Some ideas create the strangest, most unexpected pictures in your mind, am I right? I would love it if I could trace this mental image back to its root. Why does the idea of a “worksong” translate into a dark room lit by a candle, with workish instruments and implements strewn about, all covered by a thin layer of tinkerbell fairy dust?
Maybe something about burning the midnight oil, or burning the candle at both ends.
Maybe it's about my grandpa's workshop in the basement, with grown-up grandpa things laying around all over the place, imbuing the child version of me with wonder over what magic he might be making down there.
Oh! Wait… uhhh, hmmm… it might be Snow White. Or maybe Fantasia. Or some combination of the two. Either way, damn you, Disney.
(Dear Brain… if you feel something poking you from below, those are just my eyes rolling.)
Does any of this actually go with the message of the song? Not so much. Or maybe it does, abstractly. Because anything goes with anything, abstractly. Like horoscopes, or "mysterious ways".
Everything I know about war I learned from the news and from movies and television, which is to say, I know only what film directors and politicians want me to know about it... so the reality is that I know absolutely sweet fuck all about it, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I hope to keep it that way.
My maternal grandfather was a soldier in WWII. He suffered nightmares long after he returned. Sometimes I wish I knew what it was like for him, but it wasn't something he wanted to talk about. Which also makes me think I'm glad I don't know what it was like for him.
I imagine it's hell on earth for everyone involved, whether their involvement is by choice or not. And with that I will STFU because I really can't contribute words on this subject, only the picture in my mind that this song gives me.
(Follow me, don't follow me)
I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush
(Collar me, don't collar me)
I've got my spine, I've got my orange crush
(We are agents of the free)
I've had my fun and now it's time to serve your conscience overseas
Identity is a messy thing. You think you know who you are. You dress a certain way, act a certain way, speak a certain way. You present your best self to the world, or so you think, every time you post a new profile pic on social media, post a pic of the complex meal you just cooked, post a pic of your immaculate/kooky/cozy/eclectic/artsy/worldly house/flat/apartment/room. You do all of these things to assert your version of who you are, so that everyone knows you're that guy/girl.
But are you really? How much effort did it take to get yourself that way? But maybe that's part of your identity. You aren't really you without the purple hair, the face jewellery, the sleeve tattoos, the dress made of bits of Moroccan tapestry held together with kilt pins.
And that's cool, man. That's perfectly alright. It's better than alright, because who wants to be normal in this weird world anyway? In the sea of beige, be the neon. That's how that saying goes, right? The beige deny their true selves, choosing to wear the uniform of the masses, while the neon go out of their way to hide their authentic beigeness. Or, the beige are presenting the most authentic version of themselves to the world, while the neon are the rare birds who can't keep their true colours hidden. The fake is true, and the truth is fake. What a mess indeed.
But really, the messy part isn't the mess you made of your vanity to get your make up just right, or the mess you made on the kitchen counter to cook that spectacular meal, or the mess you made in the living room to perfectly wrap and decorate the myriad Christmas presents under your tree.
The messy part is that you don't get to pick how other people see you. You don't own that. Your identity, however self-created or accidental, is all in your head. You present yourself as a writer; your mother buys you a ukulele for Christmas and tells you it was always your calling. Not that validation from others is required. You know who you are, and that's all that matters. Right?
Turning inward... every day I wake up and wish I was something else. Goth. Punk. Harajuku. Jedi. For about a year, I wasn't my true self unless I had asymetrical rainbow coloured hair. Right now, all I want is to be invisible, to fade into the background and let someone else be rainbow coloured and asymetrical. Until I bump into her on the street and curse her under my breath for being cooler than I am. Then I'll take it back.
Side 1, track 1 from Green, 1988. A sonic ode to small talk. Maybe not an ode. Maybe just a statement. A socially awkward statement. I basically refuse to speak on the phone anymore, unless it's to one of two people: my gramma or my stepdad. And basically only because they don't text message.
Text messaging is a socially awkward introvert's dream come true.
From Green, 1988. When it's cold and dark outside, getting out of bed and showing up to life is one of the hardest things. The cats never seem to mind it. When you're a cat, lounging around dreamily is how you show up to life. Getting up is temporary and soon followed by another round of sleepy dealings.
I'm not saying I want that to be my life. I'm just saying that cats make sleeping into an art form. They show up to life dreaming.
I think I'll make this my show up to life song. Starting tomorrow morning.
*****
Update: I have been told by different people who are not connected to each other in any way that it looks like the cats in this sketch are humping.
I can assure you they are not. Not that I have a problem with cats humping, per se. That just wasn't my goal. And while you are free to see anything you want in a piece of art and interpret it how you see fit, I just want to put it out there that they're not humping, and the reason they're not humping is that they're just not humping. Can I use the word humping one more time? Here is the photo that I used for reference. Not humping, clearly. Laying about like cats do, clearly. Also, how cute are they? Right? Just what the internet needed... more cat pictures. Clearly.
It’s hard to be original in a world where it seems that everything has already been done. There’s nothing new under the sun. There is only how you perceive it, how you describe it, how you convey it to others, which is new.
Ask a classroom of 25 kids to draw a picture of something, you get 25 exceptionally unique pictures of that thing.
I think that everything that came before you helped to shape the things you create, whether you know it or not. Maybe you’ve never encountered the absolute original. Maybe it goes too far back. Maybe as far back as a cave painting, or a tribal drum beat. But its existence brought about the creation of many other things, and you’ve encountered some of those, and that means the thing you made is the next link in the chain of creativity.
It may not be the next big thing. It may seem to you like a drop in the ocean, something that doesn’t matter, wholly uninfluential. But I like to think that merely existing on the creativity continuum makes it important, whether it ends up on auction at Sotheby’s, or gets 100 views on YouTube, or gets tossed into a drawer, never to be seen or heard by anyone.
Because it exists, it has matter, and that means the make-up of the universe has been forever altered. Those quantum particles go swirling undetected by human eyes into the atmosphere and are carried away to other places as if on the wings of birds. And then someone somewhere is offered the ephemeral hand of inspiration, and it drives the creation of something new which has been made before, but not like this. Something which might be auctioned at Sotheby’s, or get 100 views on YouTube, or end up in a drawer, never to be seen or heard by anyone…
Once upon a time there was a little girl who did what she was told. She went to Sunday school and received her sacraments. She believed everything the grown ups told her, because why wouldn't she?
Then one day when she was no longer little, she realized that her understanding of the world conflicted with the things she had been told. She was okay with this. It didn't really challenge her to let go of the old ways of thinking. She let them go quite readily, in fact.
Except, she would still occasionally find herself thinking in the old way. That way of thinking was wrong, she rationalized. It didn't make any sense. So then who was she talking to when she wished out loud?
Some neural pathways are harder to rewire than others.
I don't know that I can say I've had many religious experiences... I mean I've been to church. But I don't know that I can say I've ever felt a part of a sacred or spiritually significant event that demonstrates proof of a deity or justification of faith. Some would argue that proof is in everything from the minutia of our daily lives to the beauty of nature to the miracles of love and birth. These are wonderful things to be sure, and my heart does swell in those moments when I stop to smell the proverbial roses.
Still, I'd like to think that we all have our own two-headed cow, whether we consider ourselves to be spiritual beings or not. Something we journey for, to fill our hearts with love and wonder, to fill us up so that we can keep going. This is slightly embarrassing, but my two-headed cow might be my cats. My daily pilgrimage home from work to find my two feline companions waiting for me by the door, meowing and purring, prancing across the room because I've come back for them (or you know, for food, whatever).
And later, when your cherished pet brings you a sock all the way from upstairs as an offering, she's made her own pilgrimage, in a way. To my cats, I'm a two-headed cow, too.
Amanita is the name. The flowers cover everything. This lyric was the inspiration for this sketch.
click to enlarge
Because I didn't know a single thing about Guatemalan history, this pretty song filled my head with images of a pretty girl named after a pretty flower. Then I googled Amanita to find out what the flower looks like and instead discovered that it's a poisonous mushroom. You know, that poisonous mushroom, the red one with the white dots. Famous for its striking appearance and toxicity. I found it pretty hard to believe that the reference to Amanita in this song was some kind of error, so the googling continued. Then I found out that this pretty song references a pretty horrific event in Guatemalan history. But I figured that if R.E.M. can make a pretty song about something not pretty... (well, I suppose the flowers on the graves of the Guatemalan dead can be pretty, even if the reason they're there is not) then I can still make a pretty picture. Also... it's great to be sketching again! My wrist is on the mend (test results showed "non-specific inflammation of the tendons" so it's nothing too serious. Just need to make sure I don't overuse it again.
This post begins with a loud sigh. Due to the onset of a repetitive strain injury from too much mouse-action at work (let's hope it's not carpal tunnel syndrome -- the x-ray and ultrasound results shall be divulged to me on Monday), I will sadly be taking a break from sketching songs for a little while. There is ample bummerage on my end, I can tell you, as I've really been enjoying this project. The good news is that I am taking scheduled vacation time from work so hopefully my wrist will do a fair bit of healing over the next several days. Still, it's a bit of torture having sketching ideas and not being able to do anything about them. So until next time, whenever that may be, here are some work-in-progress drafts from sketches I've posted up to now. See you when I see you.
Fables of the Reconstruction (1985): track one, side one. Killer song. But I have to say this right up at the top: as a former English major and a current instructional designer, I can barely deal with the lack of appropriate punctuation in the song title. Apparently I'd better get used to it.
Gravity does seem to be pulling on me a bit harder than normal lately. In a way, I almost think that a gravity pull of *100% upon my corporeal being would be kind of a relief, at least in the short term. Terrifying, yes, but there would also a kind of serene surrender to it, don't you think? If you knew it wasn't permanent... if you knew that one day you could get up again, turn your head again, blink your eyes again. But in the meantime all you have to do -- all you CAN do -- is surrender to a force acting upon you that is stronger than any physical capability or will of the spirit. Just lay still, looking at the sky.
(click to enlarge)
See what I mean? Isn't that kind of nice? Sure, the city around you looms above, like strangers peering down over you. And sure, just like strangers, you don't know if they're concerned about you or judging you. It's not for you to know. It's none of your business.
With all your choices removed, you can take the time to focus on the feelings you've been ignoring. And, like having your choices taken away, it's scary at first. But after awhile, it's just as comforting as the pull of *100% gravity upon your body. Finally, you can live with the feelings. And you feel like gazing at the sky for the rest of your life might just be alright.
Until a few drops land cold and hard upon your face. Gravity, you bitch.
(click to enlarge)
{I made two versions of this sketch and couldn't decide which one I liked better. Hence the diptych.}
*A "gravity pull of 100%" is something I made up and has no basis in science whatsoever. It just means you can't move, like, at all.
This is probably on a lot of people's Most Beautiful Songs Ever list. I know it's on mine. We all have that memory. The one where you somehow entered a place where magic lived, fleeting, only for a few moments. The magic attached itself to that place in your brain where that memory now lives. And now it's not so much the actual event that you treasure, it's the memory of it. The memory is more magical and more important than that day, or that night, or that time ever was in reality.
For me, it was about water, too. The first time I saw the ocean, in Australia, in 2004. It was the middle of the day, and I was exploring the coastal beaches of Sydney with new friends I had made. I didn't have a bathing suit. I stood at the place where the ocean licked the beach. I rolled my jeans up so I could walk out a bit, get some of the salt water on my skin. I was watching the surfers in the distance. I was so transfixed by them that I didn't notice the massive wave heading in my direction. By the time I realized, it was too late -- I didn't have enough time to run back to the shore. I tried anyway, and the wave knocked me down into the water. I was drenched from head to toe, and I laughed with a joy that I had never felt before, so much, until my eyes watered their own ocean onto my cheeks.
Soaking wet, I proudly carried on exploring the city with my friends. In the Australian heat it didn't take long to dry off, but I never wanted to wash that ocean off my skin, out of my hair. It would be like washing off the happiest moment of my life. I have a picture that was taken just as I was walking out into the water, moments before the wave took me down. I'll have to dig it out and relive that moment again soon.
Black Friday. Cook-from-frozen turkeys are 30% off. While you're out, better get a new HDTV. You know you want one. The money you're saving on the turkey justifies it. Try saying no to this face.
(click to enlarge)
It's what I want, hurry and buy
All has been tried, follow reason and buy
Cannot shuffle in this heat, it's all wrong
Try to put that on your sleeve it's all wrong, it's all wrong
He's got pretty persuasion
She's got pretty persuasion
God damn, pure confusion
She's got pretty persuasion
It's what I want, hurry and buy
All has been tried, follow reason and buy
And I put that in this heat, it's all wrong
Try to wear that on my sleeve, it's all wrong, all wrong
He's got pretty persuasion
She's got pretty persuasion
God damn, pure confusion
He's got pretty persuasion
In the light I saw quite a scene in there
It's what I want, hurry and buy
all has been tried, follow reason and buy
Try to put that in this heat, it's all wrong
Cannot wear that on your sleeve, it's all wrong, all wrong
Have you ever known anyone who never went out and tried? Someone who was so rooted in her own sense of self-entitlement that she balked at the idea of working for something. You know, that person who dropped out of school and then never started anything, never started anywhere. Because she's too good for that. Holding out for management position.
Then maybe she fell on hard times when, well into adulthood, her parents made her move out. Maybe she shoplifted her clothes. She had to. It wasn't her fault. Shitty parents. They didn't want her to have nice things.
In reality, the parents thought this would be the push that made her start something, start somewhere. But they were wrong. All it did was cement the idea into her head that the world was against her.
Maybe her parents said she could come back, but she wouldn't. She had her pride. She'd rather sleep on the street. Her time would come. Until then, she had her iPhone. Her parents kept paying for that. They're not total assholes.
As the years fell away, this poor, hard-done-by girl endured much at the hands of the universe. How long would she have to wait? How long would it be until her ship came in? She was ready, after all. Ready to take what's rightfully hers, whatever it was. Unfairly, yet patiently, she waited in the harbour for that ship. She waited relentlessly to start.
Maybe she's still there.
Have you ever known anyone who was so completely rooted in her own sense of self-entitlement that it led her to her downfall?
You don't know anyone like that? Funny, neither do I.
I started listening to Fables of the Reconstruction (1985) today. Driver 8 revealed itself to me immediately.
(Click to enlarge)
Trains kind of scare me. Not riding trains. I'm fine riding trains. But trains going by. The train that runs near my house. The train that runs behind my parents' house. The tragedy in Lac Megantic in the summer of 2013 really got me. The irresponsibility. The trickle-down culpability. That town. Those people. I checked the news every day until everyone was accounted for. Not everyone was accounted for. But we know what happened to them. It's crazy enough driving a car, when you think about it. I have drive-o-phobia. Trying to get my license has been an ongoin, 20-year ordeal. That big, heavy, gasoline-filled hunk of metal in my hands, under my control. Sometimes when I practice driving the anxiety gets so bad I leave my body. That's the worst. The basis of my fear. And yet people drive cars like it's nothing, no big deal. Some of those people fall asleep at the wheel. Some people drive trains. Like it's nothing. No big deal.
I seem to have jumped ahead in time. Well, I never did declare that I was going to be moving in chronological order. While I have primarily been listening to Murmur (1983) and Reckoning (1984), All the Way to Reno (Reveal, 2001) shuffled its way into my head during an afternoon walk today, and the images flooded my imagination so quickly that I had to shortcut my way back to work and jot them down before they vanished.
The result is a little bit more girly and whimsical than I had intended, but I think that probably comes from my own girlhood dreams of fame, running away to join a band and sing... or play the tambourine. I could have been a tambourine girl. My uncle bought me a red star-shaped tambourine when I was 16. It never made it out of my bedroom.
(click to enlarge)
This is a sketched-over foot selfie (sans tri-star tattoo) taken more years ago than I care to admit. Those were my favourite dancing shoes. I still have them. My sapphire slippers. There's no place like anyplace else.
I don't know what is happening with these location sketches. It's not planned... but I guess I just have to let the theme run its course. I kind of like it though... nothing wrong with doing a series.
Credits
Reproduction, altered: Google Map; Southwestern USA.
I can't get enough of this song. I don't think my interpretation of it is all that unexpected, given the ongoing timeliness and relevance of the subject matter. Without meaning to, I've gone and done two "geographical location sketches" in a row (SKETCH! That's a way better word than "piece"!).
(Click to enlarge)
In case it's not apparent, I had a lot of fun with this one. Digital painting using various applications which shall remain nameless due to their lack of industry importance. But It's late and I don't have much more in the way of words right now, so here are The Words instead. Enjoy!
Decide yourself if radio's gonna stay
Reason: it could polish up the gray
Put that, put that, put that on your wall
That this isn't Country at all
Radio station: decide yourself
Keep me out of Country and the word Wheel of fortune's leading us: absurd Push that, push that, push that to the hull That this isn't nothing at all Straight off the boat, where to go Calling out in transit
Calling out in transit Radio Free Europe (radio) Decide: defy the media too fast
Instead of pushing palaces to fall
Put that, put that, put that up your wall
That this isn't fortunate at all
Radio station: decide yourself
We're calling out in transit
Calling out in transit
Radio Free Europe (radio)
Decide yourself: come in on a boat
Media's too fast
Keep me out of Country and the word
Disappointment into us: absurd
Straight off the boat, where to go?
Calling out in transit
Calling out in transit
Radio Free Europe
Radio Free Europe
Calling out in transit
Calling out in transit
Radio Free Europe
Radio Free Europe
Credits
Partial reproduction, altered: The Scream, Edvard Munch.
Hiya. Right. I haven't found my groove yet. So this post is going to be awkward. First posts are always like that, all "Hi, nice to meetcha, do you like things of an enjoyable nature, too?". You're here, so I assume we have at least one thing in common. So let me get right to it. Oh, did you read the Inspiration for this blog? Do you care? No? Okay. On with the show, this is it! This piece... ugh. I'm referring to my own art as a "piece". I hate that. It sounds so pretentious. Nevertheless, I suppose that's the official term. A-hem. This piece is inspired by the song West of the Fields, the final track from R.E.M.'s first full-length album, Murmur (1983).
(Click to enlarge)
The lyric "West of the fields" is repeated multiple times in the song's chorus, but to my ears, it sounds like "West of Steeles". I'm putting this down to the fact that, for a year and a half, I lived at the intersection of Kipling Avenue and Steeles Avenue West in North Etobicoke, Ontario. That's fairly recent history to me, and so a map of that area always flashes through my mind when I listen to the song.
I had actually intended to create this piece in the real live physical world, using paint, and a map, and ink and paper stressing techniques, but I'm moving house in 2 weeks and I already packed all my art supplies. So instead, I arted over a Google map using Pixlr Express and MS Paint. The overlayed transparencies are photographs I took of the Rosedale Station tiles and a close up of my craptacularly cute Crosley turntable case. Visual inspiration for this piece has come from the work of Stephen Andrews, who has a spectularly beautiful exhibit going on at the Art Gallery of Ontario, right now, right right now, go go go see it!
Credits
Reproduction, altered: Google Map; intersection of Steeles Avenue West and Kipling Avenue, Etobicoke, Ontario.
