girl eat machine.

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I don’t need more information; what I need is some wisdom.

(Read last post.)

Sooo…I guess that’s the beauty of blogging — avoiding the rewrite.

I was just reflecting how every news, non-profit, for-profit, freelancer, consultor, denstist outfit, private citizen, and Beanie Baby collector is in a position now to rewrite and refilter the news. There’s pressure if you run your own website remotely connected to the world outside yourself (—which is everyone?—) to write and respond to news. Tell the news from your perspective. Tell how everyone else got the news wrong. Spin. Clarification. Whatever.

Putting aside the discussion of the possibility or role of “journalistic objectivity”, when everyone **rewrites** the news, what they’re actually trying to do is **respond** to the news. Re-writing the news is then a waste of time for…well, all parties involved.

Cue the blog — a space to reference, site, and RESPOND to current events, quips, blips, etc. Save your breath with a link back to the news site of your choosing and tell us your reason for posting. What do you have to say?

The blog centralizes the role of the individual/organization response to news, places new relevance in /some/ sort of news aggregater (whether its more of a general RSS feed than a NYT is open for discussion), reduces associated spam/redudant content, and saves workers from menial tasks.

Sounds pretty good to me…

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For every link [we get] there are dozens of sites that outright steal our content with no attribution. Not just spam blogs, even the NYTimes does it. This isn’t a copyright issue – the stories are rewritten by actual people. But it’s far cheaper to simply take the news and rewrite it – if you can get away with it – than to hire people who do actual journalism.

Michael Arrington on TechCrunch re: The End of Handcrafted Content

…Having now worked in both broadcast news and web production, the regeneration of news by (re)writing copy is…disheartening — to say the least of the brain-suck it can be to one’s creative power. Maybe ‘brain-suck’ is too extreme, but it’s 1:33 a.m. I’m tired.

I have finally hit my limit on listening to this song.

That said, I had to listen through it — all 10 minutes, 19 seconds of it — at least 6 or 7 times, on repeat, before I hit maximum capacity. Sufjan is a fucking maestro.

Kudos to All Songs Considered for a great share.

Why are you still reading this post? Go and take a listen for me while I recooperate and prepare for another round.

One more.

Creative Nerds also posted this Collection of Beautiful Light Paintings.

Way before all this Photoshop stuff, we painted with light in real time. I remember my mother lugging out the tripod and the big-as-your-head storm lamp, whispering to me about apertures and shutters and things while I ran around on our frontlawn. I wish I had paid more attention to her. I was totally (pre)occupied mapping out my light painting against the sky.

Once Mom finally had everything ready to go, I’d slip behind her and the camera and draw in front of the lens. My eyes caught only the wisps of arcs and lines searing the dark, but the camera would remember them all.

Every now and then, Mom would dart out in front of the open shutter, or she’d ask me stand out, front and center, while she doodled over me.

I don’t remember seeing the pictures later, but I do remember falling in love with long exposures.

(Meanwhile, top right: ‘The Time Traveller’ by ~JogiART)

In my sickness today, ‘word art’ — specifically, typography portraits — caught my attention.

Remember the Jay-Z video? (See above.)

Artist Evan Roth creates portraits of Jay using only the word Brooklyn. It’s simple and pretty stunning to behold. (And — *geek points* — it was apparently made with Open Code AND you can actually download the source code.)

Jay’s infectious beats came into my head while I was checking out this list of 25 Beautiful Examples of Typography Portraits on Creative Nerds. (A new favorite website and awesome skillz resource. (Yes, with a ‘z’.))

***
I’m trying to decide whether I respond better/like to the portraits where the words and letters mean something — even if its cliche. When the letters are random, it feels a little like cheating: of course an ‘l’ makes a nice bridge for the nose, but what else can you do with it? What can a word do in place of it? What does it mean to have word instead of a letter?

Then again, words with ‘meaning’ all over a face feel a little contrived. Here are some the ones I found more interesting, from both sides of random/ordered divide:

'Weiland Type' by Caliburless Soul (^)

The Brooklyn inspired ‘My Portrait’ by vic198x (^)

(My fav) ‘Erik Spiekermann’ by thierry-eamon (^)

I’d be interested to check out the impact of word- and letter-based portraiture prior to The Computer Age. Maybe I’m just a biased Gen X-er…or, er, Gen Y-er…or, whatever, but personal observation and cold facts confirm that computers have ushered in a new era of font-appreciation and worship (driven largely by the growing web design community, no doubt).

Part of it must be the expansion of branding. Companies have long relied on a manufactured style and graphic stamp to create a character. Yes, although corporations may be individuals under the law, to the surprise of no one they lack overt personalized qualities — like handwriting or vocal pitch for instance.

As more and more people turn to the net and become Users, they face a similar problem. All the ticks and quirks that identify people ‘in the real world’ are innately missing when they sign online. So, Users turn to text for differentiation. Different font colors and styles (in addition to one’s written ‘voice’) become identity markers — a User’s personal brand, if you will.

What’s my brand?

Less than having a font face (har har), I think my User brand is based in my style of writing. The more I write publicly, the more I notice certain patterns in my (written) language…especially the influence of my punctuation-queer, wordsmith hero, e.e. cummings…

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(Oh, and if you need any convincing that there is, in fact, a great deal of energy, attention, and devotion to fonts, see the documetary Helvetica about the font of the same name.)

William and the Windmill from Randy Risling on Vimeo.

This (^) is an example of the kind of multimedia I’d like to make*

His name is William Kamkwamba, and his story is nothing short of remarkable. Using scraps from a local junkyard in Malawi, he created something that harnessed the wind – and changed his life. By Lucas Oleniuk and Randy Risling.

*Look at the use of living portraiture, stop motion, blending the text with the image…The completeness of the style infuses the story with vibrance — rather than relying on what is already a compelling, if short, story, the filmmakers’ style shows their quest for a unique visual translation. (One that they hit on the mark…) I might argue that the images are stronger than the audio…but that may even be the point. At least the audience never feels as though sound and image are *competing.*

Anyway, in a word: Awesome. Check it out.

Nude 1936

Charis, Lake Ediza

Charis Wilson 1935

Charis Wilson, who was lover, muse, model, amanuensis and wife of the photographer Edward Weston and the subject of many of his best-known nude portraits, died on Friday in Santa Cruz, Calif. She was 95. (NYT)

Edward Weston: American photographer, founder of Group f/64. His work only continues to gather power as it colors and ages. (A common feature of the f/64 crew as a whole…)

It’s his composition, I think, that feels so piercing and on target. Composition and contrast. The color almost doesn’t matter when the body is laid out so clearly and so fearlessly…it’s just…honest. To the point of being confrontational.

The photographer exposes himself in the image: Look at the last two photographs. I’m sure that Weston shot Wilson hundreds of times, but taken together, these two portraits show something startlingly intimate. Weston’s favorite view of Charis, maybe: arms akimbo, legs spread, eyes locked (with his)…face straight, head bonneted, expression equal parts patient and removed.

Weston loved her. Look how Wilson folds her body. You can almost hear Weston’s voice — soothing, asking her gently to move to the left or right. To sit. Coming over, he eases her head down against her kneecap.

Stare back at Charis and you stare at Weston. Give into him. He’s trying to give you a piece of himself: the honesty of shared silence, early mornings, the moment (just after) you are taken off your guard.

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I felt like an orange, squashed by a dirty boot.

On his years working with the BBC.

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My experience is what I agree to attend to.