As the rain steadily fell, sometimes heavy, sometimes a light drizzle, but consistently fell without a break in the day-or during the weekend even-we hopped in the car and drove towards Camp Bowie Boulevard to visit a friend and make ourselves a part of the local art scene. Although my walls really cannot hold pieces that are sold in the galleries we visited, the talent-not to mention the free wine and hor'doevres-still draw my attention. It seems at times that there's too much talent and not enough venues. Too much talent and not enough people to appreciate. We all want to be rock stars, and movie gods; Angelinas and Warhols; celebrity pop rock actor diva missionaries, but not many of us are. Honestly, though, some of us deserve it. Some of the artwork on display last night shouldn't be shown in a small local salon down the road, but hung in an over sized room and a small plaque mounted next to it reading: Don't Slow Down Number IV mixed media on wood, 2009.
Gallery night happens in Fort Worth twice a year. First in the spring, another in the fall. Local museums such as the Amon Carter, the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, join with local galleries like Art On The Boulevard and Rebecca Low, as well as a good handful of businesses, a local salon or a modern furniture shop, all open their doors to starving artists who itch to find a place to show their work. And for one night, you get in your car and cruise the art district stopping and perusing these shops at your leisure, bumping into friends or acquaintances, making new ones, connecting with artists where one can ask direct questions about inspirations and processes. Or not. Just stand and admire, stick a stick into a block of cheese and move on. The evening is your own and the whole city is an art gallery.
Outside the Salon on West 7th the rain didn't stop the party. Mic and amp set up on the sidewalk a man sang Tom Petty with a stand up bass and guitar accompaniment. Yuppies huddled together underneath a white canopy in the parking lot and sipped their wine and danced on what floor space was available. While this isn't my scene, who can't appreciate people that get out of their apartments and enjoy life a little? We snaked our way through the thin crowd and made our way toward the car.
Driving from door to door while the rain soaked the ground, the street, the steel of the buildings, and the concrete of the street-the whole world mirrored on the road we drove on-I can't help but get inspired with my own art. It's standing inside these art galleries and looking at the work of others that both humbles and challenges me to think differently, and to make those concepts a reality. I'm not Warhol, nor am I even a starving local hanging artwork up at Salon 717, but standing around photographing the world that surrounds me and seeing my shots saved in a little icon of a manila folder on my computer screen really won't get me anywhere either. Hey, I'm not asking for world celebrity. I'm not looking to be star. But, if a couple nights a year I can see my work hanging fancy in a gallery, standing around dressed and vest, wine in hand, work on the wall, at least I can say it was fun.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
the Renaissance
About 45 miles before you reach Houston on I-45 rests the little town of Conroe, Texas. About 30 miles from there headed East lies Plantersville and the stomping grounds of the annual Renaissance Festival that descends on the little town every fall. When my fiancé' had told me about the festival I had pictured in my mind a football field of people: tents, little booths set up under canvassed canopies, maybe an area roped off for staged sword fights done with big wooden shafts and full body armor.
Instead what I arrived at was an entire Renaissance village. Stretched out over 100 acres of land were small castles, an arena for jousting, an amphitheater, several shops and stores all un-air-conditioned and filled with people that greeted you with either "How may I serve you my Lord?" or "...my Lady?" depending. Walking up to the entrance gave one just a small glimpse of what one was in for. A young lady clad in skimpy black clothes-a short skirt, a sort of halter top, striped socks, and a violin-stood outside the entrance. Awaiting what I don't know, but I asked her kindly for her picture and she agreed. Oh, yeah-she had black wings as well that curled up towards her ears. The photograph evokes wonder and amusement. Then a sort of warlock troll walked up, robed and staff in hand. A sign out front of the entrance stated "...merrymaking/firearms" and I wondered if flint had been discovered yet or not? I wondered if the word firearm had even been coined yet. It was this kind of thinking that inspired people to attend these things in full costume. People from all around, that didn't work the festival or even got paid for showing up, were showing up fully costumed and paying to walk around in one of the very few places left that you could dress like a wench and not be judged for it. A suspension of belief, and passport through time. Once you walked underneath the archway and gave the peasant your ticket, forget your cell phone, forget your electric bill and your car. Forget even about converse shoes and polo shirts. Here the leather boot laces wrapped up your calve, a simple loin cloth would be excepted at the hippest club. Here the boustie' wasn't provocative but uniform, round plump ladies were encouraged to show off what they had, today we have the phrase 'plus size' to describe an attractive voluptuous woman, but once we walked through the entrance they were supermodels. Another sign should of been hanging on the other side of the entrance quite literally stating: "welcome to the renaissance festival and the end of civilization as you know it."
A good bit of people were sort of dressed up, meaning a family let their four year old son dress as a pirate and their eight year old daughter don a pair of butterfly wings bought at a costume shop so she could pass as a fairy. Good clean fun. A few adults had wings as well, or little accessories that stated, "I'm going to have fun with this, but I still have to show my face at the office come Monday..." But over half, at least, were immersed in their kingdom. Winches, warlocks, friar tuck like monks, king Arthur and Tim from Monty Python's The Holy Grail, knights and peasants sharing supreme nachos, court jesters, gypsies, Vikings, pirates (even captain Jack Sparrow himself), Robin Hood, kings and queens, magicians, and all sorts of mythical beings; trolls, fairies (good and bad), elves, gnomes, hobbits, demons, dragons, satyrs (with hooves), He-Man, Skelatore, and even some from our own time and place: trekkies, pimps, a cross-gendered antlered amazon, Goths, furries, and even two playboy bunnies.
Of course I trained my camera on as many as possible. When I asked for a photograph most just simply struck a pose and held it for me. They either flexed or growled or hissed or spread their wings or put their hands together in front of their chest as if in prayer. Great stuff, really. One particular guy, dressed up like what looked to be an oversized kid referred to my camera as a "Click box!" and had me spin the propeller on his hat before I took his photograph. Another young woman dressed as Elizabeth the first or second or whatever was making her majestic way to somewhere when I stopped her. She stood, hit a pose-her faint mustache showing that she was just too into her time period-and after the shutter clicked she matter of factly said, "The fairies in that box must paint very fast!" and then turned and walked hurriedly off without missing a beat. My response was reactionary and I laughed, not so much at her, but at her commitment to character. Another moment of suspended reality occurred during a conversation with a jeweler. I stood admiring his rings and he began explaining that most of his rings were made out of tungsten, one of the strongest metals there are. "It can only be scratched by another piece of tungsten or a diamond. You could run over it with a Mac truck," and he added under his breath, "whatever that is."
We walked around for hours just soaking in the atmosphere, people watching, popping in and out of stores where you could find anything from mythical puppets and thick leather hats with beautiful feather plumes sticking out of the side of them to an actual crystal mine where one could dig through piles of dirt and find your very own rock crystal. Amidst mobile carts of pickle salesmen who kept exclaiming for us to taste his pickle and a woman who kept urging us to look at her chest we grew hungry and decided to find something to eat.
I'd like to say lunch was an adventure in itself but it turns out that medieval peoples much more prefer the food of modern times. There was no whole roasted swine dangling by it's heels over a huge bon fire, and no one drank water from a nearby river bed. In it's place were fajita tacos, nacho supreme, turkey legs, funnel cakes, coke, dr. pepper, margaritas and strawberry pina coladas. Where's a good ol' pint of Guinness when you need it? I know Guinness has been around since medieval times...it just tastes that way.
The day soon wore on and the afternoon and evening came. I was continually amazed at the people we kept passing. Fairies and priests and another pair of queen elizabeths (twin sisters at that) who were fighting about where one of their friends had disappeared to. A smoking dragon. A guy all dressed in leather, spikes, and skulls; I guess he was simply a motorcyclist but he fit in perfectly. A gay satyr ("It's a cursing well damnit!"). A hundred fairies. And quite a few people that looked just like me: dressed in modern clothes and a huge camera hanging around their neck just waiting for the next opportunity to try and capture a little bit of the Renaissance times and bring it back home to the year 2000.
Instead what I arrived at was an entire Renaissance village. Stretched out over 100 acres of land were small castles, an arena for jousting, an amphitheater, several shops and stores all un-air-conditioned and filled with people that greeted you with either "How may I serve you my Lord?" or "...my Lady?" depending. Walking up to the entrance gave one just a small glimpse of what one was in for. A young lady clad in skimpy black clothes-a short skirt, a sort of halter top, striped socks, and a violin-stood outside the entrance. Awaiting what I don't know, but I asked her kindly for her picture and she agreed. Oh, yeah-she had black wings as well that curled up towards her ears. The photograph evokes wonder and amusement. Then a sort of warlock troll walked up, robed and staff in hand. A sign out front of the entrance stated "...merrymaking/firearms" and I wondered if flint had been discovered yet or not? I wondered if the word firearm had even been coined yet. It was this kind of thinking that inspired people to attend these things in full costume. People from all around, that didn't work the festival or even got paid for showing up, were showing up fully costumed and paying to walk around in one of the very few places left that you could dress like a wench and not be judged for it. A suspension of belief, and passport through time. Once you walked underneath the archway and gave the peasant your ticket, forget your cell phone, forget your electric bill and your car. Forget even about converse shoes and polo shirts. Here the leather boot laces wrapped up your calve, a simple loin cloth would be excepted at the hippest club. Here the boustie' wasn't provocative but uniform, round plump ladies were encouraged to show off what they had, today we have the phrase 'plus size' to describe an attractive voluptuous woman, but once we walked through the entrance they were supermodels. Another sign should of been hanging on the other side of the entrance quite literally stating: "welcome to the renaissance festival and the end of civilization as you know it."
A good bit of people were sort of dressed up, meaning a family let their four year old son dress as a pirate and their eight year old daughter don a pair of butterfly wings bought at a costume shop so she could pass as a fairy. Good clean fun. A few adults had wings as well, or little accessories that stated, "I'm going to have fun with this, but I still have to show my face at the office come Monday..." But over half, at least, were immersed in their kingdom. Winches, warlocks, friar tuck like monks, king Arthur and Tim from Monty Python's The Holy Grail, knights and peasants sharing supreme nachos, court jesters, gypsies, Vikings, pirates (even captain Jack Sparrow himself), Robin Hood, kings and queens, magicians, and all sorts of mythical beings; trolls, fairies (good and bad), elves, gnomes, hobbits, demons, dragons, satyrs (with hooves), He-Man, Skelatore, and even some from our own time and place: trekkies, pimps, a cross-gendered antlered amazon, Goths, furries, and even two playboy bunnies.
Of course I trained my camera on as many as possible. When I asked for a photograph most just simply struck a pose and held it for me. They either flexed or growled or hissed or spread their wings or put their hands together in front of their chest as if in prayer. Great stuff, really. One particular guy, dressed up like what looked to be an oversized kid referred to my camera as a "Click box!" and had me spin the propeller on his hat before I took his photograph. Another young woman dressed as Elizabeth the first or second or whatever was making her majestic way to somewhere when I stopped her. She stood, hit a pose-her faint mustache showing that she was just too into her time period-and after the shutter clicked she matter of factly said, "The fairies in that box must paint very fast!" and then turned and walked hurriedly off without missing a beat. My response was reactionary and I laughed, not so much at her, but at her commitment to character. Another moment of suspended reality occurred during a conversation with a jeweler. I stood admiring his rings and he began explaining that most of his rings were made out of tungsten, one of the strongest metals there are. "It can only be scratched by another piece of tungsten or a diamond. You could run over it with a Mac truck," and he added under his breath, "whatever that is."
We walked around for hours just soaking in the atmosphere, people watching, popping in and out of stores where you could find anything from mythical puppets and thick leather hats with beautiful feather plumes sticking out of the side of them to an actual crystal mine where one could dig through piles of dirt and find your very own rock crystal. Amidst mobile carts of pickle salesmen who kept exclaiming for us to taste his pickle and a woman who kept urging us to look at her chest we grew hungry and decided to find something to eat.
I'd like to say lunch was an adventure in itself but it turns out that medieval peoples much more prefer the food of modern times. There was no whole roasted swine dangling by it's heels over a huge bon fire, and no one drank water from a nearby river bed. In it's place were fajita tacos, nacho supreme, turkey legs, funnel cakes, coke, dr. pepper, margaritas and strawberry pina coladas. Where's a good ol' pint of Guinness when you need it? I know Guinness has been around since medieval times...it just tastes that way.
The day soon wore on and the afternoon and evening came. I was continually amazed at the people we kept passing. Fairies and priests and another pair of queen elizabeths (twin sisters at that) who were fighting about where one of their friends had disappeared to. A smoking dragon. A guy all dressed in leather, spikes, and skulls; I guess he was simply a motorcyclist but he fit in perfectly. A gay satyr ("It's a cursing well damnit!"). A hundred fairies. And quite a few people that looked just like me: dressed in modern clothes and a huge camera hanging around their neck just waiting for the next opportunity to try and capture a little bit of the Renaissance times and bring it back home to the year 2000.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
New York
After we checked our bags it began to snow outside. Little tiny snowflakes falling down diagonally landing on the sidewalks and streets of Manhattan. We sat inside Ben ash, a great place to eat where a burger costs fifteen dollars but easily will feed you and your kids, and your kids' kids. I mean, these things were huge.
We stayed at the Wellington, an aged hotel that seemed to have some stories to tell. We were a brisk walk from Times Square and two blocks from Central Park, but far enough from the park to escape the smell of the horse drawn carriages. Upon arrival I heard the tell tale honking of taxi cabs and city buses. Me and my wife smiled at each other thinking, "...we're in New York." Like a line drawn by the sound of car horns, buses, and the low hum of city noise, and tourist chattering, and foot steps, you knew that you've finally arrived.
It's easy to put New York in a box. You see it in movies. You see it on t.v. You see these landmark things that make New York what it is. This iconic city built on dreams. The streets are dirty but the buildings are gold on the inside. I grew up in the county and was far removed from any big city, being so, New York simply took on this snow globe image of the statue of liberty, the empire state building, the Brooklyn bridge, skyscrapers. Shake it around, put it on the mantel-ain't it cool? Well, yes, it is cool. It's very cool. I mean, we all see pictures of Times Square all the time. Everyone watches America's famous ball drop on t.v. on New Year's Eve. We all celebrate the moment. We kiss. We throw confetti and toast our champagne. We celebrate New Year's Eve with Times Square every year. Times Square is at every party, every year. It always shows up. It's never late. In fact, for central time, Times Square shows up an hour early! To stand atop the empire state building and look out at the city and see Manhattan spread out below you like a pop up book, a flood of memories came to me of standing in stores like Target and seeing this very scene but on hand bags, journal covers, and screen printed t-shirts. Here it was in person, and in person it is so much cooler than that t-shirt. I wasn't quite sure how visiting the city would affect me. I mean, would I simply shrug my shoulders and say, "Wow, it's just a big city." Or would I come away leaving a piece of me in New York with plans already made to go back there and get it.
My first view of the city was from the tiny oval shaped window of the plane. We flew into Newark airport in New Jersey and as the plane descended I looked to my right and saw dim in the distance this huge city. Tall buildings stretching high below us. The city was surrounded by a thin cloud and the distance made it dream like, almost a mirage. Which is what the city has been for me all my life. But to walk the streets of Times Square and see it's blinking lights and high rise advertisements. To ride the elevator up eighty or some odd stories and step off into a frigid wind and a clear cold night and see a million lights from a thousand buildings from hundreds of street lamps glimmering back at you, when you've only seen them in moving pictures and photographs...what can I say? It's like stumbling into Santa Clause in your living room while your parents are asleep.
We stayed at the Wellington, an aged hotel that seemed to have some stories to tell. We were a brisk walk from Times Square and two blocks from Central Park, but far enough from the park to escape the smell of the horse drawn carriages. Upon arrival I heard the tell tale honking of taxi cabs and city buses. Me and my wife smiled at each other thinking, "...we're in New York." Like a line drawn by the sound of car horns, buses, and the low hum of city noise, and tourist chattering, and foot steps, you knew that you've finally arrived.
It's easy to put New York in a box. You see it in movies. You see it on t.v. You see these landmark things that make New York what it is. This iconic city built on dreams. The streets are dirty but the buildings are gold on the inside. I grew up in the county and was far removed from any big city, being so, New York simply took on this snow globe image of the statue of liberty, the empire state building, the Brooklyn bridge, skyscrapers. Shake it around, put it on the mantel-ain't it cool? Well, yes, it is cool. It's very cool. I mean, we all see pictures of Times Square all the time. Everyone watches America's famous ball drop on t.v. on New Year's Eve. We all celebrate the moment. We kiss. We throw confetti and toast our champagne. We celebrate New Year's Eve with Times Square every year. Times Square is at every party, every year. It always shows up. It's never late. In fact, for central time, Times Square shows up an hour early! To stand atop the empire state building and look out at the city and see Manhattan spread out below you like a pop up book, a flood of memories came to me of standing in stores like Target and seeing this very scene but on hand bags, journal covers, and screen printed t-shirts. Here it was in person, and in person it is so much cooler than that t-shirt. I wasn't quite sure how visiting the city would affect me. I mean, would I simply shrug my shoulders and say, "Wow, it's just a big city." Or would I come away leaving a piece of me in New York with plans already made to go back there and get it.
My first view of the city was from the tiny oval shaped window of the plane. We flew into Newark airport in New Jersey and as the plane descended I looked to my right and saw dim in the distance this huge city. Tall buildings stretching high below us. The city was surrounded by a thin cloud and the distance made it dream like, almost a mirage. Which is what the city has been for me all my life. But to walk the streets of Times Square and see it's blinking lights and high rise advertisements. To ride the elevator up eighty or some odd stories and step off into a frigid wind and a clear cold night and see a million lights from a thousand buildings from hundreds of street lamps glimmering back at you, when you've only seen them in moving pictures and photographs...what can I say? It's like stumbling into Santa Clause in your living room while your parents are asleep.
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