Click on the image below to view a Steller Story featuring re-colorized renditions of 9 Pro Football Hall of Famers and 1 Heisman Trophy Winner. Can you name them?
New to me are these regional spins on the iconic I HEART NY logo. I saw them for the first time just recently, alongside even more takes in which the red image between the I and NY represented other aspects of the Empire State.
Though they obviously don’t use the words BUFFALO
to my mind these two renditions can’t help but explicitly represent those cities, and as such, they had me dreaming of an “explicitly” Albany version that would feature the profile of the Capital City’s most iconic building, The Egg.
In all that I-Hearting I came across this fabulous story of the original logo, the remarkable designer who created it, and the interesting life that both man and art have led. Definitely worth a read and/or listen, via the podcast 99% Invisible.
A simple good wish and an even simpler pencil drawing of a globe-spanning dinner table (what?!?), were the ingredients in my first ever Christmas Card, created in 2002.
It could be the space at the back of a car
It could be the spine of a tree,
It could contain a clog of elephant snot
or treasure lost under the sea.
Which proves that descriptions sometimes
Are all we have to not be sunk
Because on highways, in forests, in jungles, ‘neath oceans
A trunk’s not a trunk’s not a trunk.
My latest collaboration with the acclaimed graphic arts team at DeLeo Design is this newly imagined logo for one of our family’s favorite gathering spots, Angelina’s Kitchen.
The color scheme spoofery is an homage chosen to salute the sheer volume of visitors whose tummies and spirits Angelina’s has pleased over the years, an innumerable group said to be rivaled in size only by the crowds at that place Ol’ Man Kroc dreamed up. The name of it escapes me.
Thanks to everyone at Angelina’s for all the good times, and to Gina DeLeo-Kennedy for the typically outstanding design work — transforming my cocktail-napkin sketch into a technicolor dream coat.
On July 3
We celebrate C,
Among the letters
None is better.
There are dentists everywhere
But not the kind I’d like to be,
That’s the kind who earns a living
Mending broken zipper teeth.
‘Cause as far as I can tell
Right now there’s no doc you can see
Who can take a fly or jacket that
Won’t move and set it free.
So the Earth’s first zipper dentist
Is what I would like it to be:
The foremost expert on the planet’s
Mechanical metal teeth.
My fuzzy gloves that are fingerless
Send me palms over knuckles with digital bliss
On the winter days I’m earwax picking,
Scratching backs, guitar licking,
Pinching jacks, popping pimples,
Cleaning braces, poking dimples,
Tying laces, tickling bellies,
Needle threading, tasting jellies,
Rabbit foot petting, booger flicking,
Yo-yo twirling, paper football kicking,
Portraying a Shadow-Squirrel, snatching a donut hole,
Trying to lap up the last of the cookie dough trails from Mom’s baking bowl.
But when it’s really cold outside and time to shovel snow,
Mittens that cover my fingers are what I wish I had in tow.
“What’s it look like, Dad?”
“Well, that all depends…
On the side you decide
To make the end.”
“So see what you see
When you turn things around…
There’s no telling what’s
Waiting to be found.”
In honor of consecutive stellar performances by Notre Dame to open the 2014 season, we’re dipping back into the archives to share the drawing below. It was done back when I was merely a Tweedlet in Mrs. Davis’s 6th grade art class, and only years later, autographed by the subject, Jerome Bettis. Long before he was nicknamed “The Bus” during his NFL career, Bettis was a bulldozing fullback in South Bend — though even his physical style might have met its match in the Irish defense on display the last two weeks. Sure, the now departed Bob Diaco may have resembled Don Draper, but so far his defenses were mere impostors compared with Brian Van Gorder’s Van Goghs. The first year Irish Defensive Coordinator has a name like a Dutch Master but through two games his group is pure Cohiba.
Wipe up the crumbs,
Brush them away,
But once they’re gone, Mom,
Know our patrons won’t stay.
They come for the mess,
With their long walks they pay,
Knowing the good stuff’s
Here all night and all day.
Mom, you want a clean floor,
You beg and you pray,
But a clean floor will shut down
I know my Dad just loves
to put my toys away
because I see him do it
at the end of every day.
I can’t think why he’d do it
If he wasn’t having fun
Bending down and picking up
every ball block car doll clay clock truck bike book bell and drum
under the sun.
Yes, I’m sure there’s nothing better
For dear old dad each night
Than to find and file and shelve
Every last plaything left in sight.
Twelve years ago today, almost exactly to the moment this post goes up, my eyes gazed on this artwork for the first time. Varying in size, color, and composition — from small and flat under mattes and polished glass, to movie-theater-lobby-esque large format, to three-dimensional shadow boxes in frames custom made of reconstituted desk drawers — it comprised the then little known passion project of America’s “King of the Football Movies.” And like the montages he and his filmmaking brain trust popularized, the work resonated with my eyes and ears in such a way that I couldn’t help but imitate it — in part, in the poster below from 2003.
If you’re feeling generous call it flattery, and if you must, call it theft – but then only in consideration of that advice the King himself was known to impart, “If you’re going to steal, steal from Tiffany’s.” I don’t recall what I had for breakfast twelve years ago today ; I can barely remember what I had today. But June 3, 2002 — and how it changed the way I see the world — is a morning I won’t forget.
It’s not for lack of sweets that I weep,
Not a bump nor a bruise nor a finger in the door.
Restrictions on TV watching aren’t on,
No concerns being raised if I’ve finished my chores.
In order to say that anything’s wrong now,
Or that I’m being hassled I’d have to lie.
Which makes all this wailing’o’mine a N.A.R.C.,
A good, old-fashioned No Apparent Reason Cry.
How I wish I could draw
something more than a saw
or a hammer’s blunt butt
or its backside, the claw.
My paintings are messy
and sculpture all lumpy,
the sweaters I knit
make their wearers look frumpy.
By far my sketchpad
is my art at its best
and at best it looks like
a burnt scrambled egg mess.
The needlepoint, woodwork
and origami I’ve tried
Have not earned even one
So I’ll stick to my pen
and make it make words
and stop drawing things like
flocks of V-line birds.
FLOCK OF V-GULLS : A failsome foursome by The Art School Flunkee