Exit Stage Left!
(Well, I could hardly exit Stage Right could I?)
For my tiny blog following, I invite you to change any loitering links to this:
White River
I will leave this blog intact here, because, hell, there are some good things amongst all the blather.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
Swan Song Here
Too bad that four months of passionate work and thought came down to five seconds in the end.
Nothing more to be said, except heartfelt congratulations and good luck wishes to those who got it right!
Nothing more to be said, except heartfelt congratulations and good luck wishes to those who got it right!
Image Prep for Online Images and more
I have a tutorial about getting the IPTC information into your images. It's not finished yet, but there is some information that may help you get started.
After the links you would expect to see first, my blog is 5th, Susan's On the Easel is last, and, the link to my AOA Database which I only put up this past week, is 7 or 8 on the FIRST page.
Also in the first page mix is a pdf/html link to John Zwick's AOA stuff on his own site. If you haven't stumbled on JZ's professional site yet, here it is.
NEWS FLASH re Blogging
If you have any doubts about the efficacy of blogging, try this: in the Google search bar type Vermont + "art of action" (including the quotes) and hit enter.After the links you would expect to see first, my blog is 5th, Susan's On the Easel is last, and, the link to my AOA Database which I only put up this past week, is 7 or 8 on the FIRST page.
Also in the first page mix is a pdf/html link to John Zwick's AOA stuff on his own site. If you haven't stumbled on JZ's professional site yet, here it is.
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Light and the Dark
I just got in the door through a raging blizzard the last two miles before home. Today was a violently erratic day for me in Montpelier.
Immediately when I got there this morning, eager to see Susan's work, I saw it. Started pacing and talking with her, and then in one of those lulls that come into conversation naturally, I realized I was crying. Standing still and crying.
You all know that doesn't happen often for any of us. But when it does happen, there is a reason. As incapable as I am in expressing in words my own passion about my own work, my wiring is such that it can be extracted by the work of others.
After I calmed down, I began to try to verbalize what hit me. The best I could do was that her use of colors that were, to me, "odd" did not detract from the subject, but rather forced me to look harder. Their slight oddness drew me in. Made me unable to say, "Yeah, that's a hay bale," and move on. I'm not sure yet, but I think because the colors are, here and there, odd, and that their oddness is not overdone, their use grants an ethereal quality that carries the real world solidity upon which these colors are placed to a slightly different dimension that we are forced to deal with.
As in, just what is it, exactly, that I am seeing here?
And, at the very end of the day, a strange thing happened. When I travel alone I always bring a book with me--just in case. Today it was Bright Earth, the book about painters' color by Philip Ball. After we had all gone our separate ways, I was standing on State Street, trying to wrestle the big easel into the car and not be run over. I also was carrying the book and my camera. In the course of this activity, the book slipped from under my arm. I swore and finished positioning the easel inside the car.
Then, I looked down to see my beautiful new book settled deep into the muddy-brown slush. Its gleaming white fore-edge plastered with brown and frozen water, its brilliant cover, and its "Bright Earth" words, now streaked with brown, glowed up at me. I hesitated before picking it up.
It was like Susan's work; it was like this project: gleaming up at me in contrast to the terror that, in my darkest moments, I truly feel for Vermont.
Immediately when I got there this morning, eager to see Susan's work, I saw it. Started pacing and talking with her, and then in one of those lulls that come into conversation naturally, I realized I was crying. Standing still and crying.
You all know that doesn't happen often for any of us. But when it does happen, there is a reason. As incapable as I am in expressing in words my own passion about my own work, my wiring is such that it can be extracted by the work of others.
After I calmed down, I began to try to verbalize what hit me. The best I could do was that her use of colors that were, to me, "odd" did not detract from the subject, but rather forced me to look harder. Their slight oddness drew me in. Made me unable to say, "Yeah, that's a hay bale," and move on. I'm not sure yet, but I think because the colors are, here and there, odd, and that their oddness is not overdone, their use grants an ethereal quality that carries the real world solidity upon which these colors are placed to a slightly different dimension that we are forced to deal with.
As in, just what is it, exactly, that I am seeing here?
And, at the very end of the day, a strange thing happened. When I travel alone I always bring a book with me--just in case. Today it was Bright Earth, the book about painters' color by Philip Ball. After we had all gone our separate ways, I was standing on State Street, trying to wrestle the big easel into the car and not be run over. I also was carrying the book and my camera. In the course of this activity, the book slipped from under my arm. I swore and finished positioning the easel inside the car.
Then, I looked down to see my beautiful new book settled deep into the muddy-brown slush. Its gleaming white fore-edge plastered with brown and frozen water, its brilliant cover, and its "Bright Earth" words, now streaked with brown, glowed up at me. I hesitated before picking it up.
It was like Susan's work; it was like this project: gleaming up at me in contrast to the terror that, in my darkest moments, I truly feel for Vermont.
Wow! and a Correction
Yesterday was wonderful--except for being dead nervous. The wonderful part was seeing the art of the other finalists in the flesh. To finally be close to the real thing after weeks of looking at stuff online was immensely satisfying. So much so, I coming back for seconds.
I figure I've worked this hard, I might as well see it through to the end. And, I'm sorry but I HAVE to repeat a story that I forgot to tell in my presentation. I buttonholed everyone I could find afterward so skip it if you were buttonholed! I'm just obsessed with the fact that I forgot it because it's so bloody key to the database part of my proposal!
In 1966 I walked from my apartment on Buell Street in downtown Burlington to the village of Williston. It was a pleasant walk. That's 11 miles. Imagine if you will that I had video-taped that walk then. And, if I did it again today. And then, split-screen, we ran them side by side, mile for mile.
I don't think there would need to be any voice-over.
Well, I'm out of here, heading south again. (I'm actually coming to enjoy the drive to Montpelier!!)
I figure I've worked this hard, I might as well see it through to the end. And, I'm sorry but I HAVE to repeat a story that I forgot to tell in my presentation. I buttonholed everyone I could find afterward so skip it if you were buttonholed! I'm just obsessed with the fact that I forgot it because it's so bloody key to the database part of my proposal!
In 1966 I walked from my apartment on Buell Street in downtown Burlington to the village of Williston. It was a pleasant walk. That's 11 miles. Imagine if you will that I had video-taped that walk then. And, if I did it again today. And then, split-screen, we ran them side by side, mile for mile.
I don't think there would need to be any voice-over.
Well, I'm out of here, heading south again. (I'm actually coming to enjoy the drive to Montpelier!!)
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