ROSS EVERTSON, PHOTO (BLOG, INFO)

I love this photograph. I love this stunt. I love the idea of the success of failure. Obviously this stunt was designed to play out exactly as we see it in this photograph, a complete, wonderful disaster. Although taken here to an extreme and dangerous level, it is nice to see such a forward example of embracing failure.

When I was in grade school I used to perform my own version of this stunt on my bike for my classmates—by jamming my foot in between the fork and the front wheel and then leaping over the bars. Maybe, subconciously, my audience appreciated the contradiction that made my trick so entertaining, but I imagine they were just like little NASCAR fans hoping to see me bust my ass.

Failure is not necessarily bad and I’d say that unless someone is getting hurt or set on fire or ruining motorcycles (and somtimes even then), it is a positive thing. It is too easy to get completely wrapped up in the bullshit of perfecting details to the point where something never gets finished. I’m getting to the point where I’d rather just drive into a van.

Note: If you know the provenance of this image please let me know.

Christina’s World

Right now our little corner of Chinatown smells like burnt diarrhea. Or maybe tar mixed with the hay/poop smell from the giraffe house at the zoo. While this has no real impact on my well being, it is somewhat disturbing and makes dog walks even more poop-centric. It is sort of an olfactory disaster that nobody else walking around seems to be thinking about. It makes me wonder whether I am miss-smelling, overreacting, or just confused.

In Denver suburbs cold means a very chilly lack of smell, both welcome and somehow a little bit painful. It also means I will be driving. In Toronto, there are only three things that will keep me off my bike—snow, rain and the grayest gray days (I hate riding at dusk, and that is how it feels here far too often). Today, though, I found myself trying to keep moving, which is impossible with the traffic/lights downtown here…everytime I have to stop my glasses fog up, and I cry freezing tears.

Denver, Colo. 2008

Hey Tim—you look tired. Are you enjoying your new desk? What about that other art director—do you think he is going to quit soon? Remember how I tried to keep you from getting hit by that train? I guess I should have figured that you knew what you were doing, but I know how you are.

You say you are having a busy month, but I wonder if that maybe you just forgot what it was like to be truly busy and you honestly do have enough time to talk about the book with me. What are you doing right now? Probably eating yogurt or a choco-graham. I couldn’t imagine a better time to chat on the internet about an interesting project.

My friend Mike Essl made a website encapsulating the perpetual question between the disciplines of art and design. Totally stripped of context and debate, free from the defense of ego people can vote on one of the most annoying questions that follows designers from their first viz comm class to their death bed interview.

http://isgraphicdesignart.com/

There are so many levels to both “disciplines”—from a preteen grandson making a website for his grandmothers quilts, to Damien Hirst living to see himself make millions and millions of dollars—how do we place ourselves on this spectrum for the purposes of a conversation like this?

I imagine, for most people that are informed in an average way about the fact there is potentially a difference between design and art, it is a matter of “I know it when I see it.” I think this is a totally reasonable place for most people to be. After years and years of their son going to various school for design, photography, and fine art, my parents still don’t understand why or how I delineate those three things, and they get along just fine.

For me, I stopped worrying about the delineation because it served no real purpose except for to occasionally help describe what I do in a more palatable way. To my wife’s parents I am an “art director” because that is my most recent job title. To my brother I am a photographer because that is what he sees me doing.

I don’t know many people making a living as a graphic designer, art director, creative director, design researcher, design analyst, interaction designer or anything else calling themselves “artists.” At least in regards to their day job. They don’t have any need or interest in defending any particular position. Design being design is just fine, they don’t have to aspire to be artists.

All this terminology is very loaded for anyone even remotely creative. I remember my first art history course, and the teacher kept referring to “plastic” and an hour or so into class a girl stood up and screamed “WHY THE HELL DO YOU KEEP TALKING ABOUT PLASTICS!?”

Since we all have different backgrounds and have no idea what someone else might think the word plastic means in the context of art history, it is very hard to have our comments accurately received.

In a conversation with Mike last night he put it simply, “…graphic design is graphic design. I don’t care for it to be anything else.”

Back when newspapers controlled (and billed for) the word count of classified listings, one had to be extremely frugal. With the advent of the now ubiquitous website craigslist, there is no need for such self-limiting (or censoring, in some cases). Hundreds and hundreds of words replace the twenty, and we’ve all become our own Crazy Eddie, developing our own tactics and tricks in an effort to sell our surplus stuff.

This transition to internet based classifieds, and the “deregulation” of listings has had a rather notable and well covered impact on the newspaper business—mainly that they can barely afford to operate anymore.

Socially, there have been other, less apparent results from this phenomenon, however. Beyond a simple description, often people’s opinions of their possessions are laid bare. Searching for specific keywords can result in an absorbing sociological experiment—and this project is based around just that.  By limiting my search term to the word “classy,” we get a cross section—from Mercedes to telescopes—of what people perceive (or want to have be perceived) as classy. While commercial advertising might try to tell us how we should want to appear to the world— self-generated classifieds let us tell everyone how we view ourselves.

Click here to see the entire project.

If you are and American considering a trip “up north” do not forget the following items.

No less than two (2) American branded condoms. Canadian condoms smell like savory chicken dinner—unsexy. Canadians in general associate the smell of lemon pepper chicken with any sort of intercourse, which explains their small population.

Your passport. Don’t forget to ask for a stamp so you can show off to all your friends that you ambitiously traveled to one of the two countries bordering the US.

A notebook, a small camera and a pen. You will want to discreetly and thoroughly document your experience with these kind, simple people.

Proper clothing. The Canadian flag must fly proudly on at least two parts of your body. A wristband is a discreet—but functional—choice. Socks are a perfect addition to the wristband. If the cheap, legal and disease free hookers miss the wrist, they will surely catch the cycling socks.

Denver, Colorado 2007

A forecast calling for 3 inches over 2 days. Outside, 4 inches and it isn’t even 9 o’clock yet. I’m not complaining, but just wait until tomorrow when I have to drive 600 miles to Ice City, Missouri.

I’m neither religious nor into holidays (or winter for that matter), but I don’t usually mind excuses to get together. Unfortunately, we’re not together. Jenn gets in tonight, then she and I as well as my brother and father go to KC to meet up with my mom and aunt to attend the funeral. Holidays 2007 - -

Pine, Colorado 2007

This fall the god of men with small dicks found me in the saddle of a stranger’s speedy motorcycle on a semi-regular basis. I was lucky enough to probably put more miles on it than he had a chance to yet, as well as properly scrub in his Dunlops. All in a pair of CMYK Adidas, like a total unsafe twat.

The bike is now in some garage, behind a driveway of snowpack, dreaming of all of my weight pressing down on the left peg, my right knee digging down into the tank with just a single furry cheek clenching onto the seat.

And I sit hoping that the yellow Japanese turd doesn’t get picked up by its owner and that it somehow finds an extra 50hp somewhere in the cold.

Kansas City, Kansas 2005

My mother’s mother died last night after various complications relating to being 92 years old and falling hard. Both my parents were out there for the last week dealing with hospital stuff and all that mess. She was released from the hospital on Thursday. My dad headed back and made it to Denver today while my mom stayed behind to take care of her.

It turned out that while she was doing much better, she was mostly doing so because of all sorts of hospital contraptions that were plugged into her. She no longer needed to be in the ICU, but the regular beds were all full—so she was sent home. After she made it back the hospice nurse saw what was coming, had the sisters over and City Grandma called it a night.