CONTEMPORARY EXPLORER

  I always wanted to photograph winter, trying to capture its light and color. Its hidden places. The trees though have so much to say from their spring, summer and fall spent. All filling my lens. I step back realizing I can’t capture all of winter, just a few lines from what the trees say…

Artists and art culture represent 4.5% of the GDP and 5.1 million jobs in the country. If you stretch the definition to include allied skills such as designers, architects, game makers, the economic contribution rise to over 10% of GDP. It’s not surprising that communities are attracted to using arts as an economic engine and springboard to renewal. The reality though is, it doesn’t always work!   David Mildner discusses this in his study and article entitled “Lets Get Real About the Arts.” The problem Mildner points out is that some communities trust into the arts by building theaters, performance halls and museums. These by nature are non profit and suffer overtime as cash drains. Worse, many people now consume art via online resources making it tough to attract people to these facilities. Having said this, investments in the arts can be a winning strategy for renewal. Mildner and other experts like Katherine Mesik who wrote “How Art can Revitalize Neighborhoods” suggest the support

  Buried by digital photography, film had almost died. Once again though interest in it has grown, reigniting the debate is film better than digital. The rebirth is fragile as witnessed by the only new film cameras being made right now are plastic including the lens.  I got involved because a photographic colleague purchased an inexpensive Kodak Elgar 35mm film camera. Of course, I had to get one too. The first results were as expected, not as clear as digital, but unexpectedly more artful and colorful. I was hooked, searching for even more camera options I found the HOLGA 120 camera, famous for art shots, light leaks and double exposures. Not to mention the tendency to forget taking off the lens cover before shooting. If you want a camera that takes sharp shots, you have to dig through thrift shops or pay steep prices for ones refurbished at film stores. Even then, the reality is the camera is likely 20+ years old and foreign in use todays digital ones.  Adding up the total so far, I

  720 ELM STREET - The garage on the corner of Elm. Owned by a simple man, liked by neighbors who brought their cars there. His demeanor a touchstone for people. His work and being something they could count on, when there was little else in the world you could. He lived around the corner in a small craftsman and still did, even though the shop closed. It all had changed, car computer codes and technical tools. His kids off to bigger lives in far away places. People would still park cars on the garage lot. Maybe expecting him to open up again. He kept fresh paint on the garage, colorful. Maybe to let people know life still flowed in him. Now just a quiet part of the neighborhood on Elm..

  In the midst of AI’s promise and fear, I was fascinated by a friend who has a great side gig of stringing tennis racquets by hand. Most racquets are mass produced and strung by machine. Tennis professionals though still seek out craftsman who string by hand, citing a special quality they add to racquets performance. Cathal Kelly in a Globe and Mail article referred to this as “The Dark Art of the racquet stringing.” A unique talent of the stringer that gives the player additional confidence and edge on the court of competition. We see this same unique talent in business. Where the professional with all the technical skills is bested by another person having a special undefined approach to winning that goes beyond the basics. Maybe that’s the great salvation about dealing with AI. It might produce the framework better and quicker than us, but the magic is still added by the human touch. Call it dark art, call it genius or just call it irreplaceable…

  She liked things found out of place, often feeling much the same about herself. Sitting by the window, she took out her notebook and wrote about it. Everything else in the museum seemed perfect, the art all lined up. An artist once told her, to get into a gallery or museums your work needed to be definite in pattern, like little soldiers in a row. So why the yellow book left on a long side seat near the window. Everyone passing it moving from room to room at the museum. They all glanced at it, but it was apart and did not fit. No one wanted to be the one who sat and opened it.  A feeling she knew well having moved through life that way. No one stopping her to pull back the cover to really see who she was, not that she knew that completely herself.  She looked at the last few words she had written, taking a final sip of coffee. wondering if the yellow book was still there, if anyone opened it. Closing her notebook, she started walking back to rescue it...

  The cold of a Boston winter cuts through you like a knife, making the walk from the office long. I pulled my coat tighter, the sight of South Station emboldening me on.  The station was shrouded in a frosty haze and filled with trains. The grand ones, NE Regional and Acela dominated it. Fast, they would take you to NYC in 4 hours, serve you drinks and new people to meet.  Not so the ones of the MTBA, Boston’s commuter options. The subway creaky and old, locals called the T. Next to it, the commuter train lines sat quietly waiting, with the purple and red set of cars. These were the ones I took, they each had a name, mine the Haverhill Line. I often thought about trips to NYC or DC on the grand ones, but Haverhill Line took me back to Kathy each night. I just called it “The Train”…

  I’ve been struck recently by articles about Japanese photographer Daido Moriyama and Midwest photographer Nathan Pearces. Despite being in vastly different parts of the world, they both jumped off the beaten path to explore mundane places where there was no reason for going. Paul Theroux, the writer, also traveled backroads and prized meetings with people in places forgotten. They all found brief glimpses of beauty and insights that made great art in what others considered banality.

  Gas pumps have been around since 1885, changing much through the years. Invented by Sylvanus Bowser, there were often referred to by his name, still a fixture at some airport fueling hubs. Gas pumps don’t evoke the same fascination they once did. The ring of the bell when a car arriving, the clicking of the numbers, the brightly emblazoned logo of the brand. Modern pumps are called headers and often only vary by the number of different fuels they dispense. All parts mechanically controlled by computer. Usually, you can’t wait to leave their uninspiring and expensive presence. The only saving grace, how quickly they dispense. Older pumps with their colorful character and cranks have disappeared, except in remote or nostalgic places like Route 66. When you're lucky enough to find one, it’s not only the mechanics that enthrall you, it’s their unique art garnered with time. Scrapes, rust and faded colors all pull you in. All treasured memories from times past…

  It is said that if the desert likes your dreams, it will let you stay. If not, it will sweep you away… Perhaps no place reflects this more than Tonopah AZ, a dusty truck stop along I-10 between Buckeye and LA. Over the last 3,000 years it is said that Hokokam, Papayan, Hakataya and Yavapair people have lived in the area, but little remains of there time, save the few petroglyphs in the Saddle Mountains nearby. Once US 80, one of the first cross country roads, went through here. Health seekers and travelers in the 1920’s sought out the warm water wells in the area for their special healing. The native meaning for Tonopah is water. Saguaro Health Sanitarium was built, but now just a fading roadside motel. A local air strip to the east of town anchors planes forgotten by time. Settlers who first came in 1916 found the promised riches in agriculture elusive. Even with exotic approaches, this remains the case today. The only claim to fame the area has is the Palo Verde Nuclear plant, the

  Out front the art all lined up and perfect for the viewing, but there is always the back of the gallery. Where the egos and work of the artists are all stacked up, vying for attention among the trappings of life. A place where showings are plotted, sales confirmed and numbers crunched. All done amidst the crying out of art wanting to be seen. Ode to the back of the gallery where the real art work is done…

  EXHIBIT A - you never know the truth until the end….

  Few things are less permanent than posters in cities. They shout out advertisements in bold letters and images, but are quickly marred, torn away, papered over and impacted by the city. Street slang and graffiti change the original message creating new meaning and color. They are found most in art areas and along the Trade Streets of the world. City places in transition where small buildings linger before being replaced or remodeled for new commerce. Their sides and boarded windows forming the perfect canvas for posting. Artists have long played with the remains of posters. Jacques Villegle (considered the father of street art) took pieces of torn posters to inspire paintings. A photographer wandering urban streets soon finds posters attracting their camera eye. Making special art and language only they can see…

  There are times when various projects, the details of life, and appointments take me away from being in touch with the world. I forget about being sensitive, having empathy for others, peacefulness, and the beauty around me. These times bothers me more now, perhaps because of being older and recognizing how important being at one with the world is. There were always stressful times during my career days, but I just rolled through them. I wish I had understood more then…

 

  It’s difficult to fully describe a Southern byway, their winding nature, the sights along the way. There is a slowness here, a closeness to nature, where tasks today can be done tomorrow. All played out against the sultriness of summer. The people along the way warm, schooled by place and time to a measured politeness and kindness, telling you much, but not fully allowing you in. There is much to learn here, a newness around every curve. A blending of ways, mile traveled by mile…

 

  We forget how important it is to talk and relate to others. How much it means to our lives. The lost and found department for people is hard to find...

They say it’s impossible to stop time, to stay in place. But things do stop you, maybe just for an instant. A swarm of images or just one that sets you mind wandering. Thinking “HEY” there is something here….

  One of the great things about art is all the material and equipment. Curating it is an art form in itself, giving much pleasure in its pursuit. Yes, I have been accused of having more paint and brushes than Picasso, not to mention all the canvas untested by fledgling talent. Still there is wonderful warmth in wandering in it all and then there are rare moments. Upon a pad of art paper, you pull a pallet knife or two, a couple of tubes of paint and play. Soon you forget about the rest of the world, its troubles, and your small pains.  You move the pallet knife back and forth, adding paint here and there, then more touches of other colors. Suddenly, the canvas speaks to you. Not of monumental things, but instead in its own simple beauty. A beauty found within, you did not know of….

  Bring a shopping bag, be prepared to wade into the masses, practice your best sorting moves, and hone your instincts for the great find. Bin bargain stores are popping up everywhere. Some of the famous ones include Bin City New York, Cheap Charlies Bargain Bins on Long Island, Bargains in a Box Chicago and perhaps the most famous one Amazon Bin Store. The origin of these bargain treasure hunt centers is difficult to determine. Most agree though that they grew from the internet auctions of returned and overstock items. Those becoming so popular that they grew into brick and mortar locations. It can be addictive fun, the price of bin items goes down each day. One might start at $14 on Friday and be only $0.25 on the following Thursday. There are no returns here, what you pick is yours.  Bin pros advise, arrive early, bring cash, try to negotiate (if you need a laugh), have a plan of attack. So roll up your sleeves and roll into the fun….and always wear a badge saying “buyer beware.”

  I traveled to LA many times on business, always staying on Wiltshire Avenue at the Grand. Wiltshire cut across LA like a zipper, unlocking each district along the way. The huge Grand Hotel defined the divide between downtown and the districts stretching all the way to Hollywood. It opened in 1952 and showed it’s age. Plans were already underway for its demolition and replacement with even a grander property. Still the staff held on, from the check in people to restaurant staff, serving the property for years. Their career was here and they still performed their duties the same as before. It was a trait that I found earmarked LA. The people who lived in this megalopolis for a long time acquired a quietness about the place. They went about their business each day, keeping to them selves, respecting the city and the city in turn letting them live their lives.  I always took my camera with me as I roamed the arts district, fashion streets, Korea town, the Miracle mile, and tawdry side st

 

  During your working years, purpose is all around you so you don’t think about it as much. When you retire though, finding purpose can haunt you like a ghost. It’s good to consider what purpose really means now, before you retire. There have been numerous articles recently on the subject of finding purpose in retirement and how important it is. Notable among them are the ones by George Jerjian.  The lack of purpose can make you lose your way and even identity. Jerjian and others talk about how you can find it again be reinterring the workforce or starting a business. Others site volunteering and teaching as other avenues.  Now a decade into retirement and having tried some of Jerjian’s suggestions, I have come to define finding purpose more simply. At the end of the day, real purpose may be just becoming a better person. A simple concept yes, but one that will make your life fuller and more rewarding. Some things you may want to add to your better person list might be: 1) staying heal

  You sense there is this other more creative you just beyond the horizon. Trying to reach it seems to only move the horizon farther away. Finally you escape beyond your inhibitions expressing your true self, your are free at last. The great ones find that place over and over again. Paintings are a good subject matter for all this. They have no real implications other than for you. They can be tossed or treasured depending on the outcome. The good ones taking on a life of their own. Painting seems to always start with the present you, a few lines on a canvas. Your inhibitions competing for attention. Then you begin adding color spreading and blending them over those simple lines. Stepping back to get a sense of what background should be there, adding the complimentary colors to make it.  Now the basics are all there. You might pause and stop here, your inhibitions applauding your effort. Yet, you might find courage to move on creating the world you truly envision. You reach for a speci