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Breakfast at Hotel Estée on lake Garda
Via Tommaso dal Molin, 33, 25015
Desenzano del Garda, BS, Italy
Oil
9" x 12" Strathmore Sketchpad
Feb 4 2020
AOKI 市川南八幡店
Suit Seller
1 Chome-14-13 Minamiyawata, Ichikawa, Chiba 272-0023, Japan
Acrylic
9x12 Strathmore Sketchpad
Thursday Nov 30 2023
Tram line 12 pulling out of
Jernbanetorget Station
Oslo, Norway
Monday September 13 2010
Acrylic
B4 (9.8x13.9) Maruman Sketchpad
Michael
Orange Circle, Orange, CA
Acrylic 15 minute sketch
352 mm x 248 mm Kyowa sketchpad
Sunday October 12 2025
Today’s event with @nomad_portrait_artists
Kihachi Restaurant (㐂八) @kihachikobe
1 Chome-1-13 Sakaemachidori, Chuo Ward, Kobe, Hyogo 650-0023, Japan
Acrylic
9x12 Strathmore Sketchpad
Monday November 11 2024
The view towards Monumento ai Bersaglieri d’Italia on Vicolo Fosse Castello
Desenzano del Garda BS, Italy
Acrylic
9x12 Strathmore sketchpad
Tues Feb 4 2020
A quick and loose sketch of the Bar Walls which connect the Red Tower with Walmgate Bar. This part of the city wall, which protected the Walmgate lying to the south east of the city centre, was probably rebuilt in 1858 when the Red Tower was also rebuilt. The steps carry the wall walk onto the earth rampart, the last stretch of wall and Red Tower being built on lower ground on the edge of a large pond. Drawn with a Pilot C-Tec 0.25 pen on a cartridge paper sketchpad.
2022. Koh-I-Noor Triocolor and Polycolor pencils on Daler-Rowney sketchpad 9x12".
Khibiny Tundras is a mountain range located within the Arctic Circle on the Kola Peninsula, Russia.
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A COMPULSIVE DRAWER. I would declare war on every blank area left on notebooks, desks, chalk-boards and school walls. My teachers never appreciated this, but I did win recognition among the other kids. But I was independent and pretty much a loner. I rarely communicated verbally, but I never failed to communicate by using my favourite language: images.
Luckily for me, it was my grandparents who practically raised me, instilling in me all the values I retain to this day. But even though my grandparents offered material and emotional support, I felt abandoned. It was a pain that was muted and sometimes battered into submission, but it invariably came to surface. Plus I sensed that there was something else, a much more disturbing truth that lay at the core of the adult world. Being much too young to identify it, it remained a frustrated inarticulate feeling. But there was something clearly evident in my drawings that expressed those feelings. My talent for drawing, my attention to detail, and above all, my grotesque sense of humor were obvious in the drawings.
By the age of eight, whatever I had lodged in the back of my mind came forward in a blurry approximation in art. It was art that rescued me. Many of the drawings had an underlying dark tone. The drawings gave my incoherent inner world some form of expression and substance, however crudely rendered. Grown-ups had a profound effect on my artistic development, but not in a way they would have approved. I began to observe and to judge people, making evaluations about their nature and characters. This, too, found its way in my drawings. One could see from the progression of drawings a groping and developing maturity. It was a discovery and odyssey of self.
A teacher observed one of my drawings, and obviously dismayed, he asked: “What is the matter Victor?”
I answered: “What is the matter with everybody else?”
A conscious awareness of the adult world came into sharper focus: my overall impression of adults was that they were bogus liars and hypocrites, saying not what they thought, but rather what they believed would serve some particular purpose, some hidden agenda. Everybody came armed with two faces. It seemed to me that the world thrived on bullshit, hypocrisy and lies. I noted a desperate whoring after status, an irrational and pathetic desire to “beat the Jones” followed up by saccharine sentimentality by mealy-mouthed charlatans—and all of it showcased to the people they themselves loathed. Lies, backstabbing, deception, two-faces, malice and hypocrisy was the currency of exchange in the adult world. And so I took a profound disliking to most people I came across. I could sense the spiritual emptiness and viciousness within them. I wanted to like and admire people but I rarely came across anyone who was worthy of it. The only noted exceptions were my grandparents.
I HAD TURNED SIXTEEN JUST A FEW MONTHS before the holidays. Christmas brought distant relatives and immediate family together at the Pross household. For me, people were bad enough on their own but it became worse when they assembled together under the same roof. It was on such occasions that fully demonstrated the insanity and phoniness of these people. I would scan the large living room absorbing the adults sitting on the couches and chairs, each one looking anxious and distant. They were tipsy on day-long benders of Bloody Caesars, making efforts to appear jovial. There was a constant display of smiley backslapping and “Merry Christmases” by people who maligned one another the moment backs were turned. There was an unvarying spectacle of petty bickering over trivia and the sudden surfacing of years-long resentments best forgotten. All the forms of human flaws and ugliness to be found in the world---a world which insists on being imperfect—were on display before the eyes of the juvenile artist.
To lighten the mood, somebody put a dance song on. I watched with keen interest as glasses were overturned by dancing feet and the coffee table was moved out of the way to make room. A frenzy of stimulation bubbled in the room and everyone’s voice rose imperceptibly in pitch. As far as I was concerned, it was a circus.
Each relative represented an unsavory social stereotype or archetype of one kind or another. They were caricatures. From the town’s busy body gossip-monger tyrant--to the dour spinster forever spouting on about “God’s wrath”--to the town’s fast-talking used car salesman who dressed like a big city pimp---to every other stereotype imaginable. It was all there. This was no less true when it came to Uncle Bernard, better known as “Bernie.” Sitting near the Christmas tree, I was observing him closely. He was the jet-set wannabe playboy type. He sported a dyed perm that looked as if had come straight off a Styrofoam head from 1973. Assuming himself a lady-killer, he actually had all the charm of a toupee made of straw dipped in black ink. With each attempt at a pickup he was invariably shot down. “Lesbian!” he would bellow at women who rejected him.
Sitting next to Bernie was my mother, Terry. She was immersed in conversation, laughing with a forced hilarity, her drink spilling over. There was something that troubled me about my mother. She was a woman who was so utterly self-absorbed, forever preoccupied with what others thought. My mother’s sense of personal value was crucially dependent on the image of herself as a glamorous beauty. At the age of thirty-eight, she was wont to ask for reassurances of her looks. “Do you think I have nice legs? I use to be a Go-Go dance, you know?” and “When was the last time you saw a woman as gorgeous as me—and at my age?” With each passing year she began to perceive every wrinkle on her face as a metaphysical menace. Taking aging as a threat to her identity, she plunged into a series of sexual relationships with men fifteen years her junior demanding fresh admiration to assuage her hollowness.
My mother’s constant need for validation annoyed me. I was nevertheless fascinated with human behavior. What I perceived in my mother was a definite narcissism, only I didn’t have the word for it at the age of sixteen. Spurred by mother’s conceit, I decided to try an experiment. I played upon her vanity by offering her a lavish compliment, just to see her reaction. My motive wasn’t flattery for flattery’s sake, it was a psychological experiment.
I tapped my mother on the shoulder, interrupting her conversation.
“Mom?”
My mother turned to me, clearly annoyed, her expression a fusion of wonder and irritation.
“Victor dear, can’t you see I’m talking to this nice gentleman?”
“But mom, I need to tell you something.”
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“I just wanted to say that…you look just like Marilyn Monroe.”
My mother took a deep intake of breathe. She clapped her hands in appreciation and snuggled her darling son into her arms. “Did you hear that?” she demanded of the guests. The room fell to a hushed silence. “What is it, Terry?” asked a guest. “My boy said I look like Marilyn Monroe. That’s my boy! Oh, he knows a good looking chick when he sees one!” My mother then let out an exuberant laugh, which itself was enough to draw attention. After a few more brandy-laced eggnogs, my mother became more of an embarrassment. She made damn well sure to tell new arrivals at the party what her son had said about her. It was a compliment that was warmly recalled by her for years to come. I had always regretted my causal flattery.
I appreciated the art of caricature more so than ever before. I enjoyed the spectacle of observing the reaction of anyone I nailed in a drawing. When people observed a grotesque drawing I had rendered of them—in dead-on accuracy---they would dissolve in self-consciousness. This had a clinical kind of fascination to me. Although one can be disconcerted at witnessing an open incision, I got some amazing glimpses of their guts. What came out of it was a deeply ingrained self-doubt. I knew my art had the power to reach people. “You are a sick guy, Pross,” said one of my displeased subjects. “How is it that I’m sick,” I responded, amazed by this sudden psychological evaluation. “The drawing portrays how you are—not me.”
Observing my mania for drawing, my grandfather decided to have a heart-to-heart chat with me. He entered my room as I sat at my desk, which was littered with sketchpads of drawings and half-ass watercolors.
Grandfather picked up a sketch pad flipping through it. “You have a real talent there, my boy,” he said. A firm hand rested on my shoulder. “It would be a shame if that went to waste”
I smiled and lowered my head.
“There are a lot of people who always dump on me for drawing, granddaddy.”
He smiled. “When it comes to insults, consider the source---and also try to consider what you think may be their motivation.”
My grandfather put an encouraging arm around me, playfully mussing up my hair.
He pulled up a nearby chair and sat down next to me.
“Now listen to me,” he said with a pinch of gravity, “you have a talent, son—a very evident and rare talent, but you can’t expect it to do all the work for you. You have to hone and develop that talent. If you want to be an artist, it takes practice, practice, practice. It is about hard work. It’s not enough to have talent alone. You need to have a hunger. You understand?”
I smiled. “I need to be a hungry artist?”
“I’m serious, son.”
“I know. So am I”
“Good. That’s right, a hungry artist.”
“I am. It’s like a compulsion. I feel so good when I’m drawing. It lifts me up. I need to express what I have going on inside of me. I suppose that is a hunger.”
I paused for a moment. My grandfather looked at me, his clear blue eyes beaming. His smile conveyed immense admiration…and hope. “I love you, grandson.”
I couldn’t express in words the feeling that I felt so abundantly. The love and admiration I felt for this man was great, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him so for some reason. And so I simply smiled and look downward, hoping that this motion expressed what should have said with words.
Not everyone responded with agitation to the drawings of this teenage caricature artist. Sam Ferguson, the owner of the diner I frequented at the time, was blessed with a robust sense of humor. As he observed one of my renderings, he laughed with his whole body, his heavy-set frame shook like a bowl of Jell-O resting on the clothes dryer in final spin. “You are a crazy son of a bitch!” Gus hollowed. “How do you think of this stuff?” In the drawing, I had Gus lurched over a hot stove stirring the day’s soup special with beads of sweat dripping into the pot. In the background, one can see an unsuspecting customer slurping the broth, bellowing, ‘Gus, I love the extra flavor you added!’
“Come here, my boy,” Gus said, sliding a hamburger and fries over to me. “Here’s your payment for a job well done.”
“You’re paying me for that drawing…by feeding me?”
Gus looked astonished that I was astonished. “Of course! A man should be paid for his work. That drawing is hanging on my wall, and it gives me a great deal of pleasure.”
“It does.”
“You are very talented. Hey, I want to frame it and hang it up on my office wall. How much do you want for it?”
“You just paid me,” I answered, biting into the hamburger.
“No, not that, that’s a token payment, I’m talking about really paying you. That is a work of art we’re talking about!”
“I don’t know…”
“Here,” Gus said, taking my hand and slipping a hundred dollar bill into it.
“Hey man, are you serious—a hundred bucks!”
“Too little?”
“No, this is cool. Thanks Gus!”
“One day you are going to be a famous artist. People will be paying you a lot more than a measly hundred bucks. Hey, don’t think that I’m cheating you…I’m not a rich guy.”
“Come on, Gus, I know that. This is so cool, man. If only my grandfather could see this.”
I realized that I could temper my art with light-hearted humor, the gentle good wit that my grandfather imparted in me—along with the acerbic wit characteristic of Barry McConnell. It was here that this artist punk learned that caricature has both a dark and light face to it. I also learned that the caricatures I drew, and the people who inspired them, were not confined to the community where I lived. They circled the globe. It was to the wider culture that my focus turned. I had so much to learn and so much to express.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
**above photo is of my mother--Terry, my oldest brother--Robert, and Kevin (with his arm around me).
Koh-I-Noor Triocolor jumbo pencils, Daler-Rowney sketchpad, 9x12".
Original photography by Lisa Fotios (via pexels):
Today's event with Urban Sketchers Los Angeles @urbansketchersla . Cloudy yet humid and hot day. Good turn-out. Very pleasantly @mattlumpkin came out after a long absence. @stuartperlman bought me lunch at Fishwives, feasting with the gourmet couple @sallyscallop and @kannonrickell ...
Desiderio Neighborhood Park
Oil
9x12 Strathmore Sketchpad
Sketched live on location from 11:06 AM to
Au fil doré, Art Boutique Shop (Closed permanently)
12 Rue du Point du Jour, 35400 Saint-Malo, France
Acrylic
9x12 Strathmore Sketchpad
Saturday June 7 2008
Prive by DaD, The Ladder at Fameshed X
:TAXI: maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Acarias/116/152/1001
Prive' by DaD "The Ladder" PG V.1.0 c/m
DaD Winford Guest House at Uber
:TAXI:http://maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Uber/126/130/1201
DaD "Winford Guesthouse" V. 1.0 c/m
THOR plywood Drawer part of Minimal Workspace at A+ event
:TAXI: maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Chestnut%20Valley/135/125/...
..::THOR::.. Plywood Drawer
Tuesdays Secret Boxes, at Main store
:TAXI: maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Kenilworth/11/240/1255
Tuesdays Secret Boxes - Vintage
..::THOR::.. Recycled Paper Bags at THOR Main Store: maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Nyn/130/238/3210
Apple Fall Mercantile Bookshelf - Corner
Apple Fall Mercantile Bookshelf - Double
Apple Fall Tea Tins & Tea Books
Apple Fall Books - Arrangement 4
Apple Fall Books - Arrangement 3
Apple Fall Books - Arrangement 1
Apple Fall Stacked Books
Apple Fall Books - Arrangement 2
Apple Fall Tied Books
MudHoney Books - Advice
MudHoney Books - Leaning Random
-tb- Spring Living - Vintage Books
MudHoney Books - Women
MudHoney Books - Food & Happiness
Ariskea[Pine].Old Books
{BE} Vintage Books *Fatpack Bonus*
{vespertine} - sketchbooks & magz 2
Nutmeg. Jewel box
Nutmeg. Books & Keys v1
Nutmeg. Vintage Metronome
Nutmeg. Old Gilded Crown
Nutmeg. Old Story Frames Wood
Nutmeg. Old Oriental Carpet
Nutmeg. Old Purse Bag
Nutmeg. Stacked Buckets
Nutmeg. Rustic Outdoor Bench
Nutmeg. Rustic Sketchpad
[ zerkalo ] Mademoiselle - Hat Boxes
Nutmeg. Old Music Sheets. Floor
Foxwood ~ The Artist ~ Sketches
Diana Budisavljević Park and Donaukanal seen from Siemens-Nixdorf-Steg
Karoline-Tintner-Promenade, 1090 Wien, Austria
Winsor & Newton Artisan water mixable oil
9” x 12” Cotton Wood sketchpad cover
Jun 3 2024
My tribute to Alfred Sisley, my beloved impressionist
Kline Academy of Fine Art
Culver City, CA
Watercolor on B4 Maruman Sketchpad
Sketched live on location, about 2 hours, 7 PM to 9 PM.
July 26 2023
Cezanne colored pencils on Comet Arts sketchpad. 14x17"
Original photography by agustavop:
www.istockphoto.com/photo/colorful-cute-toucan-tropical-b...
Sunny morning (it often rains here ...)
Kapitelplatz & Kapitelschwemme
Salzburg Cathedral
Salzburg, Austria
Oil
11x15 Strathmore Sketchpad
Saturday June 8 2024
“Soo”
Joslyn Community Center
Alhambra, CA
Gouache
11x15 Strathmore Sketchpad
Sketched live on location 12:50 PM to 2:27 PM
Monday November 3 2025
Today’s portrait session with @garygeraths . Lunch at “Pho Vit 115”. I came early and thus was able to practice a little on the Samick Baby Grand at the community room.
Early morning view from Mamagawa towards Sobu-line track and 7-Eleven Funabashi Motonakayama 3-Chome
(セブン-イレブン 船橋本中山３丁目店)
Chiba, Japan
Oil
9x12 Strathmore Sketchpad
Nov 27 2023
The first bit of the drawing to be finished is the 1940 style three hose fuel pump truck. This would be on the strength of the airfield, in this case Biggin Hill in Kent. Biggin Hill was a key station in the defence of London. It was established in 1917. During the Battle of Britain fighter aircraft were kept refuelled and armed for take at short notice. Drawn with a Staedtler 0.3mm pencil on half a sheet of A4 cartridge paper on a sketchpad.
An older sketch, done to while away an evening and draw something different. I was inspired by a painting by aviation artist Robert Taylor. I like elephants, and Vought Corsairs, seeing his painting set me on the path to looking up the story of the elephants used to pull bogged down aeroplanes out of the mud at RNAS Putalam in Sri Lanka. I also looked up 'Somerfield track' as the temporary wartime runway was made of the wire-based reinforcement with a view to putting some in the foreground of the drawing. The glowering rain clouds were an opportunity to use the edge of the pencil lead for a change too. If I was to change the drawing at all it would be to use a bit more blending in the sky and foreground now I have discovered paper blending stumps. Drawn with A mixture of 0.3 and 0.5 mechanical pencils with HB leads on an A4 sketchpad.
Dusk view of Bürgenstock seen from Vitznau across Lake Lucerne, Switzerland
Oil
9x12 Strathmore Sketchpad
C. 1990
House near Katsushika Hachiman-gū
葛飾八幡宮
4 Chome, Yawata, Ichikawa, Chiba, Japan
Gouache
8.25x11.5 sketchpad
December 4 2023
During the coronavirus pandemic there was a tv program shown on Monday evenings that really helped lift many people's spirit, including mine. Hosted by ceramic artist Grayson Perry, "Grayson's Art Club" lasted an hour. This past Monday I used the time it was formerly shown to doodle this view of Staithes, a place I would live to visit again once travel restrictions have been lifted. The idea behind the doodle was one that the Art Club may well have set as a weekly topic. Drawn with a Pentel 0.5mm pencil on an A4 cartridge paper sketchpad.
After the boats in the harbour I went to work on the garden and the raised decking of the houses overlooking Staithes Beck. Drawn with a Pentel 0.5mm pencil and Click eraser on A4 cartridge paper sketchpad.
Boat Ram near Cape Kasuga (春日崎灯明台)
Aikawa Kabuse, Sado Island, Niigata 952-1583, Japan
Tuesday October 2 2007
Acrylic
9x12 Strathmore Sketchpad
Rainy afternoon
Monsieur Pépé - Kintetsu Nara(Crepe,Galette)
58-1 Noboriojicho, Nara, 630-8213, Japan
Acrylic
9x12 Sketchpad
Sat Nov 16 2024
Baybike 伊勢佐木長者町駅駐輪場
Bike Parking at Isezakichojamachi Subway Station
Naka Ward, Yokohama, Kanagawa 231-0038, Japan
Acrylic
9x12 Strathmore Sketchpad
Nov 20 2012
The gateway of Holy Trinity church and the pantile roof are done, so is the upper floor window, just the main shop window and doorway and pavement to go. Drawn with a Staedtler 0.3mm pencil and a blending stump on A4 cartridge paper sketchpad.