Saturday, April 24, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Lisa Folsom final draft
(finished on a picnic bench at Coral Pink Sand Dunes, Utah)
Wearing a top hat, a bright yellow dress and black and white striped stockings, Lisa Folsom cheerfully greets her friends and family with warm hugs as they enter her apartment on a sunny March afternoon. She turns 30 today. Sometimes she wonders where she would be now if things took a different course 11 years ago.
In the summer of 1999, Folsom had just graduated from high school in Hendersonville, Tenn. She had a scholarship to Middle Tennessee State University and was considering a career as a nurse practitioner or doctor.
She never made it to her first college class.
She spent the next six months in and out of the hospital battling a suspected bout of viral meningitis. She lost her scholarship because of her health, but the worst complication was yet to come.
One afternoon shortly after recovery, Folsom was about to enter the mall when she lost consciousness, dropped to the ground, and started seizing. It was her first grand-mal seizure. She had become epileptic.
It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. But again, to a self described "incurable optimist" and a staunch believer in karma like Folsom, maybe it was.
Tenacious, resilient and always positive, Folsom hasn't let her condition ruin her life. Eleven years after falling ill, she has finally decided to reclaim what was taken away: an education. She is enrolled as an online student at the Art Institute and aspires to become an interior decorator. "Maybe this was the path I was supposed to take," she says.
With big brown eyes and a mischievous smile, Folsom's appearance belies her age. Her fantastical birthday attire is a tribute to one of her favorite books - The Mad Hatter. She spent over a week meticulously decorating her dining room for the occasion. She painted the walls a candy-like azure blue and adorned it with crisscrossed pairs of roses. The windows are covered with blue sheets with moons and stars. On the table is an elegant arrangement of teacups, flowers and stuffed animals.
"Almost all these decorations are from thrift stores," Folsom says. She speaks as quickly as a rapid river and is never embarrassed to hide anything.
The table display stands in contrast to the adjacent kitchen counter, which is cluttered with imitation sodas, pizza boxes, chips and plastic cups.
There isn't a trace of weariness in her as Folsom glides in and out of the party, looking after her two kids, joking with her parents, downloading music and simply having a good time. "Want to hear some Tupac?" she shouts as she runs to her computer.
It is not hard to see where Folsom gets her energetic, quirky personality. Her father Butch protests loudly as she puts bunny ears on his head. She then wraps a purple scarf around him and hands him a clock to hold. "I'm not keeping these on for the whole party!" he exclaims, but still willingly heads to the dining room to pose for a few photos.
Later on she rummages through a box of random jewelry acquired off Craigslist with her mother Marlene, trying on '80s style bracelets and earrings and laughing loudly at each other. "You look like you have mouse ears!" yells Foslom from across the room. They are a boisterous, outgoing, big-hearted bunch.
Possessing a great sense of humor, Folsom never hesitates to make light of any situation, even her own. She has considered being a comedian.
"I couldn't do it," she says with a big laugh. "If I dropped in the middle of a routine, they'd think it was part of the show!"
She wasn't always so open about her epilepsy. The seizures come and go with unpredictable frequency. Last year, she had one almost every day, but she had only one all year so far. After each grand-mal seizure, Folsom wakes up not knowing where she is and who people around her are.
Folsom refuses to take disability pay, even though she is eligible, and while it has been hard to find work, she still persistently sends out job applications.
"I believe I have the ability to make my own," Folsom says.
Folsom knows her limits. Even though she is perfectly capable of doing so, she hasn't driven a car in 11 years. She made a tough decision in fear of having an episode while driving.
Physical limitations aside, nothing much can stop her. She recalls how she marched up to the Obama campaign headquarters when he visited town last year. She told them straight up that she is an epileptic without a car but was wiling to help. They immediately put her on the committee.
A lot of her independence and willpower comes from her upbringing. Her parents worked as union organizers and were frequently on the move. Folsom was born in Kansas City and moved to Salt Lake City when she was six. Her father had a well-paying job in Utah, but when she was 12, they decided to move to Nashville to be closer to her maternal grandmother in Missouri.
This move turned out to be tragedy after tragedy. Before they even left, her grandmother passed away. While they were away, some teenagers in the neighborhood destroyed everything in their house. They had to give up their new house in Nashville, file for bankruptcy and move into a trailer. Shortly after, her paternal grandfather died. As the eldest child, Folsom assumed the responsibility to encourage her devastated parents and keep home life happy for her two brothers and sister. Folsom believes that this series of events gave her family the closeness that they still enjoy today. Her parents were eventually able to put their life back together and purchase a house in nearby Lafayette.
Folsom never abandoned her open-mindedness and cosmopolitan sensibilities in small, conservative and mostly white Lafayette. Chad Butcher, who has known Folsom since the sixth grade, said that she had a rough time with some students because she "wasn't prejudiced" and didn't fit the small southern town mold. Butcher was epileptic growing up, and he said that Folsom was one of the few that never looked down on him. "She was like a mother hen," Butcher says. "She was one thing that let me know that there were more people like that out there."
After becoming epileptic, Folsom went through a period of depression. She felt she had lost her purpose, but she didn't lock herself up. Instead, she went all out, partying and trying illicit drugs for the next three years.
"I did many ridiculous and stupid things," Folsom says. "That time of my life was very dark."
To make things worse, she entered a relationship with a verbally abusive alcoholic. The abuse got physical once, cumulating with him setting a barn on fire, stomping her head in the gravel and chasing after her with a shotgun. She left immediately. Around this time, her father decided to retire to Missouri, so she left Tennessee with them. Their first stop was Farmington, her mother's hometown.
Folsom didn't realize that she was pregnant. She also didn't anticipate that it would become one of the most bizarre chapters of her life.
"I went through months of fighting to prove I was pregnant," Folsom says, as it was virtually undetectable. "Doctors wouldn't confirm it."
She finally accepted her doctor's diagnosis, but her body insisted otherwise, so she stopped drinking and kept her body healthy. However, over the next few months, she never felt even a kick, and her belly didn't swell.
Her instincts were right. On the night of Oct. 23, 2003, Folsom left work early. She complained of stomach cramps and nausea. Without warning, she suddenly went into labor. Doctors later told her that the fetus was so small and so far back in the uterus that the pregnancy tests didn't show anything. Folsom named the five-pound baby girl Marley Belle after the famous reggae icon. Her coworkers threw her an impromptu baby shower in the hospital.
The unusual circumstances of Marley's birth prompted Folsom to reevaluate her life. "The way I had her - most people wouldn't have had a child that lived," she says. "It was meant to be." She snapped out of her depression. Folsom had intended to stay in Missouri for only a few months. It has been seven years.
It's getting late at the party, and Folsom's sister Candance is preparing to leave. Folsom brings out the birthday cake, which is also tailor-made for the occasion. It is a purple top hat with a yellow band, topped with icing flowers and a pocket watch. She spent all night working with her husband Tim Govero on the cake. Govero was a chef before recently being placed on full-time veteran disability for bipolar disorder and other physical problems.
Folsom met her Govero while working at Applebee's in Farmington. Coming home from work one day, Govero discovered with disbelief that his wife had cleaned the bank account, put a notice up on the house, cut all the utilities and took the kids. Upon hearing this, Folsom immediately offered Govero a place to stay, and they soon started dating. Folsom remembers the first time Govero picked up Marley and held her - she knew that he saw her as his own daughter. The couple married for financial reasons after their son Ike was born in 2006 after a normal pregnancy. They never cared much for marriage, and they still celebrate their anniversary on the day they got together instead of the day of their wedding.
Govero says that Folsom keeps him positive when times get tough. "She'll bug me, be a retard, and crack me up," he laughs.
Folsom and Govero are about to light the hat-shaped birthday cake when they realize that they forgot to buy candles. Without hesitation, Folsom grabs a large round one from her teacup display and places it on the cake. They light it, and everyone gathers around to sing Happy Birthday. Surrounded by people she loves, Lisa looks perfectly happy and content.
"I've done a lot for being 30 years old," she says. "I'm really excited for the next 30."
Wearing a top hat, a bright yellow dress and black and white striped stockings, Lisa Folsom cheerfully greets her friends and family with warm hugs as they enter her apartment on a sunny March afternoon. She turns 30 today. Sometimes she wonders where she would be now if things took a different course 11 years ago.
In the summer of 1999, Folsom had just graduated from high school in Hendersonville, Tenn. She had a scholarship to Middle Tennessee State University and was considering a career as a nurse practitioner or doctor.
She never made it to her first college class.
She spent the next six months in and out of the hospital battling a suspected bout of viral meningitis. She lost her scholarship because of her health, but the worst complication was yet to come.
One afternoon shortly after recovery, Folsom was about to enter the mall when she lost consciousness, dropped to the ground, and started seizing. It was her first grand-mal seizure. She had become epileptic.
It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. But again, to a self described "incurable optimist" and a staunch believer in karma like Folsom, maybe it was.
Tenacious, resilient and always positive, Folsom hasn't let her condition ruin her life. Eleven years after falling ill, she has finally decided to reclaim what was taken away: an education. She is enrolled as an online student at the Art Institute and aspires to become an interior decorator. "Maybe this was the path I was supposed to take," she says.
With big brown eyes and a mischievous smile, Folsom's appearance belies her age. Her fantastical birthday attire is a tribute to one of her favorite books - The Mad Hatter. She spent over a week meticulously decorating her dining room for the occasion. She painted the walls a candy-like azure blue and adorned it with crisscrossed pairs of roses. The windows are covered with blue sheets with moons and stars. On the table is an elegant arrangement of teacups, flowers and stuffed animals.
"Almost all these decorations are from thrift stores," Folsom says. She speaks as quickly as a rapid river and is never embarrassed to hide anything.
The table display stands in contrast to the adjacent kitchen counter, which is cluttered with imitation sodas, pizza boxes, chips and plastic cups.
There isn't a trace of weariness in her as Folsom glides in and out of the party, looking after her two kids, joking with her parents, downloading music and simply having a good time. "Want to hear some Tupac?" she shouts as she runs to her computer.
It is not hard to see where Folsom gets her energetic, quirky personality. Her father Butch protests loudly as she puts bunny ears on his head. She then wraps a purple scarf around him and hands him a clock to hold. "I'm not keeping these on for the whole party!" he exclaims, but still willingly heads to the dining room to pose for a few photos.
Later on she rummages through a box of random jewelry acquired off Craigslist with her mother Marlene, trying on '80s style bracelets and earrings and laughing loudly at each other. "You look like you have mouse ears!" yells Foslom from across the room. They are a boisterous, outgoing, big-hearted bunch.
Possessing a great sense of humor, Folsom never hesitates to make light of any situation, even her own. She has considered being a comedian.
"I couldn't do it," she says with a big laugh. "If I dropped in the middle of a routine, they'd think it was part of the show!"
She wasn't always so open about her epilepsy. The seizures come and go with unpredictable frequency. Last year, she had one almost every day, but she had only one all year so far. After each grand-mal seizure, Folsom wakes up not knowing where she is and who people around her are.
Folsom refuses to take disability pay, even though she is eligible, and while it has been hard to find work, she still persistently sends out job applications.
"I believe I have the ability to make my own," Folsom says.
Folsom knows her limits. Even though she is perfectly capable of doing so, she hasn't driven a car in 11 years. She made a tough decision in fear of having an episode while driving.
Physical limitations aside, nothing much can stop her. She recalls how she marched up to the Obama campaign headquarters when he visited town last year. She told them straight up that she is an epileptic without a car but was wiling to help. They immediately put her on the committee.
A lot of her independence and willpower comes from her upbringing. Her parents worked as union organizers and were frequently on the move. Folsom was born in Kansas City and moved to Salt Lake City when she was six. Her father had a well-paying job in Utah, but when she was 12, they decided to move to Nashville to be closer to her maternal grandmother in Missouri.
This move turned out to be tragedy after tragedy. Before they even left, her grandmother passed away. While they were away, some teenagers in the neighborhood destroyed everything in their house. They had to give up their new house in Nashville, file for bankruptcy and move into a trailer. Shortly after, her paternal grandfather died. As the eldest child, Folsom assumed the responsibility to encourage her devastated parents and keep home life happy for her two brothers and sister. Folsom believes that this series of events gave her family the closeness that they still enjoy today. Her parents were eventually able to put their life back together and purchase a house in nearby Lafayette.
Folsom never abandoned her open-mindedness and cosmopolitan sensibilities in small, conservative and mostly white Lafayette. Chad Butcher, who has known Folsom since the sixth grade, said that she had a rough time with some students because she "wasn't prejudiced" and didn't fit the small southern town mold. Butcher was epileptic growing up, and he said that Folsom was one of the few that never looked down on him. "She was like a mother hen," Butcher says. "She was one thing that let me know that there were more people like that out there."
After becoming epileptic, Folsom went through a period of depression. She felt she had lost her purpose, but she didn't lock herself up. Instead, she went all out, partying and trying illicit drugs for the next three years.
"I did many ridiculous and stupid things," Folsom says. "That time of my life was very dark."
To make things worse, she entered a relationship with a verbally abusive alcoholic. The abuse got physical once, cumulating with him setting a barn on fire, stomping her head in the gravel and chasing after her with a shotgun. She left immediately. Around this time, her father decided to retire to Missouri, so she left Tennessee with them. Their first stop was Farmington, her mother's hometown.
Folsom didn't realize that she was pregnant. She also didn't anticipate that it would become one of the most bizarre chapters of her life.
"I went through months of fighting to prove I was pregnant," Folsom says, as it was virtually undetectable. "Doctors wouldn't confirm it."
She finally accepted her doctor's diagnosis, but her body insisted otherwise, so she stopped drinking and kept her body healthy. However, over the next few months, she never felt even a kick, and her belly didn't swell.
Her instincts were right. On the night of Oct. 23, 2003, Folsom left work early. She complained of stomach cramps and nausea. Without warning, she suddenly went into labor. Doctors later told her that the fetus was so small and so far back in the uterus that the pregnancy tests didn't show anything. Folsom named the five-pound baby girl Marley Belle after the famous reggae icon. Her coworkers threw her an impromptu baby shower in the hospital.
The unusual circumstances of Marley's birth prompted Folsom to reevaluate her life. "The way I had her - most people wouldn't have had a child that lived," she says. "It was meant to be." She snapped out of her depression. Folsom had intended to stay in Missouri for only a few months. It has been seven years.
It's getting late at the party, and Folsom's sister Candance is preparing to leave. Folsom brings out the birthday cake, which is also tailor-made for the occasion. It is a purple top hat with a yellow band, topped with icing flowers and a pocket watch. She spent all night working with her husband Tim Govero on the cake. Govero was a chef before recently being placed on full-time veteran disability for bipolar disorder and other physical problems.
Folsom met her Govero while working at Applebee's in Farmington. Coming home from work one day, Govero discovered with disbelief that his wife had cleaned the bank account, put a notice up on the house, cut all the utilities and took the kids. Upon hearing this, Folsom immediately offered Govero a place to stay, and they soon started dating. Folsom remembers the first time Govero picked up Marley and held her - she knew that he saw her as his own daughter. The couple married for financial reasons after their son Ike was born in 2006 after a normal pregnancy. They never cared much for marriage, and they still celebrate their anniversary on the day they got together instead of the day of their wedding.
Govero says that Folsom keeps him positive when times get tough. "She'll bug me, be a retard, and crack me up," he laughs.
Folsom and Govero are about to light the hat-shaped birthday cake when they realize that they forgot to buy candles. Without hesitation, Folsom grabs a large round one from her teacup display and places it on the cake. They light it, and everyone gathers around to sing Happy Birthday. Surrounded by people she loves, Lisa looks perfectly happy and content.
"I've done a lot for being 30 years old," she says. "I'm really excited for the next 30."
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Nothing, part I
"So, how about you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes. Nothing.”
The coversation from the burrito marathon two days ago with some people he didn't know very well played itself over and over again in his head as he sat staring at the wall in his room. It was a medium sized room, with a huge olive green folding table in the center, surrounded by bookcases of different sizes and hues of ash. Clothes were piled up in distinct heaps around the room arranged according to color, and the walls were covered with posters of guitar heroes from the past. There weren’t any guitar heroes anymore. Rock had been dead for years. Three guitars lay on top of a mound of bright orange colored clothes: a red sunburst Washburn accoustic, an Epiphone black Les Paul double cut, and a vintage Gibson SG. All three were still in fair condition, the gloss glistening through sorrowful layers of dust as if trying to maintain a sense of dignity amidst the muck of unfavorable times.
He woke up earlier than he ever had on a Sunday morning, probably due to his change of sleeping habits since he got that new job. He loved his job, and he was just awarded employee of the month, but there was something horribly wrong with his life that he couldn’t really pinpoint. First of all, what the hell was that smell? He decided to ignore it and lit up a cigarette. He couldn’t remember when he started smoking in the apartment. He looked up at the huge “no smoking” sign he tacked to the living room wall, and vaguely remembered throwing out a guest from his 27th birthday party who hid in the bathroom and chain-smoked.
“Where was I last night?” he thought as he performed his daily routine of recapping the events from the previous day. His memory had been failing ever since things worth remembering ceased to exist, and he needed to keep his brain cells active, in fear of forgetting how to return home. It was too far away and the bright street signs were already so blurry that he couldn’t tell whether they were neon or acrylic.
He remembered now, it was another boring party; the ones he kept on looking forward to for the whole week, and then leaving in 20 minutes. He wore his best pinstripe suit, with matching striped shoes, top hat and stayed for an hour this time, because there was a space invaders video game machine in the club. As usual, he won the first place, and as usual, no one glanced over as he did his little victory jig in the corner. Then…
His thoughts were cut off by a sudden cough coming from the back closet.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Yes. Nothing.”
The coversation from the burrito marathon two days ago with some people he didn't know very well played itself over and over again in his head as he sat staring at the wall in his room. It was a medium sized room, with a huge olive green folding table in the center, surrounded by bookcases of different sizes and hues of ash. Clothes were piled up in distinct heaps around the room arranged according to color, and the walls were covered with posters of guitar heroes from the past. There weren’t any guitar heroes anymore. Rock had been dead for years. Three guitars lay on top of a mound of bright orange colored clothes: a red sunburst Washburn accoustic, an Epiphone black Les Paul double cut, and a vintage Gibson SG. All three were still in fair condition, the gloss glistening through sorrowful layers of dust as if trying to maintain a sense of dignity amidst the muck of unfavorable times.
He woke up earlier than he ever had on a Sunday morning, probably due to his change of sleeping habits since he got that new job. He loved his job, and he was just awarded employee of the month, but there was something horribly wrong with his life that he couldn’t really pinpoint. First of all, what the hell was that smell? He decided to ignore it and lit up a cigarette. He couldn’t remember when he started smoking in the apartment. He looked up at the huge “no smoking” sign he tacked to the living room wall, and vaguely remembered throwing out a guest from his 27th birthday party who hid in the bathroom and chain-smoked.
“Where was I last night?” he thought as he performed his daily routine of recapping the events from the previous day. His memory had been failing ever since things worth remembering ceased to exist, and he needed to keep his brain cells active, in fear of forgetting how to return home. It was too far away and the bright street signs were already so blurry that he couldn’t tell whether they were neon or acrylic.
He remembered now, it was another boring party; the ones he kept on looking forward to for the whole week, and then leaving in 20 minutes. He wore his best pinstripe suit, with matching striped shoes, top hat and stayed for an hour this time, because there was a space invaders video game machine in the club. As usual, he won the first place, and as usual, no one glanced over as he did his little victory jig in the corner. Then…
His thoughts were cut off by a sudden cough coming from the back closet.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Graphic Design is Very Wimpy
As my tenure as a graphic designer draws to an end, it's time to reflect on why I have decided on a career change. This is an old piece I wrote back in 2006, when I had just started my job. I wonder how, after writing this, I managed to stay in the field for three and a half years.
J Mascis, in my opinion one of the greatest guitarists of the ‘90s, once said, “the guitar is a very wimpy instrument.” Well, I dare not even claim to be the greatest graphic designer of any timeframe to any standards, but I still feel the same way about my profession: “Graphic design is very wimpy.”
My friend once asked me what I wanted to do with graphic design. I replied, “I want to move to Guatemala, use my graphic design skills to create powerful, mesmerizing, brain-washing propaganda, gain popularity with the people and finally instigate a revolt and take over the country. I’ll become a King and live in luxury until I die, keeping my seat of power using only the wonderful combination of images and text.” She thought I was insane, but really, that’s the scale and grandeur that graphic design should amount to something.
We aspire to be artists, go to art school, chill at gallery openings, but the great divide comes at graduation – we end up as what we dreaded the most, office drones glued to the computer, working long ass hours, dealing mostly with businesspeople than the likes of our former friends from school. We gradually forget that we were once, long ago and far away, artists in our own right. How many graphic designers can remember the last time they expressed themselves through artistic means? How many graphic designers can remember the last time they even completed a drawing? Don’t even mention “designing for pleasure.” Who the fuck would even want to even glance at a computer after a long grueling workday? We have become essentially, if not externally, geeks: computer nerds, but with much lower paying salaries and much less respect. At least not that many people are able to write a killer program; everyone thinks they can do graphic design – and though most amateurs produce horrendously grotesque layouts, there are still buyers with a low aesthetic standard that will still happily lick up all the visual filth from the floor for a bargain price.
Graphic design is a business. It is by no means an “art.” Graphic designers would be so much better off if aspiring designers had to go to business school instead of art school. Instead of taking painting, drawing, sculpture classes, which they will never use again, they should be required to take much more practical classes such as “managing your business”, “the art of networking,” or “communication strategies.” When we were in school, busy honing our attention to every whim and fancy of our self-obsessed aesthetic, our professors, while letting us run amok in our fantasy world of self-gratifying design, did warn us: this is the only “fun design” you will ever do. But alas, the disparity is too great that they should’ve at least given us a twig to fend off wild animals when we entered the corporate jungle.
Not only are business skills much more useful than drawing skills, but by going to business school, graphic designers won’t be brought up with the wrong notion that they are artists. By all means, they are not. This also opens the window for many amateurs to receive proper training and stop producing rubbish. I’ve met a lot of so-called “designers” who I could tell simply lacked better training, tell me “I wish I’d gone to design school, but I can’t draw.” What kind of bullshit is that? I’ve never drawn at work. I probably never will.
I guess I have to suck it up and realize, in my whole art-loving life, after all the fights I had with my parents go to “art school,” I am now as far away from art as I could have ever imagined. I have become a starving cubicle dwelling office slave, and that’s the wimpiest thing I could ever imagine myself doing.
So, when they asked J Mascis: “So why do you do it?” he replied, “I dunno. Just because I can.” I have to agree with my ol’ buddy J. Just because we can and you can’t, the burden of ridding the world of bad kerning falls squarely on our shoulders. At the end of Spiderman, Peter Parker lamented, “with great power lies great responsibility.”
Well, it’s already 8:00 a.m., and once again, I’m off to the office to save the world.
J Mascis, in my opinion one of the greatest guitarists of the ‘90s, once said, “the guitar is a very wimpy instrument.” Well, I dare not even claim to be the greatest graphic designer of any timeframe to any standards, but I still feel the same way about my profession: “Graphic design is very wimpy.”
My friend once asked me what I wanted to do with graphic design. I replied, “I want to move to Guatemala, use my graphic design skills to create powerful, mesmerizing, brain-washing propaganda, gain popularity with the people and finally instigate a revolt and take over the country. I’ll become a King and live in luxury until I die, keeping my seat of power using only the wonderful combination of images and text.” She thought I was insane, but really, that’s the scale and grandeur that graphic design should amount to something.
We aspire to be artists, go to art school, chill at gallery openings, but the great divide comes at graduation – we end up as what we dreaded the most, office drones glued to the computer, working long ass hours, dealing mostly with businesspeople than the likes of our former friends from school. We gradually forget that we were once, long ago and far away, artists in our own right. How many graphic designers can remember the last time they expressed themselves through artistic means? How many graphic designers can remember the last time they even completed a drawing? Don’t even mention “designing for pleasure.” Who the fuck would even want to even glance at a computer after a long grueling workday? We have become essentially, if not externally, geeks: computer nerds, but with much lower paying salaries and much less respect. At least not that many people are able to write a killer program; everyone thinks they can do graphic design – and though most amateurs produce horrendously grotesque layouts, there are still buyers with a low aesthetic standard that will still happily lick up all the visual filth from the floor for a bargain price.
Graphic design is a business. It is by no means an “art.” Graphic designers would be so much better off if aspiring designers had to go to business school instead of art school. Instead of taking painting, drawing, sculpture classes, which they will never use again, they should be required to take much more practical classes such as “managing your business”, “the art of networking,” or “communication strategies.” When we were in school, busy honing our attention to every whim and fancy of our self-obsessed aesthetic, our professors, while letting us run amok in our fantasy world of self-gratifying design, did warn us: this is the only “fun design” you will ever do. But alas, the disparity is too great that they should’ve at least given us a twig to fend off wild animals when we entered the corporate jungle.
Not only are business skills much more useful than drawing skills, but by going to business school, graphic designers won’t be brought up with the wrong notion that they are artists. By all means, they are not. This also opens the window for many amateurs to receive proper training and stop producing rubbish. I’ve met a lot of so-called “designers” who I could tell simply lacked better training, tell me “I wish I’d gone to design school, but I can’t draw.” What kind of bullshit is that? I’ve never drawn at work. I probably never will.
I guess I have to suck it up and realize, in my whole art-loving life, after all the fights I had with my parents go to “art school,” I am now as far away from art as I could have ever imagined. I have become a starving cubicle dwelling office slave, and that’s the wimpiest thing I could ever imagine myself doing.
So, when they asked J Mascis: “So why do you do it?” he replied, “I dunno. Just because I can.” I have to agree with my ol’ buddy J. Just because we can and you can’t, the burden of ridding the world of bad kerning falls squarely on our shoulders. At the end of Spiderman, Peter Parker lamented, “with great power lies great responsibility.”
Well, it’s already 8:00 a.m., and once again, I’m off to the office to save the world.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Keeping Traditions Alive Underneath New York City
“Why do you want to interview me? I have nothing interesting to say!” protested Mr. Ng, a loud-voiced man in his 60s sitting on a crate on the Grand Central 4 train platform. He was clutching on to his Er-Hu, a 2-stringed Chinese violin, and behind him was an old, battered stereo serving as his backup band. “I am not doing this for any noble cause. I just need to eat!” He promptly turned his face the other way and started playing a melancholic traditional Chinese melody. Halfway into the song, he finally sighed and pressed the stop button on the stereo. “What do you want to know?”
Mr. Ng is one of many Chinese old men playing traditional instruments in the subway stations of New York. In addition to the Er-Hu, instruments used include the Gu-Zheng, an upward facing zither, and the Sheng, a mouth organ. Most of them speak little or no English, yet they throw in popular American tunes in between their traditional Chinese repertoire to connect with local culture. Back in China, traditional music has been on a long decline since to the Cultural Revolution, which banned everything traditional from 1966 to 1976. After the ban was lifted, mass globalization prevented a substantial revival of traditions. How did these men, skilled performers of a dying art, end up playing underground in a foreign land? Was this what they envisioned when they left behind everything familiar to start a new life in the land of opportunity?
Mr. Ng arrived in New York in 2003, when relatives told him he could make a lot of money here. However, he ended up losing his job at a Chinese restaurant and began playing Er-Hu in the subway. He claims that he only makes $10 to $20 from a strenuous eight-hour day of playing, which barely covers his rent and food costs. “My children all got married and moved out, and they refuse to give me any money. What can I do? I’ll never be able to get another job at this age.” When the topic shifts to music, however, his face brightens up. “I was a farmer in China. Whenever I wasn’t farming, I was playing music. Whenever our village or nearby villages had festivals, I’d be there performing!” Suddenly, he snaps back to reality, and his tone falls solemn. “But right now, I have to do it just so I don’t starve.” He refused to take any pictures. “Please don’t do that. I don't want anyone to see me playing music in the subway. It’s really shameful!”
Mr. Tam, who also plays the Er-Hu, tells a more fortunate story, and emphasizes that he plays for both interest and money. Now retired, he immigrated with his family to New York about a decade ago, and spent most of his spare time playing Er-Hu with other Chinese musicians in Columbus Park in Chinatown. “You see, it’s fun to play with other people, but sometimes I wanted to play alone. That’s when I started going into the subway, also to make some extra money.” Music, to him, is simply a support for his spirit, something to occupy his time in his old age. “It’s mostly for the feeling of satisfaction when someone appreciates my music, especially Americans.” However, when asked about the CDs he had out for sale in front of him, he quickly covered them up with a black cloth and refused to talk further.
Whether their outlook was close to that of Mr. Tam or Mr. Ng, most of the musicians were very wary of strangers and hesitant to disclose much information. “How do I know if you’re not out to do me harm? What if you report me to the police?” cried one. Indeed, arrests are quite common. Mr. Ng even had his Er-Hu confiscated by the NYPD and finally managed to retrieve it a week later. It also doesn't help that in Chinese culture, playing music on the street for money is considered shameful and equivalent to begging. Mr. Li, however, playing on the F train platform at 14th street, seemed to have a different mindset. He was open, proud of his talent, and more than happy to talk and take photos. When asked why he was playing in a less busy station, he replied with a big grin, “It’s quieter and warmer in this station. Plus, if you play from your heart, you will always make money wherever you play.”
Arriving in New York in 1999, he went through what most immigrants endure – making about $100 a week working long hours in a garment factory. The factory would often close, and he would go through stretches of no income. In 2001, he took his instrument underground. Now that he has steady work in a Chinese restaurant, he still frequents the subway on his days off. “I usually play a set of two to three hours, take a break, and play another set. On good days, I can make up to $60 a day.” A few years ago, people often handed him $20 bills. Now with the sagging economy, and due to the increasing number of Chinese musicians in the subway, he doesn't make as much.
Mr. Li stresses that he truly treats his music as an art. “Mental state is very important. Only in a good mental state can you convey the meaning and essence of the song to listeners. When I am not in a good mental state, I just sit and practice,” he explains. “Music has a life. You can’t compromise, or else your music won’t move people.” He hopes to save money, move back to China and invest in a musical theater production. “I’m 57 years old, but my heart is still young. I still have dreams.” His family thinks he’s crazy, but he says, “even if the venture fails, we won’t be flat-out broke. I want to do this before I become too old to do anything.”
There isn’t a definite answer to the lives of these musicians. Although most of them have similar origins as immigrants searching for a better life, different experiences and living conditions gave them different mentalities and expectations. Whatever their motivations are, as the popularity of traditional music in China declines to Western-style pop, these New York musicians are keeping alive a sound of a distant past.
Mr. Ng is one of many Chinese old men playing traditional instruments in the subway stations of New York. In addition to the Er-Hu, instruments used include the Gu-Zheng, an upward facing zither, and the Sheng, a mouth organ. Most of them speak little or no English, yet they throw in popular American tunes in between their traditional Chinese repertoire to connect with local culture. Back in China, traditional music has been on a long decline since to the Cultural Revolution, which banned everything traditional from 1966 to 1976. After the ban was lifted, mass globalization prevented a substantial revival of traditions. How did these men, skilled performers of a dying art, end up playing underground in a foreign land? Was this what they envisioned when they left behind everything familiar to start a new life in the land of opportunity?
Mr. Ng arrived in New York in 2003, when relatives told him he could make a lot of money here. However, he ended up losing his job at a Chinese restaurant and began playing Er-Hu in the subway. He claims that he only makes $10 to $20 from a strenuous eight-hour day of playing, which barely covers his rent and food costs. “My children all got married and moved out, and they refuse to give me any money. What can I do? I’ll never be able to get another job at this age.” When the topic shifts to music, however, his face brightens up. “I was a farmer in China. Whenever I wasn’t farming, I was playing music. Whenever our village or nearby villages had festivals, I’d be there performing!” Suddenly, he snaps back to reality, and his tone falls solemn. “But right now, I have to do it just so I don’t starve.” He refused to take any pictures. “Please don’t do that. I don't want anyone to see me playing music in the subway. It’s really shameful!”
Mr. Tam, who also plays the Er-Hu, tells a more fortunate story, and emphasizes that he plays for both interest and money. Now retired, he immigrated with his family to New York about a decade ago, and spent most of his spare time playing Er-Hu with other Chinese musicians in Columbus Park in Chinatown. “You see, it’s fun to play with other people, but sometimes I wanted to play alone. That’s when I started going into the subway, also to make some extra money.” Music, to him, is simply a support for his spirit, something to occupy his time in his old age. “It’s mostly for the feeling of satisfaction when someone appreciates my music, especially Americans.” However, when asked about the CDs he had out for sale in front of him, he quickly covered them up with a black cloth and refused to talk further.
Whether their outlook was close to that of Mr. Tam or Mr. Ng, most of the musicians were very wary of strangers and hesitant to disclose much information. “How do I know if you’re not out to do me harm? What if you report me to the police?” cried one. Indeed, arrests are quite common. Mr. Ng even had his Er-Hu confiscated by the NYPD and finally managed to retrieve it a week later. It also doesn't help that in Chinese culture, playing music on the street for money is considered shameful and equivalent to begging. Mr. Li, however, playing on the F train platform at 14th street, seemed to have a different mindset. He was open, proud of his talent, and more than happy to talk and take photos. When asked why he was playing in a less busy station, he replied with a big grin, “It’s quieter and warmer in this station. Plus, if you play from your heart, you will always make money wherever you play.”
Arriving in New York in 1999, he went through what most immigrants endure – making about $100 a week working long hours in a garment factory. The factory would often close, and he would go through stretches of no income. In 2001, he took his instrument underground. Now that he has steady work in a Chinese restaurant, he still frequents the subway on his days off. “I usually play a set of two to three hours, take a break, and play another set. On good days, I can make up to $60 a day.” A few years ago, people often handed him $20 bills. Now with the sagging economy, and due to the increasing number of Chinese musicians in the subway, he doesn't make as much.
Mr. Li stresses that he truly treats his music as an art. “Mental state is very important. Only in a good mental state can you convey the meaning and essence of the song to listeners. When I am not in a good mental state, I just sit and practice,” he explains. “Music has a life. You can’t compromise, or else your music won’t move people.” He hopes to save money, move back to China and invest in a musical theater production. “I’m 57 years old, but my heart is still young. I still have dreams.” His family thinks he’s crazy, but he says, “even if the venture fails, we won’t be flat-out broke. I want to do this before I become too old to do anything.”
There isn’t a definite answer to the lives of these musicians. Although most of them have similar origins as immigrants searching for a better life, different experiences and living conditions gave them different mentalities and expectations. Whatever their motivations are, as the popularity of traditional music in China declines to Western-style pop, these New York musicians are keeping alive a sound of a distant past.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The Return of Cambodian Food
Taking refuge from the sweltering sun in a dimly lit restaurant in Siem Reap, I found myself eating Amok for the third day straight. Claiming the honor of Cambodia's National Dish, Amok is a curry fish stew wrapped in banana leaves. Over 5 short days, I grew quite fond of Cambodian cuisine, which tasted like a milder and sweeter cross between Thai and Vietnamese.
Back in New York, I was still craving the flavorful but not too heavy Amok. I headed to Cambodian Cuisine in Brooklyn, only to find a BBQ restaurant in its place. I found out that they attempted to move to Manhattan 3 years ago, and due to construction and permit problems, never managed to open. Cambodian food in New York had ceased to exist.
5 months later, word was out that Cambodian food was back. Not only one, but two restaurants – the former Brooklyn eatery finally reopened in the Upper East Side, and Kampuchea, a trendy Cambodian-inspired lounge debuted downtown. We decided to sample the more traditional fare uptown.
Walking down Third Avenue, to 93rd street, I was puzzled by the move – I thought their former location was better – more prominent at a busier intersection in a neighborhood with more students and young people that would eat out. Greeted by a flowery scent as we opened the door, we entered a large, modestly decorated space – with high ceilings and a bar on the side. With only a few Cambodian instruments and photographs highlighting the walls, it felt somewhere between a Thai lounge and pizzeria, reminding me of the austere family-style restaurants in French colonial buildings in Siem Reap. Traditional music trickled out from the back, faint enough that we could just about hear our voices echo off the open front space.
The staff was earnest and attentive. I started with Cambodian Ice Tea, which tasted exactly like Thai Ice Tea. We ordered Mee Bamphong – crispy rice noodles, and of course, Amok, only that instead of fish, it was a chicken dish. The waitress told us that they couldn't find the specific fish for Amok, and to keep everything fresh, they substituted with chicken. The noodles, fried with bean sprouts and peanuts, had a distinct coconut aroma and tasted decent, but didn't really stand out. The Amok was surprising – though in my short time in Cambodia I had already encountered various forms of Amok, this one was a flat chicken patty topped with flower shaped red pepper, resting on a bed of collard greens. When I took a bite though, it did indeed taste authentic aside from the main ingredient, laded with lemongrass and galangal, and topped with rich coconut milk curd. The chicken was tender and juicy, and I didn't have a problem with it not being fish. The only complaint was that it was undersized for the price.
Afterwards, the friendly hostess came over to thank us and I told her I would definitely return, and try the many other items on the long menu.
Back in New York, I was still craving the flavorful but not too heavy Amok. I headed to Cambodian Cuisine in Brooklyn, only to find a BBQ restaurant in its place. I found out that they attempted to move to Manhattan 3 years ago, and due to construction and permit problems, never managed to open. Cambodian food in New York had ceased to exist.
5 months later, word was out that Cambodian food was back. Not only one, but two restaurants – the former Brooklyn eatery finally reopened in the Upper East Side, and Kampuchea, a trendy Cambodian-inspired lounge debuted downtown. We decided to sample the more traditional fare uptown.
Walking down Third Avenue, to 93rd street, I was puzzled by the move – I thought their former location was better – more prominent at a busier intersection in a neighborhood with more students and young people that would eat out. Greeted by a flowery scent as we opened the door, we entered a large, modestly decorated space – with high ceilings and a bar on the side. With only a few Cambodian instruments and photographs highlighting the walls, it felt somewhere between a Thai lounge and pizzeria, reminding me of the austere family-style restaurants in French colonial buildings in Siem Reap. Traditional music trickled out from the back, faint enough that we could just about hear our voices echo off the open front space.
The staff was earnest and attentive. I started with Cambodian Ice Tea, which tasted exactly like Thai Ice Tea. We ordered Mee Bamphong – crispy rice noodles, and of course, Amok, only that instead of fish, it was a chicken dish. The waitress told us that they couldn't find the specific fish for Amok, and to keep everything fresh, they substituted with chicken. The noodles, fried with bean sprouts and peanuts, had a distinct coconut aroma and tasted decent, but didn't really stand out. The Amok was surprising – though in my short time in Cambodia I had already encountered various forms of Amok, this one was a flat chicken patty topped with flower shaped red pepper, resting on a bed of collard greens. When I took a bite though, it did indeed taste authentic aside from the main ingredient, laded with lemongrass and galangal, and topped with rich coconut milk curd. The chicken was tender and juicy, and I didn't have a problem with it not being fish. The only complaint was that it was undersized for the price.
Afterwards, the friendly hostess came over to thank us and I told her I would definitely return, and try the many other items on the long menu.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Searching for a Way of Life in the Mexican Jungle
I had no idea what was in store for me when I joined World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. I’d heard about the organization through my sister, whose friend was picking grapes in Italy. Nearing year’s end, I had unused vacation days and being unhappy with my career, I certainly didn’t feel like lying on the beach sipping a beer.
I had grown so sick of corporate life – but didn’t know much about nor dare consider other lifestyles besides it. To even slightly deviate from the “path to success” in a traditional Chinese family would immediately have me branded as the “Bad Son” who brings shame to my parents. Nevertheless, I contacted Goyo Morgan, who runs a healing center and farm in the Yucatan jungle in Mexico. Not knowing a word of Spanish, I set out to experience a way of life as far as skyscrapers and cubicles as I could find.
I arrived in Puerto Morelos, a quiet fishing town hidden between bustling Cancun and Playa del Carmen, where I was to meet Victor, the co-owner of the farm. I ate breakfast in a café on the town square as a muscular, long-haired, Mayan man reminiscent of Tarzan walked in. “Are you Han?” he asked. “Let’s go.” I got in his truck and we drove inland. Like me, Victor used to be a graphic designer. He was dating Goyo’s daughter when Goyo asked him to join his venture. So he quit his job, put away his computer, and moved here. The healing center was under construction, and at that time they provided jungle tours and Temazcal – a Mayan herbal sauna where people sit in a dark, heated room playing musical instruments, singing and chanting whatever came to mind. There was no electricity or running water – we used gas lamps and hauled water from a well.
Goyo was another interesting character. A true adventurer originally from Washington, he has lived in the area for 32 years, working as a fisherman, jungle guide, and ecologist. His dream was to create a Mayan healing center that grew its own crops and eventually become self-sustaining.
Time flew by quickly – I slept and woke by sunset and sunrise, cooked breakfast, and performed tasks ranging from planting herbs, building sheds, shoveling manure, to preparing for Temazcals. I was also in charge of painting Mayan-themed murals on the walls. Then we would drive to town to use the Internet and hang out by the beach. I met two more coworkers – June, a free-spirited American college student taking a year off, and Nelson, a knowledgeable Mayan Eco-tourism student doing field research.
Over two weeks, I felt completely alive. I didn’t bother to check my email, and enjoyed my best sleep in months. Though I’m not sure if I wanted to live without electricity and water for an extended time, I saw people living differently, and they were thriving. I didn’t find exactly what I wanted, but between chants in the Temazcal, furiously pounding on a xylophone, I saw a world of possibilities.
I had grown so sick of corporate life – but didn’t know much about nor dare consider other lifestyles besides it. To even slightly deviate from the “path to success” in a traditional Chinese family would immediately have me branded as the “Bad Son” who brings shame to my parents. Nevertheless, I contacted Goyo Morgan, who runs a healing center and farm in the Yucatan jungle in Mexico. Not knowing a word of Spanish, I set out to experience a way of life as far as skyscrapers and cubicles as I could find.
I arrived in Puerto Morelos, a quiet fishing town hidden between bustling Cancun and Playa del Carmen, where I was to meet Victor, the co-owner of the farm. I ate breakfast in a café on the town square as a muscular, long-haired, Mayan man reminiscent of Tarzan walked in. “Are you Han?” he asked. “Let’s go.” I got in his truck and we drove inland. Like me, Victor used to be a graphic designer. He was dating Goyo’s daughter when Goyo asked him to join his venture. So he quit his job, put away his computer, and moved here. The healing center was under construction, and at that time they provided jungle tours and Temazcal – a Mayan herbal sauna where people sit in a dark, heated room playing musical instruments, singing and chanting whatever came to mind. There was no electricity or running water – we used gas lamps and hauled water from a well.
Goyo was another interesting character. A true adventurer originally from Washington, he has lived in the area for 32 years, working as a fisherman, jungle guide, and ecologist. His dream was to create a Mayan healing center that grew its own crops and eventually become self-sustaining.
Time flew by quickly – I slept and woke by sunset and sunrise, cooked breakfast, and performed tasks ranging from planting herbs, building sheds, shoveling manure, to preparing for Temazcals. I was also in charge of painting Mayan-themed murals on the walls. Then we would drive to town to use the Internet and hang out by the beach. I met two more coworkers – June, a free-spirited American college student taking a year off, and Nelson, a knowledgeable Mayan Eco-tourism student doing field research.
Over two weeks, I felt completely alive. I didn’t bother to check my email, and enjoyed my best sleep in months. Though I’m not sure if I wanted to live without electricity and water for an extended time, I saw people living differently, and they were thriving. I didn’t find exactly what I wanted, but between chants in the Temazcal, furiously pounding on a xylophone, I saw a world of possibilities.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Second Street Blues
It was a sunny Monday afternoon, and I was strolling down Second Street in Memphis, Tennessee. I had just stopped at the Red Fish Gallery, and interviewed owner Buck Thomas, a successful painter and carpenter. “I’m as happy as I can be,” he told me. Couple blocks down, Court Square Park was filled with homeless people sitting around. I wanted to hear the thoughts of someone on other end of the spectrum of the same street. I met 35 year old Elmore Lewis in front of the Second Street Deli, when he asked me for a quarter.
Are you from Memphis?
Yes, grew up south of here. Smith Street, to be exact.
Are you looking for a job?
Well, I’m tryin’ to find work at the temporary service down the street, it’s called LSI. Haven’t heard back from them yet. In fact, yesterday, the FedEx Forum was giving out applications for all kinds of jobs. But they couldn’t contact me ‘cause I don’t got a home phone. You know, I’m homeless. I stay at the Memphis home mission over there sometimes.
What was your last job?
I was working a temporary job in a Nashville rescue mission. Good city, Nashville.
Why did you leave Nashville then?
My brother passed through there and brought me back here. I’m trying to get my disability now, you know.
Did you have a home before?
Yeah, I was living in the projects down on Sterling and Delaware. They tore it down many years ago.
Is that why you left?
Yeah, we had to leave. Later on, they rebuilt and renovated it though.
But you didn’t go back?
No, I didn’t. My family moved away, and I’ve been out here since.
Why didn’t you go with them?
To be honest with you, I was locked up. In jail. Served 13 years of a 15-year sentence and was let out on May 17th, 2007. Now I’m just trying to get back into society.
Would you mind telling me what you were locked up for?
Second-degree murder. I didn’t do it though, I took a charge for a friend. Some friend he was. Back then, everybody was scared of him, and I just ended up in jail for him.
What’s your ideal job right now?
I just really want to do cleaning.
What did you want to do when you were a kid?
Well, really I gotta tell you, [chuckles] what I wanted to do was… to be some kind of tutor. For little children, maybe Special Ed, people with disabilities and all that.
Do you still think you can accomplish that?
Yeah, I probably can. Once I get a job and get settled, maybe I could volunteer somewhere.
Anything you want to add?
Well, it’d be great if you could give me 2 or 3 dollars so I could buy a Happy Meal.
Are you from Memphis?
Yes, grew up south of here. Smith Street, to be exact.
Are you looking for a job?
Well, I’m tryin’ to find work at the temporary service down the street, it’s called LSI. Haven’t heard back from them yet. In fact, yesterday, the FedEx Forum was giving out applications for all kinds of jobs. But they couldn’t contact me ‘cause I don’t got a home phone. You know, I’m homeless. I stay at the Memphis home mission over there sometimes.
What was your last job?
I was working a temporary job in a Nashville rescue mission. Good city, Nashville.
Why did you leave Nashville then?
My brother passed through there and brought me back here. I’m trying to get my disability now, you know.
Did you have a home before?
Yeah, I was living in the projects down on Sterling and Delaware. They tore it down many years ago.
Is that why you left?
Yeah, we had to leave. Later on, they rebuilt and renovated it though.
But you didn’t go back?
No, I didn’t. My family moved away, and I’ve been out here since.
Why didn’t you go with them?
To be honest with you, I was locked up. In jail. Served 13 years of a 15-year sentence and was let out on May 17th, 2007. Now I’m just trying to get back into society.
Would you mind telling me what you were locked up for?
Second-degree murder. I didn’t do it though, I took a charge for a friend. Some friend he was. Back then, everybody was scared of him, and I just ended up in jail for him.
What’s your ideal job right now?
I just really want to do cleaning.
What did you want to do when you were a kid?
Well, really I gotta tell you, [chuckles] what I wanted to do was… to be some kind of tutor. For little children, maybe Special Ed, people with disabilities and all that.
Do you still think you can accomplish that?
Yeah, I probably can. Once I get a job and get settled, maybe I could volunteer somewhere.
Anything you want to add?
Well, it’d be great if you could give me 2 or 3 dollars so I could buy a Happy Meal.
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