How That Calamari Got To Your Plate (Part I)

They're late this year.

Usually the humongous schools of Loligo pealei, longfin squid, move inshore to feed for about four weeks between mid-April and mid-May, when the water is turning over. A second run takes place in mid-fall. But it seems that the one thing squid do with uncanny consistency is act erratically. So here we are in late May, and they've only just now waltzed in for the semi-annual coastline carnage.

The process of making calamari is a pretty involved one, if you do it the right way. That means freezing your nose off and losing several hours of sleep in pursuit of the raw material, and then cooking it fresh. The following is a brief illustrated guide to the fascinating diversion known locally, for lack of a more poetic term, as "squidding."

The Newport skyline

Calamari 101

Our tasty friend Loligo pealei is a ravenous pelagic carnivore. Its voracious appetite for smaller things gives us a handy advantage in finding schools. The principle is older than time: bait and wait.

The bait chapter reads thus: At sundown, halogen spotlights are pointed straight at the water, either from a boat or a pier. The light attracts microscopic organisms, which attract bigger bait, and so on in a whimsical game of fish-eat-fish until the primary squid fodder, in this case a massive ball of sand eels (Ammodytes americanus) moves in.

The bait has arrived.

At this point the rigs go in. A squidding jig looks at first glance like any old bass plug, but further inspection reveals at the tail end, in place of the usual treble hook, a ring of thirty or so barbless, needle-like claws. Two or three jigs, spaced on a leader about a foot apart with a sinker on the end, make up a rig. Here ends the long list of special equipment; the rig is attached to a regular old surfcasting rod, enough line is paid out to touch bottom, the bail is closed, and one can then commence to jigging.

Jigging, Art and Science: The Complete Guide

1. Lift the rod tip.

2. Drop the rod tip.

3. Repeat.

When (and if) a school moves in, things happen fast. The squid lay in wait below the school of baitfish, occasionally blasting straight through the writhing mass and into the thermosphere, but more often electing to forego the acrobatics and simply lurk until an unfortunate sand eel ventures too deep. Some think the vertical motion of the jigs perfectly simulates a one of these misplaced morsels; others are convinced the squid are simply reacting to an innate desire to grab and eat anything that moves; and still others contend that they're just pissed off at the incessant shiny, flashy, noisy things. The reason for any given lure's effectiveness is guaranteed to be a hot-button topic among fishermen worldwide. Whatever the case, when a squid decides to strike, it wraps its ten arms around the body of the jig, and finds itself unexpectedly caught on the needles. There is no fight to speak of most of the time; you pull in the line as fast as you can to avoid losing your wiggling quarry, usually getting squirted with large amounts of water and ink in the process, then grab the jig by the eye, turn it over, and Mr. Tentacles lets go and slides unceremoniously into the bucket.

Fwooosh-plop.

And once they start grabbing, they really start. It really is feast-or-famine fishing, except that the act described is more properly classified as molluscing. So it's better to go in groups; extra hands and heads are good for both the brief frenzies of activity and the long hours of ennui.

Light pollution from Thames St. and the bridge

And during these lengthy interludes one finds myriad ways of entertaining oneself, such as counting stars, pacing the deck, untangling rigs, picking one's nose, naming baitfish, singing squid songs, and impersonating squid (badly).

Phase 2: Cleaning Your Catch

(Very graphic manual dissection of squiggly beasties follows. Definitely not for those with a less-than-iron constitution)

Step 1: Grasp the now-very-dead bugger firmly by the mantle in the left hand.

Step 2: Insert the forefinger and thumb of the right hand into the jets, the open spaces between the body and the mantle. Separate the cartilage from the inner wall of the mantle. Hold the body firmly and pull.

Just slides right out.

Step 3: If you did it right, all the guts come out in one piece. There's not much holding your average squid together. Clean out any other bits that may be floating around inside the mantle.

A mess of insides.

Step 3a: Analyze the stomach contents (optional). This isn't really based at all in necessity, just morbid fascination. It's interesting, and sometimes even helpful, to see what the squid have been eating; in this case, sand eels.

Step 4: Remove the keratin. Squid have two hard parts: the beak and the transparent stiffening member that runs the length of the mantle. Again, it's just held together by cartilage. Git yer fingers in there, run them down the length of the mantle to separate, and extract.

Just pull that sucker right on outta there.

Looks like a glass stilletto.

Step 5: Skin the mantle. Pretty self-evident; just pull the skin off and toss it.

Step 6: Separate the tentacles. Also pretty simple; with a fillet knife, slice through the body just below the eye, being sure to remove the beak assembly, which comes out as a package, and discard along with the entrails.

Step 7: Rinse everything well in the sink, shake dry and toss in a ziploc bag. Wash your hands, which by now should be completely blackened by ink.

Slightly More Paint Than Before, But Not Yet Enough

Well, it's pretty self-explanatory, but for the sake of having a well-rounded entry, complete with narration: I've got almost the whole canvas covered now, and the very beginnings of wet-tarmac reflections are showing themselves. Some of the windows are framed, though they need to be brought into order; they're way out of control. After all the background is corrected I'll get to work blocking in the figures and 50A, and finish off the reflections. Again, excuse the poor off-angle shot-- Wet Paint.

A Bit More Paint

Didn't have as much time as I'd thought I would today, but I got in an hour or so this evening. Still trying to figure out this whole grand-scale thing--particularly the proper homogenization of value over the relatively broad areas--though after having a look at some of Annie's truly large stuff this evening (see http://www.anneblazejack.com/) am inclined to feel like a bit of a complainer. Please excuse the corrupt perspective; I was having trouble lighting properly as some of the paint is still wet.

En Garde!

As I stumbled about trying to get a decent shot with minimal glare, I knocked my brush cleaner off the table. It flipped once and landed with flourish more typical of a swashbuckler than a plastic cup, spilling only a couple of drops and ejecting a single #9 flat right at me. It's the little things that make life worth living.

Bowling Shoes: Not Just For Geeks Anymore

Some fabulous footwear

Went cosmic bowling last night. For the uninitiated, this means we go to the alley late at night, and all normal lighting is abandoned in favor of ultraviolet lamps and disco balls. The game is otherwise roughly similar to standard duckpin. Total ducks ended by my hand: 195.

Soupmaster, walking billboard for Bolie's Chowder Shack

Of course, I should probably tell you that it took three games over a period of two hours to accumulate that impressive tally. Turns out that I'm a much better exaggerator than a bowler. But you were swooning for a second there, weren't you?

Paint!

Quick update:

Been pretty busy outdoors, the weather having been as nice as it has. But I've been making sure to get as much time as I can in on this. And in doing so, I've crossed at last that most elusive of thresholds and gotten some paint on the canvas. This is so very exciting.


Above is the canvas, having finally been completely inked. I had some bugs to work out with the figures, which is what took most of that time. Well, I worked them out after two nights of serious figuring. And this afternoon when it was all done I started my tonal, in Burnt Umber and Titanium. I'm burning through paint at a terrifying rate; the size of the canvas (42" X 24") dictates that, I suppose. At this rate I may have to take out a mortgage to finish the thing...

So there's the beginning of something. Who's to say whether or not it's something great? But it sure as hell is something. And that's gotta be good for something. Or something.

Okay, I'm going to kill some cosmic ducks now.

Far too many excessive redundancies

Found this today. Thought it was simply too good to not post. Of course, you still have to turn your head to see it.

Below is a printed paper towel affixed to the inside of my cupboard.

Hit it, Bob!

One of these things is not like the others

One of these things just doesn't belong

Can you tell me which thing is not like the others

Before I finish singing this song?

Ba-bam! Take that, Bounty bear.

Something Tangible

Obviously, I've been tardy, and perhaps even lax, in posting. But what you are about to see is well worth the wait, readers.

Over the last couple of days I've lived in my studio. Not the actual last two days, which have been so unbelievably warm as to preclude my doing anything other than work the soil, but the two or three preceding. Most of the time was spent cleaning out the sector of largely unexplored basement that constitutes my studio. Several years' worth of storage boxes, furniture, sporting goods, dust and other assorted detritus had piled up, rendering the place nearly impenetrable. In the process I tripped and fell, hit my head, inhaled ungodly amounts of dust, discovered no less than three lost civilizations and grew a respectable, manly stubble.

Once that was all done, I sat down and sucked on the fruit of my labor for four or five minutes, and pretty shortly I decided it was really time to get cracking.

You see, I had cleaned out my studio for one reason. I mean, it's great to have a corner that's relatively private, out of all major traffic lanes, roomy, climate-controlled and sound-resistant. There is a spacious entrance, and a vast array of tools are within arm's reach. It naturally appeals to the inner recluse. But, truth be told, the catalyst for my inspired insanity was the need for total darkness.

For those who have not heard, I'm currently working on a good-sized painting, under the tutelage of a half-dozen or so of the most hard-working and talented artists I've ever known. It's been something of an undertaking, having already taken the better part of two years. Progress goes in fits and starts, not at all helped by my ridiculous schedule. So far I've gone through dozens of thumbnails, several composition shifts and refinements, three color studies and various other bits and pieces, not to mention some lively correspondence. But it has come to the point where I really, really need to get some paint on the canvas.

First, a brief synopsis of the work at hand. This is the revisitation of a moment I experienced following my first flight in a Piper Tomahawk, registered N2550A. It was windy (12 steady, gusting 16 at 260) and pouring buckets, and after I shut down and covered up I found myself in something of a trance, wanting to remain despite the thorough soaking I was getting at the hands of some badass cumulonimbi. My instructor, a person inspired less by sentiment than common sense, ran lickety-split for the relative dryness of the terminal. I lingered, having, for lack of better terminology, a romantic moment with the aeroplane.

A color study. Romantique, no?

Aviation art is a funny thing. Most of the people who have a real appreciation for it have a fair amount of technical knowledge. Accuracy is crucial; even a slight error in proportion or misplaced detail will often be noticed by the discerning eye of the knowledgeable viewer, and can ruin an otherwise well-executed painting. This is a special challenge because, on top of the need to get the airplane right, the terminal building at SFZ is something of a landmark, and it's a self-portrait to boot. As far as putting the lines where they belong, there are a number of methods; I use GPM.

The Geometric Projection Method was pioneered by Joe DeMarco, and is manifested in his program, Artist's Perspective Modeler (APM). I was lucky enough to obtain a copy of it, and have put it to good use (and also made good use of the one-on-one tech support enthusiastically provided by Joe). It works like a virtual camera, where you define coordinates in a virtual 3-dimensional space and then set various parameters so that the program can plot the points in proper perspective on a 2-dimensional surface. Basic operation of the program is as follows:

1. Obtain a scale 3-view of the object in question. 1/48 (1/4 in.=1 ft.) scale is standard, partly because 1/48 plans are relatively easy to find and are large enough to include sufficient detail, and partly because the large amount of relevant math is easier this way. Finding accurate 3-views of light GA aircraft is a notoriously difficult practice, and I was delighted when Ron Wong (who must literally have rooms full of reference) was able to procure for me not just one but two. I chose the larger of the two as it included more detail, and worked for some time to get it printed at exact scale. When all this was done I busted out the calipers and made about 100 micromeasurements, finding the exact distances (down to 1/128 in) to important stations, such as major changes in cross-section, surface edges and axes. Below are the front and side elevations; there is also a plan view.

2. Enter the coordinates. Below is an example of a few "boxes." In essence, you are creating a series of lines to define a virtual space. It's a massive 3D game of connect-the-dots. The coords, when formatted correctly, are linked sequentially by lines. The measurements below are in hundredths of an inch, in 1/48 scale. The model as it currently stands comprises some 225 lines of coordinates. It's actually pretty simple as models go; some of the more zealous among us get so into it as to actually replicate the curves and surfaces of the subject, with amazing results. I prefer to use it simply as a framework to build a drawing on, doing most of the work with a pencil.

3. Place the subject. Once the numbers are all in place, it's time for a whole new set of numbers. Things that need to be determined are where the center of interest (the convergence of all the offset axes) is, and from there exactly where the CI is in relation to the viewpoint so that everything fits neatly where it should in order to make an exciting composition. The easiest way to do this in this case, where the airplane is sitting straight and level on the ground, was to make a plan view. In the 1/150 scale drawing you see below, I was able to determine that the CI sat 6 feet (1.5625 inches when converted to 1/48) behind the zero-point and 12 feet (3 in) to port. The whole airplane was then rotated about the z- (vertical) axis 10 degrees. I then settled on a 32-degree cone of vision, which put the viewing distance to the CI at about 75 feet (19 in).

I made several small adjustments, moving the CI up and inboard a couple of feet, and pushed the "calculate" button, which plots all the lines as offset. The rewards of all that math:

And now we come to the total darkness issue. I had a fine framework, but to transfer a tiny drawing to a 4-foot canvas is no small task, and so I fired up the projector, which is something of a light-sensitive operation. Given the luminous quality of every room in the house, the basement was the natural and only choice. And of course it has the advantages of coolness, privacy, etc.

The rest is pretty much self-evident. I'm doing all the dirty work on a half-size finished plot, so I can just lay down positive lines on the actual canvas. I did a whole lot of adjusting to get the CI/CV (the red crosshairs) centered on the paper, and the size and focus exactly where it should be, and penciled away. The apparent distortion below is due to the camera's proximity to the drawing.

And the end result, here seen again on the oblique, is a 50% perspective plot, to be inked, scanned and projected onto the canvas.

Stay tuned as the deadline is fast approaching and updates will come much more frequently now.