promises, promises!

I've been insanely busy editing work for the July group show at Gallery 8, and the 2 person show there in August. It has kept me from publishing much here on PMW, but good things to come! I plan to post the fruits of my labor very soon, so there is immaculate artwork headed this way.

Stay tuned!

autobiography, part III

I had my first brush with death at the age of 3. A year or so ago, my Mom told me this story:

We were visiting one of her friends and I was running around the house amusing myself as they sat in the living room drinking coffee. At some point, I wandered into the lady's bedroom and found a bottle of what looked to me like candy. I ate the entire bottle, thinking I had scored big time. Turns out it wasn't candy, but Valium.

They took me to the hospital and had my stomach pumped. I guess I had started to act a little slow and dopey, and they found the empty bottle. Lucky for me. Poor lady lost all of her Valium though. I wonder if she had problems sleeping the rest of that month. Of course, back then, the pharmacy would actually replace your drugs if you lost them. I wonder how that conversation sounded...

Team USA

Congratulations to the US soccer team, which dominated the Gold Cup again this year. Although nearly the entire country is oblivious to the tournament, we played like a world class club, at times looking like a European team. Things are looking good for the Yanks, who seem like a new team since Bob Bradley took the helm at head coach.

two things

A couple of college students have a notoriously annoying roommate. They have made it their life's mission to play practical jokes on him constantly, and get them all on film. The best part is, the internet audience gets to vote on what prank they pull next. The newest is possibly the best prankvote ever. These guys are an inspiration!

If you haven't seen Knocked Up yet, go now. It is by far the funniest movie of the year. It rivals The 40 Year Old Virgin and Something About Mary in pure hilarity. Seth Rogan and Paul Rudd have amazing chemistry. I was surprised at the level of naughtiness the movie achieved, and the quality of the guy jokes riffed back and forth throughout. This one is worth watching over and over.

autobiography, part II

While I was busy learning to do things like walk, talk, feed myself, etc., the world was rapidly moving forward. In 1975, the Watergate scandal was in full swing. Cabinet members were falling left and right, scrambling to find someone else to become a scapegoat. The age of the microcomputer had arrived. The Vietnam War officially ended with the fall of Saigon. The US and the Soviet Union docked spacecraft in orbit, the first such collaboration for the two nations. In July, Jimmy Hoffa was first reported missing.

My family lived in Columbia, SC. The first person on my father's side of the family arrived in the early 1700's, having fled religious oppression in Germany. A group of these German settlers chose Orangeburg, SC as their new home. It was one of the very first colonies in North America. My family lived in that very same area for the next 250+ years.

My ancestors were very religious protestants. We did find out that some of our ancestors were slave owners. Apparently that was not considered a sin at the time. There is a tradition of religious hypocrisy in my family that created a lot of confusion for me in my teenage years. I will get to that later, though.

In September of 1975, the same month that Lynette Fromme - a follower of Charles Manson - failed to assassinate President Gerald Ford, Patty Hearst was finally arrested in San Francisco. Her trial became a public spectacle. In October, Muhammad Ali defeated Joe Frasier in the "Thrilla in Manila." The first episode of Saturday Night Live aired. The Boston Red Sox won the greatest World Series of all time.

I spent much of my very early youth with my extended family, and we took vacations to the beach, and to our little plot of land at Lake Murray, SC. I was introduced to fishing, boating, and swimming very early. I would always be a fan of water.

autobiography, part I

I was born in May of 1974, five years after Woodstock, and six years before Reagan. That's what we were, a generation caught between hippies and corporate America. We had drugs and we had high-tech. Hell, we mixed them. There's nothing like tripping on acid and playing Nintendo - crystal meth and Moral Kombat.

The day I was born, the House of Representatives Judiciary Committee opened impeachment hearings against President Richard Milhous Nixon. Nixon would later resign beneath the Watergate scandal. Nixon was considered one of the most idiosyncratic Presidents, both brilliant and devious. He was a notorious football fan, which tells me he couldn't have been all bad. But he was a Republican, which means that he was mostly bad.

Besides me being born, and the Nixon thing, that week was pretty uneventful.

Then, several days later, Patricia Hearst (AKA Tania) opened fire on Mel's Sporting Goods store in Inglewood, California, in order to free her S.L.A. brethren who were caught shoplifting socks. The Symbionese Liberation Army had held Hearst captive in February of that year and converted her to their cause. The next day, Los Angeles police raided the S.L.A. safehouse and lit fire to it. Over 9,000 rounds were fired, killing six of the members.

Later that year, the Cleveland Indians learned that 10-cent beer was a bad idea. West Germany hosted and won the World Cup. A television journalist named Christine Chubbuck committed suicide on live tv. Muhammad Ali knocked out George Foreman in 8 in the "Rumble in the Jungle."

In November, Carol DaRonch narrowly escaped abduction by Ted Bundy, but Ronald DeFeo succeeded in killing his parents and four siblings in what later became called the "Amityville Horror House." A 3.2 million year old hominid skeleton named "Lucy" was found near the Awash river in Ethiopia.

Most of my early years were spent watching Hee Haw, the Dukes of Hazzard (I grew up in the South), and The Midnight Special after we got tv's in our rooms. That was the only show on after midnight, and if it was on after midnight, it had to be bad - so we had to watch it. "We" is my sister and I. She is a year older than me, and a lot more sensible. I have two parents, one male and one female. We had a Cairn Terrier named Mac. Mac loved to swim so much he would jump off of a moving boat. I learned to swim before I can remember. Well, I learned to not sink before I can remember - I can remember swimming lessons. I was scared of the high-dive. All the kids had to jump off of the high-dive, but I had to jump with the instructor holding me. These days, kids are not allowed on the high-dive, and swimming instructors are not allowed to hold the children. The 70's were a lot looser time.

to be continued...

So you want to be an artist. Why?

Here's a little essay on what I've learned since I first decided to become an artist, in the summer of 1994.

early frustration:

I was 20, and had already failed at my first 'calling,' which was electrical engineering. I hadn't really failed as much as I had just dropped out of school. Now, I figured, it was time to get serious. As I leaned on the fridge in the kitchen of the restaurant where I worked, subtly checking out the ass of an eighteen year old hostess, I planned my future.

I had chosen engineering by default. It's what my dad had done for 30+ years, and I was good at math. The only problem was, I hated it. It was all about computers, and this was a couple of years before I associated computers with free pornography, so it was when I still hated computers.

Travel - that's what I wanted to do! Travel, see exciting places, and avoid real work. How could I make that into a career, preferably a career that hot chicks would find fascinating? One word came to mind: photojournalism. At that fateful moment, I made a decision.

"Stop looking at my ass," said the hostess.

"But I'm going to be a famous photographer," I replied.

"Then take a picture," she said, and walked off. I knew, someday,I would be shooting wars from helicopters in rain forests. Girls would fondle my Pulitzer (that's what I call my wang). Guys would envy my beautiful Nikon (that's another pet name for my wang). I would somehow develop an Italian accent.

later frustration:

So, I went to another school, the 'J-school.' Not a hip hop training center like it sounds, but the world's first journalism school, at the University of Missouri. Mizzou is actually what people there call the state, and they don't even wear do-rags. I packed up, moved to Mizzou, and enrolled at the J-school. One semester later, I moved back home.

I hadn't done my research. While U of M is a great school for journalists, it kind of sucks for photojournalists. They don't teach you photography until your senior year. If only that had been in the course catalog. Well, it had been. If only I had read the course catalog.

So, I defaulted back to the University of South Carolina, in the city where I grew up, Columbia SC. In-state tuition will do that to a guy. For a lack of better options, I enrolled in the Art department and took photography courses, until I could find a better school for photojournalism.

As fate would have it, five years later I had not attempted to find another school, and found myself graduating from (the other) USC. I was officially a Gamecock. I am one of a select few who can stand up in a stadium and yell "Go Cocks!" without meaning anything dirty. Thus ended my 8.5 year undergraduate degree.

my search for direction:

Sometime between then and now, I decided to be an artist. I figured that a guy can get laid from a cool job even if there are no bullets flying. Plus, someone has to shoot those Victoria's Secret ads. Now I had to figure out my angle, my motif. My voice. How to pay my phone bill.

I got a job running a photo lab at a community college in Arizona. I continued making art, but never decided on what I wanted to be known for. I shot architecture because I love the technical challenge. I shot models because I love images of people (and I like hot women). I shot industry because it is beautiful in a Blade Runner way.

This is not how you get famous as an artist. Think about Ansel Adams. Photographers hate Ansel because he is the only photographer that people can name. And his work is pretty cheesy. Beautiful, but cheesy. "Hallmark calendar" is not what you want people to associate your work with. Anyway, he did one thing pretty well - market himself. He stuck to one kind of image, and anyone in the world can summon one of those images in their mind. That is what sells - consistency. AA shot lots of other stuff, by the way, but he only marketed the landscape stuff.

I needed my Snake River - Wyoming 1942. But I can't limit myself. I need to shoot every idea I have. It's a craving. I'm not a photographer, I'm a photojunkie. So I shoot every idea I have. But, I only market a few of them. I have a series of abstract nudes, a series of social landscapes, and an ongoing documentation of urban growth in Phoenix, AZ. Each of these genres I market to different audiences. I've hedged my bets, and each group of work is like a career in itself. I played with the idea of having pen names, but it may be too late for that.

the payoff:

I promised to tell what I've learned about being an artist. Here it is:

You can't decide what your message is going to be. It decides on it's own, and you as an artist can merely channel it.

There is no area of art that is superior to another. However, every artist thinks their approach is the only one that matters. That frame of mind makes for a very successful artist.

Blunt ideas do not make for good art. If your idea is crystal clear to you, your message obvious and unpolluted by contradiction, then you are making clichés. Only questions make good art, not answers.

The only way to find your voice is to try everything that comes to you, and keep it up no matter how unsuccessful it is. The more frustrating your search, the more brilliant the foundation of your final success will be. Every click of the shutter or stroke of the brush is a step towards enlightenment.

Other artists who have a 'gift' and enjoy easy success usually disappear into meaninglessness. They have not gone through the great struggle, therefore do not understand their own work. They had an idea, and got lucky. They know how to exploit techniques that others have shown them. The work is not their own, and when they fail, they will not know how to persevere like the artists who wallowed in failure for eons before 'making it.'

You cannot learn much from what other people tell you. Disregard most of what teachers and other artists tell you about making art. If there is truth in what they say, it will stick somehow. The truth will resonate with you subconsciously. If you do everything the experts say, then you will end up being a very trite artist.

Girls do indeed dig artists, but only if you treat them kind of bad.

pants on fire!

Here's a fascinating, appalling idea from an extremist: radical honesty. Psychotherapist Brad Blanton never lies to people he meets. If he thinks you are fat, he says so. If he thinks you smell bad, he'll let you know. He once let his dog lick his penis - and is perfectly honest about it. It's luridly tempting, but I'm not sure I would have the balls. After reading this Esquire article, I'm at least going to make an attempt. Tomorrow should be an interesting day!

mixed bag of nuts

hilarious tales of woe

Cool optical illusion!

Gotta be the cutest little girl in the world, ever.

Ever randomly hit 'ctrl v' to see what's hidden in your pc's clipboard? I accidentally did and out came:

Sinar Copal Hinterlinsenverschluss.

Das Verschluss ist Gebraucht gut erhalten und hat sehr wenig Gebrauchsspuren.

Da dies eine Privatauktion ist, keine Garantie und keine Rücknahme.

Versandkosten beziehen sich auf Deutschland alle anderen Länder auf Anfrage
I think it's a German poem about the love affair between the circus midget amputee named Gebraucht, and his darling ballet dancing monkey Garantie. Their tale of ill-fated love in the front-line bunker during WWII, the sand in his behind which caused the downfall of the homeland, and her poorly fitting halter top. That, or an ad for some camera gear.


Something I learned today:
While hiking with a pretty girl, it is not advantageous to stop and vomit. It may sound like a really cute seduction move, but believe me - it doesn't improve your odds of scoring at all.

dreams I've had of waking

Today I slept all day instead of going to work. Not the best idea, but I had a sick day left so I used it.

It was one of those times when I kept waking up but my dreams were better than my waking life.

Strangely they were more like nightmares. Dreams in which I'm in love like I used to be with dangerous women like I used to date. In fact, the girl in my dream was that one who encompassed the entirety of the women that had taken my heart hostage in ages 17-29 - the accumulation of the ideals I obsessed about in my youth.

She didn't have a name but her face was that of the girl I forgot.

We were only together for a month but I've never been more in awe. In the dream I was again within touching distance of someone I truly admired. A person who filled my mind and all I could do were things to ensure myself another dose of her.

She held power over me. My life was hers to destroy. She was not cruel, but was only in search of the truth. In my desire to please her I became a liar, and she sensed it right away. The more I understood her the more I saw my own failure to be worthy, and the harder I tried to hide it. My house was falling apart and she grew more distant.

In later years I learned how to put away the part of me that was vulnerable. I became too cool to fall in love. There were no longer women who could hold this power over me. I could see how foolish they all were, and none of them held that kind of purity. To fall in love is only to fall into co-dependence.

Armed with indifference I became the breaker of hearts. I sought my revenge and dealt it without pity.

For many years I've been logically detached from emotional risk. I've even grown successful as an independent man.

Lately though, the nostalgia has been creeping up through my subconscious. To be that passionate again - to see so much in someone that I could let them control my fate? Secretly I want to be at risk again. I want her to be able to hurt me, but she is gone.

There aren't women like that in my reality. I've banished them, it appears. What now?

I'll be on the lookout. Maybe she still exists but I just fail to see her. Maybe grown men don't have the luxury of being fragile.

I'm almost afraid to stay awake, because she'll disappear - my sleep will be dreamless again. I'm also afraid to go to sleep because she might be there, waiting. And I will have to risk losing her again.

If only I could reconcile my mind and heart. It's time for a deus ex machina from stage right.

so bad it's... bad

I just watched 'lil Bush. The characters remind me of Jay Leno jokes from 2003. I guess it's supposed to be offensive along the lines of South Park or Family Guy, but despite scenes like an adolescent Dick Cheney camping out in Barbara Bush's uterus, the show just doesn't have an edge. Neither witty nor silly, the best thing about the show is 'lil Bush himself - a character that takes our leader's faults and makes them lovable. I get the feeling that if this show survives an entire season, big Bush would do well to embrace it. In fact, if the makers toned down the all-too-forced shock gags, it would be a fairly entertaining Republican roast.



On a positive note, SuperBad looks like a winner on the level of Reno911 or the 40 Year Old Virgin.

new feature!

This blog has become a festering clusterfuck. In order to make a little more sense of it, I've added the option on the right hand column to 'view by topic'. If you only want to see photos, click 'photo'. If you only want to read stories, click 'story', and so on. I hope it helps make this blog easier to navigate. Please leave me a comment if you have any other suggestions. Despite appearances, anyone can leave a comment.

scary story

When we were high school seniors or around that age, we used to go to a place called "Old State Road" in Cayce, SC, close to where we lived. We would go there to drink and get in trouble, like many kids did. Old State Road was the old road from Columbia SC (where the civil war started) to Charleston. It was no longer in use since highways had been built, just a dirt road that was out in the woods. There was tons of lore surrounding it, though. It was rumored to be the meeting place of the current KKK, and there were two 'satanic churches' hidden somewhere off the road. There were also random gravesites out in the woods, with centuries old markers, most of which were collapsed. It would be the perfect place for a teen horror film.

The biggest legend involved a certain bridge - an old cement bridge with just enough room for one car to pass over a creek that was about 20 feet below. The story went that if you shut off your car while parked on the bridge, put the keys on the roof, and waited, you would hear a baby crying. Your car then would not start.

One night, of course we tried it. Nothing happened, but it was a pretty creepy place when you turned the car lights off in the deep forest of backwater South Carolina. Disappointed, we decided to go look for the 'satanic churches'. The oldest member of our group, Jerome, said he knew where they were. Said that one was really a satanic church, and one was just a creepy house that was closer to the road.

We drove off in search of the place. I vaguely remember driving through corn fields to get there. Like, actually driving off the road and running over the corn plants, you know, like stupid kids would do. (how I long for those days....). Finally we got to where the 'churches' were supposed to be. It was way off the road, and we had to trek through weedy forest to get there, and really wandered around a lot, since we really didn't know exactly where we were going. Oh, and we only had one flashlight between the five of us.

Eventually, we came up to a small old house, broken out windows, over grown with weeds. This must be the house that Jerome thought was closer to the road. He hadn't been there, but knew someone who had. Me, being the youngest and stupidest, took point. I poked my head in the door, and shined the flashlight around. Typical trashed abandoned house that you would find in that area, but lots more graffitti. Tagging and spray paint art hadn't made it down to the South yet, and graffitti was pretty rare. This was really hastily done cryptic symbols and phrases. I wish I remember what they said.

We walked in a ways and shone the flashlight about. The most bizarre thing was that there were clothes everywhere. Piles and piles of clothing. The place was just covered in clothing. The piles were too high to walk through many places. Almost every inch of the place was covered in jeans, sweatshirts, t-shirts, etc. Like someone had emptied a semi headed for Goodwill.

We went in a couple rooms into the house, but got so absolutely creeped out, that we all had to leave. We couldn't get out quick enough. Nothing happened, but the place had just so damn weird of an aura that we couldn't take it.

So we went somewhere else and drank and smoked pot and stuff.

crunch time

Why is it that when watching someone else play chess, give a speech, or play soccer it is so easy to see how to do it better? I have the same experience when looking at someone else's photograph, book, movie, or outfit. Through every book I read, my mind is constantly editing - each sentence, paragraph, and plot improved upon so effortlessly. Yet, when I sit down at my pc to write - nothing! Just trying to put down in words a short story that actually happened to me becomes laborious, an unnatural act. It's like I'm trying to write in a second language. Where does that masterful editor go when I set out to create my own work?!

comics

A few of the most warped, hilarious comics on the web:

Cyanide and Happiness

The Perry Bible Fellowship

and the most classic, classy, and deranged comic strip of all time -

Red Meat

great internet fiction:

There's this fascinating tale of a bartender whose life is turned upside-down unfolding in a series of blog posts by a guy who goes by DOB. It's a really great story that has all the elements of classic literature - babes, booze, guns, and rooms full of spiders.

Reminds me of David Wong's classic net fiction, John Dies at the End. One of the best stories I have ever read on the internet, dealing with all the classic themes such as animated deer meat, toilet portals, and angry spider beasts from another dimension.

anti Paris parade of petty party poopers

I just watched a video of Sarah Silverman bashing Paris Hilton at an awards show that Paris was attending. I've never really found Sarah very funny, but I like her boyfriend Jimmy Kimmel a lot, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Everybody knows Paris. She's ditzy, slutty, not very talented, etc., but when did she become less than human? I mean, Paris has never done anything to hurt anyone. She's basically partied on camera her whole life, and now everyone wants to bash her. It's one thing to make jokes at someone's expense, when they aren't around. It is another thing to all out attack someone while they sit helpless in the audience.

Sarah's rant wasn't feminist. Sarah isn't a feminist. She's a petty, jealous not-very-funny comedian. Her speech didn't prove some witty point. It didn't enlighten society. All it did was make her look like a jealous cunt. Paris is going to jail. Jail sucks, even for Paris Hilton. I'm going to guess especially for Paris Hilton. I can only imagine the abuse she is going to get from the guards. I'm guessing she gets gang raped in the shower - a lot.

And some people out there are going to say she deserves it. Why? Because she's rich? Because she likes being rich? Because she hangs out with celebrities? Tell me when I get to the part where she is evil. Tell me when I get to the part that is any different than what any girl would do if she was born fabulously wealthy.

Paris has really never hurt anyone. Sure, she could be a lot better person. But so could Sarah Silverman. So could anybody. Paris is a spoiled rich girl. I think she would be a lot of fun to hang out with. I think she is really cute. I think she would be annoying, but I think her cuteness would overpower it. I can't say that for Sarah Silverman. I don't know what Jimmy Kimmel sees in her.

The point is that Paris Hilton doesn't attack people. She's not a bitch. Sarah Silverman does, and is.

artist

I don't know much about this artist, because I've forgotten all the German I ever learned, but here is some really great artwork

unreality

I have a secret obsession
oh, my most cherished possession.
a little bit of magic
satisfies my taste for the tragic

takes me to another place
the look of bliss upon my face
if I were meant to be
less that completely free

I would not pursue her
but try to see right through her
because the lie is held within
her pale and perfect skin

someday we'll have to face
the unreality of this place
but for another day
I will look the other way

timing

When I posted the "bad things I've done" list, the last one had to do with my Dad. He had a couple of heart attacks a few years back and almost died. I was feeling bad about how many times I missed hanging out with him then after writing the post. I ended up writing him this really sappy email about how much I love him and how bad it was when he got sick and that if anything happened to him it would kill me.

The next day he had a stroke.

That was yesterday. The doctors gave him a clot-buster medicine and it worked. He seems like he is just fine now. He had gotten so bad that he was totally unresponsive and couldn't move - but the shot totally wiped out the stroke. Now, he's just itching to get out of bed and walk around. Medical technology is amazing these days.

It did remind me of the post I made several days ago about this article. It almost seems like the timing was too coincidental. I don't know. I'm just glad my Dad is ok.