be nice to your _______ (self)

I just re-read the very first interview I did ever. I’m collecting press for my visa application and it’s proved a special kind of challenge—reading about yourself and the things you’ve written. A pressure mounts gradually, fuelled by petty fears and insecurities. A type of pressure typically only relieved by hearty belly laughs between friends, or a cathartic cry over the helpless nature of it all. In this case, I did both. And then I read the interview. Whatever judgments lingered were quickly dissolved when I read the part where I said my age: 21. That’s seven years ago. A quarter of my life ago. I was a baby. My words were laced with innocence and I read on with the curiosity of a mother reading her child’s poetry. No need for perfection, only subtle cues indicating where I was at, how I was feeling and what makes me me. It ended up being a really cool experience. I felt like I could accept a part of myself I’ve always avoided looking at. The innocent part. The part that really wants to do well, sound smart, have people like me, whatever. But that’s not who I am. Who I am is in my decision to even share myself in that way, my desire to make meaningful connections and continue questioning what I’m doing and why. I thought it was a sweet interview in the end. And it inspired me to think about why it takes seven years to be able to feel compassion for my journey, to not need to meet some ridiculous standard. Why not look at what I did a year ago, a month ago, a minute ago, with the same acceptance and understanding? It’s said that time helps put things in perspective, but how much time? By the time we even become aware of our experience, it’s already in the past, so we always have a choice of how you want to feel about it—with light-hearted curiosity or the fear-driven control of an over-protective mother. Whether it’s an important presentation or a macaroni necklace, we’re all doing our best to find ourselves and create meaningful expressions. So be nice. I’m certainly going to try.

If you’re curious, you can read my interview here.

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." - Antoine Saint-Exupery

#NYCC and me

The week post-NYCC has flown by, yet it also feels like an eternity ago. The contrast of daily life against the sci-fi and fantasy Disneyland that is New York Comic-Con, is not a transition one traverses lightly; or at least I don’t. Like emerging from the wardrobe after discovering Narnia, I’m still dusting snowflakes from my hair or, rather, quippy buttons, flyers and business cards. I met so many amazing people and went on some pretty cool adventures (some I’ll talk about here, some you might have to read about in my unauthorized biography #pretendingtobefarmoredangerousthaniam). But all in all, it was an awesomely fun, productive and exciting weekend.

Even though the media guests were sanctioned to a far away wing, I was stoked to see all the friendly and loyal fans who came by to grab an autograph, snag a t-shirt, or just to say hello. The laid-back pace was actually a welcome break. Hanging out all weekend allowed me the freedom to come and go and carry on real conversations, rather than frantically packing in a rush of autographs in just a few hours. Admittedly, I only ventured out into the madness twice. On Saturday, I naively walked around artists alley thinking it was the main attraction. A friend of mine with a comic book booth educated me on the different smells emanating from the different areas—that way if I got lost, I could navigate using my ninja olfactory skills. According to him, the publisher’s area was the most offensive, but I didn’t test his hypothesis. I chatted a bit with the cool and talented Cat Staggs, who was kind enough to give me one of her books. Apparently she’s going to be making some BSG art in the near future, so you should definitely keep an eye out. You can find more of her artwork on her site. I also tripped over Scott Adsit (Pete from 30 Rock) pimping out his precious sketchbook for artists to draw/paint/doodle/make magic in. I learned about his idea last year, but this year I actually got to see some of the fruits of his many travels and contributions from incredible artists. I’m not sure how many sketches he has in total now, but it’s an impressive amount and he’s somewhat modest about it; either that or he’s a little self-conscious about the inherent geekery in such an undertaking. I personally think it’s awesome! I also love anything that challenges the fan/celebrity separation. At the end of the day, we're all fans of something, right? And if you're not, sucks to be you! Anyway, I digress, Scott was also kind enough to be excited about my “OH MY GODS! THEY KILLED CALLY” t-shirts and even sported his very own on Sunday. If you catch him in any pics or videos that day, you’re sure to see him representin’. Thanks again Scott! If you're in the city, catch him doing Celebrity Autobiography. It sounds super hilare!

On Sunday I had the good fortune of having a dear old friend from Vancouver serve as my sidekick. So during the slow times we got to catch up and reflect on the good ol’ days kicking around Vancity. It was really nice, and always humbling to have old friends to help you remember how far you’ve come. It was also really neat to hear her perspective on the convention. She moved to NYC seven years ago and has since become a hugely successful and sought-after stylist. She loves her job, but will be the first to admit the fabric holding together the commercial and fashion industry is one of carefully constructed facades and shiny veneers. Her and I have always bonded over our mutual love and appreciation for the nerdier side of life, so it was perfectly apropos for us to unite in such a setting. Her comments on the event were both refreshing and endearing as she compared the people at the convention to the people she normally works with. Sure, they both dress up in outrageous outfits, some of them even with outlandish make-up and accessories. They both obsess over material commodities and identify themselves with their specific interests; most of them form social groups as a result of these interests. But still, there seems to be something tangibly different about these “genres,” if you will. I might be so bold as to say that sci-fi fans seem genuinely happier than my experience of fashion-industry types. But aside from that, I feel the major difference is expressed in their intent. Rather than trying to create an image in order to fit in and be liked by others, comic and sci-fi fans are expressing themselves in a way that is not typically accepted by mainstream culture, and cons are the one place they can actually share that passion with others. I don’t get the sense that con-goers are trying to be cool; in fact, it’s cool not to be cool at a con (the irony is not lost, but you get my point). To put it simply, I it seems like people at conventions come together through a shared LOVE of something, rather than a shared FEAR of something. And that's just cool.

Well that’s enough waxing philosophic for now... More to come on Baba Brinkman’s Rap Guide to Evolution, the Occupy Wall Street protests, and some more cool (mis)adventures I embarked on last weekend.

Oh, and did I mention, I KILLED it in this Black Eyed Peas dance game? KILLED. IT. :)

 

 

Gates as the Gateway to the Soul

“What is art?”  Anyone who’s ever strolled through a contemporary art gallery, witnessed a magnificent sunset, or stood in smiling awe over a child’s first painting has surely asked this question.  Some go to such lengths as writing books or dissertations, teaching courses or giving lectures, but in the end, in my humble opinion, it's beside the point.  I like to think of art as the expression of living – unique and personal to every individual.  Art can be found in the way we eat, the way we walk, the way we sign our names.  Of course, just because something is called art doesn’t mean it is valued as art, that’s a whole other story.  What makes art valuable is beyond my ability to comprehend, and beyond the level of mind boggling-ness I’m willing to withstand. In certain ways I’ve endured a love/hate relationship with art.  I love the idea of it: the creative expression of an experience, an idea, a feeling, and the mastery of a skill for the sole purpose of human expression.  However, my logical mind gets the best of me at times.  Walking through an exhibit at the Tate Modern Gallery in London, my focus was abruptly drawn from my internal spinning color wheel of death (mac users, you know what i’m talking about) by my friend’s gentle voice saying, “Are you alright?  You don’t look so good.”  I was pale.  No matter how hard I tried, I didn’t get it.  I couldn’t get it, because there was nothing “to get.”  This is a hard concept for someone who likes to understand everything, or at least feel like she does.  My friend, an art school graduate, successfully quelled some of my discomfort by teaching me about the movements that inspired the work and their reactionary roots.  I felt better knowing there was some logical basis for its creation, even if I didn’t know what it was, or if it was even true.  Still, I recognize this as a limitation.  Art is about the experience, about feeling, about connection, about seeing oneself in the creation of another.  It’s not about understanding or knowing why.

Last night I watched a beautiful documentary on two convicted and passionate artists who challenged me to revive my inner artist and accept it for what it is: an experience of awe and magnificence.  Christo and Jeanne-Claude are famously known for their controversial works around the world: the umbrellas (in California and Japan 1984-91), wrapped trees (in Switzerland 1997-98), and Pont Neuf wrapped (in Paris 1975-85), to name a few.  They take no money from sponsorships or donations, each (expensive) project is funded completely by the private sale of Christo’s preliminary paintings and sketches of the project to be, as well as previous paintings and works of art.  Their passion has no rational, no explanation, simply that they want to make it.  And they want to make it so badly that the project that was the subject of the documentary spanned nearly 30 years.

The film itself contained incredible 16mm footage of interviews with New York City officials in the 1970’s, meetings with angry citizens, and many a convicted opposition.  Next to Christo’s broken English and bumbling professor-like nature, the opposing arguments felt violent, irrational, and even mean.  Each person’s vested interests were illuminated and exposed (including the artists themselves), often appearing absurd in the face of the simple and undeniable beauty of the proposed project.  What amazed me most, and what still gives me a chuckle when I think about it, is this statement from one of the artists:

"I have unstoppable urge to do this project. The absolutely irrational, irresponsible, with not any justification.  This project is happening only because the artist likes to have them."

And why not?  The installation was up for two weeks, despite the public's pleas for a longer run, and all the materials were recycled, the park left just the way it was before - though perhaps never to be experienced the same way for those who witnessed The Gates.

photo by wolfgang volz

I personally wasn’t witness to the event in New York City in 2005, but the film presented half an hour of (cut from an apparent 350 hours of footage) of the event.  Children laughed and played, some called it a big worm.  Tourists took photos, described their joy.  Runners and cyclists completed their usual routines, through the glorious gates.  From the myriad points of view, I got a sense of what it was like; I felt feelings of magnificence and wonder, the kind that art is made to conjure.  Beyond my better judgment, I was deeply moved by the orange colored steel gates with fabric flapping in the wind, the gates with no purpose but to exist, no meaning beyond the vision and perseverance of two human beings.

If you want to read more about the controversy surrounding their creation, here are some articles:

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2005/02/11/60minutes/main673489.shtml

http://www.nytimes.com/ref/arts/design/GATES-REF.html

http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/christo.html

If you want to find out more about the documentary filmmaker Antonio Ferrera, check him out here:

http://www.ferrerafilms.com/

the limits of language

I recently spent some time in a country whose native tongue was distinctly different than my own.  Though I conversed comfortably in English with most people and felt only slightly left out when they’d engage in more familiar or urgent conversations in the melodious tones of Spanish, I also found myself in situations where I needed to communicate desires or fill uncomfortable silences in a forced and foreign dialect.  Now, I wasn’t completely at a loss, I had traveled through Central America as a teenager, learned French as a child (a language similar in structure), and even taken a year of Spanish at university.  Still, it had been many years, leaving most of my verbs not conjugated and the gender of inanimate objects offensively misdirected.  But once I let go of my self-sabotaging inhibitions and allowed myself to flounder, fail and genuinely f- up, I had an experience of myself I rarely have speaking English. For one, I realized how dependent I am on my well-stocked library of words and phrases when expressing myself or, most commonly, bailing myself out of awkward situations (though often it's what gets me into them in the first place, but that's another story).  At first I felt like I couldn’t “be” myself because I was lacking the proper expressions to effectively communicate.  Of course, this wasn't true.  Not only because we all have different meanings and attachments to words regardless of the language anyway, but also because a label is strictly that, a label - it can never actually be the thing itself.  I am not my expression, it is merely an effect of me.  And there is no way to transmit my thoughts and feelings beyond another's ability to relate them to his or her own experience.  (At least not yet, but if George Lucas has any say...)  What I realized is this desire to be correct and precise, coupled with an equally pressing need to sound smart and well read, actually limited me from expressing genuinely and relating on a more human level.

Growing up with an English teacher for a mother and a preoccupation with being "right," it’s no trying task to see why I might end up with these beliefs; why the words “irregardless” and “disingenuine” are like nails on a chalkboard, or why I have an uncontrollable impulse to circle spelling mistakes on take-out menus.  For these reasons, I think my undeniable limitations in Spanish turned into an unexpected gift.  My tool box was so sparse, I was forced to use what I had in creative ways, think more simply about what I had to communicate, and even uncover tools I didn’t know I had.  It’s amazing how the art of hand gesturing and animal sounds can really drive a point home.  For the most part, I felt more expressive, more playful, more connected, and more curious.  To understand people, I had to be present and pay close attention.  Speaking English, it’s easy to feel like I know everything, just because I can designate a label and make logical distinctions, but in a place where my labels cease to function, I am forced to re-examine the essence of my experience.  I can only imagine what it must be like for a child to discover the world in this way, through multiple languages.  It seems there would be more freedom to explore, without rigid labels and cultural constraints.  I may not be able to start over, but I can certainly add to my repertoire and push the boundaries of my conditioned definitions.  Entonces, *in most exaggerated Midwestern accent* donde esta la biblioteca?  ;-)  (ah, the universal language of emoticons, where were you when I needed you?)

and let's not forget the universal language of the advertising...

guatemala

"nameless," not hopeless

i never intended for this space to host a slew of movie reviews, but it just so happens i saw another film last night that left me in a total state of disarray - in the best possible way.  i was so impressed by this film, i walked out of the theater feeling as if i'd left a layer of myself inside.  i felt vulnerable, struck with a reality i hadn't prepared for, coupled with intense feelings of compassion, sadness, and hope.  Cory Fukunaga's remarkable artistry offers a rare, albeit heartbreaking, humanity as he follows the story of two troubled young souls searching for a better life.  the story itself is simple, yet Sin Nombre's breathtaking cinematography, spectacular performances, and refined exposition carry us on a journey we don't even know we're on until we turn around to see the dust in our wake, taste the grit in our teeth.  despite having been able to discuss the film at length, with passion and conviction, over a dinner i could barely eat, somehow i feel at a loss for words.  what it triggered in me was deeply personal.  it exposed how my petty concerns lead me to fail in experiencing my own humanity every day; how my fears and lack of inner resolve prevent me from pursuing an honest and noble struggle.  with hesitation, i might say it is sometimes difficult to understand the value of life when it is so comfortably preserved by our technologically advanced society.  yet to have what we have is not a responsibility to be taken lightly.  thoughts of this nature are currently heavily weighted in my mind and i hope my future actions will reflect this continuous processing of what it means to possess such a privilege - the privilege to lead a ponderous existence.  i am grateful for the art and expression that provokes such explorations. [youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTSi0pKjC5g[/youtube]