In 21 years full of visual experience, it is quite a daunting task to pin down only one as profound above all others. From day one, my eyes have delighted in and been assaulted by a whole world things to see and to think about.
The television brought me the puff of smoke that had been the Challenger, the gleaming white teeth of Heather Locklear, and the technocolour dream that was "The Land of Make-Believe". Shopping with my grandmother as a young child, I saw gleaming beaded fabrics of evening gowns just beyond the distinct ridges of the Firestones right in front of me. In adulthood, I've feasted further on the glories of our nation - the checkerboard of the plains when seen from a mile up, glittering neon beckoning houswives and fathers to bet the farm, and more miles of brick and shingle than I care to remember.
In all, no one thing I have come across has made a direct impact onand the visuals of my art. My personal style and vision could be said to be nothing more than a half-assed copy of some thing or another. The more tactful critics have called my work "derivative", but "uninspired" has been said more than once. However, it is history that speaks to me and history that plays out in my mind when I need my inspiration.
An aeroplane slips by overhead. Sun glints off othe polished steel wings. A light buzzing sound captures the attention of the swimmers below and a happy couple below pause and raise their hands to wave a greeting.
The photographer advances his film, having just caught the scene that hung over my bed for years.
That photographer was my great-grandfather.
I may never know why he created that image the way he did - or even why he picked up a camera in the first place - as he was gone long before I have memories, but from that one image I know one immutable fact:
Art is immortality.
My great-grandfather can't sit beside me and tell me how and when to stop down. He can't send me a package with a note that says, "This lens will be better for outdoors". And (thankfully, perhaps) he can't look at my fleet of Holgas and lecture me about wasting money. What he can do, however, is much, much more important to me.
Through the hundreds of photographs that remain preserved while he rots, he CAN teach me. He has taught me the importance of composition. He has taught me the delicate balance between light and shadow. He has taught me how to use the proper film and camera for the situation - as well as dozens of other post-mortem lessons.
The most important lesson, though, could be contained as neatly in the 11X14 frame above my bed as it could in and frame on earth:
Art is immortality...
...And I want to live forever!
The television brought me the puff of smoke that had been the Challenger, the gleaming white teeth of Heather Locklear, and the technocolour dream that was "The Land of Make-Believe". Shopping with my grandmother as a young child, I saw gleaming beaded fabrics of evening gowns just beyond the distinct ridges of the Firestones right in front of me. In adulthood, I've feasted further on the glories of our nation - the checkerboard of the plains when seen from a mile up, glittering neon beckoning houswives and fathers to bet the farm, and more miles of brick and shingle than I care to remember.
In all, no one thing I have come across has made a direct impact onand the visuals of my art. My personal style and vision could be said to be nothing more than a half-assed copy of some thing or another. The more tactful critics have called my work "derivative", but "uninspired" has been said more than once. However, it is history that speaks to me and history that plays out in my mind when I need my inspiration.
An aeroplane slips by overhead. Sun glints off othe polished steel wings. A light buzzing sound captures the attention of the swimmers below and a happy couple below pause and raise their hands to wave a greeting.
The photographer advances his film, having just caught the scene that hung over my bed for years.
That photographer was my great-grandfather.
I may never know why he created that image the way he did - or even why he picked up a camera in the first place - as he was gone long before I have memories, but from that one image I know one immutable fact:
Art is immortality.
My great-grandfather can't sit beside me and tell me how and when to stop down. He can't send me a package with a note that says, "This lens will be better for outdoors". And (thankfully, perhaps) he can't look at my fleet of Holgas and lecture me about wasting money. What he can do, however, is much, much more important to me.
Through the hundreds of photographs that remain preserved while he rots, he CAN teach me. He has taught me the importance of composition. He has taught me the delicate balance between light and shadow. He has taught me how to use the proper film and camera for the situation - as well as dozens of other post-mortem lessons.
The most important lesson, though, could be contained as neatly in the 11X14 frame above my bed as it could in and frame on earth:
Art is immortality...
...And I want to live forever!