Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Photo Journal Five - Diane Arbus, Boy with a Toy Grenade
This is a quicky and I’m okay with that. I hope you are too.
I have Diane Arbus’ “Boy with a Toy Grenade” as my computer’s wallpaper. It was, for a long time, the way I felt all the time. I recently saw a copy of her contact sheet for that roll and it is funny to me how now that’s how I feel.
The boy looks so racked with anxiety. This little boy on the verge of letting loose a bomb even if it wasn’t real. It’s like the acid trip you might have where you believe you see your own death. It’s real enough in your head even it’s more a fantasy. This boy is gonna kill that bitch.
This boy seems crushed by his anxiety. He hates her. I also felt the weight of life that way. Everything was wrong and I had no control, just like this boy. I thought about suicide like some people think about the weather all day long. It’s always right in front of us.
That contact sheet was full of bad shots and missed moments. It was full of the boy getting it wrong. He was sweet and bright eyed, all the glory of unknowing rushing through him like a cool delicious spring.
That contact sheet was full of Diane Arbus’ frustration, her waiting for that decisive moment when fate would come together and give us that shot. It’s funny, the boy seems so plain. He seems happy and then bored and then annoyed. Diane is an intruder in his day. She is the glitch that seems to drive him mad.
You could argue out all the politics of the sixties that might make that picture a potent reminder of the war in Vietnam but I doubt, for Diane, that was the point at all. This was the freak she needed that day. It was how she could love, and if you believe Eudora Welty, that’s the only way you can make art work. You have to love your victim and your killer.
Diane drew out the monster in that boy. I reckon for arts sake it was worth it but I wonder if that boy sees this picture today and is as grateful. I have no idea but I look at it every day as a reminder of where I was.
My mama had died. I was broke and getting broker. My life was outta fucking control and all knew was eventually there was a silver bullet calling my name. And then something broke. You might want to know what I can’t say. Life lay its hands on my shoulders and all the muscles fell lose in it's grip.
It was just that simple. I still cry over mama. I’m still broke but I’m not afraid of it. It’s just life. It’s just art.
These days I let the weather change on it’s own.
I have Diane Arbus’ “Boy with a Toy Grenade” as my computer’s wallpaper. It was, for a long time, the way I felt all the time. I recently saw a copy of her contact sheet for that roll and it is funny to me how now that’s how I feel.
The boy looks so racked with anxiety. This little boy on the verge of letting loose a bomb even if it wasn’t real. It’s like the acid trip you might have where you believe you see your own death. It’s real enough in your head even it’s more a fantasy. This boy is gonna kill that bitch.
This boy seems crushed by his anxiety. He hates her. I also felt the weight of life that way. Everything was wrong and I had no control, just like this boy. I thought about suicide like some people think about the weather all day long. It’s always right in front of us.
That contact sheet was full of bad shots and missed moments. It was full of the boy getting it wrong. He was sweet and bright eyed, all the glory of unknowing rushing through him like a cool delicious spring.
That contact sheet was full of Diane Arbus’ frustration, her waiting for that decisive moment when fate would come together and give us that shot. It’s funny, the boy seems so plain. He seems happy and then bored and then annoyed. Diane is an intruder in his day. She is the glitch that seems to drive him mad.
You could argue out all the politics of the sixties that might make that picture a potent reminder of the war in Vietnam but I doubt, for Diane, that was the point at all. This was the freak she needed that day. It was how she could love, and if you believe Eudora Welty, that’s the only way you can make art work. You have to love your victim and your killer.
Diane drew out the monster in that boy. I reckon for arts sake it was worth it but I wonder if that boy sees this picture today and is as grateful. I have no idea but I look at it every day as a reminder of where I was.
My mama had died. I was broke and getting broker. My life was outta fucking control and all knew was eventually there was a silver bullet calling my name. And then something broke. You might want to know what I can’t say. Life lay its hands on my shoulders and all the muscles fell lose in it's grip.
It was just that simple. I still cry over mama. I’m still broke but I’m not afraid of it. It’s just life. It’s just art.
These days I let the weather change on it’s own.
# posted by Mike : 10:32 AM
