Promise Framed
by glindenbach on Aug.07, 2010, under Uncategorized
A picture of a picture. I don’t often have my own work framed. In fact, I don’t often have any work framed, mine or otherwise, and those who’ve gone to a framing shop know that one job of framing can buy a wall’s worth of generic, framed photos from the Mart of Walls, quality notwithstanding. I wanted to go the distance with this.
Actually resting on a keyboard stand... photoshopped out.
Please Drive Safely
by glindenbach on Jul.03, 2010, under Uncategorized
Today a friend shared a video with me on Facebook, and mildly curious, I clicked the play arrow. Two hours later, I’m still thinking about it.
Parts of the video were staged in cutscenes, flashing quickly past and thankfully sparing any long looks at the details. The other footage, sometimes grainy and out of focus, was real. I want to describe the force of what I saw, but really, the pictures and music have an impact of their own and should be seen.
It’s seven minutes and forty one seconds of ordinary people. People like you and I, like your parents, your children. Human beings you know, care about, talked to just yesterday, or are planning to meet later on; perhaps a few minutes drive across town, depending on the traffic. There are busy people intent on getting to their destination while others laugh and joke together. Some of the people are on foot, perhaps crossing the street or taking their children out for a walk. Ordinary people.
I’d like to write something editorial about road rage and cell phones, or my own lack of patience and the consequences of haste. I want to comment on how the frantic, multi-tasking lives we lead can be wrenched from our grasp in mere fractions of seconds and slowed to a grinding halt, followed by a lifetime of pain and remorse.
There’s no need. Please, watch the video.
Promise
by glindenbach on Jun.27, 2010, under Uncategorized
Last October a number of drawings were put together and combined into a piece roughly 11″ x 14″. The concept cames from an idea I had while on vacation last fall, a pivotal moment between two characters in a high and lonely place. A moment in a story with several different possibilities.
Is one of these two individuals good and the other evil? Perhaps she is letting go of a magical bond, the only means by which he can return to his human form, thereby condemning him to live the remainder of his days trapped within the mind of a beast. Maybe the feather was a form of protection that kept her safe from the other, without which she will now suffer a horrible death. Or perhaps love lies between them, a relationship broken. Were they once lion and lioness, and through some chance she chose to become human, now letting go the feather that holds the power of return to her former shape? Or were both of them originally human, the man sent on a terrible quest to win her heart, a captive princess from a tale in a storybook?
The tears in her eyes are a hint, and I imagine two lovers tragically separated. Months and years have passed her by with no news of him, and having faithfully waited, trusting against heartbreak in his safe return, this sunset finds the last traces of hope withered and gone. Climbing to this isolated, lofty height where long ago the story began, she holds a precious wing feather, the enchanted promise between them. Vertigo pulls and taunts her from the edge of the stone columns, and she raises the feather into a wind that stirs from the lands far below.
Eyes glistening, she opens her hand in the swirling wind, even as her lover appears upon the ascending current. The lion roars, straining to reach her as the feather stirs and is released from her fingers, suspended in the air. Once free, the lovers are doomed, their hearts forever torn asunder.
But wait- is the ending written, the page turning, or does the fading sunlight yet paint the pale shadow of the feather upon her fingers?
Robson and Thurlow
by glindenbach on May.15, 2010, under Uncategorized
From hours and days under the unblinking gaze of three monitors, from out of a work week pulling tasks and lists apart simply to reassemble them when completed, I’ve arrived this morning in the rich, uncompressed vacancy of one word and one destination. That word is Saturday.
Yep. A day to be outside, a day for walking, relaxing, and a long, transcendent pause at Starbucks. A week away from coffee gives each swallow of caffeine and sugar a boost as tangible as the warmth of the sun. The latte blends with the upbeat music and the unintelligible, consonant-heavy conversation of the two Polish women sitting nearest me, warriors clad in sunglasses and bracelets who triumphantly compare receipts from the morning sales they’ve pillaged and plundered.
At Robson and Thurlow, people, cars and cultures move and merge, intersect and vanish out of sight upon a stage of asphalt, concrete and storefront glass. On this tourist crawl, most of the women dress to be noticed, with nails manicured, jewellery, sunglasses, and accessories displayed. And no joke to see the men shuffling beside them dressed to be anything but noticed, a blur of T shirts and shorts that could just as easily have followed them out of bed on the slow rise into morning consciousness. What they have in common are the detached expressions of souls in restless limbo, travelers departed from one point who see only another point waiting somewhere in the hours ahead.
Others are present, solitary shadows who live in moments, in the Now, who have no apparent destination and are infinitely more thought-provoking to watch. Lingering, furtively scanning those in the flowing stream, they know the four corners of the intersection too well, too deeply. It would be thoughtless to draw attention to those in such dire straits, and mocking smiles are already too frequent. Yet one individual is singularly noteworthy, a bearded man wearing a ragged winter jacket that more than adequately covers his torso in the heat, hanging down from stooped shoulders over greasy, stained sweats. His is an exercise in hazardous apathy, moving from corner to corner in a square route that recognizes neither traffic nor right of way. The intersection of Robson and Thurlow belongs to him, and he wanders leisurely from one crosswalk to the next, bringing the slow processions of convertibles and SUVs to a full stop. Not a single driver reacts to the interruption. The empty, out-thrust paper cup in his hand silences anyone who might otherwise honk or curse him for the delay, and he shuffles placidly to the next corner.
The warriors beside me collect their plunder and depart, both wielding purse and cell phone like shield and sword. Their replacements are of the traveler set, appearing from out of the paragraphs above. Her hair is long, immaculate, and she is energized, ready for the day ahead. Her partner is not. A surprisingly loud belch brings immediate rebuke from her, and his half-apology, half-denial refers to the drunken events of the night before. She glares, tosses her hair and returns to her cell phone, thumbs dancing as she texts.
The latte is finished, and the walk west through several sun-drenched blocks across the city center sees me home.
