Portrait of the artist as a young car lover October 5, 2007

When I was a kid one of the few toy items that I had in regular supply were toy cars–primarily of the Hotwheels and Matchbox variety. As it turns out, these little items made a big impression on me.

For instance, I can still recall, all these years later, my favorite car when I was 8 years old. It was this model:

The Hi Trailer, from Matchbox series nr. 56 in 1974, a fancified version of a formula-one car. We–my brothers and I–called it the “Sidewinder” for some reason. We liked it because it was, hands down, the fastest single car we ever owned, almost never defeated on the race tracks we lined up out in the patio. This had something to do with its particular balance of weight, plus the fact that it had Matchbox wheels, making it far superior to any Hotwheels car (which tended to favor style over function).

This experience, of course, is not so unusual. Lots of kids, in my era and afterward, have become hooked on these tiny, shiny replicas–of both real and fantastical automobiles. I’m sure other people–of more academic-minded bent–have written something about how this childhood car fetishization has helped feed the ongoing cultural dominance of the automobile–from Speed Racer and Beach Boys songs in my childhood, to Pimp My Ride and The Fast and The Furious of today. Whatever the case, these toys are remarkably evocative objects to many kids, and perhaps for this reason they are remarkably enduring toys.

Two aspects of my childhood car fetish, it should be noted, are unusual. First, while this fetish vanished when I reached that dreaded age when all things childish and uncool must be put aside, it never really went away and remained latent until just a few years ago–when I inexplicably began collecting toy cars to fill my cubicle space at work.

And second, perhaps more unusual still, this fascination with the toy cars is connected to the creative impulses that became my practice of art. I’ll write more about this in a later post.

Wild Imaginings! Part I October 4, 2007

Inspiration can come from any where, and it is usually quite unexpected when it happens.  My need to do art in the forms of drawing to writing to performance seem in retrospect to be somewhat innate.  Along with the necessary effort of building skills, these pursuits were almost as natural as walking. 

In early childhood, it was those long periods of being alone that ultimately helped to develop my artistic abilities.  My imaginative play skills blossomed as I was free to create worlds and characters solely for my own entertainment.  These adventures often centered around a known character, such as Poppinfresh, who would quickly evolve into complex beings with incredibly detailed backstories. 

The complexity of my work as a writer today has been a mixed blessing.  On the one hand, I am able to create work that is rich and meaningful.  On the other, my work can become convoluted with too much meaning.  Simplicity is just as important as complexity in the communication of ideas.

When I was in pre-school, at about four or five years of age, I was introduced to the world of books.  I was immediately intrigued by the act of storytelling, of sitting and hearing a story, and of experiencing the journey of these characters.  Even at this young age, I understood that a story like “Green Eggs and Ham” was appealing because of it’s rythmic humor, that a story like “Harold and the Purple Crayon” was about being creative and having fun, that a story like “The Giving Tree” was brimming with an intense and serious message.   And then there was “Where the Wild Things Are”.

To Be Continued…      —David F.

(Next time, I will talk about what this work meant to me as a young child and how it influenced my evolution as a writer.  —David F.)

 

Poppinfresh September 30, 2007

Icons are a powerful means of communication, something advertizers have known for many 100s of years. Icons are especially powerful to young children who do not yet know how to read and are barely learning how to talk. My earliest childhood memories exist in the form of icons. My brother Michael mentioned Speed Racer, a show which holds powerful associations to my youth. Specifically, there are feelings of vulnerability and isolation that were somehow assauged by the appearance of a noble knight in his gallant white stead, the Mach-5.

But the strangest and most powerful icon from my childhood happens to be Poppinfresh, the Pillsbury Doughboy. It is difficult to figure out exactly what he meant to me as a three year old boy. Allow me to become somewhat analytical as a I postulate that perhaps his pleasantly plump, amorphous body and smiling yet blank facade provided the perfect canvas on which to create my childhood fantasies.

I spent a lot of time alone as a child, and in my loneliness Poppinfresh was there to keep me company without judgment or complaint. In my imagination: he became an all-powerful super hero, flying through the sky to save the innocent; he became a wizened, old wilderness hermit who never failed to lend a hand to the lost; he became a rock star, loved and adored by all of his fans; and he took the role of Jesus himself in my younger brother and my recreations of the hippy 70s musical Jesus Christ Superstar. As a result, he was alternatively protector, teacher, artist and ultimately savior. Savior from what? Monotony? Anxiety? Loneliness…

When I think of my own son, as he is fast approaching his third year, I can’t help but notice that he is drawn to things that are easy on the eyes, things warm and comforting: light and airy pastel colors, his favorite powder blue baby bear, the happy-g0-lucky innocence of Spongebob Squarepants, the feathery softness of a dandelion.

The icons of childhood are a peculiar and magical thing. There is no telling what images will stick with us as we grow into adulthood, which ones will remain with us to help mold and shape who we are. This is a consideration we as adults should keep in mind when we create these icons, especially those meant to appeal to our children.

          —by David F.