Black POLAR-BEAR TRAVELS

Black POLAR-BEAR TRAVELS

Charlie missing the train

Kevin Stewart explains Poetry Nights in Ekenäs plus

Artists as Lovers

STRICTLY SPEAKING ARTIST TO ARTIST.

A few days ago I had a very lengthy conversation with an former artist friend. This was a needed conversation because this artists who are also "friends" often vanish. Artists are prone to travel seeking inspirations This one who I now refer had long been absent in my life. Despite that I had searched and search until I found her. Back when we were fomenting our acquaintance, we had become lovers.

Thus even today, I make no secret for the admiration I felt for her. The aroma of acrylic paint and clay stick to my memory just as it remained on m bed sheets after she left . I did not confess this when we reconnected. Our respective art forms an d discussing them shielded us from our past as lovers. She asked me to speak only on my photography. She wanted to know how it. Today,

I felt put on spot. For years I had engaged in making PLAYBOY inspired images. Many females ( I feared then and now understand today) loath some of my photographs of females. Hence I remain ready for a sweeping critique in denouncement. But, this was her, my former confidant, my “artist buddy” she was asking me and there was no indictment in her query.

I could not find the words to explain that I had segue become ashamed of my former work and (by way of comparison) envied another photographer friend's work The female forum had always appealed to me but I had allowed lust to supplant my drive. The digital age had arrived and fellow photographers had carved more unique paths. I had to mention how he the other photographer friend had a already developed a solid body of work. Leaving me behind in he had become a trail blazer. He had been welcomed into art channel. I wished to mimic him, if not then to at least drop my own wasted efforts.

I knew that this old lover of mine was aware that some say , imitation is the best form of flattery. I dismissed such as bullcrap. One may find himself subliminally taking on but not copying another. Flattery itself will get you no where in the artists circles I craved. We reminisced on when our circles included some of the finest artist in the world: Grace Kisa and others I knew such as Michi Meko Fahamu Pecou and Maurice Evans. We also recalled a deceased artist friend Flora Hammond. These and others like Charles Palmer and John Tindel..all came up around the time she and I bath ourselves in each others company.

I knew I could provide a narrative to what I had sought as my quest to delve deeper into what I thought I wanted in my work. I knew I wanted her to check out my source of inspiration in this other photographer and perhaps feel me out. I did elaborate on how photography for me is part performance. Performance as in acting and part costume. I admitted that I think had come to accept that I was a lazy film maker trapped in a photographer's field. I told her I know this is why I now love movies so much. She listened and I could feel through the phone her quiet approval.

When it came her turn to share, she reminded me again of her reserve to not try to represent her work into words. She tried to and images of her spirituality started to swirl in my mind blending into remembered forms and figures. Ah, her paintings, her aroma. This too reminded me of how her work had inspired me to 'go deeper'.

As we parted I told her I no longer feel other artists must create dialogue in words as I do. Some words, such as her own, speak for itself.

Mwasaa Sherard is an artist and teacher who educated me to play more joyfully. She creates in Atlanta, Georgia.

DAY 1 SLOW FOOD: NEXT GENERATION

Take this pill and wake up dead

Over the centuries some of use find temporary deaths: Drug abuse. Alcohol. Some use intellectualism. Of course they are more in tuned to “being” than the bulk of us. Still, in cinematic terms, we prefer to look upon the mentally ill and perhaps the zombies... They help us laugh at death. They are immune from caring. They are locked away.. thus they escape. In movies, they run others down, they live off the consumption of human flesh. They feed off the living in of us. But are we not in reality not feeding on ourselves? As well as we may propose fantasy as a means of escape, we are the creators of our own realities? What among our belief systems, makes us seek to escape the fear of death? Until we join them, we keep mimicking them to laugh, cry or ponder. And when we can not handle the fact that we are becoming them, we pray. 

 

DEATH and MENTAL ZOMBIES 

 

Death, the final status bequeathed to us by way of life. It seems to occur in either the mental realm and/or the physical. All the while we want the eternal. Folly. While some know ( and will argue “without a doubt”) that physical death comes by way of our fall from the grace of GOD. This due to Adam’s transgression, we often fault woman. We keep seeking some escape. As if faulting another will suffice. Lets rest awhile and think of another kind. 

 

When death occurs within the confines of the mental, that is, within in our minds, the physical body continues to operate. In cinema we call those with the ability to walk, hunt and seek to do all sorts of mayhem, “ZOMBIES”. This monster seems to rise from the western pre-Judeo-Christian belief system. That monsters exist out there in nature. They survive even our own fixation on death. We also have other states of existence that are "undead". Mental-illness. For us mental death occurs while functional brain cease yet  while still occupying the body (something we call corporeality) seems to have become possessed by external forces. Mental diseases are complex, they change with the times. For the rest of us, who purport to be among the ‘normal’ something we call (sanity); We delude ourselves. 

 

Right now in the white-house, in the United States of America, at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue resides a person who is’ leader of free world’ he is deluded. No one is really as sane as he/she thinks. Normalcy, like so many other constructs, is a falsity. The nuclear family: myth. The normal person: myth. Going to heaven after physical death: no one knows. 

 

Normalcy (if there is such a state of existence) seems to be evaporating with the ozone. Perhaps the gamma rays from the sun is "frying our brains" as we burn up fossil fuels. We become mere zombies of consumption and go shopping for new identities. Where are we going? Our lives are given to brain numbness and we exalt ourselves to a piety rather than accept our own limitations. We are so fixated on human superiority that we find it incredibly difficult to let go of love ones. They remain unforgotten in graves. Forget that. The bible that so may Christian hold as their road map to corporeality actual says from dusk we came and to dusk we shall return. Our selfish reflections like Narcissus informs us.

Those that are mentally ill have medicines to help them cope but the majority have only hope. I read somewhere that spiritualism was on the rise because the traditional Christian dogma no longer satisfied western man. That seems a valid concern. While living in Arkansas, I constantly bumped into folk who were "blessed and highly favored”. They issued this salutation as a warning that they (as we all have) misery in their lives . Yet they seemed more like Zombies. They say, ugh as they stumble other say “alms” as they die. Ugh has died and become reborn. We seek misery in the news . Such deaths moaning an groaning are part of the Christian efforts to keep those suffering televised . Meanwhile living under the weight of delusional normalcy offers prevalence.

 

Drug induced euphoria, drunkenness are sometimes plots a means. Its a screenwriter in us seeking a means to avoid the disappointments of life. We get tired of waiting for death. Trying to escape from this world into the lost mental realm of responsibility. Death remain a mystery opening voids open only those who ..die.

SLOWNG DOWN FOR SLOW FOOD

Creeks feed into streams then stream to rives.... the directional pull of the moon works upon the faces of the waters. Reflections of life come back gleaming when we smile. Like Narcissus, we fall in love with ourselves when the us looks back. Thus, like water when we are healthy and on our path, we find ourselves acting and being acted upon. My path toward Slow Food has been a disruptive one. I come from a land of fast food. Surgery sodas, salty fatty foods offered me in super-sized portions. I do not always take them nor am I as unhealthy as some, yet the long term effects shows in my torso and the bones in my knees rub one against the other. My own weight crushes the lower exterminates.

I recall back in the early 1980's in the United States when I would pass by these Nutrition boutiques.  “Some off shoot of the new age hippy religious freaks”, I would think. Then when I would take a chance and walk inside one, the shelves were lined with small bottles and the prices for pure extract of this or that herb would offer me sticker shock. I would quickly exit. These were the early days of homeopathic and I was afraid to investigate. Time would go on and later I would see small nutritional stores. Often they looked like bakeries but they also would have these rustic looking bins of green plants.  Why did the aromas emanating from these rustic bins these early gluten-free establishments fail to beckon me? My nose was familiar with aroma of fresh baked breads made with wheat and oats. Ingredients swimming in so much butter-cinnamon aromatic, that I could imagine their mouth watering tastes. Bins replacing the glassed in shelves of sweet donuts and pastries. Ah those shops I knew. I would fall into a bakery like that on instinct.

Now, thanks to my curiosity in SLOW FOOD, I have began to emerge out of the depths of ignorance about what I eat. I still prefer salted butter and two or three scoops of refined sugar in my coffee. Heck, I like my cream thick and chocolate filled with nuts. But bearing witness to the light-weighed Finns as they go hopping over ice and snow with out much care, offers me cause to pause and consider adopting some dietary changes. Recent visits to local ORGANIC producers who do not use pesticides and who do not feed their animals steroids, has my brain asking me to inhale the knowledge they offer. I sense a willingness to swallow my pride as if it were air. I need both but my knees could use some help.

Life here around the Baltic Sea reflects skies more blue. Our home in Ekenäs is slowing and increasingly being peppered with more organic supplies. I still have a long way to go before my heart clogs up with fatty tissues my liver stop cleaning my blood. Doctors say I am a bit over weight but its not too late.

I come from the riches county in the world. We eat fast and drive faster.. I know SLOW FOOD is about more than organic. Its more like Samson (the small farmers and nations) taking on the Goliath of agribusiness. Thanks to SLOW FOOD, I see alternatives reflecting in the waterways ahead. I think I will swim that way.. see what my reflections might look like later.

A troubadour at Poetry Nights in Ekenas

Poetry Night with African drums

CAN STRAIGHT MEN ENGAGE IN THE GENDER DISCUSSION

How are we to share information in the open source platform? If  we deem ourselves as being reasonably intelligent and willing to exchange information from what we consider a reputable news service, a service who also encourages one to share with Facebook, how can we be censored from doing so? Today (July 16, 2018) I shared an image from HUFFINGTON POST (see link below: huffingtonpost.com)  (granted it was an image designed to fool the naked eye. It was a bare breasted man) But a male model not a woman with breast exposed. In this climate of massive support for LBGT, how does a straight man engage in the exchanges surrounding these complex issues without being censored? Perhaps the information Facebook complies on its users help it to identify 'Gay Rights Activist'. Perhaps then its allowed to post scantly clad same sex individuals.

To be fair when is a male naked and in-violation of the community standards....if his groin is covered?

What happens when a straight man shares imagery that embraces gender bending and he shares it on his time line where images of females dominate? Can not one who is straight be tolerated to open a discussion on gender? If one appears to posting for titillation how is that different from the media's own? In this case both HUFFPOST and even the New York Times with its article on male models who allege sexual misconduct on the part of a host of celebrity photographers. These are titillating and  rough and tumble competitive times. For open source whose community standards are maintained my algorithm rather than people, these times are mitigated not by judgments but impressions. Impressions are awfully prejudicial.  As I await a decisions from Facebook to rescind this 30 day ban, I figure why not open the discussion further. 

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/06/04/andrej-pejic-nude-photo-vogue_n_3384942.html?ncid=engmodushpmg00000003

Sigri & Patte - Vene vene vie (Raseborgs ruiner 30.4 2018)

My Insanity & Art

Always looking for parallels: Can someone tell me to stop? I often find that knowledge jumps out at me. I mean its intoxicating. Here is an example: One day during this past summer while walking through Elverkett looking at the works of Carl-Gustav Lilius, I was intrigued. Mind you I could never draw a lick. When I set down to draw, patience is not a virtue. I doddle then doodle. Carl-Gustav Lilius work strikes one as scratches lines and the end result of one misbehaving. It spoke to me, later many months later, I stumbled up this book about a Swedish artist. Her name Channa Bankier. Suddenly I see scratches and drawings with an overt sexual content. I thought of Carl-Gustav. Had she studied under him? Of course not but my mind wanted it to be so. I pulled the book Sanna Eloranta gave. Its full of graphic arts of Estonia. I pull the internet into validate my idea... typing queries searching demanding that it pulls their names together. It was all poppy-cock. Why do I engage in this mad man searches? Many years circulating in the arts from galleries to museums to events my mind can sometimes become like revolving chart of images. For some reason I store remembrance in my mind seeking synergies. I think of Larson Österberg and his painting and how no one else does what he does. Suddenly I discover Erik Salvesen during my travels for Kustrundan 2017. One artist’s hauteur then another and I'm off again. Is their meditative landscapes only a convergence of my own willingness to find meaning in splotches of colors speared thin? so thin that ghosts of ideas flow from canvas to me then out again seeking similarities . Painting. words., pen ink and collages they all seem to haunt me. Pleasing then mesmerizing. Somebody stop me.

IMG 0413

ALM & SOUL SISTA at Poetry Nights (partial clip)

February 24, 2018

Now One Year of Poetry Nights in Ekenas

COLLISION OF SYMBOLS

Up close the milky white surface of the temporary ice skating rink looks calm. Not as intimidating as one unfamiliar with ice skating might think. An Asian girl in blue jean wobbles on its surface. Like so many others she has come to learn. The whiteness of the icy contrasts well with the blue jeans she wears. Her knees buckle as she glides effortlessly. Another girl with a more angular shaped face remains poised close by. One ascertain she is either a friend promising to ”show you” how it's done or hired help. She demonstrates a kind of backwards kick. The Asian girl´s body held tense she casts a side ward glance then smiles looking downward still not ready for a forward propulsion. A man with a camera crouches over his camera bag. The straps made of nylon lay upon the rubberized surface. He too is poised in an odd manner, rising and steadying himself; sure not stray too far away from his valuables. This is still an urban place. Vagrants hunger for opportunities even in Helsinki. The platform upon which he stands has signs. Painted in the universal yellow with a figure falling backwards, it also features lighting bolts of pain. He gets it, ”slippery when wet” enters his brain. Cold hands now outside his gloves, he grapples changing lenses. Then he raises his camera taking aim. The city is already awake. So full of life that his peripheral vision is overactive. Nice distractions. Towards his left, in the distance, garnish green trams pass by heading southward, he wonders, is that southward? 

 

Two-toned buses (blue on top white below) serve in the opposite directions. Is that opposite? He smiles at the pandemonium. For him, all this forms a sense of European(ness). He fondles the telephoto lens, he tastes the remnants of the bitter coffee in his mouth. Perhaps a warm cup of cider would have been better. Perhaps he should have chosen a cafe instead of the coffee served in this makeshift ice skating rink. Capitalism is coming. He aims is camera, placing the Asian girl and the teacher in the foreground. This is Helsinki. Finns drink more coffee than any other peoples of the world. They like it strong and being opinionated about things, they often express those opinions when they perceived something as being ”wrong”. Perhaps ice skating rinks and other pop-up enterprises are not known for coffee, or donuts so the photographer thought. Perhaps pretty girls handling skates, that they are. And capitalism is coming. The photographer, thinking back on that Asian girl , says to himself. it will take many more round brown and less angular faces to people this nation, They are aging and in short supply of willful laborers. Their welfare state dwindles. Time and being isolated, being unsure of their westerness, has rewarded the system till now. But capitalism is coming and more young bodies clad in blue jeans will be needed. Steam powered engines are gone. television going, time for more computerized minds. The air, now filled with electrons, microns and talk of the Guggenheim. Even God marvels. Turning southwestward, Finnish street signs read with long names. Even Nordic people recognize their words, their agglutination language as being long. Learning suffixes can save one's brain. Does ”..katu” at the end of a long word mean ”gatan”? Is not ”gatan” equal to the word, street? He decided to go left down Kaisenienemkatu, then turn on Kaivokatukatau. Knowing how to traverse a city: find a tall building, focus on it. Look for it when lost. The Central railway station offers a this kind of beckon. Its obelisk like clock tower can been seen from two blocks away. As one follows Keskukatu, the obelisk vanishes behind buildings. Looking up can be cause distractions. Gargoyles and Art De co are plentiful. During the winter, the sun, if it comes out at all, sets. fast. The wider streets begin to give way to the more narrower ones. Stepping off smoothed concrete to cobbled uneven streets, one realizes the past is still present in Helsinki. Old buildings now house boutiques and department stores. Large windows up front, then peeping around one can spy, entrances to living quarters more recessed. Privation integrated with commercialism. Such has always been the urban dwelling places of the world. Memories of the photographer’s own childhood come rushing back: The shop owners whose family dwells above his store below. The aroma of Italian sausages, the odor of leather and tan emanating from shoe repair shops. Touring Helsinki he turns toward the Lutheran Cathedral. The streets even more narrow now. Like aisles for worshipers holding reverence, robotic-like one finds his place in the procession. The area was once filled with wooden homes. Across the ocean, many Americans who exist on government subsidies, consider themselves middle-class. They toll away refusing to see themselves as poor. Even working class has lost its luster. No Carl Sandburg to sing about Chicago’s and steel workers. What man power it must have taken to erect Carl Ludvig Engel design. How did Finns not yet independent, not yet Suomi; those who lived in those wooden homes, who watched while construction worshipers worked. How did they feel? Down Yliopistokatu some bright wooden doors of a bookstore are open. The yellowish light coming out forms a halo against the blue sky.

 

 Even from a distance, the intimacy of this place is evident. Someone once cared .The photographer feels out of place. His size twelve shoe does not fit well on the short stone stair. Then too one must turn sideways to enter. No need to say, ”excuse me, please” if you bump into someone. Finns muscle their way into each other. Capitalism will refine that. After a few years of long thankless working hours, few will tolerate getting pushed around. Everyone will be middle class or higher. The bookshelves are full of discounted books. The seller is round with round glasses. He is busy explaining something to a patron. Despite the fact that many Finns speak multiple languages, he is speaking English.. ”...the rent is going up and we can not afford to say her any longer. After 30 years, today is the last day.” The photographer purchases a book. He wonders if it it is safe to ask if the area is to undergo some new developers wet dream. From where he comes, rising costs usually means pushing aside those without the means. “Out with the old, in with the new”. Capitalism is coming. Higher taxes exclusive venues. A new word: gentrification. Careful of the narrow steps, the photographer, descends. Outside the crowds move in every direction. One direction seems more magnetic than others. Crossing Unioninkatu situated in front of the statute of Tzar Alexander II is a merry-go-round. Looking upwards there is a trinity of conflicting symbols. Those smiling faces of carnival, the powerful empty gaze of state and the awe-of the gold crucifix a top the cathedral. Only the cold climate command more attention. Toward the Sentori held behind a roped off section, stands an army of unsold Christmas trees. All smells of of green. Capitalism is coming. Back in the States, Atlanta Georgia created a shoppers paradise when it constructed bridges of highways over its rail tracks. Railroad tracks that had once made Atlanta the feed-line for the confederacy during the Civil War. Atlanta´s pre-industrial power also won the ire of General Sherman. On his march toward the sea, he leveled Atlanta. It took a century to rebuild it. Atlanta power elite reconstructed itself and left its old past Underground. Then after the 1996 Olympics it adopted itself as an international city. Having captured images of crowds of glory enough, the photographer negotiated the cobbled streets. Stumbling in need of coffee, he came upon a new social space: THINK CORNER. Located away from all the festive noise , he roamed further toward Uspenski Cathedral. Cutting through the heart of University of Helsinki, he recalled he once stayed in the Euro Hostel. Odd that an inexpensive place of rest could be found among these decent apartment homes. Europeans still hold to some democratic principles, he thought. All are equal yet capitalism is coming and alternatives spaces can threaten the interests of commercial-minded developers. The photographer remembered how he came upon Hotel Katajanokka during that previous stay at the Euro Hostel.

 

 He laughed with a dizzying insanity back then. The fact that a former jail could be converted into a hotel. What grand imagination. Assuming Finns to be as law abiding as they were, he found it difficult imagining this huge structure as once being a jail. Back in the States was it the city of Brotherly Love (Pittsburgh) where an former jail proved to be a formidable tourist attraction? The photographer recalls using his camera to break the irony and memorialize his time spent there. Making one’s way out of an old jail back on the streets of the sounds of winter shoppers, shoppers whose words are often muffled through scarfs and winter coats; distance and laughter can be discerned from cries in the dark. Nonetheless, capitalism is coming . The twists and turns around a maze of walls shields life today from life before, The mistaken identities of families from students from ghostly inmates. amuses the photographer. A chilly breeze is felt. The harbor must be closer. Sounds of waves began to replace human voices. Like a fish being drawn by familiar places once one has been lost in any city one can find refuge in a feeling. Instinct can dominate when high rises no longer point the way. Now surrounded by red brick, he realized he had once stayed on nearby Katajanokka. There he was again on this once industrial island. Now converted to a residential area, streets are tricky in this part of town. Europeans have perfected building coastal enclaves. Foundations are built high up above water lines. This area was once left to merchant mariners. What was once a harbor for ships later became hautes where more hors d´oeuvers are served. Katajanokka (Skatudden) seen from above bears the resemblance of a diamond. The longest side of this diamond is Kanavaranta. The photographer noticed the continuity of the red bricks walls that began at Hotel Katajanokka, the former jail. This waterfront could have been used in a movie. Was this a location where labor confronted the big bosses? There are ample bars and restaurants along this waterway. Another gust of wind off the icy waters and one justifies the call of the wild. A tastes of the whiskey lies just beyond. The photographer pulls open the door to a bar and takes the high step up into its warm caverns. Once inside, he unwraps his scarf, unzips his jacket and while removing his gloves, orders, one shot of whiskey. “Do you serve Karu on tap”, he asks. “Sandels is better”, the bartender replies. When a Finn gives advice, the photographer thinks, listen. “then Sandels it is”. Spinning around from where he stood, the photographer could surmise he was standing in a newly designed bar. The exposed red brick walls, drop from the ceiling incandescent light fixtures. A retreat for young adults. Gathering his gear, he transported himself to a nearby table . Facing the glass door he could see grey clouds began to gather. One can barely distinguish sun set from cloud cover in Helsinki.You have to be born at this latitude. Finns and Swedes know how long before the days grow longer. Humans don't hibernate. One has to keep moving. Swimming, long walks, getting out. The photographer relished the sweet aroma of his swallow. Holding the glass up to his lens. What nonsense but fun, he sang to himself “...best friend floats in the bottom of a glass”. Zipping up all the compartments of his camera bag the exit was close. Hew makes himself ready. Fortunate the sea was calm, no tug of war required opening the door. Still in rushed the cold as he leaned to. Sounds of water lapping against stone grown cold greeted his ears. Air bit them. Huge are some ships parked over there. Spanning the face of a engine powered ship, half the size of a football field, or so it seems, “Suomi 100” reads a banner. These people know sailing, odd for a thought, he chuckled wondering when the whisky might take hold. Walking this close to the ship's waterline, one realizes how words like behemoth and massive define their hulls. How deep waters must be to accommodate such girth, such weight. 

 

The Baltic Sea has served well the builders of passenger ships Twice a day they go to and from Stockholm. Helsinki has been both a fortress and a vanquished citadel for its 400 years. It is older than Finland's independence. No echos remain of the storms once raised over the Guggenheim. Financial ruin from banker's folly helped sink that idea. Some level heads say, had this come before the fall, it would have been built by now. A delay Capitalist know how to wait. It is is coming. The photographer thinks of home fireworks, christian parades and pecan pie, he turns away and starts an ascent. He must leave this place after the banner comes down. His fleeting feeling for home “..from sea to shining sea he sang*. This southern tip of Helsinki is connected by bridges. Walking along the boardwalk, away from the old customs house, voices and revelry remain unabated. The sun has vanished though its light remains. A deep bluish hue above the ghost going dark waters below. Somewhere lines are forming as restaurant open. Time to change the setting on his camera. Low light, slower shutter..not too much..things get blurry. The whisky high wears off. He calculates. Must hurry. Prying open doors to get a rest stop, the golden glow of Christmas lights, perfumed scented woman hold children. Where is a sanctuary now? The photographer falls in line to get a bite to eat. He choose fast food over fine dining. Despite the lack of nutrition, the service will be fast, he knows Capitalism is coming. 

 

STORY BY KEVIN STEWART POSTED CHRISTMAS DAY 2017