250 Days a year I drive the same way to work then back home. Every day I see the same buildings, the same houses and the same streets and each day I see them on the move. Rarely I stop and see them for the standing monument they are. Rarely are the part of a landscape photograph captured for the world. But each day they can be. I can create poetry about the vivid smell of the sewage treatment plant. I can create prose to remind drivers how to drive through roundabouts. I can take a photograph giving a fallen tree a despondent emotion.
What I hope to invoke is a sense that we can capture the everyday to sense it differently. Traffic whizzes by all day but capturing the momentary blur of a car in a frozen frame allows the viewer to stand next to you. Capturing the car into words can invoke action, enjoyment, or the range of emotions. The rhythm of poetry can bring the car to life and pull the reader into a different traffic pattern.
As an artist for fun I hope to use my words, my cellphone camera and my art to capture the everyday.
Growing up I never considered myself an artist. I cannot draw and don’t see myself as creative. It took well into adulthood to begin to realize that art isn’t how well you draw, something or how perfect your grammar is but if and what you communicate. For kids this is easy every scribble is perfect and is the energy of artwork. By adulthood this is nearly lost but kids help reopen the world. My kids are constantly coloring, building with LEGO, writing, telling stories and engaging their world through expression.
By virtue of parenthood I join in their pursuits and enter a world where a poorly drawn human with arms for ears and a oddly round unibody head combination is still a human. Where the harshest problem is not having the right shade of pink for the sun. My son colors better than I do and my daughter is more creative but I still must join in and that freedom frees me for art in other ways.
PROSE, POETRY, AND THE PEN
Through some loophole of educational misfortune I somehow missed basic grammar lessons, which besides making writing and editing harder it made Mad Libs far less fun.
My freshman writing professor prompted our class to write our feelings about writing. I shared mine, much like I am now. He instilled in me prose is about communicating a point and to let others worry about the grammar. He told me one trick is to label my writing as drafts so grammar can be corrected and words honed for the critics miss the purpose of the missive and get lost in the pettiness of grammar. This wasn’t an excuse to ignore the rules of grammar this was an license to write to communicate, to write for fun and to write to share. Those who need perfect grammar can concerns themselves with corrections, those who want to engage can do so without pitch perfect grammar.
I had also been discovering the grammatical immunity granting power of poetry. I could break rules, make rules, and focus on communication. There is a reason poetic license is called poetic licenses. At various time’s I’ve fallen deeply into the pool of poetry and harnessed it’s full power to explore religion, philosophy, and emotion. At other time’s I’ve just woven the poetry into the prose. It all depends on the need and emotion. But, poetry is a world I explore and continue to develop. Unlike other writing poetry is also tactile, I struggle to type poetry I must first write it by hand.
I capture photos on a cellphone. This means they aren’t print quality and often just aren’t quality but they do their job of quickly capturing the world around me. It does the job of capturing ducks on a pond during my walk. Capturing the chaos that is the mall on the weekend. Which is the purpose of the photos. These aren’t fancy mountain scapes in the Rockies, they are standard issue office scapes in the Midwest but each captures the scene and acts as art.