One day this structure will house a growing family or thriving business. Its many rooms will giggle with childhood jokes or clatter with stern conference calls. The inside will change with growth and the solid walls of the outside will weather with each storm and season. Passing neighbors will marvel at its Doric columns and red trimmed roof, but few will ponder who built it, what techniques were used and what hardships were overcome.
Like this structure, all art represents a journey. It tells a visual story of its subject, but deeper, represents a life-long voyage of exploration and possible hardship. Many great artists gave up the stability of a traditional job to devote themselves to creating. Paul Guaguin, a one time successful stockbroker, found his passion for creating and soon after devoted his life to painting. Van Gogh’s overly passionate desire to help through emotional journeys of color prevented any chance of self-worth and ultimately caused his death.
What are the rewards of creating and how do they compare to the perils? Are there sacrifices?
Some dangle over insanity and others balance atop high roofs. Every creation has a creator and every creator has a story.
A craving for a slurpee or a random hunger for a bean and cheese burrito might guide you past a brightly painted garage with barely legible text and a looney character. If your eyes are open and your senses eager, then you may have spotted this act of creativity and uninhibited expression.
Published February 14th, 2008 in art and rambles.Closed
art created by Moe in Carlsbad
Art is capable of triggering intense emotions. The poised stretch of Degas’ ballet dancers showcase elegance and beauty. The bonnet capped child of Mary Cassatt ignites an inner flame of childhood innocence. Daumier pushed sorrow in his deep illustrations of the underprivileged and Delacroix painted the trepidation and horror of Romanticism. Edvard Munchteased one’s psyche with the symbolic portrayal of such themes as misery, sickness and death wile Henri Matisse expressed contentment in joyous scenes of serenity.
Emotions vary in type, but have identical capabilities of power. Sadness can be felt as strong as happiness.
An old lady walks up to a brightly painted bouquet of tangled flowers, worked in thick impasto. She comments on how this painting has moved her. She feels the warmth of a first love and reminisces of her youth. She sighs in admiration of its artistic skill as she moves on. She slowly approaches the next painting of a haggard homeless man unconscious and laying in his own vomit. His eyes are deep and chunks of his last meal still dangle in his coarse beard. The old woman gasps as she raises her gloved hand to her mouth. She winces in disgust. She questions what brought this man to this point in his life. She becomes sad and feels sorrow for him and his family. A tear wells up in her thickly mascaraed eye and makes its bumpy journey down her wrinkled cheek. The tangled flowers of the previous painting are no more than a weak memory; pushed out like an unpersuasive salesperson. She scribbles the name of the artist and the painting on the back of a folded coupon and exits the museum before finishing the rest of the exhibit.
At times of war, elections and other mainstream events, ideas can be expressed like the towering billboards of Orange County or the unwanted newspapers of Today’s Local News. The internet runs rapid with pushy spam. News stations claim to be unbiased but easily drift. Word-of-mouth information is as incoherent as an early morning bar conversation and facts blur with every passing minute. The static melodies of the radio brainwash like the subliminal ad-campaigns of witty executives and a sticker on a bumper represents a catchy slogan. We alter our bodies with colorful inks to showcase intimidations and a license plate drools with abbreviations. The burning sun is periodically censored like an eclipsed moon by waving ads pulled by puttering planes and loopy transients ramble life stories on dirty street corners.
I spotted this idea on my way to work today. As my cold truck gurgled down Jefferson Street, my eyes awoke and began to wander. The corner house with glowing palms showcases a variety of eye candy: a palm thatched cabana, tiki monster palm trunks, a flying gargoyle, a glaring pirate flag and a bright yellow fire hydrant. Occasionally, a crude stenciled board will scream statements at passing cars.
A statement provokes thought in the the viewers, but a question asks for an answer. Not only do they seek to ignite a mental analysis, but they also ask for participation, a decision and interaction.
What if they had a makeshift ballot where you could check YES or NO? RECeSSION or DEPRESSION? Would you interact?
Like the infrequent beauty of a Bakawali flower, the electrical box bloomed for a short period before falling back into slumber. Its curves and swirls danced along the rusty train tracks in an gestural display of blues and whites. Its presence was highlighted by the insipid backdrop of dull dirt and rock. As soon as it stretched, looked around and inspired, it fell back to another long stretch of stagnation.
Once upon a time there lived a lonely tree. Its thick trunk rooted heavy palms to the crumbling pavement. Hot asphalt surrounded his base and an unforgiving wall inched closer with each passing season. Overheated cars nudged and dripped oil like a big brother teases. Pesky weeds whispered threats in his ears and overhead crows nagged. The cool ocean breeze would torment the lonely tree with memories of sandy beaches, loving families and the deep blue ocean. Reminiscing of days when an ocean view was part of his daily routine made the tree sad. Cold buildings stared at the tree and laughed during each sunset. As the sun sank, the tree was left in a dull shadow, alone and tired. Concrete surged closer like ill hallucinations of a childhood fever. Modern architecture breathed fumes and soot into the air eliminating the ocean scent. The tree grew weak and collapsed at the hand of depression. Grumpy outbursts at passing tourists become frequent and the palm was reduced to a helpless stump.
After years of sorrow, the tree was awaken by the squeaky brakes of an oversized truck. The tree, familiar with the noises of construction, closed his eyes and fell back to sleep. Long desired friendship ran through his mind as he dreamt of forgotten memories. He yearned for interaction, the prick of a sign tacked to his trunk, the glue of tape and the warmth of a child’s climb. The tree began to cry. As sobs dripped down his stump, he was awoken by the gentle wipe of a hearty tear. His red eyes met those as brown as the ground he once grew from. He stared long and breathed slow. His heart began to beat and his mouth fell open. He reached out to his mysterious friend with a rejuvenated smile and a hug that can still be seen today.
Do you think the pole came first of the palm? Where does this embrace take place?
A simple act of creative expression can spark a thought in those who normally would be thoughtless. These acts stir emotions which ignite a healthy thought process. Improv Everywhere, located in New York City, causes scenes of chaos and joy in public places. These innocent acts entertain, as well as intrigue, the passing people, whom indirectly become part of the project.
Improv Everywhere is a perfect example of the what a network of creative minds can do and how they can touch the minds of the public.
Sometimes, in less frequented areas, weeds sprout and develop into sturdy plants with pulsating colors and swirling bodies. The gardener usually remains a mystery except for an occasional footprint. Cars speed and joggers bounce as the day passes. The weed remains visible, but hardly acknowledged. A light sprinkle of creativity, fallowed by a ray of inspiration, stimulates the growth of more weeds, ultimately creating a garden of color and imagination.
After stumbling upon this mural, I felt the excitement of the start of an unmanicured garden, alive with untamable growth and creativity. The stale electric box now stood in front of me with wild deep blues and glistening whites. This box, brought to life with the rolling animation of a crashing wave, no longer sits silent, but roars with life. A violent scene of a mid-storm swell stares at me as I hold my breath in anticipation of an underwater torment. The starry night sky blinks uncontrollably over the crashing surge, radiating light in the dark sky like the swirls above the sleeping town of Saint. Remy. The pulsating stars hang proudly over the angry wave, both alive with motion like a nail biting game of pong. Willing to be pulled and pushed along the dominating current, swims an animated fish. A wide grin represents the thrill of battle; a silly fish against a maverick wave. Below the fish, scribbled in blue, is a footprint of a creative gardener and across is the date.
Who created this and what provoked them? Is there more to come? The smaller box seems to have been begun, but thwarted before completion. Was it made to express similar emotions once felt by Van Gogh while painting his Starry Night? Is this a last cry for help before the final crash; a long fatal fall for a small fish?
If you have any info on this project, feel free to contact carlsbadcrawl.
Shadows on the damp street stretch eastward as an angry storm surges over our village. Flowers, dry and sunburned, stare impatiently while dark clouds tease. Long hours under florescent lights give way to slippery roads and tired workers. Clouds tumble as fast as cars speed and give way to leaks only when undesired. Tiny drops splatter against my cold window. The wind howls and my shoulders shiver; I grab for a blanket.
Each day I watch patches of clouds roll past my window, each highlighted by the sinking sun. A clear day is like a canceled show and a storm is like a long awaited premier. The television remains dead and the radio sleeps. Lights await the evening’s book and remain patient. Unlike the sounds of a trickling creek or the soothing crashes of rolling waves, deep moans of the surging storm wails wildly with anger and agitation. Crisp silhouettes of window pane decorations sit motionless like the stagnant sunflowers of a Van Gogh still-life. Frail flowers watch from within; each thirsty but safely content. The window’s surrounding white wall acts as a frame or a tightly held curtain raised high above the wood planks of a stage.
As the sun escapes and glowing highlights fade, the sky falls dark. Random taps of escaped showers grow in volume and strength. Stars stay hidden and the distant glow of a full moon creeps through stubborn clouds. A flurry of tears collide with the window sending a resonating chill up my spine. Debris meanders through the cold streets like a lost orphan. Gutters swell and sandcastles melt.
How often have you read an interview on a musician who reminisced about early memories of music or who had parents with the desire to tell stories through song? What about star athletes who grew up in stadiums as their fathers ran the field? A cradle may have been a towel under an umbrella on a sandy beach and a nursery may have been enclosed in the towering shelves of the family library.
A young mind is like a thirsty sponge who soaks up the passions of parents and other influential contacts.
What early influences do you remember and how did they mold you?
On a recent Sunday morning I drove along Route 79 through the entire town of Temecula. What was even more astonishing than the fact that I saw less than ten pedestrians along over five miles of finely landscaped sidewalks was the fact that of those ten pedestrians only four were not displaying billboards on their bodies. Those six pedestrians, the majority of the people on one of the main streets of a thriving city, were sign-twirlers, also known as human directionals, or human signs. They were being paid to loiter, you could say, but because they were being paid, they weren’t really loitering. They were working. And this brings me to my first question: what ever happened to loitering? Continue reading ‘Empty Streets by Jason Groves’
Once upon a time there lived a can. Like many others, she was employed to entertain and soothe. Before her chance, she would stand in anticipation. She would watch as her friends waited like eager toys under a hanging claw. When her time came she bounced to life, then was yanked from the pack. Her seal was broke fallowed by a long kiss. She loved the feeling of being cradled. She grew to love he who loved her and waited for the warmth of his thirsty lips. This affection soothed her, as she desired to do the same to him. Her long journey over endless belts and bumpy roads hardly mattered compared to the satisfaction she felt when she was picked. Like a bride on her special day, she glowed with worth and reason. Her body warmed with each kiss; her knees quivered with each caress. Her lover’s belch represented fulfillment and a hiccup symbolized the sublime state of contentment.
The day grew. Like a dull marriage, each kiss became less frequent and the once firm hearty grasp now became cold. Depression sank as her body became empty. Her firm stature slumped like a toothless old woman. She began to hate the kisses. They hurt her heart like a misguided needle hurts a fingertip. One day the kisses stopped and she was brutally kicked out the back door, across the splintered porch and into the muddy grass. The chilly winds of the upcoming evening howled through the trees as she sulked. Condensation swelled and flowed down here pale cheeks as she caught glimpses of her catcher whispering flirtations into another can. Her journey had ended and she sat alone, used and damaged.
A timid nudge awoke her. She looked up to find a bearded man looking back at her. He was tremendously ugly, but his green eyes spoke volumes. His ratty hair blew in the wind. His nervous eyes scanned and stopped on the can’s weathered side where a small gash had opened. To the can’s shock, she again felt the warmth of a stranger as she was lifted out of the mud. Wild fingers worked her damaged body like a clumsy teenager. Her empty body provided nothing but a medium to be molded. She became his muse and tweaked her cold body like a modeling nude. She became limber and wild; he became sensual and delicate. She rose up with artful beauty and projected confidence while the artist sat back in contemplation. Their eyes met as she danced.
Inspiration may come at any point. You might be washing away the dirty hours of the day in a steamy shower. A nervous wait in a cold doctor’s office might trigger a sheepish analysis of one’s character. A long walk may provide time to analyze a surreal dream from the night before. Your reflection in a sleeping television might speak volumes or the static of a stubborn radio might tell you a secret. They key is to always be on the lookout. Sit high and absorb!
Published January 17th, 2008 in photography.Closed
A tradition? A ceremonial act? An attempt to rebel? How many times have you seen shoes hanging from wires in Carlsbad? If hanging shoes from a wire represents something, then what does it mean to hang ice skates? Maybe its a cunning observation of our Southern California weather. Who needs ice skates in our village? What if everyone in Carlsbad picked an item they felt no connection to, an item of no use, and arranged it in a public space and called it art. Marcel Duchamp chose readymade objects to display as masterpieces. The everyday objects that he found were used as an object to represent a set of ideas, to engage the mind rather than the eye. The conceptualization was that art can be found in everything and everywhere, as well as creating a new form of art that took the hand and the paintbrush from the artist. You don’t have to make something to consider it art. His basis for this thought was that an object is art not because you made it, but because you chose it.
Choose something in your cluttered closet or in your dusty garage and place it for all to see. Chose a location that is frequented by many. Location is important, but longevity is key. Sign your name, or an alias, as a stamp of authenticity. This object now represents you, your memories and a set of your ideas. Imagine if you were able to provoke a thought in a stranger’s mind through a once forgotten object. Imagine if your object was able to motivate someone to also place an object in a park, on a corner or hanging from wires. The ability to share ideas without speech and the written word is powerful and priceless.
Have you seen the skates? If so, where?
Choose something, sign it and place it for all to see. Snap a photo and send it to theartist@carlsbadcrawl.com. Everything that is submitted will be posted in a fallow up story.
It’s not everyday that we see such a blunt projection of one’s thoughts in the streets of Carlsbad. Once in a while a racial slur is scribbled on the door of an abandoned house or a phallic doodle might be etched into a fence, but rarely are the streets of Carlsbad used as a confrontational billboard.
This sticker, which I have named Voodoo Hilary, provokes thought and analysis within the viewer. I first question its meaning. There are obvious connotations connected to a voodoo doll, usually depicting the affliction of pain. This agony is directed through severe hatred. This voodoo doll is not only a vehicle for the projection of pain, but also itself is being hung. One foot hangs ablaze by a bright orange flame while the other dangles nervously. Thin pins puncture the doll in various locations along with other impaling gray nails. I browse up the pillaged body and analyze the Voodoo Hilary’s face. Paused, it expresses wild emotion. Is this because of bodily pain; a yelp for her sanctuary, or is it a roar of confidence and the ability to deter negativity? Could this possibly be used to show her strength against all odds? Upon closer investigation, I find that “Hilary” and “Bitch” are written in permanent black marker. Does this mean that someone added their personal touch and belief? Could this addition be the first link of a network of minds? Obviously it was made to be seen by others and possibly be used to persuade the masses. Propaganda has been used in time of war, elections and any other times of conflict or necessity. Why was this location chosen? Does the significance of this corner relate to a historical event which guided early settlers down the dirt roads of these to roads? Is there a connection between the political relevance and the thoughts of the owners of the nearby buildings? Is the location of this recent agitprop suppose to coincide with the upcoming Carlsbad Marathon?
Numerous questions arise from this art. Deep analysis only fuels the growth of curiosity. The viewer, if open to investigation, seeks, first a visual analysis, fallowed by a conceptual probing. The thought provoked justifies it as art. An arrangement of flowers trigger thoughts of harmonious beauty and contentment. What if a photo, painting or song ignited emotions just as strong, but opposite in feeling? Is that still art?
How does this sticker make you feel? Should it remain stuck to this box? Do you consider it art?
An excuse to bring people together comes around frequently, but is often overlooked, ignored or forgotten. An overall and creative subject ignites an idea which, if arranged correctly, can grow into a well nurtured network of minds, or culture. Branches of thought soon grow into separate directions, but always maintaining its initial influences. Like an early Spring shower, outside factors heal a set of ideas once it becomes dull and dry. When a neighborhood’s web of thoughts are solid and rooted in its community, rapid growth and inspiration may fallow. The implementation of a way of thinking with a goal of uniting a community through artistic creativity intensifies through the initial subject, an idea, audience, targeted location and most importantly, participation.
1. Initial Subject – This subject can be entirely new or pre-existing. This will be the foundation in which your ideas are based on.
2. Audience – Determine those to be involved. The audience should view as well as participate. This is important when brainstorming during the following step.
3. An Idea – Your idea will be created based on your overall subject. Your idea serves as a vehicle which will transfer your thought to others.
4. Location – Specify where you want to target. Small is fine with the intent of growth.
5. Participation – The involvement of a community is essential in the development of culture.
A culture’s success is not only dependent on creating art, but also on spreading the word of art and ideas. Snap a photo and/or send an email to theartist@carlsbadcrawl.com if you have something on your mind!
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