The sisters (producers/directors) run Off Center Media, a production company that produces documentaries exposing injustice in the criminal justice system. The interview covers such questions as…

What were your goals for this film? How can film carry on the legacy of social change that was crucial to your father’s life? As filmmakers and daughters, when did you decide you were ready to tackle such a personal story on film?

The sister touch on the power of art to bring social change…definitely an interesting read. Thought-provoking.

Read the interview HERE.

(RRCA isn’t endorsing any particular view represented in this article…just presenting good stories and resources to benefit the membership.)

View a slideshow of Simpson’s work HERE.

“Just when you think you’ve traveled too far down Wiggins Mill Road, and you start to look for a spot to turn around, the rusting masterworks of Vollis Simpson loom into view. Thirty feet in the air, held aloft by sturdy steel pillars, are some of Mr. Simpson’s pieces: a team of horses pulling a wagon, a metal man strumming a guitar and an airplane cum rocket ship that might have escaped from an old comic book. They are painted in a dozen colors and festooned with propellers that spin in the breeze. With every gust they creak and whir like some phantasmagoric junkyard band.”

Read about how Simpson’s hobby became his passion HERE.

Gives us something to think about – what kinds of (seemingly) useless things could generate life in ourselves and in those around us?

“To one effect, the world that surrounds us is crumbling, even as we run our fingertips across its surfaces. To another, it is constantly being renewed by the work of designers, artisans, and architects who share a vision for restoration through expressions of beauty. Perhaps in some ways by knowing the ugly, we have a new appreciation for beauty. But in knowing the beauty, we long to behold what is not yet fully realized.”

Read the full article HERE.

“He imitates gestures, examines objects. He sees a hat, he puts it on his head; he sees a seagull and is determined to fly himself; he sees a telephone and dials, accidentally summoning the fire department; he sees house painters and decides to paint.
His misadventures, particularly in the early books, are ignited by impulse and inquiry, the consequences of wanting to see and to know, and the books’ charm is that they don’t condemn this curiosity; they relish it. Reality’s hard knocks — the chases, the falls, the breaking of limbs and objects — are ultimately taken care of by the nameless man in the yellow hat, who never seems to learn that you don’t leave such a childlike creature alone with a new bike, saying, ‘Keep close to the house while I am gone.’”

Read about the

Where art is concerned, there are (very) generally two groups of people: the artistes and the ‘regular’ people. “Some artists assume that they know what ‘the common man’ likes, and dismiss their interests and opinions. Some regular people assume that “those artsy types” are purveyors of snobbery and elitism.”

So…often, the efforts of artists and arts organizations can seem like a sociocultural shove to get people to like the ‘right’ things.  The Williamston Theater’s approach has been a little different:
“We went in and said, ‘We want to make it about here, plays that audiences relate to.’ We struck a chord with people…We believe that theatre can enrich our lives and make a positive difference in our community, both culturally and economically. We believe that theatre should be accessible and affordable to everyone, whether they live in a large coastal city or a small Midwestern town. We believe that there are voices in the Midwest worth hearing, and our goal is to create moving, entertaining, professional theatre for and about this part of the world.”

Williamston’s artistic director says, “Don’t tell me that the people paying money coming into my theatre have an opinion that should be of a lesser value. They have just paid their money. They were moved, or they weren’t…That’s just as useful to me in the making of our art with a deadline as the ‘higher’ train of understanding. I don’t need to know how my digital watch was built … but I can tell you if I think it’s cool … and if it works.”

What do you think? Would such an approach result in a less artful, less excellent, over-marketed product? Or is there value in this kind of collaboration?

…

I have marveled many times as I watched a school of many thousand sardines move in perfect unison, stopping their trajectory as one coherent whole in a way that seemed impossible for so many beings, and continuing in another direction just as fast, like they are responding to some call or force or rhythm just below the surface of their being.  Watching Sanders is like this at times.

Or consider Peyton Manning. Manning is like a surgeon performing a triple-bypass during a hurricane. There are grave and ruthless forces determined to thwart his every move, to crunch his bones and to foil the work of his hands. But he moves through the bedlam, he watches, steps, waits, and makes his incision.

Sometimes watching Manning reminds me of jazz guitar seminars that I used to attend. The master would teach us that practicing scales was the best method to learn how to improvise. How could this be? we asked. We had come for freedom from the restriction of practice. We wanted to be like Hendrix, to create noise that was free of troublesome scales and key signatures and finger exercises. But he corrected us. The freedom to improvise came after great patience and practice, learning the fundamentals of the theory, disciplining our hands to know when to go where.

…”

(Read the full article HERE)

A Hispanic male nurse called my name every hour to draw blood. Along with light blue scrubs, he wore a black yarmulke bordered by silver stars of David, and cobalt blue Hebrew tattoos were etched onto his forearm. I was utterly intrigued – people-watching up close and personal – and we chatted while I looked away from the needle. When I looked back, I noticed he had scratches on his face. He winced at one, laughed, and said, “I got these on Hanukkah, can you believe that? It started out well, but it didn’t end so well.” The writerly side of my brain was madly screaming, “What IS his story? He’s a story to be written!”

I love photographs of people for the same reason. I pore over photographs on Flickr almost daily, and within that community I discovered a beautiful book that captures the essence of friendly people-watching: The Day-to-Day Life of Albert Hastings. The photographer, KayLynn Deveney, and her husband noticed Albert as they walked to and from their basement flat and the city center in southern Wales every day. The old man often leaned against his building, his quiet yet lively presence contrasting the architecture’s decay. He watered the gardens to sustain life. Others might have overlooked this lonely man, but KayLynn was attentive to a light in Albert’s face that made her want to know him.

…

KayLynn documented Albert’s day-to-day life with creative tenderness. They collaborated to create both friendship and art. It inspires me to ponder the possibilities of our interactions with strangers outside of our social comfort zone. We could start by befriending and serving them, then really see our neighbors through art – perhaps by photography, recording or writing their stories, or making a short documentary film. Or we could simply talk with them, know who they are. Our society tragically tends to ignore the lonely, poor, and elderly…”

(Read the full article HERE)

“In a city where buildings seem to change as often as fashion, the shop is one example of attention to detail designed to last. The inside shelves and stairwell are handmade by a craftsman from Nagano. There are papers of many sizes, colors, and textures gathered from across Japan. Often traveling extensively to remote regions of Asia and the world, Sakamoto san has a deep knowledge and appreciation for the craft of paper. His answer when asked why he is in the paper business is succinct and genuine: “Paper gives me peace.”

I wonder how many businesspeople can say the same thing about goods they sell. The separation of the maker and the receiver, or even the maker and the mediator, is something that is no longer strange. Yet we often want to know the origins of our purchases, or at the very least what they stand for as a brand. Ours is a post-industrial world with an inherited attachment to objects; as the twinges of economic recession pinch, people are returning to the desire to buy things that have been made with more than a buck in mind.”

(Read the full article HERE)

Others come bursting with emotion, spilled verse after verse in abstract language. I know the poets are sad or happy or confused or in love, because they tell me in so many words. However, if I were to line their poems up on the apple wall you might not discern the difference, except that each is stenciled with a distinct name.

Before I go any further, let me be very clear. This is not a criticism of beginning poets. I absolutely love the enthusiasm, efforts and warmth, the beautiful relationships I form with people who offer their words to me. Furthermore, I struggle with the same issues, especially when I’m trying to write poetry that is a first-try at a fresh life theme.

So that you’ll believe me, let me share a poem I composed as part of a new endeavor to write about my childhood loss of three homes to fire. Losing three homes in any fashion is hard; losing them to fire is a deeply emotional reality. This was my first try at putting it into poetry…”

(This is an article excerpt from TheCurator. View the full article HERE)

The principal was cheery when I asked about curriculum. “This!” she said, sweeping her arm towards the window and the river beyond. Then she smiled like she’d given me the biggest gift an administrator could give a new teacher who would welcome 30 kids to an empty classroom in just a few short days.

Looking outside, the river seemed far off. Our view was enviable, in its way, but we wouldn’t be skipping down to muddy shores anytime soon. For all intents and purposes, the river was not going to replace my need for pencils and math books.

That year was one of the worst years I spent, in any profession. The school’s philosophy was that children are endlessly creative and could make the curriculum, direct their learning. Everything depended on what was inside the kids. But each day felt like a monumental struggle, as the gaping external environment sat waiting for us to magically fill it with creative products and responses.

Six years later, I entered a different classroom—not as the teacher, but as a parent. Books lined shelves. Bright red paper apples were strung along walls, inscribed with children’s names in black marker. Plastic stackable containers held math manipulatives, blocks, paints, scissors, and paper. Children sat in neat circles around oblong tables. Before each child was a sheet of paper with the letter “l” in bold, followed by blank lines. It was the end of the year, the alphabet taught long ago. But kids were carefully copying the letter and raising their hands to wait for the teacher to check their work.

Here, it didn’t seem to matter what was inside the kids. Their external environment—the room—was filled with colorful things and teacher-directed products and responses. It was quiet and orderly and, suddenly, terribly stifling. I couldn’t wait to leave.

Two rooms. One where everything depended on what was inside the kids, and the other where everything seemed focused on what was outside the kids.

Where was the room that saw the necessity for both—where inside and out were purposely, inextricably linked?

This is not just a classroom question. It is an artistic question.