I’ve decided to emerge from my Salinger like hermitage and fire up my blog again. I stepped unwillingly from my trip in NYC into my hiatus; feeling a little uninspired and plagued with a certain mal du pays.Recently though, I’ve stared teaching my self Motion 4 (a program for designing and animating in motion graphics) and its sparked my creative ambition. I won’t bore you with tales of self discovery or strikes of divine inspiration; but I will steer you to an amazing short documentary about some of New Yorks unsung heroes keeping a piece of the cities soul alive.
I was restlessly floating around the internet at 4 am when I came across this conceptual gem. This final university project of Wytze Van Mansum in collaboration with Cannondale and its a true engineering marvel, at least aesthetically speaking. I’m not sure how the drive train works but I like the void in the crankset, as well as the locking handlebars and the rear brake lights. Though I wouldn’t trade in the Affinity for it, I think its testament of where bikes may be going.
A few months ago I recognised that I was in desperate need of a keychain and quickly I came to realise that finding a good one is quite a challenge. A hanging chain or lanyard was out of the question and I refused to sport anything with a logo. I hoped for an accessory with character and personality. Progressively, I’ve accumulated an assortment of trinkets to embellish my keys that feel right in my pocket. A strip of cloth adorned in the colours of the countries I’ve called home (France, America, and Australia). A presta to shrader valve adapter made of solid brass by Stephen Davis Phillips in the shape of a bullet, that I picked up at Chari & Co. A subtle 8Gb memory stick in the shape of a key made by the reliable hard drive maker, Lacie. And, my personal favourite, an antique pocket compass that I found at the Digby & Iona stall at Pop Up flea market I stumbled across early in my trip.
With yet another brilliant stroke of timing and luck, I spent an evening exploring the best the NYC creative community has to offer. It seemed like a never ending source of trinket jewelry, original clothing, hand crafted plush toys, and vintage stalls. Here is a glimpse of my favorites, if you’d like to get any of their contact details just send me a mail.
We scoured the streets of Brooklyn in search of a place to buy two six packs so as not to show up on the steps of the Digby & Iona workshop empty handed. It seemed only natural to choose a local favorite, Brooklyn lager. The security gates evoked thoughts of clandestine drinkers entering speakeasies in the time of prohibition. Once inside though, it was immediately clear this was the domain of talented artists. Aaron welcomed us into his atelier. I handed him the first round of beers to open with his flat head screwdriver. The room was the constant work in progress of an ex-carpenters, shifting its elements to suit him at that particular time. On closer inspection, I saw it was riddled with treasures; mounds of gold chains hung off a wooden knob, antique knickknacks were strewn about and his precision instruments were littered across the workspace.
We chatted and Aaron accepted us into his operating theatre, we shared stories, insights, and history over the delicious lager. He told us of growing up in Maine, we told him of life in the land of Oz, and we swapped stories of hunting for antique artifacts. He then walked us through his whole process of creating his masterpieces from sketches to etching prototypes to pouring moulds. I tried to soak it all up; I found it all very inspiring but also I felt a prong of jealousy. Jealous that he worked with his hands using them to take raw materials to create refined objects of beauty.
It made me flash back to my grandparents home in Les Vans, Ardeche where my brother, cousins and I ran around playing war. We were armed with wooden replicas of real weaponry, “forged” in my grand-fathers wood shop beneath the house. We were armed to the teeth with 9mm Brownings with removable clips and Kalashnikov loaded with the detachable banana clip. We would run rampant in the fields and streams of southern France with the sun pounding down on us, called to order only by the authoritative tone of our Papé.
We realized it was getting late and thanked Aaron for his time and candidness; he graciously told us the distraction was welcome. We stepped out and the cold bit our noses as we walked to the B train at Atlantic station, warmed by all the shots stored on the Nikon and the feeling that we had made a new friend.
