Fighting Life

Recently, I took on the unbelievably difficult task of making...

Mon, 06 May 2013 16:08:00 -0400

Recently, I took on the unbelievably difficult task of making four custom boxes for housing some Giclee prints. The pictures above are the final product after several failed attempts and a large slice across the top of my left hand - but I did it all without depending on cheap Chinese factory labor. Also, I know how to make boxes now.

Each of the boxes are made with two 20x30 pieces of illustration board covered in Japanese fabric on the outside and handmade Washi paper (from Hiromi Paper in Bergamot Station) on the inside. The art is printed on 15”x19” Somerset Velvet from American Art Editions.

Born from Web

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 03:40:00 -0400

Holy shit, a third of 2013 is over.

I have a love/ hate relationship with the internet, and the endless spew of information it can direct at me. So to use the web to my full advantage, I started compiling together a book of everything I had learned over the years (on and off the internet). All of us take in so much valuable knowledge every day only to have it disappear moments later. No matter how hard we try, we can’t even recall the information that we lost - so how do we even know where to start? So that’s why I’m doing this…writing everything down. I’m marking my name on everything. I’m motivated again. Also, I’m going to start writing with more fucking honesty.

My year so far:

I’ve finished four pieces of art, including one sculpture and one music video.

I just made my first set of art prints.

I’m going to begin training with an amazing athlete on the U.S. Paralympic cycling team.

I learned basic colloquial Hebrew.

Next week I’m getting Scuba and hunting certified.

A few weeks after, I’m going to play a show.

(Above is a screen cap of a video I just edited for Johanna Chase. Totally irrelevant but I thought it was a cool picture.)

I’m setting out to learn everything. It’s going to be a big book. A very big book.

A Eulogy in Tape

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 21:23:38 -0400

All the drawings, postcards, and bits of inspiration taped up on the walls in my room have been falling off and sliding into that forgotten corner behind the desk. It’s like a paper Autumn in here. I guess artist’s tape, like all things, have a limited life span.

What’s strange though is that the tape stays on the wall like some dejected reminder of what once was. The paper (postcard, picture, drawing, whatever it was) loses traction first. A few months from now, the walls will become barren, hosting only adhesive tombstones for the inspirations that once were. Eventually, these inspirations will escape my memory altogether.

Yet, at some point, I’ll draw my desk back and uncover a treasure cove of nostalgia. Iconic pictures torn from art journals, a passionate letter from an ex-girlfriend, a thank you note from a fan, the revealing art of a former lover…all these things will suddenly nestle into a certain corner of my brain, and I will sit there, carefully appreciating every bit until I look up to see an entire afternoon gone.

I remember hearing a quote a while back about how Hell is...

Mon, 04 Mar 2013 20:03:00 -0500

Everything's fine today, that is our illusion

I remember hearing a quote a while back about how Hell is actually that moment before death where you look back at your life and meet the person you could have been. To me, anxiety - my most persistent enemy - appears in this form every day. It haunts me with notions of regret, attempting to rip apart my chest until its empty. Of course, it’s never going to be empty. And of course, this is a stupid way to live life.

This past weekend, I had the amazing opportunity of watch a jam session between five lifelong, jazz musicians. Whenever I see older musicians perform together, there is never a sense of urgency or stress in their faces. The music simply overtakes them, the melody gently riding along to the rhythm of the percussions. Despite an hour of sleep the night before, seeing these five jazz musicians play perfectly like the gears of an immaculate music box reaffirmed my love for music. And in that moment, everything felt ok again.

The Kiss

Sat, 16 Feb 2013 05:35:39 -0500

The Kiss - My first animation of 2013

If nothing of this is ours, how will I ever know if something’s mine?
- My Country - tUnE-yArDs

Art tutorials + resolutions

Fri, 08 Feb 2013 21:30:00 -0500

Art tutorials + resolutions:

1) Become a good artist

2) Stop drinking. Right now.

3) MAKE…

- everyone happy by being happy

- art everyday

- yourself relevant

ok. I think I’m ready for 2013.

PETA's New Ad Campaign

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 15:21:35 -0500

They’re really going full force against carnivores this year.

Saudade

Fri, 01 Feb 2013 03:55:00 -0500

I wish I could understand the way the ocean curls her toes, the way poetry enters her ears, the way the sun hits her hair. Of all the things to understand, she is not one of them, and she never will be.

From the cellar, we watched the world pass over our heads in yellow packets they shipped from France. The planes would bombard Marseilles with a graceful levity that would turn the entire horizon into a beautiful sunset, and from our lone window at street level, we watched with only interest and reserved judgement as to why nature can’t compete with manmade beauty. During winter, the rain would thicken the roads and flood the only place we had to live, but life would still look pleasant out of that one window. Right outside, the fine suede boots - heavy from the water - would make the room quiver.

When summer finally came, the opposite wall of the cellar had begun deteriorating from months of abuse. The sunlight leaked in lightheartedly and by seven o’ clock, the space would be filled with a cheerful sun. It shrouded the room with a delicate light that would nestle softly into every vestige. But from our corner with the window, the light would shine directly into our eyes and transform the world into a harsh white. We would have to whisper our names to know our place, her’s Marseilles and New York mine.

Sharp Teeth

Thu, 31 Jan 2013 23:36:00 -0500

A crocodile in a classroom full of humans tends to stand out.

Maybe its his teeth that give it away.
Or the swampy skin.
Or the orange eyes.

A crocodile in a classroom full of humans tends to stand out. Especially if he just ate one of them.

My Bery Burger BirthdayThe original plan was to set up a huge...

Wed, 23 Jan 2013 18:59:00 -0500

My Bery Burger Birthday

The original plan was to set up a huge rollout canvas in Pershing Square and serve chili to people who wanted to draw/ paint on the canvas. Unfortunately, the square was empty and food regulations prevented us from making anything and handing it out (in case a health problem arises).

Instead, we purchased a ton of burgers from the dollar menu and did drive-by handouts. Although it ended up a little differently than how I initially hoped, it went well nonetheless!

Cold Waters

Tue, 04 Dec 2012 15:48:00 -0500

I’ve seen the tip of the iceberg and I worry about you.

- Rush, Distant Early Warning

{1: Snow}

When it snows on the Eastern Coast, we play scholar by drinking whiskey and discussing Hemingway. I lift an ice cube from my Old Fashioned and see your distorted face through it. After a while, the ice melts between the tips of my fingers, and it’s just you.

{3: Water}

The water is frozen over.

{2: Ice}

It’s

hard to

see anything

from the top of an iceberg.

Your hair floats nicely on the water.

The cold water makes our body’s rigid

and our minds distant, but eventually, one of us

will dive in and swim until we can’t swim anymore.

And from the bottom, we’ll look up and see the sun

reflecting colors through the ice, over your face

and over mine from above the surface

and forget what cold ever meant.

It’s hard to see anything

from the bottom of

an iceberg.

Sleepless #1

Sun, 02 Dec 2012 07:58:00 -0500

Knowing myself (what a line to start with!) this won’t be the only sleepless night.

There’s a certain person I become around 4AM or any time for that matter. Drunk after two weeks of sobriety, I’ve become painfully ponderous, yet simple-minded -

Simple-minded in the sense that I think about things that mean nothing, yet hold a substantial degree of depth. The ocean feels a bit deeper every day.

Nothing is mysterious except ~~everything~~.

Now whether I remember this in the morning.

I’m turning twenty-five soon.

A substantial number of my friends are either married, getting married, or have serious girlfriends, and I’m here conflicted as to whether I even want structure in my life.

Conventionality runs in my family. Conventionality runs my family.

Five years from now, I’ll likely be writing similar musings.

And I’ll still have no answer.

Emotional Ears

Thu, 22 Nov 2012 20:18:35 -0500

Emotional Ears:

While persistently drawing the edges of our bodies, we’ve both come to the conclusion that ears suck.

They simply lack the emotions that other body parts possess. Even a nose can scrunch up for tears or muscles tense up in anger. Ears - and I guess elbows - are the only two body parts that fail to express themselves. Elbows, however, get out of jail free because they have weenises. Ears just suck. It’s unfortunate that listening requires passing through this apathetic medium first.

So thanks for listening with everything else - because your ears definitely aren’t.

Big Catch

Thu, 22 Nov 2012 15:33:00 -0500

Should I escape into the woods or stay here to organize my thoughts on life?

Olber

Tue, 20 Nov 2012 16:35:00 -0500

That night, I looked at the sky and noticed a few more stars than usual and thought that maybe the universe finally stopped moving. I hugged myself - one arm over the shoulder and the other under the armpit - so that from the back, it appeared like I was embracing someone. From the front, I looked like a psychopath bound in a straight jacket.

The next night, I brought you along to stare into the night. You said: It’s impossible not to fall in love when there’s so many people in the world.

That night, those other stars became invisible again, and all I can see are the ones closest to me.

A Sea Still Warm from the Sun

Mon, 19 Nov 2012 17:29:00 -0500

Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.

- Charles Bukowski

The day you became a fish, my mind became the sea.

Long ago, when you kissed the waves on your mother’s hair goodbye, I stood there by the fire and listened to the radio sing from it’s gut before it cackled away with the flames. In a different hemisphere, you danced until your shoes became untied, then you danced until your feet became bare and you could feel the sand underneath you.

The sunset didn’t ask for your permission before it sank too deep.

That night, you became a fish, and my mind became the sea still warm from the afternoon heat.

Redress Recess

Mon, 12 Nov 2012 16:27:00 -0500

Two little good girls
Watchful and wise –
Clever little hands
And big kind eyes –
Look for signs that the world is good,
Comport themselves as good folk should.
They wonder at a father
Who is sad and funny strong,
And they wonder at a mother
Like a childhood song.
And what, and what
Do the two think of?
Of the sun
And the moon
And the earth
And love.

- Kurt Vonnegut in a letter to Knox Burger

In the writer that wants to write, the dictator that wants to rule, the painter that wants to paint, and the liar that wants to fool, what tugs the strings of their heart to make them do what they do? They all hold such personal and nuanced understandings of love…the quandary arises in expressing these nuances.

The hopeless writer writes because the paper will listen.

The foolish leader rules because the people will listen.

The painter paints because the colors will listen.

And the liar fools because no one will listen. And we’re all liars.

An artist (a term I use very broadly) is an artist because they have an insight on love. Even when no one else understands their expression, something will listen - whether it be the canvas, the lens, or the paper. Of course, as humans, we can only express so much of love’s elegance. Maybe that’s why artists can never love their work…but is it worth abandoning love to love your own creations?

In the end, we all find something or someone more important than we are and helplessly dedicate ourselves to it until it becomes us.

But this is life so we’ll survive. We’ll survive.

Sisyphus In Love

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 03:48:00 -0500

A start and a finish, or neither, or everything in between. Or maybe just a start. The only tragedy is how conscious Albert is in this whole ordeal.

A start - Albert falls in love. Why? Maybe all those years of listlessness changed him, or maybe he’s reached some threshold for stagnancy. Regardless, he came back to California after his show in New York brought a grand total of seven people. The commute had been too far for his friends, especially considering the storm, but people still insisted him, begged him, to have the show. In the end, none of those people came.

If the art is good enough, people will come, may be the most disingenuous statement any one can say he thought. No, wait. I’d buy that. It’s so terribly demeaning and estranging. Or, I LOVE IT. How can people appreciate something the creator can’t appreciate? If art is about understanding what the artist feels, then no one would or should like his art.

And they didn’t. Isn’t that why he’s back in California living with his mom in his onion-glazed suburban house? He forgot how differently the inside of his house smells compared to his apartment - the aroma reminds him of a scotch whiskey without the alcohol. On the contrary, his place in New York only reminds him of alcohol.

Despite all these years, his mother welcomed him so warm-heartedly, and she still dresses as he remembers her: gaudy and suburban. And this house! This house that everything had once happened, where that juice stain still stares from its place on the carpet, where he remembers first kissing a girl…now he’s helplessly returned. He sits on his bed and looks at his depthless white ceiling. Besides the light in his room being broken, everything is painfully the same.

“Maggie died,” Albert’s mother says from the kitchen. “She got in a car accident in front of Steve’s place.” He doesn’t know either of these people.

“Sorry mom. He

And it’s only tragic because he is so hopelessly in love.

Camus's Pre-school

Mon, 05 Nov 2012 15:20:00 -0500

September 10, 1920

Teacher says we should all write our thoughts in a diary.

Half the kids in my class don’t know how to write yet.

Do I know how to write?

September 12, 1920

I learned adding and subtracting today.

Every day I learn something new. That is adding.

Every day, I am closer to being old like Mommy and Daddy. That is subtracting.

I feel funny.

September 15, 1920

Teacher says I ask too many questions.

I told Teacher she wasn’t fair.

She says I ask the wrong questions - but why is asking why so wrong?

October 1, 1920

Teacher gave me a gold star today when I answered a question correctly.

I threw it back at her. It was a tool she was using to control me.

Forced to sit in corner for rest of class.

October 18, 1920

Mother says I should switch schools.

I ask why, but she is half-deaf and cannot hear me.

She never hears me. I am simply a stranger.

November 15, 1920

I made a sand castle in the playground today.

Bobby came and kicked it over. So I built another one.

Bobby kicked it again. I build another one.

I feel like I have purpose.

November 30, 1920

Should I quite school or have a box of juice?

Strangers, I Know

Thu, 01 Nov 2012 19:37:00 -0400

To the distraught artists who hide their depression with beautiful artwork, to the feeble inventors that live vicariously through their perfect machines, to the beautiful models that can live inside their picturesque ignorance - where do we go now? When can we stop being so subservient to ego and live life as it is meant to be?

I feel like I’ve lost myself in a desperate mind.

…At some point in the night, I reach out to a bundle of hair and clothes that ends up being her. She stands in the corner with the lamp, then in the wheelhouse of my brain, but she suddenly smiles, and I smile back, and everything feels much more human again.