Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Greetings Loved Ones, Let's Take A Journey




The California Bear goes "RAWRRRRRRRRREAD all the older posts below! Or else I see a mauling in your future...and it will be quite...unpleasant! So there"

Notes on California (With Apologies to Susan Sontag)

I have had my fill of green, of oak trees and cornfields, and other pleasant prairie things…so make this contraption GO FASTER. I’m exhausted from hours cooped up on your flying deathtrap, and to top everything my butt has completely fallen asleep. So be quick in your landing and safety speech and give me more complimentary peanuts to tide the hunger damnit!…How I long for desert, for cactus and palms, for a dry wit and a sun-baked life.


<· I touched down in LAX on an unseasonably windy day in late may. As the plane began its long descent, I could feel an overwhelming excitement rising in the pit of my chest. I was taking part in that all-too familiar American tradition. A native Chicagoan, raised in the suburbs, but off to college in New York City, I was taking a trip to SoCal for 10 days. Ostensibly my purpose was to visit friends, but I also wanted to assess everything California had to offer for my adult life ahead. I was taken aback by the sprawling metropolis beneath me: carved out of the sand and plopped next to the sea, it came replete with a legion of pools, surprisingly verdant lawns, and highways that made the Illinois Tollway look like a rustic horse-path by comparison. I took in the glittering promise of the West Coast, breathless from nervous excitement. California, here we come.

The characteristics of California according to Ms. Katy Perry:

Gurls who take some liberties with spelling

Grass that is really greener,

Water with just an extra something,

Daisy Dukes,

bikinis, tankinis, martinis, (but no weenies)

sun-kissed skin,

sex on the beach,

freaking in Jeeps,

&

representin’ California + the west coast in general

g Geologically speaking, California longs to leave, to break away from the rest of the continent, and, honestly, Californians probably wouldn’t mind leaving with it. As anyone who travels here from out-of-state knows, SoCal’s culture is a blend of continental assimilation and remaining stubbornly Californian. It’s certainly far removed from the attitudes and lifestyle of mainstream America, hell, Northern Californians can’t even identify with them. Although still connected to the continental 48 for a couple more millions of years or so, perhaps we should still consider California as a culture on the fringe, more akin to the spirit of Hawaii than a place like Illinois, or even it’s neighbors Arizona and Nevada.

Living within the bubble of the entertainment capital of the world allows Californians the unique position to make cultural commentaries…and they excel especially in pointing that proverbial finger at themselves. Every medium is filled with artists who attempt to grasp the essence of California in their work—from the glossy sheen of Entourage to the dark mystery of Mulholland Drive, the introspective haze of Less Than Zero to the clearheaded detachment of Slouching Toward Bethlehem—these disparate images give outsiders the basic understanding of the contradictions that lie at the core. And if none of these can paint a clear picture of the place, one need only turn on the radio. It would be impossible to quantify the number of musicians in the past 50 years who have used California as their muse for some of the most celebrated songs in American history, hence the use of Katy Perry and Tool, which were simply my starting points in this exercise. Even these notes follow in the vein of such statements mentioned above, gathered by an outsider after only a relatively short trip. Let’s face it; few other places on this Earth inspire such constant inspection. Californian-(self)love is infuriating and unrelenting and unbelievably pretentious, but also fascinating and fun in the best, most indulgent way. These musicians just might be on to something: you can check out any time you like but you can’t ever leave.

California is quite possibly the most ironic state of the union…a sparsely populated desert that belonged to Mexico only a hundred and fifty years ago is now the most populated and (until the recent booms in the south) most desired real estate. The state is a geographical (and cultural) oxymoron, one that doesn’t really exist anywhere else in the U.S. except perhaps Florida and Texas. Now, I’m not trying to suggest that most states are homogenous. Even Illinois has immense lifestyle differences, (most identifiable in the contrast between Chicagoland and the rest of the state.) But even these states would be hard pressed to match California in pure variety…surfer dudes, sk8r punks, actors, pornstars, businessmen, their aging counterparts—retirees of every kind, the Fabulously Wealthy, the Not So Fabulously Wealthy, incredible numbers of immigrants—both legal and not, and a contingent of conservatives who continually seem surprised when reminded of all the others in their midst. It’s generally accepted by Californians as the norm, no big deal, right? Except to an outsider it is genuinely strange. New York City may be America’s true melting pot, but with California we see many different groups still separated, but kept arranged on the same, small plate.

The second evening of our trip we resolved to go camping in the San Bernardino Mountains, near the idyllic resort town of Lake Arrowhead. As we climbed the altitude out of the Inland Empire, the temperature dropped…and dropped…and dropped. When we reached the site we were dismayed to find snow still on the ground. It could not have contrasted more with the temperate valley we had left behind just a few hours ago. The people of the region really served to confirm the divide more than anything else. Those who we observed in Lake Arrowhead came from a radically different breed than the chic Angelanos, and they pegged us almost immediately as The Spoiled Kids From L.A. Who Don’t Know What The Hell They’re Doing. Though it certainly wasn’t true, (only our host actually lived in Cali and we all had a good deal of camping experience) we definitely were not prepared for the unbearable cold that night in the mountains, and quickly made plans to move to a campground on the beach by next morning. As we checked out of Lake Arrowhead, a perceptive ranger walked by and mocked, “what happened? Did you guys forget the television, the heater?” Not one to admit shame, my friend cheerfully replied, “well, we did bring the television.” After our hasty retreat from the mountains, it took us less than three hours to reach the ocean and encounter an entirely new set of eccentric residents, many of whom lived semi-permanently on the beach. I would continue to feel such differences at many points throughout the trip, and, keep in mind; we didn’t even have the time or cash to venture to the northern parts. It would appear that most Californians are united in name only…west coast represent indeed.

Once we were comfortably situated on Carlsbad beach, we planned a day excursion to San Diego, about an hour south. I was pretty thrilled; three years ago I had traveled to the San Diego area for a week on a school trip. Now, I was filled with nostalgia for the place, and this second time around only increased my appreciation of it. The scenery was gorgeous, the food superb, and the downtown area was charmingly bizarre: A blend of skyscrapers and Latino-style architecture housed offices, restaurants, even a lushly decorated, authentically old-school train station. And I can’t even begin to extol the virtues of Balboa Park, which we sadly did not have the tine to fully explore. As we drove back, I felt a sense of completeness. The curious high-schooler had returned independently as a college man, and must (god willing) return again. San Diego is the sort of town that forces you to promise to keep coming back. Removed from the weirdness of L.A. and the commuting nightmares of Orange County, San Diego would be the most rewarding choice if I were to ship out and set up my life in SoCal. Realistically though, S.D. does not escape the problems and issues of the region, especially illegal immigration and outrageous housing and utility prices. Even if I can’t possibly afford it, that town will always allure to that part of my mind that secretly wishes to devolve back to the enchanted teenager.

Throughout her career, Georgia O’Keefe escaped to the desert to create some of her best-loved work. I could feel the same pull, as tangible and insurmountable as gravity, as we drove around Palm Springs in the middle of the week. Even in our modern age, we still have not found a way to conquer the desert; throughout the valley are warnings and signs of a dire drought in the region. (National Geographic has a fantastic article here that discusses the Californian water shortage, which I cannot even begin to distill properly.) As a resort town dependent on tourism, however, Palm Springs tries to maintain a tight balance between conservation and luxury. Now, I don’t mean to preach about this—I certainly was not doing my part for the environment when I willingly spent a day in the local waterpark. But these are the contradictions that define the region, and the unyielding desert provides the backdrop. With the windows down and the wind surging through my hair, I imagined myself as the black cloud at the front of a sandstorm, pulled through the devastation by a ferocious wind, whistling around silent pillars of red stone. I feel the echoes of a nomadic past meeting a pastoral present. I weave down the borderline and knit together east and west.

Some more characteristics of California according to Mr. Maynard James Keenan, vocalist for the band Tool:

A Bullshit, three-ring circus sideshow of freaks

Fretting for lattes, lawsuits, hairpieces, and prozac

Living in a hopeless fucking hole

L. Ron Hubbard and the like,

Armed gangster wannabes,

Memory junkies,

hidden agendas

insecure entertainers

&

one great big festering neon distraction

I began to sour on the place by the end of the week. The general insanity of the Memorial Day holiday certainly didn’t help. My friends and I never made it to Venice Beach as we planned after spending two hours in gridlock traffic. Defeated, we caught glimpses of the ocean through choked alleyways as we retreated away from the nightmare that is L.A. traffic and parking. To my mind the frenzy seemed ridiculous, (after all, it was only an overcrowded beach) yet Venice is one of the most celebrated and popular locales in the state. Then again, Angelanos are notorious for overstating the virtues of their city. (The site for travel-guide company, The Lonely Planet, provides a hilarious scale here that pretty accurately illustrates most attitudes toward L.A.) It doesn’t help that much of Los Angeles is relatively new, or that the network of suburbs is so expansive. While rolling your way across in town in a motorist’s worst nightmare, you’re given time to properly look around, and the view is often grim. When we look beneath that Warholic, pop plastic veneer of the movies, L.A. can appear pretty soulless. Celebrated sci-fi writer, Phillip K. Dick, has these telling observations of his native Orange County in A Scanner Darkly: “In southern California it didn’t make any difference anyhow where you went; there was always the same McDonaldburger place over and over, like a circular strip that turned past you as you continued to go somewhere…life in Anaheim, California was a commercial for itself, endlessly replayed.” The trip was immensely enjoyable, but overall, I did not fall totally in love with the Golden Coast—sorry Katy, it wasn’t meant to be. Though I suppose I will always still admire it from afar…especially the weather.


Take me back now I suppose, take me back. Your West is not wild enough for me. Pleasantly wacky to be sure, but what I need is a little adversity. I just can’t thrive living by the beach or resort, driving long hours to get anywhere at all, with the windows down, feeling the touch of sun and sea breeze. On the contrary, I must be trapped with other people, forcing my way onto the subway, daily facing down death at the hands of bicyclists and taxis. So I will try to sit back and relax, but I cannot promise I will enjoy the flight…especially since MY ENTIRE BODY IS TENSE FROM THIS DAMN SEAT. Fine, fine, I will try to relax Ms. Persistent Flight Attendant, but keep this in mind: I’m headed back East toward Chicago and points beyond, looking forward to our early dawn. And you can be damn sure that the observer will have to write it all down in the cold, damp, midwestern morning.

SM July 2010

Monday, July 19, 2010

Baha'i Gardens

Pictures I took during a recent trip to the Baha'i temple in Wilmette, of the temple itself and the surrounding gardens.

I didn't realize when I took this shot that there was a small black fly hiding within the folds of the petals--I caught him only in review, and really like his unassuming presence.






Art imitates nature. Or in this case, is it the reverse? The plants within the Baha'i gardens subtly suggest the architecture of their temple.






I'll post a link to the rest of the pictures soon.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Cyberphoenix

Original stencil. The design was created as a reaction to the tensions between the synthetic and the organic, and the freedoms and limitations that each affords to and imposes on the other.





Finished product. Any shirts I make in the future will probably have a slightly different placement (I'd like to angle the bird a bit and move it higher up) but overall it turned out relatively well.

Friday, July 9, 2010

There Are Worse Things I Could Do (by JH)

My final video of the night is my first solo at American University as an musical theatre major. It is "There Are Worse Things I could DO." My voice teacher is Sterling Scroggins at AU.

The most recent video of me singing. There is a year or more between each of these three video performances.

Stars and the Moon (by JH)


This is my favorite song video, solely because the audience was so taken in by the story and it was the first thing I had tried anything near a belt. Emily George accompanies me on every song video I have and this video is "Stars and the Moon" from "Songs for a New World."
It is a time when my voice is still very premature, and Emily's playing is shaky because she had to learn the song in about 3 days, but its a good start to me, a beautiful piece.

This video was taken 3ish years ago, when I first ever sang in front of an audience a full song on my own my sophomore year of high school.

A Way Back to Then (by JH)

Hello world, besides a film maker, I am also a singer. This is our Senior Showcase at Carmel High School in Mundelein, IL. I am singing "A Way Back to Then" from "[title of show]" and YES that IS the title of the show. This video was taken a little over a year ago.

Constructive criticisms of myself: I apologize for the middle of the video, in which I stop singing for a second. Again, Emily got the piano part wrong as she had to learn the song quickly and save my butt so when I didn't hear the piano correctly I was confused. Professionally, normally, you just have to keep singing. Also, at the end "you're that little girl with her wings unfurl" I should have kept belting instead of drawing back. It would be risky but there is no improvement without risk. My drawback took away from the moment a bit.


On Carbombs and Other Calamities



* “Que vigila las vigilantes?--Who watches the Watchmen?

From my vantage point on the upper level of this Metra train, I can see everyone assembled in this car. Like the American media blitz I report on absolutely everything, but silently. Nothing can escape my clear gaze—I swear to God I can even stare into the nature of their souls—Friends, my fellow Americans, my FoxNews nation! Your interpretation of events is absolute, now, quick, TO TWITTER!—Our stoned conductors argue loudly about the Union and Iron Man 2 before they stop long enough to reach up for my money—I never get away with a free ride—especially not on Thursdays. I always feel accountable on Thursday. It is a day of reckoning—And on the fourth day God looked down upon his half-finished creation and lo he declared: For a minute there…I lost myself—the 8:30 train from Fox Lake is dead quiet. It is the uneasy calm that precedes hurricanes…and divorces…and terrorist attacks. Alone with my thoughts, and the beat of the rain on the windows, I begin to figure my chance of survival if this train were targeted by terrorists—don’t we all worry about such things? It’s perfectly normal—Even if I lived, think about the effect on the American consciousness. A terrorist attack in Times Square, though horrific to imagine, is at least understandable. It is the Mecca of capitalism, a microcosm of the triumphs and failings of the western world. But a senseless attack against an almost-empty commuter train in the Chicago suburbs? Now that’s terrifying. No American would feel safe anymore. I mean, we could never leave our homes. Obviously the only sane course of action would be to elect Palin, build bigger walls, kick out all the troublesome immigrants back to the desert—Hot like Mexico, rejoice!—But, honestly, I think I’d rather perish on the train—Most of my fellow passengers doze on the seats beneath me. One woman’s mouth is gaping wide. I too leave my mouth open when I sleep, but this woman’s nap passes remarkably dry—You see I’m a drooler when I sleep. Perhaps it’s not proper to discuss in polite company, but I can tell y’all are a hip crowd. I think I’ll chance it—I drool so much even Deepwater Horizon has nothing on me—Just gushing and gushing dreams and thoughts and masterpieces and immense retail value onto the beach—Won’t you all come in for a dip? The water’s lovely, I just set it on fire—Lately I’ve been wondering if all the disparate crises of the world are all connected. Some divine trial of faith. And that is saying something, something suitably shocking—Allow me to illuminate the situation with an explosion—Blast off, it’s party time, and where the fuck are you?—Now my rant may be ridiculous, melodramatic perhaps, but this is the truth, this is gospel—Brothers and sisters, by our presence on this train, we are sanctified, say amen!—In New York I saw a spectacular piece of graffiti overlooking Lafayette—It showed the figure of a monster eating a key, and underneath it read “Hacuha Lives”— I knew then (by pure instinct) this was the key to an infamous Nissan Pathfinder, left idling in Times Square—Sorry, I just remembered my purpose. I promised a carbomb and have failed spectacularly…but never worry true believers. I always deliver—BOOM—Now I’m not one for conspiracies or determined destines but it is certainly fascinating to see how the oil now pouring into the gulf—powers the car that he tried to blow up—to damage the bright façade of Times Square, the extreme culmination of the capitalist American dream—built on the materials and labor of the Chinese and Hondurans and ESPECIALLY THE MEXICANS that we are so desperate to keep out—I have been watching all along and now I see the bomb is the nexus that connects it all…and the bomb, the bomb (and here, finally, is the punchline friends) the bomb…failed to go off—Brothers and sisters, do you understand what this means ? Hacuha lives, he has eaten the key! We need no longer live in constant fear, this is not a Nation of Calamity—Justice for the gulf, REMEMBER it every time we guzzle at the pump, Justice for the immigrants, Justice for New York, and for the NYPD, major props—I exit the 8:30 train at Edgebrook, make my way out into the stormy night, sigh and close my eyes as the raindrops soak through my skull and cool the fire of my thoughts—thank you mis amigos (love you mucho), my time is done—but just keep in mind one final thought…WHO watches the Watchmen?

SM Jun 2010

Her Big Snake

I can’t touch her without breaking skin,

fingertips, like magnets, make blood pool under flushed pores

until it bursts!

out of guilt-cuts from glances averted under a razor’s edge

and runs down your body like ribbons--

or maybe snakes.


I am overcome by a reptilian urge,

a desire tightly packed in a hidden corner

behind my lips, pinned shut with principles

because I will be damned

if a woman cant have a snake as big as any man’s.


What is that?

Up in the trees?

oh dear lord BIG SNAKE

She better run,

better watch out for fangs—oh no

too slow.

Now we’re stranded in the jungle.

Can she still see through cracks of furiously blinking eyes?

Can she feel the venom inside?

Feel it mix into her blood?

Is that why she grows so numb?

She will not answer me with words

just an expressive narrowing of the eyes with a sigh,

spasms in the mud.

Ha!

Oh God…

It was just empty skin all along

She molted and left me wrapped in paper scales

I succumbed to a poisonous sleep,

And dreamed of heels licked by forked tongues.

SM Apr-Jul 2010

Roaches

The roaches are on the 2nd floor.

It must be freezing down there,

I see Them as I pass by on the stairs,

always wearing at least three layers,

dirty jackets, frayed blankets, something

underneath, but I sure don't want to see it.

One can always know by looking at Them faces,

something that must be inherently wrong inside

expressed on the surface,

missing teeth, scarred cheeks, that odd yellow tint to the

skin like a book left on the shelf for too many years

without being read.

I must be on my way, can't afford to help,

Besides, Them stares creep me out.


The roaches are on the 8th floor.

It’s where I live, but not for long.

I am not like Those here, living on the block of

just-barely-getting-by.

Where the wrinkles grow deeper with every night

spent looking desperately at credit-card statements,

distracted by the finger-paintings taped to the

fridge of a small house under a green sun.

No, I am meant for better things.

I'm college educated, sophisticated, downright

intoxicated by the voices that will tell

how one can be better than Those.


The Roaches are on the 16th floor.

Been here all along,

turns out they were upwardly mobile,

just like me,

and there is nowhere higher I can go,

can't avoid the Roaches anymore.

In this dim light, the walls themselves flex in and out like

muscles, or maybe lungs.

I can feel the thump of thousands of little bodies

as they scurry toward some suspicious end.

I fear the Roaches are planning something.

But I pass by to the window untouched and see

below Them and Those have gathered, pointing and

laughing at me because I didn't know,

this building was constructed on the back of a roach.

SM Oct 2009


Coming Soon:
Something Old, Something New...
(Images Borrowed)
&
The Bomb That Never Blew

Photoshop One (by JH)

The image to your left is a photoshop design I made being shown on the design of a secondary web page I also designed using Dreamweaver and Photoshop CS5.

For the image, I took pictures of a butterfly and zebra at the zoo and added the skin of the zebra to mesh with the tone and flow of the butterfly, I call it the zebra-fly.

Now I added in a stem using the clone stamp tool and I added in each of the roses so it would appear that the butterfly sat on a rose bush. I used 3 rose images and just adjusted the color and levels to make each rose look like a different flower. Then I adjusted the levels, color balance, etc. etc. to make the image perfect.

So we have, ladies and gentlemen I give you a zebra-fly atop a rose bush.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Love Leaves

Stencil created by combining album artwork from AFI's Sing the Sorrow and Crash Love. To be used with black and gold spray paint on white fabric. More pictures to come after the project is complete.

Make Way For Ducklings


Ducks, charcoal and paper.
Created on request as an anniversary gift.

Just Dance- A PSA (by JH)


As a final project for my visual media class at American University, I was required to make a 30 seconds psa. In the midst of finals week, I thought what better than to inspire kids to take a break from their rigorous studies and DANCE!

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Double, double toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble...