The sun was descending over the west hills as I strode along the path, being passed by old men on bikes, old ladies walking, and mothers walking with little kids. A snappy breeze gave my baseball cap a bit of a lift. I noticed the paddling of eight ducks had moved from Mt. Tabor Park's south reservoir to the north reservoir, not sure why. Uptown water, I guess. These are your historic reservoirs! No longer Portland's drinking water, thanks to the EPA.
I brought my digital camera with me tonight. It's an old dinosaur of a silver box, sluggish shutter, feeble focus... it seems to prefer three dimensional objects. Old posts, rocks, sewer gratings. Those are the photos that look the most interesting when I get them downloaded to my computer. The images of faraway downtown Portland are hazy, gray, and flat. I don't know much about photography, but I'm pretty sure if I had a better camera, I could take really good pictures.
It doesn't matter, though. Because I know the secret to making art. Whatever you have—photo, crayon drawing, pen-and-ink sketch, finger painting—whatever it is, all you have to do is put a frame around it. Whatever it is, if you are wondering if it could possibly be art, but you aren't quite sure, I tell you, just frame it! Framing any two-dimensional object automatically elevates it to the status of art. Take it from me. I used to be an artist. I know what I'm talking about.
Hey, ask anybody, if you don't want to take my word for it. I know, you don't even know me. Talk to one of your artistic friends, I'm sure you have a few lurking in nearby lofts and basements. If you can get them to take a break from making art, show them two pictures, one framed and one unframed. Ask them to point to the one that is art. I'm sure they will pick the one in the frame every time.
The nice thing is, it doesn't even have to be a fancy frame. Any crappy frame will do, even one that your niece made out of cardboard and dry macaroni. Even a frame of seashells. Hey, I once made a frame of red hot tamale candies! I kid you not. I glued the hot tamales on a box frame, painted them glorious jewel colors, and sprayed the thing with clear lacquer. What a shining thing of beauty. I actually forget what was surrounded by this wondrous frame, but it was art, let me assure you. The frame hung on my wall near the ceiling for years. I would show you a picture of the frame but last year the ants found the red tamales and started hauling bits of candy into the molding around the ceiling. That was the end of that frame. The ant trail remains, embedded in the off-white paint. If I could figure out how to put a frame on that ant trail, I bet I could call it art.
The world seems to be going to hell in a hand-basket, as usual. Maybe we are falling toward hell a little faster these days, it's hard to tell. It might just be the stinky election season making me feel like life is spinning out of control faster than usual. Probably not. It's hard to have perspective sometimes. I try to imagine what the 2010s would look like from the 1940s and I think, well, probably it's about the same in some ways, better in others. Don't let me complain about never winning anything! I breathe a sigh of relief every day when I realize I won the white American lottery.
Up close, my mother continues to disintegrate in slow motion, one molecule, one day at a time. I haven't quite figured out yet that I can't stop it, hence the cheek twitch and the persistent vertigo. I'm taking time out from editing a boring dissertation to write this blog post. From 30,000 meters up, it's all good, right? And then we die. From an altitude of 30 centimeters, it's an endless grind of pushing pebbles up a tiny hill. I'm trying to put a frame on my experience, thinking I can elevate the status of my life to art. Is it working? Hmmm. I don't think so. Wait, let me get out my glue and pasta shells! Where's my glitter?
