In Review – HOMIES: An Introspective of my Creative Friends

HOMIES: An Introspective of My Creative Friends capsules the moment in time immediately after Joc Traylor takes that allusive leap of faith and decides to trust his talent, his friends and his direction in life.

Within thirty seconds I was reeled into the crystal clear reflection of this uninhibited creative. Pulling at the heart strings of everything I know to be timeless in our culture. The gleaming lights of a yet known city rolling past the vocal styling of “Forever My Lady” performed by Joc Traylor is cinema gold. HOMIES: An Introspective of My Creative Friends capsules the moment in time immediately after Joc Traylor takes that allusive leap of faith and decides to trust his talent, his friends and his direction in life.

Jack Lester captures a visual description of the term “creative” by presenting a coalition of young black men who individually are directors, photographers, designers and artists in every sense of the word. But the camaraderie among these men is what propels them to new heights.

Part 1 of HOMIES features an exhibition by The PRBLMS. A true behind the scenes glimpse at the work of an artist who’s undaunted pursuit of self expression is kindred to the likes of Space Invader or Bansky. As well, the film highlights the relationship between Joc and Ucheena as both a semblance of respect and gratitude.

Almost as important as having the courage to say “Fuck it! I will not let that trick [fear] play in my mind anymore” is the consideration of your peers to recognize your vision and then sow seeds into it.

Through their united exploration of Los Angeles, under the constant red eye of Jack’s camera, the coalition revel in the joy and freedom of actively manifesting their dreams.

And in a most profound nod to the necessity of producing a well rounded introspective Joc Taylor takes a moment to shine a twinkle of light on the grim stereotype that the creative man doesn’t value or need a woman. Instead his hotel confessions and parking lot spoken word suggest that the goal is to have someone who doesn’t require the art to suffer in an effort to preserve the relationship. A perspective that made me dive into my own introspective.

The production by the FLNPB Film house for HOMIES: An Introspective of My Creative Friends left me in great anticipation for more. Eager to hear the stories of more creatives and follow the adventures of Big Joc’s introspective.

Much Ado About Chickens

she hadn’t put much thought into what she was going to do with six hundred chickens but here she is, glaring from the top of her stairwell at the shitting chickens clucking about her two-bedroom townhouse. God I love this house.

“Molly, Lucile, Lucienda, Kate, Gabby, Alexandra and you..” she paused in wait of a subtle sign as to what to name this feathered creature, “I’m not one to be closed-minded sooooooo, PAUL!” this chick was no rooster but she certainly was no hen.

“I’m gonna flip all you chickens into two-hundred thousand dollars”, echoed off the hollow eggshell walls, rattling the rails sending her new chickens into a fluttering banter. Javier would pay her just over $150 a cluck for these fine chicken legs and all she had to do was meet him on the corner of Pavulon and chiquita at 7:36 Wednesday evening. but what the hell is she supposed to do with six hundred chicken for the next three days.

Monday was the ideal spa day. she bought four inflatable pools and allowed her sweet chickens to sqwuak and hop from one bubbling platue to another. triggered by the persistent flame of her lighter they danced in the life saving water from above.

Tuesday was delicious. after three hours of rolling in butter and meal and shortening, She and Paul crumbled twelve pans of her grandmother’s hot water cornbread. she showered her sweet chickens with warm buttered bread and they ate until the only movement in the house was the rising and resting of their bellies.

but Wednesday, a bitter relief. Lucile tried desperately to leap from the second floor guest bedroom. Gabby began plucking the feathers off Paul. Her sweet chickens had grown wreckless and vengeful. They were hardly the chickens who she had enjoyed swimming and eating with.

but who the hell would love chickens.

“How could they be so ungrateful?” she pondered as she paced across the yellow tile from the sink to the stove.

“What chicken do you know that’s ever lived in a house? Oh Lucile, that bitch! And motherfuck Paul!” her mind was spinning in a whirlwind of rage. and easing her slip into insanity was the incessant dripping of ice cold water from the faucet to the basin, from the faucet to the basin, from the fau…

That water was my peace. My baptism. Here I could wipe my skin clean of dirt and oil all the while bathing my soul. Revealing covered hope and salvation.

appearing vacant from her mind, her hands splintering from clinching the wooden handled knifes , she sliced and diced and julienned her sweet chickens into low carb phillies without taking a moment to breath.


“Get up inmate! The cook’s prepared your dinner”

wiping the misery from my eyes, wishing i could bare just one more moment of rest. i finally glance into reality and what lies before me but a plate of chicken and rice.

“What, no bread?” i scoffed at the poetic irony.

“Pipe down inmate! Some bread won’t save you from that needle at 7:36 tonight. Enjoy this meal, it most certainly is your last.”

Stop – An Exhibition by Courtland Wells

He’s the kind of person who doesn’t let days go bye. Everyday he’s always doing something. It could be 3 o’clock on a Tuesday and Court’s on snapchat turning up.

Court at S T O P

If diversity were to take form in the confines of three exposed brick and cement walls behind a glass storefront, it would be this crowd. A hodgepodge of flannels, fishnets, cowboy hats and cornrows gathered in Mississippi for the love of art.

The aesthetic was cinematic simplicity at its finest. Original photos strung on wire with clothespins, welcomed the viewer into Mr. Wells darkroom. The glow of three film lights and seven lit tea candles illuminaed the center of the room; the venue was photo shoot ready.

With the aid of four Fuji Film disposables, and several bottles of merlot and moscato, guests actively seized the opportunity to stop and capture this moment in time.

In the sea of dress slacks, denim shorts and mini skirts; jig-infused conversations about developing creative scenes in New Orleans and Nashville filled the air. But what about Hattiesburg? Were we not standing in the delicate birthplace of a scene with potential to be equally alluring?

Something is happening there. Courtland Wells has cultivated an interest in his medium that did not exist in the space before he entered it. Wells has developed a hub to grow and propel from. At the entrance of “Stop” was a table displaying six of his recent placements, both as a model and photographer, in local publications.

His work was a balance of color and black and white stills, His muses were Super Sunday celebrators, dancers, exhibitionists, and members of the National Football League.

I stole a second to speak with one of Wells’ featured models. Kway, a hip hop recording artist from New Jersey by way of Mississippi with an affinity for heavy jazz music.

“He has a magnetic spirit.”exclaimed Kway when asked about the overwhelming swarm of support around Well’s photography.

“He’s the kind of person who doesn’t let days go bye. Everyday he’s always doing something. It could be 3 o’clock on a Tuesday and Court’s on snapchat turning up.”

Suprised by the enticing unapologetic freedom of expression in the heart of Dixie, I asked Kway if this was a normal night in Hattiesburg?

“Hattiesburg is at the begining of a Renaissance. More artists and events are popping up like this around town.”

He continued to inform me about an upcoming open mic night, an art show he attended the night before and new artists, including himself, who are enriching the culture of Mississippi.

As the night progressed photos were purchased, laughs and drinks were shared and a moment happened. For a few hours the dreamers were the majority. Free to unscrew the tensions of society and reflect on the pleasures of life frozen in time by Courtland Wells.

the Knot at Sweetwater Pond

buried deep in the concrete jungle, tucked behind a forgotten record store, rests a sweetwater pond of budding tadpoles settling in on their metal lily pads. croaking and groaning to the melodic heartbeat of the renaissance.

now this knot was an unusual collection of tadpoles. some were hues of deep purple with stripes more pure than the arctic snow. others were more blinding than the sun. but here, hidden in the sweetwater pond, these tadpoles were free.