Sunday, April 12, 2015

just another day at the office :: creativity at STEAP and GRIND

Once again, I find my self sitting blithely alone at, what I'm calling, the new off site office, STEAP and GRIND. . . 

After publishing the big 200th post, I can't help but sit and think about a thing or two about this wonderful journey that keeps me wondering where I will be, with my camera at any given moment.

Every week, I bang away at these keys, barely knowing the next words about to spew from this wandering brain. Grammatical and spelling errors may have become synonymous with this blog as I rarely, if ever proof read these posts before hitting the publish button. Literary train wrecks coupled with the liberal usage of four lettered words. The icing on the cake? The photography. It is why we are here aren't we?

Art. Visual and literal. The turning in my stomach wondering if the photograph will pull any attention or if the article will equally suck. It's that vulnerability, that rush, that drives me to hit that publish button, every single time, without looking back.

That's exactly what art is; the creative soul, being 1000% vulnerable.

Today's post? Shit. I have no idea where it's going. I'm not sure if it is even making any sense thus far. The photography? Not a clue of what you are looking at right now as I'm typing these letters. A selfie? Maybe. The lunch I'm about to order? Possibly? Either or, or neither nor?

So what's the theme!? You already know that I don't know but I'm feeling that it's about creating, as it often is. Challenging, is sitting here, while not creating much cohesion, creating a cohesiveness by doing just that. Somehow, someway, I will marry these words into a symphony.

Talk about a journey into the insanity that is sometimes lurking between these ears.

Ahhh. The creative process. Isn't it beautiful?

Metaphorically speaking, the literary path I have just taken you is ofttimes how the ideas are born for the visual deliciousness strewn about in the [portfolio] at MICHAEL ANTHONY MURPHY :: PHOTOGRAPHER.

Every now and then there are clear agendas, shot lists, itineraries of what needs to be produced at any given moment.

Conversely, and this is when the magic happens, the pure innate creativeness from the deep. The visceral stuff. You know what what I'm talking about don't you? You grab your camera, brush, pen, clay or whatever your tool may be for conceiving awesomeness, the "writer's block" that has had you in a rut for what seems like an eternity, is lifted and you feel as free as bird. Brilliant works pour from your hands, from your soul and nothing, no one could stop you. From nothingness you've become a freight train (I know, another train analogy) of creativity, rocketing across the plains, crushing everything in your path. From nothingness, you've become unstoppable.

Today, I'm not feeling like that freight train but maybe the Little Engine That Could. I'm getting there, slowly but surely.

Hey, a few paragraphs ago I couldn't even conceive of the photographs that would be posted herein today. Now? Ha. I have at least two that I will download before hitting the ole publish button. Yup. between sentences, while trying to ignore the most rude, poorly mannered, potato chip crunching, lip smacking schmuck sitting behind me (I hope he can read this over my shoulder), I have managed to pull out the iPhone 6 Plus and create a couple shots for this article. The selfie? That was not shot here at STEAP and GRIND. Although, I would like to get some Westcott Apollo boxes in here for a legitimate shoot.

Where was I?

Help me out here homeys.

Whew. Ok. The douche bag left the building. Focus is coming back.

What Is The Point?

Eureka moments don't happen on a daily basis. Get out there. Create. Fumble around. Fail. Fail. Fail and fail again. Experiment.


Today's post is my inspiration, my motivation, to you my friends. Upon sitting down here at STEAP and GRIND, I opened the MacBook Pro with one thought and one thought only; what was I ordering for lunch?

Pulling up the blank page, staring at the cursor, blinking at me over and over again, as you could imagine, became a bit discouraging.

Then I began to write.

And so it is, I take photos.


Until next time . . .