An Origin Story. A New Perspective from a T-Rex

So, way back, before the Jurassic franchise...

This maybe a bit long for an email. So, I suggest opening it in a browser for the full length.

Once upon a time, a young boy, fresh off of a trip to Boston’s famous Museum of Science, sat on the red shag rug in his bedroom, assembling a 3 foot long T-Rex model.

An avid and enthusiastic, if not exactly meticulous, model maker, the boy was already anticipating scenes of mayhem and carnage that wouldn’t be viewed again until the first Jurassic Park movie was released, almost 20 years later, in 1993.

Sticky fingers hurriedly stuck the shorty arms into place and slapped a little black paint in to the red beast’s irises. Why the T-Rex’s plastic skin was red was not really on his mind.

But, the little green plastic army men and their tanks and jeeps were mobilizing on the red shag carpet, with no idea of their inevitable doom!

I treasure this image, with all of its hurried passion and all of its flaws. I can still feel, almost 40 years later, the anticipation and excitement, as I raised the camera to my eye, pausing only to adjust the oaktag backdrop and tweak the position of the muscle car.

Click.

For the last 30 years, this image has represented the moment when I discovered the joy of creating a visual story.

Start with a concept and subject and begin building from the background to the foreground, leading your viewer on a path of discovery.

Eventually, my path wound through the commercial photography field, creating images for a myriad of industries and clients. I helped them to tell the story of their products and services, following that same model: Concept first, last and always. And, then, building the image from the background through the fore.

But, there was another path that started on that red shag.

The T-Rex eating soldiers was most likely inspired by Godzilla and other 1960’s sci fi movies I watched on the floor of my grandparents’ parlor.

The other influence was the New York State Museum, in Albany. The first exhibit as you walk into the space was a life-size active waterfall, with a huge elk rearing up out of the pool, about to leap away over your head.

I remember being just stunned by the majesty of the scene. The sound of the water flowing, hidden birds singing, the feel of a gentle breeze from some hidden fan rustling the birch and maple tree leaves overhead. And, being able to walk right up to the edge of the pool, with no other barrier between me and the scene.

And, then you saw why the elk was startled into jumping away. At the top of the waterfall was a First Nation man, with an atlatl poised to cast.

The story telling immersed me in the scene and I stood there, enthralled. (The exhibit was closed a number of years ago. I think there was some questions about the depiction and the accuracy of the story being told.)

This was not the only diorama in this museum that I can recall vividly.

There was one of a 1920s outdoorsman cleaning rainbow trout by an active Adirondack stream. You could feel the weight of the fish in his hand as he deftly cleaned it for dinner on his camp fire. Another was of white tail deer herd struggling through winter snows, with a wolf pack stalking behind. A Ford touring motor car, complete with the tool kit rolled out, was being repaired by a manikin after getting a flat tire on its way to a picnic.

In my early teens, the inevitable question of, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” was hot and heavy in the hormone laden air.

I asked some adult about becoming the person who creates these types of exhibits. Their answer was, “there is someone who does it, but it doesn’t come up very often. It’s a hard job to get.”

In hindsight, that answer is eerily similar to the one I got about making a living being a commercial photographer.

Keep in mind that this was the mid to late 1900s. There was no internet available for instant knowledge, if not wisdom. AOL’s now defunct dialup wasn’t distributed until 1991. And, like cable tv, wasn’t adopted by our household for a few years beyond that.

And, guidance counselors, then as now, had to balance the precariously precocious and chaotic dreams of their young charges against the world as they, the counselors, had experienced it.

On average, I think they did okay. Some good, some not so much.

(Be careful here with your comments, people. Not all guidance counselors are bad. My mom was a beloved and celebrated counselor in her school district.)

But, my counselor was relying on an aptitude test that “scientifically proved” that I would be good on a mountain top as a Fire Watch Marshall. Or, as some kind of commercial artist. My parents and I chose the latter.

(Plus, I think I gamed the test.)

All of this (and yes, I know it is a lot), is leading up to the question I find myself pondering: Why shouldn’t I expand my personal scope and my creative practice into the museum story-telling world?

I believe we are the sum of all we have done, experienced and learned before. And, it is up to us to choose our next steps.

Hello, continuing education, my old nemesis! We meet again…

To be continued.

---

---

I know they told us to never feed the animals at the zoo. But, what about the dinosaurs?

---