The Upside of Down…

Local Heart, Global Soul

Last weekend I was sorting out some photos of local city landmarks taken last summer during some of my walking adventures.

Suddenly I spied some photos that I’d meant to divert into a separate folder on my computer and mark up as a future blog post.

Somehow I missed these at the time and now it’s highly overdue that these get a little publicity in my little corner of blogsville.

These amazing billboards  had been put up in the center of the city and they captivated not just my lens but also my heart.

There was a text billboard with an explanation of the purpose of the exhibition, here’s a copy of the text:

The 101 portraits in this exhibition consists of, are meant to provide a peek into the world of Down Syndrome.

A world that turns out to be utterly different from the usual stereotypes: pitiful children with…

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About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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