Tag: artistry

Re: Shadow

My mom would sometimes answer my persistent childhood questions with, “Only the shadow knows.” She would say it in a spooky voice that gave me the creeps. It was much later that I learned it came from an old-timey radio program, The Shadow, about a vigilante and his female sidekick. I think my mom saw herself as a detective. She even worked part-time with a private eye on divorce cases involving suspicions of adultery. Dark serious stuff.

Shadowing someone sounds sinister. In the modern lexicon it might be described as stalking. But in business settings to shadow someone suggests a new employee watching and learning from someone more senior. As an experienced elementary school teacher I was asked to support newly graduated teachers in a mentorship role. One year I was assigned a policeman who gave up his career due to burnout (he had the grim job of taking crime photos). We had great conversations as he learned the ropes in the sometimes stressful arena of education. When he got a full-time position he honoured me with a poem describing how he had been “a shadow of his former self” before I helped him create a more satisfying work/life balance.

While in a playful mood with my young children I have used my fingers to create shadow puppets on a wall. One son helped me build a sun dial in our back garden to catch the movement of a shadow telling us the time of day. Another son loved how I read an abridged version of Peter Pan. We would playact the scene where Mary stitches a shadow onto Peter’s heels in an effort to ground the never/never boy to reality.

In the film Perfect Days there is a delightfully scene between two drunken middle-aged males playing a game of shadow tag. They exhaust themselves, trying to stamp on each other’s silhouette, then they get philosophical wondering if each other’s grey profile, when overlapping, would produce a darker shadow. It doesn’t get blacker as they hypothesized, which causes even more confusion. Directly and subtly, this intriguing film explores the shadows we cast as we move through our lives. We are led to build our own backstories of the characters in this film, from the brief shadowy references to their past. I love the way we are invited to consider time as fluid, moving gently from sunrise to sundown, until next time becomes now.

When I was a baby I giggled lots when my mom pushed my pram under the dapple of trees. The Japanese word for this speckled shadow from leaves is Komorebi. There is joy in this translation. For me this phoneme suggests the sound of a breeze through branches. It is hard to take a realistic picture of this mysterious play of lightness and shadow. A camera can distinguish light from dark and pick out the hues and tints of colour, yet our eyes measure more. The brain is reacting to what the eyes see as fact, yet life is about shading that perception with our constantly evolving selves. Perhaps answers can only be found amidst the shadows.

Re: Music

I like movies that contain music, subtle or overt. I once rented a VHS tape called Evita starring Madonna and the desk clerk asked me if I was aware that the film was a musical. My look of surprise made her ask, “Do you still want it?” Apparently the tape had been returned many times because folks were put off by the fact that all the actors sang something. Apparently taste can be found in ears as well as on the tongue.

I get hijacked by music. I don’t choose to have music playing while I work or fuss around the house. Music finds me when I’m going about my business though. In a store it will follow me as I look for blue jeans. I’ll chew my food in rhythm to a restaurant’s playlist. I get the music in me despite having no musical training. My musician friends are amazed when I answer their skill testing questions. Instrumentalists are artists I admire enough to pay money to watch them perform. I’ll sometimes linger by a street performer because the air itself seems somewhat different as it blends with the melody. It sparkles!

Imagine the first gasps of wonder as ancestors in caves created vocalizations or tapping sounds on bones and stuff! My perfect world has people singing or humming all the time. Paul Simon was once asked his greatest thrill at being famous. He said he is always delighted when he passes someone on the street murmuring one of his songs. Music has been described as a soundtrack to our lives and that’s probably why I get earworms of melodies that imbed themselves in my head and just won’t shake loose until I hear another tune. Who doesn’t find themselves joining in when they hear a familiar lyric from a car radio: Home where my thought’s escapin’. Home where my music’s playin’. Home, where my love lies waitin’. Silently for me.

Music is said to soothe a savage beast or breast. Speaking of which, our inner child remembers a mother’s lullaby while being fed and cradled, so we naturally associate sound with comfort and joy. But sometimes music incites when it’s linked to parades and protest. I’ll never forget marching behind a bagpipe with my teacher colleagues during strike action against our government. Anarchy can have a soundtrack too.

I may not have a cultured musicality or practised musicianship. My only music lesson was a month of violin. I’ve winced when hearing snobbish comments at a concert venue: Being a wine connoisseur is one thing but music is for everyone. Ranking of a musical piece is not a requirement for me, appreciation is key. I have trouble with some genres like Rap and my easy listening preference tends towards Folk but I love being surprised by sound. The long retired television series ‘Glee’ enthralled me. Opera may be tedious at times but it gets my respect for being the origin of the staged musical. Music in any form is to be lived.

I got rhythm. I got music. I got my gal. Who could ask for anything more!

Re: Create

Yes, I believe we are created in god’s image. Yet, I do not believe in God. I prefer to attend closely to another soul for proof of the act of creation. How that soul came into being I cannot fathom. How I came to be on this earth, I cannot comprehend. Yet I know for certain that we are all miracles of creation. That is a fact found in our DNA; each strand of which carries the markers of our uniqueness.

We as humans are constructed out of Big Bang stuff. As recipients of this creative matter and energy we are destined to travel a creative path. The best teachers do not indoctrinate or inculcate. As a teacher I thought of all of my students as singers, dancers and artists waiting to find the right tools and skills to enable their creative force within to show itself. Budding scientists, athletes, orators, change agents and titans of business sat in the desks of my classrooms. Each child will tell you their dreams of destiny. Each child will be confident in their ability to make something. Each child will be convinced they are a marvel, unless they are told they are not.

Children must never be deflected from their creative urges. I could be a strict parent in my time but I would not stand in my sons’ way when it came to them testing their creative aspirations (even if their music was definitely too loud). One of my favourite creators, the songwriter Harry Chapin, sang a poignant song (Flowers are Red) about a stifled creative urge. Here he is with entertainer John Davidson showcasing how ideas can spring up from daily experiences. Then this gem of a moment in music happened. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7qrbNygL0YU

The film, ‘The Fabelmans’ fictionalizes Steven Spielberg’s youth. This famous director was lucky, in a way, to have had the right magical dose of encouragement from various sources, not to mention an ingrained natural talent. The patriarch of the family perpetually thought of his son’s movie fascination as a hobby, while his mom revelled in his exploration of self. As I watched I wondered about my own parents, trying to guess who encouraged me to colour outside of the lines.

At the dawn of creation a spark was placed in all of us. Lucky are those who are born into the perfect environment to thrive. Most of us struggle for simple recognition of our innate creativity. Without a rudimentary acknowledgement of our gifts we begin to think less of ourselves, creatively or otherwise. Obviously, we are not all going to be famous artists. Gaining fame is not the point of creative pursuits, be they hobbies, pastimes or even professions. My father’s greatest talent was creating an atmosphere for making others feel appreciated: He made them feel gifted.

If God exists, I’m convinced he/she/they didn’t make junk. We have the genetics capable of creations of our own design. It’s paramount that we encourage ourselves and others to live up to that example.

Re: Animate

“It’s Alive!” Is the exuberant cry that Dr. Frankenstein shrieks when he has re-animated his stitched together fictional monster. He is excited! From what was once dead, springs fresh life. I am waiting for that enthusiastic response after what has been a deadening historical interval. I am man, hear me moan.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy encouraging myself and others to be Yippy-Skippy. When I see someone exuberant I want them to bring on that happy face & spread sunshine all over the place. It’s awesome how we can take a troubling situation and turn it upside down with a smile. My son recently told us a classic Canadian winter story of driving on treacherous roads of snow and sleet. Then he told us how he almost chocked to death after a first bite of a meal. He had us sitting on the edge of our seats because he animated his tale with captivating facial expression and body language. It reminded me of tribal times after a mastodon hunt, but not really because I’m not that old.

I’d love to be a comic strip artist or better yet an editorial cartoonist. These folks use drawings to animate our existence, dull that it is. I have been especially focussed on political cartoonists since they do such a good job of making me laugh/cry at our current leaders. Their point of view effectively lampoons the irony of our existence. I’m particularly keen on the art of Michel deAdder, a brilliant pictorial satirist, once fired from a Canadian newspaper and then picked up by the high profile Washington Post (take that Brunswick News!)

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/asithappens/as-it-happens-monday-edition-1.5196196/michael-de-adder-opens-up-about-being-dumped-by-n-b-newspapers-after-viral-trump-cartoon-1.5196199

Animation as an art form fascinates me. My dad once tried to use 16mm home movie film to turn my sister’s birthday party into a cartoon. I helped him make stick models that danced while cardboard letters magically arranged themselves into words. I can never be too old for cartoons (such a Saturday morning with cereal by the television unimportant sounding plural noun). Pinocchio, a film by Guillermo del Toro, recently won an Academy Award for stop-motion artistry. Claymation is fun and then came the Wallace&Gromit features. There are many Pixar and Disney films that make me marvel. Walt’s classics are works of art painted in a single cel that connects to a loop of film creating the illusion of movement. Add sound and you have a masterpiece. My granddaughter sings ‘Let it Go’ whenever she is awake. I’ve been singing the ‘Little April Shower’ song from Bambi for more than sixty years.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xksfShPraTQ

To be animated is to be optimistic: I welcome the fascinating, the wondrous, the rebirth. As I spring forward with the time change leaving winter’s death behind, the lengthening hours of sunlight will animate my mood, inviting me to look for reasons to dance and sing.

Re: Shakespeare

Shakespeare writes music, if music be truth. And since music is Art then Art is also truth. And since I can see Art in everything then Shakespeare is everywhere.

My blog postings are regarding words and though I not be the Bard, by any stretch, I can value the power of words. So I propose that Shakespeare is more than a name but a word with meaning far beyond the person who was Shakespeare. For me and many, the name used as a word can itself conjure up words that cast spells on the imagination and bring clarity to one’s existence.

I was introduced to Shakespeare, the man, in high school history class. This writer lived and worked over 450 years ago. His work is still studied, re-imagined, reproduced and talked about today. To me he is Sir William, although he was never knighted. The fact that scholars have doubted some of his originality matters not to me, for his name stands as a brand upon the beauty of the English language. It was in grade ten that I came to know Shakespeare as a word beyond the name. We studied The Merchant of Venice in English class that year. We dissected the words in the play. We practised the poetry. We acted out parts. We became characters. We went to Stratford, Ontario to see the word made flesh on stage.

Henceforth, I saw Shakespearean things in other art forms. Just as music can move you without knowing from whence that feeling came, experiencing Shakespeare can bring understanding to my very existence. Like music, Shakespeare is a language that I don’t need to translate to fathom. When read, Shakespeare flows like poetry. When watching actors portray the parts transcribed, the audience moves with a rhythm palpable. It doesn’t have to be live theatre either. The film Shakespeare In Love captures well the play within the play. Who cannot feel as the audience does at this scene near the end of Romeo and Juliet?

I have visited some of the sites in England where William Shakespeare once walked. I have paddled on the Avon River. I visited his cottage in Stratford.
I discovered the spirit of Shakespeare is not of a place. When I feel the word Shakespeare my mind opens. Today I came across a piano installed on a sidewalk beside a beach and I thought, “My! How Shakespearean!” Last week I went to a production of the musical Mamma Mia. The songs were not so much sung as recited rhythmically, as in a play that Shakespeare might have written. Here through the inspiration of music by ABBA; love was asked for and not given, betrayal was evident, protagonists were aggrieved, antagonists were forgiven, lovers were reunited, souls were enlightened. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2OBneuoZaOw

The word Shakespeare comes to mind, whenever I see signs that someone is exploring humanity. In my community we often see Living Statues: People dressed as characters who mime. They are human, trying to reach other humans through Art: That’s Shakespeare! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=szeq1M0_7PQ

Re: Write

I am a writer. It took me a while to say that, to myself, before I could proclaim it to the world. I grew up with the notion you had to BE, before you could claim to be. There was something in my mother’s teaching that made me reluctant to attest to something about myself unless someone else, officially, had acknowledged it first. Even when I became an adult and wrote for my daily newspaper, my mother continued to think; ‘a Writer is someone who writes Books.’

I have mixed feelings about the drive to be a writer as my father spent almost every spare moment during my pre-teen years clacking on his Underwood. Having gone through my own mid-life crisis I can recognize now, what was going on with my dad. He was at a crossroads and he thought sending off manuscripts, with rejection slips inevitable, just might bring him the fame he was after. My mom kicked him out of the apartment for his ‘writing obsession’ and only let him back after he promised to write no more. These were very stressful days for me. The house was suddenly very quiet after he took his typewriter and left. To this day I will feel heartache whenever I see one of these antique word processing machines. The departure scene became forever connected to WRITING. To venture into the land of career writing became filled with the prospect of following in my father’s failed footsteps. Nothing pleasing to picture with that scenario; move along please.

What a negative space I occupied; Being unable to write because it didn’t feel right. Thankfully I recognized that this attitude was largely self-imposed. As my teaching career wound down I approached our local daily newspaper with an idea for a weekly column. It felt like a rite of passage when I got hired. The Daily Press even used me as a roving reporter covering the arts scene on the weekends. I tapped away on the keyboard of a new Bondi Blue iMac (much quieter than my dad’s machine). I discovered that the more I wrote the more I wanted to write. I had tapped into an artistic side of me that had been hungering for release. I wrote editorials. I wanted to be a righter of wrongs. I kept poetry diaries and trip journals. During my last few years of teaching everyone in my classroom wrote lots of stuff. We shared the results together with delight. We played with homonyms, synonyms and antonyms. We made up nonsense words and made them into cartoon characters. Sometimes it only takes one person to read your work to make you feel accomplished.

One year, to honour the passing into the new millennium, I wrote a full page of thoughts for each day of 2000 thinking it would be a curiosity for my grandkids someday. My wife was diagnosed with stage four cancer in January 2001. For the next 288 nights she asked for a bedtime story; either Winnie the Pooh or a page from my Millennial Journal.