...Enfilade and Defilade...

Tunnel Vision

2012-02-21T16:15:00.000-08:00

I've been working on a diptych (i before y I have to remind myself) but had decided before I started to get one close to completion before beginning number 2. This may have been a mistake.

The photo source shows one Afghan soldier, clean cut and with a small smile, while the second soldier has a beard and a sheepish expression. I knew that the clean cut guy was going to be less interesting, but that was fine because the project is partially about boredom. The trick is to make an image whose subject is boring but whose painted content has some sort of passive dynamic.

Close to completion, I moved onto number 2, but a funny thing happened. After 2 sessions and still far from completion, I realized it was almost done. There's nothing really earth-shattering there as paintings reveal themselves as much as they are constructed. Having tunnel vision for some dangerous belief in how you're gonna conclude a painting is always a bad strategy.

There's a part of me that just wants to toss out the almost finished but boring painting and keep only the unexpected and arresting image. If I was just painting for painting's sake: Doing portraits and figures within the broad scope of depicting the human form or even the narrower scope of depicting The Canadian Contribution to the ISAF mission, that'd be fine. However, I have a structured project that requires me to work with "Twins" and so I need both guys, side by side.

No decision has been made yet, but the thing I really wanted to say is it's great to have these unexpected moments that require me to make decisions, play with the tension between the project and the painting and think about how much I'm willing to let the paintings reveal themselves versus how much I want to dictate to them.

In a couple of sentences I'll insert the images but feel compelled to clarify that I'm somewhat embarrassed by the journeyman quality of the "finished" piece. That's balanced out by the awesomeness of the unexpected "Portrait of Satan"*. Maybe I'll start over... maybe in the end I'll have to, but maybe I can come to a place where I balance the currently unresolved tension between these twins. Maybe they both need to be weird in their own ways and when in doubt I'll usually go weird. What the ways will be is the sort of mystery that keeps me slogging away as a painter.

-----------------------

*That title is purely off-hand and is no way meant to imply anything about Afghans or Afghan soldiers.

Letting you in, but not really

2012-02-11T07:26:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, painter Keita Morimoto tweeted the following,

""You need to embrace the artifice. Construct everything exactly the way you want it to appear and then hide your tricks."

To which I replied,

"Showing some of your tricks to the viewer lets them feel like they're part of the game, even though they're not."

Keita (besides being one of my favourite local figurative painters) is right, it is all about illusion, but I'm a fan of letting it slip, of that moment when we see behind the curtain – of The Great and Powerful Oz as a charmingly avuncular, but relatively powerless guy.

As Dave Hickey wrote, (and here I paraphrase) we all know that a painting is an illusion but want to believe in it, we want to believe in illusion because it allows us to believe that the world is not what it actually is.

But as I was educated in the world of Western academically oriented art, the honesty of the process was successfully infused/brainwashed into my psyche. Lord knows I won't be shifting to abstraction any time soon, but (for good or bad) I feel drawn to the importance of "truth in advertising ", of showing the limits of my ability, because if truth be told and humility be tucked away for a moment, my ability is pretty high.

With all of the above in mind, and with thanks to Keita for getting me thinking, here's the preliminary gridding step for my small portrait of CSM Rich Davey – one of my favourite soldiers.

The Bulgarians

2012-02-06T18:34:00.000-08:00

The first of the major paintings: Complete.
With the large paintings, the driving visual cues will start from repetition. As I look at this painting online, for the first time I realize that all these stripes make it look a bit like a golf shirt. Or, let's say Rugby shirt... that's easier to live with.

Next up: Afghans in matching tracks tops.

Also, last week (during one of our few wintery days) I gave a talk at The Toronto to School of Art.Thanks to Peter Kingstone for inviting me to talk to his class.

It was my first chance to talk about the project to an audience so while it was fun to discuss my earlier work and how it segues into this project, it was more personally relevant as the act of talking helped me clarify some things.

Specifically, (and though this should be totally obvious to me) only during the talk did I realize that while my earliest military/fraternity paintings were about the contemplative possibilities of violence, this project engages the contemplative possibilities of the boredom that stems from the-lack-of-violence. Well, I knew that, but like so much of my practice, themes and thoughts are often latent and only announce themselves after some gestation time.

Yep, it's all about contemplation. Probably, I think too much but have a crappy short-term memory.

Back to it

2012-01-30T12:35:00.000-08:00

Here's a short post with a few quick shots of some of the post-Kabul painting.

I'm pretty stoked to return to figuration and while I should probably wait until the project is further along, here is a little peek.

The top image, The Bulgarians, is still a way off completion (and this is a cropped version) but not as far from completion as one might surmise.

The 2 portraits are complete. They are the first of a dozen small portraits.

The Bulgarians

Capt. Foley

Capt. Peabody

The Yonge/University line vs. Jalalabad Rd.

2012-01-22T13:48:00.000-08:00

Thankfully I seldom take the TTC, but on the day I got back I had to hump my 3 backpacks (well, 1 rucksack and 2 backpacks) up to York U to teach a class. Not really enough time to go home, so after having a great breakfast at Aunties and Uncles I took the Streetcar, then the subway, then the bus to York.

Of my time in Kabul, the most potentially exciting events were the roadmoves. Small packets of armoured SUVs darting their way from one camp to another. Each roadmove began with a FragO (fragmentary Order) which would include threat assessments and actions to be taken if we came under fire. The most important thing to do was keep your eyes open. "look out, not in". This is an obvious way to help keep each other alive – by being aware of what is going on around you.

As we drove along, scanning the outside world for one Toyota Corolla that might be acting differently than all the other Corollas we'd also engage in small talk (or sometimes sit in silence), but it always felt like a collective endeavour.

On the TTC however, people look in while concurrently looking nowhere. During rush hour, it's headphones, daily newspapers, blank stares and napping. Essentially, riding Toronto Transit was the direct opposite of navigating Kabul. On a subway car full of people you might as well be alone. In an armoured SUV driving through downtown Afghanistan, the three people around you become, temporarily, your world and your lifeline.

* * *

I've noticed that when people ask me how the trip was, I am reluctant to talk about it. Maybe I'm just being greedy, wanting the experience for myself, at least until I get to produce a body of artwork from it. This reluctance is something that puzzles me and I'm trying to figure out.

Home (or what passes for it)

2012-01-12T18:44:00.000-08:00

Outbound legs on the C17:

7+5+4=16hrs flying time

Inbound legs on the C17: 4+5+3+2+8=22hrs flying time

38hrs flying time total!

It was a haul to get home, that's for sure, but it was a pretty excellent trip back none the less. Highlights include a day in the southwestern Germany town of Trier. Trier with its Roman ruins, bible writing robot, German beer and Struedel; The Kuwaiti desert was sand-blown and overcast but I always enjoy a good, bleak vista; The aircrew were really great as well, letting me sit in the cockpit for one of the legs and chatting about one of mine and the captain's favourite books, "Wind, Sand and Stars."

More importantly though, they took me in a big way, offering me their company for dinner and drink in Germany as well as generally looking out for my welfare when I was just sort of dumped on them without (once again) the proper procedure or documentation.

So a big thanks to CanForce 4082 for getting me home and making the cavernous cargo hold (of which I was the only passenger) feel like a home of sorts.

A small and heartfelt thanks to the service member working the AMU check-in desk at Trenton for offering me a cot to sleep on. Otherwise it would have been an 80$ room for 4 hours of sleep, or the lesser option of crashing outside the Via booth in Trenton Crossing.

Thanks once more to everyone along the way: Canadian, Afghan, Coalition and otherwise who put me up, put up with me and gave me some pretty open access in theatre. The (hopefully) strong project to come from this should make tangible and entry point for those who raise a furrowed brow of mystery at the notion of soldiering.

Production starts...

next week

Bye Bye Karzai

2012-01-08T05:45:00.000-08:00

I
am
done.

Before my final wakey, nocturnes

2012-01-07T08:07:00.000-08:00

Flying home tomorrow, the long way though: a three day flight to: I know not where.

Before that though there are a few shots around Phoenix that I want to take. Those include some nocturnes, if for no other reason than I love painting them. And I don't need another reason.

Interestingly, a US Army soldier stopped and asked me if I was allowed to take photos. The crank in me was a bit put out to be interrupted an challenged, but that sentiment is trumped by the fact that the guy didn't just assume, he made sure I was allowed to. OPSEC taken seriously is reassuring.

Meeting a Rock Star Moment

2012-01-05T08:41:00.000-08:00

A Number of years ago I read about and developed a mythological attraction to Ahmed Shah Massoud. In the simplest of terms, Massoud was the leader of the Northern Alliance, fighting both Communists and fundamentalists – during the years of Soviet occupation and through the ascendancy of the Taleban.

On Sept 09, 2001 he was assassinated by Al-Qaeda suicide bombers and is now considered a national hero to Afghanistan.

With the Pakistan chopper trip cancelled we drove out to the Afghan Border Police headquarters today and met Major General Khalil, one of the leaders of the ABP.

Asked to give a small presentation of my work to the general I noticed a portrait on the general's bookshelf and, asking if it was of Massoud, found out that the General was his personal pilot for 15 years. Some years back a did a small drawing of Massoud and, still having it on my laptop, showed it today.

After being interviewed on CBC Radio a few years back, I met Chris Hedges in the hall of the CBC building, he having also been interviewed that day. Today's meeting had a similar feel of being in proximity to someone/something that really resonated with me. In the case of Hedges it was his real and hard-earned insight on the draw to violence. In the case of the general it went right to the core of the noble warrior myth, of which I am suspicious but also recognize, on occasion, to have the authenticity of lived experience.

Below are photos taken going to and from the ABP HQ, with a portrait of the rightly proud looking General in front of a map of Afghanistan.

The deployment is almost over but today has given me a real tickle inside.

You Take the good, you take the bad

2012-01-04T19:28:00.000-08:00

After three weeks of dry weather the snow is falling in Kabul. In another situation that would be great. However the snow has twice forced a cancellation of my Blackhawk chopper trip to the Pakistan Border. That is a bit of a bummer to say the least, but as I just wrote in an email,

"While it's disappointing, the option of crashing in the Hindu Kush and having to fend off Taleban and eventually survive on the flesh of my fellow travelers isn't all that appealing.
Well, it is in some ways, but those are the ways of fantasy, not the reality of bone and gristle.

I'm being taken on a tour of downtown Kabul in a couple of hours. That should be enjoyable, and you never know, there could be a bombing or a fire fight."

I'm leaving Camp Eggers today (home of ISAF headquarters and many shops) but before I depart, here are some shots of cats! As mentioned there aren't many feral cats here, but the ones that are around look tough.

Also below, a shot of the road move here, taken from a very bumpy road right around the time that locals were shining flashlights at our license plates. Not the best feeling, being caught in a tight, slow road at night, knowing people are tracking your movements.

Also, it's me right before the move.

From today's desk

2012-01-02T02:33:00.000-08:00

Less than a week in theatre left now and I'm leaving Dubbs soon, to go... I know not where. As always, rolling with the given scenario (letting the ground dictate) is the best way to not get frustrated.

Here a few images and commentary from today:

Firstly, Clouds! After 18 days in theatre I've seen the first cloudy day. And there's good old dirigible, keep watching.

There are plenty of feral dogs around, but there's usually own one Camp Cat, and here's Dubbs'. He's pretty skittish but this morning was really eagre for some attention. Sadly, touching the "pets" is a dangerous proposition, so all she and I did was chat. Chat avec Chat.

In the debate over whether bullet-proof glass stops bullets, the answer is yes. This was the SUV that drove us out to the old Soviet Garrison (see below).

The Old Soviet Garrison was a gold-mine of artistic decay and the layering of decades.

Standard practice was to use Soviet newspapers for wallpaper. But both before and after, patterned wallpaper was applied.

UXO New Year

2012-01-01T03:11:00.000-08:00

New Years, well, mine was a non-event, but the year started off well with a bonanza of portrait source material by way of an ANA staff meeting.

After lunch I got a call that more Soviet UXO had been found at The Queen's Palace. It wasn't too grand an outing (The Turks do the EOD) but, as with all things here, it's about the resulting images. And beginning your year by examining unexploded cluster munitions isn't all that bad.

From last night, here's a tree on the camp perimeter, followed by the first sunrise of 2012 over Kabul and finally some sweet UXO shots.

Happy New Year!

Why Things Are Seen

2011-12-31T04:20:00.000-08:00

While I've been taking photos I've been stewing on how to approach the painted component of this project. And the short answer might be: Go back to whence I came. Namely, working with patterns and negative space in conjunction with figuration. Some of my earliest concerns with figuration regarded the tension between illussionistic and flattened space but was an area of investigation I've moved away from over the last couple of years, partially out of the need to ask different questions.

Those questions regarded the power of myth and the draw to violence, but as neither are all that evident on Op Attention, I've been thinking myself in little circles trying to move forward... when backwards might be the solution.

The images below also relate nicely to what I imagine will be a photographic component with the very loose working title of Sibling Rivalry.

But for now, painting, and for your (and my) consideration, the below:

Hadji Don't Surf

2011-12-29T03:57:00.000-08:00

Looking down the egress behind the shacks here at Camp Phoenix it's easy to get lost. The sun is warm today and people walking this route can't help but kick rocks, sand and pebbles as they amble along.

In many ways, Phoenix and its ubiquitous yellow wooden beach umbrellas feels like an ad hoc island community. Sand, rocks, sun, umbrellas, folk in floppy hats, smoking or knocking back bottled water, these are all props in our grand illusion.

It is an island, and though almost everyone carries a firearm, the weapons become very easy to ignore, are just another element of apparel, sort of a fad – an item that seems necessary for the climate until you realize it isn't. The equivalent of a foam beer holder maybe.

We are locked out of time and place and so the name seems appropriate and the silty texture of pollution acts like a temporal binder, covering everything and rendering the transient as eternal. Burning haze hides the outside world (and for all we know, the outside world might have burnt away) and holds us in an atmospheric bubble, equidistant, but undefinable on all sides. It's a phantom distance that might be 500 metres or 5 light years. The noise of the air conditioners masks any sound from the world and even the choppers that circle appear only inside the haze.

Outside there is a war. Inside there are boardwalks and evening dance parties thrown by the Romanians. Blue skies and cigarettes, we walk the halls in shorts and flip-flops. And like any good beach culture, it takes all comers. soldiers arrive from around the world and over time, though they might not know it, they become surfers.

Like the sign says:

2011-12-28T03:45:00.000-08:00

"The light, the light" (The horror, the horror)

2011-12-28T03:43:00.000-08:00

I met Gary during my recent stay at Alamo and we enjoyed a few good chucklesover the US Republican primary race as well as a shared enjoyment of the lateBill Hicks. Gary, himself an American, went to school with Both Joyce DeWitt and David Letterman andso the quiet humour with which he delivered the following tale has a goodpedigree.

* * *

A while back an award-winning AP Photographer came to CampAlamo. He was taken around to see all the usual destinations: The Soviet tankpark, the acre upon acre of ANA recruits, the massive amount of infrastructureinvestment as well as the views from the surrounding hills. As Gary tells it, the photographer was wont to stare up at the sun – doing its usual battle with the pollutedhaze – and laconically bemoan, “the light, the light… I can’t work with this.”

After his time at Alamo and, assumedly, other camps aroundKabul, he went down south the the fighting. After some time down that way and trundling along with US soldiers ina HUMV he proclaimed that this was the most boring assignment he had ever beenon. Shortly thereafter his leg was blown off by an IED.

* * *

It should be emphasized that I'm not mocking the photographer and the tragedy that befell him. I'm here with a similar goal (if lesser stature) so if anything I recount the tale with a sense of black humour, and caution and empathy.

While I hold a similar desire to head south (as, Isuspect, do most of the fighting troops in Kabul) I’m quite fond of the hazylandscapes of Kabul, even if my pores and my camera are not. I also still have almost 2 weeks here, and like both my legs.

Heads and patches, deals and "the bug"

2011-12-26T05:16:00.000-08:00

Day 5 of my stomach bug. Thankfully there ain't much going on here.

Today, however, I did pick up a few custom patches and a baseball cap. While I was there I picked out some extra patches for my YYZ show. It seemed important to give the embroiders their due so I mentioned I'd be showing them in Canada and asked for a few business cards. The guy responded by also throwing 10 extra patches for free.

So in total: 20 patches and a baseball camp (with a velco rectangle on front) cost me $15!

I'll take a few patch photos in the coming days, but for now, apropos of nothing above, a few portraits of late, including 2 gems: 3VP guys in sweats, smoking and an ANA guy guarding a bedframe.

Okay, back to bed with me.

Predictably, Christmas

2011-12-25T06:46:00.000-08:00

The best compliment/hack I received today was, "What are you, the JTF2 Photographer?"

I'll try to avoid any overly predictable Christmas photos, and will preface them by saying Merry Christmas.

- Scottt

The above was found in the Chapel at Blackhorse, amongst other cards from American Kids.

My Little Afghan tummy buddy

2011-12-24T07:58:00.002-08:00

Leaving Blackhorse I picked up a lovely parting gift by way of an intestinal bug, but it's just part of the vacation package and more or less unavoidable.

So, here I am at Alamo, having spent my first couple of days laying pretty low.

Today though, I did a walk around the KMTC training area where the ANA recruits start from zero.

So until I'm a little peppier, here are a few photos from today.

Money and the draw to the shutter

2011-12-21T18:22:00.000-08:00

Over thew last few days I've seen plenty, but one of the reoccurring topics of conversation is the staggering amount of money that the US is using the essentially create an army from scratch.

From a section of new recruits walking by, each with a brand new Barrett .50 cal sniper rifle, to parking yards filled with hundreds of brand new Hummers, brand new everything and anything, this army is awash with material. Unfortunately the soldiers sometimes go weeks or months without getting paid.

It should be mentioned though that it isn't all US gear. Much of the heavy gear - tanks and artillery is Russian, though I'm not sure where the money to purchase the larger weapon systems comes from.

While ogling all the gear I've met plenty of enthusiastic folk. Civilian contractors and Afghan soldiers, all ready for a smile, but of course like an unprovable equation those who are less than enthusiastic are unlikely to allow their photo to be taken. As I'm not a reporter I'm not going to try and sneak these things. Interestingly though, when asking the Afghan soldiers if I can take their portrait, like any new soldier, the smiles disappear and the stone-cold killer faces are turned on.

From Soviets to dogs and generosity of spirit

2011-12-21T06:32:00.000-08:00

Habibi is an interpreter ('Terp) for the Canadians and today he accompanied us as we went out to range control. Truth is I was surprised he was willing and even enthusiastic to have his photo taken, but for the most part, the 'Terps are eager. There seems to be a crucial difference between living here versus down south in the Pashtun region (i.e. Kandahar). On the way back we stopped by an old Soviet FOB, left over from the 70's. (Coincidentally, earlier in the day we met with an ANA Colonel who ran the dog battalion for the Soviets in the 70's!)

Habibi stands as a counter to the cautionary tale of the previous post, and so after traveling with him for an hour or so, myself and the Canadian soldiers were invited to the 'Terp mess hall. While he was a little disappointed that I wasn't going to eat the goat, the meal was a lovely affair, devoid of the over-processed selections at the American mess.

It was one of those moments when I felt very much like this project had some real merit. Specifically, I might have the ability to lessen the gap between our beliefs regarding Afghanistan and the contradictory, depressing but also life-affirming and giving reality of its people.

A side point about the US mess. All food comes with a list of its nutritional value and general merit. Certainly it's worthwhile to know what you're putting into your body, but such caution seems typically contradictory. Cookies, muffins, cakes and abound, as do ice cream bars and coolers filled with pop. No such sillyness occurs in the 'Terp mess. Sure there are French fries and a can of pop for each person at the tables, but at the same time the quantities consumed seem practical and also - crucially - the 'Terps seem less concerned with the minutia of managing their lives, of counting each calorie.

A Cautionary Tale

2011-12-20T07:42:00.000-08:00

Down the line of shacks on the edge of Camp Blackhorse there's a small mod
structure with an aluminum exterior. It's equivalent to the portable offices you'd
find on construction sites. Above the door of this particular mod a fluorescent light
is kept on 24/7. Until a few months ago it acted the living quarters of a civilian
contractor working at the base.

Though information is thin, the basic facts are that he decided, on a day off, to go
into Kabul by himself. A while later his decapitated body was found. And so the light
remains on above the doorway as a small memorial to a life lost but also as a
cautionary tale to those who think Kabul is a place to go wondering around as a
tourist. It's a quiet, brutal reminder that there are people all around who may or
may not want to kill us.

And while quiet monuments to the fallen are taken as granted in this environment
this can easily be seen as a monument to folly.

Camp Blackhorse

2011-12-19T07:24:00.000-08:00

Blackhorse is where my project really begins. In the first day: Roaming, super-friendly feral dogs, a Soviet Tank-park and Afghan recruit training.

As it turns out, both the dogs and the soldiers are pretty affable. The soldiers especially responded to the camera sort of like squirrels respond to nuts. That's a bit of a put down, unless you love squirrels.

Being a socially standoff-ish sort it was a real relief to find out how much the Afghans want to have their photos taken. It's then even more relevant to compare the relative disinterest of some of the Cdn. Soldiers to the camera. That's not to say the Canadians don't care, but the Afghans certainly prick up their ears and bust out the grins and hand signs when a camera swings in their direction. And maybe part of the contrast is that the Canadians are jealous, that, as I was told recently, they want to be down south with the fighting.

All of a sudden I feel much better about what's going to come of my deployment and it would be amiss to exclude thanks to the Canadian Officers and NCOs who have really made me feel welcome and helped me get going, especially considering I showed up in theatre missing some key documentation.

Sunrise over Kabul

2011-12-17T18:58:00.000-08:00

Just a short post as I'm about to leave Phoenix for Blackhorse (This is something I'm allowed to say).

Coming out of the PX from my morning Machiato I saw a ziplock bag with a set of false teeth (metal incisors) hanging on a cork-board.

It's pretty boring here, but I've been compensating by having the weirdest, most unsettling dreams.

But let us not speak of such things: Instead, a smoggy sunrise over Camp Phoenix (Plus some water bottles)

Honor First, Coffee Second

2011-12-16T22:37:00.000-08:00

From the images I've posted so far, you'd think this place was abandoned. Besides the lovely, semi Brutalist-desert aesthetic that I find myself drawn to, there's the very practical issue of having to keep the privacy of the soldiers in mind. Folk in the background are fine and if I feel up to it I can ask individuals, but I have to be careful about placing humans in the frame without their permission. This is where the specifics of my project start to manifest themselves: namely, my reluctance to engage people who I don't know in conversation. This is repetition from earlier posts, but I think I'd make a lousy photojournalist.

However, I did ask the Mongolian band if I could take a couple of shots of them.

The most awesome uniforms so far are the Romanians when they wear their red and blue nylon PT gear. When I say that they look like armed football hooligans I assure you it's a compliment. I will do my best to take a shot of them, but cameras aren't allowed in the mess and that's the only place I've seen them.

Theatre Access

2011-12-16T08:28:00.000-08:00

Today I received my ISAF ID and signed my embedded journalist documents.

With the new found ability to take photos on base I took a quick stroll around the back of my quarters.

When I leave here for the next base I think the shots will become more exciting, but I do like the ambiance of these images. It's too bad you can't smell the cigarette butts that accompany them.

The Haul into Theatre

2011-12-15T20:00:00.000-08:00

Firstly, its important to state that I have to be careful what I type and what images I show. There are some pretty inflexible (but understandable) restrictions placed upon me in theatre. "Theatre" being Kabul.

We flew out of CFB Trenton aboard a C17 and by way of Germany and Kuwait made our way to Kabul. 7 hours, 5.5 hours and 4 hour legs respectively with stopovers for fuel and cargo.

The plane was super smooth the whole way and I imagined that a plane of this size and weight plows right through turbulence (making my phobia a non-issue).

When we crossed the border into Afstan, the red combat lighting came on and we were restricted to our seats in case evasive action was required. I've had several friends ask me if I'm nervous and as the red lights came on, I thought "nope, not yet."

From the sounds of it, once I get out of where I'm currently sequestered, the limits on photography will ease, but as I have yet to sit down with the PAfO (Public Affairs Officer) who'll tell me what I can and cannot photograph, there'll be no photos of the base.

Internet here ain't cheap and is a bit slow, but it is reliable so I'll post when I can.

Bye from the haze.

Creeping Death

2011-12-07T15:21:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I just can't resist using Metallica song titles.
The departure clock ticks down, though I'm not sure if anything will happen come H-hour.
Dec. 14 remains my flight date, but the arrival of my special passport and visa may or may not precede the flight. if it don't, other measures will have to be entertained.

Let's think positive though. Yesterday I filled in my Life insurance policy. See below:

I'm feeling confident enough that I wrote to a friend in Kabul and told him I was coming. He's been at it long enough to know that even though I say, and am told, I'm coming, there ain't no guarantees.

With self-serving interest I've been reading of the recent bomb attacks in Afghanistan. Skipping my sadness at the loss of human life, this is what I'm thinking:
"Hmm, some amount of action/carnage would be great, would make my trip feel "legitimate" but at the same time, if things are too hairy, CEFCOM might pull the plug." What I'm looking for, if I can be completely ruthless, is the right amount of violence.

The outrage you might feel towards me for typing the above is obviously justified, but if nothing else I'm trying to be honest. Segueing into talk of exhibitions, so far I have three venues confirmed for this project and am, accordingly, trying to get a handle on what these shows will look and read like.

If there's one constant in most of my practice it is an attempt to contextualize the gap between markers. Whether it be civvie and soldier or painting and photograph, it is the naming of a void that compels me.

So when I write about seeking the perfect amount of violence, see that such a statement manifesting the gap between what some find terrible and others find sublime.

And finally, I'm having a small going away party. If you've read down this far and can make it, please come out to Magpie in Toronto, Dec. 12 @1900hrs. If possible I'll get the bar to play The Pogues.

Shots and shots

2011-11-22T09:34:00.001-08:00

And in today's seeming lead up to deployment:
Inoculation and the purchase of a back-up camera.

It was part 1 of a 2 needle treatment (plus a very tasty Life Saver lollipop) to immunize me against Hep A/B and malaria. The follow-up shot is next week.

Then it was off for a camera shopping. My budget is tight and I just need a secondary camera for a backup as well as use within the confines of crowded armoured SUVs. It wasn't my first choice but the Fuji XP30 I came home with can take a hit, is small, shoots HD etc. etc. No GPS though. Sigh.

Other'n buying a second battery for the Rebel and one of those funny, tiny Gorillapod Tripods I think I've bought everything needed. It seems best to not think of all the cash I've plonked down on gear for the three trips this year.

That sucker was really tasty.

Drawing my way to nothing

2011-11-20T18:50:00.001-08:00

The evening's work is below.

Slowly I'm getting to the point where I need to start understanding this project on a macro scale. There are many angles and trajectories (my second favourite word) to consider and one of the best ways to sort stuff out is making tiny drawings or paintings. The scale is so intimate and I generally do them on a tattered piece of cardboard wedged into my desk. These small pieces are really evidence of investigation. At least to me, the end result is an object, but it's the detached investigation – loose and undetermined – that takes place while I draw that seems most worthwhile.

And that is at least part of what this project will be: a consideration of the subjective view of the works; how a viewer will think about these soldiers, how the soldiers felt about me and vice versa. It's the "misreadings" that carry the weight. To the grunts, I am an artist, to the art audience I'm often seen as an ex-soldier. To the soldiers, art viewers are aliens possessed of strange habits and to that same viewing audience, the grunts are defined by the many cultural depictions of them that already exist.

What I wanted to say was this: I don't know where this project will actually go until I get over to and return from Kabul. Hopefully both the escape and return will take place, but until then, the largest part of the project is an unknown.

So until then, here's a small (6"x6") drawing that stands for me wondering if I'll be scared, bored, amputated, thrilled and/or perplexed by the city of Kabul.

Tombstone

2011-11-15T17:43:00.001-08:00

The Army is chock full of acronyms and abbreviations, enough to be considered its own, exclusionary language.
"Tombstone" however, is simple and ironic.
And today I submitted my Tombstone Data in preparation for my departure for Kabul.
• Passport number
• Passport expiry date
• Date of Birth
• Security clearance
• Contact info
• Emergency contact info
• Ballistic helmet size
• Ballistic eyewear size
• Fragmentation vest size

On another form there's a request for blood type.

So, it's starting to feel real. While I still might get told "no" at the last minute, I seemed to have cleared the all-important CEFCOM Gatekeeper hurdle.
If it goes as planned, I'll be leaving Dec. 08ish but I currently have no idea how long I'll be there for.
A piece at a time is all I can ask for it seems.

Current daytime highs are around 17c. Just like Toronto but with War Rugs. And War.

Profile in The Toronto Star

2011-11-13T10:26:00.001-08:00

As it's germane to this project, here's a link to Saturday's piece in The Star.

And this great, gaunt photo of me.

Sgt. Gillis

2011-11-06T08:27:00.000-08:00

These days it's kinda hard to get any work done on this project, but this morning I did a quick drawing of Sgt. Gillis, based on a photo taken during the departure process. I don't really draw in graphite/pencil much, but I had a moment of inspiration while talking to a couple of my York students last week.

Here he is:

The Fallen

2011-10-31T15:34:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I sent a thank you email to the CO and DCO of 3VP. There was a bit of friendly back and forth and a commitment to stay in touch.

The next day, the Battalion had its first fatality on the training mission to Kabul. Master Cpl. Byron Greff was killed with 16 other NATO members by a 700KG vehicle-borne bomb.

I have steered clear of posting "news" pieces but it seems that with my closeness to the Btn. and the project existing because of the access they have been kind enough to grant me, I ~~should~~ want to pay a small mention to the first soldier from the battalion to die in theatre.

The very blurry place between documentation and personal investment is a topic of tangible interest to me as an artist. But the death of a husband, father and member of the Regiment is the more important reason for me as a former member of 3PPCLI.

A list of the PPCLI fallen can be viewed here

And in summary (of Alberta and part 2)

2011-10-21T19:06:00.000-07:00

I've been back a couple of days now and thought a short highlights list might be a spankin' way to post without having to think too hard. So, and in no particular order:

- Seeing Neil Connors for the first time in 19 years. Same dude, just older.

- Watching a double leg amputee Tank driver from the Strathconas dancing and hitting on women at the shitkicker bar we went to in Calgary

- Sunrises out on the dropzone

- The gracious hospitality and support of 3VP (Thanks especially to CO, Maj. Barry and DCO, Maj. Innis)

- Hanging out with Dan and Steve, 2 of my oldest friends (Steve beats Dan by 5 years but at our ages 5 years ain't much)

- Flying back into Toronto and descending through a Thunderstorm (I have a fear of turbulence which I am learning to manage). Then being met at the airport by Shannon with welcome home bowls of cereal.

- Getting drunk, dancing and, later, vomiting on Steve's lawn. Like Craig said after the fact, "Once a Patricia, always a Patricia."

- Mickey the Beaver

- The skid bar in Red Deer. "The Vat"??

- Having a pint at The Jr. Ranks.

In closing, a few more photos:

Jumping photos: Griffon

2011-10-18T10:33:00.000-07:00

Too tired to think of anything salient to write.

Until my muddled and groggy mind clears, here are photos from yesterday's first day in the air.

Interlude

2011-10-16T17:18:00.000-07:00

I've been away from Edmonton and 3VP for a few days now. On Thursday I hopped back on The Pooch to give a talk at The Military Museums. The talk went well (though I'm often pretty self-critical in the aftermath) and had enough interest by way of audience questions.

After that though, myself and a select few folk went to a fundraising event for PPCLI family support at some shit-kicker bar whose name eludes me. It was great to get to hang out with Patricia's past and present, but later on, things got nicely out of hand.

I haven't danced at a bar or barfed afterwards for quite some time, but the old breed got me in the old mood. Dancing by myself as well as with both dudes and ladies, shots of crappy whiskey and too many bottles of Bud might have just been the ideal coda to a talk about military memoir projects.

The next day I sent an email to another old army buddy (we're all old now) and his response to the antics was perfect: "Once a Patricia, always a Patricia.

It's also worth mentioning that, after watching an LDSH ("Strat" for short)tanker chat up a married woman on the dance floor, it was pointed out that he was a double amputee (IED). If you watched his jean legs when he danced you could tell his legs weren't fully there. Otherwise though, he danced, he flirted, he got drunk. Once a Strat, always a Strat.
(Drinking companion, Mr. Morse is below)

* * *

Today though I'm in Red Deer. Tomorrow night I'm giving another guest lecture, this time at Red Deer College. I took a ride around town (after my run around town). Here are a few choice items of Red Deerness.

Ways of Leaving

2011-10-12T20:35:00.000-07:00

This evening a contingent of soldiers left for Kabul. Below are some photos from that event. It was, as might be imagined, a pretty emotional evening. That was, however, cut with the administrative task of clearing the soldiers on their way. In one of the photos, a green curtain can be seen cutting mid-frame. This curtain divided the families from the troops until the clearing out was done.

All in all, it was a slightly off-kilter process that I nonetheless felt thankful to be invited to.

Early morning keener

2011-10-12T07:41:00.000-07:00

Keener? Maybe.

This morning I slept in 2 hours later than yesterday, getting up at 4 instead of 2am so I could go for a run with the jump course. Visually, it wasn't that meaty, but it was pretty interesting to feel a bit like a knob.

"Artist goes for Run with soldiers" is something I'm pretty sure I read in The Onion.

Plus a couple of unrelated shots from yesterday.

Welcome to CFB Edmonton

2011-10-11T19:09:00.000-07:00

Hello from CFB Edmonton.

Though my day began at 2am with a Greyhound from Red Deer, it's been a pretty straightforward day of getting to the base.

For now, here's a fairly limited post of some of the photos taken as I went out with the Jump serial candidates to the Mock Tower (where, from a limited height they learn how to jump from a moving airplane, or chopper.

But also though, I'd be pretty amiss if I didn't mention how generous the Battalion has been with me so far. Allowing me to wander around taking photos as well as (most likely) going up in Griffon Helicopters and Hercules transports is pretty awesome of them. But I was super surprised at the fancy digs they've put me up in. As I type this, Commando is playing on the flatscreen TV thanks to the selection of DVDs in my apartment.

So thanks to the CO, Maj. Kevin Barry, DCO, Maj. Quentin Innis and members of B Coy.

More to follow, but I'm pretty pooped so for now, just some photos.

Open the ramps. Get Ready.

2011-10-03T20:03:00.000-07:00

This is a purely functional post to say:

I'm off to CFB Edmonton this Sunday for 10 days of documenting airborne trining, heavy weapons course and troop deployment to Kabul.

While in AB I'm also giving a couple of lectures, one at Red Deer College and the other at The Military Museums.

The TMM Talk features snacks and cocktails prior to my talk so if you feel inclined and are in the area, information can be found here

http://www.themilitarymuseums.ca/lecture-topics-current

Also, by the end of November I should have my first printed manifestation of this project.

Ways of Leaving, Ways of Living will be partially pulled from these blog pages but also feature related short writing. The plan right now is to premiere it at Expozine in Montreal.

http://www.expozine.ca/en/

If possible I'll add content while I'm out west. Otherwise it'll have to wait until I'm back on the 19th of October.

The Graceful Arc [a work in progress]

2011-09-17T12:20:00.000-07:00

The basic premise of indirect fire is that the explosive projectile travels on an arc, with such a trajectory allowing it to land in a defile or atop a ridge. The result of such fire is often out of the sight line of the firer, but is dearly felt by the enemy. This means that, to the living, the results of destroying a human body remain as an intact mystery.

* * *

The 60MM mortar leaves its short, dark tube relatively benignly, certainly more so than the direct fire flash and roar of machine guns or rockets. But therein lies part of its allure. There is a small wwhump and as the round leaves the tube there is a slow, almost languid passage. Over this short life you can watch the effects of a mathematical exchange between propellant charge and gravity, the moment at the apex of all flight where one cedes control to another.

You feel connected, watching the round’s rise and drop, and feel its certainty because it is the certainty of a natural scale. Not the flash and roar of a rocket or the futuristic flare of a tracer round. With the mortar you gain the out-of-body experience of flight and fall culminating with an exclamation point of dirt and dark smoke. And here comes the echoing refrain of a distant Krump, of high explosive and steel shrapnel forcing its way into dirt and rocks and maybe flesh. Slicing back through the air it traversed in its previous guise as aviary proxy.

And if you feel connected to the mortar, you might also feel connected to its outcome; a distant but incontrovertible fury, as you explode and pass through these items. You smell, ever so fleetingly, moisture, dirt, rot, iron, the burning of fabric and skin and hair. Slowing down as the energy is absorbed by the world, you come to rest in the quiet and damp of the ground, a ground whose qualities are not that different from the overcast skies above.

* * *

The mortar’s life is that of a rainbow.

It is a pair of punctuation marks bracketing a whispered sentence that you might live to regret hearing.

The mortar's life is that beauty – it is the wounding of nature.

The Space between Spaces

2011-09-01T19:36:00.000-07:00

Hogboy's right, I've been letting this coast for too long.

This evening I finished Tim O'Brien's "In The Lake of the Woods" [see quote and reference in the post below] and it's left me feeling a bit unhinged and more than a bit alone.

My date with 3VP Jump School is still going ahead and I've been thinking about what it will be like up in the Herc or Griffon, when the guys jump out.

So below is a short, rough work of fiction. Let me say that again: Fiction.
----------------------------------------------

There’s a rumble outside. It’s not as clockwork as it should be.

Metal on metal – a rolling rush of polishes steel reverberating through concrete and subtly influenced by variables: The day's humidity, the various passengers and the distracted guy carrying tattered reusable shopping bags waiting at the crosswalk as the streetcar trundles by. This sound is one of the sounds of living downtown, of which there are legion. Some are known, some guessed at and some are near-universal but only grant comfort when heard in familiar circumstances.

On a good and rare day, standing on the sidewalk a brief moment of emptiness comes on, grows out the humid air. Traffic ceases, squirrels vanish and even the clouds draw to a stop. If you’re quick you can run out into the street and bask like a Marmot on a warmed rock, letting the fleeting emptiness overtake you as all sound, all motion enter a void.

And then of course it’s gone.
* * *
At some time in the near future a ramp slowly opens onto a blackened void and the night air begins rushing in with a sound similar to the streetcar. At four thousand feet, the muffled reverberations turn from streetcar to freight train and the effect is an inversion of that moment on the sidewalk, as emptiness now comes from the fullness of a world you feel but don’t see.
If you crane to peer over the lowered rear ramp through those four thousand feet, the flickering and staccato lights of farmland are offered up: porch lights, dirt roads with flashing four way stops, the twin headlights of the occasional truck. It is a clear drop all the way down to the world of evening radio, warm coffee in chipped mugs and jogging pants worn on those same porches. A clear drop from one world down to the other.

The guys in front of you are geared up, walking like human land crabs, harnesses uniformly constraining, chutes uniformly packed. Other than height they are the same person repeated as if seen in two opposing mirrors. Bunched up behind each other, waiting for the commands and the changing lights that will admit them into the space between spaces. One after the other they fall off the ramp shifting instantly from burdened and stooped to detached and non-existent.

Following them out you’re hit by the conundrum of violence and nothingness. Is there a wind or is it created solely by your rush and pull, your relationship with gravity? And if you wish it, are you then simply one other element of that rush? Instead of a person you become little more than evidence of the earth’s rotation, evidence of the inevitable conclusion to fighting the world.

If you could speak would it be heard? This is a thought that quickly collapses into itself. Attempting to make words, they’re pushed back inside – yet more evidence that you just.don’t.exist. Shouting out the names of those you love, they’re held fast at your lips and just as quickly pushed back inside you, where they belong.
Repeating the names as often as you can while your body accelerates to terminal velocity.
Storing them up in your lungs and belly, filling yourself with these last unheard manifestations of love.
Though they are warm words that fill you with an arguable sense of living’s worth, they aren’t enough to arrest your descent. Though you can’t see them yet, the warmth of the porch coffee comes up to meet you, a last intimate and human sharing of a moment you thought long ago lost.

Where'd I go?

2011-09-01T09:20:00.000-07:00

Hogboy was just complaining that activity on this blog has been slow of late.

He's right. Partially I am waiting until I have more source content to add, partially it's because time on this project has gone to a large painting that is nearing completion.

There's also the guilty pleasure of "Commando Cats" taking up more time than it should. But man, Cats+Soldiers... it's hard to say no.

See below.

However, I've also been doing a chunk of project related reading including a few Tim O'Brien books. I've quoted him here before but this morning I read this little nugget from, "In The Lake of the Woods"

"Other times he could see a man and woman swallowing each other up like that pair of snakes along the trail...first the tails, then the heads, both of them finally disappearing forever inside each other. Not a footprint, not a single clue. Purely gone – the trick of life. The burdens of secrecy would be lifted. Memory would be null. They would live in perfect knowledge, all things visible, all things invisible, no wires or strings, just that large dark world where one plus one will always come to zero."

-----------------------------------

The Intersection of Military Non-Fiction and Christian Contemplation (layout test)

2011-08-25T16:34:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to try and figure out how the body of work so far might work in a gallery setting. To that end, here are 3 text panels. The writing is found earlier in the blog. Here it is edited and envisioned as an element that sits in proximity to the photo at bottom.

My history of Violence (depictions)

2011-08-07T19:07:00.000-07:00

The larger paintings of this new project are just now underway while I wait for my trip to Jump School in Edmonton.It's still early though and I'm regularly trying to figure out its context and content. I'm not really the sort to sweat understanding my own grand vision when it comes to a project, not until its complete. As of today my plan is 6-8 large paintings which might be all landscapes, short and long form writing and photography. That's a pretty broad description, but for now it's enough.

I also often think about the larger trajectory of my "career" as a whole, and if you were to look at my figurative work from 2005, my weapons paintings of the last 2 years, and what I'm doing now, well, the visuals – the formal content and methodology – can seem pretty inconsistent. I have friends whose work changes incrementally over the years, but I've always seen my projects as stand-alone entities. Once finished I feel free to jump ship. But the issues remain consistent: The fraternities of violence, the power of myth and the archetypal quest, utopic possibilities.

So I often think of my projects in terms of a life's work, something to be seen after decades... which is the height of irony since it regularly seems impossible that I'll last more than a couple more years.

The Ginch Camp, 2005

Domestic Violence (Harrier Mk.2), 2006

Intern Insertion, 2006

Keifer on OP, 2007

Totem: Urgayle (GI Jane), 2010

Nocturne: Waiting, 2011

Propaganda vs. distance

2011-07-29T15:30:00.000-07:00

Last week I thought I might be going to Kabul in August. Now I know I'm not.
This has bummed me out for sure. This summer has been a... difficult stretch of months and the idea of spending the waning days in Afstan was pretty buoying.

This post isn't a venue for me to bemoan my lot, but rather give some context for working under the auspices of CFAP.

The initial point of departure for most conversations of official war art is propaganda. The great thing about CFAP is that there is no such thing. More to the point the distance between the artist and the military (except for your limited time with the soldiers) is huge to the point of being infinite. The other side of this relationship is there's no guarantee your body of created work will ever see the light of day if you don't hustle for yourself. Certainly, for the most part, the military is indifferent.

The more problematic ingredient of this distance is that while CFAP is very eagre to get artists onto their project, the military proper is potentially (far) less so. This is much more the case when dealing with operational issues... hence me not going to Kabul in August. If immersion in military culture is important for these projects, then dealing with the specific bureaucracy of the Army is just part of the larger process. If, however, you have a specific goal, that CFAP supports, but The Army (or CEFCOM) sees as a distraction, or even a liability, then it's best to not put other plans on hold.

My plans now are as follows:
Mid October: CFB Edmonton (B COY. and Jump School). 7-10 days
December: Camp Phoenix, Kabul Afghanistan. Anywhere from 7-28 days.

Interlude

2011-07-29T09:18:00.000-07:00

I'm reading John Krakauer's "Where Men Win Glory", his book about the life, death and betrayal of Pat Tillman (at the hands of the US Army). While it seems to be affecting me more than I though it would, for now, I'll simply offer this quote found at the beginning of Part 4:

"He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despite, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."
- Aeschylus, Agamemnon

You might not agree with it, but for good or bad, I mostly learn through loss.

I Used to Live Here. Mind if I Look Around? (pt.2)

2011-07-25T18:10:00.000-07:00

If I describe him as a mouse it is too casual (and likely insulting) a description which is nonetheless intended to evoke a charming, avuncular quality imbued with a long and considered understanding of this house, its charms and its perils. Warrant Officer Rich Davey is the Company Sargeant Major of Adm. Coy. And will be my tour guide over the next 9 days. The length of his knowledge goes back a generation, goes back to when he was a junior NCO and I a private. We trade names and stories of guys still in, now out; names of the fallen, the forgotten and the remembered. Loitering around Call Sign 8 (the Adm. Coy HQ) a few days later, a passing W.O. makes the comment that the army is personality driven. This truism is something I am counting on as getting thrown in with a battalion of soldiers can be – as an understatement – a somewhat alienating experience.

WO Davey’s seen a number of retoolings of the Canadian Forces over his career. From Cold War Soviet Bloc training scenarios, through Balkans (no) Peace (to) Keep(ing) up to the great shift into front line Afghan combat. I’ve come knocking at yet another renovation, that of an Afghan training mission, a mission currently defined in only the broadest of strokes and, owing to this newness and vagueness, still embodying the combat ethos. It is an army that, though seemingly contradictory, has gotten more affable as it has gotten tougher. Surely the screaming Sergeants Major still pop their heads up, but they now seem to be the aberration. Maybe I’m just catching a very limited view or maybe the realities of buddies dying and getting fucked up has put priorities in order. When such trauma is spoken of, it’s with the casualness allowed for those who’ve suffered and carried on. Black bracelets are worn to commemorate the lost; double-amputations are discussed akin to root canals, as things you definitely don’t want to have happen.

In C/S8 soldiers troop in – mud-caked boots and combat pants – on various administrative matters. As the civvie in the corner I've claimed a chair and portion of table where I sketch, jot notes, sip hot, mango-flavoured energy drink and ambiguous coffee. The civvie in the corner is ignored, nodded at, engaged in small talk, offered more coffee and the occasional baked good (Exercise Dessert Ram to some) but also let me be. And as the stranger who’s taking dumps in their porta-potties, eating too much of their toast and generally loitering while they discuss family business, I am grateful. Some are suspicious, as they are of any outsider who comes pokin’ around. Remnants of hazing videos, The Somalia inquiry and the death of the Airborne Regiment still colour relations between soldiers and those who document them, but at the same time, these New Millennium soldiers are accustomed to a media presense in a way we never were at the Cold War’s demise. In effect there is a zero-sum loss; I am a measuring device who alters the results far less than I might have thought.

I Used to Live Here. Mind if I Look Around? (pt.1)

2011-07-22T08:41:00.000-07:00

Below is the first, semi-rough, portion of a long form piece that should encompass all (3 or 4) of my trips to visit the Battalion.
-------------------
There’s a photo of our house on 9^th Ave. – long and uninspriring – its modification at the hands of my father speaks well of his practical nature and shows a clear demarcation where the small, cottagesque charm was repeated, its proportions drawn out into an awkward ratio. 857 9^th Ave. has a reasonably sized frontage stretching out in the back to include a large garden, with the more exotic gooseberries sitting alongside the quotidian carrots and cabbage. At the far southern edge, a row of fruit trees offered up the pears and plums that would herald my Mum’s first experience in canning. Over the winter, plum jam would be rationed out, wax seals would be removed and residual flecks picked out with the tines of a fork. New to Canada from Northern England (the land of canned milk) and even newer to the west kootenays, our backyard was where I learned to cast a fishing and where I learned to shoot, at first a .177 air-pistol and later a handsome, wood-stock Russian-made air rifle of the same calibre.

Under this umbrella of childhood I also killed my first animal, a crow, as it sat poking around across the road. Though here I will tip into gravitas, it is easy for me retroactively call this act a tipping point childhood. From the halcyon qualities of gooseberry and plum jam to that first mortal sin and my increasing insulation as a response to the xenophobia of the village’s redneck majority, the slide towards teenage malaise began right around there. We left the Kootenays in 1984 but at some point before then we had a visitor, a stranger who showed up at the front door asking to look around the house, their former home. Surprising then, the desire to go home is the desire that colours my early middle age.

* * *

Boots suck into the pudding that turns to chocolate milk and, at best porridge, defining all egress through the training area. The day before I flew out to Exercise Desert Ram, I was called to ensure that I brought a good pair of warm, high rubber boots. For that I am so very grateful.

Slopping east along one of the arterial dirt roads with Pte. Caldwell, here begins my first contact with the Third Battalion of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry as I prepare to enter the house left behind almost two decades ago. As it turns out, Caldwell and I both lived in Kelowna for stretches and his Battle School instructor was my Battle School peer. These surprising commonalities make the trip comfortable but also give me optimism about the myth of going home again.

(trying to) Getting Ahead of Myself

2011-07-13T14:52:00.000-07:00

My domestic life is a weird thing these days. An occasionally wonderful, often sweaty and sometimes downright devastating mess of days and weeks.

So today when I talked with Shannon at CFAP and she was optimistic about my chances of going to Kabul twice (once on my own dime), including August, I felt like I had been offered chance at a reset button.

Once off the phone I walked over to No Frills, listening to The Rural Alberta Advantage and shopped for produce and cereal in a stomach tightening sense of building glee. Fuckin' right: Glee.

A little while back I ran into a curator friend outside a pointless photo exhibit. Telling him about this project, he was excited about it, but said that he'd never enter the notion of going to Afstan, notr would he enter the notion of ever being inclined to do such a thing.

[This para has been edited. I have such a hard time describing the draw and need to do better than I did on the first edit]

The other Shannon and I have had many difficult conversations where I tried to explain the draw. During those times I'd sometimes offer generalities about the importance of war art or the desire to contribute something specific to the world - something I have a relatively unique perspective on. All these things are true. But at the same time, there's the other truth: How do you explain that you're drawn to your own mortality; to activating a life where choices are designed to increase danger; to finding a version of yourself on that precipice? Is that even the case? Maybe there's a part of me that doesn't want to be happy, and looks for ways to circumvent the (until recently) happy little domestic world I had a hand in creating. Or more likely, my desire is to have both: to balance the world and to find joy where it exists in relation to where it does not

I don't know the answers to these possibilities, but just like the scene in Donnie Darko, I feel like there's an invisible tapewormhole pulling me east.

So, here's the results of my shopping trip. If you care to, imagine me hovering my way through the supermarket, buying cranberry pop, Corn flakes and grapefruits, while my mind wonders how much "War Zone insurance" costs and whether there'll be breakfast cereal at the Camp Phoenix mess.
In addition to the full fridge (full for me), note the photo of "The Kid". The most important part of my life.

small heads

2011-07-07T18:27:00.000-07:00

While writing I've also been working on a number of small portraits: both in ballpoint and paint. The purpose of these sketches isn't clear to me, and at this point in time they act as both a repository for thinking and evidence of the same.

There's some amount of difficulty in renaming yourself as a writer/painter rather than the converse, so perhaps these sketches are an anchor for myself and the visual art world I occupy.

With a project that's going to run over a couple of years I need to resist the tendency to get shit done right away. Time is required: Time to distill, to evolve and devolve. One of things that painting and drawing has over writing is the very tangible reference to time. The mark (especially in paint) is imbued with a temporal quality not so readily grasped in the written product. And if I am to paraphrase/butcher Dave Hickey, the greatness of portrait painting is that it brings the dead, the past into the present, it insists through its very process, on life.

With that in mind, a few sketches: The painted ones are 12"x9", acrylic and oil on masonite, the drawing are around 8"x6", ballpoint on Moleskine

Justify my love

2011-07-06T09:05:00.000-07:00

The other day, Aaron (Formerly and affectionately known as "hog boy") wrote me about how he still holds fast to his memories of being in "The Reg." Specifically, he was recounting tales of a Sergeant named Weathers (affectionately known as "Psycho"). Coincidentally, that very morning, I'd be telling a Psycho story.

The thing I like most about Tim O'Brien books (other than some spectacular paragraphs: see below) is that he has dedicated his writing career to understanding that one year period where he fought in Vietnam. It makes me feel a bit more legitimate in my attempts to understand my own time as a peace-time grunt, in my attempts to contextualize and crystallize the experiences of myself and other Canadian grunts, past and present.

For Aaron, I think he sometimes wonders why it holds him so fast after so many years. Certainly I wonder this too. Why do I still read license plates phonetically while running? Why have I allowed my artistic practice to be so singularly focused? I'd be pretty interested in making art about Quantum theory and the gifts of the universe.
But wait, that's exactly what I am doing, just down the barrel of a 5.56MM rifle.

Today, Maj. Kevin Barry, CO of 3PPCLI, called me, in an email to one of his officers, "a friend of the Regiment.". And I felt that I had made one more step back into the thing I ran so hard and fast from 2 decades ago. In short, I felt pleased, validated and successful. Or maybe what I'm doing is ghettoizing myself. Time will tell. Time is also what turns kittens into cats.
----------

From Tim O'Brien's, Going After Cacciato

"Insight, vision. What you remember is determined by what you see, and what you see depends on what you remember. A cycle, Doc Peret had said. A cycle that has to be broken. And this requires a fierce concentration on the process itself: Focus on the order of things, sort out the flow of events so as to understand how one thing led to another, search for the point at which what happened had been extended into a vision of what might have happened. Where was the fulcrum? Where did it tilt from fact to imagination?"

And Back Again

2011-07-03T11:56:00.001-07:00

All through the literature and remembrances of conflict you'll find a denunciation of the official motivations for fighting. Specifically, soldiers reinforcing that why they fight is to support the guy on either side of them. That really has little to do with the aftermath of war though, of those things that we might actually gain and benefit from as a collective entity. This has nothing to do with winning and losing, building roads, defeating oppression, but has everything to do with what we learn about ourselves afterwards.

When this blog started a while back, my friend Josh wrote to me with a short succinct note, saying, "Understanding the deepest roots of conflict is part of the pathway to a more peaceful and enjoyable life and planet."

Josh looks (I would offer the compliment) the hippie and not the sort to support military intervention and so I was especially pleased by his observation.

[Recognizing that I should really stop quoting Restrapo, allow me the following]

"I haven’t figure out how to deal with it inside. The only hope I have right now is that eventually I’ll be able to process it differently. I’m never gonna forget it, I’m never even gonna let go of it. I don’t wanna not have that as a memory because that was one of the moments that makes me appreciate everything that I have."
- Sgt. Aron Hijar, interviewed in Restrapo

I'm somewhat struck by these competing yet complimentary statements. That on the one hand, only by understanding violence will we learn the mechanisms to avoid it, but also, by undergoing severe trauma we might learn the true greatness of the lives we are given. That the knowledge gleaned from trauma might be able to trump the weight of that trauma is the difficulty and, it seems, for so many soldiers, that weight bears too heavy.

For his birthday, my friend Luca was taken to an indoor range and got to shoot a semi-auto M4 (M16 chassis). He and I were talking about how once you've shot one, then watching them used in movies gives you a tangible connection to the act – you can feel the push of recoil in your shoulder when it happens in the narrative of an action film.

This is the difficulty. Watching Restrapo, or Armadillo or any other combat documentary, what seems relevant is a means by which the viewer can tangibly connect to the soldier's descriptions of loss.

I will call this post unfinished.

the infinite universe, the fleeting universe

2011-06-26T11:02:00.000-07:00

A scenario/ an experiment:

A small column of drably painted and up-armoured SUVs rolls through the tight, rutted streets of Kabul. In this scenario there is an IED strike, and an SUV is suddenly rended upwards. After achieving the apex of its trajectory it – almost infinitely slowly – thumps back to the ground, resting on its side like a crumpled tetra-pak.

As ears ring and the lighter pieces of debris – granola bar wrappers and pages of a well-worn Maxam – make their own languid way to the now charred ground, the ripples and cracks from AK fire descend on the convoy.

The weight of your torso keeps you held in place in a half slump/half hang as the seatbelt buckle refuses to budge. And as you've done through the years, in moments where chance asserts itself, you think of that touchstone of quantum mechanical theories involving cats.

Rounds crack through shattered a windshield and there's only you and the rounds. They impact, walking towards you along the upholstery of the passenger seats, making little puffy craters as they do.

And at this point the world splits into 2 possible universes.

In one of these universes, looking into the impact holes you see the promise of darkness, isolated and infinite moments, the lulling embrace of the void. You think of the potential decades laid ahead and feel overwhelmed by the emotional drain of living in the days, weeks, months and years to come. You welcome the rounds closer. They are a friend who comes up to you and, speaking directly into your ear says, "Here I am. Let's leave this world."

In the other universe each of these impacts opens a tiny peephole through which you replay the world:
Eating Honeysuckle with your step-son on a grassy embankment in early summer.
Watching Swallows dip into the Yukon River at sunset, snatching up bugs in a marionette dance.
Smelling a thunderstorm as trees bend in anticipation of its arrival.

and you realize that you want to go home. To your friends and your city, to lovers and hipsters, hobos and dog parks. To the knowledge that those gleaming moments of joy are worth the pain that brackets them. And in this moment of revelation and grace you thank the universe for this war.

We burn the fat off their souls

2011-06-19T18:50:00.001-07:00

The title of this post is me misquoting Jarhead where a character quotes Hemmingway.

My friend Dan asked me (and I will take the license to infer) if I am... beatifying the soldiers? In the previous posts about spirituality and the land there is certainly the tendency to ennoble the grunts and their self-awareness.

While reporting during the disastrous Russian campaign of 1941, Vasily Grossman (that country's pre-eminent WW2 war correspondent) wrote of the soldiers,
"At war a Russian man puts on a white shirt. He may live in sin, but he dies like a saint. At the front [there is] a purity of thought and soul, a kind of monastic austerity.
The rear [the civilian part of the country] lives by different laws and it would never be able to merge morally with the front.... We Russians don't know how to live like saints, we only know how to die like saints."*

This tendency to elevate is, I suspect, a common tendency for cultural producers of war documents. It is also a well documented fact that infantry soldiers can be pigs. Using myself as example, Peeing on a pile of winter coats at a party or kicking someone in the face after they've already been hit unconscious, those are not the acts of a noble person.

Like Anthony Swofford or Siegfried Sassoon, the accumulation of time allows us to write from a position that doesn't forget the crass truth of the grunt, but does allow us to step past the specific actions and see that, retrospectively, there is much to be gained (spiritually and otherwise) from the infantry profession. But I, at least, needed a decade (and counting) to learn what those things are.

* A Writer at War, Edited and translated by Anthony Beevor and Luba Vinogradova

The intersection of military non-fiction and Christian contemplation (pt.2)

2011-06-16T08:13:00.000-07:00

As the congregation engages in low-key banter, the padre’s golden, cropped hair picks up the sun is a counterpoint to his reddened, wind-swept skin – the skin that defines field-time in Suffield. It is the other uniform and is the summation of working on the land; a complexion that’s accented by flecks of dry skin on noses and cheeks and bracketed by the heavy gauge boot dirt and slivers of dirt held fast under fingernails.

* * *

In as little as a month this cluster of young Christians will trade dirt for dirt, Alberta for Kabul or Mazar-i-Sharif. Even though theirs is a training mission – not open combat – it’s easy enough to envision scenarios where they’ll come in harm’s way. The notion of crusade seems a tired one, the refuge of zealots, and one can only imagine as much apprehension as enthusiasm defines the thoughts of these guys from 3VP.

There has been criticism (from the troops) regarding the relevance of brigade level training when the unit will shortly be broken down into SUV-sized training cadres. At the same time, one of the driving motivations of soldiers to chose this life is the chance to know yourself, meet you limits and eclipse the known world. And so in that regard all challenges serve this greater goal of self-awareness – a quality that some would claim the soldier to be distant from.

The monastic spirituality of The Badlands and combat soldiering come together with equal parts tension and reciprocity. Mud is fought against and constantly undermines the training (and to a lesser degree the morale), the utter lack of trees is a regular cause for complaint but the obvious truth is that the land is best seen as an indifferent ally, that which, if given its due can be utilized and used against a human adversary. Just like the farmers of The Prairies and The Dakotas who chose a hard life and a closer proximity to (what might be called) god, so too can the ardour of physically traversing and confronting the land provide the soldiers a truer sense of themselves.

The intersection of military non-fiction and Christian contemplation (pt.1)

2011-06-14T19:02:00.000-07:00

In the sprawling white mess tent the industrial fridges have been removed and the single-serving milk is now jumbled in plastic crates. Last bowls of Bran Flakes and Granola are being enjoyed before the battalion is placed on hard rations: aluminum bagged Lasagna or scrambled egg with salsa being some of the better options.

The prairie air is warming just as wholesale brigade pack-up picks up momentum. Within the battalion Combat support Coy. will be the first to go; snipers and recce spirited away in a night move while Adm. Coy., who have the task of returning the land to its pre-exercise state, will roll out last.

Halfway up the mess tent, a few benches have been formed into a hollow square facing the east. On this Sunday afternoon the padre is leading his weekly service to a small cluster of troops, photocopied scriptures in hand. Smiling and nodding along to the padre’s overtures, it’s easy to see his avuncular charm working its magic on these young believers.

Outside the tent the sun is tracing its way down the western horizon though there’s still ample light to shine through the plastic windows and cast ambient illumination on the white tarp walls. Positioned between a west and east window, the sun also alights the congregation and, notably, the padre’s western-facing golden mustache. Bushy but well-kempt it’s the personification of his personality. His is an approachable charm coupled with a subtle sense of detached contemplation (and a pocket full of mints) that imbues him with the air of the ideal badlands preacher.

* * *

Long snowy fingers still hold to the low ground across the impossibly large training area. Slowly and grudgingly they’re ceding to the grasslands underneath and bringing out a legion of prairie dogs. In this crawl towards spring the long blades are still dormant but already offer an ochre glow. These expanses, these possibilities and unpredictabilities of The Badlands quickly suggest the Terence Mallick film of the same name – the beauty and indifference of the land is clearly at play here, a play on – and of – its own terms. Those terms are most clearly defined by Kathleen Norris in her Badlands contemplative memoir, Dakota when she writes, "The Beauty of the plains is like that of an icon; it does not give an inch to sentiment or romance."

It might then seem a missed opportunity to hold the service inside, but that is to assume worship takes place here, when clearly, worship takes place on the land. Worship is the humping across snow fingers, through muddy lowlands and seasonal ponds; It’s walking the fire picket at the rise of the lodestar and rolling out in a convoy at daybreak with the eastern sun promising nothing except honesty. The Sunday service is simply a consolidation of what the land has already whispered as it whipped up last year’s grasses.

* * *

Within the mess tent, three weeks of meals and boots have worn the grasses down to barren swathes and swatches of dirt, with slivers of grass surviving only along the tent edges. Dirt and mud defined this Ex and the soldier’s boots confirm their experiences. Hardened pale mocha chunks of clotted earth hang like scabs off their wet-weather boots and if you were to only casually glance at the boots they might seem to emerge directly out of the dirt. Higher up the legs though, the dirt fades and the pixilated saturations of green and brown take over. It’s an easy, overly earnest metaphor to see these figures in CadPat camouflage as growing from this mud-scape; as technological proxy and precursors of the soon-to-be-reborn grassland.

Failing to be clear (clearing a failure)

2011-06-08T19:48:00.000-07:00

Last winter I had the pleasure of participating in a symposium at The Canadian War Museum. The basic premise was to look at the first 10 years of Canada's current war art program, CFAP.
You can watch me talk my talk here.

After the fact, a blogger out of Ottawa wrote a post about the event which included a brief mention of one of my self-portraits, "Deer in the Headlights". I'll do my best to be diplomatic here, but when I showed the image I made the point of talking about the gap between intention and perception in portraiture; about the (in)ability to transmit something relatively consistent between artist, painting and viewer. Further to that, I had talked about how great it was to be back with the infantry (I was with 2RCR while they trained to deploy to Afghanistan), and so the bug-eyed look of the painting was intended to be a little comedic and melo-dramatic.

The blogger made the point in her writing that I looked scared and was clearly awkward in the back of the LAV, where the photo was taken. On the one hand, I thought, "man, didn't she hear a thing I said?", but more to the point, it reaffirmed the specific trajectory of my talk, that of the subjective and contradictory nature of viewing military themed art. Of the loaded nature of banal imagery and the inability of intense scenes to fully translate the emotions at play.

So, as was mentioned previously, it is of great interest to me how I relate to the soldiers who are gracious enough to let me eat with, drive around with and generally impose upon. In the painted study of Cpl. Fath (below), is there any sense of that awkwardness? Of me asking if I could take a few heads shots while we bounced around in the box am; of the almost instantaneous shift in his tenor after he agreed; of my need to further formalize the stagedness by using a flash so as to compensate for the rattle and clang that required a fast shutter speed?
Does Fath look stiff and ill-at-ease? Can you tell he's fake-talking for the camera? Or maybe because of all we know and are taught, the image is imbued with the assumption of authenticity.

I am a fool (to be pulled by such things)

2011-05-30T19:04:00.000-07:00

While researching the next [previous] piece of writing, I read the following, written by Sebastian Junger to his friend and collaborator, Tim Hetherington shortly after Hetherington was killed in Misrata, Libya

"I’ve never even heard of Misrata before, but for your whole life it was there on a map for you to find and ponder and finally go to. All of us in the profession—the war profession, for lack of a better name—know about that town. It’s there waiting for all of us. But you went to yours, and it claimed you."

I read it and I felt a small tug of jealousy. Not for the dying, but for the potential, the mythology, the chance to look into the abyss – the notion that destiny exists and these lives we lead aren't just bungled day after bungled day. It's a fucked up thing to feel, but these days, more than ever, there it is.

Feeding a Bear

2011-05-26T06:06:00.000-07:00

There's a belief tracing throughout the cartography of combat photography that the penultimate goal is to get as close to (understanding) the soldier as possible. This is totally valid – for the photographer as well as the viewer – and some of my favourite photos in this vein are the late Tim Hetherington's images from the Korengal Valley*. Nowhere is this desire most evident than in his "sleeping soldier' portraits. His recent death, occurring in Libya while I was in Suffield (the asymmetry of which was not lost on me), was a shocking event and I will say, without qualification, that he is/was my favourite (that's the wrong word) combat photographer.

Having stated that, I'd offer the documentary Marwencol as a project which takes this notion of knowing the unknown to a compelling but problematic end. In the film, the director, the photographer (who makes the initial discovery) and the gallery in NYC (White Columns) that eventually exhibit Mark Hogancamp's photos are clearly enamoured with the damaged genius that rises out of trauma. They all want to share his pain, struggle and brilliance with the world. Concurrently though, there's an underlying sense of pride in their part in this discovery. Like finding a pygmy tribe and touring them through Europe, there's a sort of "check this out!" sentiment that has an air of well-intentioned exploitation.

In the aftermath of Hetherington's death, his co-director Sebastian Junger received an email from a Vietnam vet. The vet was following up on a previous discussion where he'd told Junger (something along the lines of), "you guys came real close to understanding what it's like to be a soldier." In this coda, the vet told Junger that, the only way they could ever fully know what it's like to be a soldier is to lose a buddy in war. Hetherington was chosen and Junger gained the knowledge... but it was impossible for them to both learn this truth.

Watching Restrapo, but more so, reading through Infidel, there's a strong sense that Hetherington was looking for something. Maybe he was attempting to know "the other", maybe he was trying to find a version of himself in their faces, or maybe trying to see what the difference actually was between himself and the paratroopers. This is not a cautionary tale, though it might be a diversion: Did this draw to the eye of the storm give him something necessary for himself, something that he was unable to break away from?

As is often the case, I have meandered off topic (but from what I understand, this is the point of a blog). What is the necessity to "know"? The attempt almost always has an indelible effect. Sometimes it costs you your life, sometimes your marriage. Sometimes you develop the belief that you've become incapable of producing any other type of art. This is as much hyperbole as it is cold truth.

Here we are – at the point: As important as it can be/is to help the world to understand the grunts, the distance that exists is necessary and is, in fact, sought out by them. Without such distance the intensity of the fraternal bond is diminished – at least until the rounds start cracking... and at that moment it might be too late.
---------------

*Hetherington is best known for being the co-director of Restrapo (with Junger) but in 2010 his photo book, Infidel, was published. They are a pair that, at first, didn't really grab me (more than I thought they would) be each time I come back to them I learn and relearn something

Neither here nor there nor here

2011-05-22T19:47:00.000-07:00

There are a number of portraits within the body of photos to date, but I'd make a lousy reporter: I'm just too self-conscious and shy to insinuate myself into the life of the battalion to the degree necessary for human interest stories. This might be a reason I went into the insular world of visual art production.

A couple of weeks back, I met Louie Palu briefly. I walked away from the encounter thinking, "Man, that guy is confident and gregarious." It seems very easy to understand how a ballsy dude (and I think his photos attest to both those qualities) could find a home with the Grunts and Jarheads. I was mentioning this (my own awkwardness) to Amanda Nedham and she suggested I take up smoking, or take up pretending to smoke, as a means to start chats with the troops. It'd work for sure. The Army still holds dear its smoker core.

But at the same time I'm a proponent of honesty in the medium. Paintings should demonstrate the mark, a fart should always be acknowledged by the dealer and awkward relationships between soldier and (this) artist should seep into the imagery.

I'd like to think there are numerous readings and entry angles to the above images but one of them is the lack of engagement between them and myself. That's one of the great contradictions/tensions of documentary photography – the objective nature of the image (a moment caught, not judged) versus the attempt to use the photo to bring light to some greater truth or unknown quality. This tension is an understandable by-product of human interaction, even if one of them is pointing a camera at the other without asking permission.

The saying goes, "Once a Patricia, Always a Patricia" so it should be reasonably easy for me to sidle up and snap some cozy shots. No viewer needs to know this, but all of my shots with actual faces, especially ones where the subject engages the camera were taken by an anxious me.

But let's pull this back from the inevitable navel gazing and suggest that from an objective POV these images suggest the separateness that is part of soldiering, of the inevitable and needed distance between combat soldiers and civilians. There is a fundamentally utopic element to the infantry. Utopia requires an inversion of social norms and an idealized view of its principals. Distance is crucial and when that distance is breached awkwardness seems an unavoidable by-product of the equation.

Why bother?

2011-05-21T18:21:00.000-07:00

To paint, that is.

Previous to this project, I've mostly worked with cameras that gave me enough to paint from but not enough to really stand alone. This time though I plonked down a wad on a Rebel 2Ti. I'd like to think years of painting has given me a certain aesthetic eye, but at the same time, the new camera has really helped to create stand-alone photos. Going into the purchase I suspected I'd have to start making more nuanced decisions as to what might become a painting and what need not become born again – what's already a fully formed universe.

The question for all painters, but especially those who might fall into or near the realist camp, is "Why am I choosing to make this image with paint? If there's no answer then maybe there's no reason, no justification. Maybe that's an arguable point, but really there's nothing lamer than dudes at outdoor art shows with large printed signs above images of Formula 1 race cars proudly proclaiming "These images are painted by hand. They are not photos!" The Self-congratulation of empty verisimilitude is a tiresome endeavour.

But as to the initial question, the decision to paint or not is highly subjective and personal. The choices manifested in these first studies are principally derived by the attempt to pick source photos that have strong abstract/formal qualities; that while being recognizable in content also slide towards spaces that, for lack of a better word, become contemplative.

Haruki Murakami, in his memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, describes the act of running as an attempt to enter a void. As a long-tine runner myself this fleeting void is something to cherish when it slips itself around you. But the act of painting offers a similar space and these resulting objects also might offer some reference to (or evidence of) The Void – at least for myself, if not for the viewer. This question of contemplation, physical exertion and the aesthetics of violence is an ongoing one for me and will likely maintain its presence in the work to come.

Smoke 1 (9"x12"), oil on masonite

Smoke 2 (9"x12"), oil on masonite

Fire at the Village, (9"x12"), oil on masonite

Tracers 1 (9"x12"), oil on masonite

Waiting, (9"x12"), oil on masonite

Chronologically speaking: It begins with mud

2011-05-17T18:05:00.001-07:00

The day before I flew out to Suffield, Capt. Derek Forsythe, the Base Public Affairs Officer (PAFO if you prefer) called to make sure I was bringing some good rubber boots.

In short: The man saved me from 10 days of muddy misery. Thanks!

The roads were akin to WW1 trench systems (minus the corpses and rats). Vehicles were stuck in multiples and road access and egress were increasingly limited. In some ways it was all kinds of fun: slopping around, nearly rolling vehicles, holding on with blind faith as you drove into some unknown sinkhole. At the same time, the toll on vehicles quickly accumulated: Transmissions grinding down to nothing, differentials blowing out, metal tow cables snapping and shearing clean into windshields. Also though, it became a real challenge to keep the training on track and the units stocked with essential supplies. More to the point, the less-than-clear connection between this brigade level live fire training and the about-to-begin training mission added to the sense of redundancy. Certainly, grumbling is one of a soldier's inalienable rights, but there was a sense, barely masked, that this EX was the wrong one at the wrong time.

It's not fair to end it here though as there was much good to come from the time in Suffield. For many of the troops this was the first chance to work together before deploying, and there's always the ethos that all training is good training... especially if it's raining.

Near the end of my visit, when the night at CS8 (Adm. Coy HQ) became hairy with multiple stuck vehicles, a roll-over and onagain-offagain emergency water run, The CQ of Adm. briefly rolled up his shirt, Daisy Duke manner, showing off his buff-gopher torso. There's no photo, but it was a nice little moment of furry calm from the man who held the evening's whole show together.

Here's some mud:

Here we go

2011-05-15T14:56:00.000-07:00

In the weeks prior to typing this first blog entry I was trying to figure out what the larger trajectory of this project was going to be. Thanks to Tim O'Brien and Craig Alun Smith, I think I have a clue. There are many ways for me to enter this newest War Art project, but the question, "who do I make this for?" remains central. There are allegiances at play here, not least of which is artvsarmy, craftvscontent. Of course it's not a versus, but here I go, trying to have it all.

Wilfred Owen stated he wrote poems about being a soldier in WWI with the principal goal of attempting to explain warfare as he knew it. The craft of poetry was the means to that end, a methodology to describe the indescribable, the best way to externalize what had come from the world and had hunkered down inside himself (and would end up killing him at the age of 25). So, yes, as I begin this project, the balance between craft and content (and their interchangeability) is front and foremost.

In "The Things They Carried" O'Brien talks about how his young daughter wonders why he continued to write about his experience as a grunt in Vietnam, a period 20 years in his past. A similar situation confronts me. As a purely peace-time grunt, my service contained little of what might be considered worthy of 2 decades of holding on. Indeed, 10 years ago I was well and clear of The Army. In 2005 though I was accepted in The Canadian Forces Artist Program, and in the intervening 6 years it has brought me closer and closer to that which I ran from so hard in '92. And when I say closer, I don't necessarily mean the idea of the soldier or the theories related to infantry society. I mean the smell of diesel and cordite, the texture of IMP rations, the absolute anonymity of army coffee and the binge-and-purge tempo of a combat battalion in the field. I've chosen to participate for both self-serving and altruistic reasons... but the sum total of this endeavour is that even as the years accumulate I also feel closer to being a soldier than I have since that headlong rush to escape. (And it has come at a price)

On April 08, 2011 I flew from my home in Toronto to Calgary AB, then boarded a bus to CFB Suffield AB. Most often described through derisive terms, the village (seems too quaint a term, but gives a sense of scale) of Suffield is bleak and minimal – a single large trailer sits by Hwy. 1, holding the restaurant and variety store that services a cluster of pre-fab and mobile homes – but the training area is massive. At 2619 sq. km of badlands it goes on and on.

The trip to Suffield was the beginning of my second round of activity with The Canadian Forces Artist program, a project which should see me to Kabul (perhaps also Kandahar and Mazar-i-Sharif) by year's end. More specifically and saliently, I am following various groups from 3PPCLI as they begin their deployment on Roto 0 of Canada's Training mission to Afghanistan. It's no coincidence that The Third is my old battalion as I made a specific request through CFAP to "go home again". It's been 2 decades since I got out and this was my first contact with the battalion.

What's to come is a consideration and depiction of those facts but also an attempt to gain some sense of war art's potential and purpose: Its role as an official project for the government of the nation I call home, how such work can find its way to those who might gain something from it and, yep, a goal of clarifying whom I am actually making this work for... other than myself.