Artifacts Reclamation Project Number 227

Artifacts Reclamation Project Number 227
mixed media construction
21 1/4 x 12 x 9 1/2 inches

For many years, I’ve been a foot-traveler.  The habit had nothing to do with trying to be physically fit.  It was all about seeing, and seeing was so much more than just pedestrian pleasure.  Although often aimless, every footstep maintained a connection to ever changing place.  There was so much to see.  Congregating clouds often housed pools of the deepest of blue.  Breaching the reach of leafless trees, pools of azure shattered into shards, lashing branches whipped a high pitched whistle of the wind.  Transition was a place where texture began to fade away.  I loved the horizon.  When I say horizon, I am not referring to a dividing line, a pictorial joint, a flatland abutment, or a right angled sky welded to the edge of circumference.  When speaking of horizon, it is the fringe of distance I’m talking about.  Recall identifies frail rectangular shapes as motels, hamburger stands and traffic.  Cattle graze within a band of ethereal trees.  Power lines ripple threaded direction to an enclave of indiscriminant buildings on a rise beyond visible highway.  The land of the pedestrian was not only a distillation of blue, but the treading of terrain was a stout round of reality.  It was hard not to see cracked concrete, or a flattened battery corrode in a rainbow puddle of scum.  Civilization comes with hard surfaces.  Sophistication is littered with chunks of consumption that can never be consumed; cigarette butts are fibrous lumps among them.

When I paint, I pay special attention to the close up stuff.  Without that stuff, all you wind up with is a scene, an abstraction, the veracity of décor that hangs over a sofa.  Though never a smoker, I’m fascinated by discarded cigarette butts.  Of course, my attention extends beyond their ashen remains.  Broken glass shimmers in flash and shadow.  Empty cans canter a rolling effervescent sound of aluminum castaway.  Scattered bits of gravel blaze a trail of tread and exhaust across chipped and faded paint.  Grass reclaims habitat crack by crack.  Leaves decay on oil stained pavement.  A puddle implies recent rain, front yard drainage, or the cleansing power of a grimy car wash.  Elements coalesce.  The array contains a history of weather and habitation.  Light warms the foreground.  The vista feels ceaselessly fleeting.  Without scrapes of relatedness there is no grounding.  The sky insufficiently blue fills in with petrochemical slogans, a choir of young crystalline unicorns sweetly beam never ending rays of sunlight.   

MATERIAL LIST OF INGREDIENTS: A COLLECTION OF DRIED  CIGARETTE BUTTS, ONE COMMUTER CRUSHED STARBUCKS’S BOTTLE TOP, A PILE OF TORN NAME BRAND CIGARETTE PACKS, AN OIL PAINT MIX OF WAX, ANTI REFECTIVE GLASS, SHELLAC, BASSWOOD PICTURE FRAME MOLDING, RAG BOARD MATS AND SPACERS, SCREWS, A WOODEN DOWEL, SOME HOUSE PAINT SELECTED FROM A COLLECTION OF CANS ON A SHELF, A STACK OF CARDBOARD CUTOUTS WITH THE EXTERIOR SURFACES PEELED AWAY, ELMER’S GLUE, WEBSTER’S NEW INTERNATIONAL DICTIONARY FOUND IN A VACANT HOUSE BY A HOT SPRING ON THE WAY TO TOPAZ MOUNTAIN, A TITLE PAGE PRINTOUT, A SANDWICH BAG, GRAPHITE, A MICA POWDER MIX OF WAX, A NEWSPAPER PAGE BACKDROP, AND THE POST-CONSUMER PACKAGING OF WHAT WAS PROBABLY A CRACKER BOX, ALTHOUGH, AT THIS POINT IT IS VERY HARD TO TELL.

There was an evening when I got very excited about doing something with cigarette butts.  The artifacts of soft cotton littered the outdoors, the playground of childhood.  I saw consumptive beauty early on.  Here I am not referring to the human cost of smoking.  We all have bad habits.  I’m reflecting on the graphic side of nature.  Nature is not only unspoiled places.  It abounds within the sound of urban living.

When I woke, a rare snow coated the streets of Dallas.  Walking to work, I questioned the spectacle of collecting cigarette butts.  I wondered and worried about what others might think of me.  As an artist, I like to think I am free of such preoccupations.  Although, I have never freed myself from the weight of social expectation; I went ahead and tried to ignore the judgment of others.

I didn’t have much luck finding the wet and muddy discards along the streets until I wandered through a drugstore parking lot.  There they were more plentiful especially around some hedges that separated the parking lot from some shops behind a bus stop.  In collecting more and more cigarette butts, I began to feel more at ease in my endeavor.  Then a woman called out to me.  Turning around, I found her standing there handing me a ten dollar bill to buy some smokes of my own.  I explained that I didn’t need her money.  I told her that I was an artist working on a crazy project and thanked her for her generosity.  In watching me, the only thing she could assume was that I was homeless.  Rather than turning away, she offered to help.  Though I was not in need, the gesture filled my soul with joy.  How difficult can it be for us to temporarily alleviate suffering?  Consider what a kind gesture can mean the next time you see someone down and out.  It was nice not to be written off because of my appearance.  I don’t wear a suit and tie.  By simply looking for cigarette butts, I am sure I looked the part.  This kind woman didn’t care how I came to such a desperate situation.  Instead, she chose compassion as a way to begin a day cloaked in the cold of winter.