Great Exudations

Why do we take selfies? That is what I was pondering yesterday after posting this one. My theory is that it’s not vanity, per se. But rather it’s a desire to see ourselves in the real world as other people might see us. It’s somehow a different visage from the one in our bathroom mirror (even if it’s a rest area bathroom mirror on an interstate in Kansas). And secondly, the point is to SHARE the image — to *ping* it someone else to remind them you are still alive and kicking out there somewhere. And further it’s to get a REACTION, some acknowledgment from the universe that your existence and whereabouts matter to another human. As I look at my own selfies, they tend towards attempts at humor or irony, though I doubt I would ever use one that I find highly unappealing (so some vanity, yes, and that’s why you often take several… to optimize the self-deprecation).

In this instance we were traveling cross country on a move from Denver to Baltimore and pulling a trailer. I was dressed in road-trip casual and was drawn to the etched graffiti on the mirror. I mean, who does that? And what should I write?? Not sure I understand the body stance other than it must be one that stabilizes the phone. And for the record, never with a selfie-stick.

I’m not on Facebook anymore and have never joined the morass of Twitter and Instagram, which intentionally restricts my audience to the contacts on my phone. I’m part of several running group chats, one going now for over ten years, and I’m sure I would have sent this to several. It says, “Hey, guys, we’re on the road and, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve still got all my hair!” But in the end, I got exactly what I wanted, a laugh-out-loud funny response from an old friend (TH) who texted the following:

“You’ve definitely got COVID now.”

“Also, the estate of Steve Irwin ‘Crocodile Hunter’ called. They want his clothes back.”

Now THAT’s a fully-realized selfie! It has three components: the photo, the sharing, and the response. Because in the end, it’s all about the connection. Life as a running improvisation. But for that you need substrate/material, and what’s better than baiting your pals to (mildly) insult you?! I’ve lived long enough to know that everyone, deep down, wants a warm-hearted roast every now and then. And for that, my friends, I thank you.

This scene brought to mind the American artist Charles Sheeler (1883-1965), whose works I’ve gradually come to enjoy. His scenes are clean and uncluttered, being of the Precisionist school of modern art that depicted an idealized form of industrialism. Known for painting so-called “immaculates,” this group of artists (also George Ault, Ralston Crawford, Charles Demuth and Georgia O’Keeffe) reduced skyscrapers and factories to their very essence. Pleasing lines and color palette, all simplified, in the way our own memories might. Sheeler was also a notable photographer and filmmaker, and he was pioneering in his use of captured still images as the basis for his art. His imagery (and that of his cohort), to me, is similar to Edward Hopper — but crucially stripped of the human frailty and melancholia that so characterizes the latter. In that way, they work in tandem. Obverse and reverse. Timeless, while also dated. The hopefulness of technical progress pitted against the limitations of man himself.

Dead Can Dance is an Australian duo that formed in 1981. Their music was described as “ethereal goth” in the early days but gradually evolved/expanded to include numerous worldly (and otherworldly?) influences, including African polyrhythms, Gaelic folk, Middle eastern, Gregorian chant, etc. I have an old friend who likes them, and that may be as close as I get. But I’m hoping to carve out the time for a deep dive. I think it’s good to keep some things in front of you. Most of all, death.

The band commented on their name and first self-titled album (per Wikipedia): “To understand why we chose the name, think of the transformation of inanimacy to animacy. Think of the processes concerning life from death and death into life. So many people missed the inherent symbolic intention of the work, and assumed that we must be ‘morbid gothic types’.”

Don’t be like R. Long, here. Because it’s more like R. Lame. Severely anemic in style and completely lacking in the bold expressiveness of his/her fellow taggers (I wonder what percentage of street artists are women and also how we might “raise awareness” about them). Yes, there’s that skinny swoosh that tracks back from G to R. But, then, why not connect those two letters? Take steps, friend. Take steps. Up your game. Find your voice and declare it loudly-proudly to the world. There are few things sadder than poorly executed graffiti. And there’s a lesson in this for each of us: Don’t be R. Lame…

ADDENDUM:

It seems that our friend R. Lame may be trying to up his/her game. While we can’t be certain this isn’t an impostor to the “Talentless Mr. Graffiti,” as it’s all caps, a bit generic in font and gone is the swoosh. But perhaps we are seeing signs of evolution in this artist. Recall that Rothko and Pollock also struggled to find their signature styles. I might have to cover my short position on R. Long.