TELL ME A TALE. . .
At Pickford Studios, we are all about storytelling. Whether it is in the form of a novel, a short story, a play, or a poem.
We have a lot of thoughts about that.
From the moment we are born, we are read and fed stories; we are surrounded by them, and they shape our world. As we grow, we seek them out, and create our own stories--sometimes tales confirming the past, others challenging the future. And whether or not we know it, whether or not we admit it, they flow and grow throughout our adult lives; they circulate within us, they surround us and rain down upon us: As teenagers, we tell ourselves stories about what it will mean when we get our license or lose our virginity or earn a degree or get our own apartment or land a real job. The fictions continue: stories about what it will mean when we get married, and have a family. And admit it: we are still telling ourselves stories decades later, when we purchase a purse that costs more than our first car, or when we assuage a mid-life crisis by buying a convertible. Always, forever, we are telling ourselves a tale.
When we die, they will tell another story about us at our funeral; then the nature of those stories will morph into a bittersweet basket of yarns as people get weepy and drunk at the wake. And make no mistake, a story can be bad or good, inspiring or intimidating, evil or nurturing, comforting or terrifying--all depends. Doesn’t it? Only when we recognize that life is really nothing more than a series of stories, can we begin to control our fate. And that is a beautiful thing, by the way, if we choose to tell ourselves gorgeous and empowering tales.
But. If a kid goes down a dark road, he, she, has most likely fallen for a dangerous story. And when a person walks into a crowded market place with a bomb strapped to their body, and it explodes, killing them and countless others--rest assured--they did it because of the story they were told. Told, and came to believe. When a country goes down a dark road, it’s because someone told the correct number of people the perfectly calculated story at the optimum time. And when civilizations do finally fall, those cultures are eulogized and an autopsy takes place, just as though we were speaking of a human being. Then, it starts all over again. A fable, an epic poem, shadow puppets and theatre. And eventually, books and movies. And who knows what else, down the yellow brick road.
Here’s something to ponder: Storytelling can even be non-fiction. Think about it: if a story is about plot, action, what people want and what they say about that. . .if stories are about outcomes sought for, hoped for, sacrificed for, or dreaded--then, non-fiction is, indeed, storytelling. You could say that non-fiction, precisely because it really happened, is storytelling at its most urgent, its most didactic. Storytelling at its most hopeful, horrifying, and sometimes, hilarious.
And more food for thought. Something from Pickford Studios’ own backyard: miniatures are about storytelling. A dollhouse, or a wee scene in a box--or perhaps in something less expected. . . a peek in a purse, an old suitcase, a diving bell, a detergent bottle, a boot, a stereo speaker, a hollowed out TV or computer monitor. . . lo and behold, you find a whole big little reality hiding inside.
It is the miniature museum that surprises most, we find, when it comes to the notion that miniatures tell stories. But they do. When most people think of dollhouses, they think of the classic Victorian, or of a San Francisco painted lady row house, perhaps nestled in a neighborhood with a model train running through it. But what a lot of people do not know, is that in the last decade, miniatures have evolved, and come into their own. They are now more art than craft. More like 3-D photography, than children’s toys. It is like photography, in that it draws the adult viewer in; it demands that you study the story begging to be told in a single image. But where it is the photographer's art to wait for precisely the right moment, the miniaturist manipulates the moment into being--collects, and stages, then tweaks--until the story is clear. And you are surprised to find yourself feeling things, about a dollhouse. (Unless you simply find yourself laughing out loud.)
But once you see such a house, it becomes obvious: these are little worlds that tell a tale: the House of Hoarders, the Eviction, the pot smoking teenager still living in his parents’ garage, the angry kid hiding out in a stereo speaker, the family celebrating the return of a soldier, the street urchin staring in the window of a sweet shop, the hair salon for ladies of color, a miniature chop shop, dogs rescued from a puppy mill feeling grass under their paws for the first time, the traditional southern plantation with a secret safe space for runaway slaves. . .the desperate lives lived out in a rundown trailer park, the men’s shelter bearing a sign a “No Dogs Allowed”, with a homeless man outside, he and his dog deathly cold and hungry. And even edgier still: a head shop, tiny pedestrians staring up at a jumper, or the weary routine of a naughty web cam-girl, set in a hollowed out computer monitor. A post apocalyptic strip mall, after the bomb.
Stories. Images and words.
So whether it is the made-up story of a man who hates his job but loves Chia Pets, a dystopian Pied Piper, a mad scientist injecting a woman’s soul into wine, or the true stories of a gay boy lashed to a fence to die, a black kid shot down on the mean streets by a cop, a rookie cop shot down in the mean streets by a criminal, religion gone rogue with kidnappings and dinosaurs and Rico Act violations. Or merely the nooks and crannies of the world rendered in miniature. . .we believe there is a story, everywhere you look.
And we strive to be a small part of the telling of them.
We have a lot of thoughts about that.
From the moment we are born, we are read and fed stories; we are surrounded by them, and they shape our world. As we grow, we seek them out, and create our own stories--sometimes tales confirming the past, others challenging the future. And whether or not we know it, whether or not we admit it, they flow and grow throughout our adult lives; they circulate within us, they surround us and rain down upon us: As teenagers, we tell ourselves stories about what it will mean when we get our license or lose our virginity or earn a degree or get our own apartment or land a real job. The fictions continue: stories about what it will mean when we get married, and have a family. And admit it: we are still telling ourselves stories decades later, when we purchase a purse that costs more than our first car, or when we assuage a mid-life crisis by buying a convertible. Always, forever, we are telling ourselves a tale.
When we die, they will tell another story about us at our funeral; then the nature of those stories will morph into a bittersweet basket of yarns as people get weepy and drunk at the wake. And make no mistake, a story can be bad or good, inspiring or intimidating, evil or nurturing, comforting or terrifying--all depends. Doesn’t it? Only when we recognize that life is really nothing more than a series of stories, can we begin to control our fate. And that is a beautiful thing, by the way, if we choose to tell ourselves gorgeous and empowering tales.
But. If a kid goes down a dark road, he, she, has most likely fallen for a dangerous story. And when a person walks into a crowded market place with a bomb strapped to their body, and it explodes, killing them and countless others--rest assured--they did it because of the story they were told. Told, and came to believe. When a country goes down a dark road, it’s because someone told the correct number of people the perfectly calculated story at the optimum time. And when civilizations do finally fall, those cultures are eulogized and an autopsy takes place, just as though we were speaking of a human being. Then, it starts all over again. A fable, an epic poem, shadow puppets and theatre. And eventually, books and movies. And who knows what else, down the yellow brick road.
Here’s something to ponder: Storytelling can even be non-fiction. Think about it: if a story is about plot, action, what people want and what they say about that. . .if stories are about outcomes sought for, hoped for, sacrificed for, or dreaded--then, non-fiction is, indeed, storytelling. You could say that non-fiction, precisely because it really happened, is storytelling at its most urgent, its most didactic. Storytelling at its most hopeful, horrifying, and sometimes, hilarious.
And more food for thought. Something from Pickford Studios’ own backyard: miniatures are about storytelling. A dollhouse, or a wee scene in a box--or perhaps in something less expected. . . a peek in a purse, an old suitcase, a diving bell, a detergent bottle, a boot, a stereo speaker, a hollowed out TV or computer monitor. . . lo and behold, you find a whole big little reality hiding inside.
It is the miniature museum that surprises most, we find, when it comes to the notion that miniatures tell stories. But they do. When most people think of dollhouses, they think of the classic Victorian, or of a San Francisco painted lady row house, perhaps nestled in a neighborhood with a model train running through it. But what a lot of people do not know, is that in the last decade, miniatures have evolved, and come into their own. They are now more art than craft. More like 3-D photography, than children’s toys. It is like photography, in that it draws the adult viewer in; it demands that you study the story begging to be told in a single image. But where it is the photographer's art to wait for precisely the right moment, the miniaturist manipulates the moment into being--collects, and stages, then tweaks--until the story is clear. And you are surprised to find yourself feeling things, about a dollhouse. (Unless you simply find yourself laughing out loud.)
But once you see such a house, it becomes obvious: these are little worlds that tell a tale: the House of Hoarders, the Eviction, the pot smoking teenager still living in his parents’ garage, the angry kid hiding out in a stereo speaker, the family celebrating the return of a soldier, the street urchin staring in the window of a sweet shop, the hair salon for ladies of color, a miniature chop shop, dogs rescued from a puppy mill feeling grass under their paws for the first time, the traditional southern plantation with a secret safe space for runaway slaves. . .the desperate lives lived out in a rundown trailer park, the men’s shelter bearing a sign a “No Dogs Allowed”, with a homeless man outside, he and his dog deathly cold and hungry. And even edgier still: a head shop, tiny pedestrians staring up at a jumper, or the weary routine of a naughty web cam-girl, set in a hollowed out computer monitor. A post apocalyptic strip mall, after the bomb.
Stories. Images and words.
So whether it is the made-up story of a man who hates his job but loves Chia Pets, a dystopian Pied Piper, a mad scientist injecting a woman’s soul into wine, or the true stories of a gay boy lashed to a fence to die, a black kid shot down on the mean streets by a cop, a rookie cop shot down in the mean streets by a criminal, religion gone rogue with kidnappings and dinosaurs and Rico Act violations. Or merely the nooks and crannies of the world rendered in miniature. . .we believe there is a story, everywhere you look.
And we strive to be a small part of the telling of them.
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