Saturday, December 29, 2007
I Swear To God...
... on a stack of Bibles so high that if you could actually get to the top of it that, Hell!, you'd be in Heaven, I did not set this photograph up! Honest!
Get it? Snow? Peas?
Snow Peas!?
Get it? Snow? Peas?
Snow Peas!?
Friday, December 28, 2007
Artist’s Statement #43-729f or ‘But Is It Art?'
On the eve of December 24th, 2007, I was afforded the opportunity to spend the many late hours with a very dear friend of mine. She, like myself, is an artistic Jack-of-all-Trades. Primarily a visual artist (one o’ the best damned painters I’ve ever known), she also excels at playing and singing the blues at numerous locations around the city and the province and the country with 3 CDs under her belt, writes poetry and prose and the occasional play, can computer-graphic (yes; a noun) herself out of a paper bag and, is a prolific photographer. I, myself, write, paint, draw, dabble with musical composition, adore playing the recorder (not the tape type), create with food and, have become a prolific photographer. In a sense, the two of us are perfect examples of what I term the ‘Cocteau Syndrome;’ we love to create: we need to create: we have to create yet we aren’t quite satisfied with solely one form of creative expression.
Yes, a Jack-of-all-Trades. Yet at times, it can be all-too-easy to crumble under the frustration of being a Master-of-None.
I’m not digressing here; just setting the mood, the feel, the framework. After all; what’s the most important thing? ‘Location, Location, Location.’
Okay, that was a digression.
We spent the evening talking about this and that while drinking this and that and watching this-and-that movies until eventually, the conversation turned around the curve, missed the off-ramp (she was driving, I was holding the map, and I won’t say anything about my opinion regarding female drivers – Let’s just say ‘it’s not what you think.’ Famous last words), and after much whining (that’s a pun) on my part, pulled into a deserted food-‘n’-foam called Photography for directions.
In the span of a year, my friend takes 2 or 3 trips to different parts of the country to play at festivals or in bars while visiting friends. She always takes her camera with her and she relishes being able to take photographs of almost everything. Friends, family, and her favourites: landscapes, dogs, rocks, plants, burning flames, and a shit-load of more rocks. Her process it thus: on any given day, she will shoot over 100 images – if she sees a certain texture in a pile of stones, she will take dozens of photographs of it – then download them onto her laptop. Some of the images will be used in future projects while others simply remain to be seen, remembered in a Proustian sense, and eventually backed-up onto album disks.
I take a different approach. The most photographs I have ever taken on one single day can be numbered at about 40. Sometimes I will only take 15 – I’m getting very good at the ‘1 or 2’ shot of something. Of the daily total, 20% are snuffed directly on the camera – unintentionally out of focus; oops, wrong button; no, I actually do not want a photograph of that person – and, after transferring the remainder to my laptop, I cut, perhaps, 25% of the remaining. The I ‘do’ stuff with them; arrange them into portfolios which I print; give them to friends; use them on blogs; brood over what, exactly, I AM going to do with them – you know, that kind of stuff.
Let’s do some math: I take 10 photographs on Monday. Before the laptop, goodbye 20%. Those 8 photographs left get laptopped (yes, another noun which Word doesn’t seem to like) where I get rid of 2 more (the 25%). I’m down to 6 and it is with those six that I ‘do’ things with (‘Bad, Syntax! Bad!’ I’m not much of a dog person but if I ever got meself a puppy, I’d call it ‘Syntax’ just so I could say things like that). But it doesn’t end there. A lot of times, once I’m done with the doing, I’ll just get rid a couple of perfectly good images here and there.
Perfect example. Christmas. I had about 15 photographs which I created solely for presents and cards. All seasonally themed related. It ain’t Christmas anymore, therefore I don’t need them, therefore I keep one or two and bye-bye to all the rest.
Which brings me to what I take photographs of.
I don’t get out much. I don’t have the means to get out of the city much, and for those of you who live, as I do, in this city, you know, that during the Winter months, this city is dull. Sure, sure; I’ve experienced some magnificent out-door Kodak moments. But that would mean taking my gloves off, standing there in the cold, and I’m a bit of a wimp.
I also don’t have a lot of time on my hands. And the time I do have on my hands is way too much time on my hands. One third of my life is spent at work; I take a lot of photographs around work. One third of my life, roughly speaking, is spent asleep; that’s when my mind takes photographs. And the other third, again, roughly speaking, is spent in my apartment.
I take a lot of photographs around my apartment.
And why not? I love still-lifes. Not just of the ‘fruit in bowl’ kind. I mean, if a flock of fruit in a bowl is deemed worthy of some sort of artistic representation, then why not a couple of cigarette lighters, or electrical outlets, or people’s shower curtains.
The challenge for me is to be able to take a photograph not so much because I will like it or I want to remember the moment, but in order that when someone else sees it, they will see it for what it is, but then see it for what they think it is. Which is why I love actually setting shots up and trying to instil some form of actual narrative into the image.
Back to Christmas Eve – After much discussion about Photography, I asked her if I could see some of her pictures. Seated in front of her computer, she began to take me through a lengthy tour of 100s of photographs. Landscapes, rocks, people, everything. There was a story about each and everyone of them and some of them were wonderful and some of them were crap. Her opinions, not mine.
Back in the living room, I pulled out a portfolio of 48 photographs which I gave her to look at and she coursed through them like someone on Boxing Day in an electronic store that was stocking iPods on sale for only $20. The really, really, new ones; not the 3-week-old, out-dated ones.
Of all of the photographs, only one gave her pause for reflection: two pink jacks entwined together.
I told her that it made me think of either two people dancing together or two people having sex together, to which, she told me a quick story about how it reminded her of how she, as a young child, used to play jacks.
I didn’t have a chance to tell her how I used to play jacks as a child as well which, in all probability, is why I took the damned photograph in the first place.
I’m not judging other’s intent, accomplishments, or ideals. I’m just stating mine.
And with that said, here are a few of my landscapes.
Yes, a Jack-of-all-Trades. Yet at times, it can be all-too-easy to crumble under the frustration of being a Master-of-None.
I’m not digressing here; just setting the mood, the feel, the framework. After all; what’s the most important thing? ‘Location, Location, Location.’
Okay, that was a digression.
We spent the evening talking about this and that while drinking this and that and watching this-and-that movies until eventually, the conversation turned around the curve, missed the off-ramp (she was driving, I was holding the map, and I won’t say anything about my opinion regarding female drivers – Let’s just say ‘it’s not what you think.’ Famous last words), and after much whining (that’s a pun) on my part, pulled into a deserted food-‘n’-foam called Photography for directions.
In the span of a year, my friend takes 2 or 3 trips to different parts of the country to play at festivals or in bars while visiting friends. She always takes her camera with her and she relishes being able to take photographs of almost everything. Friends, family, and her favourites: landscapes, dogs, rocks, plants, burning flames, and a shit-load of more rocks. Her process it thus: on any given day, she will shoot over 100 images – if she sees a certain texture in a pile of stones, she will take dozens of photographs of it – then download them onto her laptop. Some of the images will be used in future projects while others simply remain to be seen, remembered in a Proustian sense, and eventually backed-up onto album disks.
I take a different approach. The most photographs I have ever taken on one single day can be numbered at about 40. Sometimes I will only take 15 – I’m getting very good at the ‘1 or 2’ shot of something. Of the daily total, 20% are snuffed directly on the camera – unintentionally out of focus; oops, wrong button; no, I actually do not want a photograph of that person – and, after transferring the remainder to my laptop, I cut, perhaps, 25% of the remaining. The I ‘do’ stuff with them; arrange them into portfolios which I print; give them to friends; use them on blogs; brood over what, exactly, I AM going to do with them – you know, that kind of stuff.
Let’s do some math: I take 10 photographs on Monday. Before the laptop, goodbye 20%. Those 8 photographs left get laptopped (yes, another noun which Word doesn’t seem to like) where I get rid of 2 more (the 25%). I’m down to 6 and it is with those six that I ‘do’ things with (‘Bad, Syntax! Bad!’ I’m not much of a dog person but if I ever got meself a puppy, I’d call it ‘Syntax’ just so I could say things like that). But it doesn’t end there. A lot of times, once I’m done with the doing, I’ll just get rid a couple of perfectly good images here and there.
Perfect example. Christmas. I had about 15 photographs which I created solely for presents and cards. All seasonally themed related. It ain’t Christmas anymore, therefore I don’t need them, therefore I keep one or two and bye-bye to all the rest.
“But Thomas! That was such a beautiful photograph!”
“Which is why I took it. Which is why I gave it to you. Now you have it and if I ever feel the need to take a spooky, dimly-lit photograph of my evil looking piggy-bank well, hey, I know where he lives.”
Which brings me to what I take photographs of.
I don’t get out much. I don’t have the means to get out of the city much, and for those of you who live, as I do, in this city, you know, that during the Winter months, this city is dull. Sure, sure; I’ve experienced some magnificent out-door Kodak moments. But that would mean taking my gloves off, standing there in the cold, and I’m a bit of a wimp.
I also don’t have a lot of time on my hands. And the time I do have on my hands is way too much time on my hands. One third of my life is spent at work; I take a lot of photographs around work. One third of my life, roughly speaking, is spent asleep; that’s when my mind takes photographs. And the other third, again, roughly speaking, is spent in my apartment.
I take a lot of photographs around my apartment.
And why not? I love still-lifes. Not just of the ‘fruit in bowl’ kind. I mean, if a flock of fruit in a bowl is deemed worthy of some sort of artistic representation, then why not a couple of cigarette lighters, or electrical outlets, or people’s shower curtains.
The challenge for me is to be able to take a photograph not so much because I will like it or I want to remember the moment, but in order that when someone else sees it, they will see it for what it is, but then see it for what they think it is. Which is why I love actually setting shots up and trying to instil some form of actual narrative into the image.
Back to Christmas Eve – After much discussion about Photography, I asked her if I could see some of her pictures. Seated in front of her computer, she began to take me through a lengthy tour of 100s of photographs. Landscapes, rocks, people, everything. There was a story about each and everyone of them and some of them were wonderful and some of them were crap. Her opinions, not mine.
Back in the living room, I pulled out a portfolio of 48 photographs which I gave her to look at and she coursed through them like someone on Boxing Day in an electronic store that was stocking iPods on sale for only $20. The really, really, new ones; not the 3-week-old, out-dated ones.
Of all of the photographs, only one gave her pause for reflection: two pink jacks entwined together.I told her that it made me think of either two people dancing together or two people having sex together, to which, she told me a quick story about how it reminded her of how she, as a young child, used to play jacks.
I didn’t have a chance to tell her how I used to play jacks as a child as well which, in all probability, is why I took the damned photograph in the first place.
I’m not judging other’s intent, accomplishments, or ideals. I’m just stating mine.
And with that said, here are a few of my landscapes.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
I Love This Image #1
I love the textures and the colours. This is one of the images I have produced which I want to paint as a watercolour. It reminds me a lot of the works of Monet. You know; the water lilies; not the hay stacks or cathedrals even though it would probably make one kick-ass, stained-glass window.
I gave this image, with a few others, as a small Christmas present to a female individual who shall, once more, remain nameless.
It is, in fact, an image of a large pot of soup being made at the restaurant where I work.
'At first, I thought it looked like a pile of puke;' her first response, to which she added that then she thought it was one of those horrible jellied-salads. Denise (Yes; She again) and I talk about them all the time for some odd reason so I can understand her confusion, I suppose.
Not quite sure how she came up with the puke, though. Methinks the hem of her Freudian Slip is showing a tad which is a picture all unto itself on account of the fact that she always wears pants.
My Moleskine #1:
If I were to be able to bring myself to write things in my pocket-sized Moleskine, those written things would be of the following nature:
1] While sitting in a coffee-shop and while suddenly observing an incredibly hot guy on the street, I would quickly jot down a description of him so he would be seared in my lust forever. Of course, it would be easier to whip out my camera and take a picture of him. But that would be too easy. And just because he’s an incredibly hot guy on the street, that doesn’t necessarily mean that he, or it, is a Kodak Moment.
2] I would write poetry which, for those of you who know me, is an odd thing for me to decide to do on account of the fact that in general, I hate poetry. Yes; I do remember what my Mother used to say to me: ‘You should never hate things. You can really not like them immensely but you should never hate things. Hate is too strong.’ Okay fine. I really do not like anything written by Stephen King with an immensity that would boggle the mind. But I do hate poetry. I hate reading it (the road not taken, my ass) and I hate writing it.
An aside: I once took an edition of Eliot’s’ Four Quartets and a highlighter pen. I believe yellow. I then proceeded to highlight each and every first-word of every single line of every single poem. Then I typed them out in sentences and in paragraphs, a process which proceeded to create two most interesting results:
One: I had created the most beautiful and complexly layered prose poem – I enjoyed that; Eliot was not a great fan of the genre – certainly one most worthy of the time period (mid-90s), and a hell of a lot better than Eliot’s original Waste Land before Pound had a chance to knife it apart. Boy, that Fascist had his work cut-out for him. But I suppose all Fascists do, don’t they.
Two: I completely crashed and burned the grammar-check utility in Word. It was messy and as a result, to that very day, whenever I Word, I turn that particular utility off.
So why would I write poetry if I wrote in my Moleskine? Because sometimes one simply feels like writing poetry. Writing poetry for me is either too easy or too hard. I’ll create something small and sublime, leaving me to believe that that was all too easy and my time would be better spent struggling over a story or a novel. Than at other times, I will waste countless minutes brooding over that perfect metaphor in order to describe the body of an incredibly hot guy on the street all within the luxurious confines of iambic pentameter and I’ll stop, scratch it out, and start pouring out prose with the greatest of ease.
Yet, the Moleskine is very small, making it highly appropriate for pieces such as poetry. And with my daily work schedule, I sometimes only have the time to write down one or two words, thus, poetry.
Perhaps this will be the very first poem which I will write in my Moleskine:
Moon
That’s it. Just one word. But if you think about it, so complex, deep. Or some-what rudely obscene, depending on how you choose to look at it.
Self-Portrait #1
If this were a painting by Whistler, it would probably have a name attached to it like 'Rhapsody in Sepia with Lego on the Back of the Stove. Number Two.'
Yes; That's Lego on the back of my stove.
And Yes; That's a Gumby on the top of my fuse box along with a few other things (including a Kinder-Toy Vespa. I love the Vespa!).
And Yes; I'm 47 and I live alone and you really don't want to see what my shower curtain looks like. Let's just say that's it's goofy, mildly infantile in design in an IKEAesque fashion, but it does the job - it only cost $5 canadian BEFORE parity - at a bargain store so just get over it...
Have a swell day.
...and YES; I carry a pencil-case with me every single day, and I'm proud of it!
And NO; I have never, EVER worn a pocket protector even though I think they are kind of cool and highly practical.
Don't even think about thinking about mentioning the Post-It notes on the kitchen cupboard doors or I'll have to take you out back and...
Okay, I'm done.
www.Post-It.com
...I DARE you and YES I have not only checked the God Damned Link but, if you have to know, I visit their site on a regular basis, 'cause, well, why not? and, as I mentioned before, I live alone so I CAN!
Okay; I'm really done.
Yes; That's Lego on the back of my stove.
And Yes; That's a Gumby on the top of my fuse box along with a few other things (including a Kinder-Toy Vespa. I love the Vespa!).
And Yes; I'm 47 and I live alone and you really don't want to see what my shower curtain looks like. Let's just say that's it's goofy, mildly infantile in design in an IKEAesque fashion, but it does the job - it only cost $5 canadian BEFORE parity - at a bargain store so just get over it...
Have a swell day.
...and YES; I carry a pencil-case with me every single day, and I'm proud of it!
And NO; I have never, EVER worn a pocket protector even though I think they are kind of cool and highly practical.
Don't even think about thinking about mentioning the Post-It notes on the kitchen cupboard doors or I'll have to take you out back and...
Okay, I'm done.
www.Post-It.com
...I DARE you and YES I have not only checked the God Damned Link but, if you have to know, I visit their site on a regular basis, 'cause, well, why not? and, as I mentioned before, I live alone so I CAN!
Okay; I'm really done.
Artificial Intellegence, My Ass!
As I spend more and more quality time with my laptop over the holidays, I find myself thinking more and more that it's intell-insides are well versed with 19th Cent. American literature. Particularly with the works of the author Herman Melville. More particularly with Melville's shorter novels and most specifically with the shorter novel 'Bartleby the Scrivener.' For on occassion, if I issue some sort of command to my Toshiba, say, something as benign as 'Refresh,' I get the distinct impression that somewhere deep down within it's siliconic, celerony circuitry, the processor pauses, muses, and looks up:
"I would prefer not to."
"I would prefer not to."
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Mockery? Ridicule? Or Just A Dare?
She was laughing:
‘Why don’t you take a picture of this?’
In her hand, she was holding a Heinz Ketchup bottle, and she waved it towards me in that Ooo-scarey-boo kind of fashion.
The She in question was, and is, one of the co-owners of the small restaurant in which I work. She shall rename nameless; no need to cause embarrassment.
She was still laughing, and I was being mildly mocked.
What she – Hell; mockery needs to be exposed for all it’s horribly, meany nastiness, particularly when I am not the instigator – What Denise was implying was that within the two weeks that I had owned my digital camera, people had grown to see me as someone who would take a photograph of literally anything. And I suppose I do. Within limits.
And why not? If I see things differently than others, if through my eyes and imagination I can highlight something somewhere that someone else has not been able to see, is that cause for ridicule?
I may not bleed if you prick me, but I’ll certainly scream. And probably like a little girl.
So that’s the story behind the image. Now let’s take a look at it and unveil the drama within the image.
Okay – It ain’t rocket science. It’s compelling-tragic-drama science. And it’s obvious, at least to me.
The tomato. Behind him, like Hooded Death about to pull him back into the abyss with a boney, skeletal hand, behind the tomato looms his threatening, doomy future. And just over his left shoulder – Bare with me; sometimes even vegetables have to have body parts. I believe it’s called artistic licence. Or is that poetic licence? Anyways; Even You have to admit that you that you’ve seen vegetables that have looked like body parts. I digress. – And just over his left shoulder; there, there, there they stand. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Like two despicable Harpies (meaning, I suppose, that there are some Harpies that are quite nice; entertaining, engaging, witty and urbane, always thinking of others – the type of Harpy that takes you out to coffee, buys you a drink on your birthday, sends you and Christmas card…) or Spy Vs. Spy, they know what’s going to happen and there’s no need for them to lift a muscle. All they have to do is wait and then move in.
I get the impression that this narrative is not going to conclude with a happy ending.
There Denise; put That on your sweet-potato fries and smoke it!
‘Why don’t you take a picture of this?’
In her hand, she was holding a Heinz Ketchup bottle, and she waved it towards me in that Ooo-scarey-boo kind of fashion.
The She in question was, and is, one of the co-owners of the small restaurant in which I work. She shall rename nameless; no need to cause embarrassment.
She was still laughing, and I was being mildly mocked.
What she – Hell; mockery needs to be exposed for all it’s horribly, meany nastiness, particularly when I am not the instigator – What Denise was implying was that within the two weeks that I had owned my digital camera, people had grown to see me as someone who would take a photograph of literally anything. And I suppose I do. Within limits.
And why not? If I see things differently than others, if through my eyes and imagination I can highlight something somewhere that someone else has not been able to see, is that cause for ridicule?
I may not bleed if you prick me, but I’ll certainly scream. And probably like a little girl.
So that’s the story behind the image. Now let’s take a look at it and unveil the drama within the image.
Okay – It ain’t rocket science. It’s compelling-tragic-drama science. And it’s obvious, at least to me.
The tomato. Behind him, like Hooded Death about to pull him back into the abyss with a boney, skeletal hand, behind the tomato looms his threatening, doomy future. And just over his left shoulder – Bare with me; sometimes even vegetables have to have body parts. I believe it’s called artistic licence. Or is that poetic licence? Anyways; Even You have to admit that you that you’ve seen vegetables that have looked like body parts. I digress. – And just over his left shoulder; there, there, there they stand. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Like two despicable Harpies (meaning, I suppose, that there are some Harpies that are quite nice; entertaining, engaging, witty and urbane, always thinking of others – the type of Harpy that takes you out to coffee, buys you a drink on your birthday, sends you and Christmas card…) or Spy Vs. Spy, they know what’s going to happen and there’s no need for them to lift a muscle. All they have to do is wait and then move in.
I get the impression that this narrative is not going to conclude with a happy ending.
There Denise; put That on your sweet-potato fries and smoke it!
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Pas De Deux or Porn?
It all depends on how you look at it, doesn’t it? After all, there’s more than beauty within the eye’s of the beholder. There are, sometimes, lascivious thoughts.
This is a still study (one of many) for a new movie I’m putting into production. Yes; I make movies. I’ve created 4 thus far and have ideas for at least 5 more. I create them using my camera, using both still shots and video footage, and a small and eclectic and somewhat dependable gaggle of software applications that just happened to come along for the ride with Windows XP and Microsoft Office.
I consider my movies to be feature length. They are well thought out, plotted, planned, contain the highest of production values, and are created on a budget that would make all of Holly and Bolly, weep with envy.
They are also all less than 6 minutes in length and come complete with beautiful musical scores. Mainly by Mozart or Beethoven; they wrote a lot of nifty short stuff.
Sometimes I begin with a visual idea; I see something, I take a photograph of something, and suddenly a plot develops. At other times, the entire process begins with a piece of music. I’ll hear something and a story develops out of the music. I develop the plot and then quickly go through the process of casting the different roles.
Casting, you may ask?
Perfect example. God knows why, but I just happen to own a set of five poker die. Suddenly an idea popped into my head: a ménage a trois. It was so obvious. A young man named Kingsley has a beautiful young girl friend named Queenie. He’s a little confused about things – he is, after all, a Metrosexual – and during a business trip to Montreal, he falls under the manipulative and sexual guile of the debonair and Bisexual young man named – wanna guess? – Jacques!
There’s no need to say anything. I, of anyone, am well aware of the fact that I need to tighten up the story-line a tad. Yet coming thus far, it became very clear to me that I would need a larger cast. After all, there are the scenes in the office building where both Kingsley and Queenie work (they met there; it was a water-cooler romance followed by a photo-copier copulation), the scenes in the smart and three-story walk-up that the two move into together, the park in Montreal where Kingsley and Jacques first meet, the scene in the gay disco (I’d need a lot of men) where the two men dance dirty, and the scene at the Woman’s Support Centre where Queenie goes for help and love and understanding. I’d need lots of women for that one so yes, I put out a casting call meaning, I went to a game supply store and bought shit-loads of poker die affording me my three leads, lots of men (both met and bi), a gaggle of supportive dykes (makes one think of Holland, doesn’t it?), 9s and 10s for the office tower and apartment building, and lots of trees for the park and lots of spermatozoa for the sex (Ace of Spades for these last two; depending on whether they’re lying down or standing up). I have yet to put any thought into the film score, but I have the impression that it will be a piece of music by Debussy because the film is all oh-so French, and I think that this film shall be called “Crap Shoot.” “Full House” was my first pick but I think you can see my difficulties working with that choice.
Now, as far as the photograph is concerned, the plot for that movie is fairly obvious. I mean, come on. It’s all about seduction and it’s working title is “Jack et Jacques.” The usual tale of a young and straight and confused man named Jack (he’s on the left) being seduced by the equally young, and unequally straight and confused man named Jacques. Jacques is a pizza delivery guy or a plumber or a motorcycle cop or an English Prof or a frat boy or a paramedic and, once again, it will probably be set in, where else, Montreal.
I have yet to determine what Jack does for a living.
It’ll all be about the dance – twisting and twirling; ritual, totem and taboo – and the erotic. And a lot of suggested sexual positions. The music will be by Mozart – a smart and snappy Rondo akin to a Polka – clocking in at about 2 minutes 30 seconds, and the entire production will probably have to be rated PG or R.
In essence, I think it’s probably going to be a skin flick, and although I haven’t viewed every single porno movie ever made, from what I’ve heard, I can practically guarantee the viewer that this one shall be one of the very few with a sound track worthy of one’s ears.
Coming to a theatre near you…
This is a still study (one of many) for a new movie I’m putting into production. Yes; I make movies. I’ve created 4 thus far and have ideas for at least 5 more. I create them using my camera, using both still shots and video footage, and a small and eclectic and somewhat dependable gaggle of software applications that just happened to come along for the ride with Windows XP and Microsoft Office.
I consider my movies to be feature length. They are well thought out, plotted, planned, contain the highest of production values, and are created on a budget that would make all of Holly and Bolly, weep with envy.
They are also all less than 6 minutes in length and come complete with beautiful musical scores. Mainly by Mozart or Beethoven; they wrote a lot of nifty short stuff.
Sometimes I begin with a visual idea; I see something, I take a photograph of something, and suddenly a plot develops. At other times, the entire process begins with a piece of music. I’ll hear something and a story develops out of the music. I develop the plot and then quickly go through the process of casting the different roles.
Casting, you may ask?
Perfect example. God knows why, but I just happen to own a set of five poker die. Suddenly an idea popped into my head: a ménage a trois. It was so obvious. A young man named Kingsley has a beautiful young girl friend named Queenie. He’s a little confused about things – he is, after all, a Metrosexual – and during a business trip to Montreal, he falls under the manipulative and sexual guile of the debonair and Bisexual young man named – wanna guess? – Jacques!
There’s no need to say anything. I, of anyone, am well aware of the fact that I need to tighten up the story-line a tad. Yet coming thus far, it became very clear to me that I would need a larger cast. After all, there are the scenes in the office building where both Kingsley and Queenie work (they met there; it was a water-cooler romance followed by a photo-copier copulation), the scenes in the smart and three-story walk-up that the two move into together, the park in Montreal where Kingsley and Jacques first meet, the scene in the gay disco (I’d need a lot of men) where the two men dance dirty, and the scene at the Woman’s Support Centre where Queenie goes for help and love and understanding. I’d need lots of women for that one so yes, I put out a casting call meaning, I went to a game supply store and bought shit-loads of poker die affording me my three leads, lots of men (both met and bi), a gaggle of supportive dykes (makes one think of Holland, doesn’t it?), 9s and 10s for the office tower and apartment building, and lots of trees for the park and lots of spermatozoa for the sex (Ace of Spades for these last two; depending on whether they’re lying down or standing up). I have yet to put any thought into the film score, but I have the impression that it will be a piece of music by Debussy because the film is all oh-so French, and I think that this film shall be called “Crap Shoot.” “Full House” was my first pick but I think you can see my difficulties working with that choice.
Now, as far as the photograph is concerned, the plot for that movie is fairly obvious. I mean, come on. It’s all about seduction and it’s working title is “Jack et Jacques.” The usual tale of a young and straight and confused man named Jack (he’s on the left) being seduced by the equally young, and unequally straight and confused man named Jacques. Jacques is a pizza delivery guy or a plumber or a motorcycle cop or an English Prof or a frat boy or a paramedic and, once again, it will probably be set in, where else, Montreal.
I have yet to determine what Jack does for a living.
It’ll all be about the dance – twisting and twirling; ritual, totem and taboo – and the erotic. And a lot of suggested sexual positions. The music will be by Mozart – a smart and snappy Rondo akin to a Polka – clocking in at about 2 minutes 30 seconds, and the entire production will probably have to be rated PG or R.
In essence, I think it’s probably going to be a skin flick, and although I haven’t viewed every single porno movie ever made, from what I’ve heard, I can practically guarantee the viewer that this one shall be one of the very few with a sound track worthy of one’s ears.
Coming to a theatre near you…
Monday, December 10, 2007
This Is About Tea
As you may well remember, I grew up in a small Canadian city during the 60s. Well, I didn’t grow up alone in a vacuum; I grew up with others. A sister, a Father, a Mother, and a set of Grand-Parents. My Father’s parents. My Mother was American, my Grand-Parents of Edwardian English stock were Salvation Army, and because my Mother was also Irish, my Grand-Parents wouldn’t trust her with a ten-foot pole, let alone their son. As a result, my Grand-Parents always seemed to live less than two blocks away from us; every time we moved, they moved. As a result, I spent a lot of time over at their house; in fact, every weekend between the ages of 5 and 11…
I am making a pot of tea as I write this and it is on account of the fact that I am making a pot of tea that I am writing this.
…I would go to their house in time for dinner, I would stay over night, sleeping with my Grandmother (the thought still unnerves me to this day), and I would go home Sunday sometime after afternoon-tea which took place at 3 o’clock.
I drank a lot of tea at their house. Not just Sunday afternoon. All the time. With every meal. Even simply out of the blue. Tea.
I hate tea. Yes, I have tea bags at my apartment. But they are there only for caffeine emergencies such as when I have forgotten to pick up coffee. I rarely do that; the tea bags I’m using for my pot were bought for me as a house warming present three years ago when I moved into my present apartment. It’s a Ceylon blend, generic; the bags are in the original unprotected card-board box, are nasty, and I have had to throw in a couple of mint tea bags to cut the edge which, if you think of it is rather odd and ironic because the only thing more putrid and inane to me than black tea is herbal tea.
My Mother drank coffee. Even though he would have preferred to drink tea, my Father drank coffee as well mainly because my Mother forced him too. I think out of spite. I also drank coffee at home and my Mother poured it down my gullet in gallons as if attempting to purge any residual trace elements of Edwardianisms that may might still be in my system after a weekend away.
I drank coffee in high school. I’d pick up a coffee while waiting for the bus on my way to University, and once there, I’d sit with class-mates, prof-mates, and we’d all drink coffee before our very first class of the day.
We’d also smoke. Now think about this – the late 70s, early 80s; not only being able to smoke in a university building, a cafeteria no less, but we’re music performance students. A professional horn player gave me my first cigarette – I was in love with him; I would have done anything for him – and a professional flute player taught me how to roll a cigarette with Drum tobacco which I use to this day.
When I mentioned at the restaurant that I work at that I was thinking of quitting smoking, one of the servers remarked that I would never be able to do it. For two reasons. I love beer and I love coffee. There’s just something oh-so satisfying about a cup of coffee with a cigarette.
I’m drinking the tea now. I’m having a smoke and it tastes like crap. Tea and tobacco just don’t go together. If I want to quit smoking, I will toddle tea on a full-time basis, and believe-you-me (I love that phrase), it won’t take long to break the habit.
I lied to you when I stated that between the ages of 5 and 11, I spent every weekend at the house of my Grand-Parents. There was one weekend when I stayed at home and I can remember it to this day. The year was 1967. It was in the summer-time and the reason that I didn’t have one of my weekend sleep-overs was because my Grand-parents had decided to take my older sister to Expo 67. They didn’t take me because they thought I was too young even though I was six and my Mother thought I was old enough. I remember crying because I was so sad and upset. I cried more over that than I did when my Mother bought me a black shirt for my birthday and I was scared to wear it on account of the fact that it was black, and Boy! I wailed over that.
When the three of them came back from Expo, my sister refused to shut up about what a great time she had had and my Grand-Parents presented me with an Ookpik (look it up yourselves; it might be mis-spelt) and some sort of little wind-up train engine. I remember that it was of vivid primary colours and made of plastic – something outrageous in 1967. And I also remember having this vague feeling that the train engine wasn’t an Expo 67 souvenir but, in fact, something they had bought for me in a department store once they had gotten back from the trip; a gesture to alleviate any feelings of guilt they had for not taking me to Montreal with my sister.
One of the things I love about drinking coffee? I can drink cups and cups and go hours and hours without having to pee. I’ve only had one large cup of tea and I have to pee like a whore – my Mother used to say that and I’m not quite sure how it makes sense – so you’ll have to excuse me!
When Primary Colours Sleep, Do They Dream in Black and White?
I grew up in a small Canadian city during the 60s in front of a black and white television set. The events of the world unfolded before my eyes in gray-scale. I don’t remember the assassination of Kennedy even though I was old enough to remember it yet I do remember seeing every single Godzilla movie made up until that time.
In black and white.
As a result, I believe that I have grown up with a colour deficiency.
By my early twenties, I was a bassoon player in a large Canadian city and, more importantly, a photographer. Black and white. I immersed myself in everything grainy. ASA 400 was my standard and the All was foggy, fuzzy, and oh-so artistic. Even portraits. It was at this time in my creative development that I began painting. Watercolours were my preferred medium and I lost no time in welcoming colours back into my life.
Everything I created was vivid, vibrant, splashy. I attempted a few paintings using grays and blacks but they all took way too long and, as now, I simply have no patience for that type of thing. When I do something artsy, I want to get it over and done with.
So being a professional musician, a photographer and a visual artist – yes, I do differentiate between the two – I took the next two logical steps; I started working in restaurants, and I began to write.
It’s hard to believe that so many years have past since those times. I have moved back to the initial and still small Canadian city, I work as a chef, drink like a sous, and am a published author. No, you haven’t read anything I’ve written. Mainly small stuff in even smaller literary journals, and gay male porn for which I use an assumed name. Something sexy. Something tongue-in-cheek, so-to-speak.
Recently, two life-changing events occurred in my life.
One: It was a gray-scale kind of day in the fall when I found myself in an art supply store near the restaurant in which I work. I saw this very cute and small and complete set of watercolours for only $6 and I bought it. Mainly because of the lovely, slender metal box that they came in. I like that kind of thing; being ravinesque, I collect things and I like having little boxes to put my collections in. I also purchased a couple of pads of water colour paper post-cards and now I’m having a splendid time.
Two: I get two pay cheques a month. One is the for-rent cheque and the other is the for-me cheque; not only do I like collecting things: I like buying things as well. On occasion, I take this latter cheque and treat myself to something nice. Something I’ve really kind-of wanted for awhile but simply have not gotten around to buying. Such an occasion arose two weeks ago. I took the money I would have spent that week on beer and purchased for myself a smart, small, inexpensive digital camera. It’s a Kodak; Digital Zoom C613. I call it Digi (like Gigi but with a D), I take him everywhere with me, and he’s my friend.
Everything now is colour to me. Vivid. It wasn’t until I was about 25 that I came to the realization that Godzilla was green so I’m trying to catch up. I can take pictures in black and white or sepia tones but I reserve those formats for two specific types of shoots; self-portraits and photographs of my paintings.
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