Pug

This photograph no longer exists in one piece due to an irrational decision on my part but I can still recall it quite vividly. The photograph was taken at my Grandparent’s house when I was about four years old. It’s quite simple, consisting only of my Grandpa and I. He sits in a large reclining chair in his living room in Stanton, Virginia. I sit happily on his knee looking up at him with a big grin on my face unaware of the camera only a few feet away from us while he smiles directly into the camera, a glare barely catching the bottom part of his glasses. The left edge of the photo shows half of an old lamp and wooden table with the two of us framed close to center and the right side of the photo fades into darkness.

The photographer is none other then my mother who never misses a moment to take a photo. This photograph means a lot to me because my Grandpa and I were very close. I remember being upon his knee many times. He used to give me his ice cream and call me “pug”. I love this photograph because I can see the happiness in both of our faces, mine full of wonder, and his full of content. I also love it because I am unconcerned with the camera that captures this purely innocent moment in time. I used to carry this photo around with me most of the time, kind of like a good luck charm. Naturally the photo is worn and rather beat up due to being folded and unfolded time after time. But now it sits in a safe place taped back together as best I could manage. I ripped the photo after my Grandpa’s funeral when I was seventeen. He was the first immediate family member of mine to die that I remember and it was my first funeral. I remember getting mad at myself for not being able to cry when my father told me the news. I was shocked, I’m not even sure if I responded to him. I didn’t cry until the two days when I went to his funeral in Virginia and saw the open casket. After I went back home I took the photo out of my back pocket and tore it out of anger and sorrow. I didn’t get to say goodbye and even worse, my mother didn’t, his own daughter. I don’t think the pain losing someone you love ever goes away but with time the pain dulls and you learn to move on.

I’m not sure whether I would have wanted to see him or not though. Over the two years leading up to his death, Alzheimer’s slowly took a hold of him and he could barely remember whom I was. I remember the first time he didn’t know my name; it broke my heart. If I would have been there and he didn’t remember me I don’t think I could have handled it. Minutes after destroying the photo I broke into tears and frantically searched for tape to fix my hasty mistake. Ever since then I have not been able to take the photo anywhere for fear of losing it for good.

When I look at the photo I can smell a Virginia summer’s night and picture me asleep next to my Grandpa on the swinging porch chair while he smokes and looks out into the dark. I wonder if he was ever looking for anything in particular or if he was simply looking. He had a great since of humor; he often told me jokes and would always talk about being a hooligan in his youth. The house seems so empty now when we visit my Grandmother and I know it takes a toll on her. I can’t fathom being married to someone for 56 years and then losing them. My mother grew up in that house and my brother and I have shared good memories there as well. I feel like I go back in time when I visit her in Stanton.

My Grandpa always smoked for as long as I can remember and he had no health complications due to smoking. This always amazed me because on the opposite hand smoking killed my dad’s mom. He also had dentures because he liked candy to much as a kid and boy did ever love it when he was old. He had trouble walking in the last of his years which sadly left him in his recliner most of the time but every now and again we would go to the park to feed the ducks or listen to the band in the summer evening. He loved to go on drives and get out of the house. My mom said he used to love to fish as well, he taught me how to fly fish when I was about ten but I wasn’t any good at it. Almost all of my memories with him are good ones and I am thankful for that.

This photo doesn’t help me know my Grandpa or tell me anything about him or make me remember him better. It does something more then that. It starts a chain reaction of vivid memories and smells that play like a dream in my mind. This photo helps me remember my Grandpa the way I want to remember him before he couldn’t remember me. Before he started deteriorating and having to watch helplessly, unable to do anything about it. He was a kind and gentle man. He never brought any harm to anything be it plant, animal, or human. He provided for his family and was the best husband/dad/grandfather he could be. In a way I think it’s silly that I place so much importance upon this tiny piece of ripped paper but at the same time I am glad I do because it reminds me the moment actually happened. Without it I’m sure I would remember my Grandpa the same way as I do now but it’s the only thing I have of him left in the world.

Ghouls of the Night

Dear Potato Family,

Every day you work the fields with your bare hands, even the women and children. Your bodies are tired and tattered, your faces are worn from years of hard manual labor just to put food on the table in the evenings. Each day it's the same, more and more potatoes but you don't mind. Your house is modest but enough for the family to be comfortable and provide for the elders. A cousey yet haunting place to liveYour eyes are distant and cold, black as coal and impossible to read. Maybe you imagine yourself somewhere else or perhaps you are simply grateful to have any food at all. The utensils in your hands are held softly, delicately as to not hurt your raw hands which have been digging all day long. The dirt and musk fills the atmosphere around the table. Ghoulish hands reach out from the dark for a cup of tea or some potatoes. You sit basking in the dull light of a single candle above the table, barely allowing you to see. Taking this moment to pause and relfect is well deserved. The family has worked hard today and provided well for themselves and tomorrow will be the same. Your wooden faces all relfect this fact and you accept it as your way of living, an honest living.

Goodnight potato eaters.

A Tale of Love and Woe

I haven't found anything recently that really made me think or respond in any sort of way so I decided to pick an item from foundmagazine. I searched on their site for a good while and found a couple of things that sparked my interest but eventually I found an object that caught my attention and made me stop in my mental footsteps so to speak. The object is a ripped up picture that a woman found in front of an angel statue in a cemetery in Cleveland. She took the picture and put the pieces back together forming this:


To me the photo looks to have been of a bride and groom from quite a long time ago. But why was it ripped up and tossed in front of the angel? Did one of the people in this photo commit this act? If so I wonder if it was out of love and grief or out of hate. Or could the person who ripped the photo be an offsrping of the two visting the parents grave? I want to know the back story of this photo, who are these people? When was it taken?

With all unanswerable questions aside, the phot itself intigues me. The man is looking up and away from the camera and instead of being next to his bride he stands behind her. The woman on the otherhand gazes directly into the camera and appears proud and composed with part of herself in front of her husband. I adore the worn and old feeling of this photo. I feel that before it met the fate of being in pieces the photo was very loved and cared for.

The Time is Now

There are two artists who I would use to define the times we are in right now here in 2009. The first being a filmmaker who I admire greatly and think as one of the most influential living filmmakers; Mr. Martin Scorsese. When I see his films I can really connect to them and I get the feeling that he really knows what the audience wants and what they’re interested in. He has a formula, knows it works, and uses it to his advantage. He has created such classics as Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Casino, Goodfellas, and The Departed. He continues to take risks and excite and capture his audience in new and innovative ways. His risks for the most part are rewarded and show young; rising filmmakers such as myself that doing what you want and believing in yourself can get your movie picked up. I feel that Mr. Scorsese also goes above and beyond being a filmmaker. He is very in touch with his American-Italian roots and shows that influence in some of his films as well as outside the film industry.


Another artist that I feel captures what I would call modern is none other than Marcel Duchamp. I remember learning about him in class and the Mona Lisa with the Mustache made me literally fall out of my chair laughing. He was able to take something that people regard so highly, have fun with it, and still have people love it. He took a huge risk because he could have been shunned out of the art world instead. He also took a urinal, signed it, and called it “Fountain”. Duchamp fascinates me because he challenged the rules set before him as to what “art” is. I feel like many artists are trying to do that same thing now and I feel Duchamp was extremely successful. He was experimental, daring, and didn’t care much for convention in art or anything really. He was a driving force in surrealism in France and influenced multiple artists in the future.
Both of these artists take risks and delve into what many others were to cautious or uncaring to try. One is a filmmaker who constantly comes up with new material and new ways to stun audiences that have seen his work before. I think the only way someone could describe one of his films as being "Classic Scorcese" would be because of how crazy and cutting edge they always are. Not because they are similar. Duchamp also took chances and pushed the edges of convention. He had no patiance for rules and worrying about what art should be, he just created.

Graffiti Art

For my final commonplace entry I will be focusing on graffiti art. Specifically the graffiti art tunnel on campus just before the gates leading to center stage. While I couldn't get inside the of the tunnel itself, the art on the outside was more then enough for me to cover. I take frequent walks over to the graffiti wall when I need to think, clear my head, or if I'm looking for inspiration. And every time I've been over there the art has been changed. Nothing stays up there for more then a month or so and I often see groups of people walking over to spray over top of what's there to put up their own creations.

Now until sometime last year I didn't even know graffiti was an art form and you can believe otherwise if you so wish. However, graffiti art is very difficult. I learned this the hard way because two of my friends who are astonishing painters are also amateur graffiti artists. When I found this out I chuckled and foolishly asked "Is that really considered art?" they gasped and showed me some of what they had created and told me to give it a try. Not wanting to back down after my remarks I gave my best attempt at creating art...it was a mess. Needless to say I made a fool of myself and learned to keep my mouth shut. I later followed them to the water tower (behind my high school), which frequently falls a victim to this art form. Watching my friends execute even the simplest design amazed me. They had to get every line, swirl, loop, letter, shading, and "mistake,” correct the first time because obviously spray paint isn't erasable. Spray paint can also be very uncooperative and tough to work with as can the medium the graffiti artist chooses to work on. So from then on I became a believer in graffiti art. I have not attempted to make anymore graffiti art since my first attempt but I have the utmost respect for the artists that have taken the time to learn how to create this precise and expressive form of artwork.
After taking multiple pictures of the art that currently resides on the wall toward the back of UNCSA I decided to use this portion:



This particular piece of art has a mix of jagged, edgy lines and curved lines. The curves seem to only truly appear on arch figures in the graffiti and on the only off colored light purple part which has the largest curve in the piece. The piece mostly consists of zigzag jagged lines, which give the piece a harsh and coarse feeling. This is only the beginning of the graffiti area and covers between six to ten feet across and about three feet high. In the photo the graffiti appears to be smooth and almost glossy but in reality it has been painted on a rather rough surface of brick. I would describe this piece as symbolistic; it means something to the artists but passerbyers are left in the dark. I would call the work expressionistic as well because the painting has been created through an abstract medium in a way that many do not understand or see as vandalism rather than art. Graffiti art is imperfect and meant to be that way because it's about self expression and requires the artists to throw themselves into something that could very well be destroyed the next morning.

The majority of the graffiti is a bluish-purple color but one area is a much lighter purple that is not used anywhere else in the piece. The background is a yellow cloud outlined in red, an explosion maybe, coming from behind the main focus of the piece-the lettering. There are also three white stars bursting from the lettering. The shadows are colored in black and give another plain of depth to the work. This particular graffiti piece repeats itself you can see this by looking at the right edge of the picture where the pattern starts over. I can’t decide whether that sad smiley face on the lighter purple area was intended to be there by the original artists or added later without their knowledge. This piece bulges and pushes against itself, begging for more room so the jumbled letters can stretch out. The entire piece is outlined by a thin white line that contrasts with the black used for the shadows and fills making the painting pop from the wall.
Somehow I think the graffiti knows that people are intrigued by it and will stop to try and decipher it’s meaning. I felt like I had to stop and look at every part of this wall or I would miss something. I find this true for the photo as well. I can’t ignore it or push it aside just because I don’t know the intention or meaning of the artwork, we wouldn’t have half the art we do now if that were the case. This kind of art is truly a statement; being able to create art anywhere and everywhere is a gift. Great murals and depictions of society have been created by graffiti art.

Graffiti art would remind me most of mannerist paintings if I were to put it into a category from this term. The reason being, graffiti art delves into individualism and each piece of art, while similar, will always be different from artist to artist. The exaggerated lettering and shapes generally stay the same. But the color, curves, background, and meaning will vary from artist to artist. Graffiti varies from region to region much as paintings in the time of mannerism did. While Italy was still prominent the center or art was moving to France. Italian mannerism is not the same as French. In turn, a graffiti piece created in Detroit will not be the same as one created in Los Angeles. However, what graffiti art truly reminds me of are inscriptions such as the ones created on the French caves we studied in the fall term.

Invasion of the Crabs!

While thinking about what my focus would be for my final commonplace entry this term I remembered a strange type of art that my city has been displaying since the summer of 2005.

Back in 2005 a project was created named The Crabtown Project which raised money for Baltimore City Schools because they are drastically underfunded and in terrible condition throughout the city. The project invited local artists to take a 5X5 foot fiberglass crab and turn it into a work of art. Over 350 artists were vying for a chance to get their hands on one of them. Out of those 350, 200 where eventually chosen. After the artists had completed their creations, the crabs were unleashed upon the unsuspecting city. In the fall, all of the crabs where auctioned off and ended up raising over a million dollars for renovations to bathrooms, replacement of exterior doors and floor tiles, carpet replacement and other needs for the schools. All of the artists received a bit of money (~$1,000) but most of them agreed that the project was fun and they would have participated without payment in order to help the schools. What I found exceptionally intriguing was some of the artists asked for input from the kids, what they wanted to see and create, not only what the artist felt like making.






Most of these crabs are no longer in Baltimore City but the few that do remain stand proudly and represent the full hearts of Baltimore artists and the people and businesses of the city. Some of the crabs are in plain sight, around tourist attractions such as the inner harbor or outside of Raven's stadium. Others are hidden only seen by the Baltimore native who knows where to look. When they first appeared I thought they were around because summer was approaching, thus crab season, a promotion tactic or maybe a college school project. But when they stuck around I was determined to find out why. When I did I was truly proud to a Baltimorean knowing how our city pulled together with a public event such as this one. And to help children no less. When I see tourists and children down in the city pointing at them, playing on them, and taking pictures of them I think about how absurd they must seem to an outsider. But if they knew the story behind them they might come to mean more then just creative and beautifully decorated glass crabs. These pieces of art have a deeper hidden meaning then simply sitting by the Washington Monument or outside of the Aquarium; they represent my city. Not only because crabs are the trademark of Maryland but also because of the goodhearted and loving people who inhabit a city that as of late is only known for it's high crime rate and subpar schooling. Creating these crabs was not something these artists did for the money or their careers necessarily. They were created by people who care about creating art for a cause and helping hundreds of schools and children. If you ever have a chance to visit Charm City make sure to keep an eye out for a crab taxi or referee and take the time to stop and explore them, find out who created them. Some of the artists even give credit to the children who helped creatively and physically build these art crabs.



I don’t usually enjoy art for causes because to me the events (as well as the art) seem forced. But in this case I found the art intuitive, unique, and creative, capturing my full attention and emotion.

"I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together."

Last week we enjoyed about two to three inches of snow fall. My friends and I immediately went outside to have a snowball fight and make snowmen. I felt like a little kid again playing in my backyard at home with my brother. The excitement and happiness overflowed and became contagious to anyone who walked by. After we had all settled down and gone back inside to drink hot chocolate and play smash bros I decided that I would go out later to enjoy the quite of the early morning. So around 3am I braved the biting cold and light snowfall to take pictures and enjoy the beauty and purity of snow. My thoughts and silence were soon broken as my eye caught a flash from another camera. I don't know why I didn't think anyone else was nuts enough to be walking around at this time in the morning taking pictures of snow covered trees and bikes but low and behold at least two other film students were outside with the same exact idea. Even after I had fulfilled my desire for pictures I remained outside to listen and appreciate nature. When such a beautiful act of nature such as snow occurs I often step back to take everything in. I wish that I could have become invisible, just observing the delicate flakes that end up brushed aside and stomped on by eager feet. I love seeing a field of undisturbed snow; no footprints, no sign of an interference. When I do come across such a field I am stopped in my tracks with aw and watch for a while without any concern for the passing time or my frozen nose and feet. A sensation washes over me, I no longer feel connected to myself or anything around me, I become an invisible eyeball. As such I neither interfere nor react, only observe and ponder the wonders of nature.