Friday, April 6, 2012

Abstract Realism

Walking along Iona Beach in Richmond... There is a thin ribbon of sand between a branch of Fraser River and the ocean, starting at about 100 feet wide, ending at 10 or less... One can straddle it from one side to the other. You can dip your feet in the salty and rinse it in fresh water without lifting your bum from the sand! It's a very long sand formation filled with washed over logs and rocks. Several kilometers long. In two attempts we couldn't reach the end after a couple hours of walking.

The ocean plays this love and hate game with the river. On a high tide it's so tantalizingly close to the river, yet never touches it. It's probably better that way. Sometimes the taste is better by just imagining it. Sometimes craving is sweeter than the possession. They would probably spoil each other...

We keep walking. The sun is behind the clouds, but every once in a while it uncovers some curious detail in the sand. We grab it by our eyes, store it in the memory cards, we steal bits and peaces of reality. We digitize it.

A band was brought to my attention, becoming popular, named "First Aid Kit". They are coming to Vancouver. Two young girls trying to revamp the hippie movement. They play their songs and covers in very basic ways - acoustic guitar, piano, exotic acoustic instruments, and two angelic voices. They record it raw in the woods. They understand that digitalization of reality is not the best.

They need to reach for the roots. I feel good listening their sound on line. This is what I always believed, and was doing since the 80's through the 90's - the essence of music, the very roots. They are confirming to me that it will never fade away. The essential need  of humans to evoke emotion by very basic music means will never cease. 

I walk... Step on washed over branches, logs, rocks. It feels like exploring new countries, new worlds. Travelling is great, but way over rated. Mostly. Many just go there to pose in front of the important sites so that they can import those proofs and wave it in front of their so called friends. A week or two is nothing to understand a culture. One has to live there for a while. The best part of travelling is not working.

I see worlds under my feet, surrounded by golden sand being washed over by lazy movement of the river, and persistent rocking of the ocean. I keep stealing feverishly. I want it to remain after I'm gone. The unexpected uncovers. A steel wreckage laying around in this pristine spit of nature.Colours faded, rust taking over. Time passing. Is this an abandoned work post? Perhaps still used? The reality becomes abstract. Nature paints masterpieces that will never be discovered. I steal. Grab and stuff my sleeves with it. I want it to remain warm, safe in stolen creativity.

Where are we in all of this? Where are we still going? Looking still for some deeper purpose of our existence quietly and disappointingly admitting that we just might be a part of the critical mass of no ones... We desperately keep robbing the beach of it's beauty. We talk about mediocre art and photography that is selling for thousands and thousands of dollars just because a good sales person can sell the lies to ever so unrefined lovers of the price of art. He questions his photography, he is scared to dare to say it's worth being seen.

We console each other, we boost each others confidence. That's what friends do. It's who you know, the least is about quality today. It's how you wrap it; it's not about the content, but the package. You say it as it is and people run away. They don't like the truth. They will rather hear a sweet lie than face the reality that keeps rusting.

The world is becoming a gray blur. Some things should remain black and white, as right and wrong are. Grayness will bite us in the ass. Our liberation will get out of control. The criminals will ask for the right to commit crime, and one day we will have to let them be, with our hands tied by our own laws.

I prefer colours, with black and white being equal part of it. I take my shots with my iPhone, nothing fancy. He is taking it with a small commercial camera. We agree that it's not about the equipment but the eye and the moment. And the sun comes out peeling off layers of paint over a tin container. I wish I didn't have to add the sharpness to the stolen artifacts afterwards. The tap thing is cool, but does not keep the camera still. It's only a couple clicks though. I wish I could use those to modify my own reality. I also desperately need the Undo feature. Delete too...

Not many people are there today. A naked guy is running after the receding waters of the ocean, he looks terrified jumping around the remaining puddles. His ocean is running away. A Pannonian sailor lost in the sands of the Pacific. The scene is both surreal and unsettling. Beautiful in its unexpectedness though. I could put it in a song...

We broke a sweat. Our talk lasted twice as long as our walk. The sand spit has won as we didn't reach the end again. We left the barges shimmering under the setting sun. The sunset is spectacular. No digitized version can do it justice. We leave the steel garden behind and sit to breath the last rays in. It's a spiritual spot. We feel connected to the sand, to the logs, to all the details of the unassuming refuge. Our friendship just swelled with the returning tide. It's good to be here...

No comments:

Post a Comment