Painting Charleston

It's always funny how pre-conceptions become merely tiny pieces of our realities. This realization has become increasingly evident in my daunting task of describing Charleston to those who are not fortunate enough to fall asleep to the sound of palmetto bugs, and awake to the smell of Southern low tide.

These preconceptions have given way to daily authenticity's that have helped me to paint the South-east landscape on a North-east canvas. Without these timely interactions my canvas would undoubtedly showcase google images of the Charleston landscape with footnotes referencing the many blogs of both natives and travelers alike, and their interpretation of the ambiguous makeup. Ultimately I have forced my readers to fall in to the very predicament I found myself in only four weeks ago; the ramblings of a traveler trying to make a home, (see the next few paragraphs) and an image of Downtown Charleston, (google downtown Charleston, if you feel so inclined).

Through my daily adventures I have begun the task of painting that very canvas with hopes that the outcome would represent a grand portrait of a postbellum town full of charm and history. Unfortunately, it has only rendered chaos, an indescribable mess that can only be interpreted in pieces. The pieces have will take form in the conversations with the subjects that make up my interactions in this beautiful municipality.

These pieces all seem relate in two ways, the most obvious of these being that they are Southern in nature. However, the not so apparent factor that seems to carry across these pieces is the ubiquitous pride that is injected in the subjects stories of their youth and the love for their home town of Charleston.

The greatest thing about Charleston is that it is an "American City" in every aspect of the term. Charleston is a melting pot of cultures from every corner of the United States. Despite the different backgrounds each person carries with them the appreciation for palmetto trees, good barbecue, and great conversation. However, the biggest linking factor is this pride which spews across every corner of my my canvas. The state flag and "Native" bumper stickers that litter the cars on the James Island Expressway, the South Carolina Gamecock flags waving in the front yards in Mount Pleasant, the "Follywood" shirts scattered across Folly Beach. But mostly, the ability of these subjects to paint a perfect picture of a youth somewhere, and the story of how they came to call Charleston home.

The blue-eyed Belle downtown at Henry's insists that Mississippi is the greatest place to go to school, "may lose a game, but we never lost a party" she'll insist with her strong Southern draw. "Home of Faulkner, you know, Oxford is the most beautiful place on earth" she'll say. And with the way she paints it, I can't disagree. Her portrait makes it's way on to my canvas, next to the man over at The Pour House whose stop in Charleston seems to be the perfect hiatus between the Moonshine of Boone and the retirement homes of Sarasota, he swears there is something in the water. I guess it's just the Charleston bug, symptoms include happiness and and an ability to enjoy the little things. And the Charleston native, her story peers up over the bottom left hand side of my canvas, encompassing a youth of Friday night lights, Saturday night fever, and Sunday morning Mass.

To someone living it, the chaos is soothing, a start to a masterpiece. It's through these individual experiences that I'm able to piece together my own present day realities. I've just started my portrait, and I've left plenty of room for future stories and experiences. But I haven't forgotten about my own, just ask anyone one of my subjects about growing up in New Hampshire, I'm sure they could regurgitate an earful. I've still got room for any of my friends and family down here in the Low Country, I just ask that you bring a paintbrush and an open ear. I've learned the most important part of painting is listening, learning to invite anyone in to help me paint. Charleston, together, we can make beautiful chaos.

Greetings from Planet Carolina

I've found that when you lose inspiration it's tough to even flirt with creative mediocrity; hence my recent decision to pack up my car with all she could fit and drive 17 hours to Charleston, SC, hoping my new start would render an unfamiliar yet unique prospective. I also had visions of the the geographical contrast sparking inspiration from 24 years in the Northeast. Mostly, I was open to new experiences and hoping to recall many which had been pushed back beyond the reach of my ever wandering mind.

If I was writing a comparative piece on the cultural differences thus far, my thesis would undoubtedly focus on the contrast in pace of everyday life. It was almost difficult for me to prevent this slow-paced lifestyle from becoming far too apparent in this mornings run, where I ultimately learned my first Southern lesson, 8 am is not early enough to beat the Carolina heat. At first it was infuriating, five minutes in line at the grocery store seemed unnecessary and downright ridiculous, especially when compared to Boston where they couldn't get you out fast enough. It was alarming at first, the lack of an aggressive almost portrayed an indifference in earning your business with their slow pace and un-intrusive approach, however the angelic 'hello' followed by the warm conversation from a fellow patron helps to highlight the beauty in taking time to appreciate life's little pleasures and the idea that we are all in this together. This pace carries over to everything, restaurant service, driving habits, I've found it nearly impossible to close the door on the tempo that has begun to inadvertently slip in to my everyday life.

This pace has allowed me to take it all in; the woman in front of me gathering ingredients for her sons favorite barbecue recipe for his return from Iraq. The man behind me and the passion in his recommendation for the best crab cakes and oysters in town. The check out woman with her deep southern draw and weathered skin that screamed of a pre-SPF youth at Folly Beach. I'm not only adjusting, but becoming engulfed. I'm finding it nearly impossible to prevent the sweet tea drinking, hello neighbor Southern lifestyle from gripping on to my deep Northern roots. And I'll continue to let them grow together, hopefully creating a new prospective, rooted in Northern youth and infused with Southern charm.