the old prospector
rumors of gold discovered
a city is born
If humans grew wings
would our buildings scrape the sky?
could we learn to fly?
A dilapidated structure looms along Highway 285 in the South Park Valley.
I remember this moment. It was quiet, the air was cool up here at 10,000 ft. above sea level. I took a stroll through this sleepy town after driving for hours. I’ll never forget this trip because it was the last one we took with our bus before it kicked the bucket. We camped in the dispersed camping along the Arkansas River. We just hung out, picked up trash, stuck our feet in the water and watched the world go by. I met a transient man who reminded me of Pig Pen from the Peanuts. His face was completely covered in dirt, his clothes were tattered, and he was pulling a cart on his bike that looked like some sort of shrine to all things junky. He kept asking me for weed. I told him, “No man, I don’t have any weed,” and he would just say “But, you just look so STONED.” I had to always be on the lookout for that guy, he just always seemed to be creepin’ around our campsite.
We also met a family traveling across Colorado on their bikes. They had their whole family with them, three kids, a dog, all their gear, the whole nine yards packed up in bike trailers and backpacks. They were an interesting and inspiring crew.
A stranger with a penchant for Golden Retrievers chatted me up about his dogs, the town’s annual river fest, and his disdain for all tourists like me. “We want you to come and spend your money for a few days, then we want you to GET OUT OF HERE.” I often wonder how many others who have passed through this area have encountered this man and endured that speech. I’m willing to bet that it is more than a hundred.
I’m looking for images to send to a gallery show that my photography instructor insists I should enter. There is no theme, but that has me stifled as to what images to send in. This is one of those images that I contemplate often, I keep coming back to it. It must be the moment that is appealing, the memory of that moment.
I’m swimming through so many images, I look at them until my eyeballs can’t take it anymore, I come away from it feeling stressed out. I’m feeling that pressure to keep taking things up a notch. I’ve done three smaller gallery group shows. I’ve spent the money, provided the prints, and attended the openings. I’ve had the gallery show experience and received positive feedback, but I still somehow find a way to let the self doubt creep in and take over. It doesnt last that long before I remind myself that it doesnt matter what other people think. I’m going to die, before I die I’m going to try and become a photographer. Now if Icould just muster up enough energy and intellect to come up with a good story.
“We seem to be made to suffer. It’s our lot in life.” -C3P0
Stencil art in the graffiti culture is particularly interesting to me. I love its ability to convey the artists message to a wide audience. The Masterpiece is in the eye of the beholder. The vibrant colors, and rebellious attitude of Street Art is my style of Masterpiece. This art form is virtually unrewarding in any monetary fashion to most of the artists, and to me is one of the most raw forms of artistic expression in contemporary society.
Money is not the sole reason for the creation of these masterpieces. I admire that. The subculture of Graffiti that is stencil art has grown in popularity over the years. The amazing capabilities of modern technology are linking the artists via social communities on the internet. These temporary works live on through images broadcast through social media sites like Flickr, Instagram, Facebook, and the blogosphere. A skillfully created stencil is always going to catch my eye. Although the practice is considered illegal, I believe these masterpieces have a place in the urban landscape.
I befriended a
Mexican dude once.
we had a lot in common.
His name escapes me,
but we would sit at the
local bar for hours
the cheapest we could find,
we drank so much of that vile swill one evening
that we went for a joyride
in his sports utility vehicle.
his bald, brown head glistened in
as he thrust open the driver’s side door,
dropped his trousers,
and pissed on some
we didn’t hang out much.
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Le frontiere, materiali o mentali, di calce e mattoni o simboliche, sono a volte dei campi di battaglia, ma sono anche dei workshop creativi dell'arte del vivere insieme, dei terreni in cui vengono gettati e germogliano (consapevolmente o meno) i semi di forme future di umanità. (Zygmunt Bauman)
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