About Dreaming
November 3, 2007
Peter Buckley just sent me this article he wrote for us, and I feel it to be really powerful… read:
About Dreaming
I wish to talk to you about dreams. I will try to resist sentimentality. Dreams are both beautiful and dangerous, and I want to demonstrate how they can be utterly pestilent, as well as a positive force that propels us through life, and writing.
I can discuss dreams with little reference to the “dreamer”, or “myself” – self-importance is futile in my case because I am not one of those “lucid dreamers” who possess the ability to control their dreams. My current project, “Peter and the Hare” requires me to evoke dreams, not entirely to the letter of the original inspiration, but, still, they are not “mine”. To say I “write” dreams would be like saying I lasso clouds. How can I claim ownership of something that only half-exists? And who creates the clouds? Writing for me is a collaborative effort.
The “something” that reveals itself to me in my writing is not particularly mysterious. It is always the same thing I am chasing, and that it remains a “something” hardly matters, as long as I have the desire and energy to chase it.
What I hope to produce is a body of work akin to a body of a centipede. This strange insect constantly grows extra legs and on those legs, more legs and more, more, more, until it dies or I do. Just to confuse things, the legs might not always be those of a centipede.
It is important for dreams to run free, yet to capture them we must impose rules, or make compromises. The most skilled writers can capture the energy of the original ‘dream’ while making it easy-to-read and accessible to others. You are writing with your readers, not against them. This is what I occasionally (and sometimes deliberately) forget…that centipede thing? What was that about?!?
“Peter and the Hare” is very experimental; please do not assume that I know what I am doing. The stories on my site are more like impressions, and it is up to the reader what impact they are allowed to make. The overall effect is anarchy. It’s a playground, but one I take seriously. It’s also just a place I put my stuff.
The fact that it’s a weblog affects the content. The internet is insane, uncontrollable – it can make us more intelligent or more ignorant. It can broaden our horizons, or expose us to unhelpful ideas. It feeds us this exhilarating white-noise. I’m hoping “The Hare” will confuse, shock, and entertain in equal measure – just as dreams do, and the internet itself is a dream.
If my blog is about anything, (and I want it to go anywhere, and be “…about anything”) it’s reality. So in an article about dreams, I should say something about reality. But reality can not necessarily be singled out as a “thing” separate from dreams. And dreams are real enough.
The whimsicality of dreaming can be seen in my work’s humorous elements. Laughing is better than crying, they say, and I laugh a lot. I’m not sure what “their” stance is on doing both at the same time, so I’ll assume that’s ok too.
I’ll reproduce some of my poem, Bubble, here – one of my worst poems (!) but it might at least demonstrate a point. The full text is here:
“When you live inside a bubble
the archway of the stars
becomes the pattern of the ceiling.
The edges of each table-leg
are softened with used teabags
that stain the carpet mahogany brown,
and the stain lingers perpetually.
…
you’ll be asleep
most of the time
and become proficient in dreaming.”
This character is trapped in a dream. Is he fortunate, or is he to be pitied? The most un-clichéd answer is “neither”, but even that’s been worn-out.
Dreaming = escape, and this is wonderful. But it can also take its toll. Firstly, it demands dedication – the dream will always demand “completion”. My characters often seem blinded by their dreams. “The Hare” is the most habitual dreamer – he can hop from world to world, and doesn’t seem troubled by this destiny. Conversely, there is Dmitri, a comedy-Russian stereotype I have a lot of fun with. Dmitri is a realist who has seen too much to dream. He dislikes dreamers. In the middle of this are a cast of anonymous people, who stage dreamlike conversations. It’s not clear when or where they are happening, and it doesn’t matter. What emerges from conversations such as “It Takes a Train to Laugh…” and “In England, We Say Toilet…” is the pain of dreaming; dreaming breeds loneliness, delusion, an inability, (even unwillingness) to communicate. Perhaps I feel guilty about dreaming and about creating, for as long as we each build our own castles, there will be wars.
“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can play together all night.” – Bill Watterson
But we can deal with dreams in two ways – they’re both disposable and essential, because things can be simultaneously insightful and very, very silly. These “in-flight movies” can teach us to wander through life with a sense of humour. Confusion need not be a source of angst, but something to be embraced; a coping strategy that gives us hope.
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An Artist Portrait (Part Two)
October 14, 2007
This is the Part Two (and final part) of the true life story as artist written by Frank V. Cahoj for our Weblog. (Part One)
An Artist Portrait (Part Two)
I give an unbelievable amount of credence to these two early periods in my life: one of everlasting creation, one of analysis and disillusionment. The reason is simple—these are both traits that an artist must possess in order to fully utilize their natural talents. We must be willing to create at all costs, no matter the outcome. We must hunger for the process of creating, and not focus entirely on the results. If you do not enjoy the process of creating, how can you stand behind your creation? Yet, simultaneously we must be perfectionists, and run a fine-toothed comb through our ideas and inspirations. We must develop our ideas scientifically. We must understand our concept, our message, and our reason. If we fail to understand why we are creating, we will lose our focus, and quickly gold becomes dirt.
I had some help returning to my creative roots; my cousin was an artist who possessed more talent in his eyelid than I did in my whole body. When we would get together to play, I would spend most of the time watching him draw. He was older than me, and much more progressive, and his outlook towards his art seemed so nonchalant, so natural. He would just sit down and begin to draw. I remember him drawing a dragon with such impeccable detail, such precision. I wondered why I struggled so hard with it. Was I even an artist? Maybe I was an imposter. What made me more of an artist than the neighborhood kid down the block who ate crayons and bugs and still wet his bed and created nothing but trouble for his mother? I couldn’t answer any of those questions. I decided, then, that the only way to find an answer was to try to be an artist and see what happened. That’s it! I would try to be an artist again! I would draw, and paint, and create. I would create without consideration for the outcome, yet I would clearly define my premises, my point of view, my focus. I would use the lessons learned from my two early experiences to create art that was significant and relevant. So that’s what I did. I started to really create things.
Throughout High School, I was the “art kid”. I took every art class my High School offered. I failed Algebra 2, yet amassed enough math credits to graduate. I failed Physics, but excelled in most other sciences. Besides art, the only classes I willingly added to my schedule were Literature and English—I loved to write—and Music. My senior year, I had gym (required), a study hall (basically another art class without a teacher), an Advanced Placement Creative Writing course, and six art classes. I literally sat in the same classroom for more than half the school day, working on six different art projects simultaneously. I overloaded myself. My art consumed me. I became so enchanted by it and everything it stood for and the way it made me feel. I pounded out art like I was an assembly line in a factory. I sold art to my teachers; I sold art to my family and friends. I gave a lot of art away. I was successful because I was passionate. The pieces themselves had no real value to me; what proved valuable to me was what my art meant to others. I learned my final lesson in being an artist at that period in High School: there is no artist, living or deceased, that created art for themselves and themselves alone. An artist creates for others. If we, as artists, are indifferent to the public’s perception of our work, our success will loom in the darkness of our own selfishness, and never fully be realized. High School was my own tiny renaissance. I will never forget those days.
I took the next step in my desire to be an artist by attending the American Academy of Art in Chicago, IL. The Academy, as we called it, was a wonderful place. The school was just two floors of a high rise in the heart of the city (known as the Loop), sitting on Michigan Avenue, The Magnificent Mile, one of the most famous avenues in the world. There were only about 300 students. The faculty was representative of the greatest Chicago had to offer in the world of art. The school focused on curriculum for artists, not arbitrary curriculum for the general student; our science credit was an anatomy class, in which we drew from a live nude model and were asked to see through their skin and study their bones and muscles, drawing our observations on paper. Our math credit was titled Quantitative Literacy, where we focused on geometrics and design and how math related to the Renaissance and Leonardo DaVinci. It was an artist’s Mecca. There is no better place in the world to practice art. The architectural brilliance of the City, coupled with the diversity of its people, access to one of the best art museums in the country (The Illinois Institute of Art Museum), a fantastic art district where galleries and art stores abound, and a park system as peaceful as that of rural America in the middle of a bustling metropolis, made it easy to be an artist.
Attending an art school like The Academy is like living in a hostel with 300 other individuals who share your exact passion and who, in essence, know everything about you, because you are them. You perform all of your tasks and ventures together. There is no privacy or even the expectation of privacy. You are draped with inspiration at all times. If you slack off, it is not your teachers who pull you back to earth; it is your peers. You learn to succeed as a unit, and realize that the community is much larger and more important than yourself. When 9/11 took place, we were all just beginning our first class for the day. Students began getting taken to the administrative office one by one to receive phone calls from their families who were worried sick about them. They were worried about their sons and daughters being in the heart of a major American City when we were under attack. We looked out the window of our classroom onto Michigan Avenue and witnessed a mass exodus of people heading away from the city, towards every subway station and train station and bus depot, trying to escape the city limits and the looming shadow of the tallest building in America, the Sears Tower. Cars couldn’t move because the roads were flooded with people fleeing the city on foot. No one knew what was going to happen, or if our city would be next. Yet in that moment of complete chaos and disaster, there was a warming comfort flowing through us, knowing that we, the students of The Academy, were together and had each other to rely on. It was a community in every sense of the word. And it bred the best artists I have ever associated with. I spent three and a half years at The Academy, before economic reasons prevented me from returning. Education isn’t free, or cheap, or affordable, especially for an overly ambitious kid from divorced parents with no money.
I left The Academy to pursue a career in Human Resources and make some money for my family and I. I learned a great deal about community and people and relationships during my college career, aside from all I learned about art. I felt I could take that knowledge and apply it to a career in Human Resources and Recruiting, and I have experienced success thus far. I chose this career because I feel that the Human Resources function requires a creative mind. Dynamics change all the time when people are involved—there are no constants. Companies must create new ways to attract, retain, train and develop quality talent. The black and white has turned decidedly gray, and with the advent of the internet, open job boards, the loss of anonymity in our world and Web 2.0, new, creative ways to recruit must be considered. I would like to believe that my transition has gone over without a hitch.
I still paint and draw and write and play music. I will never stop doing those things. Making money in art was never my goal. I pursued art because I had a passion that I couldn’t ignore. If money is your motivation for creating art, you will find yourself in constant search of inspiration. Money does not inspire, it empowers. Artists do not need to be empowered – we were born with that.
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An Artist Portrait (Part One)
October 12, 2007
This is a fantastic article written exclusively for my Weblog by Frank V. Cahoj. Please feel free to comment here or send him emails. He’ll be happy of this.
An Artist Portrait (Part One)
My name is Frank Cahoj and I have been an artist since I was born. I can say this in confidence without remembering my birth or much of the first years of my life: I can say this because one is either an artist or one is not. Technical skills, knowledge, know-how, are all irrelevant. There is something in the genetic makeup of a human being that makes them an artist, and it is sewn within them from birth. However, there are those who do not recognize this, as being part and parcel to their existence, and may still not become an artist even though they possess the blueprint. It is through recognition as well as possession that an artist can truly exploit their divine talent. Since birth, I have attempted to hone in on this skill, at times successfully, at times bitterly unsuccessful, most often unknowingly, and to use it to my advantage in life, business, social and cultural situations.
I spent most of my childhood dreaming these unbelievably lofty dreams. I created a furniture manufacturing company when I was eight years old—I was going to build furniture out of two by four scraps my uncle had in the garage and sell the pieces to anyone willing to buy. I created a barbershop when I was five, in the backyard, with the goal of cutting neighborhood kid’s hair and inadvertently horrifying countless parents. I created an advertising agency—Icon Solutions Inc., when I was eleven; the business plan is still in a trapper-keeper folder in an attic somewhere. I knew nothing about any of these things, yet my drive to create and be creative at a grassroots level negated any lack of knowledge I had on the subject. I wanted to see things cultivate. I wanted to be inside of a creative process at all times, without the responsibility of seeing any of it through. I thought, “if I can perpetually be in a state of creating—I will never get anywhere—but I won’t be bored!” So I created these things that never happened, because I never let them. Once the creating was done, I went on and created something else.
Somewhere along the way I matured, partially, and primarily out of necessity. My parents were divorced early in my life, and the burden of growing up, and growing up quickly, was a condition of survival. I learned about money, and what it means to have money, and what it means to not. I realized that creations that amount to nothing and never materialize become ghosts and vanish without a legacy or a memory of them. I had created so many things that I had no idea what I had created and why. Suddenly I had no use for all of these things; they were invisible to me. My focus shifted. I became instantly a perfectionist. I began to analyze and research everything I did before I became too involved. I would weigh the pros and cons long before implementation of anything I wanted to do, whether it be going to the park or writing a story or playing a video game. I became anal. And I became very, very, very bored. I stopped creating for a while. I didn’t feel like it. I played with toys and became entrenched in sports; I gravitated to things that were physically concrete, that I could touch and use and that were practical. I left the abstract for the benefit of escaping my own drive to create, in fear of utter and lifelong disappointment. This, all before the age of thirteen.
You’ll read Part Two in the next days.
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