The Winds of Change

This photo is of a wind farm at the top of a mountain on Route 30 in Pennsylvania. I have traveled this road countless times, though it is only in the last few years that the wind farm appeared. Growing up in Pennsylvania, we would take Route 30 through the Laurel Highlands to come down to D.C. to visit my Grandmother. Now, starting in the opposite direction, I take this road from Baltimore to visit my Mother in Pennsylvania. Along this same road, also known as the Lincoln Highway, is a bison farm. That wasn't there when I was little either, at least not that I can remember, and I think I would remember seeing a field of big woolly bison. There is also the remnants of a magical place called Storybook Forest, now closed, that we used to go to when I was very young. You could walk through Snow White's house, and the shoe from the nursery rhyme, "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe..." At Bald Knob Summit, the highest point and most winding stretch of road on the trip, is a scenic lookout where you can see seven counties, on a clear day. Just past that used to be an amazing hotel that was built to look like a giant ship, it looked like the real thing, perched right on top of the mountain. We never went inside of it, but it was one of the markers that my brother and I always got excited about seeing on the way to Grandma's. It burned to the ground a long time ago. Not far from there, in tiny Shanksville, is a sign directing travelers to the Flight 93 Memorial, where that jet crashed on 9/11. I have stopped there a couple times, though I haven't been there since the memorial actually went up, so I don't know what it looks like. When I went there, it was just a big, grassy field, and you could kind of see where the earth had been carved by the wreckage. It reminded me of the field I saw in Lockerbie, Scotland. Two friends of mine were killed on Pan Am 103, that exploded over Lockerbie in 1988. I went to see Lockerbie for myself about 15 years later. There, too, the earth, though scarred, had healed itself.

At the top of Laurel Mountain on Route 30, about 45 minutes away from where I grew up, is the dilapidated remains of a restaurant that my Father owned when I was in high school. By then my parents were divorced, and my brother and I spent many weekends up there. I really loved that place, and would dream of when I was all grown up and would inherit the business from my Dad. The jukebox had had John Cougar Mellancamp and Toni Basil. Dad would let us play the video poker machine if no one was in the bar. It is a pretty isolated spot, and a lot of the clientele were bikers, including some Pagans. They were always nice to us, though, and I remember teaching one of them how to play the arcade game Ladybug. And the cook grew pot back in the woods behind the building.

It is funny to me now, thinking so far back, that at that time I thought that that place, and that business, was my future. I did go on to work in and manage restaurants for awhile, and so did my brother. It had never occurred to me, regardless of my love for writing and drawing, that growing up to be an artist of any sort was a viable option. It took me most of my life, and it took Baltimore, to show me that it was not only an option, but a moral imperative.

Today I spent the afternoon at the Reginald F. Lewis Museum of African-American Art, filming Joyce J. Scott, who is the subject of a documentary I am working on, giving a talk. (by the way, do yourself a favor and go to see the exhibit there called "Material Girls" that just opened; Joyce has 6 pieces in this exhibit, plus several pieces in the museum's permanent collection) Steve Yeager was kind enough to come with me and operate the camera. Joyce spoke for almost an hour, showing slides of her work, and of her family, and talking about how she evolved as an artist. She joked that she was an artist "in vitro", and claimed to have put her signature on her placenta when she popped out, so her parents could sell it and make some money. Everyone laughed, of course, and so did I, but I also knew she was perfectly serious. Joyce has been an artist all of her life, it is all she has ever been or wanted to be. She is probably the most gifted person I have ever met. And as she put it, when someone asked her about being an artist at the talk today, she is, "the right person for the job."

As I listened, and laughed, from time to time I found myself getting very emotional. I try to make sure that at all times, I appreciate what I have, where I am in life, and the company that I keep. And here I was, at 2:36 pm on February 19th, in a wonderful museum in my favorite city in the world, making a movie about this amazing woman who has agreed to let me spend the next year finding out everything I can about her. Have I mentioned that Joyce has two pieces of her work in the Smithsonian? Have I mentioned that my camera man, Steve Yeager, is a Sundance Award-winning director? And have I mentioned, most importantly, that they are both my friends? Sometimes I just can't believe how lucky and blessed I am, and today was one of those days.

It was one of those, "If you told me five years ago, that I would be..." moments. I have those once in awhile. But it was more than that. It hasn't even been three years since I made my first film. I didn't realize, when I was making "Smalltimore", that it would change my life forever. But it did. I learned a lot about Joyce today that I didn't know, and I realized that one year from now, I will once again have transformed. There is no way that this project is NOT going to change me, significantly. I don't know how it is going to change me, exactly, but I believe it will be for the better. Change is almost always for the better. I am glad that I am not afraid of change anymore.

My Dad's restaurant has been empty for many years now. The roof is caving in, windows are broken, and a collection of abandoned vehicles are rusting in the overgrown parking lot. It makes me a little sad when I see it. I wish it were a place where I could stop in and have a beer, introduce myself to the proprieter and reminisce a little. But, maybe it is better this way.