When doing the dishes becomes a not-so-natural disaster

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There are moments when everything changes, and in an instant, your world – or at least your kitchen – becomes a very complicated place. Last night, at exactly 9:43pm, something happened that made everything up to that moment seem so manageable, so innocent. It was something I’ve seen coming for years, “only a matter of time,” as ‘they’ say.

Doing the dishes after watching a documentary on the awesome perils of constructing the Panama Canal, my mind was full of hydro engineering, spillways, and human suffering – all of which would soon cross a continent and a century to turn my kitchen into a perfect diorama of disaster. Clearing the drying tray, I leaned over the counter to toss a Tupperware lid up to the top cupboard shelf, but it didn’t quite make the right sound. It was too loud, as if instantly echoed. Then I felt it, a cold, clammy liquid seeping through my long johns and woolen socks. I knew right away what had happened. I looked down, and time stopped.

Sure enough, my shirt had caught the edge of the George Foreman Grill (brim full!) drippings tray and yanked it off the counter. Brown and sludgy, the watery fat had exploded… everywhere. I thought of Panama, of the flooding and yellow fever, and I thought of the men and women who had battled far deeper demons than the greasy mess I was facing. But I couldn’t blame the mosquitoes, or the weather, or even the French, it was my own fault for leaving the stupid thing so close to the edge.

After a very brief (but entirely necessary) mourning period, I stripped down, tossed my socks in the sink and got to scrubbing. There I was, nearly naked, on my hands and knees on the kitchen floor, scouring the linoleum. In a moment my evening had changed from routine to grim nightmare, but compared to Panama, I suppose I really don’t have shit to complain about.

A ‘Slim my Viking’ Recipe: Anthony Bourdain – ing with quick & easy summer salad rolls

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Standing in the grocery store, one body among many, all of us searching for some semblance of satisfaction, the paralysis of routine takes hold. Thousands of products, but my brain sees only the dozens it has seen before. No. Not today, not with 5 days of weekday repetition looming on the other side of this Sunday afternoon: wake up, go to work, come home, do the bastard dishes, make supper, watch TV, go to bed. No.

Facing an entire wall of salad dressings, I make a choice for change. I turn around. The opposite aisle wall is a mecca of Bourdain – ian possibilities. Anthony Bourdain (sketched at right), a man I’ve followed around the world, from arrogant naiveté to arrogant wisdom. On some strange level, I love that man; as a prophet of hope and novelty, of freedom and humanity. But my heart is held by another, my Viking…

Rice paper! I can do this. Heck, I’ve seen it on TV. Suddenly, I’m on a flavour raid – bean sprouts, red pepper, chilies… designing my own recipe and pillaging (I think we all can do without the raping) for a whole new flavour profile. And if the Viking isn’t sated, I buy his favourite bread with spinach dip to fill the void. The grocery store is instantly transformed from tedium to adventure, my brain and senses fully engaged in the exploration.

Half an hour later in my kitchen, with eyes watering and mouth on fire from testing the heat of a serrano pepper, I’m draining chilled vermicelli using a mesh splatter guard (see photo for vegetable prep). To my awe and amazement, the rice paper holds, and my improvised summer salad roll recipe proves to be quick and easy (see assembly instructions below – my apologies for the white plate!), healthy, and delicious – even to my Viking! Next time you’re lost in the grocery store, why not escape your own routine and go Anthony Bourdain – ing…

Note: Store bought peanut satay sauce shown in photo. But you can also jazz up your dipping by mixing together 2-3 parts soy sauce, 1 part peanut satay sauce, 1-2 drops sesame oil, and a few drops of Sriracha hot sauce.

How to incorporate air purifying plants into an office environment

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Plants are an excellent way to improve the air quality in your office. Spider plants offer exceptional purification properties. Of course, you can always take things one step farther into the jungle and create a greenery curtain in your office doorway. Anything to bring more of a barrier between your humanity and the industrial hum of the cubicle wasteland beyond.

Although I do have to warn you, explaining to a befuddled coworker why you’re bushwhacking through spider plant foliage to escape for lunch can be a little awkward – as I found out first hand last week! Click Here to learn more about the Blank Canvas Sampler. And if you’re curious about the font in the illustration above, Click Here.

Blank Canvas Thinkers: Robert Ludlum quote about writing for an audience

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When Robert Ludlum turned 40, he went rogue. Not an easy age for any man, Ludlum’s crisis was compounded by the ugly realization that he could no longer support his family through his theatre work. What happens when doing what you love won’t pay the bills? Deep, unremitting, soul crushing despair, and then you move on; most to a staid mediocrity within the system, but some, like our hero Ludlum, just say ‘to hell with it’ and pick up a pen – because writing is so much more lucrative than acting… suuure. When he told his wife he’d been thinking about writing for a living, her response was this: “You’re either going to try it or you’re going to regret (not trying) it for the rest of your life.”

The man gave it his all – how could he not with such saintly support? Just imagine them lying together in the dark, both stressing about money, and he rolls over and suggests writing as a solution – miracle she didn’t smother him out on the spot! But she must have known the secret, his edge in an age of self indulgent novelists, that a true entertainer can work his craft in any medium. And so, like his best known literary creation, Jason Bourne, Ludlum used the skills, talents, and training of his past life to find a new creative identity within a different world.

Click Here to watch an excellent short biographical documentary on Robert Ludlum… bestselling author, master of suspense, chronicler of heroes, and one of the luckiest husbands in human history.

When what to wear to work becomes a military operation – A Che Guevara-ette personal style experiment

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“What the hell are you wearing?” asks Doctor C, catching me in an embarrassingly macho pose in the elevator this morning.

“I don’t even know,” I say, blushing. “I was feeling kind of militant this morning so I figured I’d just go with it.”

“Nice cape. Do you think your boss is going to let you wear that hat all day?” She presses the button for her 10th floor Blank Canvas Living offices. My fate holds me on the 6th floor, rolling paper for geophysicists and dreaming about a creative future. My button’s red glow is as mocking as the smirk on Doctor C’s neon-coral lips.

“It’s actually a scarf,” I point out, ignoring her tone. “I knit it myself a few years ago, and I’m going to have to be strategic about the hat. It completes the whole Che Guevara-ette look – and the necklace adds some class.”

I see her trying to hold it in, but she breaks out laughing. “Because you’re the very picture of a classy lady right now!”

“Whatever. Life’s too short to stick to the script. I don’t care if I get in trouble. I just want to feel something when I get dressed. I can’t hide in my head anymore. I need to wear who I am, you know, honour my mood and story of the day. And you know what else? I feel like I could kick some serious ass wearing these pants. I stand differently. I walk differently. All I want to do is to climb a tree in some deep dark Bolivian forest and start scouting for a revolution- ”

“Woah there tiger,” Doctor C interrupts my tirade. “All this from wearer of the infamous ugly pants?”

“We burned those bastards! Look what you started!”

She rolls her eyes and swings her long white braid from one shoulder to the other. “If you’re in the mood for war, girl, you really need to come upstairs and do a ‘tour’ in our West corner restroom.”

The 6th floor button winks out and the elevator doors open, but I’m too curious to get off. I leave the script and stay on board for whatever adventure is waiting for me on the 10th.

This is a Story Thread post – Click to read more…

Blank Canvas Sampler: A new species of Urban Anas to add to the genus of dabbling ducks

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Historically, samplers began as a way to record and collect needlework stitches and patterns for future use and adaptation. When a needlewoman saw a new or intriguing piece of stitching, she would quickly sew a copy onto a piece of cloth. These samplers evolved organically over a lifetime, the patterns spreading outwards with the deceptive randomization of fractals, as the needlewoman’s collection grew in variation, texture, and complexity.

After borders and alphabets were added in the 17th century, along with religious and moral verses, samplers became more deliberate, organized, and methodical. No longer a collection of tactile experiences, samplers became a showcase for skill and were taught to young girls as a “sign of virtue, achievement, and industry”.

Sound familiar? Our 21st century culture celebrates those who channel their energies into ‘profitable communication’. Everything we do has become a demonstration of skill, rather than a collection of knowledge and experience. But humans are not efficient, or perfect. Our stitches are brushstrokes, not pixels. When we allow our hands to record our world, a new honesty surfaces in our observations. The Blank Canvas Sampler is a collection of true life images and people, overheard tidbits and cultural commentary. Let’s bring the sampler, and our lives, back to their root humanity.

Click here to discover the Blank Canvas Sampler

Note: This matching winter morning couple made last Friday’s walk to work feel a little less like a walk to work

Famous Valentines: Quotes about Virginia Woolf by her husband Leonard Woolf

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Virginia Woolf, a prototypical Blank Canvas Thinker, and self proclaimed “explorer” from birth, found in her husband, Leonard, a patient motivator who loved her with an understanding and forgiveness that speaks of a joining of two souls on a level beyond most modern concepts of marriage. While Virginia innovated the novel form with stream of consciousness and progressive female-centric values, Leonard set up Hogarth press in their Richmond house, both to publish his wife’s work and as a way to finance her literary explorations. When the interviewer in this wonderful youtube snippit asks Leonard why he stopped writing his own fiction, Leonard replies in what may sound to some a simple practicality; but coming from a man worthy of mental partnership with one of the most creative intellectuals of the 20th century, his answer, “one of us had to give it up,” (delivered surprisingly matter-of-fact) is heart-wrenchingly poetic.

On his wife’s genius…
“She had a combination of imagination and intelligence which is extremely rare, I think.”

On his wife’s magic…
“Every now and then, she would do what I call ‘leave the ground’ and give the most fantastic account of a perfectly ordinary thing which had happened or which she’d seen.”

On his wife being (occasionally) the object of ridicule…
“She dressed, I think, very beautifully, but rather unlike most people – and walked about in this curious way.”

Many scholars consider Virginia’s 1941 river suicide a sacrifice for love, to save Leonard from further anguish. But why don’t they understand – why didn’t Virginia understand – that any man who would chose to put on hold the chance at his own greatness for the woman who needed all of him, would have (with that same matter-of-fact grace) spent the last of his strength dragging her back up on to shore. For his true greatness will always be in helping his wife endure hers.

How to take workplace safety into your own hands

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When you commit to the evolution of an idea, leave your ego at the door. The best self-editing, whether in writing or design, usually involves taking what you thought was shear mind-blowing brilliance, and tossing it straight out the window. Creative problem solving is all about trial and error, either performed mentally, or, as in this case, getting your hands dirty in real world testing.

This polymath has no Medici patron. As I explore Blank Canvas Living and work within the medium to develop a new way to tell a story using Story Thread Posts, I earn my creative freedom in a rather bizarre, yet beautifully brain preserving, way – rolling paper. Literally. I spend my 9-5s rolling epic seismic printouts, and when occasion calls for it, folding them. When our new set of wide-format printers came online, I went rollin…’ rollin…’ rollin’… along as usual, but when I stopped my palms and fingertips were black with toner! Sure, my version of coal dust is (probably? hopefully?) only vaguely toxic, but I couldn’t believe the engineers had overlooked the long term health of everyone using their products. The fact that these are the same minds currently slaving away on artificial intelligence is even more horrifying. ‘Slaving’ being the operative word. But anyways…

Protective Glove Criteria:
-full barrier (most critical at rolling contact points)
-easy on and off
-breathable
-dexterous grip
-replaceable and/or washable

Latex was instant clammy hell. Garden gloves compromised dexterity. Everything was either too thick or too porous, or made my skin react. Cheap knit gloves worked best, but were still too porous at the contact points. I tried doubling them up, which worked at first, but made my fingers stiff with strain (a very odd sensation). I used a strip of tape to block the most stretched palm pores, then I had the exquisite, genius idea to impregnate the contact points with white glue. This proved effective, but was bulky and its texture rubbed off even more toner.

So, grudgingly, I chucked the genius and went for taped fingers (open at the back) and a T shaped palm covering. The solution is easily replaceable (to prevent the fibers from collecting too much toner dust), easy on and off, and doesn’t compromise my grip or dexterity. Is it the best solution? Ask my doctor in fifty years. But by then A.I. will have taken over and we’ll have some new version of coal dust to panic about – you’ll find my opinion (in pink) about that directly below.

How to turn your morning commute into an impromptu S&M adventure

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I find Doctor C waiting for me when I get into the office this morning. Our receptionist appears utterly entranced by my friend’s glowing – today it’s coral – smile.

“I was thinking about what you did to do those dishes,” says Doctor C (I’d told her about my trick during one of our elevator chats), “and it gave me an idea for another assignment – if you’re interested.”

As if she has to ask! We step into the hall and she gives me the details. She wants me to use my storying technique to give a Blank Canvas Living client a new perspective on her grueling daily commute. And since it’s the same client who was thrilled with my bondage themed sketchbook cover design, I know exactly what angle to take…

*********************

Transit. Transition. How do you measure the space between A and B? Time. And we only have so much. Why devalue these precious minutes by dragging A and B closer together with handheld distractions? Are we really so terrified of giving up control and letting our senses direct our attentions? What happens when we submit to the moment?

The bus hits gridlock at 7th Ave and 4th Street. Ms M despairs. Her toes are already tingling painfully, pinched between the black leather straps of her high heels. It’s hell mornings like this one when she’s almost tempted to wear runners to the office – almost. What’s the point of trying to looking sexy when every other head is bent in reverence over tiny bright screens? They’ve chosen their distractions, and she, even with her stellar legs, apparently can’t compete with wi-fi access.

The bus jerks forward and Ms M teeters dangerously. She reaches across the aisle and grabs onto a second rubber strap handhold to center herself. She knows people don’t usually double up like this, but then again, people don’t usually wear 5 inch heels on public transit. The spread eagle position makes her feel immediately conspicuous, but no one looks up. She reaches both hands through the loops and twists her wrists to wrap the rubber tight to reduce the play. May as well go all the way, she figures, and lets her fingers hang free, her new handcuffs keeping her stable. The bus jerks again, with surprising violence. Pain shoots through her shoulders and she glares at the driver in his rearview mirror.

He’s smiling at her wickedly. Bastard! But then she realizes why. She’s locked herself into an impromptu S&M session and now he’s the one taking it all the way. Ms M feels her face flushing bright red. The other passengers, with their sensible shoes and iphones, disappear. The driver winks at her and she grins back. Her pinched toes become part of the game. She bends her knees to give over control of her body to the mercies of the driver. He pumps the gas and jams the brakes, taking obvious delight in watching her reactions.

The other passengers begin to look up to see what’s changed. Then the bus stops too quick, dead. The driver’s face goes white in the mirror. He’s hit the car in front.

This is a Story Thread post – Click to read more…

Blank Canvas Thinkers: Karl Lagerfeld quotes about work/life balance and the perfect day

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While these quotes from Karl Lagerfeld’s ‘Karl on Karl’ interview will resonate with any deeply creative person, they highlight the contrast between the visionary and all the tiny French fingers, living between bonbons and pinpricks, that labour over his Chanel haute couture. These petites-mains bring his dreams into the physical, then wait quietly for him to come and tighten their work, until every hemline and seam echo his “will and discipline” – thereby achieving a certain perfection. His self direction must be respected, even admired, but can any man be called a genius when he has left no room in his philosophy for the regenerative chaos of love?