Monday, December 31, 2018

Punk Rock Art Photos: "Whose Shoes, Exactly?"

<Take I>


<Take II>



<Take III>



<Take IV>


<Take V>


<Take VI>

As soon as I spotted them, I had to take the picture. Simple as that. Just imagine the scene that greets you: it's Christmas Eve.

You're driving around town scurrying to get those last-minute mindless errands done, before the sidewalks roll up for good, and you're left to await December 26th...when it's back to the regular crap for 95%-plus of the populace.

You pull into the Family Dollar parking lot, and your eyes flit to the outer edges. There it is, a pair of shoes, seemingly arranged in some surreal image to the Rapture, that oft-cited, yet apocalyptic, eternal game changer...in which the deserving float upstairs to Heaven, minus the obvious sign or two of their former Earthly presence.

In other words, here's an art photo opportunity that's too good to pass up, right? But there's a hitch: you don't have your camera, which means you'll have to run home, and grab it, now that your errands are complete. Sure, that means running back out again. But those are the breaks, right? Wait too long, and somebody will toss those shoes into the dustbin.

So that's what I did. I ran home to grab our camera, prompting The Squawker to wonder: "Just why are you taking a picture of somebody's shoes, exactly?"

"I can't spend a lot of time explaining it," I responded. "Trust me, when you see the photos, you'll know why I snapped it."

About 20 minutes later, I came back, and showed my resulting efforts to Squawker, who got it, right away.

Darkness was closing in fast, since I'd spotted the shoes at around 5:30 p.m.. Fortunately, the parking lot ls right next door to McDonald's, which meant I could use one of their lights to enhance my work.

So what happened here, once we've ruled out the supernatural aspect? Had somebody just bought a new pair, and didn't feel like taking those old clogs to the trash can? Did they have enough of their current here and now, and opt to leave their shoes -- their past, essentially -- behind? Or did that someone stumble out of their car, drunk and disorderly, shedding those shoes without a care about tomorrow, waiting for their ride to show up? 

Whose shoes, exactly? You choose. You decide. --The Reckoner

Monday, December 24, 2018

Outsider Art Gallery #2: 2 x 2 (The Reckoner): "Cityscape: Interrupted"/"Let Me Be Who I Am"

2 X 2 / The Reckoner

"Cityscape: Interrupted"
<The Reckoner>

<i.>
As artistic mottos go, "First thought, best thought" ranks near the top of my personal favorites. Not just for the obvious reason, either -- sure, working off the cuff is a terrific skill to cultivate, since you won't the luxury of a second thought in most life situations. "Fake it to make it" is an equally inspired motto, but if everyone tried to plot that ideal out...you'd never seen too many fakers, let alone makers.

The best reason to go with your first take, or first thought, boils down to energy. The longer you beat an idea to death, the more tired you feel, and the less inspired you get. Honestly, unless your creative antenna's highly attuned, the more likely you'll stray from what made that first thought so good in the first place. That's my take on it, anyway.

Which is how I wound up with these two pastel artworks and the following journal entry below. I did both as part of a Saturday afternoon art journaling session, built around the following idea: "This practice is about developing that muscle of mindfulness. Research shows that spending two hours every week in a creative process will reap mental health benefits." I'll go with that one!

So I duly spent an hour putting my free associative powers to work, followed by a half hour of writing about the works I'd just created. Though I no longer live in an urban area, I can't seem to stop drawing those types of landscapes, which is how "Cityscape <Interrupted>" emerged. "Let Be Who I Am" nods directly to a line from the MC5's "Kick Out The Jams," in which I imagined how one of their full-throated shows might look like, once they'd finished.

Funnily enough, the latter work coincides with the original band's last major milestone. Forty-six years ago this, week, the MC5 took its last bow on New Year's Eve, 1972, at the Grande Ballroom, the scene of their initial success -- where their epochal debut album, Kick Out The Jams, had been recorded, among other early triumphs.

This time around, the thrill had evaporated in a haze of broken corporate promises, missed opportunities, and substance abuse. Instead of thrilling a sold out house of 1,000-plus fans, the band would collect a mere $500 for entertaining a few dozen diehard fans. The situation left lead guitarist Wayne Kramer feeling so distraught, that he left halfway through the gig.

The night marked the last one for the  MC5 and the Grande, which both disbanded after the dust had settled. Dreams of subverting the world through the power of rock 'n' roll had taken a back seat to the grim existence of the journeyman, unsung and unmissed, left to toil in the shadows.

That's where matters would rest, until 1992, when the first of several resurrections ignited ... but that's another story, for another time. My impressions about these artworks, and the emotions they conjured up, follow below. 

<"Let Me Be Who I Am">

<ii.>
TIRED, TIRED, TIRED -- spent loads of time massaging my keyboard, tap-tap-tapping away on the old transcript circuit, so I can make those figures go round and round a bit more. It's the old in-out, in-out of money, isn't it, that they've got us all dancing to, the powers that be, so we don't get round to doing anything else, making no other mark in particular...but it's either that,

I guess, or resign myself to the grind of this part-time job, 'n' that part-time job, patched together like so many crazy quilt fragments of time, sweat 'n' tears, another piece of your energy pushed out the door, dribbled one corpo-suggestion at a time ("Did you find everything today?", they're supposed to say, even as you hold one particular blue bag of potato chips in your hand).

Anyway...all jokes apart, all that aside...lots of mini-mountains to move, lots of individual hills to climb, campaigns to mount, and schemes to launch.

That's what it's all about, for me, anyway, the energy of confederation, the rhythm of subversion: how do we set the world alight this week, exactly? These are the thoughts that have run riot in my mind, over the past week and a half, as I struggled with back pain, muscle pain, gout pain, all brought on by a cold and/or flu, seemingly imported from the ninth or tenth circle of Hell.

The Squawker curled up, sick, too, which made equally bad. But now that I'm over it, I hope Squawker gets across the finish line, too, in short order. We have so many different orders of business to discuss, so many projects to launch, even if our energy only allows us the luxury of rolling out one at a time.

But we will get three, I think. This is what it's all about, and how it's done. --The Reckoner <12-15-18, circa 145-245 PM>

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Outsider Art Gallery #1: 2 x 5 (The Reckoner) / 3 x 5 (The Squawker)

<2 x 5 : The Reckoner>

<"I Can't Explain (M-M-M-My Generation)">

If you've followed this blog any length of time, you'll have sussed that Mod culture is a major artistic influence of mine. This effort started with an idle thought ("What would all those smashed guitars and amps have looked like, once the Who were done with 'em?"). 

In the process, that opens up a window to ponder other questions, like the meaning of autodestruction, and whether it leads to the desired catharsis (or doesn't).

Not everybody got it, though. One older lady I used to know said, "Oh, what are all these tulips doing in this?" To which I said:

"Tulips? F#ck#n' tulips? 
You must be joking!!
"They ... are ... not ... 
f#ck#n' ... tulips!

"They are:
Guitars!! Guitars!! Guitars!!"

At that point, though, I decided i
t might be wise to make the connection
 a tad more explicit 
(hence, the Hi-Watt amp brand 
in the top left corner, 
ferinstance).

<"I Am" (Number Two)>

Squawker and I did collages for an art therapy group. 
The idea was to create a collage 
summarizing your best qualities, 
without getting long-winded, 
or giving the game away.
Which brings me to...


3 x 5: The Squawker

<"I Am (Number One)">

Squawker finished before I did, 
I think, hence...the title.
Titles in art can be
 quite an arbitrary business,
as Renoir proved, with one of 
my all-time favorites:
Woman Looking At A Vase Of Flowers.


<"Life">

A nice little 5" x 7" work from Squawker, 
reminds me of a softer take on the style of, 
say, Raymond Pettibon. 
What is the woman thinking, 
or feeling, 
or going through? 
You choose.


<"Club Scene">

Spot the personalities in this one: 
Andrew Eldritch, Noel Gallagher, 
Jimi Hendrix, and Iggy Pop,
 to name the male figures here 
enjoying a fantasy-fueled night 
on the tiles...
always loved this one!


Support Outsider Art:
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& Send Us 
Some Of Yer Own...
**
If Ya Dare!!
***
Cheers!

Monday, December 10, 2018

Today's Post-Midterm Message: Health Inequity Can Kill You

<Word Cloud:
University of New South Wales Sydney School Of Medicine>

<i.>
I feel like I've been leveled by a bulldozer. For the past week, Squawker and I have been flattened by some kind of monster flu bug, that's become one of those grim winter traditions: "Welcome to this, buddy!" At least The Squawker and I have been spared what my sister just endured -- the chronic diarrhea and puking bouts that often accompany with these bugs.

However, though I'm mostly over the sniffling/snorting phase, I'm struggling with back pain, which has migrated from my right side, to the center to my left side. Which is rather terribly inconvenient, as our Brit cousins might say, when one is spending a great deal of time under the covers. Or sitting to do a post, like this one. It is what is, so I'll just have to carry on.

Still, in light of the flurry of interest in my last post ("Today's Midterm Message: Life Is Not A Pre-Existing Condition"), I thought it made sense to follow up with a related topic: health inequity. Put bluntly, where you live can literally determine how long you live. Or how soon you die.

That's the thesis of Dr. David Ansell, of Rush University Medical Center (Chicago, IL), who's spent 30 years studying how racism and social inequity impact life expectancy -- one of the simplest, barest metrics of human existence. I stumbled on his YouTube presentation, and his work, while letting my fingers do the Googling (so to speak).

Ansell's presentation, "How Inequity Kills: Health Systems And Health Inequity" (September 27, Lake Michigan College, Benton Harbor, MI) is linked below in its entirety. I haven't seen it in full yet, but what I have caught is pretty disturbing, as you might imagine. Simply stated, the gaps between rich and poor -- which, one might argue, have grown into canyons, if not outright chass -- are also revealing themselves in who lives, and who dies. A lot of this information is deeply disturbing; as Ansell says at the beginning, "I always tell people, 'Wait till the end to clap. You may not like what I say.'"

The venue where Ansell spoke is a case in point. Life expectancy in Southwest Michigan's Twin Cities -- better-off, white St. Joseph, MI -- is 19 years longer than in its largely African-American, poorer neighbor, Benton Harbor. Put another way, you can bank on living to 86 or 87 in St. Joseph, and its equally lilly white neighbor, Stevensville;. However, if you live in Benton Harbor, 67 is the average life expectancy. Across the board, the gap between rich and poor is 15 years nationwide.

Ansell calls this phenomenon "the death gap," which is driven by access to healthcare, as well as structural racism that's often built into policymaking, particularly at the local level -- where the gaps are most glaring, he asserts. Those phenomenons have led to death gaps between rich and poor of four (Ireland), eight (Great Britain) and 30 years (Michigan). "Now, every developed country has a gap, but no country has a gap like the United States," he says.

<UNSW World Cloud, Revisited:
The Reckoner>

<ii.>
Of course, such concerns are hardly new. People have bandied them about endlessly since the 1980s, when "trickle down" economics and flat wages became, with rather few resceptions, deeply embedded instruments of public policy. However, all this wealth only seemed to flow largely in one direction, to an inner ring of elite overdogs, who wasted little time finding the best representatives that money could buy.

And they're not shy about the privileged cocoons they inhabit. Far from it, as this ever-so-tasteful anecdote from Business Insider's November 12017 interview with billionaire Sean Parker suggests: 

"So ... I'm going to be like 160 and I'm going to be part of this, like, class of immortal overlords. [Laughter] Because, you know the [Warren Buffett] expression about compound interest. ... Give us billionaires an extra hundred years and you'll know what ... wealth disparity looks like."

Sensitive, isn't he? With more than a whiff of moral bankruptcy to boot. If Satan does exist, and he's up for crafting a special air-conditioned room -- well, I've got a fair idea of his first candidate. Let's leave it at that. You can read the whole nauseating business for yourself below. Enough said there.

Even so, it's interesting that Facebook's first president has a qualm or two about letting his kiddos consume the offerings of a social media conglomerate that hungers 24/7 to exploit their time and attention ("God only knows what it's doing to our children's brains"). 

Guess that makes him a trifle hypocritical, too, so...well, once you finish selling your soul, you may well as tick all the wrong boxes, right? It's like Jays Potato Chips: you can't stop with just one (sellout), right?

Of course, there's a school of thought that suggests we're silly to get so upset. Sean Parker only spouts publicly what people like him intone, mantra-like, behind closed doors, and hey, who cares? He's only a billionaire, so why would anybody believe him, anyway? No harm, no foul. It's all good, right?



<iii.>
But here's the problem with that logic. As Ansell's presentation clear, if we don't undo all those corrosive practices that shorten an average person's life -- whether it's credit checks to get a job, or restricting their living spaces to the neighborhoods, or making insurance conditional, at best -- we'll slide ever further back into the pre-New Deal dark ages. Or, as Ansell observers, "What we tolerate, we promote. So, if you tolerate unsafe conditions, we're promoting unsafe conditions."

You can assign whatever metrics to the problem you wish. One nugget that stands out from the Business Insider article is this one: in 2016, annual healthcare costs reached $10,345 per person. Plugging that back into Ansell's Twin Cities example, that figure chews up about 3 percent and 54 percent, respectively, of a person's average income in St. Joseph ($34,985), and Benton Harbor ($18,962).

Granted, Michigan was one of the few Republican-led states to expand Medicaid to its most vulnerable citizens, though time will tell how many actually keep their coverage, once those long-threatened work requirements kick in. In the end, though, it's fair to say that healthcare issues are often a question of numbers. 
Review the above statistics, again, if you wish, and watch Ansell's presentation. Then ask yourself: "Who really comes out ahead here?" If that doesn't rally people after the Democrats' midterm successes, nothing will. --The Reckoner


Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry, 
Before Your Medicaid Evaporates):
(Cut 'n' paste in your browser, if needed):

Business Insider
Dr. David Ansell:
How Inequality Kills:
Health Systems & Health Equity: