Like I said the other day, point-of-view is everything. And while flying isn’t my favorite way to travel, I absolutely love it when the weather is clear enough that I can see the landscape below. I love being able to draw the scene below like a map, and—especially in places I know well—follow along with the changing scenery, like reading a living atlas.
Sometimes one’s point of view can make or break a picture. The jury is still out on this one, as far as I’m concerned. This was such a weird vantage point for sketching—between the location high up on a hill, the wide-angle view of the rest of the porch, the water and ferry landing below, and the islands off in the distance, everything was just…odd. Unsettling. I spent a long time on this one, using every art-school trick I knew to check and re-check that my perspective was correct. It was…for the most part. But the drawing still feels like something M.C. Escher would have come up with.
Since I was thinking about examples of American ruins at the time, my plan was to head across town to sketch the remains of the old sand and gravel quarry at the site of the Chambers Bay golf course. But when I got there, the trail that leads to the ruins was closed while they set up for this year’s U.S. Open golf tournament.
I’m no expert on golf, but it’s been fun to learn more about the Chambers Bay course in the run-up to the event. The course is both public and brand new—just eight years old—which makes it an unusual choice for the U.S. Open. But it’s an absolute marvel of design and difficulty. Chambers Bay is many times larger than a traditional Scottish links-style course; the combination of sheer size, rugged terrain, tricky fescue-and-heather landscaping, and the strong winds that sweep through the Tacoma Narrows make this course one of the most challenging and unpredictable in the entire world. Add to that the stunning panoramic views of Puget Sound and the islands, and it’s no wonder the USGA thought the world would want to feast their eyes on Chambers Bay.
The tournament opens on Monday, and thanks to the expensive tickets and the maelstrom of golfers, spectators, media and security descending upon my town, the likes of me won’t be able to get anywhere near Chambers Bay. But that’s okay—I got to have a front row seat for the transformation. When it’s all over, there won’t be any ruins left behind to commemorate the event—there won’t be any trace left at all. All the more reason to have the evidence recorded in my sketchbook.
Just across the Cascades from Mt. St. Helens, in the middle of all that Washington fruit…is apparently a California desert resort town. Or something.
At precisely 8:32 am local time, 35 years ago today, Mount Saint Helens erupted. I wasn’t around for it—I wasn’t even quite born yet. But I’ve had a thing for volcanoes ever since I moved to the Northwest, so St. Helens has never been far off my radar.
The funny thing is, it’s taken me years to get a decent sketch of it.
I visited the St. Helens for the first time just weeks after I moved to Washington, when I got to tag along on a geology trip. I was all excited to sketch at the top of Johnston Ridge, to peer down into the massive crater. This is what I saw:
Yep, welcome to the Pacific Northwest.
After that it became sort of a running gag. I kept trying to find a time to get back to Johnston Ridge—but it’s a trip that takes commitment, since it’s a very long drive, it’s not on the way to anything, and the mountain roads are closed for much of the year. On every day that might have worked out for my schedule, the weather was bad or the way impassable.
I did see St. Helens from a distance plenty of times, but even then it didn’t usually cooperate. More often than not, even on a bright sunny day, the volcano would be shrouded in its own private weather system.
So this year, I decided enough was enough. I cleared my calendar as best I could, and then just waited for a sunny day (at this time of year, one can wait a very long wait). Just a few days ago, the forecast offered up a perfect day—so I got up extra early and jumped in the car.
This time, St. Helens rewarded my effort. And as a bonus, I got there a full week before the tourist season starts, so I had the mountain entirely to myself, for a whole morning.
It’s entirely possible the mountain will erupt again in my lifetime. I dearly hope it won’t…but at least I have some good “before” documentation, just in case.
I’m not generally into bars, but the Northwest is full of vintage cocktail lounges that are often a hoot in the theme-decor department. The Peacock room at the Davenport Hotel might just take the kitsch cake. The stuffed albino bird and sensory-assaulting wallpaper greet you at the door, but that’s just the beginning. Not pictured: the peacock-feather Tiffany chandeliers and the giant stained-glass backlit peacock ceiling over the bar (hello, future return visit). Built in the nineteen-teens, it was the sort of jazz-era place where our lack of flapper dresses and cloche hats made us feel underdressed. So the only thing to do was order a Sidecar and raise a toast to the previous century.
Remember my post about Mary Lou’s Milk Bottle? Well, it might be the best giant milk bottle in Spokane, but it’s not the only one. Built in the 1930s, the bottles served as neighborhood satellite stores (read: ducks!) for the Benewah Dairy Company. After Benewah folded in 1972, the bottles came to serve different purposes. This one might not be as fun or picturesque as Mary Lou’s—in fact, it’s downright head-scratching that it now holds a chimney masonry business. But it the end, that doesn’t matter: I’m just glad there are still two giant milk bottles in Spokane, and that they’re both being lovingly cared for.
Note: I think this might be a first on this blog—showing you a drawing I did only in (gasp!) pencil. But the night I did this sketch, I only had a regular notebook with me, and I needed to work fast—there wasn’t time to dig around in my bag for a pen, so I reached for the stubby sushi-menu pencil. Hey, whatever works, right?
I did this sketch more than a year before I moved to the Northwest. I was in town for a vacation, and a friend took me for omakase (a chef’s choice meal) at Seattle’s famous sushi restaurant, Shiro’s. Shiro Kashiba emigrated from Japan in the middle of the 20th century, and spent decades honing his craft in Seattle as a chef. When he opened Shiro’s in 1994, he was a pioneer: long before the sustainable food movement swept the country, he built his business around specializing in local, responsibly-harvested fish. The notion made him famous, and made his restaurant a Seattle icon.
I had been told Shiro rarely came in anymore, but I was just excited to be there, and to have local Northwest fish prepared in a hyper-traditional Japanese method. But I got lucky on that first visit: the man himself prepared and served our meal. That night was so special: my first visit to Seattle, a lovely evening with a friend, and an unforgettable meal made by a master chef—who was in point-blank sketching range. It was my version of a scrapbook moment.
Now that I live here, I still pop into Shiro’s on occasion—usually when a guest is visiting from out of town. I’ve been lucky a few more times since that first night, and have caught a glimpse of Shiro on several occasions (though never in the same way as I did eight years ago). One time I even took a moment to do a follow-up sketch while he was working behind the counter. It was as fun to observe the folks at the sushi bar as it was to watch the chef—I imagined they felt like I did on my first visit.
After 20 years, Shiro “retired” from his namesake in 2014, but rumor has it he’ll be back this summer with a new eatery in the Pike Place Market. I think it’s a safe bet I’ll be there—chopsticks in one hand, sketchbook in another.
Unlike Monday’s mystery door, this is a door through which I pass so often, it’s become routine. I know this place so well that I took it for granted, barely noticing the beautiful detailing around the entryway.
Well, a sketchbook is a good cure for that—there’s no better way to appreciate something than to spend an hour peering closely at it.
When I’m on the hunt for tasty sketch compositions, I tend to be attracted to repeating elements. Usually this happens with architectural details like identical rowhouses or gothic archways. Sometimes, though, it comes in the form of breakfast—with humble slices of bacon arranged in a pretty patterned row.
Hope your weekend is full of quiet, sketch-worthy moments!