Show

- Own Themselves -

"Humankind lingers unregenerately in Plato's cave, still reveling, its age-old habit, in mere images of the truth. But being educated by photographs is not like being educated by older, more artisanal images. For one thing, there are a great many more images around, claiming our attention. The inventory started in 1839 and since then just about everything has been photographed, or so it seems. This very insatiability of the photographing eye changes the terms of confinement in the cave, our world. In teaching us a new visual code, photographs alter and enlarge our notions of what is worth looking at and what we have a right to observe. They are a grammar and, even more importantly, an ethics of seeing. Finally, the most grandiose result of the photographic enterprise is to give us the sense that we can hold the whole world in our heads -- as an anthology of images."
-Susan Sontag, On Photography.

I wanted this rather long excerpt to serve as the preface for this show because I believe it to be a compelling argument for photography, a medium that I struggle to accept as art. I am persuaded by and drawn to images, but I'm not sure if I can take full credit for any object of my camera. Everything is there, and the machine simply captures it. I can take an interesting photo of an industrial landscape or of my friends at a party, but only because they are interesting, with or without my camera. In this show, you will see a collection of moments or things that I've seen--but I don't claim responsibility or ownership of any of them. The moments and things own themselves. Thank you for attending.

Sunny Baby Blue You

You shouldn't sit so far away
On such a sunny day
We all know how our time can pass
Relaxin in the shade
I've shown to you my better side
And I'd never lie for love
Especially when its in between,
Below us and above.

The high blue sky is beautiful
Reflecting in your eyes
I want to fly inside of them
And I wish you'd let me try
'Cuz ever since I met you, honey,
It's funny to be alone
I've traveled from a distant land
And finally found my home.

And all I ever needed
I can see it in your face,
The look of your expressions,
And the setting of this place.
The comfort of the shade,
My babe, I'm glad that you could come,
To sit right here beside me
For the setting of the sun.

At the Museum

Beginning in still lines and waiting
until finally filing into escalators
of black congruent steps
that lift the lines into other levels
where structure is less important
and groups disperse into other groups
until the lines are only individual dots
that hurry about and busy themselves
with distractions which took years
to create and now get passed
with the slightest degree of appreciation
or regard and every single dot wants
to be here and feel here and see here
and be seen here but hardly any
wants to sacrifice their private
charade and create something
worth more than what is
immediate. And stop taking
photos of the damn Picassos!

It Was Mine!

We sat outside on the rooftop and balanced empty beer cans on spinning ventilation ducts. In the distance, the skyline seemed at eye level and I was surrounded by great people- people I knew before formally knowing them. Before flesh, there were walls, trains, alleyways, sketchbooks. We laughed and moved fluently from simple, everyday conversations to the spontaneous moments of collective insight that happen when people get drunk together.
Three stories below, the streets are filled with drunk men and women, most are wearing cute little outfits and struggling to remember where they parked their cars. From the edge of the roof, you could see cop cars strategically placed throughout the area, waiting like hungry sharks at the fat people beach. Like many other nights in Northeast Minneapolis, they ate well that night.
I looked around at the rocks that blanketed the rooftop; what a test of self-control. Everything in the vicinity-- the drunk people below, the cop cars, the skinny alleyway cat stalking from shadow to shadow--everything seems like the perfect target for an excited drunk, especially ones that are entertained by spinning beer cans on ventilation ducts. At most of these rag tag rooftop parties, someone is bound to eventually give in, but surprisingly, no one did. Instead, someone came up with a safer idea- throwing the rocks at the beer cans that were somehow still spinning. A cheer erupted when the can was finally hit, head on, with a fiery crack of accuracy. Of course, everyone claimed it was their rock.

Campfire Reflections

Sitting alone,
Watching the embers of an evening fire die
With the northern wind coming across the lake,
My mind stirs deep reflections that surface slow,
Like bubbles waiting for the ice to melt.

I hear the calling of a cold owl,
The cry of distant wolves,
And the reluctant shift of tall timbers.
This is where I came from- the dry pine needles,
The patches of moss, and the campfire.

Twenty feet above,
Shadows are projected onto the pine trees
And glints of ash rise in circles until finally
Falling without illumination and becoming lost
To what is.

Last Thoughts on Michael Larson

The following is a piece I wrote over the past couple of weeks, an homage to Michael Larson, A.K.A. Eyedea, who passed away on October 16th, 2010. This person was someone I looked up to, someone who held a lot of influence in my life... someone whose work stayed with me and grew around my soul like a vine around a Century fence, know what I mean? For those who haven't heard much of his music, I encourage you to buy an album or two of his, in particular "The Many Faces of Oliver Hart," "First Born," and his latest release, "By The Throat."

For my homage, I chose to write a pastiche, which is a literary form in which you imitate another writer's style. I am imitating a poem Bob Dylan wrote and performed for Woody Guthrie when Woody was sick in the hospital... You can listen to it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVbr0y8zp68

Although I still want to continue working on this (because I'm not entirely satisfied with it) I realize there's point when you have to let things go, even if you still think you can make it better. Far too often, with projects I undertake, I never finish them because I start something else or lose interest.. This leaves me with a lot of cool stuff that's only half complete. Anyways- with this, I know it helped me channel my emotions and work out some rather difficult kinks in my mind.. I hope you find a little truth in it...


Last Thoughts on Michael Larson

What can you do when the wind blows hard

'Til your face can't feel it and your hope's gone far,

When the words fall short or they barely imitate

All the complex emotions that you're tryin' to convey,

When the lights grow dark, and they leave the streets alone

Or when you missed the last train that woulda took ya straight home,

When the traffics too thick or a book is too short,

Or when you've gone downtown to face another round of court,

When your caught with your guard down, or your lips are too loose,

When rain falls in buckets and it beats through your roof,
Or when the scenes not the same as it was awhile back,

And your feet have turned left and walked right off track,

And your packs about empty, or your bag is all sticks,

And every feather hits ya with the weight of ten bricks,

When the coffee won't do it, and the beer won't either,

When your ex is with him every time that you see her,

Or when the kids seem selfish, and you begin to feel hopeless,
And when the things that you buy tend to blur out your focus,
When the comets stop comin' and the blue moon hides,

When you're tired, out late and still miss the sunrise,

When your back starts achin' or the needle finds a rut,

And you don't have the heart to quite go with your gut,

And the ceiling fan stops and the air settles down,
And its so damn hot that you curl up on the ground,

And you wonder to yourself... You ask you some questions-

Like, "How do I respond to all the shit that I'm test with?

Where do I move it? What can I tell them?"

Your winds knocked out so you wheeze instead of yellin',
And you gotta keep trying 'cause you're scared of sayin' quit,
'Cause you know every road has a hole, a little dip,
But the doubts still in you, and its weight feels tall,
Pulls you in between desires like the first snowfall,
And it seems mixed up in a dark shade of blue
With tight tangled knots like a little kid's shoe
And your mood won't mend with any headache potion,
Your skin won't smooth with any calamine lotion,
No matter how much you save or got comin' in a check,
What pattern that you wear or which chains on your neck,
It will not disconnect, keeps followin' you around,
In the morning, afternoon, and on the other side of town,
You feel stuck real good, just stuck in your place,
And you wonder why you joined this whole damned race-

Well,

There's a man I know that can guide you through this,
A man who wrote line after line of music,
That came to rest deep in the hearts of many,
He was known as Eyedea, of which he had plenty.
Now we all know an artist or two that has a vision,
and we all know some people who push beyond limits,
But this man personified potential he had,
wasn't happy boxed in with some short term fad,
or labels that only traced the outline he shaped,
wasn't one at night and another by day.
I guess what I'm gettin' at, what I'm trying to say,
is this man was original, authentic, and great-
and above all else he taught my mind to not wait,
cause there's a whole lot of work left beyond my gates.



Thank you Eyedea for all the inspiration you continue giving me. Peace.

Poems

Random poem...

Avenue Gal
She walks around on avenues
where the sun can barely see her,
with dandelions on her dress
and grass that grows to reach her.

Hearts increase their rates a bit
when winds against her hair,
and wind that's blown beside her
prefers to stay right there.