Surfing the Surfacing Exhibit at Luce

This weekend I dropped in on the Surfacing show at Pizza Luce, a collaborative art exhibit featuring artists Emily Herb and Tonya Borgeson. I really enjoy titles of shows, especially when so fraught with meanings.

Surface 1. the outer face, outside, or exterior boundary of a thing; outermost or uppermost layer or area.

To surface can also be used as a verb so that the word surfacing can mean “finishing the surface.”

The layers of potential interpretation entice the mind. I think here of peoples’ masks or the façade’s they wear. The external surface is all we see of many people who conceal their inner lives, inner selves. Surfaces, however, can also reveal as much as they conceal, as in the dress here with the heart inside. On the other hand, some people spend their whole lives concealing, polishing the veneer surface, trying to project it just right.

This show is more likely the opposite. That inner soul of the artists, which has been hidden, is now surfacing, emerging, appearing. Like flying fish or other creatures of the sea they are leaping out from the hidden depths, glistening in the daylight, rainbow sprinkles of spray shimmering in all directions before breaking the surface only to re-emerge, agitating the surface of the waters, bringing delight to the eyes of anyone in the vicinity who happens to catch the show.

The invitation to this exhibition included a poem.

Surfacing
Below the surface, I have pulled from the muddy banks of my mind.
Above the surface, I have uncovered and exposed and put into flight.
To be defined as immersion of the unspoken and unseen.

When I asked about the poem, Tonya replied, "The poem came out of discussions between emily and me, about our creative process and the experience taking the photographs in the creek."

Where did the idea for Surfacing really come from? Emily had started this series of work with the intention of releasing certain elements of her history. Showing a side that is nostalgic yet accessable, she touches on the concept of why growing up includes covering up and encourages the viewers to return to a personal yet common place that may have been forgotten. Emily is excited to share images that perhaps evoke familiarity between different age groups, genders, and "home" localities. By bringing to the surface these slips of moments, they are more easily tangible and hold stronger than ever before existing in the mind alone.

Tonya chose to take her work beyond what the mind has hung on to and release it into a populated, yet individual higher existence. She combines elements of motion and transparency to achieve feelings of growth and freedom. Just as banners and flags can be used as clips of identity, so are the shapes and materials she has selected as representation of her message. When one is given an opportunity to raise awareness to themselves, the bolder and stronger messages reach more- they rise above the surface to be viewed and by everyone looking out for them.

Both artists chose to use mediums that posed a unique and challenging experience. This strategy has also given the exhibit itself a personal identification, along with collaborative and friendly elements. And once again, I personally enjoy seeing art in public spaces.

FWIW, this week there will be an opening of their new gallery and studios, The Stage Coach at 15 Third Avenue West, with the kickoff event scheduled for 7-9:00 p.m. With live music, drinks and appetizers, it sounds like a great follow-up to the Duluth Art Institute opening which will be from 5-7:00 p.m. that same evening. It's free and open to the public. And as an artist I especially appreciate the "call to all artists interested in displaying their artworks in the new gallery space." I believe The Stage Coach is Emily Herb's baby, with strong assistance and support from Borgeson.

Click images to enlarge.

Win a Trip to Ireland: Kelly Culhane Writing Competition

My father-in-law spent more than three years in the service during World War II. As I talked with him over the years about his experiences in World War II, certain themes would recur. One of these was how beautiful he remembered Ireland to be. Perhaps it was the time of year, or perhaps it is always as green as its shamrocks, for certain the memories of Ireland made his eyes glow and put a longing in his heart to return, which he was able to do while in his eighties.

All this is lead-in to the opportunity for you to win a ten day writing retreat in Ireland at The Burren Cottage in County Clare, Ireland. The trip includes lodging and airfare.

Essentially it is a writing competition designed to help raise funds for The Young Survivors Coalition and other cancer awareness non-profit organizations, as well as create content for an important book along this line. The theme this year is Upon Arrival of Illness - Coming to Terms With the Dark Companion*

The competition was conceived by Mike Savage, friend, writer and publisher. The writing contest has been created to honor his niece, Kelly Culhane, who after a three year battle with breast cancer finally left this life for another, leaving behind a husband and two young children. Mike writes, "As Kelly's uncle, knowing she did a tremendous amount of writing about her diagnosis, treatment, fears, and joys, I want to honor her memory and promote writing as therapy through this contest, and provide a memorable trip to Ireland's West, a place Kelly wanted to, but was unable, to visit."

Deadline for submissions is January 20, 2011 with the winner to be announced mid-May, 2012.

Even if you do not win there are additional prizes, including consideration for publication in a softcover anthology or possibly even a Kindle and a sailing excursion. For submission requirements, visit SavagePress.com.

*with gratitude to John O'Donohue

Oddio Nib at the Ochre Ghost

A few samples of Twin Ports' own Oddio Nib that went on display tonight at the Ochre Ghost Gallery on 2nd Avenue East. You still have more than an hour to get over there if you're not sure what gig you want tonight. And from there drop in on Pizza Luce to see the Surfaces exhibit.

Ciao.

Fun House Centrifuge

One of the fond memories of my childhood was the Fun House at the now defunct Geauga Lake Amusement Park. My recollections may be murky, since they come from experiences 50 years ago, but as I recall it there was a spooky dark portion with moving floor boards and strange sounds that you had to go through either to enter or exit the place. Then you came upon a wall of mirrors which distorted you in hilarious ways so your legs were super-short and neck elongated, and many other variations. Eventually you were inside, and for kids it was a blast because you could stay as long as you liked.

I'm not sure what all was in there now as I think back. Maybe this is where the penny arcade was, I don't know. What I remember most is the slide and the circular wheel ride.

The slide was made out of wood, had multiple lanes and as kids we would run up a long flight of stairs to the top where you grabbed a gunny sack and sat on it like a sled, zoom. The slide was wax polished like the lanes of a bowling alley and must have been steep enough to give you a good rush without being scary. There were humps and contours to make it interesting so that it was not just a straight chute.

The circular wheel was like a centrifuge, something like a flat merry-go-round except run by a rotor beneath the floor. You did not see anything except the circular polished wooden board. Even a small child could grasp the principle of the thing. As the wheel was set in motion and went faster and faster, all the kids would try to hold on but with nothing to hold onto they would be flung in all directions.

As we got older we understood that the best way to stay on for the longest time possible would be to get into the precise center. Even then, one's irregular body mass distribution would lead to the inevitable, being discharged out of control from the whirling surface. Perhaps even worse is getting really successful at finding that center spot so that you get dizzy and sick from being on there too long. But you seldom got that center spot because there was a line and you were competing with a couple dozen other kids who crammed themselves onto it as densely as able.

This image of the wheel flinging kids off in all directions came to mind as I have been reading about and observing some of what is happening in America today. Protests are one thing, but total chaos makes people insecure. At a certain point mobs can only be subdued by excessive authority. Nobody wants that, but they do not want the chaos of the mob either, and no one wants rampant guillotine bloodletting. So we have to figure out how to get along.

The problem is with the wheel spinning faster and faster we're all being thrown in a variety of directions and the things that once unified us (the American dream and confidence of a better future for our children) has flung us into the sideboards. There's no doubt that a lot of people are frustrated. We don't know what's true. We don't know who we can trust. We distrust those who tell us to "trust the process." But then what?

In the Fun House you don't have to get on all the rides. It can be entertaining just watching the expressions of those having fun. And even watching the Occupy Wall Street antics can produce some entertaining images, but it is my recollection of the May Day riots in Washington that not everyone there has the same agenda. Some are opportunists whose only aim is to make trouble. As I hitch-hiked back from the antiwar protests of May Day 1971 I was picked up by two students from Antioch and an older fellow whose only aim that day was to "get cops" and do some damage. The cops were brutal, and the violence terrifying for a young innocent, but the protesters were also naive. And this time around I'm not hearing anyone offering a sensible solution because the center of the maelstrom this time around is an undulating abstraction, an emotion, a loss of hope, a rage against the machine.

I guess we'll see where it all leads but to be honest, I've been in mobs and I'm not really sure how much problem solving a mob can really do.

In the meantime, just a little something to think about.

Flash Fiction: Harry Gold

I've been writing short fiction of varying lengths for nearly four decades. At a certain point in time I learned that short shorts fall into a category called Flash Fiction, generally brief in nature, between 250 and 1000 words.

The following is a piece of flash fiction written in a rather unconventional manner. All of the sentences from this story have been borrowed from other works of fiction by other authors. It was sort of a word game. For continuity sake I did add a few sentence fragments and used the name Harry Gold in all the places where needed. I think it interesting how a sentence, placed in a new context connotes new meanings through the reconfigured relationship. And now...

Harry Gold

The rule of "nothing unessential" is the first condition of great art. --Andre Gide

After dinner Harry Gold reads us the last two chapters of his La Nuit. The next to last especially seems excellent to us, and Gold reads it very well. Being rich is an occupation in itself, particularly for people who arrive at it via parachute in middle life.

We go out for a walk -- William Williams, Gold and myself. Never has it seemed such a long way to the top of this hill. The road with its tossing broken stones stretches on forever into the distance like a life of agony. It is hot as a furnace on the street and we sweat profusely.

I bring up the question of ownership. "Who owns language? Can a man own words? Sentences? The turn of a phrase?"

Gold's face becomes agitated, defiant. "It's mine now. No matter what they say, it's mine."

It occurs to me that Williams doesn't like this reply, but there are no others to turn to and we are forced to accept it. Gold feels guilty because his work is heavy with borrowing. Ideas, phrases, sentences, even whole paragraphs have been shamelessly appropriated, pilfered without attribution, plagiarized.

Harry adds, in a low voice, "The will of man is unconquerable. Even God cannot conquer it."

I can not bear to see him like this. To myself I think, Why do you do these things? In human affairs every solution only serves to sharpen the problem, to show us more clearly what we are up against. I consider how sages of the future will describe this historic day.

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For what it's worth, my first two volumes of serious short fiction are on sale for $1.99 and available from Amazon.com by clicking the book covers at the right. The Red Scorpion, a haunted house story with a supernatural twist, is $2.99 and can also be found in the same manner. If you do not have a Kindle, Nook or method for reading eBooks, you can purchase a hard copy for $9.95 by visiting Savage Press. When friends ask what it's about I like to say it's Lord of the Flies meets Stephen King. If you read it, let me know if that is an apt description.

Van Gogh Revisited: Was It Suicide or Was It Murder?

When I was young my friend's dad worked at a factory that pressed vinyl into records. One weekend we visited the place and took a tour. I saw 55 gallon barrels of rejects and in one waste bin saw a Rolling Stones 45 rpm that had been tossed because label had a misprint on it. (Quality Control)

When we left I brought with me an unlabelled album that turned out to be all instrumental. I never learned who made the music but my younger brother came up with a title for the first song, "Was It Suicide or Was It Murder."

This memory came to mind when I was reading an article in this week's Time magazine titled The Stranger. A new look at van Gogh's life -- and death. It was a review of the latest book on the life of Vincent Van Gogh by Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith. According to reviewer Richard Lacayo this is the definitive bio on the famous artist. It is not only a compelling read, it is also extremely well researched and includes a new interpretation of the artist's death. Or rather, Naifeh puts forward the proposition that Van Gogh may not have died by his own hand, that our picture of the despondent painter shooting himself out in a field while painting is wrong.

As you read the account of his death it's easy to see how a good researcher might begin to ask questions. Unfortunately, the events are more than a hundred years old and we can no longer go interrogate the parties involved.

The notion that he died by suicide has been easily believed because he was indeed a troubled man. Not that many people I know cut off their own ear after an argument, or at any other time for that matter.

You have to be a Time subscriber to read Richard Lacayo's review but you can read a small collection of segments from other reviews here, or if you have a Kindle you may download the first segment of the book itself and taste for yourself. The book is available in hardback, paperback and eBook formats from Amazon.com.

For still more background on this important artist, here's a link to my previous essay written when the collected letters of Van Gogh had been made available online to the public.

Wordless Wednesday