You are Garbage!
An Imagination is a Terrific Thing to Waste.
As a small child, I recall glimpsing several colorful objects encased in plastic above my grandmother’s study. Once I grew in stature, I learned to recognize these objects as kitschy collectibles as described by my bohemian-artist-stoner-hoarder-grandmother. Once my ability to read grew, I noticed reoccurring titles amongst the action figures and lunchbox memorabilia like Star Wars, The Wizard of Oz, and Star Trek–all entities I came to know as media franchises. This was my introduction to a collection. There was my grandmother, an artist and historian with a sailor’s mouth, creating and collecting culture in all forms.
Once my ability to write and draw grew, I hoped for the potential to create my own media property–an honest delusion to say the least. In the years since my first interaction with the plastic offspring of media licensing, my late grandmother–a source of idiosyncratic inspiration–instilled in me a fondness for mainstream and novel forms of culture through a collection.
Now I (routinely, okay semi-regularly) read, write, and create under the belief I could receive the same sense of admiration and fascination from others as a creator as my grandmother had invested in her collection. To this very moment, I cling to the childish dream of finding my own creation sitting in her collection.
Constraint.
Back in January, an email landed in my inbox–the big announcement I anticipated for my thesis class, a fifteen week crucible prompted by a single word of focus–the semester’s word was “constraint”. Hours dragged on under one thought: what the hell will my graphic design thesis be? My memory slammed me with anxiety over thesis precedents–one past student created an online generator to translate twitter posts into eye-catching posters, another student produced a plethora of internet manufactured products adorned with his inimitable graphic style.
What would I, a creative procrastinator, achieve in a semester? Hours turned into days of deliberation with cameo appearances by self-doubt and dehydration. Soon, early memories of shuffling through my grandmother’s study flooded my thoughts–but why? I toyed with solutions like producing speculative, socio-political objects yet nothing nullified my need for novelty. Why did the form of an action figure permeate my thesis thoughts? Would this trivial thread salvage my thesis or simply tank it?
Shortly after admiring my grandmother’s collection, I experienced an imaginative yet ordinary relationship with my own toys. As an introverted child with a speech impediment and epilepsy, toys were my salvation from the trials and tribulations of pre-adolescence. Initiated with the use of mass produced replicas, my mind eye’s flickered with images that never quite escaped me.
In the dusty, claustrophobic backyard of my youth, there was no Hollywood executive constraining my budget or deadline for play. No others to provide feedback or constructive criticism. Without discrimination, I grabbed any action figure–regardless of brand or universe–to feed my fascination with fictional immersion. All forms of media–from blockbusters to animations–eventually found their way into my backyard productions. I would mix and merge archetypes, backstories, and settings, reflecting the creative process with naivety.
Along these formative years, I created an imaginary world that I contained under the name of Garbage Boy, a distillation of my influences that I rarely shared for good reason–this property drew upon my friends, family, and hometown quite heavily. As an experiment translated across sketches and short films, featuring cardboard, rubber gloves, and goggles, the project embodied my creative method–remixing reality and cultural elements as I saw fit.
In my high school years, I explored the dissemination of intellectual property. Although I kept the prototypical Garbage Boy under tighter wraps than a valuable set of baseball cards, other products of my imagination emerged as fodder for development. During my junior year, I created a 3D stereoscopic comic book that I promoted and distributed across the campus. The serialized issues lampooned my teachers with the kind of colorful glee expected in a comic format.
At this point, I became aware of the possibilities of “intellectual property”–the process of creating a valuable product through synthesizing elements of reality and imagination. Another prominent element of this early endeavor was the handmade, bedroom approach–a crash course in the D.I.Y. movement; all I required was a hand, pencil, and sweet mechanical reproduction. As high school came to a close with art college on the horizon, these early notions of promotion, distribution, and creative profit set roots in my malleable mind. Fast forward five years, I had no choice but to grow up–on my terms.
Turn Trash into Treasure
Two weeks into my thesis semester, I stood up in front of three seasoned design professors along with my classmates and presented Garbage Boy as the backbone for my thesis project. I sought an opportunity to reconcile the conflict between creation and collection. What if I turned my design school’s imagination into a collection?
I proposed a system where others could play or contribute fragments of their imagination to Garbage Boy with the use of drawing and writing forms. Participants could insert their interpretation of an cultural archetype into this fictional frame, bringing along their dreams and memories, breaking the constraints between author and audience. I imagined a concentrated group of participants generating endless permutations of their contributions in a studio-like manner, echoing the same relationship between multi-track recording and psychedelic music.
At the end of this presentation, I knew I made a risky choice–tossing my hat over the wall in hopes that my childish dream could quickly evolve over the course of a semester. Even though I funneled my project through the lens of play and participation, I kept my sights on a larger goal–the establishment of a mode of working, where author and audience share a back and forth dialogue. Perhaps I didn’t want to make an auteur “media property”, instead I sought to merge my vision with the visions of my gifted peers.
Pirates of the Collection
Immediately after my thesis midterm presentation, a professor referred me to a local boutique, named Super7, that intersected with subjects like media licensing. The next day, I journeyed to this location with little preconceived notions. As I stepped inside, sensations not unlike those felt inside my grandmother’s study encapsulated me. The store was filled from wall-to-wall with colorful creations that only children and grown geeks could admire. Every popular media property from Star Wars to He-Man was represented. I approached the store manager, Daniel Sant and asked the burning question on my mind: “How the hell is all of this possible?”
Check out The Garbage Boy Project on my website.
