Something that never really could have been produces things that never really were, or something to that effect

Way back in elementary, I had this wonderful dream of becoming a commercial artist. There were a couple of things that fed into this dream of mine. First, the school I attended happened to have an arts core programme. Second, my best friend was an amazing artist. You will notice that not included was any mention of my own artistic ability. Sadly to say, in spite of attending an arts core programme and having a close friend with natural ability, I wasn't able to gleam much talent from my environment. Although I held out some hope throughout junior high and into high school, by the time I reached grade 11, I was pretty sure that the jig was up. The reality of my self-delusion was driven home when, at the end of my grade 11 school year, I asked my art teacher if I had a chance to get into the art programme for grade 12; it was a resounding (to my ears anyway), no. I should have seen it coming as those enrolled in the senior level art programme seemed to spend all day in the art room; and with good reason, for they were very talented, very accomplished artists. I remember feeling like a complete fake through most of my grade 11 art class, as I saw the works being produced, not just of the senior class, but of my own classmates as well. So when I was advised not to continue in the programme, although crushed, I can't say that I was at all surprised.

Over the years, I've never lost my appreciation for art and design. I've dabbled a little, mostly with Adobe Illustrator, trying to come up with my own posters, CD covers, etc. A little while ago I had a rush of inspiration and turned out a series of mock gig posters for myself as a DJ. I thought it'd be fun (interesting? amusing? tedious?) to dredge them up and showcase them.

This was my first poster. At the time I was reading George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, hence the use of the Newspeak term, doubleplusgood in small print and water-marked on the image. The name of the opening act was taken from an album put out by Gomez entitled, Abandoned Shopping Trolley Hotline. The name of the venue was, well, kind of stupid. I wanted to come up with a name of a club and I thought about some spot in an old industrial warehouse, and there you have it.

My second poster was inspired by Halloween, or more specifically, the days following Halloween and the Mexican celebration of Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead (I may or may not have been listening to Concrete Blonde's Mexican Moon at the time). The opening band is in reference to a dubbed spoof of the old G.I. Joe public service announcements in which the Joe (Footloose) calls a kid, blanco niño, white boy. The venue is Calavera's Barra, calavera being the Spanish word for skull, and a central motif in the celebrations of Dia de los Muertos, and barra is simply, bar.

From Orwell to Burgess, my next poster was inspired by A Clockwork Orange. The venue is the famous/infamous Korova Milk Bar where moloko plus (milk laced with drugs) is served. While quite a few actual establishments by the same name exist, I chose to locate mine at Tavy Bridge Centre, Thamesmead South, the filming location of Alex's flat in the film version of A Clockwork Orange. At this point, I'd like to say that I was damned impressed with the logo I designed for the Korova.

Who's up for some electronica? I was listening to Kraftwerk when I came up with this one. The programming in the top right was my best attempt to recall from the nether regions of my memory the Basic I learned in high school. The venue's name and logo are, of course, in reference to the 1956 sci-fi classic, Forbidden Plant starring Leslie Nielsen and featuring Robby the Robot. The address is a nod to Binary; it means absolutely nothing; well almost nothing. If you ignore the hyphen, 1001110 converts to 78 in base 10, or "n" in text. So there.

I was listening to a lot of ambient, downtempo, and other assorted chillout music when I came up with this one. The image is a statue of Guanyin (Kuan Yin, Avalokiteśvara) the Bodhisattva of Compassion. Once again, the venue is the Korova Milkbar.

Back to Nineteen Eighty-Four and Orwell's Newspeak. The idea of having the title fade into oblivion came from what happens in the story to unpersons (i.e., individuals who are executed and removed from all history by the state so that not only do they not exist anymore, but they, by all accounts, never did). The running ticker contains news stories from the Times in Newspeak. The venue is a place called Airstrip One, which is what London, or what used to be London is called in Nineteen Eighty-Four. The address is 84 (pretty much self-explanatory by this point) Ingsoc Place; Ingsoc being the Newspeak word for English Socialism, the prevailing ideology of the Party. The four (plus one) circles refers to the interrogation of the protagonist, Winston Smith, who is forced to embrace doublethink, the act of believing two contradictory statements simultaneously, all the while recognizing that they are contradictory, yet     asserting to oneself that no conflict exists between the two. His interrogator, O'Brian holds up four fingers and asks repeatedly for the correct number. Winston can only see four, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself of the false statement, 2+2=5. Finally, after repeated torture there arises a single moment when Winston believes that he can see five fingers. This results in no reprieve, however, as O'Brian coldly admits that the answer is ultimately irrelevant as dictated by the Party. Seems like a lot of effort for four little circles. I mean, five; five little circles.

Helvetica is my favourite typeface. I'm not really sure what "clean, functional music" is, but whatever it might be, Helvetica is the font to promote it. I had intentionally messed with the text wrapping, just 'cause. We are now onto our third round of moloko(plus). You felling it? I sure am...

Back to '84 and the dreaded Room 101. This is where especially difficult prisoners are taken to live out their own worst nightmares in an attempt (always successful) to coerce information and/or completely break down any remaining ability to commit thoughtcrime (thinking contrary to the Party). Just thinking about it now, Room 101 could also be an upstairs room for private functions at the Korova, where we find ourselves yet again. The text on the side refers to a dream of Winston Smith in which he finds himself in a "place where there is no darkness," presumably a time when Party is no longer in control (or is it?). The eye represents the universal monitoring of the Party, including the omnipresent gaze of Big Brother that all citizens of Oceania must endure.

Finally, we have this gem. This was a poster for a album put out by a fictitious band. The name, Nellie's Tit Ninjas basically grew out of a in-joke; you know who you are, and you know what this is about. The title of the album, This Is an Anagram, also came about from a collaboration with others. We were simply tossing around meaningless album titles. Avon Records does not exist, it was part of the original joke. Although it's not mentioned, I'm pretty sure the release party would have been at the Korova.

Oh, and that friend of mine from elementary? He's a successful illustrator and graphic designer. Live the dream, my friend. Live the dream.

Monday's going to be weird.

It's the end of an era. After fifteen years working together, a good friend of mine is leaving for another job. Got to say, I'm kind of bummed. Don't get me wrong, I am exceedingly glad for the guy. He's starting a new chapter in his life, and he deserves the opportunity that's been presented. Nevertheless, I remain behind. I really have no excuse to wallow in self-pity. It's not like he's leaving the country or anything. We'll still be able to get together; in fact, maybe more so than now. For all the years we've worked together, we've seen each other outside of work only a very small fraction of the time. I guess when you see someone day in and day out, week after week, month after month, it doesn't really seem all that necessary to get together outside of work. Now that we won't have that daily contact, I wager I'll be looking forward to meeting up with him on some weekend here and there.

As our office got together to say farewell, I couldn't help but reminisce about some of the old times. There were the years when we were still working part-time hours. We would often work evening shifts and on the weekends. There were many trips to the pub after work. I remember the agonizing time spent working whilst the building underwent renovations. I think I can speak for my friend (as well as my fellow workers at the time) that those painful years, as it turned out to be, were undoubtedly formative for us. We all emerged from the renovations a little more jaded; a little more cynical; and little more bonded. I remember the years working with the public, especially the regulars, as we called them; those individuals who would test our patience and resolve, and who, like the renovations, would become pieces of who we are today. Those were the days in the trenches. Even after we both ascended to the upper floors to fill positions away from the general public, and here I hope I speak truthfully of my friend as of myself, we never did seem able to shake a mentality that tasted of cynicism and disappointment. I know that even here, away from people and history of the past, new disappointments always seemed to arise; new opportunities to lament at a work environment bogged down in the mire of arcane policies and irrationality. I recall something said at one of my workshops: a cynic is a disappointed optimist. Looking back at all the days leading up to now, I can see some truth to that statement.

Now he's on to other opportunities, and while the industry is the same, the environment is surely to be something very different. I hope he can use this chance to start of fresh; to shake off the dust of the renovations and leave the regulars behind. I hope he can find in this new place, a group of people who have a slightly brighter outlook on the job and the life it can lead to. I hope that he can find in this new place a chance to become more optimistic in finding less disappointment.

Meanwhile, I'll still be here; getting by, but making the most of it. When all is said and done, no matter where his new position takes him, we'll still have stories of floods and gas leaks; stories of DRA vs. Unicorn; stories of Doug, Jamie, and "Three fresh ones for today!"; and we'll always have the patio of the pub where we buggered off that one summer day and enjoyed a pint on company time. Cheers!