I've been thinking about an aspect of art: the reality of the subject. I know that's really broad.
If you think about the respected actors we all know of, what is a common factor of their performances? I think one of them would definitely be the ability to mimic the behaviors of the people we see everyday. We admire them for being able to take a fictional character and make them relatable, and something familiar and real.
The same can be said for writing, to a certain degree. We admire those writers whose characters, among radical settings and extraordinary occurrences, are beings that we recognize, and that are "believable" because they imitate the behaviors of everyday people.
Visual art praises those who can properly and realistically portray the people they paint. Whether abstract or photo realism or anything in between, we respect those who can some how show us they understand and show humanity in an accurate light.
So what is it that separates this art from everyday life? Instead of going to a movie, one could go people watching in the city. Instead of painting, we could take a photograph.
I think what separates art from these mundanes is the environments in which we place these familiar life forms. We watch them react and experience things that we likely won't. Art allows us to live by osmosis. Art is the ultimate answer to every "What if?" question out there, and that, in part is what makes it so vital. It allows us to be fantastical and without it, I think, we would be dull and grey.
It's so very powerful, then, to be an artist. It's noble and generous, and I thank those that have affected me, and even who those that have not, because they make this world so much a better place.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Messenger
This story, this portion of screwed history, and my part in it, begins in Bone. Bone is a big city. The capital, in fact, with the stately grey stone building smack dab in the middle of it, as proof. I work for that building and the people in it. A spreader of the good word. The post man of the high-ups. What my official contract calls a Messenger.
I smother posters onto endless walls, making sure the denizens of Bone know what’s what. It’s dangerous work, because the rebels, they don’t like the “propaganda” or those who spread it. Treat it like some kind of political plague. So we’re instant targets, with our quivers of coiled posters slung across our backs and our rollers waiting in our hands.
That’s why the government chose people like me to be their messengers.
I’m really fast on my feet. I’m there and then I’m not. Fast, fast, fast. I grew up on the bad side of Bone (That’s a joke. Bone is a crappy city, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise or you’re screwed.). Because of that, I had to learn to run. You don’t survive long if you can’t. I know my way around a gun, too, and I’ve gotten better since I’ve taken the position. I keep a loaded shotgun in my quiver , and have to use it all too often.
I became a messenger when I was sixteen. My mom had busted her hand and had to be away from the factory and we needed money. She didn’t like the idea, but she didn’t like the idea of me starving to death either. We did what we had to do. When she died, a couple years later, of a stupid little flu that shouldn’t have killed her, I just kept the job. I was good at it. No need to fix what wasn’t broken.
Because I’m kind of a senior messenger now, I get the worst routes. The clusters of violent taverns in the slummiest of slums. Tours of back alleys and drug deals. Stringing lanes of brothels. Charming.
Anyway, it was not on one of those crappy routes when this whole thing started. I was actually in a comparatively gentle part of the city. Less muck, and therefore, fewer rebels. Oh, the irony…
I pulled a poster out of my quiver and unrolled it. The smell of the paper is so familiar it’s almost comforting sometimes. I held the poster and dipped my roller into a nearby puddle. We always go out after it’s been raining so we don’t have to bring water with us. The paper had adhesive in it, activated by water, so once you spread the poster out and glide a wet roller over it, its adhered to the wall in question. I angled my roller and pressed the damp onto the paper. And then I heard someone behind me. Someone stupid and clumsy. I turned instantly with my gun aimed in the general direction of the noise. Five rebels clad in black and those ridiculous gas masks indicative of the Great Red Company (GRC as any politician worth his salt knows) stood in the mouth of the alley. GRC’s are feisty, all noble and such, and it makes them a pain in the ass to kill. I took out the one near the front before he’d even readied his weapon, and then I was sprinting down the alley because I was outnumbered, even with one of their guys down. What a cheap move. Five men on one measly messenger. I concentrated on running. They wouldn’t be able to keep up for me for long though. I twirled and fired a frantic shot into the dark. I heard a satisfying thump of metal hitting flesh. That would teach them not to tail a girl, even if their mothers hadn’t taken the time to.
And then, I did something stupid. I was in the better part of town, remember? So, I didn’t know my way around as well. So, I took the wrong turn, and found myself staring at a dead end. Perfect. The three remaining guys, one with one of my bullets in him, crashed out from behind me, guns cocked. One of the uninjured guys suddenly straightened up.
“Dammit, that’s a girl.”
“Yeah, we know, boss.”
“I don’t kill girls”
“For God’s sake, she’s a messenger.”
Their voices were not those of grizzled old men. These were youngsters, hardly older than I was.
“If you let her off, man, you’re one of them ,” said the guy nearest to me.
“I know that Patrick. Why don’t you-“
The leader never finished his sentence because at that moment I twisted around and fired a bullet under my left arm, and turned to take out his other buddy in the same movement. He came forward and slammed me in the ribs and I grunted. I stuck the butt of my gun into his stomach and fired. Stomach wounds of that proximity are pretty fatal. I fell with him though, letting him cover me, while taking aim at the nearest enemy. The guy they called Patrick was backing away from me. .
I leapt up, pushing off the body, gun under my arm, aiming to kill. Patrick froze up and I shot him. I stepped toward the leader and aimed, but his gun was similarly trained on mine and he was in a far better position to kill than I was. Checkmate. He hesitated when he should have killed me and so I used my final trick, my last resource, and tucking my shotgun down, pulled into a perfect cartwheel, and kicked the man with my heavy boot, right in the temple. He wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t actually either, to be honest. His gun hit the ground before he did, and it nearly went off. He was still. I was shaking and sweaty, in a heap on the ground. I breathed heavy and frightened, suddenly now that the adrenaline was fading, the bloodlust vanished. I leaned over, impulsively, and undid his mask.
I still don’t know what made me do it.
I recognized the face.
It was Gavin Redmond.
I smother posters onto endless walls, making sure the denizens of Bone know what’s what. It’s dangerous work, because the rebels, they don’t like the “propaganda” or those who spread it. Treat it like some kind of political plague. So we’re instant targets, with our quivers of coiled posters slung across our backs and our rollers waiting in our hands.
That’s why the government chose people like me to be their messengers.
I’m really fast on my feet. I’m there and then I’m not. Fast, fast, fast. I grew up on the bad side of Bone (That’s a joke. Bone is a crappy city, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise or you’re screwed.). Because of that, I had to learn to run. You don’t survive long if you can’t. I know my way around a gun, too, and I’ve gotten better since I’ve taken the position. I keep a loaded shotgun in my quiver , and have to use it all too often.
I became a messenger when I was sixteen. My mom had busted her hand and had to be away from the factory and we needed money. She didn’t like the idea, but she didn’t like the idea of me starving to death either. We did what we had to do. When she died, a couple years later, of a stupid little flu that shouldn’t have killed her, I just kept the job. I was good at it. No need to fix what wasn’t broken.
Because I’m kind of a senior messenger now, I get the worst routes. The clusters of violent taverns in the slummiest of slums. Tours of back alleys and drug deals. Stringing lanes of brothels. Charming.
Anyway, it was not on one of those crappy routes when this whole thing started. I was actually in a comparatively gentle part of the city. Less muck, and therefore, fewer rebels. Oh, the irony…
I pulled a poster out of my quiver and unrolled it. The smell of the paper is so familiar it’s almost comforting sometimes. I held the poster and dipped my roller into a nearby puddle. We always go out after it’s been raining so we don’t have to bring water with us. The paper had adhesive in it, activated by water, so once you spread the poster out and glide a wet roller over it, its adhered to the wall in question. I angled my roller and pressed the damp onto the paper. And then I heard someone behind me. Someone stupid and clumsy. I turned instantly with my gun aimed in the general direction of the noise. Five rebels clad in black and those ridiculous gas masks indicative of the Great Red Company (GRC as any politician worth his salt knows) stood in the mouth of the alley. GRC’s are feisty, all noble and such, and it makes them a pain in the ass to kill. I took out the one near the front before he’d even readied his weapon, and then I was sprinting down the alley because I was outnumbered, even with one of their guys down. What a cheap move. Five men on one measly messenger. I concentrated on running. They wouldn’t be able to keep up for me for long though. I twirled and fired a frantic shot into the dark. I heard a satisfying thump of metal hitting flesh. That would teach them not to tail a girl, even if their mothers hadn’t taken the time to.
And then, I did something stupid. I was in the better part of town, remember? So, I didn’t know my way around as well. So, I took the wrong turn, and found myself staring at a dead end. Perfect. The three remaining guys, one with one of my bullets in him, crashed out from behind me, guns cocked. One of the uninjured guys suddenly straightened up.
“Dammit, that’s a girl.”
“Yeah, we know, boss.”
“I don’t kill girls”
“For God’s sake, she’s a messenger.”
Their voices were not those of grizzled old men. These were youngsters, hardly older than I was.
“If you let her off, man, you’re one of them ,” said the guy nearest to me.
“I know that Patrick. Why don’t you-“
The leader never finished his sentence because at that moment I twisted around and fired a bullet under my left arm, and turned to take out his other buddy in the same movement. He came forward and slammed me in the ribs and I grunted. I stuck the butt of my gun into his stomach and fired. Stomach wounds of that proximity are pretty fatal. I fell with him though, letting him cover me, while taking aim at the nearest enemy. The guy they called Patrick was backing away from me. .
I leapt up, pushing off the body, gun under my arm, aiming to kill. Patrick froze up and I shot him. I stepped toward the leader and aimed, but his gun was similarly trained on mine and he was in a far better position to kill than I was. Checkmate. He hesitated when he should have killed me and so I used my final trick, my last resource, and tucking my shotgun down, pulled into a perfect cartwheel, and kicked the man with my heavy boot, right in the temple. He wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t actually either, to be honest. His gun hit the ground before he did, and it nearly went off. He was still. I was shaking and sweaty, in a heap on the ground. I breathed heavy and frightened, suddenly now that the adrenaline was fading, the bloodlust vanished. I leaned over, impulsively, and undid his mask.
I still don’t know what made me do it.
I recognized the face.
It was Gavin Redmond.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Private Concert
It was quite early. The morning was crisp, and it was cold enough to be wearing a jacket in the sun, which I always find to be a rather weird sensation.
My rehearsal wouldn't start until 11:00, which meant I had three lonely hours in the city, with a cello and a fully charged cell phone. I take a bus up to the library, admiring my idea, until I come to the glass doors and realize, with a bit of a panic, that it is 8:00 and the library doesn't open until nine, and that man with blond hair is starting to make his way over to me to talk. I skirt back down the hill, my cello hitting the back of my legs and my shoes making controlled clicking noises on the pavement.
Coffee, I think, I'll go get coffee and then head back up and read. It's okay. You're safe. Safe.
The Starbucks is, of course, thronging with business people and jamming (unwieldy) through the door is no ego boost. I am also the youngest, the smallest, and wearing, in hindsight, a rather loud green plaid. I pay for a tall skinny vanilla latte (because I find things I love and I stick with them.). And then there's the awkward waiting in the queue, mistakenly reaching out once or twice for what I think is mine. They give me a grande instead of a tall and I tell the barista, who waves me off with "Do you want a grande then?".
And then I'm stuck because it's only 8:30 and I have a larger quantity of coffee then I expected and the library is still closed. I walk to the park, that overlooks the water. I sit on a bench. There is a homeless man sleeping, and a couple of others that I can make out in the distance, talking. It's silent. I sit, with my cello against my knee, stuck and a little frightened.
After a moment, I lean down and undo the zipper of my case. I slide my cello out and the strings make little muffled fifth noises. I bring out the end pin, and then anchor it into the gravel. I pull out my music and use my coffee cup as a paper weight.
And then because it is safe and familiar and wonderful, I play. I play Faure and Martinu and Bach and Grieg, and anything that happens to sound right. I'm playing handfuls of wrong notes, but these people don't know or care. I play for only me.
People wander into the park. One guy, this photographer, asks me if he can take my picture. As he does he says "I came to take some landscapes, but I didn't expect some young girl playing the cello." and I say,
"Yeah. I didn't either." I'm embarrassed then, because of the attention. Attention is nice when I'm expecting it, or wanting it. But not when I'm relishing the lack of it.
Another guy homeless guy wanders by and growls, "Sounds nice," before crossing to the other side of the park. A dog barks at me, sniffing in vain at the wood of my instrument. A group of exercising women look at me curiously.
I play until my fingers hurt, not stopping. I play scales and symphonies and solos, and riffs. And then my phone rings:
"Hello?"
"Hey, where do you want to meet?"
For awhile, I'd forgotten my rehearsal.
"Oh."
"How about the fountain?"
"Yeah, okay, see you then." I click the phone off. I sip my now cold coffee. And then I pack up my cello and leave the park, my private concert in my wake.
My rehearsal wouldn't start until 11:00, which meant I had three lonely hours in the city, with a cello and a fully charged cell phone. I take a bus up to the library, admiring my idea, until I come to the glass doors and realize, with a bit of a panic, that it is 8:00 and the library doesn't open until nine, and that man with blond hair is starting to make his way over to me to talk. I skirt back down the hill, my cello hitting the back of my legs and my shoes making controlled clicking noises on the pavement.
Coffee, I think, I'll go get coffee and then head back up and read. It's okay. You're safe. Safe.
The Starbucks is, of course, thronging with business people and jamming (unwieldy) through the door is no ego boost. I am also the youngest, the smallest, and wearing, in hindsight, a rather loud green plaid. I pay for a tall skinny vanilla latte (because I find things I love and I stick with them.). And then there's the awkward waiting in the queue, mistakenly reaching out once or twice for what I think is mine. They give me a grande instead of a tall and I tell the barista, who waves me off with "Do you want a grande then?".
And then I'm stuck because it's only 8:30 and I have a larger quantity of coffee then I expected and the library is still closed. I walk to the park, that overlooks the water. I sit on a bench. There is a homeless man sleeping, and a couple of others that I can make out in the distance, talking. It's silent. I sit, with my cello against my knee, stuck and a little frightened.
After a moment, I lean down and undo the zipper of my case. I slide my cello out and the strings make little muffled fifth noises. I bring out the end pin, and then anchor it into the gravel. I pull out my music and use my coffee cup as a paper weight.
And then because it is safe and familiar and wonderful, I play. I play Faure and Martinu and Bach and Grieg, and anything that happens to sound right. I'm playing handfuls of wrong notes, but these people don't know or care. I play for only me.
People wander into the park. One guy, this photographer, asks me if he can take my picture. As he does he says "I came to take some landscapes, but I didn't expect some young girl playing the cello." and I say,
"Yeah. I didn't either." I'm embarrassed then, because of the attention. Attention is nice when I'm expecting it, or wanting it. But not when I'm relishing the lack of it.
Another guy homeless guy wanders by and growls, "Sounds nice," before crossing to the other side of the park. A dog barks at me, sniffing in vain at the wood of my instrument. A group of exercising women look at me curiously.
I play until my fingers hurt, not stopping. I play scales and symphonies and solos, and riffs. And then my phone rings:
"Hello?"
"Hey, where do you want to meet?"
For awhile, I'd forgotten my rehearsal.
"Oh."
"How about the fountain?"
"Yeah, okay, see you then." I click the phone off. I sip my now cold coffee. And then I pack up my cello and leave the park, my private concert in my wake.
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