Just some late night gibberish, so my brain isn’t exactly conscious…
-A visual storyteller.
-A cryptograph of hidden subliminal messages.
-The means to physically express one’s emotions, thoughts, philosophies, and stories that cannot otherwise be expressed in words.
-The tool for the writing challenged, those that can’t write shit to save their lives, like myself.
-Subjective; basically, it’s Whatever the hell you want it to be. To not take the words of the snobby critics that believe they know exactly what the artist is trying to say by filling the entire room-size canvas with just a small dab of red dot.
-Freedom, a democracy. It’s not a right limited only to the few arrogant over-educated elitists who think they know art and make millions of bucks off of it.
-Not a fancy decoration for the dining room of a five star restaurant to collect the stench of grease and cigar smokes.
-To be read and understood even by a toddler. I admit I’ve come across many works of art and cannot figure them out, and I’m an artist. Just because I’m an artist doesn’t mean I instinctively get what is going through the noggins of other artists.
-A very messy messy affair. If you are a clean freak or germaphobe, don’t bother.
-A very crappy way to make a living, on the outside.
-A prison life sentence without possibility of a parole (or rather, retirement in comfort).
-A profession without the dullness of a white collar cubicle work.
-A mystery. Even Picasso doesn’t know (whaaat?).
Feel free to comment if you agree/disagree, or better if you want to add one of your own. 🙂
Ever since computers came to the scene in the middle part of 20th century there has been no limit to the things the little machines could do that matches or worse yet surpass the capabilities of the human mind. One of them being the way we draw and paint.
I’m not much of a critic, cause I don’t really often know what I’m talking about, much less how to talk about something. But then I’ve seen worse critics, so a little consolation there…
For my first ever book review I will introduce you to THE SUNS COMING UP…LIKE A BIG BALD HEAD by Norman Reedus. If the name doesn’t sound familiar to you, look up THE WALKING DEAD and DARYL DIXON, the no-nonsense hard-boiled-but-soft-on-the-inside newly lovable boondock that shoots down zombies with a crossbow. It was only recently that I was pleasantly surprised to find out he is, besides having acted in numerous underrated indies and modeled for names like Prada and Calvin Klein (who knew, appearance is deceiving!), an accomplished fine artist. And this year he has released his first ever photo book showcasing his artistic photographs taken in the last ten years. After watching few more movies featuring Reedus (including the cult classic THE BOONDOCK SAINTS) I made the decision to shell out $60 out of my very meager savings to purchase the book, which arrived today.
I got no style.
For a long time I struggled with the question “what is my style?” I looked at all the artists and noted some of their distinct styles that set them apart from one another. I tried to develop my own unique style, but somehow it just quite didn’t fit. I felt too frustrated and antsy. Worse I didn’t really get the best kind of responses for whatever styles I’d adopt, and that just lulled me down deeper into a pit of distress.