There is perhaps no greater shared universal image of the American experience than the ones created by Norman Rockwell for the The Saturday Evening Post. While debates over whether Rockwell was an illustrator or an actual ‘artist,’ have sometimes led to an under appreciation of his work by the high-brow, critical circles of the art intelligentsia, one thing is undeniable: his impact on the American imagination.

On this her 232nd day of existence as a democracy, where 200 years ago to the day of the ending of slavery in our borders– a son of a Kenyan man and a white American women accepted the nomination to the Democratic party’s candidacy for the presidency, she has come a long way with far more to go.

The first 232 years have been mired by a pink elephant, what some have called her greatest sin: race. (Or more precisely the social ramifications of it.) Rockwell was no stranger to this, though. He understood race’s largely untold story in the American experience. He both understood the picturesque and tranquil, that of mom’s beautifully roasted bird gracing the dinner table, to the hard-fought and sacrificed for, freedoms. The ones that gave all of us as Americans the opportunity to choose our own path as individuals and minority groupings, no barriers. (In theory.) And despite the levels of unchecked institutional disadvantages, despite the feelings and attitudes of some, if this election cycle, where a woman and a ‘black’ man (two of the protected class) led an extraordinary run to the nomination and America learned to talk about race and gender in just a bit more nuanced way, is any indication, she is getting closer and closer to actual, personal freedom.

Freedom, it is the trait we attempt to sell overseas. It is perhaps our greatest export (as seen through our popular culture), an amorphous thing, with ironically great personal tangibility. And while we lose parts of it through the actions of corporations interested in preserving their own ‘rights’ over the individual’s, or the state, in the interest of our ‘protection’ via FISA and the Patriot Act, we (the citizens) still hold the power, we possess recourse. That is why even though, she treats people wrong, she is so easy to love. Here (unlike most places) we still stand a shot. And while that is true for much of the Western world, it seems that here we are constantly trying to perfect ‘freedom,’ (hence: the protests, debates, social uprisings, etc.) with each passing generation becoming better than the last. Today Design Observer looks at the upcoming Rockwell show at Florida International University, where the college has commissioned artists to craft works inspired by Rockwell’s ‘Four Freedoms’. Here’s part of the post:

During the summer of 1942, the American painter and illustrator Norman Rockwell embarked on a series of paintings that would come to be known as “The Four Freedoms.” Inspired by an impassioned speech President Roosevelt had made a year earlier, this quartet of images — freedom from want, from fear, freedom of speech and of worship — were published in The Saturday Evening Post the following winter, and remain among Rockwell’s most celebrated works. They were also highly effective as a means of social impact. The Office of War Information distributed thousands as posters, and a 16-city tour of the paintings was seen by 1.2 million people, raising over $130 million dollars in war bonds. Writing in The New Yorker a few years later, one critic noted that as a series, these paintings were received by the American public with more enthusiasm, perhaps, than any other paintings in the history of American art.

Check Design Observer’s selection of works from the show [Here]

Design Observer’s full post [Here]

Rockwell’s ‘Southern Justice’ [Here]

I am currently listening to The Wire… and all the pieces that matter, a soundtrack based on the HBO original series on the sociological underpinnings of urban blight. The soundtrack, just as you would expect, is authentic to Baltimore and the sounds of the series. Featuring local rappers and an appearance by Masta Ace, interspersed with tracks from Tom Waits and The Neville Brothers along with snippets of memorable dialogue and scores made specifically for the show, it is worth a listen, you will without a doubt feel the grit and get a taste of the city.

Jay Z once spit ‘what more can I say?‘. That’s kind of how I feel here. In November of 1993 I knew not much about hip-hop history, and had no real perspective being in elementary school, but I was beginning to listen already–influenced by The Box (now in the UK), BET Rap City and most importantly older heads from around the way and school. It is weird to look back and see that time now, documented.

I just scanned this in. It comes from a stack of old The Source Magazines my friend ‘kicked down’ to me a while back. It’s a review of Blackmoon’s seminal ‘Enta Da Stage‘, an album that traces the beginning of (the now pejorative) ‘backpack rap’ for me and many of my closest friends. There are even lines by Buckshot that reference skateboarding and in at least one video treatment, he in fact, wears a book bag.

What’s particularly amazing, looking back, is that The Source was always getting it right while being what we call ’shady with it.’ They held back the ‘classic’ five mic belt from Blackmoon, instead handing them four–which many a classic hip-hop album has received from them. If you look, just below Blackmoon’s review is one of of Heiro’s own, Casual, who also dropped a classic that year, also garnering four mics.

If you go back through your The Source stacks (if so fortunate) you will see this pattern: garbage got garbage, a great record got its due, but almost no one was given the classic ‘five mics’, outright. It was earned. The last person was Biggie for ‘Life After Death’ and that was done so, posthumously. (Before that was Nas’ Illmatic.) There was a moment when hip-hop journalism mattered and held itself to an extraordinarily high-standard. Let’s hope that somewhere along the way as it has been watered-down, someone finds it in a full and consistent way again.

Larger scan [here]

When I was little I used to build model airplanes, it is probably why I have a love for the technical. I would read about aircraft and then go to the hobby store and discern between thee or four models of the same jet, based on color scheme and the bases they came from–their decals meaning more to me than to others, I think. (I always opted for the ones that came from the Western bases and the Pacific Rim where I grew up. And yeah, I was nerdy enough to know how to tell.) It was important for me to always get the F-4 from Clark with the ‘PN’ (for Philippines)* on it, because at some point, I was probably hearing the actual version of that plane or watching it, or touching it during air show season, or milling around at the base exchange with one of its pilots in my presence.

I grew out of model planes, sadly. Where they once used to hang from my ceiling with clear fishing line; years upon years later, I have no idea where any of them even went. Where hours of inhaling glue fumes, sanding down pieces and my dad helping me replicate NATO region specific camo patterns with spray paint, Testor’s model paint, my Jane’s (the most important reference site you most likely never heard of) defense books and detail brushes, now disappear into the ether. What I have is memories, now. Memories of me going to the hobby store or the toy store and buying these intricately detailed models, with their boxes so well chronicling the aircraft’s history, and getting back home to see it in about a thousand pieces, it seems, and knowing it was going to take a couple of weeks for me to see it come to life. Oh, and besides my memories I have this Flickr pool.

*Referenced: Clark, AB, Philippines F-4 Phantom II

It is officially summer. It is officially hot. It is officially feeling the way it used to feel here, the way it has always felt in SoCal: The Lakers are talking about entering next season as contenders for a consecutive season–legitimately–and the underground hip-hop scene is back thorough,  and I am beginning to be reminded of why I love it here and why I will always love it (even if I do happen to move as it seems). And when it gets to this point in the summer, for whatever the reason, I begin listening to the records from growing up.

Recently my life has been revolving around Ice Cube records from around 1990-1993 (Amerikkkas Most Wanted to about Death Certificate/Predator), and my favorite track right now, other than ‘You Know How We Do It’ is ‘My Summer Vacation’ which was once referenced in a great The Source article tracing Mid-West gang roots in the mid-’90s. The song is a fictional account about the migration of an LA gang unit’s operation to St. Louis. Gangs have always been a part of the Mid-West life, but undoubtedly the South Central LA gang trend did find offshoots and showed its tentacles in cities like St. Louis, Chicago, Little Rock and Phoenix (in the Southwest), and this is what Ice Cube taps into so faithfully on this track.

Listen/download (for promo only) Ice Cube’s ‘My Summer Vacation’ [Here]