In a world conditioned to follow the herd mentality, a lot of people find it hard to stay true to themselves and accept the things particular to them. It’s easy to give in to peer pressure and simply settle with what everyone else is doing, but never forget that each of us is different. You are your own individual, with your own particular set of dreams, desires, and aspirations. Everyone has preferences unique to him or her. So know what you like, know what makes you happy, stick to your guns, and state it with confidence.
You’ll walk taller, and as long as you follow your gut, you won’t stray far in life.
Vintage
I have vintage tastes. I love anything vintage, from Polaroid cameras to record players. There’s something about their simplicity that I find appealing. There are no viewfinders, digital zoom, or image enhancements of any kind. It’s just raw and real.
With an old camera, the focus is on the process of taking a photo because you can’t see what you’ve captured until it’s been developed. There’s no going back. It is what is it. The preparation for the shot matters most. If you mess up, you won’t know until it’s too late. And let’s be real, is there any better sound than a Polaroid snap or the anticipation of watching your photo emerge into reality? Probably. But it really tickles my fancy.
With a record player, you hear music in its most authentic form (aside from live performances, of course.) Everything feels vulnerable; the lack of bass, the slight crackle on vinyl, and the shining voice fuse together to create an atmosphere that makes me feel completely connected to the artist. I can’t get enough of it.
Both of these vintage products transport me to the analog age, a time my parents remember well—and I remember from when I was a kid. Not everything has to be digital or downloaded. There is a traditional, minimalist beauty to the Polaroid and record player and being immersed in the true vintage experience each provides.
Worth It
I HAD A LOVE-HATE relationship with my first job as a lifeguard. At fourteen (is that even legal??), I was ecstatic when I was hired to work at the local outdoor pool—a small, concrete hole in the ground known as La Crescent City Pool. And, boy, was it AWESOME! I couldn’t wait to be independent and make my own money.
That philosophy—to be free and stand on my own two feet—stuck with me for the first three or four years there, and it was rewarding work, teaching kids how to swim and improve their abilities on the swim team. But after a while, the—how do I say this—repetitive nature of the job started to slowly suck away my happiness, bit by bit. It was essentially a 9-to-5 job, except my “office” was an elevated lifeguard chair where I sat for hours on end, listening to repetitive country music, or counting the beads of sweat dripping down my arm in the very hot and humid midwestern weather. Sitting out in the hot summer sun, watching kids yell at each other while nearly drowning, can be draining—and totally not worth the minimum wage. Plus, I was working forty- to fifty-hour weeks all summer long while saving up for whatever the future held for me while my friends were off having fun. That didn’t make it any better.
I started hating it all, from the sweat stains on my everywhere to the screaming kids who never listened. Sometimes, I had to be up for work at 5:00 a.m. Sometimes I had to clean toilets or, worse, scoop the feces of children out of the shallow end of the pool in front of dozens of people, and then have them be mad at me for closing down the pool for an hour while it was cleaned. As if it were my fault the pool had been mistaken for a toilet. MY BAD.
It was grueling work, but I shouldn’t complain, because although it was difficult at times, all the stress was worth it on one particularly rewarding day.
It was a chilly summer evening in June 2008—one of those evenings when the sun hasn’t shined in days and there is a distinct moistness to, well, everything. Only a few kids remained in the pool, and it was my turn to oversee them.
One kid in particular caught my attention—a bored-looking boy sitting in the shallow end, doing nothing but seemingly watch his life go by.
Why are you here? I thought, Go hoooooome.
I almost felt like verbalizing this thought on one of my walks around the pool, but then he spoke: “Today I want to pass my swimming test!”
Okay, good. At least now you’re doing SOMETHING.
I led this sweet-faced boy over to the deep end, with the aim of watching him swim from one end of the pool to the other. I had watched many kids do this, day in and day out, so I didn’t even think twice about it as he climbed down the short ladder into the shiver-inducing water.
Standing there, I watched him slowly tackle the short distance ahead of him. He wasn’t the most fluent of swimmers; he had quite a heavy technique but was slowly making progress. But then, with about ten feet to go, the reason for his quiet contemplation in the shallow end started to dawn on me: he doubted if he was capable. He wasn’t the strongest of swimmers.
He started to slow up, then came to a total halt and began to bob like an apple. Dammit.
Oh no, I thought, is this going to happen? TODAY, of all days?! Am I actually going to have to save a living, breathing person from drowning?! It was cold, I had a sweatshirt on, and all I had been focused on was going home. And that was when I saw his head turn to look at me, like a person does when he’s adrift.
“H-h-help,” he kind of whispered, panic evident in his voice.
Well, here we go, I thought.
I blew my whistle, sending a piercing screech through the air, kicked off my sandals, and dove in with my red lifeguard tube. He was struggling, arms flailing as he battled to keep his chin above water, but I soon had him out. The poor kid was a little shaken up but otherwise okay. His mom was mighty relieved too when I took him, all bundled up, to the pool house and told her what had happened. She was slightly angry that I “took too long to jump in,” but I get it. It’s her kid. Every second seems like an eternity if someone you love is in trouble.
That night, I too blew a sigh of relief. And at that moment, everything sank in: I had just saved a life. Without me, that kid would have probably DIED. That was a sobering thought, putting into context all those 5:00 a.m. starts, poop-scooping incidents, and long hours. It all made sense at that point.
Sometimes we lose sight of why we’re doing what we’re doing. We get sick of certain aspects of our lives and forget the end goal. But everything has a purpose. There is a reason behind every struggle, and I finally understood mine. Minimum wage aside, I signed up to be a lifeguard to help kids. I have a driving passion for anything water related and wanted to share that with fresh minds. And when the time came that one of those minds really needed my help, I was there for him.
I slept very well that night and finished out my following summers of work at the pool with a new perspective. Sometimes that’s all it takes to find meaning in what you’re doing.
My Arm
If you go through my Instagram, you’ll notice a recurring theme: photos of my arm, extended. “Why do you do that?” people always ask, usually in a slightly irritated tone. “I don’t get it. Stop doing that. It’s so Tumblr,” they say.
My answer? I like placing myself in my photography. It’s difficult to do when you’re also taking the photo, so I suppose just an arm will do. A forearm in the frame is a bit like a toe in the water. Whenever I find myself somewhere beautiful and interesting, I just take a photo of my hand pointing at the scene I wish to remember. So, now you know.
Creativity
HANDS UP IF YOU’RE CREATIVE. (I’m now visualizing a room filled with hands reaching to the ceiling.)
Now keep your arm raised if you feel that you’re able to freely pursue that creativity.
(My mind’s eye sees a few arms lower in disappointment.)
Okay. For those of you still reaching skyward, how many feel brave enough to show your creative side and put it out there without first nervously running it by friends or family?
I suspect most of you are sitting on your hands, thinking, Nope. I’m out. Not me.
I wanted to be to be in, not out.
By being creative, you have to be okay with putting your work out there for public scrutiny. Whether you’re painting, acting in a school play, or screening a short film you created in film class, it’s scary to stand out and be vulnerable. What if you’re criticized for doing what you’re doing? That’s even more terrifying.
Now, before I go any further, I know not everyone is interested in the arts, and that’s totally okay. Whether your passion leads you to be a janitor, nurse, fitness instructor, artist, or athlete later in life, my message is broad: wholeheartedly pursue your passions. Do the things you love and love the things you do.
From recent conversations I’ve had on this topic, having your creativity stifled at a young age appears to be the sad truth for a lot of people. Sure, I was encouraged to practice the arts at a young age, but as I grew older, I felt a distinct pressure to follow the path of a more practical career. It seems some of our imaginative peers suppress their artistic instincts out of fear of being judged, alienated, or just plain not good enough. In other cases, a parent, teacher, or friend has been dismissive about creative ambitions. Don’t let that suffocate your vision. More often than not, people won’t share your vision or hunger, but that’s all right. Ambitions are individual. Art is subjective. Creativity often leads to the solo pursuit of a dream until you find like-minded people who get it. Who get you.
I’m talking here to every budding writer, poet, singer/songwriter, musician, actor, entertainer, dancer, sculptor, director, photographer, circus act, trapeze artist, pole dancer, whatever! We live in a world where the importance of stability is drilled into us from an early age. If it’s not explicitly stated, then it is seen in the way most of our parents, other elders, or authority figures live their lives: cautiously, pragmatically, and sensibly.
There is nothing certain about even contemplating a career rooted in your creative dream, whatever that may be. The potential risk of failure screams its warning from far away, which is why those with experience feel it is necessary to tell us to find “proper jobs”—the kind that pay well and guarantee long-term security. “Be a lawyer, a doctor, or a teacher,” they say. But there is one thing they can’t hear: the silent beat of creativity within you—that calling beckoning you to trust your gut, follow your heart, and do what your soul demands. You can never articulate to others what you feel in your bones because you rarely understand it yourself. Do you know how many times I get a bomb-ass idea but can’t explain it to anyone? All. The. Time. They can’t see it, but I can—and that’s all that matters. They will see it when I bring my idea to life.
If you are one of those people—if you hear that calling—that is the ONLY thing you should listen to, be it a one-time project you yearn to do or a career you know you must pursue. Never deny yourself the opportunity for self-expression, in any form.
Don’t underestimate the power of self-belief.
Don’t be limited by the expectations of others.
Don’t care what anybody else thinks.
“But what’s the point of trying? I’m just going to fail,” someone once said to me. And my response was simple: “So what? Who cares? If you fail, you fail. Big deal.” Success involves failing first. Ask any successful person. Ask any experienced person, really. It’s all part of the creative process, so sit back and allow the artist within you to sprout, blossom, and flourish. You must accept that your first, second, and third attempt at something might suck. It’s a necessary step in improving your skill. Failure is your teacher, not your judge.
Like any other good thing, it takes time, and you’ll just have to wait it out. All you have to know is why you’ve done something and like it, without seeking the validation or approval of others. If you think it’s unique, that’s all that should really matter. Create first and foremost for yourself , no one else.
One of my passions is photography, and let me tell you, I take a lot of photos. Whether it’s for social media, friends, family, or this book, it doesn’t matter—I take them anytime and anywhere. One morning, I was out to breakfast with a friend and his entire family. We went to a little café in town on one of my many trips, and it was packed to the rafters. After waiting over an hour to get seven orders of scrambled eggs on toast with feta cheese, tomato, and avocado, the food arrived at our table. Immediately I noticed how beautifully this breakfast was presented. So I whipped out my iPhone, stood on my chair, and began to take five to ten photos until the angle, light, and overall aesthetic were perfect. I could hear people around me giggling and could feel the eyes of strangers burning through my back like the hot summer sun. Did I care? Not at all. After several minutes of being the tallest person in the room, I got the shot I wanted, sat down, did some quick editing, and showed my peers what I’d come up with.
“WOW! That’s beautiful,” one of them said. And in the most humble way possible, I knew it was. More important, two minutes earlier, when I had stood on my chair looking like a complete idiot in front of an entire restaurant of strangers, I knew it would be. I knew it was going to be a cool picture and didn’t care if I looked stupid taking it because I was led by my creative vision and not the opinions of others. I don’t let other people control how I live my life.
When I get an idea, I roll with it, whatever the circumstances. I become obsessed with the thought, and it seeps into my every pore. I find it hard to put into words, but I get a kind of innovative high when I take a cool photo, film a particularly artistic video, or even just think of an inspirational idiom. I can’t get enough of the act of creation. That visceral feeling pushes me forward.
My best friend, Troye, once told me, “If you wanna make cool shit, you gotta make cool shit,” and it’s engraved on my mind.
My creative process starts with an idea. I can’t tell you for certain where it comes from. Ideas come to me in the shower, on airplanes, while I’m sitting in a restaurant, or lying in bed awake at 3:00 a.m., when my mind just can’t seem to shut off. If it won’t leave me alone, I begin expanding on it with notes. I think it all the way through, adding bullet points and examples. Then I just do it.
They don’t always work out, and I’m okay with that. But when something does work out, I immediately show it to one of my closest friends to get feedback. I encourage critiques because I want it to be perfect before I put it out in the world. Once I make all the suggested changes that I agree with, I show everyone and soak up the positive remarks—and ignore the few hateful comments.
Ugh, I’m shaking a bit from pure excitement just typing about it. The experience is like no other for me.
What gives you that feeling? Everyone has something. Whatever it is, I can’t encourage you enough to do that thing as soon—and as frequently—as possible. In life, you need to allow yourself the room to do what you want to do with the precious time you’re given. Give yourself permission. I’m still young, but I often find myself thinking, “Ah! My time is ticking away! Why am I just sitting here doing nothing?” I need to use all the time I have, while I have it. After clearing that hurdle, you then have to actually do it, which is way more difficult than you might think. It’s not easy breaking down barriers and not giving a single fuck about the opinions of others. Those opinions shouldn’t inhibit your drive. Allow yourself to go there and add your splash of color to the world.
So, I’ll ask you all again. Hands up if you want to be creative, take the risk, and embrace failure. I hope all your hands are in the air now.
The Chair
ALLOW ME TO TAKE YOU back to my philosophy classes as a freshman at college. Many of my friends had studied philos
ophy the first semester, drawing me into long conversations about life, making me question the simplest things and examine every possibility. I eat that stuff up. It never gets old. So one day in class, we were talking about upcoming exams and our professor said, “Let me tell you about an exam I took when I was in college.”
He explained how, in one philosophy class, the teacher walked in, placed a chair at the front of the classroom, and said, “Explain to me why this isn’t a chair.” Then he left the room. That was the test: explain why the one thing in front of them wasn’t what it appeared to be. After a lot of collective head scratching, the only kid who got an A was the boy who simply wrote on his paper, “What chair?”
The point is that a chair is a human-made object with a made-up label. It’s not of nature, like a tree, a landscape, or a saltwater lake; it’s something we as humans invented: we created and defined it. That story has stuck with me because it ties into my personal philosophy about the nature of things. People look at a chair and say, “It’s just a chair,” but I like to think it’s more than a chair. I like to seek deeper meaning in things, even inanimate things. I know this makes me sound like a complete nutcase, but (a) I swear I’m not, and (b) it’s just an example. Let me dive in further.
When people look at my photography and inquire about how I took a good picture, I tell them it’s about stepping back and looking at the finer details and not taking things at face value. Life is about looking beneath the surface and seeing what lies beyond appearances.
That’s not just a potted plant you see. Look closely; there’s way more to it. Try looking at it from a different angle or maybe in a different light. Get up close and see its texture. Or the single drop of morning dew on its leaf. Or the beetle hiding among the flowers. Or the design on the pot. I wonder how those markings got there. I wonder who painted it and where it came from.
A Work in Progress Page 5
