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Is the Medium the Message?

1/28/2013

Art covers a lot of area—visual, certainly, but also aural, textural, intellectual, emotional, and even practical. And when I think of how messages are delivered, the medium used becomes a kind of art in itself. Look at news coverage, for example. Newspapers are practical in the sense that stories are written in a factual manner, with the most important points at the top of the article and a headline that is created to draw attention and deliver a quick snapshot of information. Television news is dolled-up with good-looking people who read stories with a bit of a sensational nature in order to keep the attention of remote-handling viewers. Radio newscasts are typically very short, quick sound bytes more than in-depth stories, surrounded by ads and sound effects. Same stories, different media.

Music is another artistic experience that is affected by the way it is presented. I don’t mean the details of the specific piece—the type of instrument or the notes of the song or even the lyrics. I’m thinking about the difference between a song that is listened to versus a song that is visualized in a video. The listener brings his/her own experiences to a song that is only heard and will visualize or interpret according to that experience. When a song is put to video, the camera is doing most of the interpretation, or at least guiding it in a certain, specific way. Either technique can limit or expand the receiver’s appreciation of the music.

With poetry, I believe there are several parts that all complement each other and also work individually. Written, the form becomes the visual meaning—line breaks, words that are set apart, use of capitals or lower case, placement on the page, the font—all contribute to the message. Spoken, it can become a different poem—the voice is driving the form. Emphasis is on certain words or syllables, volume and tone of voice direct the listener, facial expression and body language of the speaker can affect the
interpretation.

I read a play written by a friend of mine. I haven’t seen it acted out. On paper, I get a sense of the staging and the characters but to really get the full emotional impact and true understanding of the story, I need to see it performed. I watched the movie No Country for Old Men the other night. Part way through, I realized there was no soundtrack--no music at all until the final credits rolled. That was very powerful--the lack of emotion-triggering music made just as strong a statement as if the music was present.

The medium and how it is used is as important as the message itself. I think about that a lot, especially in my own writing and the form I choose for each piece (poetry, prose, fiction, nonfiction). What do you think?

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My Back Pages--The Beatles

1/17/2013

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The Beatles. Oh my. I was in seventh grade in 1963 when the Beatles’ phenomenon hit the U.S. My girlfriends and I were nuts about them, absorbing everything we could find and incorporating the information into our daily lives. Every morning as we waited outside the school door for the bell to ring, we shared the memories of our Beatles dreams from the night before. Yes, we all miraculously had nightly dreams about the Fab Four (perhaps the other girls made theirs up, too). Then we had mock concerts and weddings, pretending to actually be one of the Beatles or his girlfriend—we each had our favorite and it was impolite to “take”someone else’s Beatle. My mother was horrified and told me we were exhibiting strange and disturbing behavior. I didn’t care. We gathered at each other’s houses, put on the album (my girlfriend was lucky to have “Meet The Beatles”, their first record—I owned “Introducing The Beatles”—not nearly as prestigious), chose our characters and played awesome air guitar. We dreamed offorming a girl band like the Shirelles or the Supremes, except we would play bass, guitar and drums, not just simply sing, and making it big. Of course, we would have to travel to Liverpool to make our fame. We pored over movie and teen magazines (I have to admit that I never bought one myself, recognizing even at age 13 that they were trashy), exclaiming dramatically at every tidbit of gossip. I realized that Paul and I were soulmates and meant for each other as soon as I learned he was left handed. The fact that he had big eyes, just like me, helped, too. Years later, as the other Beatles married and divorced and married again, I still gloated a bit at the fact that Paul was not so fickle. I felt a sense of pride that he and Linda were married for something like 30 years—pride in the fact that I had chosen such a moral man to inhabit my teenage dreams.

I wrote many short stories with the Beatles and me as the main characters. Usually the story line involved the group coming to my door (I was either doing homework, babysitting or making something really fantastic in the kitchen) and asking to use the phone because a) their car broke down, b) they were lost, c) one of them was sick (never Paul). Of course I would help them and they would give me tickets to the concert. Sometimes they would take me with them right then (unless I was babysitting) and I would get to be on stage with them. My stories were wonderful and so believable—my friends all told me that. My friend Tammy (her real name was Barbara but she changed it to Tammy after the song) told me she heard of a guy in London who would publish our stories. I innocently handed over my whole collection (handwritten in a spiral notebook with handmade copies of the Beatles’ individual signatures adorning the inside cover) and never saw it again. I blamed that on the fact that my parents moved our family from Colorado to Oregon and Tammy and I lost touch. Probably somewhere in England (hey, that’s the title to a George Harrison album—must be karma) my stories are being enjoyed by thousands of people who think someone named Tammy wrote them. Bummer.

I was never lucky enough to get to go to a Beatles concert but I certainly dreamed about it—for real, not a night time dream. Every week my friends and I rode the city bus downtown to the record store where we picked up a copy of the week’s Hit Parade. Of course the Beatles always had the number one spot—the weeks that they didn’t we were convinced a mistake had been made—and we tried not to be total idiots as we jumped in glee around the store. Then we drooled over the albums and 45s, wishing we had money. We looked at selections for other groups, too. Gerry and the Pacemakers (I wonder if any of them have heart trouble today), Dave Clark 5, Chad and Jeremy, Peter and Gordon, Rolling Stones—every one of them from the magic land of Liverpool. We would not—ever—admit to listening to any group or person from anyplace other than Liverpool. At the record store one week they had posters announcing the Beatles concert at Red Rocks, an open air amphitheater. The radio station was taking a bus—you could get a ticket that included the bus ride, lunch and the concert for something like $12. I wanted to go so bad. But I was too afraid to ask my parents. No one I knew went to the concert—probably everyone was afraid to ask their parents. We all reassured each other that it wouldn’t be so great anyway with all the girls screaming and acting like fools—we wouldn’t be able to hear
the singing and we wouldn’t be able to get close enough to really see the Beatles. In fact, it was often a topic of serious discussion—if you went to a concert, would you scream or not? The problem was, if you screamed, you were no different than everyone else. But how could you not scream? It was a mind-boggling dilemma that I never got to test. So we went on lip singing and playing air guitar, making up personas (I envisioned myself as a beautiful redhead named Robin or Leslie—my model was Jane Asher, onetime girlfriend of Paul’s and sister to Peter Asher of Peter and Gordon) for ourselves and dreaming about fame. My first Beatle record was the single of “She Loves You” with “I’ll Get You” on the flip side. My grandmother got it for me and was forever held in highest esteem after that. She understood me. She didn’t say all the parental things—“You call that music? Why don’t they get a haircut? Are they girls or boys? No one can hear them sing with all that screaming!” She just said, “What can I get for you?” And I said that more than anything I wanted a Beatles record. And she bought it. I was in heaven. The first one I bought for myself was the album “Introducing the Beatles” which had Twist and Shout on it. I was shocked to find out much later that Paul and John did not compose that song. I knew nothing about cover songs. I spent hours in my room, to my father’s chagrin, listening and dancing to the greatest music I’d ever heard. But then the Beatles got weird. Sgt. Pepper’s, Rubber Soul—I was so disappointed that my idols were into drugs and other bad stuff. I refused to listen or buy any new albums—I restricted myself to the old, pure songs. I was much busier, too, with high school, extensive babysitting, church activities, friends who were not fanatical fans. I just didn’t have time to spend hours absorbing new albums. My musical interests began to expand beyond the city limits of Liverpool and I became willing to listen to different things. I guess I grew up a little bit. And I found Bob Dylan!

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Why I Write

1/7/2013

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I began writing in at least Junior High—probably before that but nothing was ever
saved or even honestly respected until much later. This is odd to me because
both of my parents were editors on the Purdue University newspaper and writing
has always been important to them. I presume they put more emphasis and
importance on journalistic (or purposeful) writing than imaginative journeys
written in prose or poetry and that is why I remember being asked, when I hoped
to share something creative I had penned,“Is your homework done?” Kind of put
the kibosh on openly demonstrating my interests.

I virtually stopped writing for many years, only occasionally getting a beginning,
middle or even, once in awhile, an actual finished draft down on paper. I felt
that my life was filled with mundane, boring, dreary details and there were no
stories worth telling. When the opportunity to take a college creative writing
class came along in 2008 (years after I had graduated from college), I was at
first excited but quickly let worry take over. Could I hold my own with other
writers? Could I actually write anything someone else would want to read? Could
I learn new ways to tap into the stories that must be in my head somewhere? I’m
not sure I would have taken the class on my own (no, actually, I know I wouldn’t
have) so I am grateful to my husband for wanting to expand his knowledge base as
well. We kind of convinced each other that the class would be fun—and the grades
didn’t matter.

After the first hour and a half of class, I was hooked. I didn’t need a break, didn’t
want a break, couldn’t wait for the break to be over so we could get back to
work. I felt energized and ready to take on the challenge of writing again. The
old feelings from Junior High came flooding back and I pulled out old stories
and the beginnings of works and dug in. I am feeling like a writer—something I
have only referred to in the past tense for many years. Not “I was a writer” but
“I am a writer.” I have come full circle.

Now comes the next stage of work. I am searching for the stories and trying to
understand what they are and how they should be written. I am learning how to
respond to not only others’ works but also their comments to me. It’s been a
challenge to trust myself to believe I can offer something meaningful. But most
of all, I want to retain the interest in writing that has been rekindled by the
community formed in the class, and my support person, my husband Bill. I believe that interest is strong and sure and for that I am grateful.

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Is the Medium the Message?

My Back Pages--The Beatles

Why I Write

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