Throbbing synapses pulsating within the confines of calcified walls; pressed up against the window of a West Jet commuter. Speculating over the ritual of passengers rushing to stand idle in an escape trough, waiting to take part in the morning edition of “Tour De Baggage Claim,” confident that the human race is a peculiar species. Yelping escapes the bowels of the now sullen plane, and I wonder if anyone realizes that’s my better half crying out for love after 12 hours crammed inside a plastic crate. Oh Halifax, how I’ve missed you.
It’s an odd sensation to return to a city where you, in essence, waved a big “I’m fucking better than you!” neon sign in its face as you ran off into the proverbial sunset. This is my recollection of past events which transpired nearly three years ago. Dropped my education to pursue the following: career in photojournalism, love, and adulthood. Returned to Halifax, begging for forgiveness, tail between my stout legs, and with the understanding that venturing out into the real world with an idealist ego is not a sane choice. Lesson learned, back on track, time to jump back into the nitty gritty of being an art student.
It’s a new adventure in a familiar journey. Somehow, beyond the grasp of my scientific psyche, the years away from my academic institute have broaden my respect, and understanding of the arts. Perhaps I should back track and catch readers up to snuff; I’m a photographer by trade, I draw and paint to maintain my sanity, and I have an insalubrious relationship with rescuing animals. Sinbad, my pitbull, is my right-hand-man, comprised of one part cry baby, three parts gluttonous goon. We mesh well in our own little cosmos, adopting the nomadic lifestyle. This is our ninth home in three years. For the record; I hate moving.
Art is the name of the game, and I aim to explore the modern realms of the visually creative world. Self proclaimed “anti-artist artist”, I question the motives of the creative, and debate that many artists have evolved into capitalistic whores. Gone are the days of the surrealist swinger parties, the cubist potlucks, and pedestal R. Mutt urinal status quo. Academic institutions have become a cookie cutter placate of “unique students.” Wandering through the doors of my institution – Nova Scotia College of Art and Design (NSCAD) – is like falling onto the set of an American Apparel advertising shoot. Cascading the sidewalks are vintage fixed gears, their hipster owners smoking cheap cigarettes while trying not to bend down due to the possibility of tearing their sausage casing tight pants. Somehow I’m beginning to wonder if they think I’m a narc, dressed in my lumberjack BC attire. There is nothing attractive of wandering through a sea of tight pants, and having the visual of smushed testicles bombard my eyes.
I’ve returned to my old stomping grounds to finish what I started; to graduate from the prestigious NSCAD. Neglected to pick up my ego from baggage claim, and have no aspirations to rummage through the airports lost and found for her. That said; can someone please evolve the hipster / 80’s revolution? Coming home saturated in another’s body aroma, after being critiqued by new age Cyndi Laupers is not a positive experience for my anger. Just saying….