In 2005 the city my family has called home for nearly 300 years was submerged due to the failure of the federally constructed levees in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. Now, five years later, another engineering failure on the part of British Petroleum has delivered a punch to the gut for New Orleans.

As a river city surrounded by levees I would offer that it behooves my new neighbors here in Cincy to pause and think on this subject.

-Loki, Founder and Publisher, Northsider and Native New Orleanian

There are two things that have changed my life in the past few years. The first is Louis C.K.’s amazing bit on Conan. Seriously, it’s brilliant. The second is what I saw in Haiti. The company I work for in Cincinnati produced a short documentary on Rev. Vaugelas Pierre and his Mission there. You can watch it here. We traveled to La Croix for filming approximately four months before the January 2010 earthquake. This is my experience, juxtaposed to another normal day in my life here at home.

For a minute I can’t see, because the sweat from my forehead has run into my eyes again. I shift my camera to my other arm so I can blot my face with my sleeve. Strangely, there are no flying bugs surrounding me. I walk back towards the white Land Cruiser we drove in with, parked by the unfinished cinderblock and rebar house at the bottom of the hill. Next to them, a row of dried, cracking mud and straw roof huts that look like they would collapse if I leaned too heavily on one of them. One of the Haitian couples from the village is there with Rev. Pierre. I think they’re talking about one of the wells by the mission’s schoolhouse. There are no trees, even on the rolling mountains surrounding us, speckled brown, gray, with the occasional dull green from the dry brush that did manage to grow between the cracked earth and rock. The sky above is an endlessly blue, save for a few clouds and the random trail of smoke rising from a shelter in the distance. The sun is agonizingly bright, white hot. It’s about 11:30 in the afternoon, and it’s already 99 degrees out. I’ve just finished filming some b-roll of the construction work on the houses financed by the La Croix mission… when I say construction work, I mean about twelve guys carrying cinderblocks by hand up the side of this small, rocky mountain. The last hurricane season blew away most of the weak huts the people had previously built. Several of them drowned in the flooding, or died of a resulting condition. Walking over, Pierre and Pastor Mike say there is another group of villagers about three miles from here. We needed to head back to finish up the second part of the interviews for the documentary, not to mention I’m already exhausted from the heat, but this is the only opportunity to get the footage so I want to go.

We “drive” for a bit; it’s more like stumbling. Some places there’s actually a road, but mostly it’s just gravel roads littered with craters. Mikes hands slide over the steering wheel, whipping around a pothole the size of a Volkswagen. It’s like an SUV full of bobbleheads. He mentions something about them going through a set of tires about every five hundred miles or so. They get them from the church in Pennsylvania, and I know they have to bribe customs to actually get them. I’m not too crazy about this truck, remembering the jostling six hour drive in last night from PAP Airport, only sixty-five miles away. I grab hold of the handrail as the truck bobs and rolls and turns off into another village, kicking up an inertial cloud of gray and tan dust. A few women are washing clothes and dishes in a barely soapy tin tub. Most of the teenagers have regular looking clothes on: jean skirts, faded t-shirts, khakis… although pretty much every toddler I’ve seen has been running around naked. One of the younger girls recognizes Pastor Mike and immediately runs up to him when we get out. There’s actually trees here, I noticed. I found out later this was one of the places Pierre planted them years ago. He told us that he would probably be killed over them if gangs came up this way, who would certainly cut them down for charcoal. Filming goes slowly, because I have to stop about every five minutes to wipe dust off the lens of the camera, which feels a lot heavier than when I started this morning. I get some good footage of the kids, the pressed, swept dirt floors of most of their shelters, the animals roaming freely. There’s a bit of universal movement towards a hut where an elderly woman is standing, hands on her hips, talking to Mike. Feeling obligated and hearing low murmurs, I head that way. Inside, lying shaking on a thin white blanket, is an old man, probably in his seventies. His jet-black skin is pocked with large, openly infected sores, a stomach-churning combination of puffy white and pinkish red, probably staph. I definitely did not expect that, but reality hit me right where I was. Clumsily, I mutter a “mesi” or “thank you”, the only kreyòl I know, and move on to try and film a mud wall or something, anything else. Dr. Tyger tells us the next morning that the man had died.

———————————————–

I still can’t believe how crowded it is in this place. I can’t walk a few feet without having to re-navigate around somebody huddling around an iPhone. The store is brightly lit, everything pristine white or lacquered hardwood, save for the occasional glass and metal. Enormous, panoramic banners are plastered behind every glittering, shiny gadget. As soon as one person walks away from a computer, two people waiting behind them jump right in their place, clicking incessantly, Facebooking, taking unflattering pictures. I turn to barely miss running into some guy’s enormous Banana Republic bag, not that it would be anywhere near as disastrous as knocking the giant coffee out of his other hand. I try to apologize, but he keeps walking, unfazed. There’s a line of people waiting to put their name on a list at the front of the store, I assume to buy a phone. There’s a startling amount of people working today too, yet they’re effortlessly outnumbered.  It’s so loud I can barely hear the muzak, just the relentless drone of conversation. Every few minutes a group of people walk into the store, look around at the crowd, and then almost immediately retreat the way they came in. Ha, I don’t blame them. It’s constantly busy here, so jam packed full of people that the store had to convert to a system where literally every employee has can make credit card purchases. I just read the other day how the manufacturers can’t even keep up. At least Channel 9 isn’t here today, I think to myself.

I try to focus, and head towards the accessories aisle, which is hopelessly crowded. It’s a little warm in here, probably 75, 76. I need a case, but I think they’re sold out. I’ve already scratched my phone once. Finally, I spot a friend of mine who works here, back at the tech support desk. I momentarily quicken my pace to greet him, but quickly change my mind as I get closer. Despite the surrounding droves of people waiting, laptops and phones at their sides, his unusually confused expression is fixed directly on the woman standing about a foot in front of him, her jaw squared in a noticeably cross demeanor. She looks like she just came from work, fairly dressed up.

“I don’t understand why this is so complicated. I already made an appointment to get support!” As she spoke, she jams her pointed finger on the table top beside them in an annunciated fashion. I eavesdrop from a safe distance as my friend answers: “I know, but your appointment was for half an hour ago and we had to move on to the next person. I can still fit you in tonight, it will just be a little while until someone’s available.”

“No, I can’t -” she stops, shaking her head. “This is crazy. Is this your idea of customer service?” she asks, laughing angrily. She’s hardly demonstrative, but it’s definitely capturing the attention of those around. I notice a security badge hanging from the keys in her left hand. “I just drove twenty minutes to get here. It’s completely out of my way.” I smirk to myself; my friend lives in Kentucky, a good 50 minutes from his here.

He doesn’t seem to take issue though. “I know, and I want to help you. I’ve just got to find someone. Gimme a minute.” He calmly steps away to talk into a radio. The woman motions her hands, as if hopeless. “God,” I hear her mutter as she walks to the side, looking down to rummage through her black purse for her phone. My phone dings in my pocket. It’s a text from Anna. Figuring this is obviously not the best time to catch up, and noticing the empty space on the wall where cases usually are anyway, I turn and make my way through the endless sea of people towards the exit, the light reflecting off the glass.

———————————————–

Blinded again. It’s almost 2pm. I crouch down, propping my camera against an unoccupied table to escape the beams of sunlight refracting off the metal window frame. The rows of roughly-carved wooden benches are lined with kids, each one wearing pale red shorts and a checkered shirt. A few have shoes on. A musty aroma blows by every few seconds from the steaming vat of rice, beans and tiny bits of fish at the end of one table. Pierre and another Haitian are spooning portions onto tin plates, passing them down the lined-up rows of boisterous, hungry children still waiting. Behind me, a women sifts rice, tossing it in the air. Several kneel on the dirty floor behind a crumbling concrete divide, amongst bubbling pots and vegetable husks, straining boiled things through a weaved basket. We’re under the tin roof of a large, open hall. It’s not as hot here, thanks to the towering ficus trees looming around us, but I’m still sweating hard. Birds squawk noisily from the tops of the trees at the woman sweeping the dry courtyard outside with a straw broom. The sound of tap-taps (an over-crowded taxi of sorts) occasionally sputter by outside the large red iron gates of Pierre’s compound, workers clink shovels and pickaxes on the foundation of a new church building being built. All constant reminders of my uncomfortable distance from home.

I’m struggling to pull off a tight shot of the kids, as they’re either moving around or staring right at me and the camera. I reposition around the hall until I feel at least decently satisfied with the shots. Moving past my producer, I can hear her talking to Pierre about the children.

“Say that again, Gone-ay-eve?” she asks, leaning in as if to hear the pronunciation better.

“Yes Gonaives, some from Saint-Marc, which is a very long way to walk,” he says, motioning towards the children. “Some, it takes a whole day to get here.”

Her eyes widen. “A Day? An entire 24 hours walk?”

“Yes,” he smiles, “… and only several even have shoes. We give them clothes, but cannot yet afford all shoes.” I pass by, listening in a bit more intently. Pierre goes on to mention that this meal is the only one most of the kids get all day. A lot of them have chronic diarrhea or some sort of gastric problems from the water they drink at home, which is the same stream that garbage gets thrown in and the animals drink from typically. Pierre and the mission build wells, but some of them still have to carry the water for miles, and all of them are used to the woods to being the bathroom.

As the evening wears on, the Dominican Republic cuts the power in the area, as they commonly do. Pierre switches on a generator for an hour or two so we have light. A gallon of diesel here costs more than most Haitians make in several months, but they get it donated from the church. There’s a toilet and, Thank God, toilet paper. You have to use a bucket of water every time to make the pump flush, but no one cares. We shake the dead gnats and bugs off the sheets before bedtime as the room cools down from a single AC unit. I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time, the little Airplane Mode icon in the opposite corner a taunting memento to my seemingly never-ending remoteness.

———————————————–

“Guess they didn’t want to wait either.”

I look up from my phone. “Huh?”

The barista nods in my direction as she pulls a shot from the espresso machine. I turn to look behind me at the front of the packed store I was just in, people still milling about, crowded around smart phones and laptops, the employees desperately trying to give everyone personal attention, a seemingly inhuman accomplishment. The entire mall’s busy today. It’s loud… but not nearly as loud as it was and still is in that place.

As I look into the mass of bodies, my eyes fall on a blonde girl and an older guy, probably her dad, walking more quickly than others out of the front of the store.”I can’t believe I can’t just go in and buy a computer. Why is that so difficult?” I overhear the man say as they pass to my right. The girl is practically jogging to keep up with him. “I waited for at least forty minutes and no one helped me. They’re not getting my business,” he huffs loudly. The girl grumbles something under her breath, visibly embarrassed at his vexation and trying to ignore everyone’s stares.

“You want room for cream?” the barista says. Regaining my attention to the task at hand I hand her my credit card. “Yeah, just a little,” only to inevitably glance back down at my phone. The background picture is of Anna, from our vacation last year. She’s sitting on a window ledge of our 15th floor hotel room, looking out at the sea of cars on Michigan Ave. It’s one of my favorite pictures. The afternoon sky’s rays are blooming through the open window, a bright hazy white that ended in a perfectly clear blue sky. I remember that moment, the feel of it, standing there looking at her. The cool AC in the dark room, the energy of the sun, the effervescent flicks of dust in the beams of light through the glass. We had worked a long time to take that vacation, and seeing her so happy was…  a blessing, a few seconds instantly immortalized in my memory. Anna’s text is in an overlaying pop-up on my screen: “wanna do sushi for dinner? ” it says. For a minute I stand there, thinking. Then I type:

“sushi sounds great”

Seriously?

Over the past few months I have met a whole heck of a lot of new friends. The majority of them I’ve actually taken to the next level, the “second base” of friendship, some more than others. A select few I regard as close as friends I’ve known almost my whole life. I feel accepted. They accept me. We have our differences, some similarities, but mostly we just enjoy each other’s company, enjoy each other’s humor, definitely enjoy each other’s booze and grub, and generally respect each other for who we are and our individual choices of lifestyle, however alternative. This is the opposite of xenophobia. Coincidentally, this is also the result of Twitter.

Rewind to two years ago. My wife and I are in the midst of a spiritual and emotional 180, trying to undo a generation of straight-and-narrow thinking and assumption-based philosophy. We found ourselves in a place where we were very afraid but willing to go to, to open our minds to questions, reason, and insight not explored often enough – and in some not-too-rare cases, not allowed – in our past lives. The smallest belief was tore down, dissected, and partially reconstructed in agonizing and humiliating introspection. This may seem glib to you, but it was huge to us. I know much more about myself now than I ever wanted to before. Believe me, the lady and I have had plenty of awesome, ripping good fights over our battling egos, but ultimately have been each other’s compliment through it all. In summary, our fight was one of a philosophical transition from “I know a lot of things” to ” wow, I really don’t know anything.” Profound, huh? It was. Like a kick in my big dumb head. But believe it or not, in this new found self-awareness, it turned out to be social suicide for the both of us. Gradually, we lost a lot of old friends, as if we were never friends to begin with. It was heartbreaking, and a bit revelatory. I mean who really wants to be friends with the walking dead, the zombified personification of discontentment? Not many do. But some people did, mostly because they understood, but more likely because they may have been going through the same I-don’t-know-jack-shit scenario that we were. Those turned out to be the defining friendships. Quality over quantity.

What you can’t decipher from text on a screen is the intonation and intention. I cut up a lot and I excel at leading a crowd. You may see the guy making penis jokes, but when you look, actually look in his eyes, you’ll see the conflict behind the mask: a man limping from years of being hidden from truth and reality, repressing his childhood, feeling responsible for his parent’s faults, favoring the gathering of friends for fear that moments of solitude would force him to look in a mirror and see himself. Alone. Afraid. Lately the mask has become a lot thinner, but it’s still there. The difference now is I see the conflict, and rise above it with pride: I’ve screwed up and people still like me. I’ve faced my faults on my own cognizance. I actually am comfortable when I’m alone. I can actually let people see my imperfections and survive.

I don’t take myself so seriously.

My and anyone else’s emotional complexity can’t be translated to Twitter, a meaningful social experience but ultimately a glorified text-message conversation. But it’s a means to an end, the end result being real people with real lives and real voices who have thoughts, a sense of humor, and compassion, and yes, imperfections. So my minority viewpoint is this: in this narcissistic, aggressive, self-deprecating bubble that is my freethinking world, I have managed to arrive at the conclusion that it is better to first handle other narcissistic, aggressive, self-deprecating people with some semblance of finesse, empathy and compassion. Of course if that fails, then it’s obviously time for them to become a responsible, contributing adult like everyone else. Especially if it means walking away from some meaningless talking points stand-off on a computer screen.*

I’m a self-inflated, over-analyzing snob that some people tolerate and a select few actually don’t mind being around. Most, not all, but most of these weirdoes have a bunch of shit they drag in from their lives or past lives too, but everyone is cool with it. Sometimes, though… myself included… we can potentially be dicks. If you screw up royally, apologize sincerely and people will eventually move on. It’s not worth it, because it’s not what matters. What does matter are the real conversations, not defining yourself or others within the confines of 140 characters.

So come join the circlejerk. Some chaffing is inevitable.

#iheartboobs

*Note: paragraph edited. Some words were too inflammatory and childish, but more important, not constructive to the goal of reconciliation.

I’ve been trying to write this post for two weeks now. Every time I begin I am consumed with a powerful rage that distorts my ability to communicate in a civilized fashion. Hardly what one would expect from me after close to five years of “Katrina Blogging.” Still, there it is.

Every single day my email box and Facebook accounts overflow with reports from the Gulf. First hand perspective from friends, former neighbors, fellow bloggers and engineers. None of it is good. It’s easy to sit up here and be horrified, but it’s a little bit worse for my social circle back home where it truly and honestly is a matter of breathing petrochemical fumes.

So to be honest I just don’t have it in me right now. I watch another man made disaster, another engineering failure, destroying the area my family has called home for nearly 300 years and I become completely inarticulate.  So, being a native New Orleanian long before I became a Northsider I’m going to respond the way I am culturally programmed to: with satire. Very appropriate in an era when Jon Stewart is one of the most trusted newsmen out there. So here is a laugh that will make you cry. It’s all I can muster as I watch the slow motion tragedy unfold across the Gulf.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5Z9W59Z5ZY

-Loki, Founder and Publisher

First, big thanks to @DonMooneyJr on twitter for the title!  For those who were asleep this afternoon, Shepard Fairey’s mural on Pike Street in Covington, KY was painted over with white paint.  Lauren Bishop wrote the story at Cincinnati.com and the image is present alongside the article.  The mural was across the street from John G. Carlisle School.

For many of us, this harkens back harrowing memories of Mapplethorpe.  The exhibit, held in 1990 at the Contemporary Arts Center, was titled Robert Mapplethorpe: The Perfect Moment.  The exhibit had been in circulation throughout the country for almost a year before landing in Cincinnati.  What culminated was a perfect storm in which massive protests lead by Citizens for Community Values eventually lead to the indictment of then CAC’s director Dennis Barrie and the CAC for pandering obscenity.  An acquittal came 6 months later.  The larger aftermath resulted in how the art world framed itself and art within the community.  FANTASTIC Enquirer article Mapplethorpe Battle Changed Art World  written by Jackie Demaline is a necessary read for those not familiar.

Two pervasive feelings; one is embarrassment over the censorship from the greater Cincinnati community.  The other is seething anger over the exploitation of the location and Cincinnati’s history.  Cincinnati is attempting to see itself as a world-class city and community and censorship flies in the face of our fledgling self-prescribed identity but this writer feels terrific anger toward an opportunistic artist using our history to further his own agenda and popularity.

I love the Contemporary Art Center.  I’m a member.  However, one is torn between knowing this controversy can be good for our city in garnering the art world’s eyes toward us and feeling that Fairey may have been booked for that very purpose.  I also know that’s not fair.  The CAC’s mission statement is 

“…based on the notion that there is an inextricable link between art and life, and that connections are made through contemporary art.  

We provide a space for reflection and dialogue, where the public can engage with artists, scholars, and each other around contemporary issues.  We are committed to remaining the place where opportunity transcends boundaries.

The CAC is shaped by a symbiotic relationship with the community.  We are a neighbor, a leader, and a facilitator.  We believe in the idea of an open cultural forum where all are welcome to congregate and gain exposure to new ideas and where art is a means for people to connect to each other and to the world outside.”  Contemporary Art Center

Platow fulfilled the CAC’s mission in bringing Fairey here.  Was Shepard Fairey’s choice of mural and location exploitive?  Yep.  Should the owners of the space known?  Yep.  Is it benefitting him?  Yep.  Is it benefitting greater Cincinnati?  Maybe.

Thanks to @LivingInGin for this archived gem:  Elvis/Velvet Gala Opening

Some twitter comments from today’s feed:

@artsnob @CincyCAC monumentalizing and child soldiers with an mural, does not bring problems to light, it celebrates children at war

@5chw4r7z I guess Fairey should have done a mural with Dr King being denied lunch at Woolworths. would have fit with the current climate in KY

@LivingInGin Ax murder mural forces delay of Moscow Metro station opening. They should’ve hired Shepard Fairey. http://bit.ly/dj2xH0

@epavner shame that Covington’s arts district will be known for a Fairey cover-up instead of embracing a teachable moment

@DillyCafe Ah yes, maybe by painting over that image all the real child soldiers around the world will magically disappear.

Other reading:

Mapplethorpe & the CAC: 20 Years Ago Today

Mapplethrope controversy reverberates in Cincinnati 10 years later

Cincinnati Jury Acquits Museum In Mapplethorpe Obscenity Case

I want to be completely honest with you up front: I live in Greenhills, just southwest of Forest Park. I’m married, have an 8-to-5 job, an 80 pound weimaraner that likes to chew on rawhides in my backyard, and a Honda Accord. I read the Drudge Report every day, I sometimes iron my jeans, and I know that the Lowes down the street from me has way better prices on top soil than the Home Depot. My television is as big as my wall, thanks to Best Buy’s 36-month no interest offer, to which I proudly gather my Sunday brunch guests around, randomly interjecting such phrases as “I have no idea why the iPhone isn’t on Verizon” and “I prefer watering my grass in the mornings to avoid pythium” into the conversation while sipping on Starbucks’ newest blend of burnt coffee. Our house might as well have a white picket fence. I couldn’t be more suburban if I took dancing lessons… which, yes, I’m considering.

While this self-deprecating assessment of my lifestyle is meant mostly for your entertainment, this also characterizes the only lifestyle I ever knew growing up with friends. Our evenings were Wendy’s and a movie, and then we parted. We hardly ever went to downtown Cincinnati… actually, we complained about driving from West Chester to Springdale. We went to enormous high schools, we vacationed in Cancun. We were the middle-class, predominately white, obscure, indistinguishable residents of the suburban Midwest, perpetuating the immortal reach of contemporary consumerism. Quantity over quality. Aficionados of bland. Purveyors of the dull and oversaturated. American cars, always. Blink 182, Coldplay, Dave Matthews Band, always. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this stuff. There’s a time and place for things in the name of convenience, including the mundane and the cheap. It could be because you’re eating lunch on the road today, and you only want to spend two bucks. Or when you don’t necessarily care about what you’re watching on the TV because you’re done thinking for the day. I get it. I own all of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, too. I chose to live where I do solely because when I want to get away from downtown, I can. Also I want a yard. I understand sanctuary from a restless society. But I also understand how much it bothers me… no, not bothers, traumatizes me, is that after all of my aligning, my genuine empathy displayed to those I wish the best for, after all of the pleading with to try new things and to explore, the laudations and proclamations of intense joy and satisfaction awaiting from the adventure, the experience of our fair city… after my rant is complete, I witness a jaded cynicism in the faces of the ones I love that reveals a sometimes apprehensive, often oblivious desire to remain… static.

Unchanging. Unflinching. Ineffective.

When it comes to food, it’s no secret to my closest friends and co-workers that I live on a sociopathic plane. My mother sympathizes often that the level at which I love food is a sin, a lamentation I quickly rejoice to. I also accept my own vested interest in this: the affirmation from my peers. The feeling of sharing something new and delicious like andouille or boudin from Kroeger and Sons with an excited, eager family, or to see a friends’ eyes light up at the realization that this mouthful of figs and prosciutto pizza works amazingly well, to impressively state the difference between finocchiona and felino, or to experience the magic that is Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale while devouring one of those embarrassingly overpriced but delicious hipster dogs at the Senate… only to receive in reply to my excitement and encouragement what amounts to blank stares and snickers full of mockery. I actually get made fun of for proselytizing growth and discovery. A friend’s most agonizing response.

I have no illusions about my egomania and tendency for melodrama. Those same friends will lovingly tell you that I am a walking contradiction and a glutton… which is riotously true. Regardless, what caused me to change from a one-world view to this standard of openness was the eventual rejection of indifference. I refused to remain in the unknown, and to appreciate what I had. If I have any insatiable desire, it is to perform with the knowledge that this could be my last day alive and that every joy I experience is a gift. Even the wealthiest of us are among those who take it for granted and often live lives of unfulfillment or violence. For me, it’s not enough to waste every day, not knowing or caring what happens outside of our version of society. That’s why it’s not worth getting pissed over a latte that’s not “just right”, or when you have to wait five minutes to get it. I apply this philosophy ad nauseam. There are bigger, even better, often more important things going on than what’s right in front of me, and that is relevant as well to my community. So I challenge the suburbanite within me to travel beyond my property line. “Who is this Shepard Fairey everyone’s talking about? You know, I’ve never been to the symphony… or Findlay Market. I want to only try things at Taste of Cincinnati this year that I haven’t had yet.”

My mission, and I believe my responsibility, is to defeat the perfunctory, mechanical “meh” in my life. I’m no expert; I haven’t experienced even half of what this city has to offer… but I want to.

Also, for the record: Blink sucks and Coldplay’s alright, but DMB kicks ass.

Nathan is a Cincinnati videographer and graphic animator by trade. He’s also a food lover, a social commentator and an audiophile. You can follow him on Twitter @npenny or email him at nathanppenny at gmail dot com

I had driven past the storefront for months.  When I would walk past, I’d admire the quirky art inside, the fabulous chandelier… and one day I noticed there was a schedule of events posted to the window.

It was Valentine’s Day of 2009 that finally got me, my boyfriend and my daughter into Happen, Inc. We had a dinner date that evening with BF’s parents, and per the posted schedule, the session that day at Happen had something to do with flowers.

I filled out a little information at the front desk: our names, my daughter’s age; I asked if there was any cost for the “session,” and there wasn’t – not even a donation basket. We sat at a table with another parent-child pair; suddenly a friendly fellow came out from behind a curtain exuding amazingly contagious positive bombastic fervor and taught all of us the “Happen Cheer,” which goes a little something like this:

{all}

“One, Two, Three –“

{Kids}

“You can make it happen!”

*clap*, *clap*, *clap*

{Adults}

“Just make it through college!”

That last line wrought howls from most of the adults and thoroughly engaged all of the kids.  The friendly fellow then walked everyone through some famous works of art that featured floral arrangements (like Van Gogh’s Sunflowers), and explained that we had a very important job to do: a local florist (another Happen employee, dressed as a 50’s-era florist, complete with a south-Bronx accent) was way behind on her orders for the day, and she needed our collective help to fill them.

We were all given several paper flower patterns to decorate, and pipe cleaners to use for stems.  Looking around the room, it was difficult to tell who was having more fun – the kids or the adults.

Since then, we have made:  pottery- mugs, bowls and a plate thrown on a wheel, pinch pots and flying pigs, even some “Pop Arf” – from a dog-friendly session where our pooch got to immortalize her paw prints in clay; a photo-collage using old Polaroid cameras; made a decorative flower pot, then planted flower seeds in them (growing beautifully on a windowsill); carved pumpkins for Halloween time; decorated Easter eggs; made a kite that could actually FLY… all for free.  Every session starts with the Happen Cheer, there’s a micro art lesson, and then an engaging creative project.  The characters the staff portrays are always energetic, creatively costumed and the dialogue is always chock full o’puns, to keep the adults giggling and groaning.

At the last Northside Community Council meeting, Happen’s director, Tommy Rueff, made an announcement that Happen, Inc. Northside is to expand: another of their successful projects, the Toy Lab , will be moving in.  I wept with joy. I cannot express how important I think it is to have such a magnificent art outreach resource within walking distance of my house.  I wish every neighborhood in Cincinnati… heck, the WORLD, could have a Happen, Inc. to call their very own.  At Happen, I have made art next to all colors and demographics of people, their positive energy fuels the rest of my week. Stereotypes are smushed like chunks of spinning clay, class fences dissolve like paint in so much water.  Someone told me once that a community needs to be wealthy to afford the arts, but I think it is the other way around – it is the arts that lifts people from poverty and inspires them to do greater things.  Happen is making it happen in a big, joyful way– if you haven’t attended a session yet, even if you don’t have kids, you need to go, because this kind of creative bombast is good for your soul.

Cheers!

Dark Martha

http://www.consciousurbanliving.com

Images courtesy of Happen, Inc.

Yesterday marked two years since Ashley Morris left this world. One of the most powerful voices in the New Orleans blogosphere suddenly silenced on April 2, 2008. I remember being stunned into immobility as I read his lovely Rollergirl wife’s post on his blog:

This is Hana, Ashley’s wife. I am sorry to tell you but Ashley passed away this morning, Wed. April 2, 2008 in Florida.

He was 44, the age I will attain this coming September. Way too young for his ticker to give out, but it did. I miss him terribly.

I think Greg Peters on Suspect Device said it best:”“Ashley was fire. Ashley was the furnace where the rage was forged, where the steam pressure built, where raw anger began its conversion to power and motion.” Ashley was the voice of New Orleans  unfiltered. He coupled the eloquence and facility with language of an English scholar with the willingness to say what no one else would and to express the rage we all felt as New Orleans was basically abandoned during and after the Flood. David Simon, a name known to all fans of The Wire, described Ashley’s profanity laced invectives thusly:

“I admired his sense of outrage; petulance and selfish rage are useless, but rightful and righteous anger has an essential place in our times. Ashley was angry on behalf of others, which in my mind makes all the difference. From what he wrote, I am convinced that Ashley loved his city and he loved the people of his city, and he was short and to the point with people who tried to [evade] the real questions using ad hominem and decorum and false civility. He spoke his mind.”

Yesterday I could not write about this, not on the anniversary of his death itself. Instead I did what we were doing when we first meet at a Geek Dinner in New Orleans, I met up with a bunch of local Cincy bloggers over beer and questionable humor. At one point I told them a bit about Ashley and raised a toast to him. There’s no Abita around here so I drank Red Stripe, getting as close to the Gulf Coast as I could.

Sophmom, an Atlanta based NOLA Blogger pulled together a great collection of links to memorials across the Gulf Coast blogosphere. Check them out, and you will see why the Excellence in Blogging Award at Rising Tide is named for Ashley. See why he has become the Crescent City’s Patron Saint of Blogging. See why we are al poorer, wherever we are, that his voice is silenced. (Also be warned, we Gulf Coast Bloggers are a NSFW group).

I ask that you go to his blog, read what he wrote, and visit the blogs of my dear friends in New Orleans who are mourning this terrible loss. I’m posting links to those who’ve written about him, many (if not most) with pictures, and I will add updates as posts appear. Please start with Greg, Ray (and with Councilperson Shelly Midura’s homage before the council), Adrastos (and an audio tribute), Maitri, Schroeder, Loki, Liprap, Karen, Michael, Lisa, WetBankGuy (and more WBG), Mr. Clio, dsbnola, Bart, Dangerblond,Oyster, Blake, G-Bitch, Scout, Greg’s made a video (take a hanky), Saintseester (beautiful memorial icon), Charlotte, Tim, Varg, Celcus,Animamundi, Alan, JudyB, Cliff, Cenlamar, New Package, Video of Oyster & Ashley (thanks to Blake), Barbawit, Nancy Nall with a unique and moving tribute and Ray talks about ”playing it sad”, Micheal Tisserand for Gambit Weekly, YatPundit’s Kos Diary, Dangerblond’s post about the newly established memorial fund has a great picture, Remember Ashley Morris (geek mourning activism)….

He is the NSFW Patron Saint of New Orleans Bloggers, and as one of their number I salute his memory. he was also my friend, and It pains me that since I live in Cincinnati now I can no longer honor his memory by grabbing an oyster po-boy and and Abita beer to enjoy in the humid heat of the Crescent City.

I’m going to close with a video homage put together by Greg Peters a few days after “The Perfesser” left the building:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOtNLc7M-70

Damn you Ashley, you made me cry again this year. FYYFF!

[xposted to: HumidCity | CincyVoices | SocialGumbo]

As a disabled woman my biggest hurdle that I have to stride isn’t the everyday mundane physical hurdles like getting dressed, doing house work and making sure that my wheelchair is charged up enough to get me through the day; my biggest hurdles come with the everyday interaction with people and helping them get passed the “elephant in the room,” (my disability) and help them see who I am as a person.

As a freelance photographer that can be tough in some aspects but I usually let my images do my talking for me and it is my hope that when people see my work they forget about the wheelchair that the photographer was sitting in. The curator of Art Beyond Boundaries, Jymi Bolden shares my philosophy and has made it the backbone of the Over the Rhine gallery.

Through the power of Facebook I have been able to network with many art organizations and meet some extremely talented people who are both encouraging and inspiring. I found Art Beyond Boundaries through this process and read how they promote artists with disabilities, through professional development and art shows.

As my friend Nic Vitori and I walked in to the gallery I expected to see attention called to disability like the neon sign that society would have us wear and pictures put up on the wall as if it were artwork on a refrigerator. My cynicism, contributed to years of working as a disability and intimacy advocate, were quickly extinguished as we entered the gallery. We were met with high ceilings, hardwood floors, beautiful lighting and not one of the fore-mentioned neon signs that this was a gallery for people with disabilities, no, it was an art gallery…period. I eagerly looked at all the displays and b-lining to the photography and I was please to see the beautiful work that was presented in a professional manner. There wasn’t one thing that screamed disability there was just the brilliant artwork of talented artists whose work could sit side by side with any other artists work and you would never know the difference.

Meeting Mr. Bolden was also an amazing experience. He is an accomplished photographer and painter whose work can be seen from City Beat, to Taste of Cincinnati and the huge painting on the side of a building on I-71. He graciously hosted us and showed us around the gallery, explaining how it worked and invited me to submit for the upcoming show… (he didn’t have to ask me twice)

The opening of their next exhibit which I am blessed to be a part of is celebrating 3 years in their Over the Rhine location. “3 PEAT… and it’s fun now!”, opens February 12, 2010, 6-9 pm and runs to March 26th. Art Beyond Boundaries is located at 1410 Main Street, Cincinnati, Ohio.

I hope to see you there!

-Criptress