Drama

It is all in the story.  A plain human truth.  It sounds so simple.  

When I hear a story, I study its parts and packaging.  I don't work very hard at it.  It is built into me.  I care about the craft of story.  I consider a story's structure, delivery and meaning to decipher its strengths and flaws. And I invent a hundred stories a day.  I see a couple walking or a neighbor comes up to my back gate, and I immediately build a story. (Remind me to tell the actual one about the neighbor, it's not bad.) Lots of us do this, I know.  It takes very little information to get started.  I mean, stories write themselves, eh? 

I surround myself with great storytellers.  And they are all so different.  Some of them finesse the structure of a story brilliantly and are captivating from beginning, middle to end. They are often well-rehearsed storytellers, honing their story with every tell.  And for them, the pleasure of unfolding the escapades or tragedy are so great that repeating the story is the least of their concern. Especially if it is a memory to relive in the telling. My Dad is like this. Some storytellers take on a character and focus on the delivery of a moment. I am most like this, I think. I do pretty decent imitations and love to shift between characters in a story, especially as it builds, but I don't care as much about the structure when I do the telling. And I love the banter-style, circular story-telling where you journey down tangents before coming back to the end. I know artful storytellers that summarize beautifully and it hardly takes any time at all for them to deliver a great story in all of its essence - punch line and all.  We all have heard stories with all of the parts that also just don't come to life.  No matter how poorly, or even well, it is told, no one cares, or some other variation.  But it doesn't matter, in a way, because they have to tell it. Telling the story is more for them than the person listening. And if we are not natural story tellers, than we are audience. Many of us are both.  Everyone needs story.

My proclivity is to take story too far in my mind.  (As my therapist reminds me.) I take bits from separate moments in life over time, reading subtext as I go, and I build a story. To me, it isn't entirely fiction.  I hear past a person's words and I perceive history, identity and intent. Hello? I can't help it if all the parts are just sitting there for the making. It's like puzzle story-telling. And I am good at it. Maybe I am a really good guesser. As a party trick, after solving the puzzle in my mind, I am willing to go (and have gone) to get the 'real' story. My versions often hold up. And the closer that I am to someone, the deeper and more complex the stories are and the faster I can read them. Maybe I picked it up from hanging around a car dealership as a kid. Maybe it is cultural. Gimme a sec, I'll give you a story. To answer everything. (Here in lies at least one rub.)  

The point to make (today) is: I love building this non-linear narrative. I get a lot of satisfaction from this process. I wish I could deliver stories in the way that they come to me, to revive the process. 

Yeah, sure, my favorite process of story-making is my strength as well as my curse. When a documentary of my mind isn't working out, I don't mind switching it over to fiction. Sometimes I lose track.  I start spinning like a top from the tragedies that I write in my head. Happily, I also spin madly with the comedies that come most often.  

I wonder how I can translate my puzzle process into a piece.  I started down that road with the "Make haste slowly" installation but barely scratched the surface. I want to recreate that temporal, visceral perception and convey the moments that make the story.  And I want it to work.  Most people who care about story feel that their way is the best (or only) way.  I am not one of them.  I like all forms of story.  I want to practice and develop them all.  But this is the style that intrigues me most.     

 

Wake Up

I saw this person crossing the street recently and happened to have my camera handy. (Lucky, I know.)  I remember the fashion of neon shoe laces and knits when they entered the scene the first time around. I personally find neon distracting and can't wear it.  I would have a seizure, I am certain.  I would also have one if any of my friends wore it (FYI).  The whole outfit sure does get you noticed, and I do admire bold fashion moves. Since it is Spring, I am taking this as a public display of seasonal inspiration. You know, something like,

"Wake up, World!  Green is walking down the street."

Blahhhg (aka Disclaimer 101)

So, here I am, doing this blog thing.  I write for the process. There is a cost when you say things aloud. The words take form. And sometimes you can hear yourself.  Spoken thoughts can be like cement blocks on your feet that you finally kick off, or like ripples of oily color on the surface of bubbles, or flat like a piece of stale moldy bread.  I just can't smell the mold as easily when I let the words bounce around between my ears. Hopefully, by writing in this more public sense, I can. Then take the next step, more clearly, to hammer out bumps that I don't like and enhance the ones that I do.

The other potential benefit of this blog is project management.  Once I have said an idea aloud, I feel I have to own it and  commit to it or let it go.  I spin many plates, like most of the people that I know. I have lists as long as my arm of projects and the list grows by the second. By collecting at least some of the ideas, here, to see them together, maybe I'll gain distance to really see them.  Find the objectivity to weed and water appropriately and track the development.  And feel the pressure to report in.  Even if only to myself.

8 years

It has been 8 years, today, since one of the most beautiful people that I have known died. I met him when I was four. We shared laughs, conspiracies, secrets from the grown-ups, familial picking (like how loud I dragged my spoon through my cereal bowl) and countless quiet moments of mundane 'passing the day' type waiting.  He was often sarcastic and confrontational and an instigator of all things trouble, but his defiance was mostly righteous. If he wasn't my hero, than he was my leader. In childhood angst, we shared the anticipation to be free of our dull domestic lives, our small town, and our family conflicts.  We lived apart but side-by-side, watching each other's achievements and turmoil without drawn out conversations about them and championed one another without the other ever knowing.  We even glimpsed romance briefly, but ever so briefly. 

When he was gone, it was fast and unexpected. The feeling of being robbed was profound. I miss his beautiful, dark, witty, fierce and troubled presence. Forever linked to his loved ones, we talk at this time each year.  "It doesn't get any easier," she says.  We tell the same stories, laughing over his mischief and power in our lives still.  He has remained present in my dreams, but sometimes, even when awake, I forget he is gone. I picture him visiting me, sitting down and eating cereal at my kitchen table, where he has never sat.  

Hang Ups

How do I make you see things the way that I do?  

The process of art, in the simplest of terms, is a series of decisions.  As the person making things, you either get an idea first and manifest it or you start to do things and 'discover' the idea along the way.  Of course there are a million variations within these seemingly simple approaches and artists really do some combination of this, but generally that is the root of it.  

So then, beyond the act of making something is the showing it to someone else.  The audience.  And artists decide within their process how they consider their audience, even if they decide to ignore the audience and make art 'for themselves.'  (If they ever show it or are compelled to, then the purest notion of making art only for themselves, doesn't hold much water.) That said, in the end, the artist's job is to communicate. And the success of the communication is the key to reaching an audience no matter how large or small. So, past the act of making something and contemplating its message, is considering how to present the piece.  

And right now, I have a mound of drawings on my bench from the last few years that have me scratching my head.  I picture them in a dozen ways. All depend on the right proportion of multiplicity, delicacy, and light. I'm struggling with the balance.  And beginning to admit what seems obvious more and more, that they belong in all twelve ways, instead of just one.  So, I commit, to testing the variations, seeing how, beyond imagining, they look and feel.  I find this to be one of the most illusive stages of a piece, but also one of the most thrilling. 

 

Replacements

Why do we hold onto things for so long?  Was it that I couldn't see past the original Craftsman style, douglas fir sash and divided panes?  Was it that I couldn't believe how good the change would be?  My house is a modest bungalow from the early 30s, but it is not the last or best example of its kind.  I found that I can maintain its integrity and beauty without sacrificing my comfort and enjoying improvements.

I feel like I relearn this lesson over and over in my life.  I am decisive in nature. Even when I make decisions quickly, I don't make them lightly. It is critical for me to take care, because once I have made a decision, I don't reverse it very easily.  I rarely regret.  But sentimental feelings sometimes get in the way and slow me down.  Maybe that is not such a bad thing, either.  I don't know.

The new ones are everything a window should be. (They are the red metal clad in the top photo.  The old ones are on the bottom with aluminum storms.  Yuck.)  Now, when I stand in my living room, it feels ten degrees cozier and, the big surprise, is how hushed the entire house has become.  I hadn't noticed until now how loud the outside distractions had grown over the years.  I look out, through unblemished panes that open when I want, and shut thoroughly without a struggle and block outside drafts. I see things more clearly.  

What was that romance for the past?  And fear of the new?  I still have beautiful wood windows and trim.  The style has not been compromised like I had feared. And they work really well.  It appears so obvious in hind sight. Sentiment is lovely with a limit. After letting go of the old attachment, I freely enjoy the new. And the liberation sends me running to dusty boxes while the sensation is fresh.  What else am I hanging onto?  Ah, yes, I am feeling Spring.  And it feels good.

Humilis

It snowed last night.  Here, in the fresh snow, are my favorite tulips.  These species tulips are ancestors to the more common large hybrid tulips.  Their native climate in the high mountains of the Mediterranean is similar to my Rocky Mountain region.  This one is "Tulipa Humilis" which I picked for color - a jewel tone red with a contrasting yellow-orange in the 'eye'.  This little flower holds up well to its latin roots. Ha! Get it?  Seriously, they can handle so much - radical temp changes, little water, poor soil - and they maintain their delicateness, regardless.  They perform well in rocky beds, and my front yard is defined by rockiness, plus they naturalize well.  The cheeky little bloomer comes out earlier than other tulips and when it eventually goes dormant, it fades quietly, unlike the messy foliage of larger tulips when they whither. Even though the flowers are droopy here, they will pop back up proud when they get the next hammering of sun. Which could be tomorrow.  Who knows?  Anyway, I love them. 

Forward & back

This little stop motion is my first.  And it is a draft.

MMG set

The shoot we had scheduled for this weekend was canceled, so woo hoo! I'm going to Spring clean with my 'free' time.  And finish editing the episodes that we shot a couple of weekends ago.  

Here is a pic of what it looks like on the MMG set.  It's a surgeon, 'Charlie Rose style,' webcast, talk show. (eOrthopod.tv) Whatever the topics are - cervical myelopathy to lumbar radiculopathy - I diagnose myself with them all.   

Works in progress

I still have some loose ends at the Mini Cooper house remodel. This week I put in an inexpensive livestock fence in back. Eventually, I would like to do something more attractive so that the back has privacy as well as something to block the view of the backside of the bakery across the alley.  For now, this will at least discourage alley travelers from traipsing through the yard.  And keep the renter's dog safe.  My friend,Tyler, is building gates and a stretch of fence at the front edge of the house to match what I did next door at Coop. So the digs are coming together.

This kind of fence is not what I consider 'building' and doesn't involve much thought; mostly it's about brawn.  Even so, it is an awkward business to do alone.  Hefting the pile-driver over a teetering metal post, placing it, then repeatedly lifting and dropping with as much force as you can muster, like a human jack-hammer, until the post is a foot or so into the ground is the action and only focus. Gravity works with you once you get started and the goals are obvious and simple.  Then you stretch the roll of wire fencing out past each post, using wire hooks to secure it as you go. Beyond the teetering of the post and the wrestle of the wire, which wants to remain rolled together, your mind is free.

I hoped to hire this kid (19 qualifies as a kid in my book) today to help me with the fence, but this day he was a no show.  Levi is a trip.  He has a good attitude when working once you get him there.  We put in a fence like this one last fall.  When it would get cold and start to rain, I would offer to stop for the day, but instead of complaining he would say, "I don't care if I get wet. I'm waterproof.  Pound that!" extending his fist out for me to gently 'pound' with the front of my fist.

It might be hard to imagine (for my friends), but when I am working with Levi, he does the talking.  And he is a really good kid and as I listen to him, I hear him searching for meaning and purpose and connection in every direction.  I really appreciate his search, even when he sounds lost and grasps hard onto ideas that I find troubling.  Maybe especially for it. He does a groovy 70s handshake that involves multiple hand grip positions that on the last one, a thumb-to-thumb clasp, he gives a finger snap.  I can't help but appreciate getting a hippy greeting from a teen-ager in 2008.  Call me a romantic. (Or nostalgic.) Based on appearances, the cadence of his voice, and the frequent, "Right on" response to all tasks and topics of discussion, anyone might guess he is a stereotypical stoner skateboarder. But, on a closer look, I think it is more likely that he is posing as one, because he's much more clean, drug-free and more fringe, even. And like getting to know most anyone, in time, the deeper paradoxes start to come out but you grow closer just the same.

Now, when tackling a bale of fence by myself, I hear Levi giggling and chattering in my head, planning the design and construction of a crazy skate-board ramp.  And I continue our dispute over humanity and life's meaning.  

Two days after I finished the fence, he called to 'plan' another time to work.  I let him know that I'll get in touch when I have more drudgery to share, which will be soon.  He's excited about a new business venture: "I'm a business owner, now.  I'll have to come over and show you my website when I get it up. You are into computer things, right?  We sell things for that and everything else. Like an internet Costco.  I'm either gonna go broke or make millions."  I consider suggesting he just text me the web address, but instead, "Sure, Levi, call me when your site is up.  But, hey, try to not go broke."  Then I remind myself: he's 19 and was mostly living in a van last fall.  How broke can he go? 

Heather

My friend, Heather, is a barrel of fun.  We went to see "Smart People" tonight.  But really, it's the drink and stories that we share that overshadow any movie we see together.  (The movie is good, by the way.)

H paints pet portraits.  She really gets in there and captures the character of each creature.  Oscar & Mayer is one of her paintings.  (I wanted to do a slide show from my photo albums, but I couldn't figure it out fast enough.  Oy.)

Power Me

One week, recently, I shook hands with myself over my life in the studio.  Or maybe it was with the devil.  I was behind on deadlines and overwhelmed with what felt like a mountain of video editing in front of me.  

On a Wednesday morning, in the middle of working, I lost power.  I checked breakers and all that, but mostly, I kept going to the light switch,  flipping it over and over, staring into a bulb overhead, hoping that with one of these flips it would blind me, even if only momentarily.  Nothing.  I went running into the street crying, "Where is the power?"  I went to the gas station next door and their power was out, too.  They had called the power company who guessed it was a squirrel nesting and didn't know when power would be back up. 

I called people for distraction.  B suggested that I take a walk.  I flipped the dead switch a few more times then took a walk.  Then, I played with the rabbit until he grew bored of me.  (Which is pretty quick.)  Then, I ran errands. At a demolition site, I almost bought a massive, 15 foot tall sign shaped like a bowling pin with neon letters that read "BOWL" down the face.  I would need a crane to move it, I thought.  And where would I put it?  It's as tall or taller than my house.  Would I plug it in?  More likely, it would sit like a dinosaur bone in my yard.  The whole day I was struck with how dependent I am on energy for my work, now.  I know 'we' are culturally, but when I left grad school at UW, my creative agenda was directly opposed to this dilemma.  I made everything with my hands.  I barely even used a tool beyond my hands.  In fact, I made tools with my hands to use.  I felt more free.  Should I take up knitting or weaving professionally?  I'm not that great at either, but heck, I'm no virtuoso computer queen either.  Start felting and papermaking again?  How can I fix this?

Well, yeah, I recovered.  The power kicked back on at almost 4:00 that afternoon.  And the minor identity crisis began to fade.  I began to see the power outage as a gift.  A mini vacation for "t".

Then, the next day, I started an upgrade to my operating system.  I was about to start a new set of video edits, and it was the perfect time to do it.  Details aside, I nearly lost everything. And I mean EVERYTHING:  business invoices, address book, iTunes library, documentation of my artwork, book marks, editing notes...  Nobody dare say the word "back-up" to me.  It only reinforces what I already know:  I am not cut out for this work or this world.  I was a wreck.  In tears.  All of that work lost.  The sky was falling.  My friend, Hank, said he saw that the sky was falling, but also reminded me that the earth was still here.  My reply, "Yeah, but I am smashed in between."   After some calm steps backward and B's wave of his Computer Demystifier Wand, now, the pixels light up in all the right places and everything is 'fine'.  Or so it looks.

I can recall with ease how it feels to make things in the studio with my hands.  In my experience, few things are as satisfying as building tangible beautiful things.  But, I also remember the isolation of it.  In a few conceptual leaps, I have landed back in my own shoes in the here and now.  I relived my decision to work with video.  So now I try to embrace it.  I am still seduced by the moving image. Nothing compares to movies when it comes to communicating on a larger scale.   I renew my commitment to collaboration.  And the potential to communicate with a greater audience.

So, this blog, is a small gesture to reinforce my commitment to the precariousness and possibility of technology.  The question, for me, remains: How do I find the balance between precariousness and possibility so that once again, I feel free creatively.