Imagine you're on a street. A quaint street somewhere in Europe. A small town. Quiet. It's raining. Gently raining, but enough that all you hear is the sound of water. Water dripping, bubbling, flowing down drains. There's violin music coming from somewhere. The sky is cloudy, overcast, full of fat, lazy clouds all squished together in a big atmospheric traffic jam.
The street makes you think of a library. It's slow, complicated, and lined with odd bangles and stories to explore. The cobbled stone your shoes click off of look back up at you, sighing their stories of old. They remember when times were better, when times were worse, when time flowed without the strain that it endures now.
So lonely. Low-key. Flimsy yellow light glints off the water drops, as the only working street lamp struggles to uphold it's charge. Somehow things seem blue. Not black, but blue. The calm, gritty darkness creeps around the corners, curling up your legs, coating the puddles and the crannies in the walls with a wash of navy.
A sign, hanging over a a closed pub, swings softly to and fro. The faded picture of a goblet and a thick book slump in their colour, almost as if they were joining the rest of the town in sleep.
Again, you hear the snap of heel hitting the walkway. And again. You slow. The steps ease off. Around you, the squished buildings rise up, overlooking and guarding this innermost of urban roads. It feels so safe. the rain covers all, the light does it's best, and wobbling sign smiles at you. Again, you shift. You're soaking wet. The footsteps have stopped. the only sound is rain. All there is must be made of rain.
A little girl peeks out her curtains, watching the road below. Her eyes sagging, she forgets that she ever heard footsteps. The rain soaks her thoughts, and she drifts back into sleep.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
Saturday, 22 September 2012
1 O'clock Thoughts
What indeed causes my heart to cool?
How now do I falter in my step?
What complexities plot my hinderance?
Why is it that my faith has left?
Indecision, and the boulder in my way
Render my compromises moot
Yet neither could I surely navigate
If they did not block my route
It is confirmed: I do not know
How I got here or where I must go
Whether my love will melt with the snow
Or what to make of the seeds I will sow
How is it then, that I continue to be
In this twilight state of confusion
Like the song that begins with a ponderous form
And gets lost midst it's own allusion
I like to think that I know the play,
The author, and how the story must be
But if my life is seen as example,
The one least informed is me
Let this be my prayer in the darkness
When doubt seems all that I know
I know that I'm filled to be emptied again
The seed I've received I will sow
NOTE: I got the last four lines of this poem from Desert Song by Hillsong United
How now do I falter in my step?
What complexities plot my hinderance?
Why is it that my faith has left?
Indecision, and the boulder in my way
Render my compromises moot
Yet neither could I surely navigate
If they did not block my route
It is confirmed: I do not know
How I got here or where I must go
Whether my love will melt with the snow
Or what to make of the seeds I will sow
How is it then, that I continue to be
In this twilight state of confusion
Like the song that begins with a ponderous form
And gets lost midst it's own allusion
I like to think that I know the play,
The author, and how the story must be
But if my life is seen as example,
The one least informed is me
Let this be my prayer in the darkness
When doubt seems all that I know
I know that I'm filled to be emptied again
The seed I've received I will sow
NOTE: I got the last four lines of this poem from Desert Song by Hillsong United
Saturday, 28 July 2012
The Bad Guys
It has recently occurred to me that most ongoing storylines record the successes of the antagonists nearly as often as those of the heroes.
I'm sure you've noticed the cyclical nature of such tales. Take most ongoing comics, or movie series', or nearly any story dealing with some sort of good-verses-evil struggle. What tends to happen is that there is a protagonist, or sometimes an anti-hero, who the reader/viewer/listener is conditioned to cheer for. The hero will experience some sort of problem, such as a victory of his enemy, before rallying and ultimately emerging victorious at the end. But what if the order of such sagas were reversed?
Take Batman. His arch-nemesis is the Joker. In the comics that involve the two, usually the Joker hatches some plot, kidnaps some politician, blows something up, etc. Then Batman foils the Joker's plan, beats up all his flunkies and saves the day. And in the following comic, the same thing happens; Joker does something nasty, but Batman eventually wins. And in the next comic; repeat. But what if the order was swapped?
Let me try and explain. So in Issue #1, Joker wins, then Batman wins. In Issue #2, Joker wins, then Batman wins. But what if they released a comic which contained the last half of issue #1, and the first half of Issue #2? Then it would seem as though Batman defeats the Joker, but in the end, the Joker pulls ahead and emerges victorious. Either way, the same events are happening, and it turns out that the only reason Batman always wins is because that's the segment of time that the author chose to depict in his comic.
In reality, both parties tend to succeed just as often as not; the Joker wins just as often as the Batman. For without this back and forth conflict, what would they use to fill the comic book pages?
I'm sure you've noticed the cyclical nature of such tales. Take most ongoing comics, or movie series', or nearly any story dealing with some sort of good-verses-evil struggle. What tends to happen is that there is a protagonist, or sometimes an anti-hero, who the reader/viewer/listener is conditioned to cheer for. The hero will experience some sort of problem, such as a victory of his enemy, before rallying and ultimately emerging victorious at the end. But what if the order of such sagas were reversed?
Take Batman. His arch-nemesis is the Joker. In the comics that involve the two, usually the Joker hatches some plot, kidnaps some politician, blows something up, etc. Then Batman foils the Joker's plan, beats up all his flunkies and saves the day. And in the following comic, the same thing happens; Joker does something nasty, but Batman eventually wins. And in the next comic; repeat. But what if the order was swapped?
Let me try and explain. So in Issue #1, Joker wins, then Batman wins. In Issue #2, Joker wins, then Batman wins. But what if they released a comic which contained the last half of issue #1, and the first half of Issue #2? Then it would seem as though Batman defeats the Joker, but in the end, the Joker pulls ahead and emerges victorious. Either way, the same events are happening, and it turns out that the only reason Batman always wins is because that's the segment of time that the author chose to depict in his comic.
In reality, both parties tend to succeed just as often as not; the Joker wins just as often as the Batman. For without this back and forth conflict, what would they use to fill the comic book pages?
Thursday, 19 July 2012
Give Me a Toaster, And I'll build You a Useless Contraption
Snerk! - *tinkle* - ka-BLAMMO!
"Eh? Wazzat?" Snitchfix looked up from his tinkerings.
"Master, master!" the scientist's mildly neurotic hunchbacked minion shrieked, "The western jointed calibrator just exploded! And I can't find your cat!"
Snitchfix sighed and stood up. "Mind the automaton, minion," he said as he began to clomp down the hall.
That's the third time this month, the doctor thought to himself, I really should have taken more time building the joints.
Though the minion wasn't really good at anything other than panicking and losing his cat, he had a remarkable ability to memorize the workings of most of the things that his master built, which made him valuable enough that Snitchfix kept him around.
The doctor didn't really like other beings, constructs or otherwise, because they had an annoying tendency to whine and complain when he would wreck something of theirs. Like that farmer who wouldn't stop chasing Snitchfix after that unfortunate incident with the clockwork guardbot and the barn full of cows. Snitchfix wasn't a malicious person, not really, and he did try to apologize, but eventually he just climbed back into his walking mansion and continued along his way, letting the farmer stomp and fume by himself.
It was small issues like that which kept the doctor from having any sort of an amiable relationship with the immediate civilization. And so he remained always on the move, traipsing around the countryside in his dilapidated walking house.
Now for the matter of this blown out joint. Just as Snitchfix arrived at accident did the whole contraption shudder to a halt, nearly knocking the doctor off his feet. Using his jacket sleeve to wipe away the soot, he got to work. Realigning a sprocket here, shifting a gear there, he began repairing the machine that he knew better than his own mother.
"Minion!" he yelled down the corridor, "Bring me my utility box!" Proud as he was of his house, Snitchfix was constantly overhauling various broken down mechanisms that he didn't build correctly the first time round. He was young and inexperienced back then. It wasn't really fair how early in his life he was rejected from society, but Snitchfix had since come to terms with, and even enjoyed, the near solitude that defined his life now.
His minion waddled over, plunking down a patchwork box full of strange gizmos. With the help of his tools, Snitchfix quickly remedied the problem, and within fifteen minutes the jointed leg creaked back into action, and the house was mobile once again.Snitchfix tossed his wrench to his minion and walked back to what he was working on before this inconvenience. Before settling back down to his work, he noted how pleasant the sound of machinery was.
------
I totally am not taking any inspiration at all from Howl's Moving Castle. Whatever would make you think that?
"Eh? Wazzat?" Snitchfix looked up from his tinkerings.
"Master, master!" the scientist's mildly neurotic hunchbacked minion shrieked, "The western jointed calibrator just exploded! And I can't find your cat!"
Snitchfix sighed and stood up. "Mind the automaton, minion," he said as he began to clomp down the hall.
That's the third time this month, the doctor thought to himself, I really should have taken more time building the joints.
Though the minion wasn't really good at anything other than panicking and losing his cat, he had a remarkable ability to memorize the workings of most of the things that his master built, which made him valuable enough that Snitchfix kept him around.
The doctor didn't really like other beings, constructs or otherwise, because they had an annoying tendency to whine and complain when he would wreck something of theirs. Like that farmer who wouldn't stop chasing Snitchfix after that unfortunate incident with the clockwork guardbot and the barn full of cows. Snitchfix wasn't a malicious person, not really, and he did try to apologize, but eventually he just climbed back into his walking mansion and continued along his way, letting the farmer stomp and fume by himself.
It was small issues like that which kept the doctor from having any sort of an amiable relationship with the immediate civilization. And so he remained always on the move, traipsing around the countryside in his dilapidated walking house.
Now for the matter of this blown out joint. Just as Snitchfix arrived at accident did the whole contraption shudder to a halt, nearly knocking the doctor off his feet. Using his jacket sleeve to wipe away the soot, he got to work. Realigning a sprocket here, shifting a gear there, he began repairing the machine that he knew better than his own mother.
"Minion!" he yelled down the corridor, "Bring me my utility box!" Proud as he was of his house, Snitchfix was constantly overhauling various broken down mechanisms that he didn't build correctly the first time round. He was young and inexperienced back then. It wasn't really fair how early in his life he was rejected from society, but Snitchfix had since come to terms with, and even enjoyed, the near solitude that defined his life now.
His minion waddled over, plunking down a patchwork box full of strange gizmos. With the help of his tools, Snitchfix quickly remedied the problem, and within fifteen minutes the jointed leg creaked back into action, and the house was mobile once again.Snitchfix tossed his wrench to his minion and walked back to what he was working on before this inconvenience. Before settling back down to his work, he noted how pleasant the sound of machinery was.
------
I totally am not taking any inspiration at all from Howl's Moving Castle. Whatever would make you think that?
Thursday, 19 April 2012
So much for frequent updates...
I can't really describe anything I see. What are the four main forms of artistic communication? Music, writing, pictures, and the performing arts. As much as we attempt to use these forms to describe the others, they don't really come close to being able to show the same thing.
An example: I was on the bus. As it drove back to my house, I looked out my window, because what else is there to do on a bus? The sky was overcast, and incredible. The clouds looked like great, fluffy, ethreal mountains that were taking turns half-covering the sun. When sunlight managed to find it's way through the cloud cover, it streaked down in strange golden cords, highlighting trees, patches of road, and whatever else it hit. Somehow the contrast between grey sky and brilliant sunlight caused the trees to explode with unusual colour, making the whole ride home seem like some wonderful fantasy setting, designed solely to show off the glorious beauty of nature.
There. That description was not good enough. We could nit-pick, and say that it was overblown, or maybe I could have worded a few things differently, but ultimately my description is nothing compared to the visual cacophony I experienced. What I saw was beautiful. Nature is wonderfully designed, and the only way anyone can truly understand how I felt about that bus ride home would be to go back in time, and ride the bus with me.
Writing cannot adequately describe anything visual.
But this is also true for the other forms. Dance, though magical, can't actually communicate a message with the same clarity that the written word can. The most powerful piece of classical orchestration you ever heard still falls flat when it comes to providing the same feeling-soaked audio-visual experience provided by dance (except for contemporary dance. That stuff's just silly).
But does this incompatibility make any of these forms lesser? Absolutely not. Rather, it makes each the more brilliant, as it forces the consumer to use their own mind to expand upon the art presented. The imagination is all it takes for a good book to construct an exciting fictional setting, and though paintings themselves do not inherently contain emotion, somehow artists can still convey extraordinary messages through their paint.
So please, let each art form be what it is, and continue to put your wonderful mind to use when it comes to understanding and appreciating each of them.
An example: I was on the bus. As it drove back to my house, I looked out my window, because what else is there to do on a bus? The sky was overcast, and incredible. The clouds looked like great, fluffy, ethreal mountains that were taking turns half-covering the sun. When sunlight managed to find it's way through the cloud cover, it streaked down in strange golden cords, highlighting trees, patches of road, and whatever else it hit. Somehow the contrast between grey sky and brilliant sunlight caused the trees to explode with unusual colour, making the whole ride home seem like some wonderful fantasy setting, designed solely to show off the glorious beauty of nature.
There. That description was not good enough. We could nit-pick, and say that it was overblown, or maybe I could have worded a few things differently, but ultimately my description is nothing compared to the visual cacophony I experienced. What I saw was beautiful. Nature is wonderfully designed, and the only way anyone can truly understand how I felt about that bus ride home would be to go back in time, and ride the bus with me.
Writing cannot adequately describe anything visual.
But this is also true for the other forms. Dance, though magical, can't actually communicate a message with the same clarity that the written word can. The most powerful piece of classical orchestration you ever heard still falls flat when it comes to providing the same feeling-soaked audio-visual experience provided by dance (except for contemporary dance. That stuff's just silly).
But does this incompatibility make any of these forms lesser? Absolutely not. Rather, it makes each the more brilliant, as it forces the consumer to use their own mind to expand upon the art presented. The imagination is all it takes for a good book to construct an exciting fictional setting, and though paintings themselves do not inherently contain emotion, somehow artists can still convey extraordinary messages through their paint.
So please, let each art form be what it is, and continue to put your wonderful mind to use when it comes to understanding and appreciating each of them.
Thursday, 22 March 2012
On Art, part 1
What is art?
No, that's far to general a question. Let's narrow it down. What is the purpose of art? Well, to know that, one must first clarify what is art. I want to compare the identity of art to something else, like the identity of technology, or the meaning of fashion, but art is so much more than that. I don't mean to say that art is grander than any other thing in existence, but it's meaning and purpose is much more scopic.
When you go to a gallery and you see a sculpture, how do you interpret it? As a fairly pragmatic person, I tend to initially value things based on how practical they are. Art doesn't have any practical use. In the hierarchy of humanity's needs, art sits at the top as an unnecessary privilege which we indulge in if we can afford to. Art comes after food, safety, relationships. So, it's not essential for human survival. The purpose it serves, if any, is not required to maintain human survival.
So art is an indulgence. Well, maybe not indlugence, but it's there to amuse us. I think.
Yesterday I walked through the Canadian Clay and Glass Gallery. In one corner of the building was a sculpture (as one tends to find in art galleries). The sculpture consisted of a trunk, similar to the one below, but it was open and had a clay representation of an ice flow inside it.
What did it mean? I had no idea. I looked at it from different angles, noted the painting of a tiger on the lid of the trunk, observed the blanched colouration of the ice flow, and I didn't know what to think.
My middle school art teacher always emphasized the concept of "clarity of statement." He taught me that art, when done right, should indicate to the viewer exactly what the artist was trying to convey. If the goal is to provide social commentary, then those looking at it should be able to understand it, albeit with a little background.
If the goal is simply to examine the beauty of an object, then the artist should seek to focus entirely on the object in question and not clutter the art with irrelevance.
But is that the way art has to be? Of course not. I think. Maybe. I don't know. There are no hard rules for art, which is one of the reasons that it's so darn hard to interpret.
I find the above van Gogh painting to be beautiful, and the Picasso painting to actually be fairly repulsive. Does that make one than the other? I would argue that it wouldn't, because "prettiness" is a purely subjective condition.
So, art is produced only after all our other more important needs are met. Some art has a clear message, and some does not. Does this message imply purpose? I'll ponder that in my next art post.
No, that's far to general a question. Let's narrow it down. What is the purpose of art? Well, to know that, one must first clarify what is art. I want to compare the identity of art to something else, like the identity of technology, or the meaning of fashion, but art is so much more than that. I don't mean to say that art is grander than any other thing in existence, but it's meaning and purpose is much more scopic.
When you go to a gallery and you see a sculpture, how do you interpret it? As a fairly pragmatic person, I tend to initially value things based on how practical they are. Art doesn't have any practical use. In the hierarchy of humanity's needs, art sits at the top as an unnecessary privilege which we indulge in if we can afford to. Art comes after food, safety, relationships. So, it's not essential for human survival. The purpose it serves, if any, is not required to maintain human survival.
So art is an indulgence. Well, maybe not indlugence, but it's there to amuse us. I think.
Yesterday I walked through the Canadian Clay and Glass Gallery. In one corner of the building was a sculpture (as one tends to find in art galleries). The sculpture consisted of a trunk, similar to the one below, but it was open and had a clay representation of an ice flow inside it.
My middle school art teacher always emphasized the concept of "clarity of statement." He taught me that art, when done right, should indicate to the viewer exactly what the artist was trying to convey. If the goal is to provide social commentary, then those looking at it should be able to understand it, albeit with a little background.
Pablo Picasso's Massacre in Korea
If the goal is simply to examine the beauty of an object, then the artist should seek to focus entirely on the object in question and not clutter the art with irrelevance.
Vincent van Gogh's Wheatfield with Crows
But is that the way art has to be? Of course not. I think. Maybe. I don't know. There are no hard rules for art, which is one of the reasons that it's so darn hard to interpret.
I find the above van Gogh painting to be beautiful, and the Picasso painting to actually be fairly repulsive. Does that make one than the other? I would argue that it wouldn't, because "prettiness" is a purely subjective condition.
So, art is produced only after all our other more important needs are met. Some art has a clear message, and some does not. Does this message imply purpose? I'll ponder that in my next art post.
Monday, 12 March 2012
The Splendid Return
Hi blog, how are you?
How have you been keeping?
I'm fine. I don't think much has really changed. I mean, I got a job. that's about it. It's a decent job; it pays well, I get decent hours, and my coworkers are tolerable. It's better than painting. Though, when I think about it, I think my peers in construction were actually a good deal nicer than my restaurant ones. But whatever.
So blog, how have you been spending your time? I see you're still getting a steady stream of page views even though I've sort of been neglecting you. Granted, most of those views are probably from my baby brother, who continues to neurotically check my blog even when he knows that it hasn't been updated.
I've gotten into crochet. I'm not very good, but it's something to kill time with. We'll see whether or not I stick with it. I feel like I need to narrow down my interests and focus on doing less things to a greater extent.
So, do you like your current colour? I've thought about changing it, but I just can't be bothered to spend any amount of time editing something that isn't really that bad. The default layout serves all my purposes pretty well.
I've also noticed that some people are still viewing you using Internet Explorer. That's disappointing. I hope you do something about that before I decide to post again.which I will. I promise. Soon.
How have you been keeping?
I'm fine. I don't think much has really changed. I mean, I got a job. that's about it. It's a decent job; it pays well, I get decent hours, and my coworkers are tolerable. It's better than painting. Though, when I think about it, I think my peers in construction were actually a good deal nicer than my restaurant ones. But whatever.
So blog, how have you been spending your time? I see you're still getting a steady stream of page views even though I've sort of been neglecting you. Granted, most of those views are probably from my baby brother, who continues to neurotically check my blog even when he knows that it hasn't been updated.
I've gotten into crochet. I'm not very good, but it's something to kill time with. We'll see whether or not I stick with it. I feel like I need to narrow down my interests and focus on doing less things to a greater extent.
So, do you like your current colour? I've thought about changing it, but I just can't be bothered to spend any amount of time editing something that isn't really that bad. The default layout serves all my purposes pretty well.
I've also noticed that some people are still viewing you using Internet Explorer. That's disappointing. I hope you do something about that before I decide to post again.which I will. I promise. Soon.
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