Tag Archives: art

DELUSIONAL PEOPLE

Faber- to fabricate, to lie, thus, ‘art is a lie!’

Modern art embraces everything, and it should, as each new generation has that many new sources of inspiration to draw from, the only new ideas are the combinations and retoolings of older, (arguably better) ‘original’ ideas. Whenever I come up with a great new idea, it appears someone else has already done it; Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, any countless number of other brilliant jews. This is the only decent argument for anarchy. We ought to just tear everything down and start from scratch.

Ideas and philosophy multiply exponentially upon themselves, building blocks like LEGOs towards an ultimate good, or perhaps mucking up the process with overt confusion. I can’t create unless I immerse myself in new ideas and company, I get depressed when I’m not fulfilling some act of creation, when my body gets depressed it makes itself fall in love, when I’m hopelessly in love the only cure is art.

As it embraces everything, is doesn’t have to be picky, it has arms open wide to receive it all, but perhaps it CANNOT decide, and is just artistic nonsense. The ravings of madmen in the street at streetlight poles begin to make perfect sense to me.

If someone labels their memoirs ‘The Rantings of a Crazy Person’ chances are they are not a crazy person. If they label their memoirs ‘The New Gospel of the Reborn Jesus Christ as Told to me by my Housecat,” then they may be a pretty good candidate. But even I attribute animism to inanimate household objects, a silly childhood holdover. My class ring, like all class rings, for example, had a singular purpose in its life; to get itself lost. My toilet cannot flush without my approval. Whereas most people need only to pull the flush lever, I must be watching my toilet as it does this, nodding and smiling satisfactorily, beaming proudly as if no other toilet could fulfill this function as well as mine.

Delusional people (artists of reality), confuse their internal and external spaces, in some degree incapable of delineating between the two. Their dreamrealm is our realm, and they will as readily interact with a wall as they would with the policeman on the corner, and “sane” people like you or I would rather interact with neither. We tell ourselves that hard-line constancy is better than our mental illusions, a good use of our perceptional condition than being tricked. But we are all tricked on a daily basis, by our biased minds, our faulty eyes, and the society, fellow humans and world in which we live.


This is Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ It raises many important and pivotal questions about art as we know it, ‘what is the thinker thinking of?’ ‘is the sitting position the best position for thinking?’ perhaps he’s thinking that ‘I could be thinking a whole lot better if I put on my damned thinking pants.’


This is Rodan. He thinks of nothing but destruction.

The artist is a clown, a poet, an imitator, a monkey, a philosopher, a sociologist, a socialist, a satirist, a fabricator, a creator, and first and foremost a liar.

Constructing his or her own reality for entertainment, aesthetic or philosophical purposes (and let’s not forget the payouts), is the honest intention of dishonesty what separates them from the camps of confidence-artists and the camps of schizophrenics?

A few more thoughts related to this subject, and then I must return to the comfort of my dreamtime, whose sophistry I know to be authentic and internally consistent:
Early cultures and shaman were much more responsive to the archetypical ‘stranger’ as a bringer of both dramatic good and evil foreboding. Regardless, his news was often accepted as gospel by the characters time and time again, even in those stories where the moral was that some trickster is playing with your worldview to ill ends. We love a good mystery, and solving it sometimes takes a backseat to never solving it. Some humans skip to the end of the enjoyable book to read the reveal first, others join major world religions. An old Native American belief was that ‘evil is the truth that is not meant to be known.’

And finally, this:
Does telling a fictional story make it more true than if it were never told at all?

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Pixelart

just some noodling within the 8-bit dimension:

Video

The Average Lifespan of a Dry Erase Marker

A brief experiment concerning a common classroom item.

GAH!

I can’t believe I just figured this shit out! I’m too old to not know this shit! There is more of this kind of crap over at dahawaiian.deviantart.com

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ANACHROMISTIC

“Graffiti is beautiful, like a brick in the face of a cop.”

-Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

Professor Ducard had discovered the secrets of time travel. They lie not in some convoluted device powered by highly radioactive and unstable elements, nor by reciprocating magnetic fields, nor by hypnotic regression or aliens or astral travel. The much sought after method of breaking the fourth dimensional wall, so to speak, was found in art.

A well-respected curator, restoration conservator, and avid collector, the good Professor was quick to discover that paintings, with little to no magical impetus, would transport the viewer to the millennia and decade they depicted. And in no metaphorical sense, either, as countless unwitting museum patrons were sadly killed in unexpected Inquisitions, dropped into pits of hellish fire, bitten in the genitals by snakes, mauled by dragons before saintly knights could even react, or found nude and fallen down fractured abstract staircases.

Ducard’s gallery was a tourist trap in more ways than one, and as such, had to be shut down. The French government, for the first time since before its last socially important revolution, found itself censoring an entire gallery of art. Many scholars agreed that it was a great loss to both the worlds of physics and art history, though few agreed what censorship, if ever, was justifiable, and fewer still claimed that France should have been censoring its pretentious art decades ago.

The Professor himself was hardly missed, however, when he went missing in some dark part of the museum one weekend, perhaps drowned in one of any number of Tempests. He was survived by a loving wife, three fully-grown children, and a cadre of art restoration fan-girls/girlfriends, of which there were two.

But this story truly takes place after the paintings were separated by retailers and oceans, and the gallery itself destroyed in a rather poetically justifiable widespread fire, of which I will not comment, other than to say that both physicists and artists would agree on its beauty.

One such painting, Cave, an obscure artist’s reference of an archaic time, was sent to modern day  Chicago, where it still resides. Though it was assumed by the buyer to have lost all ‘magical’ properties with its separation from its gallery collection, and the aforementioned loss of said gallery, it was chanced upon one night by Ex-Cop turned Security Guard Ermine Hester.

Officer Hester, no longer bound for glory-filled days on the street, busting junkies’ heads against sidewalks as his only artistic endeavor, (and Pollock-approved, at that), now had a beat of three wings and a foyer to walk. Though the occasional kicking-on of the air-conditioner would sometimes spring him into paranoid frenzies of attention, gun wavering with nerves and experience, most of his time was spent at his post in the foyer, reading cheap True Crime novels and Detective Fiction, depicting little difference between the two. At the bottom of each hour, he would interrupt such endeavors to stand creakily from his metal chair, stretch his body, yawn widely, and brandish a club for a nighttime prowl.

There was not much to do, as there weren’t many people with the common decency to try and burglarize a collection of priceless art. Probably because, if True Crime tells us anything, ‘priceless’ means ‘immobile’ on the black market. In fact, in his Security Firm job, just as in his former law-enforcement days, Officer Hester had but the occasional distraction of loitering vagrants and graffiti artists about the building to threaten.

Time took its effect on Hester, and employees and even patrons were heard to refer to him as ‘Festerin’ Hester.’ Senility, though not entirely taking hold, was able to grapple effectively with Ermine. The building wasn’t particularly big, so he was the only security guard necessary, and yet was still seen calling for backup on the walkie-talkie he’d insisted on carrying. The curators feared, in the back of their minds, the day when Ermine too his zeal a little too far, and broke open the skull of some hapless spray can hooligan.

Ermine Hester didn’t have much of a background in art, Jim Davis notwithstanding, and as such, defined art as ‘that which resides inside the building inside a frame’ and graffiti as ‘everything else.’ The definition constituted fine as far as the owners were concerned, and Ermine did his job.

Half-crazy as he was, though, it certainly didn’t bother Officer Hester much when he walked into the wing of the museum dedicated to realism in art, and discovered Cave. He may have squinted at it for a second, perhaps even rubbed his eyes a bit, as he walked back and forth to notice the vantage point within the painting changing with his movements. Not a painting at all in fact, he assumed, but an open window to some hitherto unknown outdoor portion of the museum. When it was constructed, Hester thought, he couldn’t remember.

It was daylight according to this portal, and Officer Hester couldn’t recall missing that amount of time that had transpired between seeing it was clearly night at his initial post, and daylight here. Perhaps this was some newly installed modern art piece, or a fancy door that led to another gallery room that was only well-lit enough to look to be outside. Perhaps again, he thought, this was just a shining example of what those longhairs could do with a horsehair brush and plenty of paints. They never cease to amaze.

Ermine took a solitary fingertip and, wary of the damage his oily hands may cause, carefully tried to brush the canvas, only to discover that there was none. With as much trepidation as somebody expecting a window when there wasn’t one, and as much surprise as somebody who quickly discovered a glass pane where they hadn’t expected one, he put his entire hand to the painting’s surface.

Clearly, it was no painting. He couldn’t remember if this had been here yesterday or not, but then again, Ermine couldn’t even recall what paintings were directly behind him in that very room. So, assured now of its integral structure to the building, and as such, his duty to patrol it, he stepped through the hole.

On the other side of that wall lie no other room such as he had ever seen, but a lush forest surrounding the entrance to a cave hallway. Surely, the strangest museum exhibit since Mapplethorpe. Well, perhaps not that bad.

So he continued along, so transfixed, that he didn’t look back behind him to mark his progress. If he had, he would have seen that there was no longer a wall holding a frame, but simply a floating portal that had presented to primitive people quite a spectacle over the years.

In fact, just an hour earlier, Took (a coincidental primitive ancestor of French Enlightenment thinker Alex De Tocqueville), had stopped by to see ‘what was on.’ But he was sadly disappointed to see it hadn’t appeared yet, and made a mental note to stop by later.

 

Years ago, ancient French tribal people had seen a single brushstroke appear in midair. It startled much of the womenfolk, and several of the men tried to kill it. The children were the only ones in awe of its beauty from the very start. Slowly, however, in a gauche-like haze, a man appeared set in a rectangular backdrop of Mahogany and various instruments. That bespectacled  and hairless biped on the other side smiled and waved at these cave-denizens. They screamed and hollered back, and he suddenly disappeared, much faster as he had appeared, and this upset the indigenous people much more. Especially Took, who was a child himself at the time. Over the years, the painting would appear, containing a happy little man who taught them various artistic endeavors, such as constructing their own brushes and paints, and how to depict what you see in your environment.

Where the concept originally came from remains a mystery of poor writing.

Took took to the art form from the beginning, and impressed even that anachronistic teacher with his ingenious ability to incorporate design flaws in the slate tablets as part of his overall composition. Soon after, cave walls were filled with men, with animals, with symbolic gesture drawings with perhaps even no meaning at all. The expressionists had their competition.

Tribal spirals and herds of animals, the first fast food menu, if you will, adorned much of their dwellings. It was something to do, when you weren’t worried about survival or reproduction, which sadly consumed much of the cave people’s time, or else they may have gotten into such abstract concepts as shading, backgrounds, and the philosophical importance of social archetypes. But for now, wild beasts roaming freely floating one on top of the other would have to suffice.

Whether he had fulfilled some fated cyclical need, or was simply speeding up a process that would have commenced without him, the beloved art teacher vanished, and the backdrop changed. The primevals watched as the rectangle showed them moving pictures, different faces, and views beyond their ability to comprehend.

Equally frustratingly unaware was Ermine Hester, as he infuriatingly shook with rage at the blatant disregard for public property, for modern established law, and just downright decency! He tried to rub off some of the icons from the stone walls, but only a few were fresh enough to vanish on his sleeve.

Suddenly, he heard a skittering behind him, and grabbed his club, another unnecessary device he warranted for his nightly use. Didn’t seem so stupid now, did it, as several greasy, nubby madmen appeared out of the darkness, hair matted down into their faces, eyes glowing animalistic through and darting about. They finally fixed upon Ermine, and he gathered enough courage to flail about erratically.

His club was designed to prevent the breakage of skulls.

Theirs, (though hardly designed much at all so much as simply found), weren’t.

Shit

Usually, when shit hits the fan, I just stand back and enjoy the abstract art. It’s kind of hard to do, however, when some of that art is all over you.

I hate to see good friends of mine break apart, either through neglect, as is the case with one household of friends that I deeply and sincerely love, or through animosity and distrust as is with the other. Love is never to strong a word to use when it comes to your friends. I do not let friendships die easily. I try my damnedest to keep in contact with a number of people from as far back as second grade, from Phoenix, Arizona and Wahiawa, Hawaii to Cardiff, Wales. Anyone whom I have befriended in my short tenure as a mortal upon this spinning globe who attempts to contact me will be met with enthusiasm and rejoice. So it pains me deeply when those that I love drift away.

This goes back pretty far. Not only was a raised with this philosophy, but I’ve also seen that neither of my parents socialize much, and never do I want to resign myself to that fate. Also, a very good friend of mine, Matt Fisher, moved to Kentucky long ago and I have never heard from him since. Many dear friends of mine have passed away, or do not return emails. But more importantly, I don’t like it when two mutual friends of mine suddenly get angry over something petty with each other, like money, or a woman, or housing, and this sort of shit starts to go down. Fuck that. You’re old enough to know better.

I realize that I’m being very ambiguous, though I have no reason to. I suppose I want to conceal names to protect the innocent, even though if these people peruse my pages they will know damned well who I’m referring to.

Not only that, but I face housing expulsion soon, possible starvation, and at the very least the far displacement of the woman I love. These are all my fault however, so when shit hits the fan its a little hypocritical to complain when you were the monkey flinging the poo.

What are you, some kinda wise guy? Why I oughta…

It is the wise man who admits he knows nothing…

Wise-ass.

I come across this revelation while banging my head against the keyboard in my Flash class. My forehead has randomly formed these words. Anybody want to help me animate some shit? Anybody with more free time and better drawing skills than me?

 

Nyuk Nyuk Nyuk.