HubSpot's new publication reimagines 5 iconic ad campaigns from the past into today's culture and complicated marketplace. These classic ads are presented in today's world of various channels, social networks and devices. All stuff that I teach at NYU.
And like my title says, it's not called digital (run from agencies who think it is), it's just the modern landscape. A good read for some "traditionalists" you may know, who think the world is either print, or digital...
Charles Bukowski once said "Genius is the ability to say a profound
thing in a simple way" - and that he did, with frank, street-level language that put his readers into his moment, in sometimes less than two lines.
This is also the same man who said "Alcohol is probably one of the greatest things to arrive upon the earth alongside of me."
I did not read Bukowski's novelFactotum, but I did catch the movie last night on cable. Note to Indy fans: Comcast digital cable allows you to rent some independent films that are currently out in theaters.
Matt Dillon brilliantly plays Henry Chinaski, the fictional alter-ego of Bukowski. Some reviews like Dillon's Chinaski better than Mickey Rourke's in Barfly. But be warned - those who do not know the works and style of Bukowski may be disturbed by a story of a man who is either drinking cheap alcohol or drunk on it from the night before as he gets fired from one meaningless job to the next. And Bukowski would be grateful if you are disturbed.
Factotum (and Bukowski's poems) offers great graphic depictions of alcoholism, but to me this doesn't equate with greatness in and of itself. It's the delivery methods of Chinaski's honesty that's brilliant. Just as fish must swim and birds must fly, Henry Chinaski has to do the things he has to do - drink, shack up with women and write. In no particular order. His needs in life are often unsatisfied by the countless menial jobs that become a cruel imposition of his time.
It's not the Leaving Las Vegas story of a purposeful downward spiral - it's a story of a man who lives life exactly the way he chooses.
I was captivated by the film. It inspired me to look up Bukowski's poems and get lost in more imagery.
As someone who creates content for the web, earns a living from it, and has had her content pirated numerous times, I do feel that we need protection against online piracy.
I do not, however, think that SOPA or PIPA are the legislation we need.
SOPA and PIPA are badly drafted legislation that won't be effective at their stated goal (to stop copyright infringement), and will cause serious damage to the free and open Internet. They put the burden on website owners, like myself, to police user-contributed material and call for the unnecessary blocking of entire sites. Small sites like mine won't have sufficient resources to defend themselves.
Over the weekend, the Obama administration issued a statement, saying it would oppose PIPA and SOPA as written: "While we believe that online piracy by foreign websites is a serious problem that requires a serious legislative response, we will not support legislation that reduces freedom of expression, increases cybersecurity risk, or undermines the dynamic, innovative global Internet."
On his 80th birthday, photographic artist Brett Weston fed sixty years worth of his negatives into the large fireplace in his home in Hawaii. Some of the negatives didn't burn immediately. So Weston doused them with kerosene.
Surrealist author Franz Kafka requested his writings be destroyed upon his death. Were it not for Kafka's close friend and editor Max Brod, no one would know anything about Kafka's writings, which have come to symbolize modern man's anxiety-ridden and grotesque alienation in an unintelligible, hostile, or indifferent world. That would be a shame to have missed. I digress.
These artists are among the many whose self accomplishment is attained through the act of creating... producing... building... filming. Weston proved his strong belief that photographic prints should only be made by the hands of the person who created the negative. He was disgusted at his brother's greed in regards to his famous father's negative collection, as his brother would reprint works of the late Edward Weston and sell them for thousands of dollars each.
So when does the need to create get superseded by the need to destroy? There's many situations, one which I sadly witnessed last week in North Caldwell, NJ. The greed to build. My creative working space includes a large window that, at times, shows imagery better than anything available on television. It's a view to 300 acres of woodland open space. Well, as of last week, there's now maybe 280. The other morning I wondered what 2 men with medium sized chain saws could possibly do to my view. Four hours later I knew they could completely alter it. Trees were killed. Rabbits ran scared. Fox and groundhog holes got sealed by trucks with four foot wheels. Birds nests came crashing down. Cicadas flew off in fear. The deer do not understand where their grazing land went. The elegant, long-winged hawk no longer glides above it all.
But I'll soon get to gaze out upon 27 luxury estates. And within a few years, beyond that I can walk my dog up to a group of 140 age restricted town homes. I won't have to worry about deer ticks. I'll just have a few more cars at each new stoplight to help all the new traffic, which may help slow down the cars which kill the deer crossing the roads looking for a new home.
In his mind, the builder will have created an awesome masterpiece. And he'll keep going as long as he finds more hawks soaring in slow motion.
Here is what I wrote to accompany the video–written December 21, 2005:
On an early Sunday morning, December 4, 2005, I woke up to fluffy falling snow. The streets were fairly quiet since they had about two inches of coverage. I got up and got ready to drive over the George Washington Bridge to meet Ric. I wasn’t feeling well the night before. I had a headache that wouldn’t go away and a slight fever so I barely had my usual four hours of sleep. On this morning, the number of sleep hours didn’t matter. I was spending the day with Ric, my friend, my muse. It had been a year since I’d seen him.
I made it over the George Washington almost two hours later than planned, partly due to snow, but mostly due to my lack of getting out of bed early enough to deal with the predicted accidents on Route 80. Over the bridge I quickly made it to Payson Avenue. Outside the color was a beautiful six percent grey. The snow had stopped but it covered the city streets enough to hide the dirt. I waited outside Ric’s apartment in the car. I kept it running to keep the heat going. Across from Ric’s apartment building was the entrance to a large forest filled park. A grandfather walked by, pulling his granddaughter on a blue plastic sled. I laughed out loud as I watched her grab the snow she passed, balled it up and whacked the back of her grandfather’s head with every third step he took. It wasn’t malicious. It looked like pure innocent fun which must be why the old man didn’t seem to mind. Either that or he, too, was taking in the sight of the light shade of gray surrounding him.
Soon after, I saw a figure approach my side of the car. The car window cracked from the ice as I rolled it down. Ric stood beside the car with his purposeful bedridden, disheveled look. I cracked a smile and said, “Wow, you have a lot of hair!”
And so began our journey up north to Kilingsworth Connecticut. We were going to meet his younger brother, Felipe, another talented artist in the famous Molina family. The purpose of the visit was to film a documentary on Felipe. I had been wanting to document Ric and his family since almost the inception of our acquaintance. My immediate need was for a class assignment. I am often a nonconformist, and one way of displaying that for this class was to film six hours of outtake, digitize two hours of the footage, and edit for about twenty. I think it was more pain than just reading a few books and writing a paper. But my experience will be much longer lived than a paper I’d eventually toss into the corner of my studio.
I made Ric drive. I planned ahead to do his interview in the car. Ric is an accomplished musical artist, writer, songwriter, singer, producer. He also has talents in speaking. He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours about himself and his family. The great part is that every word is captivating. I knew he would have beautiful insight into the surrounding atmosphere of Felipe’s younger life, and I knew I’d want to capture it.
He talked about Felipe’s childhood, describing how he was able to appreciate things outside of the realm of normal childhood understanding, like studying yoga, advanced reading, and learning bee-bop on the violin. Felipe’s initial artistic interests lived in the musical arts. He had drawn some illustrations as a child, but never pursued his natural talent. He wanted to play music. Along with the violin he studied the saxophone and bass guitar. He played music into his early twenties, developing practice and work ethics that would reflect in his future as a painter.
Ric spent his early adult life living with Felipe in New York City. He summarized this time as a period where Felipe stopped developing his visual skills altogether. He was pursuing music alone, perhaps attempting to follow his brother’s success as a musician. Ric was unsure of Felipe’s future potential with music and remembers a significant time when that all seemed to change. It was May 17, Felipe’s birthday, when their father came to visit from Florida. Felipe was in his early twenties.
Felipe and Ric were raised under the affect of their artistic father, Alvaro Namen. Much predilection can be attributed to the father’s career as a successful illustrator and painter. It was not that Ric and Felipe were pushed into studying and practicing the arts, but all around them on every wall was a result of their father’s lifetime of practicing a craft. He practiced until he reached perfection. And then he’d sometimes destroy the result. His lesson was to pursue the need of that little voice inside – the one that makes an artist’s need to create. He created art because he had to, not to sell it, not to show it in a gallery, but because he was driven to express himself. It was that drive that his sons picked up on. Ric had it, and found his direction. Felipe had it, but was heading down a path of expression that would not be a successful outlet. Ric remembers May 17 as the day of the “secret watercolor meeting.” Alvaro showed up to celebrate Felipe’s birthday, but more importantly, to discuss his direction as an artist. Ric was not present for their discussion, but afterward, Felipe had a gift from his father – a new set of watercolor brushes and an inspiration to begin painting – again.
We pulled into Felipe’s driveway – a modest house, very New England. The slippery snow discouraged me from looking around too much as we were greeted by a large golden retriever. Inside his house, four bouncy children appeared. They were all tiny, like Felipe’s build. As he greeted us he instantly looked familiar. I felt I had known him for years since I had known him vicariously through Ric. He was handsome, thin and wearing a big smile as his presence took over the room. I was afraid I wouldn’t metaphorically fit into his work space. He definitely needed a small space to contain his emanation.
He offered a cup of coffee, made a pot, and the camera began to roll. His winter work space is within the house, due to lack of heat in the outside barn. The barn looked intriguing but he was not anxious to show it due to the weather. He studio was familiar – exactly how I would keep it. Paint brushes were crammed into cups on his color board, paint strokes and dabs were all over the walls and wood floor. Canvases were hidden behind each other. A bare light bulb glowed in the corner.
Felipe played and act of false modesty. He was shy to start speaking. He kept commenting on how crazy it was to be speaking with him when there’s so other many artists out in the working art world. He knows he has talent and he knows he can speak to his process and inspirations. I knew he needed about thirty minutes to warm up and admit it in beautiful words. And he did.
He spoke of his inspirations, touching lightly upon his father’s influence at an early age up to his current working relationship with other artists such as the bass player Jaco Pastorious. He mentioned famous names such as Francis Bacon, Michelangelo, Jimmy Hendrix, and even Martin Luther King, whose every speech he has recorded on audio tape. He talked about his favorite forms of inspiration which are simply looking at art, noting what he sees and why he sees what he sees.
He tried to explain his process, which seems like something too strong to put into words. Felipe has the same drive his father possesses – the need to create – the need to make something. He draws constantly, referring to things he sees in front of him, and sometimes a literal translation of his dreams. His dreams are a big influence and he often paints what he saw in his thoughts while sleeping. In his gallery shows he often leaves out his sketchbooks for visitors to see his process.
He’s taken on a new direction with his work of the past year. He’s gone from an illustrative, petite detailed, colorful style to bolder shapes, larger proportions and abstract approach. It’s a very new look from what I’ve seen in Ric’s possession the last few years. Felipe feels it’s the artist’s necessity, and almost responsibility to change. He describes creativity as constantly evolving, with artists having the ongoing problem of creating something and “screwing with it.” He finds his influence to change mostly in people – his family, his church, his colleagues and even his pets. He calls his family experience a “bigger bag to dip into” for life experience. It was beautiful to watch him describe his sons’ evolvement in their own drawing skills. His best way to be the best artist he can be is as he says, “to experience life.”
I stayed with Felipe for almost five hours that day. I could have filmed more, but felt the family tugging at him from behind the studio door. It was a Sunday and I was afraid to interrupt to much of his family day. I left with the feeling that I knew I had something great on tape. I intend to document him again, maybe visiting in the Spring when he’s working out in his barn. I felt our conversation was so strong that I knew before I’d film him again, I would have to edit this quickly and then set it aside to digest.
I bike almost every day on this sunny hilltop (captured here with my iPhone). I don't know why today's excursion reminded me of a post I wrote in October of 2006, when a crew first broke ground to clear out over 200 acres on the hilltop.
Perhaps it was the new footpath they put in, which let me approach this full view of the new condominiums, now for sale.
I'm sure the sales pitch includes the view of the sunset, which is about the only point I can't argue–it is spectacular from the very top.
The ex moved out, and took his 3 TVs. You don’t care. But if one day you’re in my situation–home with no TV and 5 cats, just keep in mind the following things you could be doing…
Buy epoxy. It’s awesome. It fixes everything. But keep the cats away.
Inhale epoxy. Just do it.
Look at fish tank. Don’t clean it, just think about how much time you now have to clean it.
Turn on deck lights. See if snow has melted.
Look at cable box and wonder when you’ll either cancel or buy new tv.
Plug in cable box if you really care about what time it is.
Weigh-in the cats. Note the black one weighs more, but looks slimmest. Make note to self to buy more black pants. Maybe furry black pants.
Change every bulb in every light fixture.
Turn on deck lights. See if snow has melted.
Go to the gym. They have tv! Late night choices are: “16 and pregnant,” “Charlie Rose,” “Glee” or some random republicans. Definitely opt for Charlie. Hope that Matt Damon isn’t on–spin bikes don’t fair well with dramatic pauses.
Clean stainless steel stove. Every day.
Go to basement. Grab flashlight. Seek out all illegal items that ex-bf claims he hid from you and could never find. Imagine your next party as a scene from Boogie Nights involving a small Asian man.
Turn on deck lights. See if snow has melted.
Think about hiring 3 strong plumbers with big wrenches to come fix the leaking radiator–yes just one radiator.
Read Suburban Essex. 17 times. Realize all the activities you’ve been missing around town…. The Stroke Club, Self Help Amputee Group, Yoga for the Face–yes, I said face… and even Lunch with a Leprechaun–which, I kid you not, offers “kid friendly sandwiches.”
Write a blog post about things to do when you don’t have a TV.
If you're one of my 3 friends reading this, you know I own iPawz.com, essentially a blog for all things pet. My good friend with an active blog on all things brand often complains about PR companies sending non-personalized releases. I get many for iPawz, but now, I feel there's nothing lower than mom not even knowing my name. PR peeps, don't use generic greetings, Bill and I will make fun of you.
Hi !
I was searching for pet care bloggers when I came across BLOG
NAME {uhm, my blog name is iPawz}. We know how much a pet is a part of the family and you want to buy them
all you can – but that extra cost can add up fast, especially when
you’re on a tight budget. If you want to keep on spoiling your pooch and
pampering your cat without breaking the bank… look no further than to the
Coupon Mom Show! In the episode airing next week (Thursday February 25th), Coupon Mom shows her viewers how to spend smartly on pets so that the WHOLE
family gets what they need without putting the family in the financial
doghouse.
As a pet blogger, I thought you might be interested in
learning about and sharing this episode with the readers of BLOG NAME {uhm, my blog name is iPawz}... yadda yadda.
It's now my favorite dog-walking time of year when fireflies are screaming in their loudest illumination. What is usually a dark, rock-tripping stutter through an empty field late at night with my greyhound is temporarily lit by what looks to be millions of little light bulbs known as fireflies, lightning bugs, and even glow worms. (They're actually beetles.)
I have to admit my captivation. I'm lucky to live in a very private wooded area where these bad boys can go nuts blinking their little butts on and off. Literally. I mean, literally they're bad boys - one theory is the males are blinking the brightest in the taller trees while the girls stay low, setting off a more seductive blink. If human interest were only so obvious. I digress.
I think even my dog is hypnotized by the spectacle. But then again the light show has me so mesmerized that Rocky now has all the time in the world to do his business. There's no rush on these evenings - I've forgotten any late night fear of wild dogs, rabid raccoons or foot-stomping deer. This is Soprano land in North NJ so there's also suspect cars slowing down once in a while.
No fears on firefly nights. Their massive cluster of lights is beyond any more desciptive words. I thought about trying to capture it on camera but I know I can not do the visual any justice. I tried Googling some firefly images and found no photographic evidence close to what I witness, but I did find this pictured installation from the 2004 Whitney Biennial. "Fireflies on the Water" is an installation with 150 lights, mirrors and water, by Yayoi Kusama.
Finally, I found a close approach to reality, but I doubt anyone sauntering through the Whitney is looking down and whispering "Go poo."
It's not every day I'm compelled to take a picture at the Shop Rite. But now I know what to serve for breakfast if I ever wake up (with bed head) next to a strange Asian man. Never mind a woman I might share the same lipstick color with. Note in the contents on the right package, I am, literally, able to eat a "blossom."
Thank you, Kashi, for putting awkward packaging on what could really be an awkward morning situation.
I was telling a colleague the other day that I have to keep my mountain bike in fine tune, as it has been an imperative tool with my work lately. I've been shooting with "mobile media" for over 4 years–partly because it was once something new to see with, but also because of its portability. Add my love for cycling–note in remote places that attract bears–and I have the perfect bike ride. One that is recorded. Here is a sample of some captures, all meant to be projected fairly large and shown in random looped order, but you'll get the dizzy idea enough with this. All below shot with a Blackberry.
During its years as a Soviet satellite, East Germany created and maintained an organization called the Stasi. Their mission: "to know everything."
Henckel von Donnersmarck's The Lives of Others (winner of the 2007 Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film) is a German language film exploring the corrosive and tragic consequences of this type of government activity as it plays out in the lives of a dedicated Stasi officer and his latest targets.
Gerd Wiesler is a true believer in the Stasi motto. Despite his bland appearance, Wiesler is ruthlessly efficient in his job, a fact his Chief relies on, as he wants Wiesler to head up a surveillance operation on playwright Georg Dreyman, believing him to have anti-government views. Christa-Maria is Dreyman's favorite actress and live-in lover.
As he eavesdrops on the couple, Wiesler finds himself sympathizing with their plight. Dreyman is successful and acclaimed and he supports the East German government. However, he opposes the treatment of dissidents, especially his friend Jerska. Once the country's leading stage director, Jerska has been forbidden to work in the theater. At Dreyman's birthday party, Jerska gives him a musical score titled Sonata for a Good Man as a gift. Days later, Jerska commits suicide.
Wiesler listens in as Dreyman is notified of Jerska's suicide, and sits down to play Sonata for a Good Man. He is visibly moved by it. Afterward he meets a boy in an elevator who exclaims his father views the Stasi as bad men. Wiesler's instinct is to track down the father, yet he hesitates at this crucial turning point.
Meanwhile Jerska's suicide finally spurs Dreyman into speaking out against the regime. He arranges to anonymously publish an article on carefully concealed suicide rates in the GDR in a West German magazine.
The importance of this point in the movie is that while Dreyman is rebelling more and more, Wiesler is transforming into a compassionate person–compassion more for himself, to realize his own censorship he's been living with.He begins to protect Dreyman's situation from the Stasi. He lives his minutes, hours and days in fabrication, creating his own play of characters–with the characters being Dreyman, his colleagues and his lover.
I don't want to give away the goods to someone who may want to watch this recent Oscar winner. The beauty and frustration at the end, is that someone who is supposed to be an intellectual (Dreyman) is not seeing his life for what it was, until he's told by one of his former oppressors.
He comes to realize he's maintained a level of freedom literally due to the hands of Wiesler–someone who lived his whole life to this point for others.
Dreyman thanks the former Stasi in a way he best gets his message across – he publishes a novel. Of course it's titled Sonata for a Good Man.
Wiesler sees the book advertised in a bookstore, and finds that it is dedicated to him "with gratitude". He goes to buy the book and, when asked if he wants it gift wrapped, he responds "No, it's for me." The movie freezes on the face of a man who for the first time has something to claim for himself, not others.
Art and Oppression
In the scene Dreyman learns of Jerka's death, he quotes Lenin on Beethoven's Appassionata – "if I keep listening to it, I won't finish the revolution." Dreyman then asks aloud, "can anyone who has truly heard this music be a bad person?"
Inspired to do a little research - I compared interpretations of Beethoven's Appassionata. Myra Hess wins for style (but gets F minor for haircut). The story of Myra Hess well relates to The Lives of Others.
On September
3, 1939, England declared war on Germany. All theaters, cinemas, concert
halls, and museums in London were closed for the duration. Within weeks,
feeling that the British people were being deprived of music, Myra Hess,
one of the world's great pianists, convinced the government to allow her
to start a daily recital series at the National gallery in central London.
With all the paintings and sculptures removed from the galleries, Myra
Hess opened the first concert on October 10, 1939. She abandoned her international career, because she felt
it was more important to the war effort to have live concerts to help
boost the morale of the people.
Here she is. (I played it about five times in a row.)
It figures – A man saves the world by fucking a young woman. That's essentially how our professor summed up a sneered comment made to him after viewing Andrei Tarkovsky's The Sacrifice (1986). He proceeded that with the question "so were any women here offended?"
No, but I felt a little dumber because I didn't see the film as concluding with that at all. But I did ruin the ending of the movie a wee bit by opening with that. I pitied the slow madness of Alexander – I wasn't expecting a fraternity high five for that move. In fact after his late night encounter with the "best kind of witch" (a servant that works in his house) he awakens on his couch, has previously blacked-out electric now restored, is fully dressed and tucked, therefor making me think it may have been a dream. The ending of the movie almost seems to be the previous day. But I can see the act determining the name of the film – a man can not be redeemed unless he's effaced himself.
Man turns 50, goes slowly mad, seduces a witch, then burns his house down. I guess in Sweden they don't solve a crisis by buying a red sports car. In this case he has a rickety bike to get to the witch–one that Tarkovsky makes sure we understand has broken parts, and one which he films for several minutes, making its uneven way through a muddy path, to prove the last minute struggles of Alexander's "sacrifice." In earlier scenes we hear the postman refer to a gift as a sacrifice–we must give up something we enjoy to give to others, or it's not truly a gift.
I hope Tarkovsky wasn't trying to say that Alexander himself was a gift to the young servant.
To get away from the content of the movie, the visuals were absolutely incredible. I was taken away by Tarkovsky's slow paced camera pan. The effect is captivating, narrative, honest, and above all, contemplative. His composition, in every frame of over a thousand feet of film is absolutely perfect. To me, it was so beautiful it often took away from the spoken word. And it didn't help it was subtitled.
Tarkovsky shoots minutes of film without a cut. Acting must be perfect. Lighting has to follow. Actors must walk in and out of frame with precision. Some actors will appear with their back to the camera, actively commanding the conversation. It's almost straining.
The first actor to directly speak to the camera, and hold a close up is the house servant, soon to be discovered as the witch.
There is a strong reference to paintings, explicitly often showing a reproduction Alexander has of Leonardo's The Adoration of the Magi.
I admit I didn't catch what my professor said to be another strong influence on Tarkovsky: Edvard Munch. So I looked up a few paintings of the great Norwegian symbolist painter and grabbed a screen shot from the film. Here's a taste.
doych is written by me, Joanne Borek, a creative and user experience director in the interactive marketing field. All things creative. All things digital.
The digitally all-inclusive me can be found here: joanneborek.com
