CONTEMPORARY EXPLORER

I spotted it from a distance, just a field of debris, but it drew me. Even far away, I could see random patterns chance had created. It had been tossed there near a simple brick building, but did not belong to it. Closer, I noticed markings on the stones strewn in between the tossed wood. The different colors making parts stand out. The building they came from a mystery, not visible in the area. Why were these still useful and beautiful things now debris. What would happen to them? The debris existed someplace between usefulness and the dump, purgatory of sorts. It remained here in limbo for nature, man and fate to decide what will be done with it. Too valuable to give up on, but no longer of value enough to do something with. The debris like evidence of some misdeed removed from where the event happened. It did not move or change. It was just there. There was an undefined art about it. The way it was scattered, the color muted by elements and the imagined story behin

Just an empty parking lot now. Once beautiful things were made here. Some thought they were real. Even owners began to believe. Things get old though, Machinery and all. Too easy for silk flowers To be made far away. First the employees go. Then the machinery left, then the building. Only stray parts left now And swirls on the parking lot from employee’s cars once there. …

There is another city, away from the glitz on its rough edges. A place where railroads cross, trucks run and work is done. Here you will find the pieces that make the city work, build buildings, fuel engines and factories. Some are vital and humming, others forgotten scraps. All supported by a legion of workers, the keepers of the city. Once in a while you may find an artist or inventor working in humble surroundings with big dreams. Most often though, there are just workers whose dreams are measured by long days, a paycheck and being a part of these special places. They are proud of what they do, not afraid to wear worn gloves and dirt on collars. If you wander these rough edges with your camera, rewards abound. You find colors and beauty only forged by the wear of time. You realize life is not always the well ordered place you are used to. Special skill are needed in the rough edges to live and work there. The initial risk and trepidation you feel going to these

Some say windows are the eyes of the city. Whether you are looking out or passing by them, there is always a bit of mystery. Things left unsaid and unseen. An incompleteness that draws you, wanting more of the story and what you see. Maybe like the times we are in, they defy a complete description. They are just reflections.

SURELY THE BUILDING BLOCKS OF LIFE MUST BE HERE.  THE BIG M, AS TRUE BLUE AS AMERICA.  BIG MACK, FISH FALET, ARTISAN CHICKEN SANDWICH AND CRAYONS FOR THE KIDS. WHAT COULD BE BETTER?  ORDER IT AS YOU LIKE, GET WHAT THEY GIVE YOU.  STILL GOOD, IF ITS WRONG YOU GO BACK.  THERES ALWAYS A LINE. DON’T GRAB THE WRONG BAG.  “HAND IN THE BAG” WILL RING OUT.  THE BUILDING BLOCKS OF LIFE MUST BE HERE.  BIG MAC AND ALL, AND CRAYONS FOR THE KIDS...

I shut the blades On the day. Too long, two confusing It wore on me. Still life was out there Waiting for me. Always a chance To save the day. Light showed through Beckoning me up again. Not I, I said I will not shut the blades On the day.

They're all just scraps and leavings from your work. Sometimes reference pieces, even blotting paper. All discarded Into the trash. Once in a while you glance down and look at them, they speak back their own story. Strokes of your being, maybe practices, maybe preparation, maybe adjustments to your final performance and movements. They have something to stay. Marks your hand and mind made. Free of final critique and comment. Existing on their own free of world bounds. Practices before perfection. They surprise at time, rising to art in their own right. When viewed by others, you might receive the comment “nice work.” You grin and grimace, but nod your head. Not knowing quite what to say. So you hold them out and remind yourself they are your marks. They do mean something. They are part of you. David Young

  Charlotte like many cities has been described as a “beautiful set of gems thrust into the ground.” A wonder to behold from a distance but difficult to grasp up close. When you walk around some cities it can feel like that. There are the usual things, a sports stadium, a couple of large museums and big hotels. Most of the legacy buildings have been torn down to make room for the towering gems. On the ground, it's difficult to touch the gems and feel any humanism. They are too shiny, too perfect and without personality. This can change with the courage of civic leaders. If you add some transportation, vision and young entrepreurs a city new can emerge. The city can take on new personality and richness. In Charlotte, risks were taken to extend the Blue Line light rail into the once industrial east side. Here you often found abandoned industrial buildings and ghost malls which once served workers. This afforded the potential of new dense living and expansion of a fledg

If the city were an artist, the walls would be its canvas. We pass walls everyday. They are dividers, modes of protection from the outside and foundational parts of a building.  They are also so much more. Some bear the marks of a torn down building, the scrapes and colors of a city always in motion, a piece of art drawn by the patina of time, or statements either artistic or political. They are a message place for an urban tribe to mark on, in language only known to them. Walls are a rambling combination of all these left like an ancient cave dwellers attempt at recording history. In the sometimes swirling chaos of the city, a wall can be a reflection of peace. Stopping us long enough to pause and look. Sometimes art, sometimes thought provoking, and sometimes just a statement or guide directing our wandering. Interest is always found there, to be interpreted and enjoyed.  David Young