Over The Rainbow

Imagine if a profound segment of the world was watching you, through the sometimes intrusive lenses that are so readily available in this age. Imagine if the image you saw in the mirror was the topic of hundreds, even thousands of conversations across the globe. Does your one mirror shatter off into a million, reflecting you back in deconstructed segments?
Most of us never have to entertain such a concept-why would we be a source of idolatry? From the morning paper and coffee to the end of our quotidian work day, nothing generally occurs that sends us shooting into public consciousness. We have neither need nor call to examine a life outside of the relative privacy and anonymity most of us retain. How could such a life seem anything but glowing and enviable?

But what reality rests at the other end of the spectrum-the pole past our nine-to-five conveniences?

I am certain that I have rambled on these matters before, in some fashion. Yet they still plink about in my brain like a tiny pinball. Is the life of the entertainer really so empowering? Or does it effect the opposite-does is perhaps stifle and silence the deepest and most genuine humanity of the artist? We spend so much time belaboring our own voices as the flock, what of the voice of the shepherd?

Is it only through the music he can truly speak anymore? I just don't know....we don't know. There's so many sounds hovering in the air, sometimes such a din that one has to step away and reconsider their own role, their own voice-and whether or not they are capable of hearing everything and everyone or if they must fashion some space, for the sake of self and others.

Do you have space, our dear artist? Do you have silence when you need it, or is the noise always looping and crackling like an old record in your mind? Was it always there, or only since you became adored? If so, my deep apologies, I am complicit in your suffering. I only meant to show you that you reached me.
That is all any of us meant. We stand in your service, yet do we even begin to do right by you? I promise that we try...and sometimes we fail.  We labor on, either way, in hopes to learn something, I suppose....most likely about ourselves.

Self-awareness is difficult enough in the most normative circumstances. What happens to it when surrounded by both laudatory messages and occasional disdain? Does the external overrun the ever-poignant internal? Or does one go about their lives with little alteration or adaptation? Does your self become lost in the translation? I know mine does, from time-to-time, then I am required to find myself again, get right, and move forward.

I can only speak for myself in exploring these thoughts. I know I do often, as I balance the world of 'fandom' with the tactile reality in which I exist outside of it. Perhaps this explains why I can't get a Kate Bush song out of my head lately.....always running up the hill in my mind, and occasionally wishing I could successfully run up the hill for someone else for a moment.

c.P 2012
photos: Flickr-Gotye

The Field

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
 and rightdoing there is a field.
 I will meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.”

~ Rumi

It's amazing what, when and how something simple can bring minds and hearts together. It's all the more a fascination when those minds are seemingly worlds apart, by many meanings. It begs the question-is there such a thing as 'meant to,' or some force of predestination? I've never myself been one to hang my hat on destiny's hook, but on occasion something occurs that briefly suspends my skepticism.

I suppose it's why I love the poet above, he reaches me from an ancient orbit and speaks to the parts that seem to hunger for some sense that a path and place lies before me, and on it certain people who are meant to take my hand along the journey in some fashion. Or perhaps I am meant to take theirs. Perhaps the pupil becomes the pedagogue.On my current leg of the pathway, my hand is suddenly, gently reached for by another, one that once seemed ethereal, but as it lightly grasps mine, feels entirely warm with tender humanity. The path alights with new features, yet I am not shaken by them. I am merely heartened and curious.

In this field in which we meet quite often, the world indeed becomes so full it is nearly impossible to encompass it with any explanations. Art needs not be justified with rationalization, science, or other rendition. It is made of the soul's sounds, the heart's refrain, the mind's lullaby. It is justified by everything and nothing.

Perhaps that is part and parcel of those things which are so lovely they cannot ever be spoke of with sufficient depiction. Often the very creator of the work cannot entirely explain its birth. Perhaps that is an essential facet of those works that touch so deeply-they are both immutable and iconoclastic. They shatter the conventions and burst through the gates to reveal new territories. Once their claim is staked upon the landscape, they forever change the geography. New life springs forth from their consequence.

My hope is that in this field-this new territory-each one of us finds fresh air and inspiration, whatever form it may take. In each one of us resides the potential to engender great art.

If you'll meet me in the field-outside of ideas of pragmatism, shame, expectation, oppression-we will find ourselves and each other in ways we cannot alone. Will you let your soul lie down for a moment?




~~~


c. P 2012

A Complex Culture

What is the genuine definition of culture? Does it require the convergence of all forms of art and expression within a community? Can it be distilled down to one facet of the artistic force that drives a group?

The deeper we delve into a world that swirls, sometimes frenetically, around a single art form, we find it becomes a native definition of our sense of self and others. We initially gather a feeling of fragile pride about our emerging culture, which later begins to morph into a durable attachment to and defense of the art.

Just as with any gathering of human minds and hearts, there are the occasional conflicts and musunderstandings. Other times we all surround the fire and dance in unison...for there can be no such revelry without the music that moves us.

We-as all who define ourselves within the community-are joined together under the force of one message and one messenger, along with his own eco system of equally integral music makers.  It becomes a part of our individual narrative, thus becoming part of our personal culture. Certainly all of us carry several cultural identities, some are evident and others more insular, but all are of equal importance to the story of our selves.

What are your cultural identities? In what ways do you define them? 
Does your love of the music hold a place in that deeply personal space? What about it makes it part of who you are?

Those can be difficult yet incredibly empowering questions to explore withon one's self. Sometimes we find a deep, abiding need to bulwark those things we have reconciled into our personal story. Not every soul in our circles will understand or support what we hold dear. Some may even try to destroy it.

That is all part of the hunger, the drive to seek spaces where others exist who have created the culture around one shared love or one mission. Sometimes we cleanly integrate into the community, other times we must labor our way in. Either way, once we find that space, we find great personal and collective power. There are struggles as well....nothing in the affairs of human kind is free of troubles.

Perhaps it seems lofty to intimate that the work of one artisan can become an genuine culture. Human history would seem to suggest it is entirely possible, and has occured throughout our combined narrative. In modern context, culture moves swiftly through wires and sattelites and signals. Some cultural contexts start to bleed over into other spaces, some remain confined to a comparatively small community.

Whether ot not it seems reasonable to say that the dedication to one specific creation qualifies as a culture, I suspect those who ascribe to it would defend that evaluation. Within this micro, mostly digitalized community, we share stories, works of art, thoughts, feelings, and even the occasional constructive discord. All of these are the facets of a culture, whatever the population density may be. We each have an individual story and name, we may carry other monikers to define wherein we entered the society, but ultimately we are all members of the ecology, the cultural community. What a brillaint and complex reality that can be!

~~c. P 2012

The Music and the Mind

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ij5sKrHRlN8&feature=related
The above link is the opening scene from a personal favorite of my own-and purportedly Wally as well. "High Fidelity" is a film about music, a man, and the insides of his noisy mind.

The music and apparent misery have become especially noted with the astronomical success of the hit single "Somebody That I Used to Know." So ubiquitous have the imagery and sounds become that they have ostensibly crept into even the most vague references. The term "cultural icon" has been thrown towards the song and subsequent clip on multiple instances. One of my fan-colleagues located a particular piece that attributes the stylings of a recent Aussie mental health awareness campaign to the wildly popular music video:

 http://www.thevine.com.au/life/art/did-gotye-inspire-a-mental-illness-campaign

Although at first glance the images of the campaign are markedly similar, they seem less like a sharp facsimile and more like a slight nod to Oz's recent "icon," at the most.

This notion of a connection between emotional and mental states and music is nothing novel. The above Youtube clip hails from the film adaptation of a novel of the same title by the brilliant Nick Hornby. The tale of Rob is a simple recounting of the inner turmoil of a thirty-something indy record shop owner whose entire self concept is founded upon Pretenders singles.

There's a unique conduit that exists between music and the mind, whether it be the cogitations of the creator or the neural feedbacks of the listener. It's no mystery that many therapeutic modalities integrate both the consumption and production of music as a means to restoring or maintaining well-being. But what came first, the music or the mentality? Are the messages we intake from our beloved artists imbuing us with some refractory emotional state that then becomes enslaving. As Wally notes himself in the song, "You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness."

So is it therapeutic to immerse ourselves in music that registers deep misery when we ourselves are in the midst of some emotionally rocking experience of sadness? Does listening to angry death metal give an outlet for pent-up rage? Can a song that is joyful and sunny lift us from apathy or aching?

From my perspective-that of a provider of mental health care, it is true that the most effective and enduring healing often comes from a sense of connection. That connection may to be someone or something, or both. In any case, a feeling that one is not isolated in their challenges is powerfully transcendent, and capable of breaching the highest barriers.

Music provides a deep, durable and robust sense of connection. Be it lyric or melody or rhythmn or the confluence of all variables, music speaks to the most profound of human emotions. The attachments that are forged by the musician, their music and the minds that find it comforting are genuine and complex. It's no wonder that when a musician (like our own Mr. De Backer) produces something that breaks through the disjointed noise we all encounter day-by-pedestrian-day, that we find ourselves dedicated to it, sometimes in a seemingly effortless fashion. With music that speaks to our need for connection, we find both lofty healing and high fidelity.

 ~~c. P 2012

*Special thanks to Wall-nuts co-founder Cris for finding the above linked article and suggesting this exploration
**Apologies for the lack of embedding of the video-the embed code was too problematic.

Lyric

I could disappear

into the sounds

the deep beating of drums

Steals me, staggers me

sends me

seeking myself

in deep layers

of sequestered self-knowing

Nothing stands outside the sound

when I am tuned-in turned-on and dropped

out of my stupor

What a gift you wrap in reverberation!

c. P 2012

Finding Your Voice

Some may swiftly dismiss the choice to own the label of 'fan.' Often times such a title is hocked with assumptions of obsession, fixation, lack of personal goals or even downright mental or emotional instability. I could go on for hours about how deep a miscalculation those assumptions are, but the likely reality is merely that those who claim to be passionate about nothing are probably just ashamed to own their passion openly.

I cannot convince you to take off the mask if you're terrified that I might look you in the eyes. 

Perhaps myself and my colleagues in 'fandom' adopt a risky social contract in our candor. I have, on some occasions, encountered significant oppression at the hands of those who decry being committed to an art. Others with similar admitted proclivities return my interest with validation. Rarely is the surface of the water still and uninterrupted.

Let's face it, nuts, the world is a deeply, hazardously disempowering space. From every angle we are shot with insidious messages to question our competence, to envy those who seem to have more than we, and to compete for a square foot of self-respect and privilege amongst a landscape of enforced contrition. You must shame yourself for your desires, your needs, your thoughts and feelings. You must shut your mouth lest you make folly of your self.

So we spend how many years of our lives in silence, or muffled whispers at best? We do as we are socially instructed-to stifle our need to scream out that we give a damn.

That makes me sad, I'll be honest. I grow increasingly weary of the rescission of our individuality and creativity. I have said it before, to play from the words of another beloved and long passed artist; I refuse to be created rather than creative. I will not recoil from the challenge of being genuine about those things into which I place great value. Perhaps it is an attempted act of unconditional self-love, although at times my fidelity to that self wavers.

I cannot promise to give you answers, or shield you from the slings and arrows that will be pitched at you by those who cannot or will not engage in perspective and self-examination. I often find I can barely offer myself solace. In the spirit of Voltaire I will, however, defend your right to use your voice whether or not I concur. Your mind is a vast space of unseen potential, may you never build walls around it. If you already have, I hope you'll find something that drives you to break them down to dust.

For any who may look upon our 'cause' and find it silly, useless or obsequious, I ask you this;

What is it that you are concealing in the name of shame?

c. P 2012

Modern Art

Recently we've reached an acute awareness of the attraction that an apparently brilliant pubic figure culls by virtue of their visible persona. At first the strains of that enthrallment generate from the art or work of the maker, not entirely by their image. However, with but a few comely features and a charming turn of phrase or two, the artist can become a work of art himself. 

In some fashions, Wally has seemed to embrace that shift-from musician to a statuesque source of aesthetic musings. There's a not insignificant precedent for our lovely Mr. De Backer to occasionally display himself with surprising candor. Perhaps one image from a 2008 promotion for his three-piece ensemble The Basics is one of the most choice and unabashed representations of his apparent comfort with his physical self.

And indeed there's nothing distasteful about it. In fact, the notion of the artfully contraposto stance coupled with winsome humor is remarkably imaginative and tasteful. There's no more offense to be taken from this image than from a Michelangelo. 

I wonder, though, about the occasional meanderings of Wally himself when he mentions that he prefers not to be the central tendency of an image or film clip. In one interview, he mentions the motives that broke that cycle and permitted the simple focus of the video for the now ubiquitous "Somebody" single, stating that the nature of the song seemed too raw and personal to not make an appearance. To do so naked seems rationally linked to the emotionally stripped message of the song. That sequence of determinations made perfect sense, but what of the occasional polemic regarding the desire to redirect attention away from himself?

It seems veritably impossible to escape the reality that with fame comes recognition, comes constant thirst and demand for imagery of the famous. It is requisite within existence within the public awareness, even if begrudgingly. So, by virtue of further disseminating fame, Wally is faced with the challenge of his face becoming a social standby. Furthermore, as he becomes more photographed and fetishized, he becomes more objectified and sexualized. Although clearly he himself has been indirectly implicit in that sexualization, it is also a feature of the geography of youthful talent and prominence.

The glut of modern celebrities has become especially dismissable of late. Many of the faces that splatter the media are generically pleasant and entirely unoffensive. Most don an almost preternatural similarity to one another, and bedeck themselves with excess and opulence.

Then suddenly the contemporary popular music forum is punctuated with a willowy, pale, somewhat waggish musician who is not particularly young or aged, is not husked up with excess masculinity, and dresses no more gauche than the local barista. His viridian eyes are glittering and joyful, dimples and wrinkles and smile lines streak across his face, his neck curves out like a great blue heron. His grin is dippy and comical yet instantaneously lovable, with slightly off-set and fangish teeth glinting forth. His soft locks sweep, sometimes hectically, across his prominent brow. He is, from some angles, wholly unremarkable and pedestrian. From close inspection, when one considers his quirky yet charming features, the conclusion is quickly made that he is strangely splendid. Taken in consideration with his wit, his words and his music, it's no great mystery that he has begun to carve out a space as a source of praise and even fantasy, in some circles.

It can be said that when someone uniquely, even aberrantly appealing becomes a source of powerful emotional and psychological magnetism, that they become a work of art themselves. They may take on a level of idolatry similar to the likes of The David-as a symbol of unattainable yet simultaneously genuine and simple beauty. Although his tendencies veer further away from a heroic or Grecian image as a David, in some ways, Wally's iconoclastic beauty cuts through the boredom of traditional standards of male attractiveness. Furthermore, the comeliness of his nature is borne as much from his intelligence, sweetness, wit and talent as his physical self. He is something of a rarity, indeed-a painfully parsimonious balance of inner and outer resplendence. It cannot be denied that it is a joy to engage with that profound and lovely presence. 

Now back to work! ;}

c. P 2012