 |
| 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.
