I have a gripe that perhaps some of you have as well.  There are tens of thousands of groups on Flickr.  Over the years, I’ve joined quite a few and contribute when I can.  There is an entire segment of groups centralised around the cities in which we reside.  I too think this is grand.  It gives us an opportunity to show how beautiful or ugly our city may be according to the filter we use to perceive our surroundings. 

Again, the premise is grand but the implementation of such a construct is atrocious.  My home cities group is filled with pictures of food and humorous expressions!  What does that say about the city in which I was born?  We’re funny and fat?    In all fairness, there are shots of grand architecture, landscapes, portraits, and lovely shots that tell compelling stories.  Photography, at least in my wee opinion, is about evoking an emotional response in the viewers.  The trick is to get the actual reaction
you were hoping for.  In just as many instances, however, it is just as important to tell a story with that simple yet daedal medium.

Ask a different photographer, and you’ll get a different answer every time.    Enough rambling.  I’m going to bugger off now and have a cuppa tea.

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One day last week, I was at work doing audits and such as I do everyday when a box of screws fell and splattered into a marvellous figure of a dolphin.  Seeing the dolphin in the jumble of screws, I studied it lying lying there on the frigid concrete floor.  A moment later my boss came over, and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Ah…well, I saw a figure of a dolphin in these screws….I’ll get them cleaned up, boss.”  I said whilst rearranging them again in my mind.

“Boy, you ain’t right”, he laughingly muttered, as he walked off.

Friday, we were getting off of work late.  I was in an atrocious mood that had been spiralling out of control all week.  We had been working from before dawn ‘til after dusk every night.  I’m not one to be around, if I don’t get my creative time in.  I must write, take photos and transform them, draw, or do something creative everyday.  It is imperative that I do these things to keep my sanity, just as some people must pop pills to make themselves feel happy.

An older gentleman that was working in the business where we were working asked me why I was in such a brooding mood.  I had not said a word to the man whilst entering data, but I guess he could tell.  My boss stepped in, and said, “Ah, he gets this way every time it rains.  The weather reminds him of Ireland.”

I spun around and yelled, “Don’t be telling people my worries, sir”.

“You from Ireland, lad?”  The old man asked, intrigued by the statement.

“No, I am from here, the states, but my ancestors, the majority, were from Ireland.”

“I grew up in Philadelphia, but my father was from Cork.”  The old man said with extreme excitement.

“Ask him about the woman he lost over there", my boss stated whilst snickering.

“Yes…yes…yes…Tell the whole world about my life.  Stick to your own, how about it.” 

“So, you’ve been to the Republic?”  The man asked, as he leaned over the desk.

We talked for a full hour about our families histories, Ireland, youth, art, books, writers, and the like.  I didn’t realise it at the time because I was so intertwined in the conversation, but we had an audience of workers listening to our stories about our adventures and our families adventures to the states.  One girl chimed in and said that she was Irish.  I asked her if she was born in Ireland clearly for my own amusement.  She dropped her head and said no.  I asked her what her maiden name was, and she said, “Yeats”.  I said, “Well, you could be related to W. B. Yeats”.

“Who is that?”  She earnestly asked.

The old man and myself busted into laughter. 

“He was a brilliant poet and writer that should not be overlooked.  Instead of reading one of those little pretentious novels with no substance, grab one of the classics once and a while.”  I said while trying not to humiliate her. 

I said my goodbyes and traded contacts with the auld fella.  I offered to try and help him find some missing people in his tree.  The boss came up to me as I was leaving, and said, “I’m sorry, JD”.

“For what?”

“It is obvious that you hold art, literature, history, and your family very close.  These things are a part of you, and I am sorry for trying to suppress them.  My God man, you lit up like a beacon, when you started talking about Ireland, art, and stuff.”

“Don’t worry about it, boss.  My dreams and ambitions may be suppressed at times but never are they gone, for if they die, I die along with them.”

“Like I said before, boy, you ain’t right”

We both laughed while exiting and ran through the torrent sheets of rain towards our cars. 

Reason for posting this nonsense?  My luck has been turning around lately.  There’s a brilliant dawning around the corner.  Wait and see. 

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Grandad did it!  He tagged me a few days ago (sorry for the lateness of the post) for a six word meme.  The gist of the meme is to describe one’s self in six words.  I’m going to give this a couple of goes.  J

Journeyman

Energised

Featherweight

Fisherman

Enigma

Recalcitrant

Sociable

Observer

Nonpareil

Six words when I’ve had too much to drink: 

Nefarious, Devious, Audacious, Flirtatious, Gregarious, & Hilarious

Six more words: 

Justified, Sanctified, Electrified, Amplified, Non-classified, & Diversified

Six real words ‘bout me:

Humble:  I reckon you’ll find that I’m a very down to earth fellow that can be fishing one minute and writing poetry and taking photos the next.

Honourable:  If I ever promise you anything, I’ll do my best to achieve it.  And, when it comes to women, I’m like a faithful mutt waiting for a handout. 

Benevolent:  Believe it or not, I’m a very helpful and kind person.  I don’t talk about helping people on the blog, because that would be totally rude to those that I’ve helped. 

Silly:  I am a clown but usually on accident.  I like to play!  J

Deamy:  I see things as they should be or how they could be in a different realm.

Artsy:  I shouldn’t have to tell you by now how much I love Art!  Tis my life ambition to turn words into picturesque scenes and picturesque shots into words. 

Now, onto my favourite part!  Who shall I meme?  Hmm…How ‘bout:

Absolutely Vanilla  (when she gets back to blogging)

Brian F. (Just cause)

Baino   (subconsciously she loves these darn things.) 

Gayé  (I’ve not pestered her with one of these in quite a while.)

Suzan  (I’ve not annoyed her with one of these in a long time either.) 

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Yesterday, I went with the Art Club down to the High Museum in Atlanta, Georgia. On the way down, I sat in the window seat on the bus and a pretentious – egotist bloke sat beside me. He blabbered on about different pieces we were going to be observing and buttered up one of the instructors in the seat directly in front of us, while I mutely sat and read the New Yorker. It was a pleasant trip filled with laughter.

After we arrived, all of us entered the Louvre section of the museum. We were all captivated and awe struck by “The Tiber” and other gorgeous sculptures and pieces from France, Roma, Greece, Egypt, Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Babylon. Chills rained down my back, while gazing at clay tablets over four thousand years old. I pondered about the people that crafted the pieces and the lives they lived.

The “Winged Victory of Samothrace” bewitched my spirit. The implied motion – how the fabric of the garment flows over the body of Nike, the goddess of Victory. And, most importantly, the story behind the sculpture. Most of the students put on headphones, which told them about each sculpture, piece, or painting, but I chose to read the plaques and interpret everything in my own way. That is what I love the most about art and literary works. We can each interpret a novel or a painting differently.

Another sculpture that called to me was “Crouching Aphrodite”, from the Roman Imperial period. I kneeled down beside it and glared into her face – a countenance weighed with thought. Sculptures from the Hellenistic period have always captured my imagination, while paintings from the Romanesque era enchant my intellect. Of course, I love all art, regardless of when it was created. However, pop art unnerves me a bit.

Go boil some water for a cuppa because this is long, or you can enjoy the pictures below. I have to write a paper about my visit, so this is good practice…

After exiting the Louvre hall, we entered the contemporary hall. Hanging on the first wall, adjacent to the entrance, were a few silhouette images – black cutouts against a white background – in a row, by Kara Walker. Some of her drawings are quite compelling, but her cutouts are an atrocity. She depicts scenes of slaves in the pre civil war south, being brutalised by their respective owners. She shows white men raping slaves (young men and women) and white women pillaging the wombs of female slaves. She does this to push society’s buttons. That is how she has made a name for herself! It’s not by the quality or composition of the artwork, but the horror it projects. Look, every society at one point, has been enslaved by a more powerful civilisation, so I say, get over it! Did I say I didn’t like her?

Anyway, back to the artsy Californian that I sat beside on the bus. Whilst standing in front of Kara Walker’s pieces, he said, “Isn’t she fantastic”, with hyper glee.

“Yes, she is”, I replied, as glared at the horrific scenes.

“I love how she uses these slavery images”, he uttered, while making hand gestures at the particular way she depicted blood gushing.

I don’t like her, but I was trying to hold back my judgements and be nice to the guy. Heck, I might have learned something from him.

“Yeah, there was about an eight page write up about her in the New Yorker two months ago.

He stopped dead in his tracks, dropped his jaw, and enquired, “You…read the New Yorker?”

“Indeed”, I answered, with a laughing smirk.

He stepped back, put his arms to the side, and muttered, “You must have borrowed it from someone, right?”

“I have a subscription to that along with New York Times, New York Review of Books, and Contemporary Poetry Review”, I muttered, as I tried not to laugh.

“You?”

“Tis true”

“….I never would have thought it, just being honest and all”, he mumbled, as he crossed his arms.

“Ehhmm…Yeah, I’m a photographer, aspiring poet, amateur author (I have much to learn), professional skirt chaser, and I dab in watercolours and pastels from time to time”, while glinting at the young female art student beside me.

He fell back on his heels, and cried, “Wow, that is totally cool…I never would have thunk it…Dude, I’m like…totally blown away. Do you have any of your poetry with you or some photographs?”

There’s no need to go any further into the discussion. He asked if I did architecture, nature, surreal, abstract, impressionistic, or portraits. I gave him my flickr address and the blog address. So, if you are reading this, sir, I’m not trying to imply that you are an idiot or a jerk, just a Californian. Nah, most Californians are cool. Dude is smart. He went to the Art Institute of Chicago. We are all taught at an early age how to view the world, but it is up to us as adults to be open minded and nonjudgmental.

I’ll pick up with part two of The High Museum in a day or two. I have a lot of reading to do.

Kewl…862 words in thirty minutes of casual maundering.

P.S.: The last image is a one of my abstract paintings contorted in photoshop.

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