he waited for everything in the scene to be exactly right, he’d probably never make a photograph.

Ansel Adams

Big thanks to the Folk School Coffee Parlor in Ludlow, Kentucky for starting a 52 Club. The prompt from the November 19th meeting was "coffee cup". I had a few idea balloons floating in my mind. Fairly easy subject, many different directions were possible. I wasn't panicked. Just had to pick one.

Last Saturday afternoon one balloon popped and it hit me like the first spray of a cold shower. I had built the song's skeleton in my journal the day before, November 21st. Yeah! Let Your Soul Sing It's Song wrote like warm butter. What I talked about Friday actually happened! 

Let Your Soul Sing Its Song

Walt Sample

Tossing and turning tangled in blanket and sheet

Side back side stomach side back pillow bunched pillow flat

Explosions goin’ off inside of me I can’t fall asleep

Boom bang boom bang flash rat a tat tat tat

Belly bursting with thoughts kept hostage inside

Fork shaped words eating their way out of me

Fighting to live outside come alive and survive

Phrases fitting together like lock and key

Let your soul sing its song

Let your heart be heard

Get up and fill the coffee cup with midnight black

Sharpen the pencil and write down every word

Tiger toothed chorus chomping at my face

Lyrics licking my cheeks like fiery rain

I’m too far along to play it safe

Gonna write my song smother the flame

Let your soul sing its song

Let your heart be heard

Get up and fill the coffee cup with midnight black

Sharpen the pencil and write down every word

A 52 Club meets weekly and songwriters gather and share their stuff.

At the end of the night, each songwriter writes a prompt down on a little scrap of paper and they are mixed together in a bowl. One topic is randomly picked and that is the prompt for the next meeting. 

Fun stuff indeed!

The meetings are every Wednesday from 6 to 8.

http://folkschoolcoffeeparlor.com/index.html/

The prompt for December 3rd meeting is "force your hand".

Her eyes told me a story of ...........

Oh my!

Sharpen those pencils, grab a ream, set aside a few weeks and get started!

Tal Peleg is an Israeli make up artist. Thank you for the inspiration. 

"Not what we say about our blessing, but how we use them, is the true measure of our Thanksgiving"

W T Purkiser

Thanksgiving Day

Ray Davies

Are you going on Thanksgiving Day

To those family celebrations

Passing on knowledge down through the years

At the gathering of generations

Every year it's the same routine

All over, all over

Come on over, it's the Thanksgiving Day

Papa looks over at the small gathering

Remembering days gone by

Smiles at the children as he watches them play

And wishes his wife was still by his side

She would always cook dinner on Thanksgiving Day

It's all over, it's all over, it's all over the American way

But sometimes the children are so far away

And in a dark apartment on the wrong side of town

A lonely spinster prays

For a handsome lover and a passionate embrace

And kisses all over, all over, all over her American face

It's all over, it's all over, it's all over

'Cause today she feels so far away

From the friends in her hometown

So she runs for the Greyhound

She'll spend hours on the bus

But she'll reach town for Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

At a truck stop a man sits alone at the bar

Estranged in isolation

It's been a while now and he seems so far

From those distant celebrations

He thinks back to all the mistakes that he made

To a time when he was so young and green

Innocent days when they both looked forward to that

Great American dream

Now it's all over, it's all over, all over

And all over America people are going home

On Thanksgiving Day

Now Papa looks out of the window

The sight brings a smile to his face

He sees all his children coming back home

Together on this special day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

 “What’s so hard about that first sentence is that you’re stuck with it."

Joan Didion

Oh yeah you are. 

Important to make sure you have a yummy bait and a tiny bit of the hook exposed. 

For example, 

"Call me Ishmael." 

Herman Melville's first line in Moby Dick took us on a first class voyage.

Like the first brick laid everything builds off of the first sentence. 

Powerful moving lyrics. 

Sun Comes Up It's Tuesday Morning

Michael Timmins 

Sun comes up, it's Tuesday morning

Hits me straight in the eye

Guess you forgot to close the blind last night

Oh, that's right, I forgot, it was me

I sure do miss the smell of black coffee in the morning,

The sound of water splashing all over the bathroom,

The kiss that you would give me even though I was sleeping,

But I kind of like the feel of this extra few feet in my bed

Telephone's ringing, but I don't answer it

'cause everybody knows that good news always sleeps till noon

Guess it's tea and toast for breakfast again

Maybe I'll add a little T.V. too

No milk! God, how I hate that

Guess I'll go to the corner, get breakfast from Jenny

She's got a black eye this morning, `Jen how'd ya get it?'

She says, `Last night, Bobby got a little bit out of hand'

Lunchtime. I start to dial your number

Then I remember so I reach for something to smoke

And anyways I'd rather listen to Coltrane

Than go through all that shit again

There's something about an afternoon spent doing nothing

Just listening to records and watching the sun falling

Thinking of things that don't have to add up to something

And this spell won't be broken

By the sound of keys scraping in the lock

Maybe tonight it's a movie

With plenty of room for elbows and knees

A bag of popcorn all to myself,

Black and white with a strong female lead

And if I don't like it, no debate, I'll leave

Here comes that feeling that I'd forgotten

How strange these streets feel

When you're alone on them

Each pair of eyes just filled with suggestion

So I lower my head, make a beeline for home

Seething inside

Funny, I'd never noticed

The sound the streetcars make as they pass my window

Which reminds me that I forgot to close the blind again

Yeah, sure I'll admit there are times when I miss you

Especially like now when I need someone to hold me

But there are some things that can never be forgiven

And I just gotta tell you

That I kinda like this extra few feet in my bed

The woods were hushed and attentive, the trees seeming to huddle themselves closer

together, as if awaiting not just the rain but some story about to be told.

Ron Rash from his novel Serena.

What story would you tell the trees?