The Lardner Report

Unleash your creative superpowers!

Killer Street Art: Unintended Collaboration

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(Pic #1) Detail of graffiti art outside Comme Des Garcons store on 22nd St. and 10th Avenue in the Chelsea district of Manhattan.

They may be total strangers, but graffiti artists, band promoters, and illegal “poster pasters” often meet on the same gritty, decrepit, forgotten walls that make up our urban landscape.  Over a period of years, they unknowingly create partnerships in art making, and change the face of our neighborhoods – for better or for worse.

Together, layer after layer, they build a sensual, textured, visual story I can’t help but explore and dissect.  If you take the time to discover these hidden-yet-public treasures, you might be surprised by their simple beauty. The experience is free, and if you’re armed with a camera, you might celexa take home  some very sweet original art.

(Pic #2) Earliest known street art: Pompeii

This week I catted around streets in the artsy section of Chelsea in New York. Galleries everywhere, but my art could only be found plastered and sprayed on bricks and mortar. Below, I divided up sections of work from the whole (a large building housing the edgy fashion house, “Commes Des Garcons.”)

Graffiti is nothing new. Archeologists say hundreds of public expressions,  in the form of political opinion and social commentary can be found on the walls of Pompeii — dating back to 79 AD. (Pic #2)

“Papered and sprayed:” Inconspicuous entrance to “Commes Des Garcons” in Chelsea.

The Art Of Surrender

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Tom McKenney – “The Man in the Hat” – Los Angeles Cameraman

I have a certain expectation when my cell phone chirps with an incoming text message. It’s usually one of two things: my husband punishing me for not being home, by sending me a photograph he just took of himself surrounded by cats, or  a terse message from the person I was supposed to meet 15 minutes ago, asking me where I am.  Sometimes the messages have those annoying little abbreviations, the ones that let me know I should be laughing out loud, or that the message is not suitable for the workplace.  But after last Sunday, I don’t think I will ever feel the same about that little incoming message chime. That’s because I got a text from a friend who told me he was dying — and OMFG doesn’t really cover it.

Here’s what he wrote: “Sorry to break it on a text,  but I thought you should know. Cancer. Stage 4. Lungs, bones, lymph nodes. Hospice for me. I hope you can respect my choice.” 29 words to tell me that a man I spent a lot of time with, whom I respect and love, will soon be gone.

Tom is  an artist with a video camera. If you watch the news in Los Angeles, or any of the other cities where he plied his trade, you’ve seen his work.  It was always just a little cut above the rest. He could be a pain in the ass, but he had that same virtue, that same flaw that all artistic people have, an absolute need to put his best, most creative foot forward. Always. While covering local news for KTLA-TV, I shot dozens of stories with Tom. He always made them better than they deserved to be.

When I got his message, I set aside a couple hours to cry. As a result, by the time I called him, he was asleep. Yes, I called the dying man in hospice care and woke him up. We talked for awhile about what had happened, and what would lie ahead. He told me he’d come to terms with it, that he had lived enough to be at peace with his fate. He had visited all the countries he wanted to see, and taken in a ballgame at every Major League stadium he ever wanted to visit.  It’s possible he was just saying all those things to cheer me up, but I really hope he meant them.

I always see things in artistic terms. It felt to me as if he was saying he is satisfied with the canvas that is his life. It may not have been a masterpiece, but he was fine hanging it on the wall for everyone to see.

It’s impossible not to reassess your own life when you are losing someone important. Talking to Tom made me realize that I’m not yet satisfied with my canvas. I need to paint more, both literally and metaphorically, because at some point God will send me a text message, telling me I’ve run out of time, and I have to put down my brush.

I gotta get busy.

Missing Fireflies and Childhood Summer Nights

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Running through Central Park tonight I hit the wall of a different kind. The one that smacks you in the head with a childhood memory that had been lost for 30-plus years. You see, catching lightning bugs was a traditional part of our summer evenings on Long Island in the 1960s. We loved the way they seemed to dart around knowing we were after them  — not to hurt them —  but rather to cherish their magical powers up close — just for a few minutes in a jar while they lit up our nights.

I moved to Southern California in 1985. I never thought about those bugs once I left home. But now I realize how many summers I’ve missed the opportunity to dance with and chase these elusive sparks. My run through the park stopped short tonight when a virtual  battalion of these little treasures lit up the lush green path. Flooding my head with really lovely accutane memories of those carefree days I got a bit choked up, a little misty, and then I wept.

I had  to find out why these special creatures don’t live – and light – on the West Coast. Well scientists say they love warm, humid climates, an in the U.S., almost no species of fireflies is found west of Kansas. I also learned:

a) they are nocturnal, the reason they light up is to attract a mate, and they are part of the beetle family

b) the females have brighter and bigger lights (Too obvious, don’t go there.)

c) their enzyme luciferin — that allows them to glow — generates light, but not heat.

From my favorite poet:

Fireflies in the Garden

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can’t sustain the part.

Robert Frost