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“Hi, I’m very ugly”
Spongebob finds that he is apparently ugly, but Patrick is encouraging him to accept himself. Because he is ugly. People are not repulsed by his bad breath. At all.
(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwKFec9th0U)
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I Am Found
I woke up on the lawn across from a party house. The night before had been a rager with three popular bands and plenty of booze. My heart was palpating vigorously, the adrenaline bursting through my veins. By the climax of Strong Billie’s bass solo, I had blacked out, only coming to now in the early hours of dawn.
Patting down my pockets to make sure I hadn’t lost anything, I was reassured to find both my wallet and my phone, the only possessions I ever feel inclined to bring to any of these events. I stood up, and on a whim took out my wallet to scour through the pockets. All of my cards remained, but I seemed to be missing $10, though I may have used that to buy a pack of darts last night. If I did I either smoked it all or I’m missing them. Nothing was lost (assuming I smoked all of the cigarettes), so I made my way west towards Commercial.
About five minutes after I started walking, I got a text from my friend Abbie. I was supposed to stay at her house last night but obviously didn’t. Her all lowercase text asked for a reply back if I was alive and that she was going to go back to sleep afterwards. I reassured her and continued on my way, not bothering to check if she even saw my message.
When I got to Commercial and 12th, I got another text. This one was from my dad. I didn’t tell him I wasn’t coming home, I didn’t leave my bedroom door closed. He saw that I didn’t come back, didn’t give him a warning. I planned on staying at Abbie’s and texting my dad around 2am so he wouldn’t be able to see the text until the morning and do anything about it. I looked at my phone and put it back in my pocket.
At Commercial and Broadway, I saw the Blenz café, open and desolate.
“Morning, what can I get you?” the half asleep barista asked.
I replied, “Just this”, picking up a day old fruit croissant. “Can I use your washroom?” The barista slowly nodded his noggin before buzzing the restroom button.
I grabbed my saran wrapped pastry and walked into the single person restroom in the corporate establishment. I grabbed the sink and started running hot water, the better to melt the chemicals and plastic off of my tired face. As a makeshift makeup remover, I used the foam soap to wash away the acrid smell of burnt paper, nail polish remover, and tobacco. With elbow grease, I worked the smell out. The mascara clung to my eyes until I took it between my fingernails and slowly scraped it off. In a very Vancouver way to save the environment, there were no paper towels about, instead replaced with air dryers. In a state of mental exhaustion I wiped myself dry on my dirt stained shirt. I looked in the mirror and saw a tired girl, alone, gritty. A less made up version of the girl from last night. The girl my dad knew would leave and not text back. I smiled. The most important thing I found that morning wasn’t my wallet, but myself.
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“Kanye West samples, here’s one for example”
Sampling is a big part of rap music, and is a tool used in other such art forms. I see it as finding new objects of use and giving it a new life.
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MashUp: The Birth of Modern Culture Exhibit
A previous exhibit which focussed on the “mashup”, which can also be called collage work. Many of the works in the exhibit make use of found objects (i.e. Robert Rauschenberg).
A previous exhibit, the information can be accessed in their catalogue, online and in a physical copy.
https://www.vanartgallery.bc.ca/the_exhibitions/exhibit_mashup.html
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The best part of Vancouver is the people I have met. The kitschy East Van scene has introduced me to an eclectic bunch: there’s the guy who raps about his nerdy past times while still finding time to run into every celebrity who sets foot in the city; the homeless looking girl who really comes from an affluent background, whose family bought her a brand new Les Paul for her sweet sixteenth; the part-time cook who developed an uppers addiction after working multiple 11 hour days in a row at one of the busy Commercial Drive bars.
None of them can recall my last name, but we’ll all hug and smoke together during shows. Between us four, I am the yuppie. I certainly don’t live in Yaletown, but I have had more of an affinity for appreciating art than creating it myself, which is not very artistic of me. I have always thought I’m artistic, but I had never pursued it to any strong degree. I love to double tap aesthetic Instagram photos, reblog deavianart submissions on tumblr, and take pictures of my everyday friends against both the iconic and hidden backgrounds we love Vancouver for.
One night the bands at Strath were not worth our $10/pay what you can, so we bounced. Heading out into the brisk October air, we walked down Hastings towards Downtown. Squish! My Docs landed on neon yellow silly putty. Repulsed by the sticky goo, I wiped my boot down the side of a pole. The goo remained, so I continued my efforts, but one swipe was too aggressive in the fall haze.
Riiip! I stole a flier off of the pole. Saddened by my gracelessness, I picked it up but was immediately mesmerized by the bright colours for the punk show it was advertising.
“Guys, look,” I said. “This is a sick flier.”
The rich girl looked at it and replied, “Yeah, too bad you tore it down.”
“Shut up.” I looked again and flipped it over. Its magic was there, but mine was not. The rapper was impressed, though.
“Hey let me look at that. You know, it’s actually pretty cool with the rips there where it didn’t come loose. I don’t know, there are holes right like it’s pretty dope. You should keep it. A memory.”
Suddenly, the cook said out loud, “Use it for a collage. That’s what the good collagists did. Just, like, find stuff like garbage and mash it onto a page. It’s usually pretty cool.”
Richie rich chimed in, “Yeah, it’ll be a step up for your tumblr posts.”
“Thanks,” I said in a half retort. “I’ll be Queen of Garbage.”
The girl looked up and asked, “Wait, are you actually keeping that?”
I said, “Why not, it’s hip.”
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Selected pieces from the Margiela 2010 anniversary exhibition.
The fashion designer Martin Margiela often has made use of found objects and vintage finds in his clothing designs.
English, Bonnie. "Global Influences: Challenging Western Traditions." Japanese Fashion Designers: The Work and Influence of Issey Miyake, Yohji Yamamoto and Rei Kawakubo. London: Berg, 2011. 129–166. Bloomsbury Fashion Central. Web. 31 Mar. 2017.
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What I’ve Found
The bus whishes by behind me, its goodbye wind slapping my bare arms as my feet bounce on the fresh Mount Pleasant asphalt. My floppy brim obstructs the bright spotlight from between the Vancouver clouds as I walk uphill towards 14th; the brisk wind and the iced matcha latte between my fingers keep me from sweating embarrassingly. My winter pudge is slowly leaving me, but its aftereffects are still haunting me.
It’s the beginning of March and I am preparing for the new season with a visit to Turnabout (the flagship location on Main) for breezy clothes that fit me now. My winter weight is being sweated off by my routine Seawall bike rides and walks along the scenic mural-lined streets, so until I perfectly fit into last’s year’s wardrobe, I am going to find myself some cheap temporary replacements from the thrift aisle up Main.
Walking into Turnabout, I am assaulted by the paradoxical nature of the luxury resale store. I make my way to the “Summer Dresses” rack on the side of the store, avoiding the clerks’ eagle eyes. I begin aimlessly perusing the rack, picking up bright numbers, and occasionally floral pieces as well. I did my best to avoid the most clichéd “spring dresses” but some of them were rather pretty.
With nothing on my arms, I gave up and moved on to the older discount skirts, hoping for a cheap spring gem; I was not planning on spending any more than $50 that entire day. These overlooked garments were nice, but nothing to jump up and down over. These skirts had been danced in, taken to business meetings, unzipped, discarded, and in the afterlife Turnabout offered for them, they were being passed over like an underappreciated worker. These curated works of art are too worn, not a popular enough print, too old to be trendy, or just unwanted for an unknown reason, and in staggered weeks, each would get donated to another, less fashionable or highly regarded, thrift store.
My fingers brushed over a plush velvety something hidden behind the folds of a pleated silk midi, and my hands immediately clawed the fabric. I freed the hanger from the clothing rack, the metallic clinks crashing in my metallic ears, until the crushed velvet and hot pink bell skirt swung like a pendulum in my line of vision. It spoke to me, whispered soft words of yearning, and I heard the most beautiful love poem in the whooshing of its folds. This pink skirt is gaudy, but short so there is not a lot to gawk at; the cut is slightly awkward, but almost charming in the refreshingly new look of it. It’s different, but not that different. The skirt is an objectification of what I strive to be. Looking at the price tag, it’s $49.99. I know my goal was to find many cheap transitional clothing, but I think I’ve found something better. I think I’ve found me.
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