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."
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