Monday, October 29, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
paint
I don't know what to say here, except that I should be putting a ground layer on some canvas. Most of my canvas is already primed with painting efforts, some with figures and concepts already complete, but the work itself is lacking and so I don't care too much for it.
I have a room in my house where it's wall to wall paintings. Older stuff that's okay really, just not anything that ever sold or really... that I have any amount of affection for.
How do I become affectionate toward a painting I have done? That's a tough question. I have done things that tooke me half an hour to complete that I would never touch again, because in some way it is technically a point I need to remember or duplicate. So, I like it maybe in the sense that it is a marker for me. These paintings tend to be ones that people comment on liking, and I am pleased that they have found something I created that they like... but truly, those pieces are just reference material, and pretty much bug me because i have no passion invested in them.
How do I find myself passionate about a painting I am working on? This is more complicated.. maybe it's not. I don't know.
The pieces I have that I am defensive about. Not necessarily if someone criticizes them, because criticism doesn't bother me. It amuses me. But, back to the point, where does my affection grow for something I have made? Typically it doesn't start with something clear cut like the sort mentioned above. It starts as a mess. It offends me in it's juvenile ability. I hate to see the canvas through the paint. I hate to see the brush strokes in the paint. I hate for myself to make figures that make me look mentally challenged especially if they don't even have enough going on to make you feel anything. Even the colors are rushed and uninspired. That's how my shit starts.
Then, in my anger and frustration I will continue to add things. How long does this anger last? The pieces I have done (a handful over my years) that I am passionate about, usually have me angry and frustrated for no less than a few months. This is a problem because months is an eternity when your frustration creatively bleeds over into a world of non-artists. Not to go against my theory that everyone is an artist.. I'm just saying that on this island.. I'm not having coffee with anyone who understands.
I intended to write something poetic.. but I am beating myself up about putting off starting a piece tonight. I am torn on concepts. I know I should just go use all of my black on one half of some canvas and dump all of my colors on the other... But paint is expensive. I really should be using sand, but I know it will smell like seaweed.
What will I paint? dancers in a cage? an explosion off a pier as two people embrace? a monster child at at tea party? a dark shoreline? a piano? a broken blade of grass? a tuft of hair on a tree? a lonely boy in prison? a man crushed by books? a garden crushed by a truck from a tornado? a manatee? a stingray? a wood plank with a rusty nail.
I have a room in my house where it's wall to wall paintings. Older stuff that's okay really, just not anything that ever sold or really... that I have any amount of affection for.
How do I become affectionate toward a painting I have done? That's a tough question. I have done things that tooke me half an hour to complete that I would never touch again, because in some way it is technically a point I need to remember or duplicate. So, I like it maybe in the sense that it is a marker for me. These paintings tend to be ones that people comment on liking, and I am pleased that they have found something I created that they like... but truly, those pieces are just reference material, and pretty much bug me because i have no passion invested in them.
How do I find myself passionate about a painting I am working on? This is more complicated.. maybe it's not. I don't know.
The pieces I have that I am defensive about. Not necessarily if someone criticizes them, because criticism doesn't bother me. It amuses me. But, back to the point, where does my affection grow for something I have made? Typically it doesn't start with something clear cut like the sort mentioned above. It starts as a mess. It offends me in it's juvenile ability. I hate to see the canvas through the paint. I hate to see the brush strokes in the paint. I hate for myself to make figures that make me look mentally challenged especially if they don't even have enough going on to make you feel anything. Even the colors are rushed and uninspired. That's how my shit starts.
Then, in my anger and frustration I will continue to add things. How long does this anger last? The pieces I have done (a handful over my years) that I am passionate about, usually have me angry and frustrated for no less than a few months. This is a problem because months is an eternity when your frustration creatively bleeds over into a world of non-artists. Not to go against my theory that everyone is an artist.. I'm just saying that on this island.. I'm not having coffee with anyone who understands.
I intended to write something poetic.. but I am beating myself up about putting off starting a piece tonight. I am torn on concepts. I know I should just go use all of my black on one half of some canvas and dump all of my colors on the other... But paint is expensive. I really should be using sand, but I know it will smell like seaweed.
What will I paint? dancers in a cage? an explosion off a pier as two people embrace? a monster child at at tea party? a dark shoreline? a piano? a broken blade of grass? a tuft of hair on a tree? a lonely boy in prison? a man crushed by books? a garden crushed by a truck from a tornado? a manatee? a stingray? a wood plank with a rusty nail.
Last Night I dreamt....
8 Stories tall.
This tower is 8 stories tall.
I know that, because I created it floor by floor as I ran from the 8th floor down, in flight.
The man chasing me from the top floor wants to destroy me.
He was sleeping at first.
And I told him nothing.
He heard me outside the room.
He flung his legs out of bed. He stood up and seeing me through the wall outside of his room, he took a breath in and he grew to where his lower lumbar was flush against the ceiling. He brought plaster with him as he navigated the efficiency to fly open the door. Roaring, I heard him coming, could somehow see him through the walls, and I bolted. Flinging my things down the stairwell beneath me.
The electricity flashes off and on, and I catch my arms, ribs, knees and head on the wet mortar walls and the rocky pathway trying to see, tripping on moss, slipping on decayed earth.
I hear the beating of wings, only I know it's his eyes.
I think I must be at least 3 floors ahead of him.
My heart breaks for him but I cannot allow him to catch me.
When I crash into the exit
The sun has gone and I run through the wet grass, dodging moonlight, heading for trees and then I hear screaming. Constant screaming.
This tower is 8 stories tall.
I know that, because I created it floor by floor as I ran from the 8th floor down, in flight.
The man chasing me from the top floor wants to destroy me.
He was sleeping at first.
And I told him nothing.
He heard me outside the room.
He flung his legs out of bed. He stood up and seeing me through the wall outside of his room, he took a breath in and he grew to where his lower lumbar was flush against the ceiling. He brought plaster with him as he navigated the efficiency to fly open the door. Roaring, I heard him coming, could somehow see him through the walls, and I bolted. Flinging my things down the stairwell beneath me.
The electricity flashes off and on, and I catch my arms, ribs, knees and head on the wet mortar walls and the rocky pathway trying to see, tripping on moss, slipping on decayed earth.
I hear the beating of wings, only I know it's his eyes.
I think I must be at least 3 floors ahead of him.
My heart breaks for him but I cannot allow him to catch me.
When I crash into the exit
The sun has gone and I run through the wet grass, dodging moonlight, heading for trees and then I hear screaming. Constant screaming.
For dinner every night I eat.
Mashed Russet Potatoes (Peeled)
White Flour Pasta
And an Atomic bomb of BLACK PEPPER that I never actually employ.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
One project ends.
I know that the quality of these photos suck. Maybe the buyer would be kind to have nice pictures of them taken once mounted in his office?
Finally finished. Packaged and ready to go.
Finally finished. Packaged and ready to go.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
1-25-2004 "Every Horizon is 97% Fog"
Every horizon is 97 percent fog.
silent and tired, lit far out there, cutting through a menacing message from the gods.
indestructible having beaten the odds and dominated violent wills.
I looked out the window towards the graveyard and half of my vision was obscured by a large sheet of snow curling under the eaves facing me, through it's thinnest edges it was ice blue. ragged like the upper maw of some wild thing.
I couldn't hear it as if outside under it, but somehow the imagery was something sort of immaculate in nature, so when I bore witness to it bearing down on me, entrenched in my limited sensory war zone, it's effect on me was.... poetic. And I hate to use that word. It makes you think you have a grip on my perversions when I use basics.
Resounded like a sheet of icy snow, curling and three feet thick sliding easily off of your lips with a recorder lying prone under your tongue, received directly in my head, catching every atom racing over your chin with chapters of worlds beating alongside it in seconds ... a translucent river of accomplice to stroke with.... pressing up against the pane reconciling it''s differences with dirt.
slipping further down, with a roar of friction, and landing, haunted and resolute below the sill, illuminated by my encased shadow.
on the side of the wall where no one walks the talk.
silent and tired, lit far out there, cutting through a menacing message from the gods.
indestructible having beaten the odds and dominated violent wills.
I looked out the window towards the graveyard and half of my vision was obscured by a large sheet of snow curling under the eaves facing me, through it's thinnest edges it was ice blue. ragged like the upper maw of some wild thing.
I couldn't hear it as if outside under it, but somehow the imagery was something sort of immaculate in nature, so when I bore witness to it bearing down on me, entrenched in my limited sensory war zone, it's effect on me was.... poetic. And I hate to use that word. It makes you think you have a grip on my perversions when I use basics.
Resounded like a sheet of icy snow, curling and three feet thick sliding easily off of your lips with a recorder lying prone under your tongue, received directly in my head, catching every atom racing over your chin with chapters of worlds beating alongside it in seconds ... a translucent river of accomplice to stroke with.... pressing up against the pane reconciling it''s differences with dirt.
slipping further down, with a roar of friction, and landing, haunted and resolute below the sill, illuminated by my encased shadow.
on the side of the wall where no one walks the talk.
Old journal entries. "How does a bull sneak up on you?"
Someone reminded me recently of a live journal I used to keep almost 4 years ago. I haven't looked at it since then. In fact, I didn't even remember my user name.
I may cut and paste some of my entries into this blog. I will date them though.
This one below is one I liked.
The golden hour...
"How does a bull sneak up on you and shove it's horns through your back?"
Raised that bull since it was a baby. Bottle-fed and nursed it into it's nubs. Complimented it's entry into adulthood and waxed his horns. Marvelled at nature while watching it eat the green grass found, slain and relocated for him.
trained for the stage since she was five. She underwent the knife awake with the lights off under religous eyes. Her milk shook around warmed by the fire under her ribcage, her ass smiled over her head and she was always there to cut to ribbons the red flags clutched in determined fists, even when her day found her inside out in the trashcan under more trash.
ring ring.
ring ring
ring
"hello."
"hello."
"what's going on?"
"nothing."
clicks and buzzes enhance the experience of describing whats outside the window. nothing enhances the experience of trying to describe what's inside.
Alive.... Ask me when the horns are in my back again and milk is gushing through my chest, and you can see the veins in my heart at the bottom of a glass, with your beacon of light and your xray specs slapping fat fingers down like a fag on the new tongue and feeling light headed... because you have an opinion.
learn a new language.
I may cut and paste some of my entries into this blog. I will date them though.
This one below is one I liked.
The golden hour...
"How does a bull sneak up on you and shove it's horns through your back?"
Raised that bull since it was a baby. Bottle-fed and nursed it into it's nubs. Complimented it's entry into adulthood and waxed his horns. Marvelled at nature while watching it eat the green grass found, slain and relocated for him.
trained for the stage since she was five. She underwent the knife awake with the lights off under religous eyes. Her milk shook around warmed by the fire under her ribcage, her ass smiled over her head and she was always there to cut to ribbons the red flags clutched in determined fists, even when her day found her inside out in the trashcan under more trash.
ring ring.
ring ring
ring
"hello."
"hello."
"what's going on?"
"nothing."
clicks and buzzes enhance the experience of describing whats outside the window. nothing enhances the experience of trying to describe what's inside.
Alive.... Ask me when the horns are in my back again and milk is gushing through my chest, and you can see the veins in my heart at the bottom of a glass, with your beacon of light and your xray specs slapping fat fingers down like a fag on the new tongue and feeling light headed... because you have an opinion.
learn a new language.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Triptychs 7?
OKay, so there's an internet technician on the island right now. I made him a burrito. But the important thing is that I can post the triptych progress I went on and on about in the previous post. Don't even bother reading it. It's all skim milk.
The first three are from one series and the second three are from the other. Still not finished, but getting closer. Copies are larger for inspection.. Sorry about the glare at the bases. Working on that.
THE POSSESSION
THE ARMOR
THE WOMAN DRESSED
THE AMBUSH
THE EXPOSURE
THE MAGNETIC FORCES
Hopefully this will post.
The first three are from one series and the second three are from the other. Still not finished, but getting closer. Copies are larger for inspection.. Sorry about the glare at the bases. Working on that.
Hopefully this will post.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Etcetera with no art.
Here are the Triptychs photographed individually, and unfinished STILL.
Three of them are very bold and the other three are more tame. Since seeing photos of the office space where they will hang, I have been trying to avoid excessive use of the same hue that the wall is painted. From what I could tell, the wall is like a bright mustard color. Could be wrong about that. Okay, maybe the wall is French's mustard versus a Grey Poupon mustard. Whatever.
If you scroll down this blog, you will see the beginning stages of this effort. I don't think I posted the stage where I had made three dark aged individuals with blue feathers as some of their features. I really didn't like that stage, as it was taking me to a place I wasn't comfortable to be. I wasn't comfortable with the symbolism. I wasn't comfortable with the literal imagery. I wasn't comfortable with what the images might mean to me, and I wasn't comfortable pursuing all of those thoughts when the final product is ultimately a commissioned group of pieces for someone's business, even if that person is a dear friend.
I am not entirely satisfied with the results I have been getting with these pieces yet. I am stretched pretty thin with the amount of time and energy I have to put into them. I know that if I do not trudge along, that I will never get what I want out of them. Sometimes I get what I want from a painting with the a very simple approach. I felt like if I went at these paintings with that attitude that I would be cheating the buyer. It may end up that I have cheated the buyer by my convoluted evolutionarily devolved execution of an excessive lack of focus. I will work and rework the paintings until I start to have feelings for them. Sometimes this can take a shitload of time and an assload of paint and a shameful amount of staring at ugly.
I am only going into this long winded description of the process because my internet sucks and I am waiting for the images to upload to a photo hosting site. Normally I would just dump them in your lap and say, "there."
What I did salvage from the bird fiasco.. (or over self involvement) was the third panel in the TT2 triptych series. It is half a woman in a large dress, and her face has been shot over the page with alot of splash technique. Meaning, I couldn't bear looking into her ONE eye and so I destroyed it, with pretty much the emotion I felt coming from it. Details, I guess. Intentions too.
In the same Triptych series is the second (b) panel titled "armor". You might find it interesting to note, that I don't like this character. Maybe that's why his head is the color of a dogs erect dick. None of these "characters" necessarily represent people I intend to portray. With my stuff, one figure can take on the disorders of many, and so also, suffer the brunt of my distaste.. even though I created it, and some would say that I am somehow that thing myself. Whatever. When I die, you can say that kind of shit and people will be amazed at how well the critic figured me out. And that critic will die too.
Fuck these pictures are taking forever to upload.
The three panels that have the least detail have a long way to go. I am not totally unsatisfied with them, but I do want to knock them around some more. Maybe they will come out to me. I liked the idea of doing half of each of them in monochrome, but decided that monochrome will come from me, when it should, and not in a forced process like this... and likely not in acrylic either. Who can say how monochrome will come from me and when? I can't. Even if it's how I really feel. Monochrome stabilizes my emotions, and the wildly horrific color grafting I do with these types of painting are almost like a purge of everything that makes me insane. Just a theory. I'm sure I could argue the opposite. It's hard to really pin down how I feel about monochrome works. I have only recently been actually thinking on it. If I could do a self portrait, would I do it in monochrome. I think I would. And that answer is what has had me chasing my tail on the issue. I'm a pretty expressive person really, but I don't think that's how I feel the most comfortable. I am the most comfortable when I can just be, I guess. And "just being" doesn't want to involve the crazy conflicts and explosive color that I force from myself to cooperate with planet Earth literally and figuratively. I want peace, and I see peace and acceptance nowhere near my art. By acceptance I don't mean recognition and approval. By acceptance I mean... I accept this life.
Jesus christ this upload is dragging on. Maybe I'll just use blogger.
I think I will need to post the paintings when my internet isn't like christianity dragging me to the light.
Three of them are very bold and the other three are more tame. Since seeing photos of the office space where they will hang, I have been trying to avoid excessive use of the same hue that the wall is painted. From what I could tell, the wall is like a bright mustard color. Could be wrong about that. Okay, maybe the wall is French's mustard versus a Grey Poupon mustard. Whatever.
If you scroll down this blog, you will see the beginning stages of this effort. I don't think I posted the stage where I had made three dark aged individuals with blue feathers as some of their features. I really didn't like that stage, as it was taking me to a place I wasn't comfortable to be. I wasn't comfortable with the symbolism. I wasn't comfortable with the literal imagery. I wasn't comfortable with what the images might mean to me, and I wasn't comfortable pursuing all of those thoughts when the final product is ultimately a commissioned group of pieces for someone's business, even if that person is a dear friend.
I am not entirely satisfied with the results I have been getting with these pieces yet. I am stretched pretty thin with the amount of time and energy I have to put into them. I know that if I do not trudge along, that I will never get what I want out of them. Sometimes I get what I want from a painting with the a very simple approach. I felt like if I went at these paintings with that attitude that I would be cheating the buyer. It may end up that I have cheated the buyer by my convoluted evolutionarily devolved execution of an excessive lack of focus. I will work and rework the paintings until I start to have feelings for them. Sometimes this can take a shitload of time and an assload of paint and a shameful amount of staring at ugly.
I am only going into this long winded description of the process because my internet sucks and I am waiting for the images to upload to a photo hosting site. Normally I would just dump them in your lap and say, "there."
What I did salvage from the bird fiasco.. (or over self involvement) was the third panel in the TT2 triptych series. It is half a woman in a large dress, and her face has been shot over the page with alot of splash technique. Meaning, I couldn't bear looking into her ONE eye and so I destroyed it, with pretty much the emotion I felt coming from it. Details, I guess. Intentions too.
In the same Triptych series is the second (b) panel titled "armor". You might find it interesting to note, that I don't like this character. Maybe that's why his head is the color of a dogs erect dick. None of these "characters" necessarily represent people I intend to portray. With my stuff, one figure can take on the disorders of many, and so also, suffer the brunt of my distaste.. even though I created it, and some would say that I am somehow that thing myself. Whatever. When I die, you can say that kind of shit and people will be amazed at how well the critic figured me out. And that critic will die too.
Fuck these pictures are taking forever to upload.
The three panels that have the least detail have a long way to go. I am not totally unsatisfied with them, but I do want to knock them around some more. Maybe they will come out to me. I liked the idea of doing half of each of them in monochrome, but decided that monochrome will come from me, when it should, and not in a forced process like this... and likely not in acrylic either. Who can say how monochrome will come from me and when? I can't. Even if it's how I really feel. Monochrome stabilizes my emotions, and the wildly horrific color grafting I do with these types of painting are almost like a purge of everything that makes me insane. Just a theory. I'm sure I could argue the opposite. It's hard to really pin down how I feel about monochrome works. I have only recently been actually thinking on it. If I could do a self portrait, would I do it in monochrome. I think I would. And that answer is what has had me chasing my tail on the issue. I'm a pretty expressive person really, but I don't think that's how I feel the most comfortable. I am the most comfortable when I can just be, I guess. And "just being" doesn't want to involve the crazy conflicts and explosive color that I force from myself to cooperate with planet Earth literally and figuratively. I want peace, and I see peace and acceptance nowhere near my art. By acceptance I don't mean recognition and approval. By acceptance I mean... I accept this life.
Jesus christ this upload is dragging on. Maybe I'll just use blogger.
I think I will need to post the paintings when my internet isn't like christianity dragging me to the light.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Triptych Bind 1
I am finished for today. I do have to work and all... It's not always playing in the garden, this life. I am not finished with these pieces, and will return to mutilate the emotionless parts.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Working the Cat's Paw.
This is the point in my painting, where I have to be very careful. I know how I feel about these pieces individually and together. Getting my feelings across is not the hard part. Not destroying my feelings is the hard part.
And I want the viewer to get whatever they get out of it. If they get nothing. Okay. If they get more than I intended, that's okay. But I still have to give them something from me. Something that only I can give. I have to be careful not to make anything predictable. I want the viewer to own this painting with me. I want them to see new things in it every day, and for years to come. If they want to turn the pieces upside down or mix the triptychs.. I'm prepared for that too. And that is the challenge here. To truly give.
Maybe a couple more stages to go if I can keep my control and my vision in tact.
This is a cradle I found under the house I have been helping to renovate. Is it creepy?
And I want the viewer to get whatever they get out of it. If they get nothing. Okay. If they get more than I intended, that's okay. But I still have to give them something from me. Something that only I can give. I have to be careful not to make anything predictable. I want the viewer to own this painting with me. I want them to see new things in it every day, and for years to come. If they want to turn the pieces upside down or mix the triptychs.. I'm prepared for that too. And that is the challenge here. To truly give.
Maybe a couple more stages to go if I can keep my control and my vision in tact.
This is a cradle I found under the house I have been helping to renovate. Is it creepy?
What's going on.
I'm pretty tired I guess. I'm burning both ends. I'm not eating very much. I have no pride in my job because the recent management overhaul blows. I finished the memorial painting of PJ the dog for a friend. I worked on the triptychs some last night. Have at least another round to go before I would feel okay about sending them out of here.
Have been doing alot of work on the property we purchased. I will take some pictures (maybe tonight as I rip up floors) and share.
Are there animals who have internal organs on the outside so to speak? Like creatures who function inside out? Because that's how I feel.
Below is a picture of our superstore on the island.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
TT 1 and 2 VERT
There will need to be some muting and texturizing still. I think another three or four hours on them should do it. Plan to be finished by Monday.
Nemesis..... Emesis
All of the things that I think uncontrollably and involuntarily and don't share..
things that no one anywhere knows that I feel
are more important to me than you think they are.
I'm not gonna say, "It doesn't take anything to crack the case."
I'm not going to threaten you if you discover my fear.
I will say, that there is no case a man can make against me... that I have not already feared, if you follow me at all.
Here is Triptych I stage 3.
I will flip them all to a vertical position soon and also show a before and after process with each set.
Dear Buyer,
I haven't abandoned the assignment YET. You know how these things go by now.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
Inspirational Poster
Lately, I have been feeling... exposed.
But I have also been pretty productive.
Productive to me is:
killing mice and spiders.
feeding starving dogs.
slapping layers of neutral colors over the fluorescent insanity that bleeds from me like oxygen.
Productive to me is:
Keeping my tongue flat for longer than my hands are busy.
Hunting art and being compassionate about it.
Getting through a chapter before going to the next book.
Productive to me is:
Checking in on who the fuck it is that I think I am
and finding someone home who isn't fucking crazy or an invalid or angry, and raising them up to advance and never retreat.
For now, and then we work.
But I have also been pretty productive.
Productive to me is:
killing mice and spiders.
feeding starving dogs.
slapping layers of neutral colors over the fluorescent insanity that bleeds from me like oxygen.
Productive to me is:
Keeping my tongue flat for longer than my hands are busy.
Hunting art and being compassionate about it.
Getting through a chapter before going to the next book.
Productive to me is:
Checking in on who the fuck it is that I think I am
and finding someone home who isn't fucking crazy or an invalid or angry, and raising them up to advance and never retreat.
For now, and then we work.
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