Friday, April 11, 2014

Today's Other Thought

Today's Thought

Somehow, magically, this is on the internet. I'm not sure whether it is supposed to be there or not. I would take the moment however to enjoy it in case it is of the latter variety of supposes.

Great Ocean Quarterly & Acid

A few days ago I had a nice conversation with someone who runs an online art gallery. We touched on artistic process, sensibilities and value systems. We talked about archiving and collecting. I mentioned that I used to keep notebooks of drawings and writings but that those things were inevitably replaced by blogging, something I had conceived of as an easier daily practice at some point, the argument being that the blog, being inherently public, offers the kind of pressure to produce that having an audience (however imagined and fictional) provides. The idea that someone somewhere just might be waiting for that next statement or observation or flight of fancy or experiment, the idea that there might be someone like that in some possible world at least, is enough to coerce laziness to scram. In fact, over the years blogging has done just that. I've been able to practice writing, to one degree or another. I've been able to create little worlds of process that have allowed me to stake out a little mental space for myself apart from the rest of my life. But when I mentioned this move away from the overtly tactile process of keeping a physical journal, full of hand written notes and little sketches and drawings, I think she sorta got a screwed up look on her face, a little crinkling of the nose, as if she'd momentarily smelled something disappointing. My apologetic reaction to that was to assure her that I someday I will return to sketching and writing in my books, a thought that has occurred to me but I'd never really given much weight. As I said it though, I realized how true that statement is. I will return to the notebooks.

How do magazines continue? How do they stay relevant? It is easy to see why the garden variety daily newspaper would be overcome by the hourly, minutely, news cycle digital media offers. You'd think magazines would go the same route. But magazines are something different. Somehow the online glossy just doesn't have that mystique, that magical component of physical artifact still playing upon our heart strings just so. In the best cases, a magazine, the physical thing itself, becomes a little art gallery of imagery, and a little library of thought that's all yours. There it is on the shelf, or the table or wherever, a kind of inspirational security blanket that might remind you that poetry isn't dead, that travel writing isn't dead, that hard work isn't dead.

A couple really rad ones. Magazines that warm the literary heart. Thanks to Tommy Colla for keeping a GOQ for me which inspired me to finally subscribe after months of promising to do so. Glad I did. And Acid there, I bought that little magazine a while ago and have been waiting for the next round ever since.  Now I gotta go find it.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Notes From Mastastico

Big love for the 35mm around here. Shit, we have big love for the 120 around here. Mastastico sent this through the other day. On point as usual. Come see Johnny Panessa's Mastic show tomorrow night at the PF Gallery. Come a fellow surfer...

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Happening : Johnny Panessa, Along The Forge at PF Gallery

Original Mastician Johnny Panessa, surfer, skateboarder and street photographer, opens an important show Friday night at Picture Farm Gallery. 6-10 pm. Beer and wine, great photography and a real message.

Sunday, March 30, 2014


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Thursday, March 27, 2014

A Farewell To Winter

You easily psych yourself up to surf. You've got your six mil winter suit with those five mil gloves and those seven mil booties, you're practically praying for snow. The romantic ideal of being that guy just propels you into full on frigid surf froth. Especially when you're heading out from your cozy home in your cozy car, your suit quickly becoming a sweaty hot box as you hustle to the water's edge.
It's the water's edge that kills you.
You look out, feeling the proximity of that churning, ice-cream headache, face-stinging paddle and realize you've made a terrible miscalculation. But you blunder on, the pure shame forcing you forth into the nettle-like abyss of sub-40˚ water. After the sputtering lobster claw flailing torture, you heap yourself upon your board just that side of the lineup as that second ring of cold water hell focuses uncomfortably into view.
Or, I should say, out of it. This moment you realize just how hobbled you are in that coffin-like hood, peripheral vision blacked out completely. This is when you realize just how important hearing is to your whole wave catching mojo.
These foundational, guttural limitations dawn on you in such nauseating succession, you're sure you'll paddle in after your first take over the falls. It's all too much.
Then a wave chooses you, dropping you in, and that bizarre, one of a kind insta-joy relief sets in.
You breathe, laugh a little. You were right all along.
Until you gotta get outta that suit.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

California Dreaming

It's either excellence or efficiency. Or at least the striving to be one of the two. That whole cliche ven diagram of cheap-good-fast thing usually holds true. Of course "good" is a pretty malleable idea. And fast definitely has its perspective issues. And frankly, what's inexpensive to me, is certainly not inexpensive to someone else. Does this all bear repeating? No? So yeah, what were we talking about? California! C Street! Rusty Ritenour used to wait for me in the parking lot at New Dorm while I snoozed long past the alarm in my cozy hole in Clark Q. I could hit that snooze button all I liked as Geoff, my deaf roommate, needed his specially timed lamp to get him outta bed. I'd role over eventually, hustle out to that well-warmed red pickup, Rusty would give me a bad look and we'd head down to C Street. I don't know why always C Street. Past Biltmore, Hammonds, Miramar, Sharkies, whatever was happening in Summerland and Carp, past Rincon and Little Rincon and Mondos and the overpass-I-always-forget-the-name-of. But there we'd be. Cold, early in the morning. God I love C Street.