Author: Justin & Ersun

Corky Pointillism

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My mom has gained a recent obsession with corks as an artistic medium. (Largely due to a Pinterest-inspired addiction to recycled crafts).  Past projects have ranged from water bottle sunflowers to ceramic tile coasters. The cork craze has been one of the more interesting mediums and has produced some of the nicest art. Oddly enough, many of her projects have involved minimum effort over a long period of time. At least so far. It takes more than a few weeks to empty dozens of wine bottles to obtain an ample cork supply. Many of these corks have ended up in glass vases of varying shapes, among which she has sprinkled glass bulbs or tied complementary ribbons. The corks have an unobtrusive color to most any decor, plus a subtle shading of red or purple from the wine, rendering each cork marginally unique. This snowflake affect serves well to projects that capitalize off consistent difference. One such example is pointillism.

As a traditional painting technique, famous in works such as Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte (Un dimanche après-midi à l’Ile de la Grande Jatte) by Georges Seurat, pointillism embodies the idea of consistent difference. A collection of numerous similar pieces forms an image out of the pieces’ minor differences. As the name suggests, pointillism is the use of points in a work of art. Like pixels on a television set, the points are colored (or not colored) dots of similar size and shape that work together to form something larger. Traditionally, it has been used in painting, but has since been appropriated to ink drawings, soup cans, and even corks.

While my mom’s current project is not a pointillistic mosaic (she’s currently working on a wreath), there are some great works of corky pointillism on the Internet.

Cork Art

Like any art form, the beauty lies in the process of creation. Since it would take years to collect the corks and a good deal of time to assemble them into a whole, the dedication to assembling these works is impressive. But let’s hope Scott Gundersen, the cork artist pictured above, didn’t drink all that wine himself. Perhaps the process of creating this art is something that could celebrate community? A local winery where visitors can have a bottle and contribute their cork to something bigger. It may be a cool project. And if people don’t feel motivated to create art together, maybe they could donate their corks to someone who could?

I don’t know about you, but I’d love some cork pants.

Cork Pants

A List of Writing Mediums

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Some scientific research concluded that writing in cursive better encodes information into your brain. This is due to the number of neurons that are fired with pen-strokes, as a wide variety of hand movements are required. Cursory writing accomplishes this goal more effectively than other forms of writing. Printing by hand is the next most optimal means to encoding thoughts. Typing fires the least neurons, so this is the least effective for memory. It is, however, the fastest, and also rather unavoidable in today’s world. After spending so much time in front of a screen, we get caught in a rut of typing and information cascades.

In the age of information overload, reductionism is a coping mechanism. Lists are a means of reductionism. So to combat the bulk of information you are overloaded with on daily basis, I’m going to present a list. This list will be a compilation of different writing mediums you could explore–both on and off the screen. Experimenting with new mediums may change the way we remember and relate information. And that’s important. We could generate new thoughts, just be placing them on a different surface.

So here are 35 new mediums to try:

1. Plastic milk jugs

2. Dried leaves

3. Whiteboards

4. Blackboards

5. Corkboards

6. Rocks of varying shapes and sizes

7. Wax paper

8. Your body

9. Somebody else’s body, with verbal consent

10. Napkins

11. Money, but you didn’t get the idea from me

12. Apples

13. Cardboard

14. Glass panels

15. Rubber erasers, for the irony

16. Paper plates

17. Tin foil

18. Candy wrappers

19. Bricks

20. Brick walls

21. Drywall

22. Tabletops

23. Table bottoms; watch out for gum

24. Table legs

25. Seashells

26. Turtle shells

27. On computer screens

28. On the sides of pencils

29. Watermelons

30. 2×4 boards

31. Dead skin

32. Chicken bones

33. Jeans

34. Toilet paper

35. Your bed sheets

This list is not conclusive. Feel free to add more for yourself. The process of writing on different mediums, even if the words/ideas do not change, may make you think about the writing in a different way. This divergent thinking may help you overcome mental road blocks. It is a worthwhile activity, I think. So explore. Let your pen roam wild. Bleed ink on inappropriate places. You’ll never know what you may find.

The Blackbird

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I don’t like writing about music. To be honest, I don’t really like music. I respect it as an art form–quite highly, especially as I hold no talent in it. But music is not central to my life. Most people—that I’ve met—claim they couldn’t live without music. Almost every piece of writing about music—that I’ve read—illustrates music as such a beautiful and magical thing. I guess I’m just blind to the magic. Deaf, rather.

Many pretentious listeners claim that popular or electronic (if there’s a difference) music is awful and they only listen to classical composition. There seems to be a strange attraction to classic rock, jazz, and other genres of song too, but classical orchestras and pianos pieces seem to be prime examples of good, “quality” music. To fill my auditory palette, I’ve tried listening to “Classical Radio” on Pandora. After subjecting myself to most of these pieces, which some scientific articles claim to improve mental ability and health, I’ve come to somewhat understand the appeal. The lack of lyrics and electronic intervention to iron out audio wrinkles makes them somewhat natural. They hold a bit of imperfection, or at least a chance of it. They seem to create more pure sounds. This being said, I still wasn’t convinced that the music was worthwhile or beautiful. It was still something I could live without.

I’ve recently discovered Olivier Messiaen. Like many composers, he’s some French guy who devoted himself to the study of sound. Most of his work, like that of other composers, can be emotionally engaging and all that jazz. Actually, not jazz—different genre. Anyway, most of his work, despite some quirks that may or may not be pleasing to the ear, did not interest me. But then I found his Le merle noir, “The Blackbird.” You can listen to it on YouTube if you’d like.

The Blackbird is a chamber work designed to mimic the birdsongs of blackbirds. Messiaen explores the various cries, of terror and beckoning of the blackbird. I enjoyed the shrill moments in the piece, the sudden jolts and lulls, that mirrored the natural world. Judging by the comments on YouTube, the piece has had positive reception. This kind of surprised me, considering I enjoyed listening to it. There wasn’t a consistent melody or “beat”—things that I’d normally miss and others would normally love. Rather it was true; well-representative of the natural entity it was imitating. The natural birdsong of the blackbird is not innately beautiful (or heard as such), but Messiaen’s work displays it in this light. It gives an honest illustration and enables us to enjoy it. This is something that makes music useful: the ability to make the mundane beautiful. For me, this was done in The Blackbird.

Kiwi!

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For his master’s thesis, an animation student created a short film about a kiwi who followed its dreams to the end. We’re talking about the bird, not the fruit. Unlike other birds, the kiwi is incapable of flight. It—actually, let’s engender it—he, only has small, stubbed wings that cannot lift him into the air. Longing to achieve flight, the kiwi spends what appears to be years constructing a forest on the vertical face of a cliff. Once built, the kiwi jumps off the cliff and “flies” through a forest, fulfilling a lifelong goal. The film ends as bittersweet tears stream from his eyes. The animation fades to black. We realize we’ve just witnessed a suicide.

The video, you can watch it here on YouTube, has raised a good deal of controversy in the comments.

Much of the discussion revolves around whether the film gives positive or negative messages. Positive, in that the kiwi had finally achieved his dreams. Negative, in that the kiwi had killed himself in the pursuit of something outside his limits. Both arguments are valid, and the arguments continue for 78,000+ comments (at the time of this posting) with no mutually decided “right” answer. Discussions like this are numerous. Especially so on the Internet. Especially so over a good piece of art. And “Kiwi!” is just that.

It’s just art.

An impressive work of art, no doubt, that raises good discussion and stirs the pot, making viewers feel something. But the important thing to realize is that the video is neither “good” nor “bad” in isolation; like most things, it can be reflected in positive and negative light. Regardless of this morally ambiguous identity, the film explores an important concept: potential vs. desire.

There’s a good mathematical way of looking at this. (I apologize in advance; I know this is an art blog). If you take piano playing, for example, and allot musical ability on a scale of one to twenty-five, you can score pianists based on two parameters—potential and desire—each worth one to five points. Potential you cannot control. Potential is one’s natural aptitude for piano playing. Desire you can control. Desire is the amount of time and energy one invests in something. For some people, they are born with an affinity for piano playing, maybe at a score of five. If these people were to invest a good deal of time (a four or five on the desire scale) into piano playing, they could be very accomplished in the art, receiving a cumulative total of twenty to twenty-five. This is great, for they reached their full potential. But then there are other people. These people have little to no affinity for piano playing, so their potential score is a one. This means if they invested their full effort into the art, the highest score they can achieve is five. This is the kiwi. The kiwi has little potential for flight, so despite his hard work, he’ll never be that good. Ergo, he dies trying.

This is sad. But we can find consolation in final success. Although he spent his whole life laboring toward short-lived benefits, he ultimately achieved what he wanted—flight. If you leave it at that, you can step away from the film with a happy feeling. The kiwi had a goal-driven life and that is admirable.

Or you can look at the economics of the situation. The kiwi invested his efforts in a bad return on investment. That was stupid, and we can pity him for it. But the film only becomes depressing when think about the kiwi’s potential. Sure, the kiwi may not have held much potential for flight, but what about some unknown potential that he never tapped into? The kiwi could’ve held a strong affinity for swimming, but he never invested the effort. The kiwi died without reaching his full potential. He pursued his passion and that passion destroyed him.

Do you own your dreams? Or do your dreams own you?

That’s what the animation has presented. Some say that’s good, others say it’s bad.

It’s just art.

Une Douce Resignation

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When baby birds are a certain age, their mother shoves them out of the nest. In the Bible, after God created the universe and the life that inhabits it, He rested and let it be. Creation follows this pattern: investment and resignation.

In every art discipline, there is a point where the artist needs to separate herself from the piece; to resign and take a break. After hours, days, and perhaps years of devotion to a project, the creator has given everything to their work and there is nothing left to give. Most novelists, musicians, and videographers reach a point in their projects where they are finished. Despite these efforts, they may still feel that the work is incomplete. They notice microscopic errors at a macroscopic level. But the project needs to be done. Countless hours and years may be drained from the artist if they continue with their piece—changing their minds and nitpicking at their work until nothing remains. Artists who don’t heed and press past the point of completion are unhealthy, both for themselves and their creation.

When a creator clings to her work, she betrays herself. She found joy in the conception, but then devoted herself with the burden of construction—sacrificing great time and energy to bring her work to life. When she has given all that she has to give, it is time for her project to move on. To cling onto it will stifle its growth—the blanket that kept it warm becoming a cage to suffocate it. Holding on will make waste of the efforts she has invested. The clingy artists is both the creator and destructor. To avoid the latter, one must resign.

But letting go is bittersweet. It is difficult to resign from one’s passion—the pit in which the artist has poured her heart. But it is necessary, and in letting go, a certain feeling rises. The French call it “une douce resignation.” Sweet resignation.

After one’s heart is poured out, there is nothing left to give. Although this draining may appear to leave one empty, the feeling that remains is anything but. It is a sweet feeling; a satisfaction in completion and accomplishment. Everything in your power has been done, and what follows is out of your control. Your ship, decades in the making, needs to be tested on the waters. It may float, or it may sink. But either outcome is better than keeping it on the shore and wondering what could have been. In resignation is relief.

Shove your birds out of the nest and take a rest. I’m sure they’ll fly.

Omne Trium Perfectum

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Three. Two. One…

…is said to be a lonely number, two is a pair, and three to five is a few. A half dozen is six, a dozen twelve, and everything in between is several. Thirteen is a baker’s dozen, twenty is a score, and more than that is numerous. These are some methods of describing the universal language in the English language. Numbers, although a global constant, are perceived in numerous (ha) lights. By analyzing linguistic structures, one can see the odd variety in numbering systems in different languages and cultures. In French, for instance, the difference between 16 and 10+7 contrasts the English system of 12 and 10+3. There are many of these oddities that differentiate the philosophies behind numbering systems. But there is a universal perception of numbers in art. For art, three is a special number.

When looking at a two-dimensional illustration–a painting or photograph–you will notice that most of them follow the Rule of Thirds: a principle of balance and composition for objects in space. This guideline suggests that elements in a visual design should be placed along equally-spaced horizontal and vertical lines on a canvas, which is therefore divided into three horizontal and three vertical grids. For some scientific reason, we are aesthetically-drawn to images following this rule.

thirds

Also in art, it is typically good practice to use an odd number of focal points. While certain principles of continuity enable groups of four or six to be aesthetically pleasing, most often an odd number of objects–such as three–serve for good balance in composition. It is said that our eyes are often drawn to the center of an image, so by placing an object in the center with secondary objects on either side, we establish not only symmetry, but some odd (as in ‘not even’) form of balance. Three makes this simple.

Humans like three. Not only in visual art, but in the written word as well. This is especially evident in fairy tales, such as “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” the “Three Little Pigs,” and the “Three Blind Mice.” In Latin, this principle is phrased “omne trium perfectum,” which translates to “all things in a set of three are complete.” When three pieces are presented together, a perfect balance is found. The Rule of Three leaves a good taste in the mind; a sense of completeness and satisfaction. It is said that we often remember things in groups of three. In Christian and Catholic faith, there is the Trinity of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Caesar, in saying “veni, vidi, vici” establishes his narrative in a triad–I came, I saw, I conquered. In much of literature, such as Three Musketeers and the Three Spirits of Christmas in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, three appears again and over again. So what?

Numbers are universal, but their embodiment in language and culture are relative. But three manifests itself in the universal language of art. There’s something special about it. Although odd, it brings us balance, clarity, and satisfaction.