When I grow up...

When I grow up I want to be an artist like Syd Mead!


I had the pleasure of meeting him briefly at his Artist's Reception in Glendale recently and was completely awed and inspired by his futuristic paintings!


First, a brief BIO -  Syd Mead graduated with distinction from the Art Center College of Design in 1959.  His specialty was in creating innovative and realistic looking transportation and architectural renderings and this kept him in constant demand by Intl. Hotels, architectural firms and the Auto Industry for over twenty years until he was discovered by the film industry in 1979. Since then he has worked on such motion pictures as Star Trek, Tron, Blade Runner, 2010, Aliens, John Mnemonic and MI-3.  Most recently Mr. Mead worked with director Neill Blomkampt on his latest Sci-Fi production due to be released some time this year (2012).


What struck me most when I looked at the collection of Syd Mead's paintings (currently on exhibit at the Forest Lawn Museum in Glendale) was the attention and respect to detail that he puts into every stroke. Mainly working in gouache, the medium of choice for most illustrators throughout recent years, his paintings reveal immediately that this artist does not rush or hurry through his work.  He doesn't have ADD!  He's not lazy. Doesn't become bored with what he's doing. Goes the extra mile, putting in interesting details far back into the distance of his scene, where most artists, including myself would choose to just let it go, due to general fatigue or lack of imagination.


Syd Mead reminds me through his art, to follow through.  Not to get restless. To be respectful of what it is I'm trying to convey and not to get sloppy or lazy. 


Geez, I'm truly humbled and a little bit embarrassed to call myself an artist next to this man.  So, I'll call myself a painter with a vision and a hope to be an artist like Syd Mead some day when I grow up.



   

Visit http://www.sydmead.com/  right now!

The Jesus Connection

I write this true story with a bit of trepidation because I'm not one to proselytize. In fact, it offends me when it’s done to me, so it’s the last thing I want to do to others. But, that being said, I feel the need to tell this story because it has changed the way I look at the world. It's also changed the way I treat people, including myself.  And, considering it's the holiday season, I feel that it's fitting to write about the dream I had one morning about 25 years ago while living in Santa Monica, California.

I was living alone in a guest house at the time - it was during the month of June.  My life was not the most virtuous in those days - playing in rock bands and partying and drinking more than I should. You could say I was a bit of a lost soul with not much of a spiritual compass. 

My studio guest house had a west facing wall comprised of a row of large windows.  Each was covered with a thin rice blind. In June the fog comes in thick and can be a daily phenomenon (known as June Gloom). So my morning ritual would be to sit up and look at the rice blinds from my bed to see if there was sun light streaming through the window. In my dream I sat up and as I looked at the rice blind I saw the shroud of Jesus, just his face about 4 feet in size. In my dream I said to myself, "Hey, that's Jesus!"  And, as I said it, his face came in clearly and a white beam of light shot out at me from his face!  It totally paralyzed me. I couldn't move. My fists clenched - my jaw locked and my tongue hit the roof of my mouth.  In this vulnerable position you might think I'd be terrified, but there was something about the white light that created a blissful state. I might even say that it felt as though I was being bathed in pure love.  And, in that instant I heard a voice in my ear. It said, "This is just a small sample of the power of God's love."  And, then the white light receded and the image of Jesus faded away. 

At that moment I awakened from my dream and sat up in bed for real.  To say the least, I was totally shocked and amazed at what had just happened!

I just sat there for about a half an hour, tears streaming down my face, going over the dream of Jesus again and again, trying to recapture the feeling, the emotion and the message that was given to me.  "Just a small sample of the power of God's love..."  Before that dream I had doubted that there even was a God.  I had also doubted that Jesus Christ was really a divine being.  But, in an instant my spiritual paradigm shifted and I was somehow transformed!

I didn't party much after that day. There was no drug that could match the bliss that I had felt during that dream and I really didn't feel the need to abuse my body or escape from any sort of reality. 

I'm not going to lie and say that I am totally at peace nowadays.  I have anxieties and stresses just like everyone else.  But now I have someone to go to with them.  It might sound hokey, but Jesus is my guy - he's my connection.   I go to him with my problems and I feel his presence when I am sad or hurting or need healing - or when somebody I love needs prayers.  Sometimes during a meditative state I ask him questions and sometimes I hear his wise voice answering me back. 

Before my dream when I saw 'Jesus' bumper stickers or people on street corners holding up 'Jesus saves' signs I thought they were quite nuts, but now I understand. They just have the 'Jesus Connection'.  It's not a private club.  Anyone can join and make the connection too if they so choose.

I painted this picture of J.C. soon after my dream

SPIRIT ORBS? ... or dust particles?

I've been taking photos with my Nikon CoolPix camera for a couple of years now.  I love it, but there's something that keeps happening and I'm really not sure how to explain it.  Every now and then I capture an orb in my photo.  Here's the first one I caught back in Michigan while visiting with relatives a few years ago.

The photo below captures two small orbs on the pants of my artist friend (Rick Moore) during the 2010 Art Classic in Santa Clarita. He won first prize for one of his paintings and I took a photo of him next to his painting in-doors 

And here is another photo of him (close up) outside an hour or so after I took the first photo. Two more orbs appear! - in two photos - in two different locations.  I might add here that I took about 150 photos that day and these orbs showed up only twice... on the pants of the same person!!

Recently, I went to see a band called "The Graves" perform at a club in the valley.  They were excellent - enjoyed the show very much and I took a few photos of them.  Once again, an orb appeared on the shirt of the keyboardist - right under his arm. This time, nearly opaque.

And, most recently I went to a memorial celebration for my good friend Tim Alexander - an AMAZING guitarist who will be greatly missed.  During a speech made by his best friend, Stove, I took a photo of the crowd (see photo below) and caught an orb hovering above.

And, during a musical performace a few hours later I captured a smaller orb over his friend and guitar student as he was performing.  Particles of dust? Or perhaps the spirit of my friend Tim - joining us on his special day of remembrance!

There are no answers or explanations offered in this blog, just some food for thought. There will be more photos and more orbs captured by my camera in the future, I am sure of that.  And, as I find them I'll continue to document them.

In the mean time if you'd like to learn more, just google 'spirit orbs' on-line. You'll find all kinds of photos and interesting content.  I even discovered a woman (Kathy) who's dedicated a whole website to it. To see her photos click on:  http://spiritorbs.home.mindspring.com/

Here's to Witches - and those who weren't -

It's that time of year again - my favorite holiday is approaching and in honor of the bewitching season I thought I'd share a bit of what I discovered recently regarding the history of witchcraft.

Overall the record of witchcraft is horrible and brutal! 

Back in the 1600s, Germany was the classic land of witchcraft.  At least 100,000 people were executed - and as you might well imagine these were just ordinary people who had the misfortune of having a mole, scar or bunyon in the wrong place at the wrong time!  The law orderd torture in Germany and burning was the prescribed method of death. In 1590 a chronicler wrote of Brunswick "A horrible specticle met our eyes. Outside of the walls of many towns and villages we saw numerous stakes to which poor, wretched women were bound and burned as witches."  Even young children fell victim to this horrific insanity! 

Nowadays, girls and women dress up like witches on Halloween without realizing how much pain and suffering went on just a few centuries ago.

Happening day after day for centuries, resulting in torture and horrible death for tens of thousands - of mainly women, the following examples of witchcraft in action are terrifying to ponder, just because they are so routine:

• A bishop in Germany burns a minimum of 900 men and women - many of which are respected wealthy citizens, as witches, and confiscates their estates and properties for his own enjoyment.

• A Protestant minister in Scotland refuses Christian burial to a  woman crushed to death by a mob because she was accused of being a witch by a 16 year old boy.

• A French Magistrate reveals that, instead of burning young children accused of witchcraft, he had merely sentenced them to be flogged while they watched their parents burn as witches.

• A woman in Scotland is burned as a witch for stroking a cat in the window at the same time the householder finds his brew of beer turned sour.

• A poor immigrant in Boston, speaking only Irish and saying her simple prayers in Latin, is hanged as a witch because she could not repeat the Lord's prayer in English.

Cats, mice and blackbirds, along with irregularities in the body were but the outward indications of the pact with the devil - the essense of witchcraft.

I can't help but wonder how long I would've lasted had I been born back in those times!  With my inclination to paint aliens, cats and devilish characters, I would've had to hide my paintings for no one to see, or more likely would be too afraid to express myself at all. 

And, so I'd like to take a moment to honor and remember those who died as witches, not only in Europe, but right here in the United States not more than a few centuries ago.  My heart goes out to these poor victims who lost their lives or were tortured for such insane and ridiculous reasons.

We've come a long way since then.  Nowadays the Wiccas can cast spells and hold events without fear and those with scars and bunyons and moles don't have to fear for their lives!

So, here's to the witches - and those who weren't.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

(Information above compiled from the Encyclopedia of Witchcraft and Demonology)

In Remembrance of my Great Grandfather - Joseph Koprowski

A little over a month ago if you were to ask me what the day - October 13th meant to me, I'd probably respond, "Hmm, well, it's Chris Carter's birthday." (Creator of one of my favorite shows, The X-Files). But, now this date has a whole new meaning to me.  It will be FOREVER etched in my memory as the day to remember and honor my Great Grandfather.  And a little over a month ago if you were to ask me what my Great Grandfather's name was I would not have been able to tell you.  Furthermore, I wouldn't have cared much one way or the other.  After all, I'm super busy.  On the treadmill of life, just trying to survive and stay healthy and sane in this crazy world.

But, then after seeing several episodes of "Who do you Think you Are" on TV my curiosity got the best of me so I signed up with Ancestry.com.

My ancestral journey started off at a slow pace as I was learning how to use the Ancestry.com software and the plethora of data-bases there-within. And then 'it' happened.  Suddenly I became totally and completely obsessed and addicted to the process and to Ancestry.com too.  In fact, I'm thankful I didn't get fired from my day job. There were times when I could not tear myself away. It was like my ancestors were calling out to me from the beyond, saying, "Pick me. Remember me! Look for me next!"

I've always known that my roots were from Hungary and Poland, but was I surprised to discover that "Russia" was listed time and time again in the Census material on my father's side! As it turns out, the boundaries of Poland have grown and receded over the past centuries and during the time of my Great Grandfather's departure, Poland was part of Russia. 

Joseph Koprowski was born in 1869.  He immigrated to the United States from Russia in 1891. I can't even imagine what that long journey must've been like over the Atlantic Ocean from Europe!  But, there's no doubt in my mind that he was excited to be given a new start and new freedom and opportunity in America. He moved to Pennsylvania and soon found work in the coal mines.  By the year 1910 he lists 'mining' as his profession on the Census.  He married a woman named Mary - also from Russia - and one of their sons was my Grandfather.

From what I can gather he worked nearly THIRTY years in the coal mines - before the protection of Unions - before regulations and the sort of EPA changes that would come some time after his death.

When I looked for his death records in the archives of the local paper in Lucerne County, Pennsylvania, there was a disclaimer at the top of the page - "No mining deaths listed below". I'm not sure why but I think it may be because there were SO MANY - too many to list.  Finally, I found the information through a kind and generous stranger named Patty who is part of a genealogy club in Pennsylvania.  She sent me an e-mailed list of mining accident victims.  My great grandfather was among them!  And, someone else was listed along with him.  It was his 48 year old brother Walter, whom my Dad didn't even know existed!

And, so two of my distant relatives died a tragic death on October 13th, 1930.  There's an expression that comes to mind - "Standing on the shoulders of Giants".  Yes, I am standing on their shoulders. Their strength now gives me strength, and with it a feeling of responsibility to make something of this life - not to squander it or waste my time here.

If my Great Grandfather could endure thirty years of coal mining I can endure working in an office environment (which is not easy for an artist/musician!).  He sacrificed his life for his family and for me too.  And, to think that up until now I didn't even know his name!  But, I can tell you this - I'll never forget him from here on out. And, I can also tell you that I now have deep love and appreciation for him that's been lying dormant all these years, waiting patiently for me to take the time to discover what an incredible man he was.

I don't even know what he looks like.... Yet.  But, I'll find a photograph of him. Because you see, I'm determined!  And, that's what happens when you begin looking for your ancestors.  You dig in your heels. Your mind becomes obsessed and your ancestors will begin to haunt you. It's a total trip!

I hope you'll take the time to search for your roots too, and then you'll discover, if you haven't already,  that you too are standing on the Shoulders of Giants.

Happy Birthday Mom! I Love You!

My Mom's birthday is today! She is 86 years old!   I thought I'd post a true story she wrote about a childhood memory - part of her memoirs.  She is one of the most amazing, beautiful, positive people I've ever met.  I am so lucky to have her as my mom!  The story below is indicative of her strength, courage and optimism.

POLIO

I was nine years old in the summer of '34.  I don't think I will ever forget that year.  It was July -- a nice balmy day and my father and his friend Mike were going to Belle Isle fishing. My brother Gene and I went with them to play along the Detroit river waterfront.  I loved Belle Isle! It will always be special to me.  It was our only introduction to country living. We lived in the heart of the factory industry surrounded byMidland Steel, Packard Motor Car Co., Chrysler, Ford and General Motors.


We took off with a nice lunch, but my left knee was sore, as I had fallen three times on the same knee on the school cement playground and it had not healed, so it was an open sore.  No bandage could stay on it and band-aids had not yet been invented. I remember getting sand on it as we made sand castles and figures in the sand. (Years later I thought, maybe the polio germs got in that way.)


That night I remember I started to limp and the next day it seemed I could not straighten up my leg. The following night I had a horrible nightmare!  I was on a spinning top and I would spin out and out and then back again.  Also, I was hot.  Burning up!  I must have screamed because I found my parents by my bed and I focused them into sight. Mom placed a cold wash cloth on my forehead and that helped.


The next day I couldn't stand.  My leg would not support me.  My father took me to the Children's Hospital. They took children in whose parents couldn't pay.  I remember crying softly all the way there.  I was so scared.  My Dad carried me in and they put a gown on me with a slit in the back.  I was terribly embarrassed in front of these strange people!


A few moments later a nice gentle Doctor came in. I found out later that these incredible Doctors volunteered their time and services for free.  The doctor I had was from France.  He spoke broken English. He hardly spoke to me, but his smile, kindness and concern was felt by me and I immediately felt better about being in the hospital.  Later I would discover that he used an experimental therapy that might've saved me from becoming permanently crippled. He used the "Sister Kenny" method to treat Polio.


My leg was stretched by weights as by now it was bent all the time.  I was then put in a body cast along with my complete left leg. I was in the hospital for one week. The nurses were good to me and I loved the food! 


I was in a cast for six months, during the hottest part of Michigan's humid summers. It was unbearably itchy and uncomfortable and so very HOT! Our house had no insulation, we never owned a fan, I could not sit in a cool bath tub of water. How I longed for that luxury!


After three months I had to have the cast removed and the leg checked.  Nowadays I think they use a saw of some kind, but at that time they used shears like big scissors and they cut right up the sides of the cast, from under my armpit to my ankle. Many times they cut the skin and I'd cry out in pain. The person cutting would try not to but it was impossible because the skin was folded and loose.  How sad I was when I was told I had to have another cast put on to insure the progress I was making. All I could think about was that heavy cast would have to be cut off again!


At home I was told to lay flat on my back in bed and stay there, but this was making me dizzy and weak. Plus, just going to the bathroom or trying to was murder. Eventually I cracked the cast at the groin and was able to walk around the house (like Frankenstein!) and before you knew it I was going all over the place and doing most things.


I remember the day I was discharged as "cured". That's what the hospital said.  My mother and I were dropped off at the hospital be a friend who had to leave. It was a cold, snowy day and it seemed like we waited forever.  They cut my cast off and I cried as they cut my skin in several places again. My leg looked terrible! I tried not to look at it. It looked like a stick with hanging flesh on it, some of it peeling like a bad sunburn. I could not bend the knee but the doctor said that would come with time and exercise.


My mother had brought my long underwear stockings and shoes.  It felt so funny to have them on with no feeling, really.  They gave me crutches to use and I felt so clumsy and afraid. I thought, if I fell, that stick of a leg of mine would crack and break up.  We finally got outside. Snow had accumulated on the ground and I was afraid of falling on the ice. We had no car, so we waited for a street car.


My mother and I and the crutches somehow got onto the streetcar and then back off and I walked the two blocks to the alley behind our house. By this time I was exhausted, cold, had no gloves and my fingers were numb and my legs were shaking. So, Mom, God bless her heart, carried me, piggy back, the rest of the way home. 


It was so good to be in the house! I just collapsed.  My brothers gathered around. Gene didn't say anything. Ed looked shocked. He said, "Will your leg ever look like the other one again?"


Having Polio changed my whole outlook on life.  It made me everlastingly thankful for the sheer pleasure of being able to walk! To work! To dance!  To run!  It taught me patience. At one time before I contracted Polio the girls at school remarked that my legs were somewhat bowed and I felt self-conscious about it.  After the Polio I could care less.  I was just thankful that I could walk. 


Many Polio victims during that time never regained that abililty to walk.  They were crippled for life. But I believe that the experimental technique that the French Doctor used with me (a cloth treated with medication to help draw out the poisons, then covered with a cast) gave me my life back. I will be forever grateful to him and often wish I could go back in time to thank him and the nurses who took such good care of me.

                 
My mom - age 84 doing Tai Chi in Reno


"LOOKING BACK" - Irene Milko Cooper's memoir - available through Klina Publishing for $9.99 plus $2.00 postage.  Contact Janine at:  j9art_music@yahoo.com to order.

Learn more about Sister Kenny at:  http://www.teachspace.org/personal/research/poliostory/sisterkenny.html

In Remembrance - Grandpa Joseph Milko

I never did get to meet my Mom's Father, my Grandpa Joseph Milko.  He was born in Pennsylvania, had three brothers and a sister. Joe's brother Mike was a championship boxer in Pittsburgh.

Joseph was a World War I Veteran. He worked in the auto industry in Detroit from the 1930's to the 1950's as a crane operator, sometimes working high up in the factory where the worst smoke and toxins gathered. It was before regulations and health and safety codes were in place. My Grandfather died at the young age of 54 and I was born about ten years afterward.  My mom told me a story about him and I adapted it into the short story below - in remembrance of Joseph Milko. 

The Silver Moth

©2000 By Janine Cooper Ayres

“Daddy,” little Irene asked. “If you could be any kind of creature in the world, what would you be?”

Her father stared out into the backyard from the porch and thought for a long moment before replying, “A large moth.”

“A large moth?” she laughed. “Not a hawk or a lion – or a black stallion?”

“Nope.  Just a moth – a large silver iridescent moth with a few polka dots and a white fuzzy face.”

“Gee,” said his little girl. “Why?”

“Well, Irene,” her father had thought long enough.  “Moths are a peaceful bunch.  They do not hunt and swoop down upon small innocent creatures. They do not attack viciously like the lion.  They are not captured and broken in spirit like the stallion.  No, the moth is a gentle creature. It is true that its life is often in danger for this very reason.  The moth does not hide in the shadows waiting to pounce on its next victim. It has not the vanity of a butterfly and so it is content with a spot or two on plain silver wings rather than loud bright colors that scream, ‘Look at me!’  But most important…”

Irene’s father looked at her straight in the eye. “Moths know the secret of metamorphosis!”

“Meta – what?” Irene asked, confused.

“Metamorphosis. It means to transform – transmute. Just like the butterfly, the moth begins its life as a caterpillar.  A cat starts its life as a cat, and a dog, a dog, but the moth is unique because it grows wings and learns to fly!  The moth is not afraid to leave the earth’s surface and explore the heavens – to go into the light.”

“Wow!” Irene exclaimed. “I never knew moths were so special!”  She climbed up on her papa’s lap and watched the last of the suns’ rays melt into the night sky.

Several years later when Irene was a full grown woman, she was sitting at her kitchen table all alone.  The hour was late and she was very tired, yet she couldn’t sleep.  The day had been full of mourning, as she and her mother and four brothers all gathered to lay her father’s body to rest.  He died at the early age of fifty-four after a long hard life, working many of them in the auto industry in Detroit, Michigan.

“Why did he have to leave this world so soon?”  Irene thought to herself with tears streaming down her face. “He was a good man. He was gentle. He wouldn’t hurt a soul. He had courage, yet he was humble…”

At that moment, Irene was interrupted by a loud commotion at the window.  At first she jumped with fear that it might be an intruder, but as she opened the curtain, she saw that it was a large silver moth flapping its iridescent wings as though trying to get her attention.

“Oh, what a beautiful creature.”  Irene whispered out loud and watched as the moth found its way into her kitchen through a small tear in the screen. He rested for a moment on the chair directly in front of her.  He had a big white fuzzy face and few polka dots…

Just then a chill came over Irene as a long forgotten memory floated back from her childhood. She remembered what her father had told her.


As the moth flew above her and around the kitchen light, Irene felt it was sign from her father that he had grown his wings and was ready for his metamorphosis – his journey away from the earth’s surface and into the light.

Irene smiled a peaceful smile, took a final sip of tea and went to bed.

                                                          Joseph Milko -   1918   -   U.S. Army



To learn more about Joseph's brother Mike Milko visit:  http://www.harrygreb.com/mikemilko.html