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How I Met Robert Heinlein

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Of Mentors, Blood Drives and Belly Dancers

A later version of the dance group, From left to right: Cody, Mark Roland, Trish (in front), Pepper, Larry Todd, and Trina. Photo by Brian Johnson 1979

From time to time I write short recollections of my life and times.  I call these Brief Histories.  This is one.

I began attending Science Fiction and Fantasy Conventions in the early 70s.  They were brought to my awareness by my friend Larry Todd, an artist who worked in that field, as well as in Underground Comics.  I was still an art student at City College of San Francisco, involved in political protests against the Viet Nam War and working on the campus alternative paper, The Free Critic.  As an artist I was frustrated with academic tracks that had been proposed to me, fine or commercial art, and found Larry’s world much more compelling.  He introduced me to works by writers like H. P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, and art by contemporary book jacket artists, magazine illustrators, and comic book creators. 

At this time the Bay Area was ground zero for underground comics, and while there were different contingents, most of the artists socialized at parties and book release events.  Larry Todd, often identified with his Dr. Atomic character, was enthusiastic about the old EC comics, and their artists like Wally Wood and Jack Davis.  He was also a fan of the emerging Philippino  comic book artists like Alex Nino and Alfredo Alcala.  From his days in New York he knew artists like Bernie Wrightson and Michael Kaluta, who were then breaking into the mainstream.  With his close friend Vaughn Bode, he collaborated on magazine covers for Galaxy and If.  I would sit, talk and watch Larry as he drew comics or painted in oil.  Every visit was a tutorial.  Long into the night, he held forth with stories written in his head—but not on paper—historical facts and colorful anecdotes, all while he inked a strip.  By 1976, we were sharing a house in Oakland, CA, where my education continued.

Science Fiction Conventions were held in hotels or motels; many still are.  My first was a regional conference, Westercon, held in a downtown San Francisco hotel.  At this point in time, Science Fiction literature and comic book characters were not the source of major film franchises.  It took “Star Wars” to turn the tide and fully transform our niche world of fiction and art into a mass market product.  Certainly, we were not pure altruists.  No one objected to getting rich, or earning enough to make their living as a writer or artist.  At the conventions, in hallways or conference room events, publishers and editors were cornered by ambitious writers or writers to be, eager to pitch a project.  Artists gladly directed potential buyers to their displays in the art show, or tried to get assignments from art directors.  The activity of commerce was not yet weaponized, being just part of the mosaic of events, readings, discussions and parties.  

Being able to meet writers or artists you admired was a cherished part of the experience.  In this era, I was fortunate to meet Theodore Sturgeon, Fritz Leiber, Frank Herbert, Roger Zelazny, C.L. Moore and George Clayton Johnson to name a few.  Of course, if you were not an avid reader, you might be standing next to a major author and not know who they were or what they had written. It is difficult not to think about missed opportunities in retrospect. 

Attendance at the conventions was not limited to hardcore literary types by any means. This was gathering of various tribes: the filkers (singers and musicians,) The Society for Creative Anachronism, the pagans, the gay community, the costumers, etc.  Usually these groups overlapped and flowed between each other.  This cross-pollination of cultural outsiders created much of the magic.  The atmosphere that prevailed encouraged a general openness to trying new things.  When I found myself playing drums and flutes for a group of Middle Eastern dancers, it wasn’t so out of the ordinary.  Now I was also a performer, though obviously the dancers were the focus of attention.  Larry’s girlfriend, Pepper, was the leader of the troupe, and we soon were appearing at Science Fiction and Comic Book Conventions. as well as other gigs.  I pursued my art career, and still found time to make rehearsals, practice complex rhythms on the doumbek, and accompany the dancers as they danced in line formation and took their solos.

Robert Heinlein was a guest at the upcoming convention in Santa Rosa, CA, OctoCon, in 1977 or 78.  I had read Stranger in a Strange Land in my early teens, and for me it fused the countercultural zeitgeist with fantasy literature successfully.  I was not so familiar with his classic SF novels, but had an impression that they were not for me, which counts as another missed opportunity.  After Viet Nam, titles like Starship Troopers were less attractive in the anti-military tenor of the liberal Bay Area.  There was also much informed criticism of the sexist and racist attitudes prevalent in much pulp era Science Fiction. The new wave of writers like Samuel Delany, Ursula Le Guin and Roger Zelazny were lionized justifiably, while some of the major figures of the past were believed to be out of touch.

In his later years, Heinlein survived a life-threatening emergency that required numerous blood transfusions.  After recovering, he became a fervent advocate of citizens donating blood as well as the importance of blood banks.  In keeping with this cause, all of his convention appearances at this time included a blood drive.  Since our troupe was planning to attend this convention, Larry arranged for our troupe to perform at Heinlein’s blood drive. 

We rehearsed and brought our current line-up to Octocon at the laid-back Red Lion Inn.  Pepper was the leader and driving force of the troupe.  The other dancers and musicians constituted satellites attracted by her gravity.  She demanded a serious commitment of the members, insisted they take lessons and make their own costumes. Some stayed and improved, others drifted away to other pursuits or other troupes.  Larry was not a musician, but helped with equipment, and making signs and props.  Another member of our social circle, artist John Burnham, was also playing drums with me at this time.

In our exuberance and poverty, we slept on the floors of packed motel rooms to divide the cost of attending conventions.  In the back of my mind, I hoped I would make sales in the art show and turn a profit for the weekend.  Playing with the troupe always presented a certain degree of drama; the possibility of the performance being sloppy, tensions and rivalries between the members reaching a boiling point.  Fortune, or perhaps the availability of high-quality intoxicants, smiled that day.  We played near the swimming pool, in front of the suite of rooms that were the site of the blood drive.  Pepper danced with a sword, Melissa with a boa constrictor, and Molly with a reed cane.  When we were in the groove, the music and rhythms were hypnotic, the finger cymbals of the dancers answering the drums, the ululations and exclamations of the dancers encouraged each other.  The dancers took the stage and engaged the audience with the movements of the dance, a deep ritual of primal earth religion, beneath the veils of sequins and bright fabric.  Pepper’s troupe combined authentic Egyptian dances and costumes with the more theatrical western, or cabaret style.

The band gathered a good crowd by the conclusion of our set, and then the blood drive volunteers encouraged donations or else a commitment to donate from the audience. The willing were brought into the suite to give blood, have refreshments and schmooze with the dancers. Signed copies of Heinlein books were provided as an enticement, as well as meeting the noted author.

From the bright sunshine of the pool, we entered the suite, dressed in flowing garments, still on an adrenaline rush, post-performance.  One by one Larry introduced us to Robert.  I remember Heinlein being extremely gracious, and he thanked us for our participation.  His eyes were bright and he smiled broadly.  I could not ignore that his skin was ashen and handshake firm, but icy.  He seemed completely at ease with our band of long-haired artists and eccentrics, as well with some of our practices, like open relationships.  

Heinlein was a complex figure. It seemed incongruous to me that someone associated with the military, and who expressed a xenophobic suspicion of alien races in his writing, would be so nonjudgemental, an advocate of non-conformism.  But this was a long-term theme of his work as well; a healthily distrust of the establishment, and support for the rights of individuals.  Due to the freewheeling nature of the time, I had the honor of meeting him, and to briefly grok the presence of a generous, visionary man.  In his writing he envisioned—often correctly—how technology would change our world. To his credit he also fought to preserve the lives of others; normals, water brothers and sisters alike, through the communal act of donating blood.

—Mark Roland

Eugene, Oregon

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Monoprints and Edition Variable

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“Liminal Passage” AP 1, a monoprint by Mark Roland

In fine art printmaking, the general procedure is to make a plate or matrix of some kind, take some test impressions (artist’s proofs) and pick the best example to emulate in the edition that follows. Due to the process of printing by hand, there are often small differences in particular edition prints, and this is allowed. But what about when the differences are more dramatic, in color or value relationships for example? By writing the letters EV before the number of the print, this states that the variations in the edition prints are clearly noticeable. In Edition Variable prints, the goal of making each print as similar as possible is overridden by the desire to let each impression fulfill its greatest individual potential. I have done a number of Edition Variable prints, often prints that are printed in multiple colors, and then hand colored. Examples are Threshold, Helios and The Transit of Venus series.

There are also Monoprints and Monotypes. In the Monoprint, the individual print of an edition is given even freer reign, and while there will be other prints made from the same plate, they need not be similar, in fact may be radically different and unique. These works stand on their own as distinct originals, even though they are multiples, produced from the same matrix.

My recent landscape etching, “Liminal Passage,” has presented me the opportunity to make the all of the edition Monoprints. Each print is a unique multi-color etching with additional hand coloring. I am making selected prints from this edition available only on The River’s Edge. Unlike my standard edition prints from The Enchanted Forest series (and other monochrome works) that vary only slightly, Liminal Passage Monoprints are more akin to original paintings in their variation. In contrast to Edition Variable prints, where the variations arise from a limited number of colors, my Monoprints allow a more experimental approach and unusual diverse color combinations. So you can think of them as existing both as a painting in ink and simultaneously a limited fine art print. My first experiments with Monoprints was in a series of small prints influenced by 1960’s poster art, Remembrance, Butterfly and The Star. Every print was made in different color combinations, and in the spirit of the 60’s, given away to friends instead of sold.

Part of the challenge of selling artwork via a web site versus in person from an exhibit or gallery, is making sure the buyer has the best digital visual representation of the work and also understands what the nature of the piece is. The latter is much more of an issue in the category of prints, i.e. what medium is the print, is it a limited fine art print, an open-ended reproduction, hand colored, made with archival materials etc.. My intention is to provide collectors with the best, and most complete description of my etchings possible, be they artist’s proof, regular edition print, edition variable or monoprint.

—Mark Roland

Eigene, Oregon

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The Etching Process

“The Tower” an etching by Mark Roland

Etchings are fine art prints, produced by a process first developed about 1500. While many items are referred to as prints— such as posters, offset lithographs and all ink jet products (including so-called giclees)—they are in fact reproductions. Fine art prints begin with a matrix created by the artist, that is used to produce images individually by hand.

The etching process begins with a metal plate, usually zinc or copper, that is covered with a ground composed of wax and asphaltum. The artist uses a tool to draw through the ground and expose the metal underneath. When satisfied with the drawing, the plate is submerged in a solution that dissolves the metal areas unprotected by the ground. When the lines etched into the plate are the desired depth, the plate is removed and cleaned.

Now that the plate can hold ink in the etched, or bitten areas, the printing process can begin. A sheet of high quality rag paper is soaked in a tray of water to make it flexible. A coating of ink is spread over the entire plate, forced into the etching lines and then wiped off the surface by hand with a specially textured fabric. At this point, the printing process can become part of the art’s final appearance. The ink is always left in the lines of the plate, and by leaving a thin film of ink on the surface of the plate as well, tonal effects can be created. This technique also gives each impression a unique individual quality, impossible to produce in a reproduction.

When the inking is complete, the sheet of paper is blotted. The inked plate is placed face up on the press bed and the damp paper is positioned on top. Using a wheel or crank, the bed is slowly moved between rollers and felt blankets and subjected to great pressure. The paper is flexible enough to be pushed into the recessed lines holding the ink, and lifts out that ink as well as any on the surface left by the artist. All of this work has produced a single print, and all the stages— soaking paper, inking the plate and running both through the press—must be repeated for every impression.

There are other techniques that can be used in etching, such as aquatint. This is a rosin that is melted onto the plate in tiny specks and then bitten in stages to produce areas of tonality. Using this technique an artist can obtain light , midrange and dark areas consistently, by wiping the plate cleanly and not leaving any ink on the surface. The tonal areas are bitten into the metal, like the lines are, but are delicate and produce fewer prints than the etched lines before they wear away. Generally, using aquatint limits the number of prints in the edition.

The size of the edition is determined by two factors. One is the wearing of the plate. After a certain number of times through the press the plate looses it’s precise lines or the aquatinted areas break down. At this point, the printing should stop, to maintain the quality of the prints produced. More often, however, the edition is limited by the choice of the artist, who decides only a certain number of a particular design will be made, and no more. Those prints are numbered, titled and signed. If there are ten prints in an edition, you will see the prints numbered one of ten, two of ten and so forth until ten of ten. Except for a very limited number of artist’s proofs, no more impressions are allowed and the plate destroyed after printing is complete
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Because etching is such an old process, there have been a number of innovations since its origin, such as aquatint, multi-color printing, drypoint, mezzoprint and even photo etching. Engraving is a very old technique, and is often confused with etching. The difference is that engraving uses no solutions to eat away the metal. The engraver directly cuts into the metal with special tools to incise the lines holding the ink. Engravings are printed by the same process as etchings and are similar in appearance.

Many of the conventions originally established by the fine art printmaker, have been adopted by commercial reproductions, such as numbering prints. It should be noted that fine art prints are significantly more labor intensive to produce, use high-quality, time tested materials, have a direct connection to the artist’s hand, and are generally much more limed in number. Commercial reproductions are mass produced, identical to each other and are machine made. The newer technologies have not actually demonstrated their longevity despite promises from their manufacturers , whereas etchings have already lasted for centuries if properly cared for. These factors are things to consider when comparing the price of an etching, or another fine art print, to a photo print, ink-jet or offset reproduction.

Mark Roland has been producing etchings since 1981. The majority of his works are line etchings, printed using the plate tone technique described above. He has also used other techniques such as, soft ground, aquatint, multi-color and embossing. On some occasions he will hand color sections of his prints to enhance a particular effect. His principal series’ have been The Enchanted Forest suite, and his interpretations of Homer’s Odyssey, along with numerous related works.

—Mark Roland

Eugene, Oregon

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The Flotsam and Jetsam of History

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If you love words as I do, you probably love history. I’ve spent a lot of time over the past few years writing historical fiction. In performing research for the novels, I’ve leaned about the origins of certain English words and phrases I’ve used in both written and spoken language throughout my life, but didn’t completely understand. Although many expressions that came into existence long ago are still in use and their meanings as idioms are clear to us, the original meanings of the phrases may be lost without a search in history.

Because the gun played such a large role in events over the last few centuries, many idioms are related to firearms of the past. Here are a few that are still widely used, but the context of their origination not widely known.

Lock stock and barrel is an expression we use to mean “all of it.” I used to think it meant the whole store, like a mercantile of some kind. It means the whole rifle or musket. The lock is the firing mechanism, the barrel is, well… self-explanatory, and the stock is the part that helps you hold onto the firearm.

Bite the bullet means expose yourself to possible pain and danger to get a job done. Many people believe it originally meant to bite down on a lead bullet to endure pain, perhaps while having a surgical experience without an anesthetic, but it comes from a time when to prepare a rifle for firing you had to bite the end off a paper-wrapped cartridge before placing its contents in the barrel of your firearm. Doing this while under fire took brave resolve.

Stick to your guns means remain true to principles or goals. The expression has less to do with guns per se and more to do with maintaining a particular post during battle, especially if you’re told to hold a position without retreating. Well, of course you will need that gun, won’t you?

Flash in the pan is an idiom we use to mean a great start but little or no follow up. It’s a great metaphor for a one hit wonder in the music industry who puts out a single very popular tune, yet never does any better afterward and soon falls out of favor. To do justice to this one takes some explaining, so bear with me.

The original meaning comes from a time when pistols, muskets, and rifles had flint lock firing mechanisms. To load a flintlock firearm, gunpowder was poured into the barrel followed by a lead ball, called “shot,” wrapped in a bit of rag to make it fit snugly and hold everything in place. A small pan beside a hole in the side of the barrel was primed with a little gunpowder and then protected from spillage by a hinged iron part called a frizzin (see the illustration above). When the trigger of the flintlock was pulled, the hammer, which held a piece of flint did two things: it struck sparks off the iron frizzin and knocked that hinged part off the pan. With the frizzin out of the way, the sparks could reach the powder in the pan and ignite it. The hot expanding gas of the lit powder was meant to travel down the small hole in the side of the barrel and ignite the powder behind the lead shot. If this last step didn’t occur, there was merely a flash in the pan and the gun didn’t actually fire.

Understanding the metaphor of this idiom creates a mental picture that enhances the meaning of the expression. A flash in the pan is an exciting event, with a hiss, a flash, and billowing smoke, but the results are disappointing if that isn’t followed by the loud crack of the shot flying from the barrel and striking a target. Without the mental picture some of the power of the expression’s metaphor is lost.

The original meanings of many single words are unknown to most of us today. I’m thinking of several having to do with the production of linen. A lining, like what you might have in the inside surface of your coat, means something made from line flax. Line flax is the fibers of the flax plant that don’t break off when run through a device that looks like a small bed of nails called a hackle (aka heckle). The fibers that survive going through a hackle and remain long are spun together to make fine linen thread (note the word “line” in “linen”). So a lining is something made of linen. The lining of my stomach or my water heater is not made of linen, though. When my dog gets upset, wants to look bigger and more threatening, he gets his hackles up, but that doesn’t mean he has metal spikes sticking up out of his back. In the past, the flax fibers that broke off short in a hackle were called tow flax. They weren’t good enough to make fine thread and were spun into a rough cord to make tow sacks, which are much like the burlap sacks of today. Tow fibers are very blonde, but a tow-headed child doesn’t have tow flax for hair even if the tyke is referred to as flaxen-haired. The act of drawing flax fibers through a hackle is known as heckling. The purpose was to worry, to tease (in the old sense, meaning to comb), and straighten the fibers to determine which would stand up to stress and were worth using for linen production. When a stand-up comedian is heckled, that doesn’t mean he’s drawn through a small bed of nails to straighten his fibers and break off his weak parts. Okay, so maybe it does mean he’s being teased, but still, you get my point.

Here’s an expression I like a lot: flotsam and Jetsam. It’s not the most commonly known phrase, but it’s still a fun one using curious words, and I want to use it in the last paragraph of this post. We use it now to mean odds and ends. For example, somebody might say, “The project is finished except for the flotsam and jetsam of small problems I discovered along the way.” Flotsam and jetsam are separate nautical terms, but frequently appear together, both as words and in the context in which the words have meaning. Flotsam is the remnants of a shipwreck that floats on the sea after a vessel has gone down. Jetsam is what is jettisoned from a ship going down to lighten its load and help it stay afloat longer or even save it from going down.

In the time in which the idiom, flash in the pan, came into existence, the context from which it emerged was well-known to most individuals. An expression like that becomes popular perhaps because it’s frequently used in conversation as a metaphor in lieu of lengthier descriptions. If an idiom becomes useful enough that it’s overused and becomes cliché, it will be so universally understood that the significance of its original context can be discarded. It can far outlive the simple context of its birth. The idiom still performs a meaningful function although many who hear it and repeat it may not understand where it came from. Although the expression, flash in the pan is very much alive, having outlived the technology of the flintlock by more than a century, the metaphor it presents can be considered broken since most people today don’t understand how the firing mechanism works. I’ve heard and used many idioms for years in partial ignorance. As I became more interested in history, the original meaning of some idioms came clear. Finding the discovery satisfying, I became much more curious about the origins of words and phrases, and my interest in history intensified.

My latest historical fiction novel is The Prostitute’s Price. It is part of my Jack the Ripper Victims Series. Because the stories take place in Victorian times or earlier among English speaking people, British or American, they employ characters that use the language a little bit differently than we do today. The trick is to provide scenes in which the context makes clear the meaning of what is being said. The characters are involved with simpler, humbler domestic and labor situations and technologies often in early development or infancy.

I like to think of idioms with broken metaphors as flotsam of history. The ship has long since gone under, taking its passengers with it. Phrases remain, floating above the wreckage on the surface like lost luggage, filled with words that once had specific meaning, and, in combination, still have an idiomatic meaning. The specific sense of the words might have been lost, but the phrases still have value. We all claim salvage rights from time to time, but often don’t ask the simple questions: Who owned these expressions and why did they find them valuable? If we seek answers to the questions, we can learn something about those who left them behind and perhaps find out why the phrases float so well even today.

—Alan M. Clark
Eugene, Oregon