tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38458695854213919552024-03-18T23:04:49.741-04:00CITIZEN PORKThe pictorial journal of culture and the arts, in Cincinnati, OhioAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-18961239286474624562012-07-23T19:34:00.001-04:002012-07-23T19:34:20.207-04:00kevin pogo curtis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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He's probably in that attic as I write this, breathing those fumes through an old bandana, pumping a cloud of color into the air.</div>
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It's hotter than hell up there, but he's working anyway. Maybe some Sebadoh, too, tonight.</div>
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He putting down lines at the speed of art. They will form something in front of your eyes, something you recognize. Or don't. Maybe a starry night. Maybe hands, outstretched to you or a building outstretched to the sky. Maybe a hill, or is it a breast?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdRT9ANnU-Y8aB_lsy5aq8sSG-CFyBUtY22Qu_WPTphT619izOws0gIZYj_JGWhkp4iA7vATj75O6rEtM1hrwG_MTftbAvLMhebuEkARcywx70Pno1Vc5Fyw9bQGIA3vAQPq_51U-SilB/s1600/kevin-curtis_20120630_0072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdRT9ANnU-Y8aB_lsy5aq8sSG-CFyBUtY22Qu_WPTphT619izOws0gIZYj_JGWhkp4iA7vATj75O6rEtM1hrwG_MTftbAvLMhebuEkARcywx70Pno1Vc5Fyw9bQGIA3vAQPq_51U-SilB/s640/kevin-curtis_20120630_0072.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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He's an inspired slasher in the night, a dripper of form, a spatterer of blood and grass and sky colors.<br />
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He's been doing this since he was a young boy. I have seen a picture. <br />
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Kevin Pogo Curtis' beautiful work will be appearing at MOTR Pub, beginning this Friday, July 27th.<br />
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<i><a href="http://motrpub.com/" target="_blank">MOTR</a></i><br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/PogoArt?ref=ts" target="_blank"><i>Kevin on Facebook</i></a><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-27272906685210164502012-07-16T20:25:00.000-04:002012-07-16T20:25:31.092-04:00holly and helen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4TzYHX0pFY8VqH6c1UwwdafAEL47R6T-OShcrZq_TBF7Zak_tpYEWaiiVbdYVf5xt07Op_7qNpidiA1PK9uZA9kWkMjPYsmgCz0VzIWrW7grzokNLRZLsawysBcgHmJ3RjxFkWHoyFQW4/s1600/DSC_8900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4TzYHX0pFY8VqH6c1UwwdafAEL47R6T-OShcrZq_TBF7Zak_tpYEWaiiVbdYVf5xt07Op_7qNpidiA1PK9uZA9kWkMjPYsmgCz0VzIWrW7grzokNLRZLsawysBcgHmJ3RjxFkWHoyFQW4/s640/DSC_8900.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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They dance in starlight on fields of silk.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibynPDxIYVYcVff9eLbQkS0Z0pmfoc9RFufy6SylHcUix6Jeoz-zx3iXMhmlN8SIjLnCjCz8y8wj3ApWME3Jk5Twqlc3I4m9Pf4Jzw8Bxs51B2EUC05Sm7jxOaI1ntmxCvRaSbZXtijD4e/s1600/DSC_8921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibynPDxIYVYcVff9eLbQkS0Z0pmfoc9RFufy6SylHcUix6Jeoz-zx3iXMhmlN8SIjLnCjCz8y8wj3ApWME3Jk5Twqlc3I4m9Pf4Jzw8Bxs51B2EUC05Sm7jxOaI1ntmxCvRaSbZXtijD4e/s640/DSC_8921.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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They float where others fall.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_Lt_4x4_xy0uLzVtgrg6lt1_vvBVQSzg_ZN7egVINrDqGvKh-lyYwJUeAqhDPuEMK5JLFZxp61VwZxQHkj8ybvXX-YbcuQ5hyGSFtFAyyFoE_zw1c3rATwnrEUt6GMky0JDvqaP1RpgI/s1600/DSC_8963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_Lt_4x4_xy0uLzVtgrg6lt1_vvBVQSzg_ZN7egVINrDqGvKh-lyYwJUeAqhDPuEMK5JLFZxp61VwZxQHkj8ybvXX-YbcuQ5hyGSFtFAyyFoE_zw1c3rATwnrEUt6GMky0JDvqaP1RpgI/s640/DSC_8963.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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They trust in each other, in themselves. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2ce30bQUXTR8fmhrHe4hUyUIQEnz1qmT5uPSNv9mW7FkrtfpXcwUc4LuPY6ED9zAUU2Cg5ZPCBDLwZ45AswuEk5BU-Ko8WxjVtdVuG5BTqXhc60mLerOZ3pEDhOkAmHzdxtc7QHM-KYw/s1600/DSC_8978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2ce30bQUXTR8fmhrHe4hUyUIQEnz1qmT5uPSNv9mW7FkrtfpXcwUc4LuPY6ED9zAUU2Cg5ZPCBDLwZ45AswuEk5BU-Ko8WxjVtdVuG5BTqXhc60mLerOZ3pEDhOkAmHzdxtc7QHM-KYw/s640/DSC_8978.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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They abandon this world. It is written on their faces.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cU7WsRVFvq4gAwOZ4nRyuiuwIr7NrT8V_o-an-niOSr1Cry_DYgPm8CfZkyEcrK8Fz7T0vEZIG0GfvIlG_wTxtHhop_g3d-wcwKfS1GsGT-9aIKLUjud1vxp1laXl42FfqIagGFIdER1/s1600/DSC_9012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cU7WsRVFvq4gAwOZ4nRyuiuwIr7NrT8V_o-an-niOSr1Cry_DYgPm8CfZkyEcrK8Fz7T0vEZIG0GfvIlG_wTxtHhop_g3d-wcwKfS1GsGT-9aIKLUjud1vxp1laXl42FfqIagGFIdER1/s640/DSC_9012.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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They are cradled in the curve of the moon.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DfRnuL_TYJg2ghS11Xz9Z-xvZVzA1FpibUWSgre4E9WQ4HQhCLL3RArn4LjQIFsKu9Ws8vBB-bsX5uqaDHYyWbzCmAjyGbzacHaNJZwwQVUcxZPD_g_GMdmhpr_V-Q4mnOHrydvdT_hF/s1600/comp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8DfRnuL_TYJg2ghS11Xz9Z-xvZVzA1FpibUWSgre4E9WQ4HQhCLL3RArn4LjQIFsKu9Ws8vBB-bsX5uqaDHYyWbzCmAjyGbzacHaNJZwwQVUcxZPD_g_GMdmhpr_V-Q4mnOHrydvdT_hF/s640/comp.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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Holly and Helen will be performing their beautiful aerial silks routine, on Saturday, July 21st, at the Midsummer Masquerade, at the Loveland Castle. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWiFCL2kuyKHK9CsjonECTqsRHkR4pC-cl2uMqPXmZNcNtGL4dQCFjkoVbFWGH3p93H_5fQGhhWNbO5P1Q9Z5WhimITQ5QtenW6DcwfwkEmogdzwAbWKjrVQTSa-D0LAfgo4MqPjrSV5Au/s1600/DSC_9069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWiFCL2kuyKHK9CsjonECTqsRHkR4pC-cl2uMqPXmZNcNtGL4dQCFjkoVbFWGH3p93H_5fQGhhWNbO5P1Q9Z5WhimITQ5QtenW6DcwfwkEmogdzwAbWKjrVQTSa-D0LAfgo4MqPjrSV5Au/s640/DSC_9069.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/249481838436383/" target="_blank"><i>Midsummer Masquerade</i></a><br />
<a href="https://maps.google.com/maps?q=loveland+castle&hl=en&sll=39.103118,-84.51202&sspn=0.183299,0.33886&hq=loveland+castle&t=m&z=15" target="_blank"><i>Map</i></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-18783466785382038472012-06-13T20:22:00.001-04:002012-06-13T22:19:15.371-04:00mobo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqwYJI9k0MlI1DCKDcSr51SmvaFnQgbb3W12s0Kos3aDqP58xwIsusD-fNgkgEOLPTnkhuNUfiM0lopVSvO_WMEdMkHj8zaCvmqurvtYfFIhuJ235H48e_A8jLmV_MTM1JyHWgav4yhvN/s1600/DSCF1438+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHqwYJI9k0MlI1DCKDcSr51SmvaFnQgbb3W12s0Kos3aDqP58xwIsusD-fNgkgEOLPTnkhuNUfiM0lopVSvO_WMEdMkHj8zaCvmqurvtYfFIhuJ235H48e_A8jLmV_MTM1JyHWgav4yhvN/s640/DSCF1438+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by stephen metz make</td></tr>
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I remember long, deep, emerald green streaks to the side, and one of alternating black and gold in the middle. The grass. The road...it's surface slick with water. The tempo of the dashes quickening with the slope of the hill. I remember the feel of the air rushing into my open mouth and my lungs, as though something was inhaling for me, effortlessly pushing breath in. The rain rose from the back tire in a perfect series of rapid fire droplets, drenching the back of my shirt with muddy water, my own battle wound. I looked to the grey, gathering clouds with twelve-year-old eyes and knew that I was alive. The church bells rang, competing in my ears with the wind. At the bottom of the hill, as the speed mellowed, I jerked the handlebars, rocked my own weight backwards, and rode the back tire for the final moments. My kingdom. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZiLlLLwtTNBStENddUenx-V-T16-FQPrSg220Qt-4BP9OqvIL7OSr6rJR8ddrch4DSU5rA5VHyEhP9b4Jt963Du0mLVW1N-UqrINiFvtWcMQJjb3VGoyzu9a0iApt-mUkVMZog1JKoMM9/s1600/DSCF1365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZiLlLLwtTNBStENddUenx-V-T16-FQPrSg220Qt-4BP9OqvIL7OSr6rJR8ddrch4DSU5rA5VHyEhP9b4Jt963Du0mLVW1N-UqrINiFvtWcMQJjb3VGoyzu9a0iApt-mUkVMZog1JKoMM9/s640/DSCF1365.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by stephen metz don't forget</td></tr>
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When we choose to ride a bike, we are provided with an intrinsic sense of purpose, which is executed in a beautifully organic, unique way. The purpose is to move ourselves using a machine. The uniqueness arises in that we are the power to the machine. Our bodies are the fuel. Our will is the engine. Potential energy becomes kinetic, the instant the pedal is pressed, in this perfect transference of energy from organic to mechanical form. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkwdodGga76yVEp2oeBnPaHeM59yJdFr-H9PhP5N3ZVmAPrxTZzlCCPSu7bEWeJkkaXhGRHPyQerV0aGZe14E94P-HGp4aFzQxnss-SEbBbe2LKd8fwCIN4gboL1Uj53svBPFPaf96aIU/s1600/DSCF1392.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwkwdodGga76yVEp2oeBnPaHeM59yJdFr-H9PhP5N3ZVmAPrxTZzlCCPSu7bEWeJkkaXhGRHPyQerV0aGZe14E94P-HGp4aFzQxnss-SEbBbe2LKd8fwCIN4gboL1Uj53svBPFPaf96aIU/s640/DSCF1392.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by stephen metz repair</td></tr>
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When we choose to ride a bike, we are getting a little piece of our world back. Each small decision we make to do this matters. Each mile of automobile driving we replace with a mile of bike riding is a small reparation, a small bit of the huge debt we owe, paid. The tiny hum of a bike tire amidst the din of trucks and cars is a ballad to our animal home. It is a living harmony of technology and nature. It is an extension of the time our kind will be allowed to inhabit this magical place, which will, inevitably absorb its chief destroyer. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCBuQswDPENHMbBH8brjBsGF6hyphenhyphenZri15WMXlEwu9Y4R2Zl-XfA3jEhWRTv23bU5Q5Dxa71cdeVp3IK3HyQTphxfrLATbXddOmitAczxmNyyFz5R1WZXSOnHQKdcqelhxxRzhUVSIRdbIY/s1600/mobo_0021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCBuQswDPENHMbBH8brjBsGF6hyphenhyphenZri15WMXlEwu9Y4R2Zl-XfA3jEhWRTv23bU5Q5Dxa71cdeVp3IK3HyQTphxfrLATbXddOmitAczxmNyyFz5R1WZXSOnHQKdcqelhxxRzhUVSIRdbIY/s640/mobo_0021.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by stephen metz commune</td></tr>
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When we choose to ride a bike, we are getting a little piece of our bodies back. Each mile is a detoxification, a partial undoing of cellular damage we have wrought upon our inner homes. Sugar, fat, tar, nicotine, caffeine, alcohol, cocaine, heroin, anti-depressants, sleep aids, corn syrup, mercury, lead, parabens, fluoride, teflon, salt...we make thousands of automatic, thoughtless decisions to harm ourselves. Biking is a simple, attainable, understandable remedy. It's not a cure-all...nothing is, but, a good choice usually leads to more good choices. Good air in, bad air out. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUObKXbV_Sm788L1sbqShO_K0DwWvgZYaEH1SFCS0FMsYDru-EGDpSxUNxAARgZqtjsp1vSUEaBYNoL5rzESZnZ3aYS2fdQPCYaA53ZfddBtBBU_htllU2vvCvF0ycSenzHhnJD8Pcbmm3/s1600/DSCF1396+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUObKXbV_Sm788L1sbqShO_K0DwWvgZYaEH1SFCS0FMsYDru-EGDpSxUNxAARgZqtjsp1vSUEaBYNoL5rzESZnZ3aYS2fdQPCYaA53ZfddBtBBU_htllU2vvCvF0ycSenzHhnJD8Pcbmm3/s640/DSCF1396+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photos by stephen metz tools</td></tr>
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When we choose to ride a bike, we are getting a little piece of our minds back. That rhythm of breathing, that rhythm of working your body, of working your heart muscle and your sad, adult lungs, it corrects our big animal brains, too. Details, the white noise of the mind, the chaotic, blowing sands of the intellect, shift away in that perfect cycle of exertion, breathing, sweating, of existing, momentarily, for the simple purpose of arriving. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tQ1ZXOJyqEJ-FED2YCYemqBF7qkgKg4NsBWyIfo4x9EN_F0pXWrECoKMG2Xc4mlJ2L10Lejp1Ty-mF60y1dWlYAb6CQTiZr8OReGhwNw-dBpTTO5RIQUO-4zPygn_B6g7EHiJL0Cgl9W/s1600/mobo_0016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tQ1ZXOJyqEJ-FED2YCYemqBF7qkgKg4NsBWyIfo4x9EN_F0pXWrECoKMG2Xc4mlJ2L10Lejp1Ty-mF60y1dWlYAb6CQTiZr8OReGhwNw-dBpTTO5RIQUO-4zPygn_B6g7EHiJL0Cgl9W/s640/mobo_0016.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by stephen metz information</td></tr>
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Just as the bike exists to support a single concrete function but, in turn, provides a myriad of beneficial byproducts, so too does MoBo, Cincinnati's only bicycle cooperative. MoBo is <i>a non-profit volunteer-run cooperative dedicated to making cycling accessible and practical to everyone in the greater Cincinnati area</i>. Founded in 2007, MoBo was formed in honor of bike enthusiast, Justin Morioka. The shop is located adjacent to the Village Green community garden, in Northside. The two are a perfect pairing, both advocating healthy, eco-friendly lifestyles, and community building. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5yzh_reGmei5LCgRl6yENevHit29G9nIuxXtziPPvKsVCuDWQmljov6lBsAGEmYisYq74NOOS15UoBg4XtwZtJFBu9mKGQsCnlnzdnn6heuG5gCJSmWDYo10oB-9ZYBn6YLJwdNQ3Ta_/s1600/DSCF1409+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5yzh_reGmei5LCgRl6yENevHit29G9nIuxXtziPPvKsVCuDWQmljov6lBsAGEmYisYq74NOOS15UoBg4XtwZtJFBu9mKGQsCnlnzdnn6heuG5gCJSmWDYo10oB-9ZYBn6YLJwdNQ3Ta_/s640/DSCF1409+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by stephen metz teach learn do</td></tr>
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Here's a rundown of how membership in the cooperative works and the services they provide. First, you join, by ponying up the twenty dollar annual fee. That's twenty bucks for an entire year. If you put in about a hundred miles of biking instead of driving, you've paid for your membership in fuel savings. With your membership you get access to their amazing shop, on Knowlton Ave. At the shop, you will find tools, grease, cleaners, and, most importantly, the knowledge and skills of the volunteer mechanics who will teach you how to repair and maintain your bike. Pretty amazing deal. If they so choose, each member also gets the opportunity to adopt a bike, which has been donated to the cooperative, at very reasonable prices. Once they've restored the bike, it's theirs to take home or give to a deserving person. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQmNhuCXLovkzkW2dOl8rsZMAHw_tfz8kL0avaDLam10XNb6M65x0_JTJnOHijswDFGYJYyE1zxvcvzbAFxGOTN5ZaiJInEtcfIJGyHObdmQbhnoUkqL3teYgNAONQGFC6HV0vVqAk6sHs/s1600/DSCF1417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQmNhuCXLovkzkW2dOl8rsZMAHw_tfz8kL0avaDLam10XNb6M65x0_JTJnOHijswDFGYJYyE1zxvcvzbAFxGOTN5ZaiJInEtcfIJGyHObdmQbhnoUkqL3teYgNAONQGFC6HV0vVqAk6sHs/s640/DSCF1417.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by stephen metz focus</td></tr>
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When we choose to join MoBo, we get an entry point into all of the great things that we get from biking: movement, ecology, healthfulness, inner peace. We also get the friendship of a community of like souls. You will meet someone you like very much at MoBo. It's just a place where that happens. You know what you'll also get? You'll get a piece of your twelve-year-old self back..the one who rode happily in a kingdom of rain. It hasn't disappeared from you at all. It's just asleep and needs a breath of fresh air and a push to get the tires rolling. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xlzvHPJuCuIqnfCyWNpQmZnBnmrzNko5ip22lfbeVwps1U0kiz3uhIN9Fl-EEMJX_IdMqw7sS02UdS9BM3Wtd59DBKn1UOblnffnmc6v4k5a0AbpDZLa5wya8Nj5Ey9dVhY88GBX_J8W/s1600/mobo_0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0xlzvHPJuCuIqnfCyWNpQmZnBnmrzNko5ip22lfbeVwps1U0kiz3uhIN9Fl-EEMJX_IdMqw7sS02UdS9BM3Wtd59DBKn1UOblnffnmc6v4k5a0AbpDZLa5wya8Nj5Ey9dVhY88GBX_J8W/s640/mobo_0007.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by stephen metz belong</td></tr>
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<i><a href="http://mobobicyclecoop.org/" target="_blank">MoBo</a></i><br />
<i><a href="https://maps.google.com/maps?q=1415+Knowlton+Ave+Cincinnati,+Ohio+&hl=en&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=48.77566,84.902344&hnear=1415+Knowlton+St,+Cincinnati,+Ohio+45223&t=m&z=16" target="_blank">Map</a></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-25041865695769320702012-05-31T19:00:00.000-04:002012-06-01T14:57:06.985-04:00manifest gallery cincinnati<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkvDLDF2yoLky__a-qxGNlBaAYdxV_nTsPf0ayK3KFMDpJRiZNtjVSbNp37x6-f9dxCYHV-tH2uIODaCL5zrQWMQfde8-ENXZZVIeNLWKT3-Aercmk5SQBq1xQ4kzhv8Ye0SkAikia1sR/s1600/manifest_20120515_0128+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkvDLDF2yoLky__a-qxGNlBaAYdxV_nTsPf0ayK3KFMDpJRiZNtjVSbNp37x6-f9dxCYHV-tH2uIODaCL5zrQWMQfde8-ENXZZVIeNLWKT3-Aercmk5SQBq1xQ4kzhv8Ye0SkAikia1sR/s640/manifest_20120515_0128+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz she the lamb</td></tr>
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The oldest known drawing of a human face is over twenty-seven thousand years old. It's a simple series of marks, in a cave near Angoulême in western France. It's drawn on a rocky abutment, which is shaped like a human skull. Its age places it before the inception of language. In other words, we had art before we could even describe it to each other. Why then, once the grunting and groaning had given way to consonants, vowels, words, and ideas, loquaciously expressed, did we continue to seek out and to refine a visual expression of our lives? What is this quality which uniquely compels the human animal to gather experiences, and to then reassemble them using our own personal, creative, vision?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKGAr8EYycxvBtI8yVH7GWUP9HabMy_MijxewLCGhw_TdQ2_vrSNzXxgkj4XXJdTp8nDbnZTlAvk1W8eyH-1rFw_DMAkJ1uILVXSBriW9CRkn2G2_Ii8PlbrH7AKv7klaGkeGyIsDNMp5/s1600/manifest_20120515_0080+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKGAr8EYycxvBtI8yVH7GWUP9HabMy_MijxewLCGhw_TdQ2_vrSNzXxgkj4XXJdTp8nDbnZTlAvk1W8eyH-1rFw_DMAkJ1uILVXSBriW9CRkn2G2_Ii8PlbrH7AKv7klaGkeGyIsDNMp5/s640/manifest_20120515_0080+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz making special<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> The Darwinian impulse would tell us that it is to gain a sexual advantage in natural selection...that we are instinctively compelled to create representations of beauty in the quest for a mate. In the latter half of the twentieth century, however, this idea was spun in an opposing direction as the definition of art transitioned from the perspective of the intended audience (the sought after mate in the Darwinian school of thought), to that of the artist. People began to ask, <i>what is the act of art? </i> If we had a verb, <i>arting</i>, what action would it be describing, and, why are we doing it? Noted, independent scholar and author, Ellen </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Dissanayake is credited with providing us with a succinct, sublime answer: we have a biological need for <i>making special</i>.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6eVX9OUYJPCqZjN3k0gL2Jc-VwkyeY5JyQ1vncDgRzl6hU05wwOWrNmBQxnP2NbPhQ_62gdT4Lggdpa0F-kKYjWhFnvyW6uXsdXQ_XXjO0Bu51EhK2jfRM2ExRSKz7X9ZmA45p842eVEj/s1600/manifest_20120515_0092+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6eVX9OUYJPCqZjN3k0gL2Jc-VwkyeY5JyQ1vncDgRzl6hU05wwOWrNmBQxnP2NbPhQ_62gdT4Lggdpa0F-kKYjWhFnvyW6uXsdXQ_XXjO0Bu51EhK2jfRM2ExRSKz7X9ZmA45p842eVEj/s640/manifest_20120515_0092+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz tradition</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> Making special: </i>to render the ordinary, unique, with the physical manifestation of your own, distinct perception. You lift the garage door one night, flip the fluorescent light and walk to the workbench. You raise your framing hammer, its familiar, smooth, wooden handle turning in your hand. You are seized with an idea and you spend the next few hours carving and staining the image of a pine tree along the length of the handle. You are <i>making special</i>. One day, you awaken early and journey to the river's edge. With a shovel and a bucket, you unearth mounds of clay and cart it to a nearby clearing in a woods. With the clay, you mold a bird bath using only your bare hands. You leave it in the forest, for no one in particular, save the sparrows. You are <i>making special. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> </i> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTXExP6LYTmwKqaVu7X7-w30lawhq9CGexgyi_wWIRCRSqAIBlbZz-qlp3YV-59nVRhq67Gaa8OkMB7zJ5-0-6b6-cD7koVnURNwnjrjQbRKwYgLFLpLXOL7ggc33EpnCHlVaf3JddjYAc/s1600/manifest_20120515_0051+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTXExP6LYTmwKqaVu7X7-w30lawhq9CGexgyi_wWIRCRSqAIBlbZz-qlp3YV-59nVRhq67Gaa8OkMB7zJ5-0-6b6-cD7koVnURNwnjrjQbRKwYgLFLpLXOL7ggc33EpnCHlVaf3JddjYAc/s640/manifest_20120515_0051+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz being alive</td></tr>
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We all have this inside, this need to express without words, this need to <i>make special</i>, but for many of us it becomes obscured, wrapped in layers of the world, in the epic tragedies and mundane details of our lives. Eventually it may seem as though it never existed in us at all, that making art is for someone else, for some, other, more qualified group of people who were born with something which we lack. But, that is shit. For <i>every</i> person, there is a relationship between creativity and well-being, between the conceiving of an idea, the physical manifestation of it, and health. This process of <i>arting </i>is how we unburden ourselves, it is how we tell ourselves that we exist and matter, that we belong, that we have something worthwhile to impart to the world. There are a lot of hurdles to keeping this channel from ourselves open. Thankfully, we have wonderful places, such as <i>Manifest, </i>to help.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XzcScMP_dHz5cqu7miVpF1hROZnbw5Em6R1IP7v81HANGZ4y_S5GeCFXa5CWLvcdJ-gMWdJ25TbbN1WE1zBJdjaiMLxeblBwQhFLBE9dQq0M0FVEVYGRSZXeCZH8NHi9n1ztnmtaSEBO/s1600/DSCF1279+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XzcScMP_dHz5cqu7miVpF1hROZnbw5Em6R1IP7v81HANGZ4y_S5GeCFXa5CWLvcdJ-gMWdJ25TbbN1WE1zBJdjaiMLxeblBwQhFLBE9dQq0M0FVEVYGRSZXeCZH8NHi9n1ztnmtaSEBO/s640/DSCF1279+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz miracles are here</td></tr>
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<i>Manifest </i>is a trinity dedicated to visual art. Founded in 2004, by Jason Franz, Elizabeth Kauffman, and Brigid O'Kane, its purpose is to present and document highly skilled, professional art from around the world, while simultaneously engendering a spirit of education and creativity at a local level. It's a world class gallery and a local art studio, all at once. <i>Manifest </i>maintains this dichotomy by operating as several distinct, but interconnected entities. The gallery, in East Walnut Hills, serves as the hub, offering regular displays of thought provoking art, from local, national, and international artists. The drawing studio, in Madisonville, explores the art of drawing through educational activities and open drawing sessions. Lastly, <i>Manifest Press</i> collaborates with artists and students to make available, well designed publications, featuring art from <i>Manifest </i>events, such as international, juried competitions in drawing, painting, and photography, held annually.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz energy</td></tr>
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Tim Parsley is Assistant Director at <i>Manifest</i> and serves as coordinator for the drawing center. As are all of the instructors at the drawing center, Tim is, himself, an accomplished professional artist. I recently had a chance to visit the studio for a figure drawing session and to talk to Tim. <i>There is a collaborative sense of intention and empathy here</i>, is how he began to describe the studio drawing experience. <i>It's a collective, relaxed battle of pursuit. </i>The drawing center exists for anyone who is serious about elevating his or her level of skill. Your current abilities don't really matter. What counts is your intent...your seriousness and dedication to improvement. <i>You have to have a passion and a love for what you are doing, </i>Tim told me.<i> We know that everyone goes through a lot of bad drawings just to get one good one, but what we have found is that there is a contagious energy here which really inspires people and it shows in their work. </i> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz anatomy of a drawing</td></tr>
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As the model struck her first pose, on this particular evening, a determined calm enveloped the room. This was a communion. I roamed the room with my camera and I thought about what I was seeing with my eyes, my lens, my heartbeat, my own self. There's an intrinsic strength in a circle, an unbroken unified, simple purpose: roundness, every point equal. Lose one point, lose the circle. That's how they draw at <i>Manifest...</i>in the round, each artist closely bound to the next, each giving strength and being given strength, each teaching and being taught, through the simple act of participation. They reverentially face the center. The model is the muse, she, naked, vulnerable, willing in servitude, the lamb, the alter. The artists too are unclothed in their own way, unborn, a blank sheet before them. An undefinition waiting to be defined, an unwriting waiting to be written. She the lamb relaxes, supine, her secrets now whispered to the congregants. They, weapons now drawn, strike the page and imagine their way into being. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz ceremony</td></tr>
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We people, we fail collectively at a lot of important things. We can't keep each other fed. We can't figure out a way to do something as basic as not massacring each other. We can't protect cherished species of animals before they perish forever. We can't find a way to place the common good of all people above the obscene greed of a few. We break these fundamental commandments of brotherhood. The world starts to seem insane. Being human starts to seem untenable. But then there is art. When I look at a Michael Wilson photograph or a Casey Riordan Millard painting, and I realize that it wasn't some otherworldly, specially ordained being who made them, but rather a neighbor, a mother, a son, a teacher, or a child...a person just like me...it gives me a sense of hope that I can't find elsewhere. Art is all of ours, just like Jason, Tim, and all of the other artists, students, and publishers from <i>Manifest, </i>are demonstrating. It is a personal journey, yet each time we take it, we make a link: from our household to our street, our street to our neighborhood, our neighborhood to our city, extending out into the world, a tide of calm on a throbbing sea. Together, we made an El Greco, a Rodin, a Mapplethorpe. It began in an ancestral cave. It will end with the last breath of humanity, and each and every time any one of us makes something special, we are tipping the scales a little, in favor of sanity. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz made manifest</td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.manifestgallery.org/about/schedule.html" target="_blank">Manifest Exhibits</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.manifestgallery.org/studio/" target="_blank">Drawing Center</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0578062607/ref=oh_details_o00_s00_i00" target="_blank">Book I ordered from Manifest Press</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-63119563520013403022012-05-24T19:48:00.001-04:002012-06-01T14:58:07.070-04:00tango del barrio dance studio<br />
press play for maximum enjoyment<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1aDAaTkz_RaSbC8DpaIOtQBia0ZZLvMpf7sJozEY6pPcaZabgpDdtt4AX7FW68dRMJPnW1rJid0afgCaCjWNAIc0l-HAXY0n_2enitME3G0etVIhoaY5-zr8lbdCulDqGp1TheCEcEcY/s1600/tango_20120516_0029+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_1aDAaTkz_RaSbC8DpaIOtQBia0ZZLvMpf7sJozEY6pPcaZabgpDdtt4AX7FW68dRMJPnW1rJid0afgCaCjWNAIc0l-HAXY0n_2enitME3G0etVIhoaY5-zr8lbdCulDqGp1TheCEcEcY/s640/tango_20120516_0029+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz michael and julie</td></tr>
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<i>Tango of the Neighborhood.</i> <i>Tango Del Barrio. </i>If you whisper it to yourself enough, it becomes a lyric, or perhaps even a song, itself. Yes...it is a song. It is its own melody...a lilting, fluid whistle from a solitary man strolling through an empty, scarcely lit alley in the heart of the night. There is a soft rain and the bricks from the roadway are like shiny shapes of glass. The rain drops seem to pepper them in time with his tune, a dance unto its own. The man inhales the last of his cigarette, drops it, and opens a door, unmarked. Violin, piano, and a gentle blue light spill into the canyon of the alleyway. The dark, looming structures of the night expand, momentarily. The man exhales, glances quickly back, and steps inside, smoke, now blue, trailing and intertwining with the mist of the rain. It lingers too long in the still air. The door closes with a jarring thud. The sounds, the light, the smoke, they disappear in an instant. You are left alone, watching, as it does, and the faintest indication of perfume, or is it wine, rises to your nostrils. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz tango del barrio</td></tr>
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You imagine what's next. The man has removed his hat and his wet overcoat. A woman in black watches, her lips slightly parted and ruby red, her black hair tied with an azure, silk scarf. He knifes his way through the crowd to her and using only their eyes and small smiles they enter into an intimate, understood contract. He holds her and draws her to him, chests stirring, slowly rotating to the music of the room and to the music of their bodies. The voids of their individual forms are filled with each other; in the curve of his neck and shoulder, her cheek; in the pit of the back of his knee, her calf...the seam of her black stocking shifting as muscles contract and relax...a beating heart. He lunges forward, collapsing her body backward, gently under his, a perfect hunter. She acquiesces and hangs in motionless suspension, the small of her back balanced perfectly on his outstretched thigh, now perpendicular to the floor. Her face looks up at his, his, down to hers. Her arms reach back in sublime submission. The slit of her dress slithers open, up the length of her thigh, and the garment traces light patterns on the floor below, as they pause in this moment of conquest, in this moment of communion. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz michael and julie</td></tr>
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Argentine Tango grew up in the streets of Buenos Aires, beginning in the late nineteenth century. A prevailing theme and technique of the dance is the idea of communication through embrace. The level of intimacy of the dance is the decision of the couple, but they must maintain a strong connection along the length of their embracing arms. This channel of energy, muscle, and heat is the entry point into the graceful symmetry and unison of tango. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz tango del barrio</td></tr>
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Despite its origins as a social dance, and contrary to other dances of the genre, the tango is not a step by step dance, but rather an improvisation, concocted by the lead and, spontaneously agreed upon by the partner. In this way, every tango dance can be unique; an expression of a moment in time from two distinct souls. <br />
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<b>Ingredients </b>(combine to taste)</div>
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<i>caminar </i>walk</div>
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<i>giros </i>turns</div>
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<i>sacadas </i>displacements</div>
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<i>cruce </i>cross</div>
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<i>ochos </i>figure eights</div>
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<i>llevadas de pie </i>moving foot by foot</div>
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<i>ganchos </i>leg hooks</div>
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<i>contragiros </i>reverse turns</div>
<span style="text-align: left;"> </span><i style="text-align: left;">quebradas </i><span style="text-align: left;">breaks</span> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz michael and julie</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> The seed for our very own, revered Argentine Tango studio, </span><i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Tango Del Barrio, </i><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">was planted over twenty years ago, when founder Michael W., still a psychology graduate student at the time, stumbled upon the vintage dance scene in Clifton. He realized that, despite having been labeled "vintage," Argentine Tango was very much thriving: a living tradition. Michael's love for tango would necessitate the need for a sort of dual life; psychologist by day, dance student, and later, instructor by night. This duality would flow from Cincinnati, to Pittsburgh, to New York City, and back to Cincinnati again, where Michael would eventually land, permanently. </span><i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Tango Del Barrio, </i><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">the studio,</span><i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </i><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">would evolve over the next several years, finding a permanent home in Northside, where it shares a beautiful and inviting space with </span><i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Yoga Ah.</i><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> Michael's partner in life, as well as dance, Julie, a graphic designer by day, has also become intimately involved in the studio over the past six years. The operation has grown to such an extent that it has recently been granted not-for-profit status, and it now includes a board of directors. This move has allowed Michael and Julie to step away from the center of operations, but to continue to contribute deeply through instruction. </span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz tango del barrio</td></tr>
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<i> I have always had a deep appreciation for the arts and I have my own personal awareness of what makes life good, </i>Michael tells me<i>. The arts are such an important part of a person having a full and meaningful life. </i>In those words, we find the connection for Michael...between the mind he studies and the movements he teaches. Expression is well being, even when whispered, or when spoken without words at all. This is why we dance in dimly lit rooms. This is why we draw in coffee shops or paint in basements. This is why we strum stringed instruments when there is no one there to hear. This is why we sit for hours in the quiet of the morning, waiting for one perfect moment of sunlight combined with chance, to photograph a Kingfisher perched in a tree. We have a need to articulate something for which we have no words, or, for which words should not exist. This makes us human.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz michael and julie</td></tr>
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<i>A different aspect of a person is present in tango, </i>Michael and Julie tell me. <i>You don't have to talk in order to be close to people here. </i>We living beings, we were communicating before we had words to use. In your life, you have looked into the eyes of something living and understood something about it. You have touched the fur of a living animal and felt a truth or an honesty which you couldn't explain. You have watched as a pair of white swans drifted along the surface of a glass-still pond in absolute silence and symmetry, and you have recognized something of yourself in them. That part of you...the same part which may have stirred a little as you read this, is a dancer. <br />
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<i>Tango Del Barrio offers tango lessons and community dance for all levels. See the links below for more information.</i><br />
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<i><a href="http://tangodelbarrio.com/" target="_blank">Tango Del Barrio</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=tango+del+barrio&hl=en&ll=39.154225,-84.536791&spn=0.04486,0.085316&sll=39.103118,-84.51202&sspn=0.179569,0.341263&t=m&z=14" target="_blank">Map</a></i> <i> </i> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz tango del barrio</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-60298866195739509972012-05-18T14:34:00.000-04:002012-05-18T15:13:41.335-04:00a moment to explain, by way of the big pig<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz melissa s. w/lite brite pig</td></tr>
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From the lobby of the bank, you can hear them and the stench is starting to creep in, too. You dab cologne on your wrists and place a drop just below your nose. You inhale deeply, crack the door open, and step out into the warm July sunshine, every beam of which is shot through with dust from the street, now vibrating under your feet. You look south towards the boats. You see them coming...hundreds, if not thousands of terrified animals, screaming as they are herded north from the steamy river. By nightfall their inanimate bodies will be suspended in brine filled barrels, and tomorrow's still-living, shit-covered roar will be floating upriver. Destination Porkopolis. Cincinnati, Ohio.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz melissa s.</td></tr>
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My good friend Melissa is participating in ArtWorks' Big Pig Gig this year. She's making a giant pig statue which is lit from the inside. The light radiates outward through thousands of Lite Brite pegs, which Melissa has been diligently gathering at eBay auctions and then painstakingly placing on the pig, one at a time. I took these photos, intending to do a piece on Melissa, as an artist, but then, I got to thinking about the pig and what it says about our town, our heritage, our way of life, and I realized that this would be an opportune time for me to explain my motivation for making this blog. Melissa's true art is stained glass, so I'm going to do a feature dedicated to her pursuit of that craft in a future edition of <i>CP</i>, but for now, let's talk about pigs and our city. After all, this is Citizen Pork and I am a Cincinnatian...a little proud, a little embarrassed, and sated with opinions.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz lite brite! makin' things with la-ha-hite!</td></tr>
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Cincinnati was founded, in 1788, as Losantiville. It's proximity to water routes and vast farmlands positioned it as the perfect hub for processing livestock, and, by 1835, Losantiville had not only changed its name to Cincinnati, it had also become the nation's largest meat packing district. Herds of pigs roamed the streets. A source of embarrassment for most. A source of pride for a few. The vestiges of the inspiration for the nickname <i>Porkopolis </i>can still be seen in the form of abandoned or repurposed meat processing warehouses along Spring Grove Avenue. It was a city at once thriving, but also locked in a turmoil between perception and reality, past and future, and despite the gradual decline of the industry and subsequent release from the moniker, in my opinion, we remain so today. We're a city torn between two visions: forward and backward. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> photo by steve metz this one will do</td></tr>
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Walk with me tonight and we'll see both. There's a man praying before sleep. We look back. There's a home with a family watching Wheel of Fortune and another where a couple is arguing at the kitchen table. Next door is the one in which unspeakable things might happen to a child. A woman is absently putting a box into a microwave, ensconced in a robe of cigarette smoke. We shuffle along. We look forward. There's one where a man is sanding the leg of a table he's just finishing up...it's built from curly maple using only hand tools. Next, there's one where a woman is practicing her vocal scales. We can faintly hear this through the cracked window of her bedroom. It's b-flat minor and it reminds us of Chopin. Up a little hill and to the right we go. Forward. There's a man in a garage wearing a respirator. He's spraying something bright to help make an old car beautiful again. Across the street, there's a young man sitting under a desk lamp. He's writing numbers on a paper to see if it's yet possible to think about opening that wine and beer shop which will stock local and regional goods. We turn another corner. There's a soft yellow glow coming from a cottage on the right. Through the window, we see a woman in a blue dress. She has raven black hair and she's sitting on the floor, alone. She's placing something delicate looking on the glowing statue of a pig. Forward for Porkopolis.<br />
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So, that brings us to the final road, to the essence of this blog. It is an homage to the forward lookers, to the quiet struggle of singular vision, to those who keep a light on until deep in the night, in pursuit. This isn't the easiest place to carve out a unique mind-space. The mainstream runs deep here and the fruit hangs low. The writing and photography I make here is simply a tribute to those who are trying to infuse our senses with alternatives to the Bengals, WEBN, and Montgomery Inn ribs. They are outnumbered but they are armed with ingenuity and tenacity, and they have my eternal gratitude and appreciation.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz we are all made of stars</td></tr>
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Now, we are almost home. We're on Spring Grove. We can hear a distant cry from centuries gone. These are the places we must leave behind without forgetting. Today, these spaces on this avenue are slowly filling with musicians, artists, and artisans, who are laying claim to a new view of the pig. It's my hope that we are all looking in the right direction as their thunderous, inevitable stampede of light, color and sound is made. We don't want anyone getting trampled. <br />
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Thank you Melissa. We'll talk again soon. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-15500788219887545682012-05-03T19:01:00.001-04:002012-06-01T14:58:25.337-04:00casey riordan millard artist cincinnati<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz casey, with floating shark girl installation</td></tr>
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There is both a delicateness and a strength to everything. The ant can be swept away by what we perceive as a gentle rain shower, yet, emerges unscathed from beneath the random footfall of a creature thousands of times its size. The elephant stands unfazed among the flailing, falling branches of a typhoon, but is gently felled by a simple, poison-drenched dart. Our own human strengths and weaknesses, our particular position within this elaborate schema, our perception of ourselves as either hunter or prey, victor or victim, is that which impregnates us with our fears and our confidences, and, ultimately, our perception of our own mortality is the droning heart of this push and pull. </div>
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Our developing minds make us especially likely to push fear into the realm of the irrational when we are young children. For me, it was a dream I had at age seven. I was in a store, alone. A strange man pulled a syringe from his coat, jabbed it into my arm, and calmly said, <i>you're going to die in nine minutes. </i>Then he walked away.<i> </i>I awoke, terrified, believing it real. It could have ended there, but, as would happen many times throughout my life, that's when my irrational mind took a tiny seed and turned it into a giant weed tree that would flourish within me. <i>Maybe the man had said "nine hours" or "nine days" or "nine years," </i>it said. <i>Are you really sure it was the number nine, </i>it taunted. <i>It's possible it was nineteen, </i>I whispered. <i>Or twenty-nine.</i> </div>
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It sounds so silly now, but it was so real then. So real, surreal, so real, surreal, so real...</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz figurines</td></tr>
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This week, I found simpatico, a kindred spirit, in visual artist, <i>Casey Riordan Millard. </i>Through her art, <i>Casey</i> has found a miraculous and beautiful articulation for a deep-seeded childhood fear of sharks, and, transitively, of death. <i>I've always known that a shark was coming for me, from a toilet or a pool</i>, she tells me. I imagine a young girl of four or five standing at the edge of the shallow end. She is frozen in a place where no one else can join her...trapped in her own spiraling thoughts. She can't take that step. She can't stop seeing what she sees. Her mind can't stop thinking what it thinks. Others are in there playing, having fun. <i>Don't they know what's going to happen? </i> <br />
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<i>People's lives are unbelievable, </i>Casey tells me. <i>Those inevitable moments we all know are coming...the deaths of our parents or watching a spouse die...we live our entire lives knowing that they're coming, yet, somehow we're able to move through them. </i>She pauses.<i> I don't know why I worry so much about it. </i>Casey understands that as people, uniquely, we are both blessed and cursed in having an awareness of our own mortality. Blessed, for it helps us live richer lives. Cursed in our understanding of eternity, of finality. <br />
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<i> My life is just so great, and I get so sad that it all has to go away some day.</i> <i> </i><br />
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<i> Yes, but you got to be here.</i><br />
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<i> I know. </i>She smiles softly, sadly.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz shark girl installation, detail</td></tr>
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She's not alone. What then do we do with these overwhelming feelings, which can cause our chests to heave in the deep of the night, swimming in an airless, wordless sea? One solution is to do something darkly beautiful. We could breathe life into the things that haunt us. We could make them real, living among us, rather than holding them prisoners of ourselves. We could write, as an Edgar Allen Poe would. We could paint, as a Vincent Van Gogh would. We could make music, as a Harry Nilsson would. <br />
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As for <i>Casey Riordan-Millard</i>, for her, a form would emerge from the deep, dark sea waters of childhood. Her name is <i>Shark Girl, </i>a figure which has emblazoned herself into <i>Casey's</i> work, to the admiration of a growing, national audience of devotees. <i>Shark Girl </i>is a metamorphic figure combining the innocence and fragility of a young, pastel clad, patent leather shoe wearing, ivory-skinned girl, and, the unsettling, kinetic ferocity of a white-toothed shark, with inanimate seeming eyes. As I study <i>Casey's</i> art, my emotions evolve from disquietude to empathy. The more I come to know this creature, the less I see a shark and the more I see an inconsolable soul, trapped in herself, engulfed in the luster and beauty of creation, but afraid to touch it, afraid to be known in it, afraid to breathe so as to awaken something hidden. The more I come to know this being, the more I want to stand between her and the objects of her fears, the more I want to sit at her small bedside, guarding. The more I come to know this person, the more I see my own reflection. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjccbv8OxN7a6dxR7SH32oArS-NDtVgCBP5Al6s-dg6OUEMZaW-LB3TlkZOktaCSRGWMPF1DylYwj7lqJQZMGLIBoFu8d82NCVvhfh5s9aXW644d9ONnZbrK_RPJls6PwCMjgrFuhqK0_DA/s1600/casey-portriat-dark2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjccbv8OxN7a6dxR7SH32oArS-NDtVgCBP5Al6s-dg6OUEMZaW-LB3TlkZOktaCSRGWMPF1DylYwj7lqJQZMGLIBoFu8d82NCVvhfh5s9aXW644d9ONnZbrK_RPJls6PwCMjgrFuhqK0_DA/s640/casey-portriat-dark2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz casey, with floating shark girl installation</td></tr>
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And so, through this expression of angst through art, has <i>Casey </i>begun to cage her inner shark? I'm hoping yes. Anyone who feels so deeply truly deserves a place to put it. As I imagine her working, I see an image in her mind. I see a blank canvas and with each stroke of her brush or pencil the mind image diminishes...an emptying tank, and the canvas image timidly breathes its first breath. We who understand her are left with a vibrant, sad wonder. We are left with a rich, fairytale-like landscape, imaginary to us...all too real to one of us. I'm glad that <i>Shark Girl </i>is here, but I hope that she doesn't always need to be. My new friend <i>Casey</i> has earned the respite. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwBEF3qivicTAjOrRu6lNCBCVBtCcyv3UKra4ZB-45xtGh6R0CpXsLeazIw0feRCMJ_5BZaIWVGvWQOsVvagLKhuWl7tvGdtO3kbm7d5Z8MVSGoQBpry7W8QTiApTUvLXOPaQG1MVvj_wX/s1600/hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwBEF3qivicTAjOrRu6lNCBCVBtCcyv3UKra4ZB-45xtGh6R0CpXsLeazIw0feRCMJ_5BZaIWVGvWQOsVvagLKhuWl7tvGdtO3kbm7d5Z8MVSGoQBpry7W8QTiApTUvLXOPaQG1MVvj_wX/s640/hands.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz shark girl, cradled</td></tr>
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As for me, I am sitting on my front porch as I write this. The feeders are full and the song birds and the scavengers are singing. There is a brown-headed cowbird perched on a lonesome looking limb in the Japanese maple. I am imagining tiny <i>Shark Girl</i> sitting there with him. In the evening heat, she has found a moment of solace in the wordless cry of her compatriot. In this, the light before dusk, she has convinced herself, for a moment, that she can see everything. The bird squawks, flaps its wings and disappears into the evening sky. She looks down and swallows hard. Night is just around the corner. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGb52t8mICuLgq1L4RIcWJMQ4pheMHN-olNw1f4NNlaq27wLBE-dkPIEvIsIOrG_0j19LooOxM8S-0pslQLvJ0qO4JfCq4y42710DE1Lk0NilCQpDemvc-EQuHGL6urccptWxtN591IlbC/s1600/shark-girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGb52t8mICuLgq1L4RIcWJMQ4pheMHN-olNw1f4NNlaq27wLBE-dkPIEvIsIOrG_0j19LooOxM8S-0pslQLvJ0qO4JfCq4y42710DE1Lk0NilCQpDemvc-EQuHGL6urccptWxtN591IlbC/s640/shark-girl.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz shark girl sculpture, detail</td></tr>
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<i><a href="http://caseyriordanmillard.com/home.html" target="_blank">Casey Riordan Millard</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://hifructose.com/index.php/the-blog/2145-hi-fructose-magazine-vol23-preview" target="_blank">Hi Fructose</a></i><br />
<i> <a href="http://www.packergallery.com/millard/index.php" target="_blank">Packer Schopf Gallery Exhibition</a></i><br />
<i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/SharkGirlCaseyRiordanMillard" target="_blank">Like Shark Girl On Facebook</a></i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-37095611170833873812012-04-26T19:04:00.001-04:002012-05-24T17:32:24.931-04:00kim taylor<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1LeACUqCjWWTXWE2R4sleh7bRIB-DZItZJIx8B3k3g8nP6mfO8zqJrUxWPii6L6o1mrbLKhWnyT8weOBAif-pOISHxLaxBFpQtvCR-VkfvvdP3w6tdL2y9yd0QZ9OmnikMT0yLfu9K5l/s1600/0074-export.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1LeACUqCjWWTXWE2R4sleh7bRIB-DZItZJIx8B3k3g8nP6mfO8zqJrUxWPii6L6o1mrbLKhWnyT8weOBAif-pOISHxLaxBFpQtvCR-VkfvvdP3w6tdL2y9yd0QZ9OmnikMT0yLfu9K5l/s640/0074-export.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz kim taylor</td></tr>
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Can you see how far we've come</div>
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Such a miracle</div>
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Everything is clear</div>
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You are such a wonder </div>
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I will be the one to build you up</div>
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I will be the one to never doubt</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz kim taylor</td></tr>
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I have never cried while watching a film or television. I have never cried while looking at a photograph. I have cried only once from a book...it was the final pages of Paul Auster's novella <i>Timbuktu. </i>I have never cried at a funeral. I have never cried from the sight of a beautiful piece of art or from seeing the brutality of mankind or nature with my eyes.<br />
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I am not ashamed to tell you, however, that I have been moved to tears more times than I could probably count, by the sound of a voice and a melody. This is me being straight with you. That intersection of human breath and instrumentation is the place where my soul abides. I am wide open there and the tears come when they come.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhvq6CgpzqahurFv90F3eGFWU3dKElSyuVXcdFl1Mv0khteBrXZh5sfhCU8XATHqx6uJIbRhvdWzRBgodvFPBncje1ZGaIaWzPgvErcmOtAmIZXkuOF0FbLhiGlgZ05GSgOh0J2YN5P50/s1600/0066-export.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhvq6CgpzqahurFv90F3eGFWU3dKElSyuVXcdFl1Mv0khteBrXZh5sfhCU8XATHqx6uJIbRhvdWzRBgodvFPBncje1ZGaIaWzPgvErcmOtAmIZXkuOF0FbLhiGlgZ05GSgOh0J2YN5P50/s640/0066-export.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz kim taylor</td></tr>
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You are listening to a song called <i>Build You Up</i>, by Kim Taylor. Those are her words and that is her voice. You have a free connection to this person's interior mind, through this gift she has made of her own heart. Listen now, for a moment and while you listen, introduce yourself by looking at a picture. Imagine the woman who pulled up these words from her own mind. Imagine the woman who imagined the melody. Imagine she, who breathed a sad strength into both. As you are listening with your ears and seeing with your eyes you will come to know her. The images that Kim let me make this past weekend and the sound of her, have left an indelible print somewhere on me. I feel that I have known this Kim, or maybe a Kim for my whole life. Maybe she is me. Or my sister. Or my grandmother. Maybe she is your wife. Or your son. Or the man who turns your checks into cash at the bank. So now, close your eyes and listen for someone you know. Listen for yourself. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz kim taylor</td></tr>
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And now tell me what you heard. What was that smoky sound planting in the dirt of you? What seed is there to grow? Did it tell you to be strong for someone whom you love? Did it tell you to let someone whom you love be strong for you? Is there a difference between these ideas when the two are bonded as one, where there is love? <i>I'll never doubt.</i><br />
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<i>I feel like a poet, hiding behind music</i> is what she told me. I wondered to myself if there is a distinction between the poet who pens and the poet who sings. Ultimately, Kim is both, to me, and the two crafts are like a perfectly woven vine and branch around her, distinct but inseparable, each bolstering the other, each whispering to the other, <i>stay.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz kim taylor</td></tr>
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Kim has been excavating her own inner landscape in this way for many years, and, so far, the only thing she's giving up on is having expectations. Her family is her compass, her rehab, her blanket, and they have watched as she has matriculated from a place of quiet desperation to a place of travel for the sake of the journey. <i>I am open to anything now. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know where this leads,</i><i> </i>she tells me.</div>
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<i>Do you ever fee like quitting, </i>I ask? </div>
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<i>Yes.</i></div>
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<i> Why don't you?</i></div>
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<i> My son....my partner....they bring me back when I wander. They keep me moving.</i><i> </i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz kim taylor</td></tr>
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And so, thankfully, for us, the recipients of Kim's gifts, she awakens daily, ready to dig in the dirt. Ready to be swept away in the tide of beautiful sorrow that accompanies living with eyes open. She's out there right now in the garden. There's a seed in her hand. It's a word, a chord, an arpeggio, maybe just a whisper. She drops it into a small hole and covers it with dirt...a home, a bed, a hiding place, a brief grave. She lifts the watering can and a droplet plunges into the dark soil to nourish it. Soon, it will rise up and you'll hear it faintly in the distance. You might mistake it for your own heartbeat.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz kim taylor</td></tr>
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<i>Kim Taylor will be in New York recording a new record. You'll be able to get it around the time the leaves start dropping. You can buy </i>Build You Up<i> or anything else by Kim, just about anywhere. </i><br />
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<i><a href="http://kim-taylor.net/" target="_blank">Web</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.myspace.com/kimtaylor" target="_blank">Listen</a></i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-82672505154152766302012-04-19T18:40:00.000-04:002012-04-20T15:01:28.972-04:00cincinnatians of note whom we've lost this year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Pinky Scissors</span></i>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo courtesy mtv archives pinky</i></td></tr>
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<b>DOB/Place of birth: </b>August, 1959 / Newport Ky.<br />
<b>Cause of death:</b> choked on someone else's vomit</div>
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<b>Occupation:</b> stage manager (Plasmatics, Musical Youth, Men at Work)</div>
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<b>Favorite food:</b> ice chips</div>
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<b>Favorite dance:</b> finger pistols (shown)</div>
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<b>Noteworthiness: </b>Pinky lost her left eye in 1981 during the filming of a Plastmatics performance for NBC's SCTV, when singer Wendy O. Williams attacked her with an exposed nipple. Pinky is said to have shed one final tear from the eye as she was carted away from the studio by paramedics. According to family members, the two never spoke again. <br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Fragrance Dunleavy</span></i>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvYcGpa3DPaFAICmxPykT-YrLBUpmeNkaV1lrvi_3ecYz4Ync263RHfuOsDa773Y0ztZzNetVIB2zzgC6JCOAtJkmxnD3bOKIXdBFMN4ACyshE5Xkk2htnJVMXDkKmapsQhttXYvhZaj5/s1600/case-face_20120407_0051+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyvYcGpa3DPaFAICmxPykT-YrLBUpmeNkaV1lrvi_3ecYz4Ync263RHfuOsDa773Y0ztZzNetVIB2zzgC6JCOAtJkmxnD3bOKIXdBFMN4ACyshE5Xkk2htnJVMXDkKmapsQhttXYvhZaj5/s640/case-face_20120407_0051+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo courtesy match game '76 fragrance</i></td></tr>
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<b>DOB/place of birth</b>: '<i>Whatever makes me 26, lovey!' </i>/ Oakley<br />
<b>Cause of death: </b>catastrophic injuries sustained operating a motor vehicle, impaired<br />
<b>Occupation</b>: game show celebrity guest<br />
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<b>Favorite artist</b>: Burt Bacharach</div>
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<b>Favorite game show answer</b>: '<i>Fannie Flagg's nylons after a long hot barn party.'</i></div>
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<b>Favorite food</b>: rabbit, duck, gin<br />
<b>Noteworthiness: </b>Although the origins of her fame are generally unknown, Fragrance is credited as being the originator of the 1970's trend of adding the word "city" to many commonly used words and phrases, as in, <i>Jesus...this place is trash-city Let's get out of here. </i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUrIXSJNSHdEGRw55qHi2rmP4JPj1g5aH4xQez3a4g8oh8VLFR-WV_IGsUd5zHCBowr3Qckw1UVK9Uhq3CfA8o3LBLdkOCS32GrTjTCUtcsz7rqxc97Q7KGpWhULXeJ2-fubOzNQgoHY1/s1600/case-face_20120407_0080+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUrIXSJNSHdEGRw55qHi2rmP4JPj1g5aH4xQez3a4g8oh8VLFR-WV_IGsUd5zHCBowr3Qckw1UVK9Uhq3CfA8o3LBLdkOCS32GrTjTCUtcsz7rqxc97Q7KGpWhULXeJ2-fubOzNQgoHY1/s640/case-face_20120407_0080+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo courtesy match game '76 fragrance</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Bjorn Heinrich Dichs</i></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>interpol surveillance photo, circa 1994 dichs</i></td></tr>
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<b>DOB/place of birth: </b>unknown / fishing vessel, Baltic Sea, Swedish Coast<br />
<b>Cause of death: </b>lung cancer<br />
<b>Occupation: </b>talent agent (partial client list: Rick Astley, Gerard Depardieu, Scary Spice)
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<b>Favorite food: </b>snails, eclairs<br />
<b>Favorite childhood memory: </b>making sausages<i> 'wit Moder'</i><br />
<b>Favorite slogan: </b><i>Pall Mall: Wherever Particular People Congregate</i><br />
<b>Noteworthiness: </b>Not a native of Cincinnnati, Dichs sought refuge here after having served a five year prison term, subsequent to pornography charges. Dichs had been implicated in an international sting operation designed to topple some of the United States' and Europe's leading offenders. He was arrested and detained by Interpol in Lyon, France. A sensational trial followed and would lead to his conviction and eventual prison term. Upon release, he fled to the US, hoping to return to anonymity. He spent his final years, in isolation, in a one-bedroom apartment in Mt. Auburn.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQLAq3YYI3xctEL_5l1ONIDL-uCOOITMJZ3NINQZreVHZd14DTkxnHTCAMJ_DxrJzJv067r6En5HbZgBA6mq_Wjt5mE-W97GkS1OmRh4moNXUYQKL2sj7oH4dpMxt560eBKbJ8D4hw-d7n/s1600/case-face_20120407_0128+as+Smart+Object-1-sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQLAq3YYI3xctEL_5l1ONIDL-uCOOITMJZ3NINQZreVHZd14DTkxnHTCAMJ_DxrJzJv067r6En5HbZgBA6mq_Wjt5mE-W97GkS1OmRh4moNXUYQKL2sj7oH4dpMxt560eBKbJ8D4hw-d7n/s640/case-face_20120407_0128+as+Smart+Object-1-sm.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>interpol surveillance photo, circa 1994 dichs</i></td></tr>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Patty Dinkel</span> </i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo courtesy jr. league of cincinnati patty</i></td></tr>
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<b>DOB/Place of birth: </b>March, 1954 / Mt. Washington<br />
<b>Cause of death: </b>heart attack, mall walking<br />
<b>Occupation: </b>Office administrator<br />
<b>Favorite food:</b> fish sticks!!!<br />
<b>Favorite pastime:</b> worship, television<br />
<b>Dream job: '</b><i>Already workin' it!'</i><br />
<b>Noteworthiness: </b>In 1992, while attempting to concoct a cure for her own prolonged case of hiccups, Patty accidentally invented what would become <i>Febreze </i>air freshener. <i>P&G </i>would eventually purchase the idea from Patty, for an undisclosed sum. Patty continued working in a local law office in an administrative position which she would eventually hold for 22 years. She would devote most of the riches from <i>Febreze </i>to local charities, family members, and her church.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPk0hxh6R0exvd0RO_vUEWcBJ7iPcPdIniGUYkNy03S1lU2_CJIZPmiYS5gOn1VfFaNO_7xCNnuI_EKRSjNmmkf_QzyXjUkeGHl8FiSnraBrNvAZAOmAHhmt9AZslhJwPZzd7_glWB0eqs/s1600/case-face_20120407_0238+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPk0hxh6R0exvd0RO_vUEWcBJ7iPcPdIniGUYkNy03S1lU2_CJIZPmiYS5gOn1VfFaNO_7xCNnuI_EKRSjNmmkf_QzyXjUkeGHl8FiSnraBrNvAZAOmAHhmt9AZslhJwPZzd7_glWB0eqs/s640/case-face_20120407_0238+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo courtesy jr. league of cincinnati patty</i></td></tr>
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<i>pssst...thanks allison.</i><br />
<b><br /></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-72797551219744581862012-04-12T19:02:00.000-04:002012-04-12T19:03:06.046-04:00park + vine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> A teacher told me, when I was young, that, when Europeans first arrived in North America, it would have been theoretically possible for a squirrel to cross from the eastern seaboard to the Mississippi River Banks, without ever having touched the ground. So thick were the trees, as to provide a contiguous </span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">sky-way</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">. Perhaps he was exaggerating...I've never really known and my young mind believed it. Either way, you get the point. The concept holds. Look out any window. Look for anything that looks different from the last thick woods you walked through, and man has cleared that space for something: a road, a church, a school, homes, malls, highways...you name it and we've built it. Ohio is now known as an agricultural state, but it's also a woodland habitat in its natural form. Where do you think those millions of acres of farmlands came from? Where are most of the woods? </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz goldfish tank/park + vine</td></tr>
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Do we need roads, places to live, places to work and places to grow food? Of course we do. But I guess the question is, when will we begin to actually contain ourselves? When and how will we reach and maintain a stasis? When will enough people believe that nothing is endless? I guess it will boil down to one of two things: a reactive crisis of survival or, preferably, a proactive series of small decisions, implemented by everyone. Do I <i>need</i> a new mobile phone every two years or do I simply <i>want</i> a new mobile phone every two years? Do I <i>need</i> to drive my car three blocks to the restaurant or can I walk? Should I dispose of my dog's poop with a traditional plastic bag which will stay in the landfill forever or should I invest a small amount of money on some biodegradable bags? Is there something I can do with this pair of shoes I no longer want, besides putting them out to the curb?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLTdv19kczVP6M1e-G2pBHPlzjTfU_Ntx-Q1q-9gVqezp6OdU5-YnXCoJsx-Mz5a__bKfrwYUi51_neL_vhZw2kfMX7PtLXRTpAWSojsK9YLgx8oAV7JMwcP7yrOQDhxfe2F1AHOlfB7n/s1600/park-vine_20120317_0049+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLTdv19kczVP6M1e-G2pBHPlzjTfU_Ntx-Q1q-9gVqezp6OdU5-YnXCoJsx-Mz5a__bKfrwYUi51_neL_vhZw2kfMX7PtLXRTpAWSojsK9YLgx8oAV7JMwcP7yrOQDhxfe2F1AHOlfB7n/s640/park-vine_20120317_0049+as+Smart+Object-1.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz dan k./owner operator, park + vine</td></tr>
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Yes, we have a lot of freedoms and conveniences today, but we also have a lot of decisions to make. Fortunately, burgeoning awareness of our relationship to and reliance upon our planet's finite, natural resources has given rise to a new breed of industry, which is intent on helping us in our stewardship. Green industries and technologies have created a nice little symbiosis: we get cool stuff, which helps us keep the planet alive, along with the satisfaction of knowing that we're taking small steps, and they get to employ people, make a few bucks, and the satisfaction of knowing that they've helped us take small steps. A marquee example of this paradigm, is Cincinnati's own Park + Vine. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz foodstuffs!/park + vine</td></tr>
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What was that thing that Twain said about wanting to die in Cincinnati? Sure, it's probably true that eco-friendly stores similar to Park + Vine set up shop in towns like Eugene and Asheville, prior to the Park + Vine opening in Cincinnati, 5 years ago. To me, that just makes this place more special. It's a bastion of uniqueness, floating upon a sea of Targetesque and Walmartian sameness. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz sarah/park + vine</td></tr>
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This eco-epicenter of the region is the brainchild of Dan K., a Cincinnati expatriate who returned home to open the shop, now located in the charming space which once housed Kaldi's coffee shop. The store has quickly become the cornerstone of green, environmentally conscious living: selling eco-friendly house and garden wares, hosting educational forums, and, most recently, offering locally grown and/or organic foods, cafe style.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz a house after my own heart</td></tr>
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When first you step through the front door of Park + Vine, you will quickly realize that you are in for an atypical Cincinnati shopping experience. The space is unbelievably inviting. I felt like meandering for hours on the day of my visit. The vibrant colors of the products, exposed brick walls, and decorative murals, combined with accents such as a beautiful plant/goldfish eco-display, and a sunroom-style children's mini-store, will make you feel like you've entered the winning entry of an eclectic design competition. It's really charming.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz sandy/park + vine</td></tr>
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When you finally stop admiring the space, you'll then be drawn into its unique world of merchandise. Each item seems to tell the story of how it came to be, of how its presence is the response to a problem, which you may not have even known about prior to having held its solution in your hands. You know that new doormat you purchased at the Depot last weekend....the one made from newly manufactured rubber? Yeah, that one. Well Park + Vine has one made from the recycled parts of colorful, discarded flip flops. Someone had that cool idea and they actually followed through on it, and now you can buy one. The list of products and their warm tales of existence is long, but sufficed to say that if you are like me: the type of person who is concerned about, for example, the chemicals we are breathing and often dumping into the water supply when we paint our homes, then Park + Vine has many products you'll be glad to find and purchase. You no longer need to clean your house with poison, people. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz local!/park + vine</td></tr>
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There are times when I imagine our entire world to be a small cluster of cells which are part of a larger organism, and, that on that cluster of cells, we, the human race, are a rapidly spreading virus. It's a grim analogy, but if you look at world growth statistics, you'll know what I mean. The world's population, in 1927, just thirteen years before my parents were born, was 2 billion. Only two generations later, and we have topped 7 billion. Thousands of years to reach 2 billion, and less than one hundred years to more than triple that number. Are fresh air, water, and clean soil magically and mysteriously propagating to match the collective bulge of people we've grown? Nope. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz mushroom garden/flip flop doormats</td></tr>
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So, it's time to do something big, by doing lots of small things. It's the easy way out of this mess. Let's use our muscles to open doors, rather than having machines which open them automatically. Let's ride a bike with a tiny solar cell on our backpack, which we'll use to charge our phone later. Let's grow a little of our own food, and, when we don't use all of it, let's compost. Let's buy reclaimed flooring for our homes, and if it's absolutely necessary to purchase something new, let's make it bamboo (there's a rhyme in that last bit, if you say it just right). Most importantly, let's support places like Park + Vine. Sure, they're trying to make a living, just like everyone, but their mission is noble and they are connecting us to the tiny materials and objects which will lead us to a greater good. Someone's gonna have the next great idea because they've been inspired by this place.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.parkandvine.com/" target="_blank">Park + Vine</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=park+%2B+vine&hl=en&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=46.630055,85.605469&hq=park+%2B+vine&radius=15000&t=m&z=13" target="_blank">Map</a></i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-21028617067429539252012-04-05T20:03:00.000-04:002012-04-05T20:05:04.564-04:00the mercantile library It started with the sun shining through the living room window and onto the back of my head and my shoulders, too...a beautiful, golden light for reading. Hours later, it would be the too-dim-light of a brass lamp which would illuminate the pages, but, still, I would finish it. <i>Phantom of the Opera </i>was the first novel I read cover to cover in one sitting...and I mean one sitting. It got uncomfortable. I remember rising and meandering into the dining room, having turned the final page. I had this feeling I couldn't explain just yet...of being happy and sad, all at once. So lost had I been in that world, that, in returning to the real one, I was like a resistant time traveler being shoved forward. I was eleven. Only moments ago, I had been in the brooding cellars and opera houses of Paris, and now, it was time for dinner in Ohio. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz albert pyle/executive director</td></tr>
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Books transport us to any time or any place to consort with anyone. I can dwell in the late nineteenth century jungles of India with a heroic mongoose named Rikki Tikki Tavi, by opening a book. I can dive for pearls and navigate seas of greed, evil, and sorrow, with a Mexican diver named Kino, by opening a book. I can even take walks with fireman Guy Montag, in a future, book-less society...ironically, by opening a book.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgtwy0w3Y5GGaK0p3xySjPcQpsGYKlEnHuMDI6IRudmHjQtWnBlO0r2PQ3WZ3rO6agXhR-Pt-Tf0GTB5hB0Si9V1Y4hsUMcRDwdhkmA2yP9AiXWj6rs1oKfCUwpnSdmv_7buN2IR5RyXQ/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgtwy0w3Y5GGaK0p3xySjPcQpsGYKlEnHuMDI6IRudmHjQtWnBlO0r2PQ3WZ3rO6agXhR-Pt-Tf0GTB5hB0Si9V1Y4hsUMcRDwdhkmA2yP9AiXWj6rs1oKfCUwpnSdmv_7buN2IR5RyXQ/s640/2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz kazant through krassnoff</td></tr>
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But they are vanishing. Not the words themselves, but the form. We have kindleized them. We have iPadified them. We have books-on-tape-etized and screen adapted them. I'm not sure why. It isn't progress. Listening to a book or even dragging your index finger across a screen to "turn" a page, to me, is like swallowing a pill which will make you believe that you are tasting fresh, ripe strawberries, rather than simply eating fresh, ripe strawberries. Where is that crisp, shuffling sound? Why is there no smooth feeling in my fingertips? Where is the note scrawled in the margin by some other previous, anonymous reader?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1eVYY-jz0FO_f0HCP9lPk7w9vy-S2kp_jvXx8BarN1hMWhaIGGJtWgCtVdjPjKAhyphenhyphen9JvyxYbgIg5tNK6lHr1FaqYUKxfhF2jsHSTJ27C3VKh_SVbUSjz3RV_inC-VVc8arINzlN7SKJZ/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1eVYY-jz0FO_f0HCP9lPk7w9vy-S2kp_jvXx8BarN1hMWhaIGGJtWgCtVdjPjKAhyphenhyphen9JvyxYbgIg5tNK6lHr1FaqYUKxfhF2jsHSTJ27C3VKh_SVbUSjz3RV_inC-VVc8arINzlN7SKJZ/s640/3.jpg" width="456" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz case/mercantile library of cincinnati</td></tr>
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Personally, I have also fallen into time-sucking traps...traps of convenient mindlessness. I have found myself too often poised over the "like" button instead of over pages, where I could have been an explorer of worlds of time and matter. <i>What difference does it make, I ask myself. It's just my free time. How is whether or not I read a book important? </i>The thing is...it is. The more I read, the more I understand triumphs and tragedies outside my own personal experience. Looking down into a book, in a way, makes us look up from ourselves. Books are a looking glass into the common soul of mankind. We get to live other lives through reading. We gain empathy for imagined people so that we can have more compassion for real people. Yet, even with this carrot of self-actualization and enlightenment dangling before my nose, I falter and I opt for easy, and that makes me a problem for the healthy life of books.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz first edition dickens</td></tr>
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Mercifully, the Mercantile Library is a timeless sanctuary for books and the culture of reading and writing. It is a place where "progress" can not interfere with something vital or coerce it into obsolescence, and where this treasure of reading other people's words, which humanity has given itself over millennia, is well preserved in a sort of suspended animation. It is quiet and still and lovely and, prior to a few weeks ago, I had no knowledge of its existence. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz bust in sunlight/shadow</td></tr>
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Founded on April 18th, 1835 (happy birthday library!), by forty-five Cincinnati area merchants and clerks, which included future U.S President, William Henry Harrison, the membership library's collection, originally comprised of approximately 700 donated volumes, is now over 200,000 volumes strong. A proportionately significant number of the works are pertinent to Cincinnati and Ohio. Most of the books circulate. <br />
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The library's heritage also includes rich cultural programs, dating back to its inception. If you have read even a modicum of required, high school literature, you have read works by Mercantile Library lecturers. They include, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Herman Melville, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and, more recently, John Updike and Tom Wolfe. Their stories, their ideas, their examples...they are all etched into the mural of our national consciousness and they are being preserved in their purest form by the Mercantile Library.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz coat rack/mercantile library of cincinnati</td></tr>
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I make this blog because I want to discover, for myself, the people of Cincinnati who are quietly doing beautiful, contemplative things, whose voices may have been lost in the din of loudmouthed, self-aggrandizing people like Simon Leis Jr., Jean Schmidt, Larry Flynt, Jerry Springer, Bill Cunningham, and Marge Schott who, over the years that I have called this city home, have represented the most audible voices of our community's culture...overbearing voices speaking only to be heard. Part of this journey of discovery, for me, is to embrace small changes in my life after I have these quiet, intimate experiences. After having visited this magical, ghostly place, this place which felt like a church that I could attend and understand, this library, I am going to try two things. The first will be to visit the basement of my own home, where most of the books are sleeping. I will pick one up, dust it off, and begin to read it. It will wake up in my very hands, and, I, with it. I may even eat a strawberry. The second will be to pony up the small fee required to become a member of the Mercantile Library. After all, when the next Melville is standing and speaking in that grand room on Walnut Street, I will want to hear what he or she has to softly say.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.mercantilelibrary.com/" target="_blank">Mercantile Library</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=mercantile+library&hl=en&sll=39.103118,-84.51202&sspn=0.179569,0.334396&t=m&z=12" target="_blank">Map</a></i><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-61004929812462371672012-03-29T17:25:00.000-04:002012-03-29T17:25:24.184-04:00lisa k./picnic/melt<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz lisa k.</td></tr>
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It's a wonder that anyone gets a damn thing done. I'm contemplating the number of things that have to go well in order to be able to complete something as small in scope as, for instance, this blog. First, I need an idea. Sometimes it comes from within. Sometimes it doesn't. Next, establish contact with the person or organization. Then there is scheduling, along with batting ideas and requirements around via email. On the day of the photo shoot...well I'm not even going to bore you with the number of things that have to go right to take a decent photograph. Lastly, the words have to come and the quadrillion things required to make the world wide web function all have to be in place. All of that, for me and the wonderful people I feature here, to be able to put this in front of you.</div>
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So then, let's imagine what it must take to have an idea for not one, but two successful businesses, both of which are leading edge, unique, and mission driven, both of which provide jobs to people who seem very happy to be working. There must be thousands of variables and I'm sure that a lot of them shift each day: a myriad of tiny on/off switches which need to be dynamically managed from behind the curtain. It can't be done well by a lone person. It takes a team of like minds. Lisa K., owner/operator of micro-market <i>Picnic and Pantry</i>, as well as restaurant <i>Melt</i> knew this long before I did. Teamwork and idea sharing are the cornerstones for both of the thriving, Northside businesses. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz teamwork</td></tr>
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"Sometimes people ask me how I do it, " she tells me. "I don't. <i>We</i> do it." In fact, I heard that word a lot in my conversation with Lisa...<i>we</i>. There's a lot of power in it: <i>(your resourcefulness)(x), where x = the number of people you allow in the circle</i>. As a person who tends towards diving solo and surfacing for air not nearly often enough, it was really wonderful for me to receive this message and to see with my own eyes how well it works. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz teamwork<br />
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Both of the businesses, now considered staples, not only by Northside locals, but also by the scores of Cincinnatians who patronize them as destinations, were born of Lisa's desire to commune and to evolve. "In past jobs, when I was working for other people, I didn't really feel like they were listening to their employees or their customers. So, I knew that I wanted to change that." Her goal is to have as comprehensive an understanding of her businesses as possible, and she encourages her coworkers to do the same. "The idea is for each person to plug themselves into as many corners of the businesses as they can." Everyone is encouraged to see opportunities for change. Everyone is encouraged to speak and to listen. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz teamwork</td></tr>
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This philosophy must, in part, be responsible for the evident satisfaction and happiness of the people working in her businesses. There's a lot of smiling going on. </div>
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<i> Melt Eclectic Deli</i>, opened Nov 23, 2005, at 1:30 PM, amidst sarcastic jeers of "good luck" from locals who were used to seeing many efforts to open new shops and restaurants in the Northside business district fail. The premise was simple, to provide vegetarian and vegan friendly, whole, unprocessed foods to the community...to fill our bellies with awesome, wholesome goodness, and, to position food as an entry point into a greater dialog about our responsibilities as people on earth. </div>
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<i>Melt</i> quickly became more than a restaurant: it became a community hub where people began to hear words like <i>sustainability, local, organic, and green. </i>Patrons learned these ideas by way of example and took them home, incorporating them into their own lives, into their own businesses. These shoots and sprouts, these tiny propagating efforts, collectively, help mend some of the things we have broken in our world. They also give rise to other ideas, like bike cooperatives and weekly, local farmer's markets. For me, personally, I can't visit a business which puts the environment and the local economy at the top of its priority list, without wanting to make changes in the way I conduct myself after I walk out the door. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz teamwork</td></tr>
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<i>Picnic and Pantry</i>, in turn, was born of the success of <i>Melt.</i> It's actually an extension of its predecessor, and was conceived by Lisa and her band of creative cohorts as a solution to two problems. They needed more kitchen space and a way to buy greater quantities of supplies at a cheaper cost. No one wanted to relocate, because they loved the space. So, the decision was made to open a second space two doors down and to utilize it as a public extension of <i>Melt's </i>kitchen. <i>Picnic and Pantry</i> would sell the ingredients used in <i>Melt's </i>menu and offer new concoctions, as well. Two birds, one stone. At <i>Picnic, </i>you can buy ingredients for your own kitchen or delicious and unique dishes prepared by the staff. You can even graze the hot food and salad bar, and have a seat outside in the courtyard to eat it. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz teamwork</td></tr>
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What's next for this enterprising crew of system-buckers and paradigm-shifters? Let's say that you should keep your eyes peeled for a local food periodical. They'll also be figuring out a way to grow their own food for use in the businesses. A lot of the employees are already doing it in their own lives, and it's just a matter of time before <i>Melt and Picnic </i>have productive gardens of their own. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz teamwork</td></tr>
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As for me, just last week, a few scant days after my time with Lisa and the gang, I bought some cedar and built a raised vegetable bed for our own yard. Tiny shoots and sprouts.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.meltcincy.com/" target="_blank">Melt Eclectic Deli</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Melt+Eclectic+Deli,+Hamilton+Avenue,+Cincinnati,+OH&hl=en&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=46.630055,85.605469&oq=melt+ecl&hq=Melt+Eclectic+Deli,+Hamilton+Avenue,+Cincinnati,+OH&t=m&z=15" target="_blank">Map</a></i><br />
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<i><a href="http://www.picnicandpantry.com/" target="_blank">Picnic and Pantry</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=picnic+and+pantry&hl=en&sll=39.162516,-84.539833&sspn=0.022427,0.0418&hq=picnic+and+pantry&t=m&z=15" target="_blank">Map</a></i><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-72328833526701165972012-03-15T19:14:00.000-04:002012-03-16T09:50:56.180-04:00clifton natural foods<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz sunshine/clifton natural foods</td></tr>
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I've been paying attention. It started out with a documentary called Food Inc. Next, there was a serious illness in my immediately family, in someone whom I love dearly. Lastly, there are the commercials. The flippin' commercials. Lately, I've been paying attention to what I put in my body and to how I'm TOLD to feed my body in contemporary American culture. For instance, the mass marketing for conventional, homogenized milk, procured using artificial bovine growth hormones, would have you believe that if you are not purchasing their product and pouring it directly from the bottle into your child's mouth, by the gallon, that you are, ostensibly, committing an act of child abuse...that your child will not grow up to be big and strong. In fact, quite the opposite is true. They don't bother to tell you about the girls who have entered puberty a year or two early from consuming hormone laden milk. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hopefully, you already recognize this as broccoli</td></tr>
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I could prattle, ad nauseum, about how incredibly broken our food supply chain is: about soils, laced with toxic heavy metals and chemical contaminants, which have been depleted of almost all of their nutritive value, about water taken from municipal water sources and then marketed and sold as "spring water" or "purified water," about the deplorable practices of corporate animal farming. But, I don't want to spend too much time talking about what's wrong. Instead, I prefer to tell you about something that's right, because, really, as long as you have a solution, the problem can go away on its own.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz heather/clifton natural foods</td></tr>
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There is a remedy. You have a choice. You are lucky enough to live in a town which even offers a locally owned option. Clifton Natural Foods has been in business for about 30 years, and if you'd like to get in touch with treating your body well by way of feeding it well, I'd suggest a visit. I had a chance to visit the store recently, to make some photos and have a chat with my pal, Sunshine and even her co-worker Heather. Either of them, or any of the other laid back, kind, and helpful employees at CNF will be happy to get you on the way to understanding the basics of food, nutrition, and even medicinal herbs. It's a cool place. Some have even called it "super chill." I'm not saying who it is, but her name rhymes with funshine. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">steel cut oats! in a cool can!</td></tr>
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Clifton Natural Foods, started out on Ludlow Ave., in Clifton, way back in the eighties. If you've ever eaten at Amol India, you've been in the building. One day, while a young woman named Aline was working in the store, a customer walked in. His name was Bob. It's funny how the biggest moments of our lives begin from nothing. Bob didn't know it at the time, but Aline, the young woman behind the counter, would become his wife and the two of them, together, would purchase the store from the owners at the time. <br />
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Bob and Aline, moved the business from the Gaslight to Corryville, but they kept the fundamentals consistent: provide products which are good for people's health, along with a lot of useful information. The culture of the store is grassroots, through and through, imparted in the lifestyle and dedication of its owners to the happy employees. "We don't have a fax machine. We don't have a computer," Sunshine told me. "If growers or suppliers want to talk to us, they pretty much have to come here." CNF is an intimate, laid back place, with a personable and friendly atmosphere, that will make you feel like you're at an old-timey grocery. It's a pretty wonderful experience shopping there, and it must be an equally wonderful place to work, because, according to Sunshine, no one ever leaves. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mmm...spritzer</td></tr>
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There is an axiom which says something like <i>don't eat anything that your grandmother wouldn't recognize as food</i>. It's my wish that each of us visit one of the countless, generic convenience stores or supermarkets littering the horizons of our communities, and to have a walk through using our grandmother's eyes. What would she discount after reading a label? What would she discount based upon appearance alone?<br />
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The fact that we've been brainwashed (let's call it what it is) by corporations into believing things about their products and how they will impact our bodies and our long term health, would be really overwhelming if the answer weren't so ridiculously easy. You have the information at your fingertips and you have an alternative. You just need to make a little time in your life for it. You need to sacrifice a little bit of convenience. So what? <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz sunshine/clifton natural foods</td></tr>
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That person I mentioned earlier...the one whom I love so dearly...she told me that food is our own gift to ourselves. The more I read, the more I study, the more I think for myself, the more I realize that she is right. Bob, Aline, Heather, Sunshine, and all of the other good people who make Clifton Natural Foods such a special place...they've known this for decades. They are there to help us with this paradigm shift. So, the next time you're headed out to the place that sounds like <i>ogre</i> or the place that sounds like <i>united larry charmers</i> to get your food, go ahead and fuel up your car with their gasoline, but maybe think twice about fueling up your body there. Instead take a little trip to the old-timey grocery with the good food and the super nice people.<br />
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<i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Clifton-Natural-Foods/157427400947561" target="_blank">Clifton Natural Foods, Facebook</a></i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-61044036467426945712012-03-08T19:06:00.001-05:002012-03-08T22:52:12.680-05:00wes c.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjrMN2zv_AuUu1gFxnPSlBwUIDKxqItcH3I-ODqP8YJ1gSyvUtMYPmKphUPKLh6_WTqgzlSAHGU4x4Lvby36OJq-J5yaSO0arsMnTXx6oml2z-UV_lhCHaHaGXeC1kYNcLkCmo151P-5_/s1600/wes-cowan_0015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjrMN2zv_AuUu1gFxnPSlBwUIDKxqItcH3I-ODqP8YJ1gSyvUtMYPmKphUPKLh6_WTqgzlSAHGU4x4Lvby36OJq-J5yaSO0arsMnTXx6oml2z-UV_lhCHaHaGXeC1kYNcLkCmo151P-5_/s640/wes-cowan_0015.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz wes c./cowan's auctions</td></tr>
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One day, with an email, you cold-call a person who could very easily be considered a celebrity. You ask if he would be willing to appear in your blog. He has never met you, heard of you, seen your photographs, or read your writing, and yet, you are asking. The nerve of you. Much to your delight, a scant few hours later, you receive a gracious reply which includes a phone number. You call. He answers. Moments later, you have firm plans for a photo shoot. You hang up and think, <i>this guy is really cool for doing this.</i> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz antique statue/cowan's auctions</td></tr>
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You are already a fan of all things PBS. Wes C., your subject, stars in <i>History Detectives</i>, a nationally televised program, now preparing its 10th season on PBS. He is also a frequent appraiser and historian on <i>Antiques Roadshow</i>. These are two of your favorite programs. You are happy but nervous about this assignment. You realize that Wes is a very busy person and you don't want to absorb a lot of his time on a day when he is already hosting an event at Cowan's Auctions, the internationally acclaimed antiques auction house in Carthage, which he built from the ground up. So, rather than planning on asking a lot of hurried, naive sounding questions, instead, you read. You research.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-cnjWo20jJZbzotM8ANEr31M1m-TIYXg2lOzdtjWmRh-f0ZL6ArqF5v7e3ytYg3fEKZl-AhnLMVj3Y69-YNe3cSsPCA3UM6X5yJ2brHXIo6ph2UDOYXe9atXvQYJzN6XJegiJZZbzZgB/s1600/clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-cnjWo20jJZbzotM8ANEr31M1m-TIYXg2lOzdtjWmRh-f0ZL6ArqF5v7e3ytYg3fEKZl-AhnLMVj3Y69-YNe3cSsPCA3UM6X5yJ2brHXIo6ph2UDOYXe9atXvQYJzN6XJegiJZZbzZgB/s640/clock.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz antique clock detail/cowan's auctions</td></tr>
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You learn that Wes grew up in Louisville, Kentucky and that at a very young age, he decided to pursue archaeology, having become fascinated with Native American artifacts discovered on his grandparents' farm. You recall your own meanderings on your family's farm in Wooster: the feel and shape of strange, iron tools hanging from old barn walls, the rows of steel cans with half-peeled labels, the hand pump which brought water up from somewhere, the way the sun lit the dancing dust in the spaces between the barn slats. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz antique music box detail/cowan's auctions</td></tr>
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You learn also, that, soon, Wes would begin to join archaeologists from the University of Kentucky, on excavations. He was 15 years old. He would eventually attend UK and earn a B.A and an M.A in anthropology. A Ph.D. from the University of Michigan would follow. <i>At 15, YOU were playing Galaga and wondering when are these damn braces are going to come off, </i>you think. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qVcuY5DMjueYLsuY-JPqMDUzYR4eSCVuJslcb_6MU62_fgNLzSAvnperM0w12KvmN5O6zmFJmZH4msOB2UakOmFg87Js3lWYcpRNdWET2ulAbpA5vjirGURg2_uWUBCSYyLmyN2OEm4a/s1600/soldier-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qVcuY5DMjueYLsuY-JPqMDUzYR4eSCVuJslcb_6MU62_fgNLzSAvnperM0w12KvmN5O6zmFJmZH4msOB2UakOmFg87Js3lWYcpRNdWET2ulAbpA5vjirGURg2_uWUBCSYyLmyN2OEm4a/s640/soldier-1.jpg" width="454" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz antique statuette/cowan's auctions</td></tr>
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You learn that eventually, Wes would become the curator of archaeology at the Natural History Museum of Cincinnati, a position he would hold for 12 years. You pause for a moment to contemplate the beauty of the museum's current location, Union Terminal, and you think about how lucky we are to have such a place in our town. You took a beautiful <a href="http://broadcastphoto.blogspot.com/2011/11/union-terminal.html" target="_blank">photo</a> there one day...of a girl climbing a rope to the ceiling. You imagine that Wes is a seminal figure on the landscape of that organization: just one of his many noteworthy accomplishments.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz antique desk/cowan's auctions</td></tr>
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Most fascinating to you is the fact that Wes would turn a love of 19th century photography into the catalyst for building his now thriving antiques business. He would start a small mail order company featuring this medium. He would also, concurrently, expand his own collection, and, eventually, would be able to sell part of it with enough profit to fund his own space. You are a photographer at heart, and, even though you hadn't known it at the time, you wonder if this mutual passion is, in part, what has drawn you here.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz antique statuette/cowan's auctions</td></tr>
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You arrive at Cowan's, two hours before the day's auction is scheduled to begin. It's huge, and there are already dozens of cars in the parking lot, and scores of people buzzing about the place. You open your mind to the possibility that this just isn't going to happen today. He's going to be swamped. You walk onto the auction floor. He is standing there and meets your eye. Before you can move, he has crossed the floor with an outstretched hand and a huge smile on his face.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz antique mosaic/cowan's auctions</td></tr>
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Wes shows you around the place and asks you to pick a spot for the photographs. It's going to happen. He hasn't forgotten. He's going to take the time for you. That smile was real. You pick a corner where there seem to be fewer people. There's a particularly lovely, colorful painting there. Wes asks<i>, is it ok if I grab a quick bite to eat before we do this. Of course,</i> you say. You smile inside. You prop a light on a stand.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz wes c./cowan's auctions</td></tr>
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With the few moments you have while he enjoys a bite to eat, you wander and look at beautiful, lustrous objects. Seeing these things, you understand his passion. You don't know the first thing about most of these relics, but they are alluring and seem to breathe a little. <i>Imagine being able to couple this aesthetic with the history of the objects...with the stories of their lives, </i>you think. You wonder what your generation is leaving behind which might be wrapped in this kind of mystical splendor. What will people, generations from now, be able to hold in their hands which came from us? What will represent us in their imaginations? You hope that it's at least something. <br />
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Soon, Wes is finished eating. He stands in front of the pretty painting. He smiles. Snap. <i>This guy is really cool for doing this.</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.cowanauctions.com/" target="_blank"><i>Cowan's Auctions</i></a><br />
<a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=cowan's+auctions,+cincinnati&hl=en&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=46.630055,78.486328&hq=cowan's+auctions,&hnear=Cincinnati,+Hamilton,+Ohio&t=m&z=11" target="_blank"><i>Map</i></a><br />
<i><u><a href="http://www.pbs.org/opb/historydetectives/" target="_blank">History Detectives</a></u></i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-88456067427943459972012-03-01T18:48:00.000-05:002012-03-02T13:08:18.049-05:003 legged dog yoga collective<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Three is a magic number.</i></div>
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<i>Yes it is. It's a magic number.</i></div>
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<i>Somewhere in the ancient mystic trinity,</i></div>
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<i>You get three, as a magic number.</i></div>
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<i>--schoolhouse rocks--</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz bunny</td></tr>
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When you first meet Bunny, the resident canine and elder stateswoman of 3 Legged Dog Yoga Collective, in Northside, you may scarcely notice that she is different from most dogs. You'll be gently coaxing your hips just a little deeper into pigeon pose. As you turn your head towards the front window of the charming and peaceful Hamiltion Ave. location, she will meet your gaze and you will hear the gentle thwap of her tail against the floor. Then, you will notice that there is a shape missing from Bunny. Where most dogs have four of something, she has only three. Bunny has spent nearly half of her life in this way, having lost one of her front limbs to cancer. But, four minus one is three, and that's a magic number. Yes it is.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz i love you/i love you too</td></tr>
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The serendipitous part of Bunny's "tail", is that, in addition to being one of the sweetest pooches around, her person in life, is Ms. Donna Jay R. Donna is not the type of person who lets a friend struggle without helping, so, she did all of the right things for her sick pal, and, Bunny is still here, some five years later, at the ripe old age of twelve. And now, because love and tenacity pulled Bunny through that dreadful disease, when the students in one of Donna's classes raise one leg and glide from Downward Facing Dog into 3-Legged Dog, they are in the company of the real deal. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz donna jay</td></tr>
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Donna Jay began a life which would be devoted to motion, fluidity, and the wellness of other people, as a young dancer, in California. Born in Pittsburgh, she would eventually call Cincinnati home, but only after vacillating between Ohio and California several times. Her canine cohort entered the scene during one of the westerly phases of her life, when one day Donna felt compelled to rescue Bunny from a presumed drug dealer. How like her. Since that fateful day, the two have been inseparable, Bunny at Donna's side on the long journeys from the west to midwest and back again, and, on the short journeys from home to yoga studio. After all, that's the meaning of faithfulness, isn't it: being present on the long journeys as well as the short ones? </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> photo by steve metz donna jay</td></tr>
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Four years ago, Donna made the decision to let her roots inch their way a bit deeper into Cincinnati soil by opening 3 Legged Dog, in the former location of hair salon, the Northside Chop Shop. Being a yoga collective, the studio now offers a variety of styles taught by several different instructors, all of whom pay a monthly rental fee for their time in the space: a very communal way of running a shop.</div>
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I myself have stood at the top of my mat in the cozy and welcoming place. I have closed my eyes and listened to my own breath. I have paid attention to the vital parts of me which are so often overlooked, drowned in the noise of the daily, conscious mind. <i>There is something so peaceful about this place, about these others around me, about this unassuming pooch napping by the front door</i>. I have had these thoughts in that very space. The experience brings us back to small things that matter from the depths of large things which don't. The light from the front windows of our homes, the sounds of our loved ones breathing while they sleep, the music that a creaking tree makes in the night: these are all things that we should notice, but often fail to. Yet yoga in a meaningful place, opens our eyes, by stripping away some of the falsities which obstruct our vision.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz bunny</td></tr>
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But for Donna, and those precious few of her mindset and spirit, the intent is to extend the benefits of practice far beyond the self, the family, and the immediate community: it is to provide a ripple effect of nurturing. In addition to her studio classes, she regularly offers after-school programs at Winton Montessori and SCPA, and has even taught children as young as nursery-school. Even after having borne these gifts into the community, she's looking for more ways to connect. She will also soon be making yet another journey out west to attend a series of workshops on how to offer the benefits of a yoga practice to the underserved. How like her. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz donna jay</td></tr>
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<i> As long as there is suffering. As long as there is a way to serve. </i>These are the principles which daily guide Donna. These are the phrases she uttered to me in the quiet solitude of her studio during our time together, with Bunny. These simple principles are the reason that there is a three-legged dog in a place called 3 Legged Dog. These are simple, actionable ideas, accessible to everyone. It begins at the top of the mat, with a deep breath. <br />
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<i><a href="http://3leggeddogyoga.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">3 Legged Dog Yoga Collective</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=3+legged+dog+yoga+cincinnati&hl=en&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=46.630055,78.486328&hq=3+legged+dog+yoga&hnear=Cincinnati,+Hamilton,+Ohio&t=m&z=12" target="_blank">Map</a></i><br />
<i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2cjiP1mh48&feature=related" target="_blank">3 is a Magic Number</a></i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-58453008967683543102012-02-23T18:58:00.000-05:002012-05-20T00:13:02.421-04:00dusmesh india restaurant, feb 23<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of the things I love most about doing this blog is that the path for each story is totally unknown to me, until it unfurls itself like a vibrant cloth, in front of my eyes. Today, I thought that I would be telling you about a restaurant, which has the most wonderful food I've ever tasted, but instead, I will be recounting a true story of love, sacrifice, and selflessness, and, of a union, the strength of which, can not be measured. <br />
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The beautiful, beaming face you see above, belongs to Dee. If you have eaten at Dusmesh India Restaurant, on Ludlow Ave., you may have met, or at least seen Dee, or, one of her two children, Maya and A.J. If you've eaten there more than a few times, chances are that all three of them have memorized your name, as well as your favorite order. The mindbogglingly delicious food, which I've already mentioned, is the inspired work of their father, Mahabir, the head chef, and his smiling kitchen staff. </div>
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The story of their journey to Cincinnati, Ohio, U.S.A., begins more than twenty years ago in northern India, where Dee, the woman who always has a smile for everyone she sees, the woman who walks you to your table and who brings you water, was a practicing physician. Dr. Dee. Mahabir, her husband, was a farmer. The children were new to this world. The family form had taken shape, but the future was uncertain. <br />
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Dee and Mahabir were typical of any good parents in that they wanted greater opportunities for their children. Their willingness to radically change their own lives in order to make this hope a reality, is where they truly set themselves apart. <br />
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In 1985, Dee would board a plane, by herself. She would leave behind her career, culture and language. She would leave behind her husband, son, and daughter. She would leave behind her parents, her extended family, and most of her worldly possessions. It would be fourteen years before she would have a life which would include daily contact with her nuclear family. Dee got on a plane one day, bound to parts unknown, to a place named San Francisco. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZIUYo-MiFNdY1IePbk4_TkhurL4AGyHj4_38-wlM8XK1oOtTpbWJ0h4pVp45W4_6B4a_4rSr1T2IJDLDHtiane3X4_xKXf5_mWZm2HEWq4Y-rDkBhRyQSCfXhLDdVq8TP1WtvPuW-NP2U/s1600/hands-blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZIUYo-MiFNdY1IePbk4_TkhurL4AGyHj4_38-wlM8XK1oOtTpbWJ0h4pVp45W4_6B4a_4rSr1T2IJDLDHtiane3X4_xKXf5_mWZm2HEWq4Y-rDkBhRyQSCfXhLDdVq8TP1WtvPuW-NP2U/s320/hands-blog.jpg" width="320" /></a> The plan was for Dee to travel to America to lay the foundation for a new life for her family. Her career as a physician would pave the way. At least that was the idea. But, as so often happens, a smooth and simple plan was introduced to a harsh, complex reality. It became much more difficult than anticipated for Dee to transfer her Indian medical credentials, to become a practicing physician here in the United States. </div>
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Imagine for a moment, that it's you. You have arrived at a place in which everything is utterly foreign. You are alone. You are tasked with finding a permanent place to live, a temporary job to sustain yourself while you trustingly reach for a way to transfer your career to this foreign culture with its foreign methods. You are tasked with learning a new language, a new city, a new form of government, a new way of interacting with people, new roads, new light sockets, new fruits, new vegetables, new household supplies, new ways of dressing, new idioms, new public transit, new banks, new beds...absolutely everything you knew is gone. Now, imagine, also, that the backbone of your plan has fractured. What would you do? <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz Maya</td></tr>
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Meanwhile, your husband is thousands of miles away. He is toiling in the fields to provide food and shelter for your two small children. They are so small that, at some point, they might even become confused as to whether the woman who is helping to take care of them while you are away is their mother or their grandmother. Soon, they will begin school. They will develop personalities, idiosyncrasies, and manners of speech. Their faces will change. Their feet and hands will grow. Will they recognize you when you are able to visit? Will you recognize them? Will they like you? What would you do with these thoughts, with these obstacles, these fears? What would Dee do? Would she acquiesce and return home to India, fating her family to less than she and Mahabir wanted for them? <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFRfRHcA0xu0lbfLk3Fgkq3KZncqGYm3cCrBawdBtWV96PDcUqrEvLK_5ZNaIg7hJZqppByikzULXt1mRORU6TsWvGgmou_HSkxLW6B3RSPynURdHvZ8NYxymXGM1zB73hejAHsOsK5LH/s1600/saag-blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFRfRHcA0xu0lbfLk3Fgkq3KZncqGYm3cCrBawdBtWV96PDcUqrEvLK_5ZNaIg7hJZqppByikzULXt1mRORU6TsWvGgmou_HSkxLW6B3RSPynURdHvZ8NYxymXGM1zB73hejAHsOsK5LH/s320/saag-blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz saag mushroom</td></tr>
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No, she would not. Instead, she would do what all those who achieve greatness do. She would fight. She would find an alternative. She would find a way. Dee decided that the next best thing to being able to resume her medical practice in the United States, was to become a nurse. For a person who is a true mother, this is not shocking, or even questionable. After all, nurturing is nurturing. The vessel by which care is delivered, is irrelevant. Until 1999, Dee would provide care to others by nursing them through illness, stashing away as much money as she could, a bit at a time, until, finally, at long last, her family was able to join her. The children, so small when she had left, were now teenagers.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz Mahabir, in blue stripes, and the kitchen staff</td></tr>
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I have tried to imagine their first night together, in San Francisco: the first night living together as a family, under one roof, after what must have seemed a countless number of years. I imagine tears of happiness and laughter. I imagine some fear and uncertainty, too. They could not have known what the future held at the time, any more than Dee could have known it when she stepped onto that airplane so many years ago. They could not have known how difficult the first day of school would be for Maya and A.J., who didn't understand a word of English. They could not have known that it would become difficult for Mahabir to find work in America and that he, too, would eventually embark upon a solitary journey of his own, to a place called Ohio, where he would work as a dishwasher while his family remained in California. They could not have known that, by way of this experience, Mahabir would discover in himself, a great gift for cooking and that this gift, along with the hard work and dedication of his wife and children, would allow them to, at long last, realize their family dream, some twenty years in the making. <br />
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It would be in the form of their own restaurant, a business they would build from the ground up, using the same tenacity and sense of purpose, which had served them so well for so long. It would grow from being a well kept secret, frequented by a handful of lucky customers, into a bustling, community hub, which would be packed with happy customers seven days a week. This success would come from the high quality of the product served, but even more so from the high quality of the people who provide it. They would name it Dusmesh, which, loosely, means "Ten God," in their Sikh faith, in honor of their family heritage. It would be on a road named Ludlow, in a place called Cincinnati. <br />
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<i>You can visit Dusmesh India restaurant seven days per week. They are open for lunch and dinner. Lunch features the greatest buffet in the world, which includes many vegetarian options. :)</i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="pp-place-title" style="font-size: 20px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1em; margin-bottom: 2px; margin-top: 2px;">Dusmesh Indian Restaurant</span></span></i><br />
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<i><span class="pp-headline-item pp-headline-address" dir="ltr" style="display: inline; margin-bottom: 1px;">944 Ludlow Avenue, Cincinnati, OH 45220</span></i><br />
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<span class="pp-headline-item pp-headline-phone" style="display: block;"><span class="telephone" dir="ltr"><nobr>(513) 221-8900</nobr> </span></span></i><br />
<i><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=dusmesh+india+restaurant+cincinnati&hl=en&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=46.630055,78.486328&hq=dusmesh+india+restaurant&hnear=Cincinnati,+Hamilton,+Ohio&t=m&z=12" target="_blank">Map</a></i><br />
<i>Hours: </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px;"><i>Lunch Buffet - Monday - Friday 11:00 - 2:30; Saturday & Sunday11:00 - 3:00; Daily Dinner Hours 3:00 - 10:00</i></span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-69884640829592598042012-02-16T19:00:00.000-05:002012-02-17T08:09:23.071-05:00the freestore foodbank, cincinnati cooks!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz Cincinnati Cooks! Student</td></tr>
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Some things can just be kept simple. Some things are so elemental that we needn't overcomplicate them with our opinions, our politics, or biases, or our religions. One such thing is the requirement that every man, woman, and child on earth should have the opportunity to nourish his or her body with food and clean water. If you are reading this, you are, most likely, seated in a comfortable, sheltered environment, with access to electricity, clean water, and sanitary disposal of waste. You have probably also eaten today and you won't have to question whether or not you'll eat tomorrow. I'm one of you. We're the fortunate and we're in the minority. In a true world view, WE are the 1%.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chopping Skills at Cincinnati Cooks!</td></tr>
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When we hear about hunger, the first impulse is to the let the mind wander across great expanses of ocean, sand, and brush, and to imagine people living in places whose names we can't pronounce, speaking languages, which, to us, sound as though they are comprised of things which are not words. This gives us separation. This gives them an "otherness" quality. This makes them too foreign, too far, too difficult to help. </div>
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Perhaps, then if the task of wrapping our minds and our hearts around the problem of hunger, in people who are oceans and deserts away from our wireless access points, is too stultifying, then, we should look only around the corner, down the block, up the highway, or across the river.</div>
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I'm guessing that most of us rarely think about the daily struggle of people who are truly in need. We might casually click "like" next to a status update containing some profundity or another about poverty, homelessness, or unemployment. I'm likely to even get some "great article" comments on this post. But, what will you actually do? What will I do? How can I change so that I might help others whom I don't even know? We may not dwell upon these things at present, but we can start to. One thing which I know will help, is to become inspired by others who are already doing it.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Steve Metz John: President/CEO of the Freestore Foodbank</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cincinnati Cooks! Student</td></tr>
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There is a wonderful organization, full of dedicated, soulful people who wake up every day with a purpose in their hearts. We're very lucky that we have them. It's the Freestore Foodbank. Their mission statement says it better than anything I could possibly say. <i>We provide food and services, create stability, and further self-reliance for people in crisis.</i> <br />
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Last year, the Customer Connections Division and the Foodbank Division of the Freestore, combined to serve almost 19 million meals in the Cincinnati area. That's 19 million meals, which did not come from anyone else, which were eaten by people who simply needed food. The Customer Connections Division alone, fed over 160,000 individuals from its downtown Cincinnati location. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cincinnati Cooks! Student</td></tr>
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The Freestore Foodbank welcomed me, as it welcomes everyone, like a family member, to its Central Parkway offices, where I visited the <i>Cincinnati Cooks!</i> operation, to snap some photos and speak with a few people. <i>Cincinnati Cooks!</i> is a free training program, provided by the Freestore, for at risk adults. It prepares participants for employment in the food industry in and around our city. The program includes job placement assistance, career coaching, and mentoring. The majority of students arrive without work, and leave having a new job and the prospect for a productive career. Some of the students have even come back to the Freestore to help run the program, after having first spent some time in the field. See Marcus, below, for example. <br />
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"Food is the entry point into people's lives for our organization," John Y., President/CEO of the Freestore Foodbank told me. "It's a bridge. It helps us find out what other tools they may need to become self-sufficient." The Freestore not only feeds its customers, it also helps them locate other social services: vital resources on the path towards reconstruction and independence, which is always the Freestore's goal. Incidentally, I'd like to tell you that the smile in John's portrait, above, is absolutely genuine. There was a rich, warm, and shared type of caring in the place: a genuine sense of happy pride that comes from selfless accomplishment, exuded by all, but none more so than John. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz Stove at Cincinnati Cooks!</td></tr>
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As I left the facility that day, I thought about the fact that I, as a 44 year old man, have never had to experience true hunger. I began to wonder how many small, wrong turns I might have been away from a much less fortunate life, or, might even still be. There are a million different ways for a life to fall apart: a drinking problem, recovery form which comes just a little too late, the unexpected loss of a spouse, or worse a child, the onset of an unexpected disease at exactly the wrong time, a broken heart. Anything unexpected is a possible entry point into a time of need. What if my life was the one from the mission statement...the life in crisis? How thankful I would be for people just like those who had welcomed me that day.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marcus: Sous Chef, Cincinnati Cooks!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOY_NwRRhcwB9Pn6UJCrNLtG9m6remE9S3yWD2An7nrz1Wxi9OlAVcO9ylQAsqAzTuDVMsmK9WS2pq9y1Q78_qTS711NKvYoMWUjYutSovLwDg9YcnQrxlKNOkEZF5o_Xrs6XeMs2DgFtb/s1600/Chef-1331.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOY_NwRRhcwB9Pn6UJCrNLtG9m6remE9S3yWD2An7nrz1Wxi9OlAVcO9ylQAsqAzTuDVMsmK9WS2pq9y1Q78_qTS711NKvYoMWUjYutSovLwDg9YcnQrxlKNOkEZF5o_Xrs6XeMs2DgFtb/s400/Chef-1331.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fernando: Master Chef/Trainer</td></tr>
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What is it that makes us human? To me, it is brother-and-sister-hood. It is about having an understanding that I am a being who makes choices, which impact not only myself, but my loved ones, my community, and my earth. It is about understanding that when one of us suffers, we all suffer, and, when one of us rises from suffering, to thrive, we all thrive. So, maybe if you and I make small changes in our lives, we can gradually extend our vision to include more and more of our brothers and sisters. Let's start with our neighbors. Maybe, if we do this for long enough and with enough purity of heart and goodwill towards others, this vision will extend across the oceans, sand, and brush, which now seem like juggernauts. I know that I'm going to be trying.<br />
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Freestore Foodbank: <a href="http://www.freestorefoodbank.org/" target="_blank">web</a><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-69040712945521508832012-02-09T19:00:00.001-05:002012-02-09T19:06:26.297-05:00ria: aka, d.j. mowgliRia has over ten thousand record albums. That's more than one for each and every man, woman, and child in the town where I spent my childhood. He has been gathering and assembling them, like threads of an elaborate and vibrant tapestry, since he was a kid. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz ria</td></tr>
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Both of Ria's parents are Bengali. Bangladesh is a South Asian nation, bordered almost entirely by India, except for a small portion which is bordered by the Republic of the Union of Myanmar, also known as Burma. Ria's parents moved from Bangladesh, to Scotland. From Scotland to Newfoundland. From Newfoundland to Ottowa. From Ottowa to Baltimore. From Baltimore to Dallas. From Dallas to Cincinnati. <br />
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Ria was born in Texas.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz mr. bubble</td></tr>
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Bengali is still spoken in Ria's nuclear family. Ria has visited Bangladesh many times in his life. His entire extended family still lives there, where they practice Islam. Ria is an atheist, but has joined his family on a pilgrimage to Mecca. He also joins them in prayer, out of respect for their religion and traditions.<br />
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I would like to know how to say "the twisty moustache man," in Bengali.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCK5OuW5u0cUemUiMKh_isyr_Iou3E4YD1-M24tC1Dq7XcCh8091H6Vxil6Kzwd45omjGBwlLns2oKp4fd5kLeyR1BumOklFm9IOEmgvR6dMurK_DghMVxNai48q6IkplcgPOBDQrsYYU/s1600/20120204-DSC_1722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCK5OuW5u0cUemUiMKh_isyr_Iou3E4YD1-M24tC1Dq7XcCh8091H6Vxil6Kzwd45omjGBwlLns2oKp4fd5kLeyR1BumOklFm9IOEmgvR6dMurK_DghMVxNai48q6IkplcgPOBDQrsYYU/s640/20120204-DSC_1722.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz the twisty moustache man</td></tr>
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His father is an avid Rudyard Kipling reader and began calling Ria <i>Mowgli</i> when he was just a boy. His father also introduced him to an eclectic array of musical styles, including traditional Bengali music, jazz, and artists like Stevie Wonder. <br />
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Ria learned to play the violin. Then, the drums. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz goldfinger</td></tr>
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Ria devoured music, floating from genre to genre. Like a pollenating bee, he carried a little bit of each style forward and impregnated the next with that which he had learned from the previous, much as his parents had traveled from culture to culture, country to country, town to town, assimilating, morphing, but still, somehow faithful to some unarticulated force at the center.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz happy death man</td></tr>
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Ria worked in record stores. He made money, then he bought records. He made a little more, he bought a few more: on and on, a cycle of hunger and feeding, as perfect as the circle of a spinning platter.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7xZzn2kAUvzCbTQU-2af746m2daJfTzgD1Kc_n6h-RYG3RPomEXgbBd6kSF8UUuBWc2VbJzngJAQ593dmOXaeNbtDlAwcDAXgUYR36Yic_RSABnLvKVEzECUcFD05_CYcRDhInxrh9PZ/s1600/20120204-DSC_1804.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="457" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7xZzn2kAUvzCbTQU-2af746m2daJfTzgD1Kc_n6h-RYG3RPomEXgbBd6kSF8UUuBWc2VbJzngJAQ593dmOXaeNbtDlAwcDAXgUYR36Yic_RSABnLvKVEzECUcFD05_CYcRDhInxrh9PZ/s640/20120204-DSC_1804.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz the red-plate special</td></tr>
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Now, with those ten thousand platters at his disposal, and with the heritage of traditional Bengali culture infused with an American childhood, Ria dj's. You can hear those varied threads in his method. First, a jazz riff. Next, an obscure, eighties synth band, of whom you've never heard (this will have you spending hours on your own trying to track down the origin of that sound). Lastly, there goes Mowgli, running through the concrete jungle. I imagine that his father would be smiling.<br />
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<i>d.j. mowgli: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/mistamowgli" target="_blank">facebook</a></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-48342015487248544372012-02-02T19:00:00.000-05:002012-02-03T20:45:39.090-05:00circus mojo<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCjfRhLwaQwS7llD16NFqLjYlvd1GbV_-EsqaKaCjI2wGRRvAu80OMEdkp7vUpRWblOdwEGIfB3kVzVrLIjttUuKp6QgH1qByvrBhqn0qjv5CiWoZAXdUVrGvkWeGNo07u90-iAsdx9sa/s1600/20120128-DSC_1387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCjfRhLwaQwS7llD16NFqLjYlvd1GbV_-EsqaKaCjI2wGRRvAu80OMEdkp7vUpRWblOdwEGIfB3kVzVrLIjttUuKp6QgH1qByvrBhqn0qjv5CiWoZAXdUVrGvkWeGNo07u90-iAsdx9sa/s640/20120128-DSC_1387.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz circus shoozez</td></tr>
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In 1979, when I was 12 years old, I had a moment of profound revelation, which would change the course of my life forever: I was not going to be an NBA basketball player, as I had imagined, because, contrary to my own self-image at the time, I actually really sucked at basketball. I mean, I reeeeellly sucked. It took getting chopped from the Fighting Yellow Jackets, Jr. High team, on the first day of tryouts, for me to understand this. Larry Bird was going to be able to keep his job and I was going to have to become rock 'n roll star, instead. Still waiting for that one, by the way.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbkplZeBEU7rjCbW0Kk2DXmVZcApNW_uAdjZnzK6JCy6EfhKFfXz7W3ttwE7TsRM8EqB8x4MoCUjoqxjejRpS1bypVNlSNY1quCai6QNLTmEjjEMz88cXQjMP-f9c9A4bX_qvwlOMGqzZ/s1600/20120128-DSC_1534.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbkplZeBEU7rjCbW0Kk2DXmVZcApNW_uAdjZnzK6JCy6EfhKFfXz7W3ttwE7TsRM8EqB8x4MoCUjoqxjejRpS1bypVNlSNY1quCai6QNLTmEjjEMz88cXQjMP-f9c9A4bX_qvwlOMGqzZ/s640/20120128-DSC_1534.jpg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz young lady/happy circus person</td></tr>
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My point is, there are very few times in our lives when we know exactly what that small, dark shape on the horizon actually is. Certitude and intuition, be damned. We can shape it a bit, but at the end of the day, we must follow the path placed before us by the convergence of all of the disconnected, yet interdependent moments of our lives. So, I imagine that Paul M., founder and Chief Circusarian (I invented that word, at this very moment) at <b>Circus Mojo</b>, a circus school in Ludlow, Ky., did not imagine himself to be a circus performer, while studying as a theater major in college. <br />
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"I kind of did it as a joke at first," he tells me of his first audition with Ringling Bros.. "I was a sophomore at CCM, and I thought it would be fun to audition. I wanted a backup plan, too, in case theater didn't work out for me." <br />
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Despite missing the mark on that first audition, the backup plan would become Plan A, when, the following year, among, literally thousands of auditioning performers, Paul was selected for one of only ten available positions in the traveling show. Statistically, that's more prestigious than Ivy League. Paul hit the road and joined the proverbial circus.<br />
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He would later finish his degree at CCM, but that experience with Ringling Bros., would forge a path for him, and, transitively, for hundreds of kids whom he and his organization have since helped. The art of circus had gotten into his blood enough for him to want to teach it. He began by offering circus performing classes at prestigious east coast schools while working as a part-time soap opera actor in NYC. You may have seen him on Days of Our Lives. No, I'm not kidding, but thank you for asking.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz paul m./circus mojo</td></tr>
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Early on in his teachings, Paul noticed something important: something that would solidify the idea of offering circus skills to the public as an ardent passion...the passion of which Circus Mojo would later be born. "All people need a sense of achievement in their lives, and circus offers that," he tells me. "You come here and you may not know how to juggle or walk on a giant ball, and then, suddenly, you can juggle or walk on a giant ball." With the right amount of effort, the reward is quick. It's also measurable in the intent smiles on the faces of the participants of Circus Mojo. Moments of "oooh I got this...I get it" abound.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz ring juggler</td></tr>
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I was lucky enough to witness this effect when I joined Paul and his students at Circus Mojo one Saturday morning. There were kids (and even a few adults) from all walks of life. Some had probably been spending too much time with their PlayStations. Others, sadly, had even spent some time in detention centers. But none of that mattered when they joined together on the floor of Circus Mojo. The varied experiences and backgrounds of the kids were somehow washed away and instead, there was a commonality and a communion, to their effort, their learning, and the joy of discovery. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_wWuzF5JNCrN0TniVrsjT637mry1BQ1IPBNmvaKlJBWsgBDmPr6LZobyTrsUjTaVZNLFcWAdbyWHucCHViYiP3quZ7QuSCWvnUokkwKEQT0p_vZJVp5Ch76_nQn_5S8IPiA9U7Rxpfdg/s1600/20120128-DSC_1686.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_wWuzF5JNCrN0TniVrsjT637mry1BQ1IPBNmvaKlJBWsgBDmPr6LZobyTrsUjTaVZNLFcWAdbyWHucCHViYiP3quZ7QuSCWvnUokkwKEQT0p_vZJVp5Ch76_nQn_5S8IPiA9U7Rxpfdg/s640/20120128-DSC_1686.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz happy circus people</td></tr>
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We are all born with natural strengths and deficits. One of the things Paul likes to point out is that learning circus skills fortifies us exactly where we need to be fortified. The kid who can pick up juggling in 2 minutes, but who hasn't yet understood teamwork, gets to help others and experience the nurturing and growth of a group. The kid who joined Mensa at the age of seven, but who can't hold a conversation gets to be the same as everyone as else for awhile. There is a true sense of community there, which doesn't seem coerced. It's just naturally born of a shared, positive experience. The most dedicated among them have even gotten to perform in Germany.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZAKEFo7qF5rD7dzjpNQm-pfE_Gp9IgcnWzXBLpHqk3rYzjOUPGhXAv7P8YXGlgqoQX7idwvTx0DUILtT0ebqw1Y3Snf-F32pRPfkFlD9ndI-49Qoy8uNIQ-JPi3FVN9d5_lmwBzXVj1Z/s1600/20120128-DSC_1542.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZAKEFo7qF5rD7dzjpNQm-pfE_Gp9IgcnWzXBLpHqk3rYzjOUPGhXAv7P8YXGlgqoQX7idwvTx0DUILtT0ebqw1Y3Snf-F32pRPfkFlD9ndI-49Qoy8uNIQ-JPi3FVN9d5_lmwBzXVj1Z/s640/20120128-DSC_1542.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz young man/happy circus person</td></tr>
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Personally, I know that I could have used something like Circus Mojo when I was that grief-stricken kid who had just gotten cut from the b-ball team. I was shy, awkward, and as thin as a slip of paper. I imagine the twelve-year-old me stumbling through the door to Circus Mojo. I'm immediately put at ease because there is fun music playing and Paul M. is wearing crazy shoes and cracking jokes right and left. Moments later, we begin a group juggling activity. A circle forms. I'm nervous, but for some reason, not as nervous as I would be if this were gym class or a book report. Paul M. is in the middle. The bowling pins start flying. What? Did that just happen? Did Paul just drop one? Maybe he did it on purpose. Kids are smiling, clapping for each other, dancing in place to the music. It seems like they feel the opposite of pressure. I smile too. Oops...that girl across me from me dropped one. At least I won't be the first kid to do so when it's my turn. Wait, though...no one said anything mean to her. That's odd. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4jOC27YADTXz_gUPy2JJ0IeF2cX3ODPYXcELU7I-Ic2rL4HpWdFU4SJCKXoHefi9Uj20fTGLBi2P6in0yHZq1Fsok4IHDMIaSa6qVcFCwYJvGdMSnXCM9zx-9CTkmA7n6QaLArGW2qyA/s1600/20120128-DSC_1591.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO4jOC27YADTXz_gUPy2JJ0IeF2cX3ODPYXcELU7I-Ic2rL4HpWdFU4SJCKXoHefi9Uj20fTGLBi2P6in0yHZq1Fsok4IHDMIaSa6qVcFCwYJvGdMSnXCM9zx-9CTkmA7n6QaLArGW2qyA/s640/20120128-DSC_1591.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz juggling while walking high wire</td></tr>
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Soon, I'm next in line. I'm nervous as hell, but I'm happy too. Now, the green pin is flying at me. I catch it and manage to toss it back. A split second later, the orange. Yes! But, the red one bounces off of my hands, into my shoulder, and onto the floor. I can feel a familiar heat build in my face. I turn to run after the fallen pin. I listen, but, to my surprise the sounds of the room do not change, as I expect them too. There is still music and clapping. By the time I turn around, Paul M. has moved on to the next kid. No one seems to have even noticed my blunder.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKE07WIb1y43zZo6qDg-3tEteZmVD-YgTAq-5FbJQ-30IfuZN4eHYy1jSZbpgeo0QjM8NZFrEseGDPGX6ptUxoz1wMMUpOpHby7eNBsAWz8zlJzbtNhy1m2O1XBPxfgUJ82AyNR5cLJyR-/s1600/20120128-DSC_1561.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKE07WIb1y43zZo6qDg-3tEteZmVD-YgTAq-5FbJQ-30IfuZN4eHYy1jSZbpgeo0QjM8NZFrEseGDPGX6ptUxoz1wMMUpOpHby7eNBsAWz8zlJzbtNhy1m2O1XBPxfgUJ82AyNR5cLJyR-/s640/20120128-DSC_1561.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz young lady/happy circus person</td></tr>
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After the group juggling, Paul splits us into pairs. This is horrible. I'm paired with a girl who must be older than I am: maybe she's even in high school. She's cute. The braces on my teeth feel like they're growing. We stand about 10 feet apart. We're holding glowing plastic rings. We start throwing them. I'm dropping them all over the place. It's a nightmare. I feel like vomiting. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5-6njAzvmGTsu-XPAcnT1yVFUKYvc0PUWWX1fOXR9ig035jEekM-IDCvEa3YVRcldSpeCw2O-kmq22zhVFMtxfxYBahIJ79G-hA3I8MkJc7jBrR27o1V2E2_2URRfGYNMR4dEJO1MtEh/s1600/20120128-DSC_1528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_5-6njAzvmGTsu-XPAcnT1yVFUKYvc0PUWWX1fOXR9ig035jEekM-IDCvEa3YVRcldSpeCw2O-kmq22zhVFMtxfxYBahIJ79G-hA3I8MkJc7jBrR27o1V2E2_2URRfGYNMR4dEJO1MtEh/s640/20120128-DSC_1528.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz building a human tower</td></tr>
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It doesn't take long for Paul to notice my struggle. We take a break. Paul stands directly in front of me and looks me dead in the eye. I can't even see the girl. He's telling me exactly what to do...how to change my rhythm, my motion, my focus, my gaze, the way I grasp the ring. He's telling it like it's fact...like if I just do what he's told me to do, it will just work. He steps back a few paces and starts tossing rings at me. I catch, throw, catch, throw, catch, throw, drop. We keep going. Soon, I'm keeping up. Twenty tosses in a row! Now, thirty! Next, the girl steps back in. I barely notice because I want to get back to it. We're counting out loud together. We hit 50 and I hear her say "yes!" She drops number 72. She runs towards me and puts her arm around my shoulder. Wait. Did that just happen? Yep, it really did. Thanks to Circus Mojo.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lgKiWJFHJqL4fAK_BbdVT_83KFKa7C5zYxTkshzPkLYwbf1N9js5YUYchsi_uXehCvIxSGZ1bITWR1qvlQ2MwTiD8QrdYA4g_JHgCj66f9a6T7RnEivBtbkq1sLcGLR1LlLsAzQKhzJH/s1600/20120128-DSC_1482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lgKiWJFHJqL4fAK_BbdVT_83KFKa7C5zYxTkshzPkLYwbf1N9js5YUYchsi_uXehCvIxSGZ1bITWR1qvlQ2MwTiD8QrdYA4g_JHgCj66f9a6T7RnEivBtbkq1sLcGLR1LlLsAzQKhzJH/s640/20120128-DSC_1482.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz young man/happy circus person</td></tr>
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<i>Circus Mojo will be holding an open house and performance as part of <b>Macy's Arts Sampler 2012</b>:</i><br />
<i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/362077490469372/">https://www.facebook.com/events/362077490469372/</a></i>
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<i>Circus Mojo: <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Circus+Mojo,+Elm+Street,+Ludlow,+KY&hl=en&sll=37.0625,-95.677068&sspn=31.646818,49.306641&oq=circus+mojo+ludlow&hq=Circus+Mojo,&hnear=Elm+St,+Ludlow,+Kentucky&t=m&z=16" target="_blank">map</a></i><br />
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<i>Circus Mojo: <a href="http://www.circusmojo.com/" target="_blank">website</a></i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-23602228700932729652012-01-26T19:00:00.000-05:002012-01-29T07:50:22.037-05:00the save the animals foundation<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmalaOQnWSTA49whI6g8Jv59EWbWIIQrtLdY4HfwqWFuArWVC5C6h9aG2R7l6Wsw6RCxE3lVVvWw3SA2UKW2Tg4xQgUMojUWUbkN9SH-ua8GCBO7TOF3pjLFnP-H7NH4-xH-nRll3QxS8L/s1600/lu-1186.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmalaOQnWSTA49whI6g8Jv59EWbWIIQrtLdY4HfwqWFuArWVC5C6h9aG2R7l6Wsw6RCxE3lVVvWw3SA2UKW2Tg4xQgUMojUWUbkN9SH-ua8GCBO7TOF3pjLFnP-H7NH4-xH-nRll3QxS8L/s320/lu-1186.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my boy, cap'n lou</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmU3SKVOixvUON4eyrJiHE32hhoAl8Jcq0bUxuY9Pohs2KQnaZdY_W14_j9ySgLH3BqlYvWrwR3xtGf6R3FtczgYsU9s_KEOYGb32QW1fqTVjukWoSK0wNnPAyDCjZSX6edm4gczVWR8X/s1600/fran-0927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmU3SKVOixvUON4eyrJiHE32hhoAl8Jcq0bUxuY9Pohs2KQnaZdY_W14_j9ySgLH3BqlYvWrwR3xtGf6R3FtczgYsU9s_KEOYGb32QW1fqTVjukWoSK0wNnPAyDCjZSX6edm4gczVWR8X/s320/fran-0927.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my girl, frances</td></tr>
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Anyone who has known me on a personal level for more than about 15 seconds will already know that I love animals. Reasons number one and two are to the left and right, respectively: my deaf pit bull Frances, and my 17 year old, Energizer Kitty, Cap'n Lou. Given the lifelong connection to animals, with which I have been blessed, this is a very special edition of Citizen Pork for me. <br />
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The Save the Animals Foundation, or STAF, is a volunteer operated, no-kill shelter on Red Bank Road, which simultaneously cares for over 600 animals at any given time. Tonight, as I write this, there are volunteers offering their time and energy to provide for these animals in need, many of whom are innocent victims of human neglect, irresponsibility, and cruelty. They are there working on Christmas day. They are there on Memorial Day. They are there on the Fourth of July. You get my point: the volunteers of STAF have carried the ball 99 yards, but they need people like you and me...people with loving homes and open places in their hearts...to push it across the goal line.<br />
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The mission of STAF is simple, pure, and beautiful: to provide each animal with the highest quality of life and care until they can be found a permanent home or until they reach their natural end of life, the former always being preferable. The facility is magnificent. The volunteers are dedicated and tenacious, and they are making our city a better place through their selfless work and steadfast devotion to these wonderful creatures, with whom we share this world.</div>
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I recently had a chance to spend time with, play with, and photograph several of the beautiful animals the good people at STAF are saving on behalf of all of us. Here are just a few of the hundreds of animals available for adoption. I hope that you will read their stories, look into their eyes, and then consider doing something to help. There will be contact information for STAF at the end of the post.</div>
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--<i>CP--</i> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz sabra</td></tr>
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How are those for some loyal, eager, and soulful, brown eyes? This is Sabra. She's a shepherd mix. Sabra was, sadly, dealt a double-whammy when it came to her earliest interactions with people. A breeder sold her as a pure-bred German Shepherd, which she isn't, and the person who bought the story, and consequently, the dog, decided that it would be ok to not feed poor Sabra very often or very much, after having attempted to return the dog to the shady breeder, to no avail. So, at 11 months old, Sabra arrived at STAF weighing only 37 pounds: far underweight for a dog of her stature. Those two encounters with humanity temporarily diminished her physique, but not her spirit or her mind. Luckily, for Sabra, and for her, future family, STAF is well versed in handling these situations and reversing the course. They know just how to nourish a soul like Sabra. Lots of love, high quality food, and even weekly water-therapy to help build muscle mass, have all combined to give Sabra a second chance at life. Now all she needs is a permanent place to call home and permanent people to call family. This highly intelligent girl loves children, rope toys, playing fetch, and will be a faithful companion to you and your family. </div>
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<b><i>Shay</i></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjejTJ5tkuqI6h3dlf3HlTG7LGIJV5aaGZNZT_AwiEoM1-ceNhepiiRFK4No4Au5PqSCx2wk29XEgmdMX6LjrYAmyfJvCN1ctRP-fYR2pE4gblDAcZj2wT3jWS66sITUna69iFslYaa5c6Z/s1600/STAF-0885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjejTJ5tkuqI6h3dlf3HlTG7LGIJV5aaGZNZT_AwiEoM1-ceNhepiiRFK4No4Au5PqSCx2wk29XEgmdMX6LjrYAmyfJvCN1ctRP-fYR2pE4gblDAcZj2wT3jWS66sITUna69iFslYaa5c6Z/s640/STAF-0885.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz shay</td></tr>
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This love, a striped, brown Tabby was actually born at STAF. Shay's mother was left at the doorstep of the shelter, in a box, and carrying 9 kittens, all of whom were born at STAF. Shay is the perfect cat for a loving family with children. Your kids will be able to memorize those beautiful markings in his fur and carry those fond memories forward. Shay is very well socialized. He's loving, affectionate, and gently playful. Isn't now the right time for this lovely creature to have his permanent home? As I look at Shay's photograph, I imagine reaching my hand towards the top of his head to pet him. He tilts his head slightly to give me just the right angle, squints his eyes, and purrs.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUySgYo0bvmDUHIIskf4EW_BgXt0yiB94tWZmNi77r3oiM2A7R1ELz9QFJ7qkEYRA8rju0BFU8tiz0rzWT6fDQeP9j3dHXjKFyYWOkZB7VaxWsAZvKrmoBrZQRMuVgIxqH-jHldqgkgg7v/s1600/STAF-0722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUySgYo0bvmDUHIIskf4EW_BgXt0yiB94tWZmNi77r3oiM2A7R1ELz9QFJ7qkEYRA8rju0BFU8tiz0rzWT6fDQeP9j3dHXjKFyYWOkZB7VaxWsAZvKrmoBrZQRMuVgIxqH-jHldqgkgg7v/s640/STAF-0722.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz cupcake</td></tr>
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I'll be honest here, when Cupcake walked into the visiting room at STAF to be photographed, there was a part of me that wanted to just sneak out the front door with her, hop in the car, and take this baby girl home. She's that lovable and that beautiful. In fact, in my opinion, she's television-commercial-beautiful. When you factor in her sweet nature, Cupcake's story becomes even more difficult to understand. She's a 3 1/2 year-old boxer, mastiff mix, who was dumped at a high kill shelter. She was scheduled to die, but thankfully the staff at the high kill shelter saw something special in her, and they saved her life by finding her a place at STAF. Now, it's nearly a year later, and Cupcake's still waiting for the perfect person or family to see what I see: a sensitive, adoring animal, who will be the perfect friend for you, once she settles into her new life. Cupcake loves playing with her toy football and giving big sloppy kisses. She's a bit of a snorer, too. Zzzzzzzzzz. Can't you imagine this cutie curled up in your house? Maybe even on the couch, too? Don't leave this sweet girl at STAF much longer than the year she's already been there. Give her a chance to lay a big sloppy wet one on you. </div>
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<b><i>Ophelia</i></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz ophelia</td></tr>
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Along with her 3 young siblings, Ophelia, a Blue Maine Coon mix, was left at the front door of STAF in the middle of the night. They were malnourished, infested with fleas, emaciated, and terrified. The volunteers at STAF gave the kittens intensive medical care, special handling, and feeding for several months to follow. All of their hard work paid off. All four of them survived their shaky start and blossomed into beautiful, friendly cats. Ophelia is the last of the siblings to need a permanent home. Despite, the abundance of luxurious, soft fur, which you'll feel like petting for hours, she is a petite girl. Her spirit belies her size though. Independent, intelligent, and playful in nature, Ophelia will make the perfect addition to many different households. She just needs the right one to come and find her. Take a chance. A rescued pet can make almost any happy home even happier. </div>
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<b><i>Pascal</i></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz pascal</td></tr>
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To me, one of the most rewarding aspects of pet ownership is being exposed to someone extracting unbelievable and repeatable joy from a seemingly small activity. For instance, my dog Frances, even after over 7 years, still jumps for joy at the sight of a flashlight and a night-filled back yard. She howls like a wolf and runs in circles like a holy terror, no matter how many times she's experienced chasing that beam of light. Our next little buddy, Pascal, has a similar feeling about tennis balls, although less emotive than my pooch. If you toss a ball for Pascal, you've got yourself a lifelong friend. He came to STAF this past November, well groomed, well cared for: an apparent runaway. Efforts to reunite Pascal with his first home were unsuccessful, so now he's ready for phase two of his life. You'll be constantly amused by this canine comedian. Part basset and part terrier, but all irresistible. Imagine this adorable guy dropping a tennis ball at your feet. Sure, you'll have to pause the MacGyver rerun for a few minutes, but man, will it be fun...for both of you. Giggles abound with Pascal. </div>
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<b><i>Polly</i></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz polly</td></tr>
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This beautiful American Short-hair, with nothing but kindness in her soft gaze, had a rough entry into this world. Only a few short hours after her birth, Polly's mother became startled, and was killed, having run in front of a car. Polly and her 5 tiny litter-mates were brought to STAF, where they were bottle fed for 6 weeks by shelter volunteers. Polly and 2 of her siblings remain at STAF, the others having found permanent homes. Polly is a healthy, happy, well adjusted cat who can handle any situation with ease. She will bring a calming, peaceful presence to your home. Imagine how much human love and care this small wonder has already been given by the folks at STAF. She's ready to give it back to the family that gives her the chance to do so. When I look at Polly's photograph, I imagine petting her neck and then seeing her knead little imaginary biscuits with her paws. Back and forth. Back and forth. Soon, you'll both be taking a nap. Polly's waiting for you at STAF.</div>
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<i>web: <a href="http://www.staf.org/">http://www.staf.org/</a></i></div>
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<i>phone: (513)561-STAF</i></div>
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<i>email: info@staf.org</i></div>
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<i>google map to <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Save+the+Animals+Foundation,+Red+Bank+Road,+Cincinnati,+OH&hl=en&sll=39.103118,-84.51202&sspn=0.179569,0.339546&oq=Save+the+ani&hq=Save+the+Animals+Foundation,&hnear=Red+Bank+Rd,+Cincinnati,+Ohio&t=m&z=14" target="_blank">STAF</a></i></div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-32784827548709830142012-01-19T19:00:00.000-05:002012-01-19T19:00:22.680-05:00tara h.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikdxxBMroVgXQhCGv8HiC59_KM81CiA51ABe9JEZ1Ni5XEs4Cgrb4Di2lk8DxjYRnciCzwpYp-zI0gnV3_5IHp_12_aueQvP6lgwixRvF1Low_v_2DkId7MN4t0EvMGNacaQuTF3ePLMz9/s1600/tara-0469.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikdxxBMroVgXQhCGv8HiC59_KM81CiA51ABe9JEZ1Ni5XEs4Cgrb4Di2lk8DxjYRnciCzwpYp-zI0gnV3_5IHp_12_aueQvP6lgwixRvF1Low_v_2DkId7MN4t0EvMGNacaQuTF3ePLMz9/s640/tara-0469.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz tara h. and the tools of her trade</td></tr>
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There is a history of farming on the paternal side of my family. While I have never milked a cow before dawn or ridden a tractor into the glow of a setting sun there is another feeling which I have experienced. Each time I'm on a farm, I feel a soulful, intuitive tug. It's a melancholy sort of feeling. It doesn't matter whose farm it is, or what they're growing or tending to: I just end up with this slightly sad longing in my chest: my gut. This feeling comes from my blood, from a part of my own past which existed long before I did, from people who lived and died before I was even born, but whose hopes and aspirations are somehow in me.<br />
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A similar feeling must launch seamstress, Tara H, into her Blue Ash sewing studio each morning. To hear Tara tell it, she has generations of her family articulating through her fingertips, and they won't stop.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyHkwBwGU4jifDVk67pboX_xx_wgKHD5ZK4rkKWc2bhX13wiujII99MJZSVX6DqlHgc5lSmi0B620G-vuAn59Xll7hISatHefzrJxNKNwk3tIxDWJRYPbqTcgzk9rnJKIoVDwqVP3LrNzq/s1600/tara-2-0485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyHkwBwGU4jifDVk67pboX_xx_wgKHD5ZK4rkKWc2bhX13wiujII99MJZSVX6DqlHgc5lSmi0B620G-vuAn59Xll7hISatHefzrJxNKNwk3tIxDWJRYPbqTcgzk9rnJKIoVDwqVP3LrNzq/s400/tara-2-0485.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz vintage machine</td></tr>
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"My great-grandmother taught me how to sew with a needle and thread when I was six," she tells me in her studio space. I imagine two sets of hands. One belongs to young Tara. They are smooth, nimble, and eager to work, but they're callow, untried. The other, her great-grandmother's, are practiced, assured, and confident, but they are nearly ready to rest. So, now, the young girl watches, listens, and mimics. Connections form in the girl's body chemistry, emanating to her psyche, like links in a chain, falling into place: like a perfect row of stitches. The switches have been flipped and soon the girl will feel compelled to do that which her great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother did before her. She will not even remember not knowing how to do this.<br />
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When this child becomes an adult, she will feel so driven to create, in this vein of heritage, that she will name her products, Robot Inside. The quirky owls and the lovable monsters, which she imagines and then stitches into existence, will be born of an internal mechanism which is always running and which will outlast even the most industrial sewing machine. It's the gift of lineage, a DNA imprint, a natural selection into a creative passion.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmcssHNydTndBjcQVWOxgsbv9bTPbRa6oc2M_xUTTB4qilqT7msqvFi9xXjuc5SQKBVH-glmSbVW-9sURs2ADHpZZHX28O9TO_TctsFhyxvUdANVwo4XZMY0oKMjDRmQuL1-GBHjPYL77/s1600/tara-0458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmmcssHNydTndBjcQVWOxgsbv9bTPbRa6oc2M_xUTTB4qilqT7msqvFi9xXjuc5SQKBVH-glmSbVW-9sURs2ADHpZZHX28O9TO_TctsFhyxvUdANVwo4XZMY0oKMjDRmQuL1-GBHjPYL77/s640/tara-0458.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz tara h., owls a-danglin'</td></tr>
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In writing this piece, I thought a lot about choices and about freewill. Does Tara have a say in the matter? Is she free to not<i> </i>design and create these visual delights, or is she just hard wired to do it. Am I sitting here, right now, writing this blog, simply because I am my grandfather's grandson? In the end, if we're able to eke out a modicum of happiness in this upside down world of ours, does it really matter? When we're doing that which we're meant to do we've achieved meditation.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh46Wrlqu3V2t11MwRzhfunMhyphenhyphen4Ye6cdxz61EOsS433ppP7xu0bgXiiEFKAPcjwlZ12S6e3piBhAnW3Bvn16A3BHmyW6_NRriCKCfg5T6gPHy_7pLI4QviLy96qNYly-7M-eb81Cw6dS7Jl/s1600/tara-2-0506.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh46Wrlqu3V2t11MwRzhfunMhyphenhyphen4Ye6cdxz61EOsS433ppP7xu0bgXiiEFKAPcjwlZ12S6e3piBhAnW3Bvn16A3BHmyW6_NRriCKCfg5T6gPHy_7pLI4QviLy96qNYly-7M-eb81Cw6dS7Jl/s640/tara-2-0506.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz owl, hooot hooot</td></tr>
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I imagine that someday, hopefully many decades from now, Tara will be sitting next to another child, and it will be <i>her</i> hands that are ready to rest. She'll be imparting her craft to the child in much the same way...by simply flipping a switch which already exists in the small one. A tiny new robot roars to life. That's really how we make a mark on this world, isn't it: by letting our talents, our trades, our arts, and our passions live on through the ones we love. <br />
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Tara received this gift once, and I'm sure she'll give it back too. For that, and for the lovely things she makes with her hands, I'm very happy that she's a citizen of Porkopolis. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3RX3Yrp5ngiiQQ5n5Oobe5W3FqzDm_pLwnw_dMx9qj5VQ8Dxp6pxGIu0BGJMcilbJXFzV9cK42vwHD7ucAhQqAoL_e8H7P7YwNPzJYLQtRIQp9OTXNz_o3YrHHah4wXU7uCtni_lJ1WL/s1600/tara-0495.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3RX3Yrp5ngiiQQ5n5Oobe5W3FqzDm_pLwnw_dMx9qj5VQ8Dxp6pxGIu0BGJMcilbJXFzV9cK42vwHD7ucAhQqAoL_e8H7P7YwNPzJYLQtRIQp9OTXNz_o3YrHHah4wXU7uCtni_lJ1WL/s640/tara-0495.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz owl too, hooot hooot</td></tr>
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Tara is teaching a sewing class at the Blue Ash Public library. Click <a href="http://programs.cincinnatilibrary.org/evanced/lib/eventsignup.asp?ID=19335&rts&disptype=info&ret=eventcalendar.asp&pointer&returnToSearch&SignupType&num=0&ad&dt=dr&ds=2012-1-17&de=2012-2-16&df=list&EventType=ALL&Lib=3&AgeGroup=ADULTS%2C+55%2B&LangType=0&WindowMode&noheader&lad&pub=1&nopub&page=1&pgdisp=25" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e06666;">here</span></a> for information.<br />
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Tara's going to have a booth at Arnold's, downtown. Click <a href="http://www.mylifeatarnolds.com/2012/01/local-local-local-3.html" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e06666;">here</span></a> for information.<br />
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Tara's Etsy store, where you can purchase lovely things:<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/robotinside" rel="nofollow nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">http://www.etsy.com/shop/robotinside</span></a></span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-56033439485200932062012-01-13T18:30:00.000-05:002012-01-19T18:28:53.348-05:00paul b<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Surrounded by the fruits of his own labors: heroic and villainous creatures from conjured worlds, all of whom he has borne into this one with his imagination, craftsmanship and painstaking patience, you'll find him hunched over his work in the rear corner, his back to you, working by the light of a single lamp. He may not even notice you, but there will be plenty of other eyes following as you approach. You'll try to discern which creature's eyes just flickered, which inanimate figure just sprang to life for a moment. It's a futile endeavor, though. There are far too many. When at last, he turns, he'll be gripping a scalpel. The magnifying glasses he dons will distort his eyeballs to Dali-esque proportions. A half-excited, half-nervous chill creeps the length of your spine. After a moment, however, his mouth evolves into a subdued, yet, welcoming smile.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVq3SQT0kQdDoZUthOrljDHWGJ65lLSpsqk0oEgq99Ne5PYZVbpX9CEZidH8PUZaj2C872mzDc_s7tLXnM1_DkndGUOLZ4XxkIpqoLYCbljACyQghq1A2CK4FPsvCFYgIqUJ5MjEikXDx-/s1600/paul-0273-preblur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVq3SQT0kQdDoZUthOrljDHWGJ65lLSpsqk0oEgq99Ne5PYZVbpX9CEZidH8PUZaj2C872mzDc_s7tLXnM1_DkndGUOLZ4XxkIpqoLYCbljACyQghq1A2CK4FPsvCFYgIqUJ5MjEikXDx-/s640/paul-0273-preblur.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz paul b. uses crazy glasses to see tiny figures</td></tr>
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To find our Gepetto's workshop, in the heart of Clifton Gaslight, in a towering Georgian, don't bother ascending the elaborately hand-carved staircase to the second floor. You'll have to go down to visit this cellar dweller. Watch your head. Watch for spiders, too. Heck, watch for trolls, dragons, and anything else that little boys wearing homemade paper hats and cardboard sabers dream of slaying, for master toy designer and figure sculptor, Paul B. has, at some point, in his nearly two decade long career, crafted all of them. He's designed for Kenner, Hasbro, and oodles of others toy manufacturers, and, in a world where nearly everything has become digitized, they keep coming back for more of Paul's handmade treasures.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_NYsH6AB-8RD537yJVYJiaMX9pCykHkmiF1ESlYL7ehzAH58P-J6K5PqNmg4wpQyX0y8uhyJb3HkRHVz3ck4Fc1K61cNOQV0KsqDeeqDemb_ZKW4hYTioiblEix-Fa0eOPDF0Er9xtkj/s1600/paul-0207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_NYsH6AB-8RD537yJVYJiaMX9pCykHkmiF1ESlYL7ehzAH58P-J6K5PqNmg4wpQyX0y8uhyJb3HkRHVz3ck4Fc1K61cNOQV0KsqDeeqDemb_ZKW4hYTioiblEix-Fa0eOPDF0Er9xtkj/s400/paul-0207.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz someone please save the princess</td></tr>
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Despite the fact that his model figures, most of which are only a few centimeters tall, are ornately detailed, wildly complicated, hand carved, and, most impressively to me, never even drawn on paper first, Paul will still be the first person to recognize an inherent irony in his craft. After all, he's pouring surgeonesque skill and outrageous levels of artistic vision and creativity into something which might very well have its head gnawed off by an ambling toddler, or which might spend its life under a buzz-lightyear-sheet-ensconced twin bed. A dog hair tumbleweed rolls by as a sad dragon sighs.<br />
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Paul has a way of putting his work-life in perspective with a one sentence retort to the commonly asked question, "how's work been?"<br />
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"Well, I just spent two solid days sculpting a new saddle for My Little Pony." *Snort*<br />
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We could easily jump on board this mind-train, born of Paul's own modesty, by dismissing his work as child's play, but that would be taking the easy way out. That would shortsighted, and we don't do that here in the Porkopolis of my dreams. Instead, we look more carefully. We look with the wide eyes of children. We look through those crazy eyeball-buggin' glasses of Paul's, too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzGRLqQjOaAd3DDHpj5cAbPxZSSJrG36ILkgb1HCyC9CQa-WymCIeSHroajU0_5VzrYIlw8pl0naLGZEGWDX2M7D-89_PHj2vhDO7FucXyHOxvtC85gfJkugK0jCyIGTpLLTSB0864B4Q/s1600/paul-0219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzGRLqQjOaAd3DDHpj5cAbPxZSSJrG36ILkgb1HCyC9CQa-WymCIeSHroajU0_5VzrYIlw8pl0naLGZEGWDX2M7D-89_PHj2vhDO7FucXyHOxvtC85gfJkugK0jCyIGTpLLTSB0864B4Q/s640/paul-0219.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz hi kid-o</td></tr>
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Put your awareness now, on the photograph above, for a moment or two. Imagine that you have a small ball of clay in your hands. Now, begin to massage it into a form. Work the clay with your fingers. Could you even begin to make the rough figure that will eventually become this two inch tall child? Now that the rough form is complete, you'll be working with a new medium. You'll be holding a waxen, featureless object: a faceless mold. It's dimensions are intact, but it is without personality. You hold a scalpel-like object connected to a heating element, and, minute detail, by minute detail, you carve it into being. You melt minuscule lines of detail into existence: the lifeline on a tiny palm, a belt buckle no larger than a few grains of rice, a wisp of hair the size of a pinky cuticle. You are giving birth to something new for this world, and you are doing so from an image which exists only in your mind's eye. <br />
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Can you place yourself in this place: in this perfect, harmonious confluence of imagination, precision detailing, and technical prowess? Can you see yourself in Paul's factory of dreams? <br />
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We have a world that requires tiny joys: casual objects that make us happy when we take them from the shelf and roll them between our fingers. Maybe next time, thanks to Paul, you and I will both pause for a moment and wonder where these tiny things come from. Who hatches these ideas and sees them through to fruition? On behalf, of myself and your kids, I'm really glad that Paul does: that he provides us with these miniature bursts of felicity. I'm very happy that Paul and his parade of characters are citizens of Porkopolis.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEA4IVQf2vBHFPA0WdgUrCFpEOcyhI1_objA7GQno8lq5PiSjWru3QKeMwt6ybYH9lCLzD3KMvfWRt9T1gVXP8GzjKHgxt4KIjpbJZ7ylmYAjS_0YAkCGaeeDNV00wYZHOAJcdcBW1RuJx/s1600/paul-0284-preblur+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEA4IVQf2vBHFPA0WdgUrCFpEOcyhI1_objA7GQno8lq5PiSjWru3QKeMwt6ybYH9lCLzD3KMvfWRt9T1gVXP8GzjKHgxt4KIjpbJZ7ylmYAjS_0YAkCGaeeDNV00wYZHOAJcdcBW1RuJx/s640/paul-0284-preblur+2.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz paul b., master sculptor, with his heads</td></tr>
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To see Paul's work, open your child's toy chest.</div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-16988562948424995712012-01-05T19:00:00.000-05:002012-01-09T23:20:28.520-05:00robyn r<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDtITtqmdV4plJ0ZYlyB-C7cj6B9SFPE4lcczLxw8WTOtDJGYspjnPVhXqlXZ-eZSfXaWLwz2Z9m45R5mQiYXHvUY-4TY7OKd-mVt24MoXpaA3DWiXx5JsCn1d8x5v9YdB90F_FdR4cqU/s1600/robyn-0377.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDtITtqmdV4plJ0ZYlyB-C7cj6B9SFPE4lcczLxw8WTOtDJGYspjnPVhXqlXZ-eZSfXaWLwz2Z9m45R5mQiYXHvUY-4TY7OKd-mVt24MoXpaA3DWiXx5JsCn1d8x5v9YdB90F_FdR4cqU/s640/robyn-0377.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It should come as no great surprise that artist Robyn R.'s preferred media for painting are organic: wood and human skin. Her work embodies the parasitic and necessary relationship of life and vitality with death and decay. It obscures the traditional lines of demarcation between pain and pleasure, the beautiful and the grotesque, and it forces us to dig in the dirt a little. Nothing could be more natural, and, if you are of the correct mindset for it, more lovely.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiew8q1MrSuQtqPzRPenAhpOOVoQk4u1aVRQtg7_DYFZB-eof6PVsbMV_NNlwHvxSdP8Pk-CB0VBBRv18m0w7euGY5JluxhTdvGYXEzsgDrpsqh_xEd6SKk1_UqEr-lfsInrVviLG838MKm/s1600/robyn-0420v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiew8q1MrSuQtqPzRPenAhpOOVoQk4u1aVRQtg7_DYFZB-eof6PVsbMV_NNlwHvxSdP8Pk-CB0VBBRv18m0w7euGY5JluxhTdvGYXEzsgDrpsqh_xEd6SKk1_UqEr-lfsInrVviLG838MKm/s400/robyn-0420v2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
I met Robyn in the woods. In the cold, we hung her works (yes, most of them are skateboard decks). We placed them in bare trees and laid them amongst dead leaves and dirt, and even as we did this, I began to notice, that, despite the colorful, often otherworldly images conjured from her imagination, it became difficult to distinguish the point where the paintings ended and the forest began: so well did they intermingle with the trees, the leaves, the dirt, with sun and with<b> </b>shadow.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfVt7XifgLGb15uLMb_FlVkFbe526Ayk-yKJKLZTUw5omHt01nVdGUvHU_3yNWegUIkalzHrezaqVx5JGP0klf32Ys2e05KBywEBhx6xu854DS6U3SjfVy7Ygn0XRvpCCCMw5Go2s_8KTF/s1600/robyn-0426v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfVt7XifgLGb15uLMb_FlVkFbe526Ayk-yKJKLZTUw5omHt01nVdGUvHU_3yNWegUIkalzHrezaqVx5JGP0klf32Ys2e05KBywEBhx6xu854DS6U3SjfVy7Ygn0XRvpCCCMw5Go2s_8KTF/s400/robyn-0426v2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
As I stood in the forest with Robyn, amidst the barren beauty and boundless evidence of nature's perpetual reclamation, a lyric by Iron and Wine sprang into my mind. <i>Mother forget me now that the creek drank the cradle you sang to. </i>The creek drank the cradle...I imagined muddy and angry seeming waters rising, softly absorbing the cradle, a birth in reverse, a watery lullaby, a grave.<br />
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For me, Robyn's work evokes the same feeling. The ruthless, yet morally neutral brutality of nature is intricately woven into the fabric of our existence. The rising creek is unable to <i>not </i>drink the cradle. It can't alter its own path. The vulture <i>must</i> pick at the carrion. The worm <i>must</i> feed. All that lives, <i>must</i> also, not live. As part of this framework, we people can choose to be horrified and to look away, or we can realize that because we are lucky enough to be part of the cycle of death and life, each feeding the other, that there is beauty in all of it: the entire circle. Robyn clearly has this vision.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNB22miWs65_-KGPrDMzD42cVJBlQjh_cHXp7MipppJOkhWoahmy1TYQbpoWGN3E4IcsJDGg7AxMrt1qAWrSeUa8eTQCToinmBKPE1CNDfz-Cw_AK4OpSnq1vKXZ5z7PS7vKHctr-yyr1/s1600/robyn-0412v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNB22miWs65_-KGPrDMzD42cVJBlQjh_cHXp7MipppJOkhWoahmy1TYQbpoWGN3E4IcsJDGg7AxMrt1qAWrSeUa8eTQCToinmBKPE1CNDfz-Cw_AK4OpSnq1vKXZ5z7PS7vKHctr-yyr1/s640/robyn-0412v2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I'm now quoting from Robyn's <a href="http://nomadical.net/" style="color: #e06666;" target="_blank"><b>blog</b></a>:<span style="color: #e06666; font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23px;"><i>When I first realized what death was I was 10 years old and it terrified me. Since then it made me question everything I was taught and steered me on a quest that isn’t even over yet. Am I still afraid of it? No, I’m inspired by it and it has helped me make some interesting things. Everything returns. </i></span><br />
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<i>Everything returns</i>. Through layers of swamp, mud, sediment, rock, decomposed insects, animal bones, and lava, Robyn's paintings also return, as though spewed forth from the very ground beneath our feet, belched into the sky to mingle with fantastical skeletal, winged creatures, floating leaves and snow. Grime glistening in sunlight, if only for a fleeting moment.<br />
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We people may have forgotten that we are animals, but the ground which bears our weight, hasn't. It's a difficult thing to articulate, but I believe that what Robyn is trying to say with her art is that the facade of humanity actually makes us less human: that the conventions we have fabricated to shield us from our own impermanence, have obscured us from our true selves. We've created a false platform, a mirage above the dung beetles and the moss and rising creek. Believing that we are standing on this platform, protected from the things we fear, we fail to see all truths, and, in our blindness, we make societies, clans, nations, religions, and wars. All of these constructs are articles of exclusion, all derived from our "humanity," and our need to deny our own mortality. We are trapped in a gauze of our own design, wrapped in partiality, fearing the unknown, and, at times, each other.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfz2NBeD4NeOilY4XbMtg_CMhufbnGLxWt-Gm61E-xYyUKZelABIJncmzV5LhSAZzWU8q02SP4ReK5ELTruoxEy54tXV5O7ShLeFlqVnu457o8y-3IWuzS7ZhTHyM-o7NmDFeIBxibkC_q/s1600/robyn-0382v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfz2NBeD4NeOilY4XbMtg_CMhufbnGLxWt-Gm61E-xYyUKZelABIJncmzV5LhSAZzWU8q02SP4ReK5ELTruoxEy54tXV5O7ShLeFlqVnu457o8y-3IWuzS7ZhTHyM-o7NmDFeIBxibkC_q/s640/robyn-0382v2.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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This may all sound gloomy, but it really isn't. It's liberating and uplifting as you peel those layers of gauze away. The more I force myself to examine the things I fear, the less frightening they become. When I have less fear, I'm able to live in this day even more. I can live by my senses and be more connected to others. I can live more like a human being, and less like a human character.<br />
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I'm here today, and so is the scent of my dog's neck. Let me breathe it. I'm here today and so is my girlfriend. Let me touch her hand. I'm here today and so is curry. Let me taste it. I'm here today and so is the wind blowing through the treetops. Let me hear it. I'm here today and so is the bird on the perch. Let me see it. Robyn does, and it's in her work. For that, and for the pleasure of having been able to spend a few minutes in the woods, on a cold Sunday, with her, I am very happy that she is a citizen of Porkopolis.<br />
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Visit Robyn at Mother's Tattoo: <a href="http://www.motherstattoo.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e06666;">http://www.motherstattoo.com/</span></a><br />
See her canvases: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/n0madical/sets/72157619327484812/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e06666;">http://www.flickr.com/photos/n0madical/sets/72157619327484812/</span></a><br />
Her skate-decks: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/n0madical/sets/72157606306614351/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e06666;">http://www.flickr.com/photos/n0madical/sets/72157606306614351/</span></a><br />
Her paper: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/n0madical/sets/72157612166329750/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e06666;">http://www.flickr.com/photos/n0madical/sets/72157612166329750/</span></a><br />
Her skin: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/n0madical/sets/72157605688763444/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e06666;">http://www.flickr.com/photos/n0madical/sets/72157605688763444/</span></a><br />
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<i><br /></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-11200063362496274252011-12-23T16:20:00.000-05:002011-12-30T08:49:44.413-05:00michael w<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz michael sees something</td></tr>
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"Don't you have something else you can show us?" The art director for Warner Bros. records dismissively handed the professional portfolio back to young photographer. <br />
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"I just have this book of stuff...my personal stuff. You probably wouldn't be interested. They're just photos I take for me." <br />
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"Let's see it."<br />
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This is a story about stumbling into success by following your passion, doing what you love, and sharing it with other people. This is the story of Cincinnati photographer, Michael W. You may not have heard of Michael, but, with a partial list of portraiture subjects which includes, musicians Robert Plant, Lyle Lovett, Emmylou Harris, BB King, Chet Atkins, Pattie Labelle, Paul Westerberg, and David Byrne, writer Nick Hornby, actor Hugh Laurie, and artist Andy Warhol, it's very likely that you've seen his <a href="http://www.michaelwilsonphotographer.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #e69138;">work</span></a>. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">michael's basement of memories<br />
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One Sunday in early winter, 1979, Michael chose to go on a solo photo excursion to Newport, Ky. At the time, he was a student at NKU. He wouldn't know until a decade later, how important the seemingly trivial decision to take photographs on a Sunday, would become. He describes the day as "somewhere between rain and snow."<br />
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A turn down <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?q=brighton+street&hl=en&ll=39.083605,-84.49836&spn=0.002274,0.00434&sll=39.09145,-84.495764&sspn=0.009093,0.017359&vpsrc=6&hnear=Brighton+St,+Newport,+Kentucky&t=m&z=18" target="_blank"><span style="color: #e69138;">Brighton Street</span></a> would reveal two dogs that day, huddled in the road. Their vulnerable, yet unified and unbreakable form, the grey day, the grey and shimmering blacktop, the desolate road and buildings: these things told a story and Michael listened with his eyes. One dog looked up. The other looked away. They stood in opposing directions, soaking from the freezing rain, seeking, yet refusing. Should any of these small details have been slightly altered, how so, might the future have also changed? <br />
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Michael took a photograph.<br />
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He took it, not because he dreamed of acclaim he might some day receive or because he thought of some half-formed, unlikely possibility, but rather, because there was a picture to be taken and he was there to take it, in his own quiet, modest, and haunting way. Click. <br />
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Now, fast forward to the late eighties. Michael has achieved a modicum of success, but his career isn't where he would like it to be. He's in L.A. to photograph a hair-metal-Christian-rock band for and independent label. He's in search of something more substantive, and is using the trip as an opportunity to check in with Warner Bros. He's in a meeting with the company's art director.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-icJkiyoUodY/TvaBUBdykXI/AAAAAAAABXE/fZcHtKBn3uI/s1600/newport+dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="632" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-icJkiyoUodY/TvaBUBdykXI/AAAAAAAABXE/fZcHtKBn3uI/s640/newport+dogs.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by michael wilson the photo chosen as the cover for All Shook Down</td></tr>
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"Don't you have something else you can show us? " she says. The words resound as prophetic, now. He hands the small book of eight or ten photographs to her. She leafs through them. She pauses. She points to the dogs.<br />
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Moments later, Michael W., has been awarded the cover for the Replacements' pending release <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_Shook_Down" target="_blank"><span style="color: #e69138;">All Shook Down</span></a>. Flights are booked. Michael is to fly to Minneapolis to photograph Paul Westerberg and company, for the rest of the album artwork.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rc_pMFq9J9M/TvaBXeH78sI/AAAAAAAABXM/R2l94qhwJjg/s1600/newportdogs001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rc_pMFq9J9M/TvaBXeH78sI/AAAAAAAABXM/R2l94qhwJjg/s400/newportdogs001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by michael wilson the same dogs, a year later on Brighton</td></tr>
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The Lovetts, the Warhols, the Plants, the critically acclaimed gallery exhibits, the four fine art photography books...all of these successes would follow for Michael, all in their own due time...all of them connecting back to a Sunday morning in Newport, Ky., to two wandering dogs, and to a decision to embrace a moment which others might have overlooked. These successes are connected, as are all people, animals, and energies on earth: separate, yet, without the others, broken, incomplete.<br />
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It's been my privilege to know Michael W. for awhile now. Anyone who knows him can testify to his unbounded kindness and generosity. His work, his success, his spirit, they all inspire me. Even as I write this I feel sheepish and uncertain about the idea of photographs taken by me, appearing on a page with photographs taken by him. But I know that nothing good can come from doing nothing, and maybe there's a connection I can't see yet. Maybe it hasn't been made known to me. Maybe ten years from now, I'll point back to this moment or another, spawned by this one.<br />
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As for Michael W., I know that he'll always be the wonderful person he had to be in order to have his own unique brand of success. These things are bound indelibly together...the character of our person, our actions, and their outcomes. I wish for Michael continued happiness and success, and I know that I am very glad that he is a fellow citizen of Porkopolis.<br />
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See Michael's beautiful work at <a href="http://michaelwilsonphotographer.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"><b>michaelwilsonphotographer.com</b></span></a>.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz michael w., photographer</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">film canisters, michael's basement<br />
photo by steve metz</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3845869585421391955.post-14551730369713011252011-12-20T21:53:00.000-05:002011-12-29T13:27:11.022-05:00dan m<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnkt_2vX9RXdxYkG6x6Qf92Nh2qksEbVf1PT75i5LZ-Lpe7f_KqS6gtWGW9fh8GDmdyTZRlLyr5yNHfO5QcT3fk2WchYK-UFBX_2z7PfCyQrCKaG21ssR8-PD5-j-f-mrp1Tyq0KrvkGiC/s1600/dan-9884.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnkt_2vX9RXdxYkG6x6Qf92Nh2qksEbVf1PT75i5LZ-Lpe7f_KqS6gtWGW9fh8GDmdyTZRlLyr5yNHfO5QcT3fk2WchYK-UFBX_2z7PfCyQrCKaG21ssR8-PD5-j-f-mrp1Tyq0KrvkGiC/s640/dan-9884.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz dan at motr pub</td></tr>
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Recently, I saw a statistic, which blew my mind a little. It said that twenty-one thousand people attended Cincinnati's <a href="http://mpmf.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #741b47;">Midpoint Music Festival</span></a> this past September. Twenty-one thousand people from all over the country, in clubs all over the city, listening to bands from all over the world, for three solid nights of cutting edge, sonic bliss. I grew up in a town of ten thousand. Two of my hometowns, out watching rock and roll shows, for three days, in Porkopolis. To a person like me, who remembers all too well, the uproar over the <a href="http://www.mapplethorpe.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #741b47;">Robert Mapplethorpe</span></a> exhibit in Porkopolis, only twenty years ago, that's good stuff. It's a bit of a paradigm shift to see our city, often berated for its conservatism, bust those chains a bit, to embrace the fringe.<br />
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If you enjoy Midpoint as much as I do, you have a lot of people to thank, but the biggest debt of gratitude goes to the guy sitting at the end of the bar at <a href="http://motrpub.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #741b47;">MOTR Pub</span></a> in the photo above. That's Dan, co-owner of MOTR. He also happens to be the wizard behind the curtain of Midpoint, which is fast becoming one of the nation's premier music festivals, thanks to his vision and his footwork. He's been pushing the wheel for the last five years of the festival's now ten year long run, and it's been picking up speed, year after year. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieAwzVcUAkm3HjxRKMUwrG5Lk6mAHmHIgp6RCnsmH0AMJ7LhAIkOMrEfI58gxLmJVRXPH-FpERntV2x0Qg0XSX_S3uDYc6y5KK8FXNYp7RKTuoI8FCtlj6iVVU1F-u9CrsJ_78OYISRzfE/s1600/motr-9777.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieAwzVcUAkm3HjxRKMUwrG5Lk6mAHmHIgp6RCnsmH0AMJ7LhAIkOMrEfI58gxLmJVRXPH-FpERntV2x0Qg0XSX_S3uDYc6y5KK8FXNYp7RKTuoI8FCtlj6iVVU1F-u9CrsJ_78OYISRzfE/s640/motr-9777.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz motr pub pickles own their veggies for drinks which require veggies </td></tr>
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Dan and a few of his pals opened MOTR Pub a couple of years ago. Their combined business savviness and acumen for understanding live rock and roll have catapulted MOTR to the top of the list of live venues in Porkopolis. One of the really great things about MOTR is that, aesthetically, it is a bar which could easily cater to an exclusive crowd. It's charming, clean, and boasts one of the most beautiful wooden bars I've ever seen. But Dan and his friends have chosen higher ground. They're here to deliver something special to their city...a friendly, clean, and inviting atmosphere, with great drinks, great music, and great food, at a price that regular people can afford.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GWNmASmDZlJ-Rca2Ye7oHR2ZoH29EZyk6Z5HiWBcju87u6TL3_hWi-8qcT2YjB9aiQF721pc7il9t9_lMeV3SdWdkwqBpmMTudD-njyP7ZZ7Uu2Rs7eah41Nf1Nvi66_usuMOq9jZoKU/s1600/pinball-9814.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GWNmASmDZlJ-Rca2Ye7oHR2ZoH29EZyk6Z5HiWBcju87u6TL3_hWi-8qcT2YjB9aiQF721pc7il9t9_lMeV3SdWdkwqBpmMTudD-njyP7ZZ7Uu2Rs7eah41Nf1Nvi66_usuMOq9jZoKU/s400/pinball-9814.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">vintage pinball at motr pub</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioH3lMgqWoplyF0rfmR9wGJHvCDYLqCKAz933CBR7aQURoQiDZaRm-7Iog5tbZ7t4oEi1Nd-vCazyyVK1cEXmRm4V-VO3U1lu6SLjUEV6lxQByJii6enqJc2Ch4ucz0Dys2h9oVhP-wyEX/s1600/burrito-9849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioH3lMgqWoplyF0rfmR9wGJHvCDYLqCKAz933CBR7aQURoQiDZaRm-7Iog5tbZ7t4oEi1Nd-vCazyyVK1cEXmRm4V-VO3U1lu6SLjUEV6lxQByJii6enqJc2Ch4ucz0Dys2h9oVhP-wyEX/s320/burrito-9849.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">yummy breffis' burrito at motr pub</td></tr>
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So, if you see Dan, at MOTR, or anywhere else, give him a pat on the back and thank him for busting his tail for the past twenty years to bring great music to Cincinnati. We're lucky to have him here. A lot of other people would have headed to easier, greener pastures. I've heard him say "if you don't like Cincinnati, then change it into what you want it to be." Sounds daunting. But then...you see him do it. </div>
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Personally, on those warm, late summer evenings, when I'm outside listening to the Tom Tom Club, or inside listening to Toro Y Moi, I'm very glad that Dan is a fellow citizen of Porkopolis.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by steve metz dan enjoys a well deserved sip of bourbon</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13392984066814065296noreply@blogger.com4Cincinnati, OH 45202, USA39.1031182 -84.512019639.0045432 -84.6699481 39.201693199999994 -84.3540911