Yet another addition to the van Gogh list

It's been a while since I added someone to the van Gogh list, but I feel like this one's important.

Sir Paul McCartney
(publicity photo taken 1963, photographer unknown)

Yes, I know it's an old photo. But this man has steadily been writing and performing great music since the early '60s. He's nearly 80 at the time of this writing and is still going strong -- in fact, he's on tour right now. His work with the Beatles, his collaborations with other singers, and his solo projects are excellent, lyrical, sometimes heartbreaking in their beauty, and to my way of thinking he wrote and performed some of the best songs of the 20th century. I'll probably never get to see him in concert, but I feel very fortunate that our lives on this planet happened to overlap in time.

(Oh, and if you do happen to catch him in concert? Let me know how it went! I will try to keep my envy down to a dull roar.)

Another van Gogh list addendum (about time, too!)

Since I just discussed it recently, I'd rather not focus on this overmuch today.

So instead, it's time for a long-overdue addition to the van Gogh list!

Marie Cummings

(photo credit: Marie Cummings)

Marie became a good friend almost immediately after Captain Midnight and I first moved to Washington. She and her husband Rob have remained our friends through frequent moves, a joint attempt at a business venture that unfortunately turned toxic near the end, all sorts of personal and family ups and downs, and subjection to many, many Holiday Hollers. She's been gracious in her willingness to wear-test new Cosmic Fun Palace designs, and a tenaciously loyal reader of this and the Remedial Adulthood blogs. Marie is strong, compassionate, thoughtful, kind, has a great eye for interior design and a fun sense of humor. Plus she's raised two spectacular boys, was part of an award-winning ballroom dance team and knows how to play the piccolo -- not too shabby! A native of sunny Nevada, she somehow makes it through the gray, drizzly autumns, winters and springs of the Pacific Northwet with her sanity mostly intact (though rumors come to us that she may soon be moving to sunnier climes).

(Sorry I didn't ask permission to use your picture, Marie. I wanted it to be a surprise!)

An addition to the van Gogh list

Earlier this year I first floated the idea of the van Gogh list -- creating a list of living people whose contributions to the world you especially appreciate, so they can be aware of the positive influence they have been in others' lives.  Sadly, my personal van Gogh list has been diminished with the passing of Ray Bradbury, and today it occurred to me that another person should be added to the list (actually, several other people should be on the list, but all in good time).

Here's the newest entry:

Gerald McDermott

(photo credit: author's website)

I come from a family of readers, but also from a family of artists and illustrators.  The practical upshot of this was that my siblings and I devoured picture books when we were children -- and we favored books with illustrations so colorful and richly detailed as to be a feast for the eyes.  There were many favorites around our house -- Baba Yaga by Blair Lent, The Blue Bird by Fiona French, Strega Nona by Tomie dePaola, and all manner of titles by Ed Emberley, Richard Scarry, Mercer Mayer, Maurice Sendak, Arnold Lobel and Trina Schart Hyman -- but my favorite picture book as a child, bar none, was Anansi the Spider by Gerald McDermott.  If you grew up in the 1970s, there's a good chance you read one of Mr. McDermott's books, saw at least one of his short animated films in school, or watched one of several short pieces he made for the PBS television series The Electric Company.  Mr. McDermott started his career as an animator, and his illustrations -- especially in his earliest books, such as Anansi, which were adapted from the short films he created -- reflect a strong animation aesthetic, with highly geometric character designs, often supersaturated with color and with a distinct sense of movement.  His work is visually unique, it is respectful of folk tradition, and it is beautiful.

Never seen one of his films before?  Well, then, here's your chance (thanks, YouTube!):

The children's book section of our family library is full of McDermott titles picked up over the years. I only wish someone would remaster all his short films -- The Stonecutter, Sun Flight, Anansi the Spider, The Magic Tree, Arrow to the Sun -- and some of his Electric Company shorts, and put them all on one DVD. I'd buy that thing so fast it'd make your head spin.

NOTE: I am very sorry to report that Gerald McDermott passed away on December 26, 2012 at the age of 71.

The First Day

He woke and for no particular reason he thought, First day of summer vacation, and it electrified him.  Sun's up, school's out, sweet green stick-candy summer ahead, what are you doing lying in bed?  Up, Ray, UP!  And he was up -- before he had time to think of the chair, of the medicines, of favoring his right side -- up and alert in a way he hadn't been since he was twelve years old and waking up in the room at the top of the old house in Waukegan.

He was on his feet, turning in a graceful circle, feeling the newness in him in a thousand tiny ways and trying to think, what was it?  And then the first impact: the pain was gone.  For the last thirty years he'd worn pain like a sewn-in straitjacket, every day and every day and every day, until he had forgotten what being without it was like, and now it was as though he'd entered a beautifully appointed new club and the valet had said, May I take your coat, sir? and lifted it smoothly from his shoulders.  He felt like replying, You might as well keep it, I don't need it, it's SUMMER, for crying out loud, I don't even know why I was wearing the damn thing in the first place--

And there was a face he knew.  It was a face, he realized, that had been there the whole time, simply waiting for Ray to take notice.  Not the way he'd last seen him, with the face in broken lines and the hair white and the owlish glasses and the bow tie, but the dark-haired young man with the fox-lipped grin who carried a pencil with him at all times because, hey, you never know, right?

"Chuck?" he murmured.  "Chuck, you fourteen-year-old kid, is that really you?"

"Ray, you nutty maroon, is that you?"

And they laughed and met and hollered and embraced and bashed each other on the back almost as though they hadn't seen each other in ten years, but of course it couldn't have been that long, they were both young and strong and in fighting trim and it was the first real day of summer, and Chuck was in high spirits.  "Come on, Ray, I've been waiting for you!  There's so much to do!"

But something that was niggling at the back of Ray's head made him stop.  "Chuck," he said slowly, "I know what you're going to think, but didn't you... I mean, weren't you..."

"Dead?" said Chuck shortly, like a pellet from a paint gun, and laughed.  "Yeah, but I got over it."

Ray turned.  "But then, doesn't that mean...?"

Chuck turned him around by one shoulder.  "Ray," he said, more gently now, "you can go back there if you want, and see the chrysalis you left behind, the old snakeskin you just shed.  But it's not going to make you feel any better or change anything that's happened.  Take my advice.  Just walk away and don't look back."

And at first they walked slowly together, these two young men, with nothing much to say to each other at first because it was a fine bright hot summer day and there was so much to see.  Ray thought he'd never really been able to see before, not colors like this, not even when he was young -- so sweetly saturated he thought he'd drown in them.

And the smells!  The impossible green scent of fresh-cut grass fountaining up from behind the push mower, the mysterious cross-pollinations of spices from five continents wafting from the kitchen window, the secret full ripe juicy nectarine smell of the young woman passing by -- everything, everything ambrosial and astonishing.  He couldn't be dead now, because he'd never really been alive, not like this.

"Chuck," he said, almost to himself.  "If we're dead, then... then what is this?"

"This?  This is Green Town.  Maybe we'll go out to the far end of town, past the ravine, and see the Elliotts.  We could walk out to the place where the Dark Carnival is visiting.  Later we'll fly to Mars and see Mr. Aaa."  He shrugged.  "Or if you like, we could drop in at the House of Usher, or go to Oz... it's really up to you."

"So all these things are real?"

"They always were real, Ray.  You know that."

Ray smiled.  "Yeah, come to think of it.  But... if I'm dead, then..." He raised a hand and looked at it curiously.

Chuck laughed again, slapped him on the shoulder.  "Conservation of mass, man!  Don't you remember your high school chemistry?  Matter can neither be created nor destroyed, only transformed.  Yesterday your body was filled with something that talked and thought and loved and told stories.  You don't stop being you just because you left the body behind."  Then a puckish grin crossed his mouth.  "Speaking of leaving a body behind..." he murmured, then he suddenly tapped Ray, yelled, "TAG, you're it!" and tore off, literally so fast he left dust clouds in his wake.

Ray laughed -- and ran.  For such a long time he hadn't even been able to walk, and now he RAN -- faster than wind, faster than sound, faster even than Douglas tearing around Green Town in the Royal Crown Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot tennis shoes he'd sweet-talked Mr. Sanderson into letting him take from the store.  Lightning stood still to watch him pass.  He skimmed the earth, jumped whole city blocks, running riotously after Chuck, who was yelling "BEEP BEEP!" back at him and giggling like a lunatic.

It might have been five minutes or five thousand years -- who could tell? -- before Ray put on a sudden burst of speed and lunged at Chuck, and the two went rolling end over teakettle and came to a sudden stop under an apple tree, laughing long and helplessly at their own silliness.

"Aw, man," said Ray, sitting up on his elbows after a while.  "Who else is here?"

"Oh, everybody," said Chuck.  "You'll see them.  Ted showed up for me when I was ready.  He's probably even written a poem for you... well, assuming he's stopped shouting at Hollywood for screwing up his Lorax.  You know how he is.  Bob Heinlein's around here somewhere... just follow the storm of gorgeous creatures and you'll probably find him in the eye of it.  And Forry's been here a while, gathering signatures."  He smiled.  "Shakespeare's here, and Poe, and Lovecraft, and Yeats, and Sam Clemens.  Maggie's here, too -- your mom and dad, your family -- everybody, really, everybody.  You don't ever lose people here, Ray; you find them again."

"So this is heaven, then."

"I don't know what else you'd want to call it."

Ray leaned back in the shade of the tree, just drinking in the scent of ripening summer apple.  He was eager to see everyone, especially Maggie, but it occurred to him that there was, at last, plenty of time to enjoy whatever the present moment brought him. "What have you been doing with yourself, Chuck?" he asked.  "Since last we parted, and all."

"Amazing things," said Chuck softly.  "Amazing things.  Remember how I used to say that animation is life?  Forget it.  I didn't know what I was talking about.  Ahh, the things I want to show you, Ray!  The things you'll see!"

"And the places you'll go!  You're starting to sound like Ted," Ray chuckled.

"The poetry does kind of rub off on you after a while," Chuck admitted.

"So Ted is still writing.  I always wondered if I'd be able to keep writing here."

"Like anything would stop you.  And the things you write... well, you can see for yourself."  Chuck gestured at his immediate surroundings.

Ray looked up, through the branches of the tree, and through and past those branches he saw four very forlorn pairs of eyes staring back at him.  "This may be a stupid thing to ask, if I'm in heaven," he said.  "But... did I make the best of my life?  Did I do everything I was supposed to do?"

Chuck was silent for a long time, pensive.  "You were always the one who was good with words," he said.  "I was always better with pictures.  Here."  And he reached around the side of the tree and brought out a sketchpad, pulled the pencil from his pocket and began to draw, swiftly and with ease.

"Ever wonder why they named you Ray?" he asked, as he began to draw a campfire in the darkness, and on the page it began to flicker of its own accord, to glow and to throw out coals and hundreds of sparks.  "Because your job was to open the shutters and let the light in so other people could see it for themselves.  And I think you did that, Ray, many times over."  The campfire grew.  It became a huge burning conflagration of a book that would guard the other sparks, and keep them from being blown out for a long, long time to come.

Now a young man with the huge, expressive eyes Chuck so loved to draw was walking along a nearby path, and saw the fire, and sat down to warm himself at it.  By its light he looked up, and he saw the stars -- really saw them, for the first time, and wondered.  And the spark that was in the young man grew, warmed by the fire and the other sparks into lights that would beat back the darkness -- never extinguish it, no, because Ray knew as well as anyone that Man needs to have a little darkness -- but send it to a place where it could only come forth when it was bidden.  And the world glowed a little brighter every day.

Ray sat and looked through the window Chuck had drawn for him.  "Was it enough?" he asked finally.  "Will it last?"

"That remains to be seen," said Chuck, "for both of us.  But I think it will."  He turned the paper toward Ray.  "Here," he said.  "Make a wish and blow."

And Ray took a deep breath and made the same wish he'd always wished, and blew with all his might, and the paper fire blazed up mightily and the sparks danced and glowed, filled and roused with the influx of his spirit.

"That oughtta hold it for a while," he said.  "Now.  To Mars?"

Chuck put the sketchbook aside, rose to his feet.  "Hell, why not.  To Mars!"

And because they felt like it, they spread wide Icarus wings and flew -- straight up, up, past clouds and air into the silken firmament of space, into the domain where may be found the golden apples of the sun, and it was the finest and fairest of summer days, with a party waiting for them on the planet just next door.

--for Ray Douglas Bradbury, 1920-2012
and with a hat tip to Chuck Jones, 1912-2002

My own van Gogh list

OK, as promised, here's my first crack at a van Gogh list. I've winnowed it down to 20 people, mostly to keep from trying your patience -- it could have been much longer. This list contains all manner of folk: teachers, writers, actors, artists, comedians, kindred spirits. Some of them you may recognize; others you probably won't. All are, to my way of thinking, amazing in some way -- and sometimes in several ways.

If you feel inclined, you are certainly encouraged to make your own van Gogh list -- but first, a few rules of engagement:

1) No family members. If your folks don't already know how awesome you think they are, quit being a dirtbag and go tell 'em so. (Right now, if necessary. I'll wait.)
2) No dead people. Do your best to make sure the people on your list are still kicking, at least at time of publication; the point of this exercise is to show appreciation for the living.
3) No deities, please. I'm religious myself and have no problems with worship, but that's what prayer is for. This list is for mere mortals.
4) No fictional characters. Even if Frodo Baggins does seem more real to you than your co-workers, he doesn't really care what you have to say about him. Sorry.

That's about all the caveats I can think of... so now, on to




Soozcat's van Gogh List

(in alphabetical order by surname because, hey, blessed rage for order, pale Ramón!)

Ray Bradbury
(photo credit: Alan Light, Creative Commons)

There are many reasons to idolize Ray Bradbury. Of course, there's his fiction -- he is principally a master of the short story, and his Martian tales, Elliott family stories, and idealized youth experiences bound together as Dandelion Wine are like delicious live coals in the brain, glowing with life and full of burning poetry. On a personal note, I'm indebted to Ray Bradbury for revealing that authors actually get paid to write; after this epiphany, which came around age 11, my fate was pretty much sealed. At the time of this writing Mr. Bradbury is coming up on 92 years, but I fully expect him to live forever, just as Mr. Electrico once promised.
ETA: Mr. Bradbury passed away on 5 June 2012, some 4 months after this list was composed.

Wesley B. Carter
(photo credit: Mark Snyder)

Wes is one of my longest-running friends. We met in high school, where we did a lot of walking and talking, hanging out, goofing off, stealing flowers from public places in the middle of the night, swapping books and wondering aloud about various mental mysteries. Wes is talented at nearly everything he sets his mind to doing, whether it's painting, drawing, costuming, ornamental horticulture, gourmet cooking or crochet. He has that mellifluous talent, rare among friends, of being able to pick up more or less where we left off; no matter how long it's been since we last spoke, within five minutes it seems like it's been no time at all. He has not forgotten the dying art of the handwritten letter. In addition to being thoughtful, he's also extremely loyal and forgiving of past injuries, including one that would have destroyed a lesser friendship. (Plus he is secretly Harry Potter.)

Tara Larsen Chang
(photo credit: Tara Larsen Chang)

First and foremost, Tara was a good friend and kindred spirit. Over time I discovered, through the many little handmade gifts and notes she tends to share so generously, that she was also a talented artist and illustrator. She is constantly seeking to improve her talents, has a gift for growing things, a knack for finding the most magical hidden nooks and crannies in a city or town, and (as can be observed in the photo above) shares my enthusiasm for all things steampunk.

Annie Dillard
(photo credit: Phyllis Rose)

If you don't think the essay format can match or beat fiction for intensity, read A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Annie Dillard neatly demonstrates that the power of a specific genre is subservient to an individual author's talent for storytelling. I admire her writing not just for its attention to detail, but for her ability to choose precisely the right detail for the story, and she proves that writing about everyday life observation can be mind-blowing.

Fen Eatough
(photo credit: Mitch Eatough)

I've known Fen longer than I've known my husband; it was, in fact, thanks to Fen's BBS that I met Captain Midnight in the first place. She's a talented writer, a voracious reader, fun-loving, thoughtful, generous of spirit, fond of pointing out the surreal in everyday life, unabashedly passionate about the things she loves, and one of my most loyal friends. My family considers her and her hubby to be extended family (Miss V regularly refers to Mitch as "my favorite uncle"), which almost knocks her off this list thanks to Rule #1.

David Lance Goines
(photo credit: David Lance Goines)

The legitimate successor to Alphonse Mucha, William Morris, Charles Rennie Mackintosh and the Japanese woodblock printers (not to mention the owner and maintainer of an epic 'stache), David Goines demolishes the notion that there is or should be a definable line between fine art and illustration; his work proves by example that good illustration IS art. If you haven't looked up his poster work yet, best get crackin'.

Joel Grey
(publicity photo; photographer unknown)

Mr. Grey is a tremendously charismatic actor, singer and dancer. Just recently I discovered he's also a skilled photographer. (Next I expect to find out that he speaks fluent Swahili, paints in oils and plays the clarinet. What can this man NOT do?) He has successfully pulled off a wide range of characterizations from charming to chilling -- sometimes both charming and chilling at once. In my opinion, tragically underutilized by Hollywood since his creepily unforgettable performance in Cabaret won him an Oscar.

Jeffrey R. Holland
(photo credit: lds.org)

You probably won't know who this man is unless you happen to be a Mormon, but he deserves wider renown for his thoughtful writing, subtle humor and well-spoken commentary on religious topics. When he appears during LDS General Conference or as a speaker in other meetings, I tend to cheer aloud; his particular thought processes and his felicitous method of expressing them are second to none. Plus he and his wife Patricia used to put on a great set of tag-team talks known as "The Pat and Jeff Show" back when he was president of BYU.

James Lileks
(photo credit: unknown)

In top form, Mr. Lileks is hi-frickin'-larious; he has a gift for zeroing in on the odd, the random and the inexplicable in 20th century American pop culture and merrily toasting it from orbit. His weekday blog, The Bleat (which he denigrates as "dashed-off tripe"), is filled with nuggets of pop-culture trivia that infomaniacs like me eat up with a spoon, and his writing runs the gamut from hysterical to remarkably touching. Why this man isn't nationally known, when humorists far less funny than he have achieved household recognition, is frankly a modern mystery.

Carrie Ormsby
(photo credit: Carrie Ormsby)

Carrie and I met in college, before she started dating her Mr. Wonderful. We quickly discovered we were kindred spirits. Carrie shares a love for good movies and good books, is a fantastic cook, has a beautiful singing voice, and has the generosity of spirit to share her gifts with others. In the past few years she has returned to school and is preparing to astound the world as a speech language pathologist. Like Fen, she also runs the ragged edge of being disqualified from the van Gogh list thanks to Rule #1, since Captain Midnight and I were deemed worthy to be adopted into the Ormsby family many years ago.

Gretel Parker
(photo credit: Andy Macauley)

This blog is titled "Confessions of a Laundry Faerie" because I needed a public blog to join the Society of Secret Fairies, a short-lived but wonderful experiment in mysterious gift-giving, back in 2006. One of my first SOSF parcel exchanges was with Gretel, an English artist living in the Cotswolds. In addition to her evocative, melancholy paintings of well-loved and forgotten toys, Gretel creates beautiful paper-cut cards and limited-edition prints, takes wonderful photos of her neck of the woods, and maintains a couple of great slice-of-life blogs. She's also become known for her handmade needle-felted toys, one of which appears in the photo above. Gretel kindly encouraged this blog when it was new. We got to chatting back and forth in email, and when Captain Midnight and I finally went to England we took a day trip to visit her and Andy. It was easily the highlight of our stay. I'm so pleased to have discovered her work, and I'm proud to call her a friend.

J.K. Rowling
(photo credit: Steven J. Hill, Creative Commons)

Do you really need me to explain why I think this woman is amazing? Have you been living in a cave since 1997?

Jenny Ruhl
(photo credit: Jenny Ruhl)

We don't know each other, but this woman has quite possibly saved my life.
Diabetes is our family curse. Complications from type 2 diabetes killed my maternal aunt at age 53, and have done serious damage to my mother's health. Last year the disease finally caught up to me. Days after I was diagnosed, I discovered Ms. Ruhl's website, Blood Sugar 101: What They Don't Tell You About Diabetes. Her analysis of numerous diabetic research studies, ability to point out the difference between studies with good and bad methodology, and patient work accreting the experiences of hundreds of diabetics online have helped many people stay as healthy as possible with a chronic, incurable disease. (After reading the site, and on the advice of my doctor, I took a diabetic nutrition class; when the nurse handed out bad information about "healthy" blood sugar numbers, I immediately called her on it. To her credit, she admitted I was correct.) Thanks wholly to Ms. Ruhl's advice about eating to one's blood monitor, I've kept my A1Cs in non-diabetic ranges since shortly after I was diagnosed. If you are diabetic, go ye and do likewise.

Michael Rutter
(photo credit: Michael Rutter)

I tend to quote randomly from poems (including Wallace Stevens' "The Idea of Order at Key West") thanks to Mr. Rutter, the creative writing teacher at Provo High School -- though his class really should have been titled Poetry Appreciation. He had a reputation among the students for being crazily intense, so that on my first day of class I was a little cowed by him -- but that passed. Through example he fostered a love for T.S. Eliot, W.B. Yeats and Wallace Stevens, a greater appreciation for Emily Dickinson, and he thoroughly cemented in our heads the notion that you must divorce your writing from your ego if you ever want to rise above mediocrity as a writer. And during a time when I needed encouragement in most areas of life, he told me he believed I had a future career in writing. Thanks, Rutter.

Jon Schmidt
(photo credit: The Piano Guys)

As I've written before, there are many piano performers -- but this man is the only one I know of who truly plays the piano. I can't say that he makes it look easy; rather, his obvious enthusiasm makes the effort required to play at this level look worth it. (The image above is a still taken from a video where he's in the middle of performing a piece; that is the face of a man doing what he was born to do.) He and his cello-playing cohort Steven Sharp Nelson, along with the other members of The Piano Guys, are doing some amazing things on YouTube these days -- not least among which is proving the concept that an independent musician can make a decent living online without signing away distribution rights to his own work. You should go there. You should go there NOW.

Ms. Shore
(photo credit: school district photographer)

I wish I could give you more information about Ms. Shore, second grade teacher at El Monte Elementary in Concord, California circa 1976. She was the right teacher at the right time, probably for many of her students, but especially for me. I was a precocious, awkward six-year-old who had learned to read before I entered kindergarten and my teachers didn't really know what to do with me; during reading time, they usually punted me to the library, where I discovered plenty of great books but wasn't learning the social skills I so desperately needed. Ms. Shore, by contrast, took advantage of my early-reader status by getting me to peer-tutor other kids, excusing me from class to read aloud to the kindergartners ("...but Drummer Hoff fired it off!"), introducing me to the Chronicles of Narnia and encouraging me to write. I remember few specifics of the things I was taught in second grade, but I will always remember and appreciate the teacher who cared about me as a person and wanted me to succeed. Sadly, she's the only person on this list I haven't been able to find online; I imagine her surname has probably changed since the Bicentennial.

Linda Stuurman
(photo credit: unknown tourists)

You know Linda pretty much had to be on the van Gogh list, as she is Dutch by birth. (And as we know, you ain't much if you ain't Dutch.) I've only known Linda a few years, but in that time I've been continually impressed by her application of talent, her zest for challenges and her incredible drive to succeed. Linda can do hard things, and do them well. She has managed to keep more balls in the air than I would have thought possible, running a major fansite, holding down a job and earning a second bachelor's degree on a highly compressed schedule all at once. She's also an ardent cyclist who will some day move to San Francisco to ride her bike all up and down its hills. I'm convinced she can do pretty much anything she sets her mind to doing.

Mack Wilberg
(photo credit: Pete Wright, Creative Commons)

If you've heard the Mormon Tabernacle Choir perform any time in the last few years, you've witnessed the handiwork of Mack Wilberg. His original compositions, inspiring arrangements of familiar hymns and songs, and powerful direction make the Choir what it is today. I've been a fan of his work since the late 1980s, when I used to sit way in the back of the class and listen to the BYU Men's Chorus practice, and he just keeps getting better. Plus, he seems to be on a one-man crusade to ensure that "Come, Thou Fount of Ev'ry Blessing" makes it back into the LDS Hymnal, based on his joyous arrangement (and the Choir's frequent performance) of this hymn.

Robin Williams
(publicity photo; photographer unknown)

Yeah, I've written about him before. If you think he only does wacky comedy, go see One Hour Photo. You will be thoroughly creeped out, yet unable to look away (and left wondering why this movie didn't get at least an Oscar nomination).
ETA: Robin Williams passed away August 11, 2014.

James L. Wright, Jr.
(photo credit: Marie Case Wright)

Jim is a man of many abilities, not the least of which is something I could never do in a million years: stand-up comedy. He's successfully done family-friendly routines before a clean and sober crowd -- one of the hardest groups to please in comedy -- and made them laugh. If anything he's even funnier in person, with a wit that tends to manifest unexpectedly and send everyone into paroxysms of involuntary beverage snorting. His appreciation for Korean cuisine made me curious to try the food he once described as "not user friendly" (but soooooo gooooood, omnomnom). He's also a talented author, and I wish he had more time and inclination to write short stories; the reading public is missing out. And, of course, he's a good friend.

[IMAGE COPYRIGHT NOTE: Before posting this list, I made a good faith effort to obtain permission to use all photos strictly for illustrative purposes, or have used Creative Commons-licensed images; if you would like to create and illustrate your own van Gogh list, please do the right thing and get appropriate permission to use any copyrighted images. Also, I have no desire to violate anyone else's copyright -- so if I've inadvertently used your copyrighted photo above and you would like to be credited for it, or if you'd prefer to have it removed, please let me know.]

The van Gogh list

So I have a Twitter account. Most of the time I use it to shamelessly plug new items in my Etsy store or let people know that something's been posted here. While the preponderance of Tweets (including my own) are meaningless blather, Twitter is somewhat worth watching because it reveals where the public interest is focused at any given time.

Yesterday, a few days short of her 74th birthday, blues singer Etta James passed away of leukemia. Suddenly her name, and the names of songs she had sung, were plastered all over the Trending Topics list; people across the nation and the world mourned her passing in 140 characters or less. And as I looked over these many appreciative comments, I thought to myself, "Self, what is wrong with this picture?" Of course Etta James did have her fans and supporters during her lifetime, but isn't it sad to see people speaking so thoughtfully of her and publicly championing her music when she's no longer around to appreciate it? And Etta James is scarcely the only one. Why do people like Eva Cassidy, Emily Dickinson, or for that matter Stieg Larsson receive praise for their creative output only after they've left the building?

One of the ultimate artists to become larger than life after his death was Vincent van Gogh. His paintings have become so prized that in recent years people with more money than sense have been writing out certified checks to the order of Christie's or Sotheby's for CRAZYBATGUANOINSANE dollars just to own one, yet van Gogh himself lived in poverty and died in obscurity. As far as we know, he sold only a single painting during his lifetime. The millions that people are now willing to pay for his art do him little good, and his reported last words -- "The sadness will last forever" -- continue to haunt fans of his work.

You know what? That's not right. I think we ought to do something to fix that.

Much has been said in recent years about the "bucket list" -- a list of things you want to achieve in your lifetime before you kick the bucket -- but maybe we ought to consider making another kind of list. I'd call it the van Gogh list: a list of living people, whether famous or obscure, whose work you admire greatly and whose deaths you would feel most keenly. The way I figure it, if you appreciate these people, why not let them know now while they still have time to enjoy the kindness? Better to throw them a great party today than hold a great wake tomorrow.

Do I have a van Gogh list? You betcha.