The Creative Eye
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Thursday, November 29, 2007
Learning from Stone:
An Arts Based Research Project
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The Project
As the youngest boy in a family of two older sisters, much of my childhood was spent entertaining myself. Whether it was nestled beneath a rhododendron or at the tip top of a white pine, it was rocks, and sticks, and seeds that made up my toys. Long before I had heard of Andy Goldsworthy, I was constructing elaborate designs of twigs and pebbles in the grass of my backyard. Later, in high school, I learned how to twist the bark of a tulip tree together to make cordage. Years later, honeymooning in Mexico, I used my skills to make a hat band from twisted palm fronds. Using natural material and primitive technology in my art has always fascinated me, but I have never been able to explain exactly why. From it, I get an extreme sense of satisfaction; process blends with product, quietude washes over me, and I completely lose myself in nature. Now, as an art teacher I want my students to experience what I felt. But in order to teach primitive technology, I needed to learn more about it. How is primitive technology taught? How is it learned? How can it be incorporated into an integrated, eco-sensitive art program?
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Before I go any further, it is important to define our vocabulary and clear-up several connotations one might have with the words I will use. Primitive technology is a loaded term. In this paper I use the term primitive to mean "of or relating to the earliest age or period". Primitive can also mean "original" or "primary". In absolutely no time in this paper does primitive mean "crude, rudimentary" or "naive". (<http://webster.com/dictionary/primitive>) The second term I use in this paper is natural material. This applies not only to the physical stones, fibers, and clay used in created art, but the act of collecting and processing said material.
The importance of studying and learning primitive technology is multi-fold. In today's climate of mass-production, and materialism, our children have become disconnected from where their stuff comes from. By working with natural materials, students become connected to process and gain a greater respect for the things they own.
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 Developing a research question is tricky. Here I was
struggling with the language, using aboriginal
before I learned that it can be considered offensive.
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In addition, working with natural materials connects the artist back to the earth. In a time when global warming, drought, and pollution is at the forefront of our minds, understanding our role in and effect on the environment is essential to our survival.
The concept of connecting students to their environment through primitive technology and art that utilizes natural material is not a new one. In a 1974 School Arts article Ginny Graves writes of "lengthening the experience line". Using ceramics as an example, she describes the disconnect students feel when they create a piece of art and send it out to the "school district kiln" to be fired (1):
(E)ach cut makes a break in the experience line, or the continuity of the learning process. Lengthening the experience line can bring about greater teacher rewards in terms of continuing student interest and greater process appreciation and understanding.
Graves goes on to describe a ceramics unit she taught her students. In the lesson, her students not only dug and processed their own clay, but built their own kiln in which to fire their pieces. She writes,
Reliance on and development of the student's initiative in locating easily acquired and inexpensive supplies does increase the possibility that he (sic) will become involved with the process outside the classroom situation.
I would add that in addition to to Graves' "lengthening of the experience line", there is an innate respect the student learns for the natural environment from which the art material was derived.
In order to teach primitive technology I had to learn a skill, and in order to learn a skill I had to get my hands dirty and do it. Of the hundreds of technologies I could have selected (including pottery, leather tanning, basketry, weaving), I chose flint knapping. I felt that sculpting a tool from stone was the first step toward learning other skills. I imagined crafting an exquisite hand ax out of the finest, blackest flint. It would be a tool I would take into the desert for future gathering adventures. A hand ax could serve as a knife, a scraper, and many other functions. I also wanted to learn how to make pigment and paint from natural materials. The direct link between art and the earth fascinated me, and I needed to learn more. To document both my learning process and my connection to process and nature, I kept a journal. My journal became the canvas of my arts-based research. Each page became a planned composition. Through the creation of art, I was able to express the nebulous, less-tangible qualities of the project. Through art I could express my changing relationship with nature.
In addition to my research journal, I would also conduct several informal interviews with people who practice primitive technology. What attracted them to primitive technology? How did they learn these skills? What were some of the challenges? Have they ever taught primitive technology? And most important, how has primitive technology changed their relationship to their environment (if at all)? It was my hope that the answers to these questions would help me understand the learning and teaching processes involved with natural material and primitive technology.
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Flint Knapping
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I bought Practicing Primitive: A Handbook of Aboriginal Skills. I poured over this book, especially the section on flint knapping every night. I could do this! But first I needed to collect stone that I could knap.
Knapping is the process of striking a stone to produce a predictable result (called a conchoidal fracture). When a stone is struck a certain way, you can flake it down into a usable tool. But not all stone can be knapped. I immediately recognized the possibilities for some great geology integrated art classes where students could collect and identify desert rocks, searching for ones with the "hardness level of seven" and a "cryptocrystaline composition". (2)
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 This book is a great guide and
well worth the money (3).
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 The map, our hike, and my injured finger. I know. It doesn't
look like much, but it's those small cuts that really hurt!
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My first adventure was a trip into Catalina State Park. It was the end of summer, still fairly hot, but late enough in the season that a pair of antsy hikers and their dog could convince themselves it was perfect hiking conditions. It seemed to be the day of insects. Grasshoppers the size of ponies galloped just in front of us, and cicadas buzzed loudly from brittle, dry grass. Within the first half-mile, our dog melted, and we detoured to a series of small pools where we spent the afternoon lounging with tadpoles in knee-deep water. The hike turned out to be fairly short (no more than a mile round trip), but it would be a fantastic field trip for students, especially early in the school year.
I poked around and found several pieces of fairly pure quartz and started banging it together. The rock broke, but not in a predictable fashion. Slicing my finger did, however, give me a sense of just how sharp stone can get. By the end of the afternoon, all I had managed to do was turn a large piece of quartz into lots of small pieces of quartz. I definitely needed to do more research. |
| The books weren't doing it for me. They helped, but I needed to actually see someone knapping flint. In retrospect, I think this is an essential key to learning primitive technology. You cannot just tell students how to do it, or give them a book to read. They need to see it being done. They need to be able to ask questions. So I logged onto the Internet headed straight for YouTube.com. I admit, blending primitive technology with cyber technology was strange, but I loved it. The more teachers incorporate technology into art and ecology, the better. As much as I would love (or think I would love) to jump back a thousand years and live in world without computers, cars, and cell phones, I know it will never happen. Modern technology is here to stay and there is no reason we can't use it to help teach our children about art and the natural world. |
| Sure enough, my first search on YouTube.com came up with loads of flintknapping videos. The majority of the clips were done by a man who called himself Scalp Creek and were produced by PaleoPlanet. Scalp Creek was an older man with long gray hair and a beard. He looked like he had just wandered out of the Bad Lands of South Dakota where he had been magically preserved for the past hundred and fifty years. But watching this man work, his folksy explanations and the way he could hold a lump of rock against his thigh and turn it into something delicate and beautiful, was awe-inspiring. I soon learned what I had been doing wrong and was eager to try again. |
My first mentor (via streaming video). |
 What I should have been doing.
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| Being the impatient type, I couldn't wait until my next hiking venture, so I searched my front yard for any knappable material. I had noticed a few dark (almost black), shiny river-stones my wife and I had used to line part of the garden. She wouldn't mind, would she? I also found two hammerstones (one the size and shape of a hoagie roll, the other a potato), and a hard piece of mesquite I was hoping to use as a bopper (to quote Scalp Creek). The stones I was knapping were incredibly hard, but I was getting the hang of it. I was making predictable flakes! The only problem was the damage inflicted on my legs (two months later, I still have the scar). The final piece certainly wasn't beautiful; it really couldn't even be considered a tool. But I was proud of it. I placed it on my desk, next to my computer, and would pick it up every now and then just to feel it in my hand. It is this feeling of satisfaction, of connection, that I hope to pass along to my students. I had the bug! I wanted to do more, and I needed more material. But in order to get more rocks, I needed someone who knew how to find them, someone who really knew the mountains. |
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My next adventure was one I had been planning for a long time. My childhood friend, Glen, was an avid rock hound and had spent days up in the Catalina Mountains, wandering through the hills, rock hammer in hand, poking about in this canyon or that wash. We were both excited to disappear into the wilderness for a day and have ourselves a genuine adventure.
Glen discovers an abandoned coppermine.
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Our first stop was an old copper mine. I had told Glen I wanted to collect malachite, a copper-rich rock traditionally ground into blue-green pigment. The teal-colored malachite was mixed in with a lighter, sky blue rock called chrisocola. The copper mines would make an amazing field trip for students. The lessons would be rich with history and geology. The only problem is safety. The mines are dangerous places...of course that didn't stop Glen and me!
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Scraping off crisocola and malacite for pigment. |
| Our second spot was an old jasper mine Glen had found a year or two ago. Jasper is an iron-rich chert that varies in color from yellow to orange to red. I was excited to get my hands on some stone that was actually used in flint knapping instead of just guessing at it. Again, on this trip, the process was just as (if not more) important than the product. It was a tough hike made only more difficult with forty pounds of rock in my backpack. Few high school students would be willing to do this, but perhaps if we camped nearby the process would be less grueling. Upon finding the jasper mine, I was struck with a feeling that is difficult to describe. It was clearly ancient, for there was no sign of the metal detritus commonly found in Anglo mines. Between the layers of jasper and crumbling limestone was chalky pigment, brilliant yellow and red. I was filled with a sense of both age and place, of universal time and humanity, of magic and alchemy. This was the lesson I wanted to impart upon my students. |
 This is my favorite journal entry. It really expresses the aesthetic, spiritual, and ecological feelings of this trip.
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For the next six weeks I worked with the materials I had collected on my Catalina trip. For the most part, the jasper flaked beautifully, although much of it was veined with sparkling crystals. Not only was the rock beautiful (I hated to break it open), but it was a little unstable, producing unpredictable results.
While my flakes were improving, I still was not able to produce any usable tools. I could not even make blanks (unfinished, rough tools). My frustration grew as quickly as the pile of gravel at my feet. What was I doing wrong? I went to the Paleo Planet web forum and read post after post on flint knapping, but it just confused me. My only comfort was the scads of people writing in about how difficult knapping is, and how it took them years to become even slightly proficient.
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In my piece "Gone in a One Second", I documented the frustration of taking a beautiful piece of jasper and reducing it to a smaller, useless chunk of rock. In film, there are thirty frames for every second and while it took over an hour to reduce the rock to its final stage, the metaphor shows how frustratingly quick you can ruin a rock. While it is a bitter and sarcastic piece, I try not to get too frustrated about learning the process. I know it will take time, and as the folks on Paleo Planet say, "You gotta break some rocks!"
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 Gone in One Second
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I still have a long way to go to learn (let alone, master) flint knapping. In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best primitive technology to take on in just a semester. I did, however, get a feel for the process. I looked forward to afternoons sitting on my front step figuring out the puzzle that would transform this stone into a tool. On the one hand I was just whacking rocks together, but I grew to crave that feeling of satisfaction when I produced a proper (and predicted) flake. If I were to teach this to a class, it would be a one-class workshop (preferably in the field). I would not expect students to make a tool, only experiment and get the feel of producing flakes. If they enjoyed it, they could continue with the process.
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Working jasper in the golden light of late afternoon. |
| The lessons involving flint knapping are endless. There are obvious science/geology tie-ins, but there is also great potential for history lessons focused on anthropology and archeology. Southern Arizona is rich with anthropological resources, from the Arizona State Museum to the Clovis hunter sites along the San Pedro river valley. Art lessons could even touch upon the eccentric flints of the ancient Maya. Flakes produced in a flint knapping lesson could then be used as rudimentary tools for later lessons utilizing primitive technology and natural materials. |
Trying to figure out how the Maya did these
makes me eccentric! (4) |
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| I was much more successful in creating paint from natural pigments than I was at flint knapping, but both skills emphasized the process over the product and resulted in a greater connection to my material and the natural environment from which it came. For pigment, I used malachite and yellow ochre (from the Catalina Mountains) and red ochre (from the Huachuca Mountains). For a binder, I used mostly egg tempura, although I did experiment with acrylics. The instructions I followed were from a nineteenth century translation of a fourteenth century text by Cennino Cennini called "A Treatise on Painting". Below are notes and photographs of the process. |
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The first step in turning malachite into pigment (once you have collected the malachite) is separating the desired blue mineral from the rock it is attached to. This, of course, is easier said than done. I used a hammer and a knife (although a chisel might work better). Careful not to cut yourself, and watch out for flying pieces of pigment (eye protection is a must). |
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Once you have a handful of malachite, it's time to start grinding. I did this in both a mortar with a pestle and on a large ceramic floor tile with a small round rock. Both work fine, but be careful not to fracture either when breaking down the larger pieces. |
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Once the pieces are relatively small (they might look like fish gravel), add a little water. The liquid helps keep the fine pigment in your mortar and helps the grinding process. Cennini says to grind it "gently" otherwise the pigment will turn "ashy". The actual pigment is supposed to be fairly coarse, how coarse is up to you. Play around with how fine you grind it. |
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As you can see, the color begins to change the more you grind it. At this point, I am ready for the water wash. |
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One of the most important steps is the water wash. This process separates the super-fine, ashy-green pigment from the verde azurro (literally bluish-green). In this photo, I had just mixed the pigment and water into a small plastic jar. |
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This is the pigment after about an hour. Once the heavier pigment settles, pour off the dirty water and wash again with clean water. I saved the dirty water for later experimentation, but you don't have to. |
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This is the pigment after several washes and a day to settle. You can see the layer of super-fine grayish-green on the top. By gently swirling water over the top of the pigment and pouring it off, you can remove this. |
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I experimented with filtering the ashy-green water through a folded paper towel and was able to get some great pigment. The color turns out much grayer and darker—almost an army green—than the dry pigment. |
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Here is the final verde azurro pigment. It was pretty coarse, so I experimented with grinding it finer with a round rock on a floor tile. I then mixed the pigment with an egg yolk tempura. Because the pigment was so grainy, I ended up using a pallet knife and manipulating it like blue stucco. I would be interested to see if anyone can create finer pigment while still maintaining a brilliant color. |
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The same can be done with ochre. Here is the yellow ochre I brought back from the jasper mine. As you can see, it is much finer than the malachite pigment. |
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Mixed with an egg yolk binder, the color came alive! Because the pigment was ground so fine, the paint was very easy to work with. |
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When I began to learn how to knap flint and create paint from natural materials, I was not only acquiring a new skill to teach in the art room, I was joining a rich community of individuals who share a common passion of exploring primitive technology. I found this community at a natural point in my education, right when I reached my limit of self-teaching. I simply could not continue without the guidance of others. So, instead of yanking out my hair, or worse, quitting, I went to the Internet. YouTube.com led me to Scalp Creek's video clips, and those online lessons led me to the Paleo Planet online forum (5). The community of Paleo Planet not only provided me with a wealth of instruction, but insight into the process of learning and teaching primitive technology. Below are my questions and selected answers from the forum. In choosing which to include, I looked for both patterns and diversity in responses. With respect to anonymity, I did not include the names of the participants.
The participants tended to be very experienced, many having spent their entire lives practicing primitive technology. Many differentiated between the time spent learning the skill and the time spent practicing it.
"Around ten years, more if you count feeble early attempts..."
"Trying most of my life, actually doing it since about 1995."
In addition, the participants varied greatly as to what technology they considered to be their specialty. Skills included: buckskinning, tanning, atlatl, blacksmithing, flute making, wild food preparation, flint knapping, and more.
Below are some of the questions on my survey, responses, and my reflection to the answers.
Why did you want to learn primitive technology?
The responses to this question varied, but seemed to focus on several themes: seeking a connectedness to nature and financial independence.
"I started out learning a lot of what I learned because I was broke and needed to be able to do things for myself without having to rely on having money to buy stuff."
"Boundless curiosity, although early on the limited expense really appealed to me."
"When I was younger I was picked on a lot, my grandma's woods and my dad's deer hunting woods didn't pick on me so I was naturally attracted to them. At 14, primitive skills seemed like the apex of fun in nature, my assumption was correct."
"It just grew as a natural progression of my love for the wild life. It seemed to help me connect to nature more than ever."
What was the most difficult part of learning primitive technology?
Hands down, the most common answers to this question were lack of resources at the time they started, and the need to learn from a person, not a book. Today, there are many more resources to use (books, websites, videos), but—as I quickly discovered—the best way to learn is to have a physical teacher present to demonstrate and answer questions.
"At the time I started there wasn’t much in the way of good info out there so there was a lot of trial and error."
"I started learning at a time when there was not much info available (1982). I lived in an isolated place with no electricity or phone, the Internet was unheard of. Had very little money so I didn't get out in the world much. So I spent years with the trial and error method of learning."
"The first five years were completely self taught, only had books as a reference... lots and lots of mistakes and experimentation…"
"Books are good and the Internet can help but there's nothing like having a competent instructor who does this for a living."
"Having someone to demonstrate. There is a lot of help out there now including Paleo Planet to get the information but some skills need the extra help of a (demonstration)."
"I learn better by seeing someone as opposed to reading about it. It is hard to find folks doing some of these skills."
Another interesting response that rang true, and can be applied to the classroom was:
"Understanding that anything that is hand made is not perfect and being happy with that."
Have you ever taught primitive technology? If so, what was that experience like?
Almost every response to this question was incredibly positive:
"Seeing the expression of someone making a hand fire for the first time, or taste testing a plant for the first time is very self fulfilling."
"I've taught hide tanning a lot for a number of years now… It's a blast I wish I could do just that."
"Teaching people hands-on skills, and seeing them pick it up right in front of you, is a great feeling."
"It has been a total blast! Seeing people who really want to learn something is an experience I wish all school teachers could experience."
An equal amount of participants shared their frustrations with teaching primitive technology. These responses will be particularly valuable to the teacher planning on including these lessons in their curriculum.
"The most difficult thing for me is people’s expectations. They expect a thing they do to turn out a certain way as if it came from a factory and they don’t allow what they put into it to be a factor."
"I think I overestimated the stamina of the students and my ability to communicate the techniques."
"(Teaching is u)sually a frustrating experience for me, mainly because folks want to be able to do these skills IMMEDIATELY. Usually primitive skills take practice. I always tell folks that anybody can do what I do, but it takes practice. The "want to" factor is what students need the most. I've never met someone who had a high amount of "want to" that couldn't master the stuff I do."
How does working with natural materials affect the way you see/feel about the environment?
Responses to this question echoed my experiences gathering and processing natural materials exactly. Almost all participants write they felt closer to the environment as a result of practicing primitive technology and many hinted at a feeling of spirituality and connectedness to the something greater.
"I feel closer to Earth, I feel more secure, I know that its right, it feels right."
"It gives me a direct relationship with the land that I get my living from and it gives me all the things that that relationship offers."
"Using primitive skills has given me a feeling of connection to the natural worlds that I can't even describe, it has to be experienced. You won't look ever look at the trees, plants, animals, clouds, water, soil, etc. the same again."
"I guess I would say It gives me a real relationship with the environment. One that I'm both aware of and personally involved in. It allows me to actually see and feel the effects my actions have on my relations. Also, I've noticed the farther I go with this stuff the more the natural world feels like home."
"It totally connects me with the natural world. Look at all the programs out there where they take at risk or worse youth and just let nature have its way with them. The reason why these programs are successful, as much as they are, is not because of the so called therapy that goes on but what Mother Nature awakens within these kids."
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| I have learned quite a lot from this research, but more needs to be studied. First and foremost, I clearly need to leave the security of my house, go out, and meet people that can teach me these primitive skills. Several events have come up in my studies that I am hoping will provide me with this opportunity. Wintercount is a primitive technology gathering in Casa Grande, Arizona, and there is an annual conference for the Society of Ethnobiology. Both hold hands on workshops and authentic learning situations. The more I know as a student, the more I will be able to teach. In addition to attending these events, I would like to train other teachers through workshops and get real lesson plans into their hands. These lesson plans would incorporate natural materials and primitive technology into their subjects. Finally, research needs to be done into how primitive technology can be easily implemented into our public school systems. |
Basket weaving at Wintercount.(6) |
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| The process of learning and teaching primitive technology and utilizing natural materials in artwork is one that is full of potential. It is one that necessitates integrated learning. In my case I had to learn about geology, physics, visual arts, and anthropology. In the case of many practitioners of primitive technology, the interdisciplinary learning can include botany, mathematics, music, zoology, and more. In learning a primitive skill or in using a natural art material, students are brought closer to the environment, the Earth. I know I was. They are brought closer to the materials that make up their belongings and the process it takes to create them. Finally, they are brought closer to society, as students seek a mentor to teach them new skills, or each other for collaborative work. The possibilities are inspiring, but they are not without difficulty. It takes years to master primitive skills and the resulting tool or art piece never has the look of a store bought object. It is a frustrating process, as I tried flint knapping, failed, and tried again. It can be a dangerous process, as evidenced by the scars on my legs. But despite the challenges, it has been a life-changing process. When the pressures of school, work, and life piled up, I would retreat to my front step where—for a few hours—I could travel back to a different time, and with a rock in hand, I could reconnect to the ever-changing, never-changing Earth. |
 Me in the desert, my favorite place in the world.
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Thursday, September 27, 2007
My mom-in-law recently forwarded me a link to an incredible website. TearItDown.org is an Amnesty International site that is basically a petition to bring an end to the prison on Guantanamo Bay. Their message is "You can tear down Guantanamo Bay. One pixel at a time." The home page is a bleak black and white photograph of ten Guantanamo prisoners sitting on the ground, backs against a dingy concrete wall. They are hooded and cuffed. A guard stands in front of them, back to the camera. The image is startling, but adding to its effect is the creepy ambient music (like a horror film) and footsteps.
You don't want to look at it. It's horrible. You want it to go away. And here's the brilliance of the website: when you sign up, you take away a single pixel of the image! And not only do you take away a pixel, your name pops up by the black space that once was an pixel of Guantanamo Bay. But wait, there's more! You can see all the other pixels that have been removed and, changing every few seconds, are the names of the contributors right next to their pixel property. Brilliant!
What I love about this site is the feeling of participation that the visitor gets. I felt like I was actually making a difference and that I was part of a group. Finally, I love the way the participator is literally wiping an image out of the media. If only we could do that. If only we could erase parts of our past. But we all know we can't. The mass media has burned certain images into our minds, tattooing them onto the skin of american visual culture. But it's a nice idea isn't it?
In any case, check out TearItDown.org. Sign up if you believe in the cause (I'm not here to convince anyone) and erase a pixel of visual culture.
Monday, September 10, 2007
The mall is surprisingly crowded for a Sunday afternoon, but I have a sneaking suspicion that people here don't ever leave. They just keep circulating, bobbing along on the tide of consumerism. I'm not a very hateful individual but I can safely say that I hate the mall. I hate everything about it. I hate the packs of feral teens just "hanging out". I hate the sprawling and labyrinthine layout. I hate giving my hard-earned money to big-box, chain stores. But here I am, about to spend an hour in the Park Place Mall observing the habits and customs of the mall subculture.
The first thing I notice when I walk in is the smell. It's a sickly sweet scent of brand new plastic products, popcorn, and pine-scented disinfectant. I feel my pulse rising. I brought my wife along with me for her innate ability to survive in environments like this. While I panic and wander in circles, she has an uncanny sense of where Macy's is in relationship to Panda Express. She is my lifeline. Our first stop is Borders, because we might as well get some shopping done while we're here. I can't remember the last time I bought a new book, preferring local, used bookstores. I know they won't have what I'm looking for, but it makes me giddy to ask for it.
"Excuse me, do you have Practicing Primitive: A Handbook of Aboriginal Skills?"
A boulder-sized man delicately taps a keyboard and then lumbers from behind the Information Desk. We follow him into the stacks and ten minutes later (only because he moves at glacial speeds) the behemoth stoops down and pulls my book from a bottom shelf labeled CAMPING/HIKING. Before I can even thank the man, he plods his heavy way back to his station. I am speechless.
My next stop is the mall proper. My goal is to find a place to sit down and observe. Park Place Mall is huge. It's lofted, arched ceilings leap upward, and panel upon panel of glass let in natural sunlight. The effect is quite stunning, like walking into a cathedral. For a while, I am lost in the architecture before I remember why I'm here. I don't fit in. Aside from gawking at the ceiling, I'm wearing cargo shorts, a cowboy shirt, and flip-flops. The shoppers rushing past me seemed to have dressed up for the mall. The men are in perfectly baggy, coordinated attire along with a baseball cap set askew. The women are clad in flowery sundresses, designer skirts, tight pants that accentuate hips and legs. I suddenly get a craving that I haven't felt since I was in sixth grade.
"Honey, let's get an Orange Julius!"
Six minutes and seven dollars later, my wife and I have two small drinks in our hands. Sweet doesn't even begin to describe them. They are liquid-mall. They taste how the mall smells and I secretly wonder if Gap managers pump vaporized Orange Julius throughout the building to excite shoppers into a buying frenzy. We find a place to camp out at the intersection of two massive corridors. Under an immense skylight, some angel of mall planning had set up several couches and armchairs for the weary. They definitely did not have these in the malls of my childhood. We flop down. I begin to observe and sketch while my wife reads my Practicing Primitive book with the implicit instructions to let me know if she happens upon a chapter on making a shiv out of an Aunt Annie's pretzel.
I find sketching difficult. I'm trying to capture the teens as they scurry by in packs of three to five. They are clearly here for the social scene. The girls have thick, striking makeup, black raccoon eyes, maraschino cherry lips and glittering braces. Everything on them seems to be covered in rhinestones as if some disgruntled student went on a school rampage with a Bedazzler. The area in which I am sitting is an eddy among the current of shoppers. People get sucked in; they stare up and around, point in several directions, and they wander off in a new direction. A few groups frequent the eddy, staying for longer. One obvious subgroup is the elderly, staring vacantly from their seats as if the mall has sucked the last bit of life from them. Scattered among the elderly, looking equally drugged, are bored husbands and boyfriends. I sympathize with this group, as I too have been a casualty to an occasional half-off sale at JC Penny. One man is completely passed out in an armchair, head back, snoring. Another dazed father yawns as his daughter uses him like a human jungle gym. This brings me to the last subgroup frequently the mall eddy: families with small children. I am blown away by the number of strollers, in particular, tiny strollers with large children in them, children who can clearly walk on their own. I stare at them in disbelieve and they stare back menacingly as if to say, "If you blow my cover, I'll chew off your eyelids."
I can understand why people spent a whole day here, especially teens. The mall is a self-contained biosphere. It has food, friends and an endless supply of useless plastic items. Park Place Mall has a movie theatre and some malls, like the Mall of America, have a rollercoaster and hotels. While I grasp their motives and cultural norms, I know that these people are far from my social scene. These people are not like me or any of the people I socialize with. I resolve to disappear into my sketchbook and wait for my hour of pain to come to a close. Suddenly something white–a crumpled napkin–streaks past my head. Huh? I look up and two of my friends stand in front of me, shopping bags at their sides and knowing grins on their faces.
"Hey man," one asks. "What are you doing here?"
A million excuses rush through my head, but for some reason, only one comes out.
"Oh…you know. Hanging out."
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Greetings from ColorMan!
First and foremost, thanks to everyone for their gracious encouragement and donations. Your support means so much to us!
Here are a few exciting announcements for September:
CHANGE IN CLASS DATES
We've decided to push back our class launch date to October 10th. This will allow the community time to catch up to our furious momentum. So if you're a Tucson teacher, parent, or know of a child that would benefit from our tutoring and/or classes, spread the word!
NPO STATUS OBTAINED
Our Articles of Incorporation have been accepted which means we are an official non-profit organization! The next step is obtaining 501c3 tax-exemption. If anyone has experience with this, we'd love your input. It takes a village, right?
OPEN STUDIO TOUR
Come visit us during the Tucson Fall 2007 Open Studio Tour on Saturday & Sunday, November 10 & 11, Noon to 5pm.
More info at http://www.tucsonpimaartscouncil.org/ost/index.html
Stay tuned for more developments from ColorMan Studio!
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
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Subway Sketches is a visual history of a very specific moment in my life. It was a period in which I was living in Brooklyn and working in Manhattan. It was a time of great creativity and long commutes. The subway offered me an hour a day to wake up (or unwind) and work on my drawing skills. I would begin to discreetly sketch my fellow commuters. In less than a subway stop, I'd be lost in my own world.
The following images are a compilation of my favorite subway drawings. The actual grouping of the images proved as fascinating as going through my journals. They create whole new stories and moods. The sketches themselves are in a loose chronological order so you can get a sense of my visual progression.
When I began combing through my journals intent on creating a visual life history, I thought my subway sketches would reinforce the reason why I left New York City, the crowds, the depressing and dirty subway, the daily commute. Instead I found a self-enriching activity that contributed to one of the most creative periods of my life. As far as a visual life history, Subway Sketches tells the story of my life in a very specific (and often crowded) culture. It shows how I saw the people around me, and hints toward my own feelings of escapism and a need for connection.
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Crowded on the Q: August to October 2004
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I'm Watching You: November to December 2004
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I Bet He Works with his Hands: December 2004
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Looking for a Dark Place: December 2004 to January 2005
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NH to NY: March to May 2005
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Coffee from a Lidless Cup: May 2005
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Something Was Definitely Following Her: June to August 2005
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Take Your Characters Out for a Ride: September 2005
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Untitled: September 2005
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I Saw the Light: September 2005
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Thursday, August 30, 2007
 Assignment: To create a visual metaphor about the research process in Art Education.
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I recently read an article written by Julie Lymburner in which she describes her experience as an art education graduate student. She describes a journey that takes her "inward, outward, forward, and backward". The image really stuck with me and I decided to expand upon it as part of my visual metaphor project.
The arrows in the center of the collage point to Lymburner's four directions: toward the viewer, into the picture plane, to the right and to the left. Each arrow, and corresponding section of the collage, represents the different aspects of research necessary in the field of art education and visual culture. In addition, each direction touches upon my personal passions and viewpoints within the field. |
Pointing outward (upward) the blue arrow symbolizes the need to search externally. The prints of agaves partially veiled in bright green represent my current passion for ethnobotany and ecological literacy. The green arrow pointing down stands for the need to search within. The photos below are part of a self-portrait project titled "Turista." Incidentally, the pink picture of me was taken in a public toilet in Nogales, AZ. Pointing to the left (orange) we get a sense of history, the past. Since I have been really into archeology and anthropology lately, I chose to represent the past with aboriginal inspired designs. The final, yellow arrow points to the future. For me, the future–whether we like it or not–is heading in the digital direction. This, of course, is represented by the 1s and 0s of binary code.
This was my first attempt at a visual/collage journal and I really enjoyed it. I liked getting my hands dirty again and I've always wanted to try a journal like this. In retrospect I think I could have searched for better representations of the four Lymburner directions (the binary code is a bit obvious), but I think it's a decent start.
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I'm back!
For those of you that might not know me, I had been using this blog as a way to advertise my webcomic, CowPunch. It has been over two years since CowPunch ended. Since then I have taught Media Arts at a small charter school where I'm living here in Tucson, Arizona. I have now returned to school to pursue an M.A. in Art Education and Visual Culture. I'm hoping this journal will be a place to present my thoughts on art, education, and visual culture. In addition to the work I complete for school, I'll also be posting some of my personal ramblings, thoughts, and images.
I'm hoping this journal will become a symposium where artists, educators, and the general public can share their thoughts.
It's good to be blogging again!
Porter
Current mood:  excited Current music: WXYZ- Chapel Hill
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portermcd's journal
