Small Soldiers

One of my hobbies is model building, and studying history, especially military history. I scratch built and kit bashed this micro-diorama a few years ago. It depicts a basic ship's gun on a tall ship, circa the War of 1812. Scratch building is always an interesting challenge, as it combines modeling, sculpture, and historical research to create a representational model. Kit bashing, on the other hand, it taking apart what is a commercially created model in order to use the parts to create something different. It takes patience, but I actually find it rather relaxing. It offers a respite from having to worry about being commercial, or even trying to be extremely deep.

When I create sculpture, I am constantly thinking about form, materials, how it all goes together, and how I want it to represent my concepts and ideas, and how they are communicated. When I model, it is essentially brain candy. I know historians will disagree with me, but history is history, and fact is fact. Maneuvers may be debated, motivations questioned, and decisions and their reasoning may be pondered over, but those are all human concerns. The nice thing about materials research, is that when a soldier's uniform is blue, that is just that. It is difficult to argue a point when the object you are studying is at hand. When I create models, I try to recreate a representation of the past, and the thinking is more about materials and the final aesthetics. What I am trying to represent is just that, I am making a recreation of an existing object. There is not necessarily a deeper meaning.

Until next time,

Andrew

My Actual Work

Continuing with the basic idea that this blog is also my portfolio, I figured that now would be a good a time as any to actually show some of my artwork. I actually enjoy creating smaller pieces, as I think it allows for a greater dissemination of art, after all, not many people have the space for a monumental sculpture. I also like the idea of the works themselves being contained, forcing the viewer to break through and examine the piece for what it actually means, as opposed to merely having a concept thrust upon them.

"The Danger of Innocence" 2010, Mixed Media Assemblage

"Paris is Burning" 2010, Mixed Media Assemblage

Until next time,

Andrew

A Defense of The Kilt

Recently, I have heard a comment regarding my wardrobe lately that has rather rankled me. It seems that my manliness has been called into question based off of my decision to wear a kilt, or as it was disparagingly referred to as a "man-skirt." I have therefore decided to pen a defense of a garment that needs no defense in my opinion, and clothed in the garment of discussion, I sat down to write on what I consider one of the manliest pieces of clothing in existence.

The reason this garment is considered a paragon of toughness is predominately due to the long history and the traditional purpose of the kilt. The original design of the kilt was that it was intended from the very beginning as a travelling garment. As Highlanders were a tribal people, the garment was designed to be worn on the move. Therefore, the Kilt served several purposes, as a garment, as a shelter, and as an identifying badge.

The garment aspect of the kilt should be rather self explanatory. It serves incredibly well as a lower body garment. From first hand experience, I have worn my kilt on both the hottest and coldest days of the year, and it was comfortable on both days, as it is cool in summer, and warm in winter.

The shelter aspect of the garment deals predominately with the construction of a full kilt. Originally, a kilt was little more than a belted piece of wool, approximately a yard and a half by four yards. The idea behind this was that as a tribal people, you would have to carry everything with you as you moved place to place. As a result of this, the more you would carry, the less territory you would be able to cover. The kilt helped to provide an answer to this, as after a long day marching or travelling, the individual could just remove his kilt, shake out the pleats, wrap himself in the garment and go to sleep. This saved him the need of carrying his own bedding, and as any backpacker (or someone who had to carry a suitcase from the East Village to the Upper West Side) can tell you, every pound counts when you have to journey long distances.

The badge aspect, however, might be one of the most important aspects of the kilt. In a tribal society, being able to identify your own people can literally make the difference between life and death. This is where the very material of the kilt came into play. The kilt is not made with any ordinary wool, but a specially pattered one called the Tartan. Each individual clan had their own pattern, and that would be the only pattern they would wear. The traveller of clansman with a well trained eye would therefore be able to tell instantly if another man was a friend or foe.

These are all manly aspects of the garment, but what truly adds to the masculinity is the people who designed it. The standard equipment of a Highlander says much about the warlike aspects of the people. In the heyday of the kilt (16Th-18Th centuries) a knife or dagger would be something no man would leave the house without. Indeed, most men still carry a pocket knife as part of their daily gear. What separates the Highlander from other men is the choice of knives. While most daggers from the time period were approximately 5 to 7 inches long, the typical Highlander would be carrying his dirk, with a length of 9 to 14 inches. Two inches in a blade during combat can make the difference between a wounded enemy and a dead one. In battle, the dead enemy is preferable as he cannot stab you back.

In addition to the dirk, the well dressed Highlander would also be carrying a sgian dubh, or "black knife," tucked into his right sock. This was a small knife, about 3 to 4 inches in length, but its placement allowed it to be easily reached at all times, including if things became rather heated at the dinner table. In addition to those weapons as part of their daily gear, it was known that some Highlanders would also strap one more additional blade to their thigh, underneath the kilt.

The British were so afraid of the Highlanders that following the end of the Jacobite Rebellion in 1746, the kilt was outlawed along with the bagpipes as weapons of war, alongside swords, shields, and muskets. The kilt is therefore the garment of choice for some of the toughest men in history.

Finally, I know from my own experience the feeling you have when you wear the kilt. When you are kilted, you have a connection to the past, and in most cases, your family history. And it gives you a sense of power, as in modern society, when men get manicures and trade tips on exfoliating, the kilt in a giant "FUCK YOU" thrown directly in the face of conformity. It serves as a badge once again, except this time in reverse, as a proclamation in your rights as an individual, declaring that you aren't going to go quietly with the rest of the herd. What could be more masculine than that?

Until next time,
Andrew

In search of Americana (Pt.1)

It's been an interesting few weeks. I recently went on a short road trip, for my own personal reasons, which I will not discuss here. It's rather interesting that the more I take these trips, the longer it seems to process what the journeys actually mean. In this case, I was disturbed to find out just how far commercialism is an essential part of the American dream.

Heading west, I went through the Eastern part of the Midwest, also known as the back roads of Ohio. The interesting thing about the back roads is the sense of navigation that occurs. It takes forever to actually get anywhere. Basically, you travel a good five or six hours at a steady clip, only to find my to your surprise and a little bit of your chagrin, you find you have travelled about 600 miles less than you were expecting. As a result, at the end of Day 1, I found myself in the Middle of Nowhere, Ohio.

Now, the thing about this, I was much surprised to find how...utterly commercial the Amish country has become. It surprised me greatly how much that upset me, and it took me a while to figure out why.

Commercialism is more or less destroying the regionalism of America. This is even more unfortunate considering how the "melting pot" culture which founded the country, is now becoming homogenized through the Interstate, and through rampant commercialism.

When you travel through the open country at 80 miles an hour, everything kind of looks the same. Regionalism is slowly dying, and there isn't much that can be done. We just need to savor what little flavor is left.

From Mansfield, Ohio, I next journeyed to Louisville, Kentucky. After having been shocked at the commercial Amish, I then decided to embrace the idea of the search for American symbols, and what could be more American that Mom, Apple Pie, and of course, Baseball.

Louisville is of course home of the Louisville Slugger, the baseball bat of the MLB. Standing outside, with the world's largest baseball bat, I then plotted a journey that would lead to the heart of several American Icons, including, aside from the Slugger, Jim Beam, Maker's Mark, Jack Daniels, and the Civil War. This sojourn would take me through a large chunk of the South.

Moving South through Kentucky, we hooked into the Bourbon Trail, which led right to front doors of the Jim Beam and Maker's Mark distilleries, manufacturers of fine Bourbons.

And I must say, the tours, while interesting, kind of pale in comparison to the highlights, the tastings. After trying several (read as too many) bourbons, I think my favorite has to be Maker's Mark 46, and extra smoky bourbon made by adding extra burned barrel staves to the aging barrels. I recommend it straight, on the rocks. Of course, that was only half the journey.

Until next time,
Andrew

Doc Huntley's Medicine Show

King of Diamonds: The Pitch

King of Clubs:The Escape

King of Spades: The Danger

King of Hearts: The Magic
Photography by Matt Blakeburn.

May You Find What You Seek.

So, having told that story, I can move forward to the latest to tell the real story. My friends and a few others close to me know that my life has been rather...turbulent lately. (When the nickname you receive from a group of strangers is Rouge Wave, perhaps turbulent is an understatement.) Anyway, the two journeys have been, in the grand (or foolish) romantic tradition, over a woman.

Originally, she was supposed to be leaving for Philadelphia, which was one of the main reasons that I signed on to do The Elephant Man, enabling me to visit. Well, that didn't happen, and in my infinite wisdom, (sarcastically so) I fell for her hard. She loves someone else though, and she wants to be friends. That was and to some extent is still really hard for me, and I wasn't sure if it was going to be even possible for me to handle. So, more or less on a whim, I headed to New York to do a job, and seek some perspective.

I found what I was looking for in the middle of a park, about 174th street. As I was sitting there, trying to figure things out, a little old woman, about half of my size sat down next to me. Wanting to be friendly, as I truly don't know many people in the city, I said hello, and we began talking.

She asked me why I was there, and I suppose she could sense my hesitation, as she told me in her heavily accented English.

"Don't worry. It's almost anonymous here, I just met you, you just met me, we can talk about anything, and then we both go our separate ways. Tell me what is bothering you, and I can tell you what I would do," she added with a twinkle in her eye. "I have a lot of life experience."

Not having a thing to lose, I told her exactly why, that I was looking to get a sense of perspective from being away from the woman I was in love with. I told her that she loved someone else, and I was being left out in the cold.

She listen to me thoughtfully, and after a long pause said "I see. Were you married to her?"

"No." I replied.

"Did you have children with her?"

"No..." I responded again, slightly puzzled.

"Lived with her?"

"I never had the chance" I rejoined, thoroughly confused.

She then floored me with her response. "Then move on. You are a young man, your wings aren't broken. If you were smaller I would put you over my knee right now. This is nothing, it is a bee sting. You have your whole life ahead of you. Yes, you love her. But move on."

After that, we sat in thoughtful silence, and shared an apple. She then shared her story, which was fascinating in it's own right. Growing up under Communism behind the Iron Curtain, traveling broke through Italy, and having her name changed at Ellis Island, the woman has seen most of the twentieth century. Then she added something which added a lot of perspective for me.

"I'm at the end of my journey now. When elephants go to die, they go to the elephant graveyard where all of the other elephants died, to die among the bones of their ancestors. I have to make that choice now. Do I want to go back to Croatia, and die there, where I grew up or do I want to stay here, and found a new graveyard for my ancestors?"

At this point, my phone, which had been mercifully silent the entire time, suddenly rang, startling us both. I was being summoned to deal with yet another problem on set. She saw the concern on my face as I took the call. I hung up, and before I could say anything, she affectionately dismissed me to go work:

"You are at the beginning of your journey. Be careful, and know that now I will be missing you. Good luck on the next part of the trip, and remember to move on."

With that, I thanked her, and left, with simultaneously a lot on my mind, and without a lot of weight, as I realized that I had somehow miraculously managed to find what I had sought, and that the perspective I was looking for came from the last place that I was looking. I guess when answers are needed, you just need to ask.

Until next time,

Andrew

In Medias Res

So, here it is. I currently find myself inside of a large metal box, hurtling through time and space towards an unknown future. That is a ridiculously overly poetic way of saying that I'm currently on a bus on the way home back to Pittsburgh after a somewhat less than successful journey from New York City.

Now, I know several people are inquiring at this point as to when I even left. The answer to that, and to why, is rather complicated, so I'm going to go in media res for a moment, and flash back to an earlier journey that wasn't discussed, travelling to Philadelphia while on The Elephant Man. The reasoning, or at least my thought process, between the two journeys is connected, hence the need to go back to the beginning.

After finishing up a rather successful set of previews for the show, we hurriedly packed up and left for Philadelphia. Arriving rather late, we all turned in at the hostel, and prepared to really get into the work the next day.

Dinner that night was absolutely delightful, as we had decided to pool resources and try to cook, as opposed to spending a significant amount of the budget attempting to dine out. Seeing what was around, we decided to go for Italian that night (I know, it's me cooking, therefore Italian cuisine is likely.) After writing a quick list of ingredients, we set out shopping only to discover that a frost had made eggplant rather scarce. Now, Eggplant Parmesan is rather difficult to make without eggplant, but there were some very good looking baby zucchini in the case. Desperation is the mother of invention, and we decided to go that direction instead.

The cooking process is incredibly simple, a quick saute of the split zucchini, a fast boil of the pasta, and a quick doctoring of the sauce (a little wine goes a long way), we had a delightful meal in very good company.

Following dinner, we were joined by another cast member, who brought along two friends, Ian and Tim. We relaxed the evening away, plenty of good wine and conversation, the two fueling each other, and finally called it a night in the wee hours of the morning.

The next day was rather rough, as the day before a show is liable to be. It was even more stressful, as performing in a museum puts even more restrictions. Tempers (especially my own) were beginning to flare a bit when mercifully, break came around and we found ourselves with several hours free.

After being in the same room with the same people for close to 72 hours, I decided to head off on my own and check out the Franklin Institute. Walking across the park to it, however, I was surprised to hear my voice being called. I turned around as was surprised to see Tim and Ian standing there. After inquiring if I had plans, of which I really didn't, we decided to go on a walk to seek out Tony DiNic's, in the Reading Terminal market.

Now, Reading Terminal is kind of a foodie Valhalla. It's almost impossible not to find something delicious, but we were on a mission to seek out the sandwich as it was seen on Man Vs. Food. And find it we did.

This delicious monstrosity of a sandwich contains almost a pound of pulled pork, but it is the way in which it is made makes it something else, possibly in the category of manna. It's by far one of the best sandwiches I've ever had. The meat is prepared by braising overnight in it's own juices, then it it pulled, placed back into the juice, and then braised again overnight. This produces some of the juiciest pork I've ever tasted. Now, this is an even more impressive feat, considering that pork is one of the easiest meats in the world to dry out.

The other ingredients of the sandwich also help complete the flavor profile to be something sublime. First, a layer of provolone adds a sharpness as well as structural integrity (something very important in sandwich engineering) when it melts, juice proofing the bun. The greens are truly what put the sandwich up over the top though. A topping of broccoli rabe adds spiciness and a garlic undertone, which make up the symphony of flavor that is that sandwich. In case you can't tell, my mouth is practically watering at just remembering and writing this description. If you are in Philadelphia, skip the cheesesteak and go for this instead.

After stuffing ourselves on pork, we decided to go touristy and check out the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and Elphreth's Alley, one of the oldest continuously inhabited blocks in the United States. We had a fascinating discussion on history, as Tim and Ian, both English natives, were curious why Americans celebrated something that was only a little over two hundred and fifty years old, I then explained that it was because in a country only about that old, we have to find our "founding myths" where we can. I also pointed out they had encapsulated the European idea of America in one fell swoop that day, giant sandwiches and the Liberty Bell, or in a metaphorical sense, conspicuous consumption and blind patriotism.

We then adjourned our little adventure to watch and perform in the play, and following another night of carousing, settled in our beds, ready to move on to the next journey.

Until next time,
Andrew