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.
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.
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."
That's my mom's favorite phrase when people ask where my creative side stems from. That's actually a funny question when you think about it. And we've all heard this one that she follows it up with: "I can't even draw a stick figure!"
Today my dad would have turned 71. And in January it will be 19 years since he died. Since he may not be able to appreciate my birthday wishes, here's a post for the creative dads out there who may have young kids, adult kids, awkward kids, athletic kids, obnoxious kids or scarily, maybe, artistically talented kids. Creative dads: teach them, and better yet, keep doing it yourselves. They'll remember the little things. And you may not realize you're being creative ;)
Perfection in my craft. Straight lines without rulers. Drafting, woodworking, pencil drawing, light metering and even composting - I learned all by observing the master himself. He was a man of few words. So here's a few for him...
Happy Birthday.
ps. props to the mom - she taught me to use more than a few words.
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
