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Week 1 Articles: |
| People - |
| People - |
| Music - |
| Places - |
| Places - |
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| The Craftsman |
| 11/19 by laura |
Doug Sargent is the owner of a roofing company, a plower of snow filled driveways, my father and a crafter. He once descended onto our barn with a mission and emerged four days later with a horse drawn carriage - our family horses attached to it. A few years later, he erected a 3-car garage, in the snow, in a weekend. He's make-shifted a fireplace insert, hand carved wood molding and etched a love poem for my mother in a piece of log. So last weekend, when he returned from Holland, NY with a 1920's Sheet Metal Break in tow, I did not bat an eye.
An aged, retired metal smith was ready to part with the beast and my father had a new idea brewing in the far left corner of his mind. The white haired man happily grasped $650 in his arthritic hand because not only was the machine out of his hands, but out of his garage as well. Brand new, a Metal Sheet Break costs nearly $5000 and on eBay, the most used one went for $2400, so to say that my Father caught a break is to put it lightly.
At the moment, my father is over loaded with work, replacing all of the windows in his house, and taking care of 5 dogs as my mother is across country with the Red Cross. He is not a man to let obstacles get in his way; he just does it, regardless of time or money. He finds the means because his time spent creating, is more valuable than the end result of a perfectly gilded, Albright-Knox worthy piece of crap that looks store bought, machine generated. As artists, we often times find ourselves playing the part of "starving" more often than need be - which should be never. Screw those elitist, water color painters on store bought, pre-stretched canvas, go mid-N.Y., find the old guy who has had enough of his auto body shop and make him an offer for some tools. Stop by a scrap yard on your way home and pick up some chunks of copper pipe that may be part way rusted and of no real functioning use. Have you noticed in which direction this generation's culture is leaning? We like to call it good old, lowbrow art, made with magic markers, shit pipes and newspaper. That stuff you learn in advanced painting at Buffalo State College - leave it there and find your own way.
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| Buffalo Has Left Me Shelled |
| 11/20 by laura |
Growing up, my house was planted about fifteen minutes outside of the Buffalo city limits, but the allure of the Queen City was completely lost on an easily distracted farm girl. When high school graduation and community college came and went, I ventured into the big city with hopes for the best from this unfamiliar territory. When I closed my eyes, the shell of Buffalo was snowy, crowded, Bill's paraphernalia ridden and caught in economic turmoil. Years later, caught in the nearsighted workforce, that vision of the shell, came back to haunt me.
I am jobless, so to speak. I have a job, but not of any real fulfillment or prospect. I leaned back into the comfort of my computer chair and formidably dwelled on the image of a shelled dog by Sally Mann.
Mann published her works in a book titled What Remains. It seems to be that she has for a long time been the most expressive photographer to grace our photographic minds with objects that were simply in her day to day life. Her social commentary focused on what was within, and then later what was left. She perfected a style that was developed deep inside of her in response to the emerging digital world, change, growth and yet a narrow mindedness. When she was slandered across headlines for indiscreetly publishing child pornography, she published more. She refused fancy new cameras, computer monitors and then turned her trigger finger on those around her. She brought us, the rest of the world explained. What remains of you if you do not have a presence, if you swim with the other trout is a shell.
Buffalo has left me shelled, taken my inspiration, my soul, and my hard work and left me walking lifeless in my skin. Much like a powerful pep talker, an artist's responsibility is, more often than not, to develop the cold hard truth and stand behind. Here, I have to mention a man that currently does that well - and on a local level no less, Sean Madden. "Satan's Anus" is an un-idealistic stint of what we see when we round that anger corner.
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| Here Come The Comets |
| 11/21 by laura |
In Buffalo's Allentown, visitors can hear an unfamiliar mix of Rock and Shoegaze, a voice that sounds like an un-aged David Bowie and a band that could mellow even the drunken goers of the old pink.
The tunes are noticeably tainted with 1940/50's nostalgia and a love for ease and slow movement. Heart beat riffs set the tone for the coming vocals and slight keyboard bells keep the pace. In a flurry of winds and fuzz, the self titled song off of their album eludes to elephants and life realities while Ryder's percussion drums the predestination theme. Lesmeister calls this production his "collection of love songs based on doomsday scenarios."
Here Come The Comets is the music project of a local artist who, instructs the strokes of autistic children and adults and by night paints from his quirks and dreams: intense creatures that smoke cigars, food, dirty thoughts, television, avoiding eye contact with people walking toward you, invisible dangers, musical interludes, machines and parade balloons.
Also joining him in this sensational performance of vagary is Jeff Schaller, bubble wrap master, percussion and hand claps, and Steve Ryder on back vocals, guitars and ethereal sound.
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| Don't Piss Off the Natives |
| 11/22 by laura |
I arrived in New Orleans early yesterday, gawking from my plane window at the appearance of an underwater state just emerging from the depths of the ocean. Sprinkled formations of land lined the shore and dotted the rivers while a cluster of buildings and residencies gathered in the center of the largest land mound and industrial parks seized the outskirts of the city.
The plane landed smoothly into an area vaguely documenting certain parts of impoverished Mexico, dogs lining up in the narrow littered roads, scavenging for scraps, vacant cars given over to intruding climbing moss. Deeper into the Bayou, trees sprang up from dark murky locations in the center of marshes and homes became less frequent. The appearance of Baton Rouge in the distance quelled my receding lip line and wrinkled forehead. Structures native to Paris towered over the sidewalks, intricate porches dangling from each hideaway and multi-paned windows romanticizing the feel of each apartment. The buildings were covered in Stucco and painted with Latin flair while the natives themselves are mostly white adorned with leather boating shoes and monogrammed shirts.
There is an old saying, don't piss off the natives. But really, what came first - the upscale population or the down and dirty cultural nuance of the architecture and street décor? Which is a better entity? New Orleans is then, a live, walking version of water colored lilies and ponds versus the buxom ladies created for band bills and tattoo parlors. A week here should define the line, the lack of integration and yet the residual blending of cultures. |
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| When in New Orleans(Rome)... |
| 11/23 by laura |
When in New Orleans, eat crawfish, see the mighty Mississippi and visit the Haunted Houses.
The murderer, the monster, the fall - these are the thoughts that occupy the worst of our nightmares. The overall theme is where our concentration lies and the details of the landscape, scenery, figures, falls to the wayside. Very rarely can you describe in such horrific detail the countertops, floors, ceiling, clothing or escape route. Nightmare productions was behind the design of the House that we visited last night and as I trudged through the never-ending corridors of filth and disgust, I could not imagine a more thought out and realistic set design even down to the color of the actors fingernails.
One zombie character was close to me for so long, I searched for remnants of adhesive, makeup-sponge creases and labels on his shredded clothing, without avail. His breath held traces of chicken fingers and French fries, maybe a pint of beer, but nothing else.
Once I escaped his captivating glare, I made my way into rooms that housed decaying fetuses, intestines of numerous male victims and even a swamp. Mold and bubbles appeared from the ruins of this body of still water and doused real trees with egg and Brussels sprouts smelling ooze. As I crossed the bridge, shackles dangled from the wooden planks. My foot instinctively nudged them only to find that they were solid steel, I imagined they are true remnants from the home of a serial rapist. Upon nearing the exit, a last surprise sent me hurtling for the large wooden door, a fear of my own, and a car squealing towards my breakable body.
No cardboard cut outs, Spirit store masks or ketchup. This set was truly gruesome.
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