Thursday, July 14, 2011
3 new jams.
This first painting is a collab I did with Heidi Elise Wirz and my lady, Zeyneb Akel. The other 2 are new pieces and the collab are for a show that opens this week at People's Gallery in Pioneer Square Mall called "Sum of all of Parts".
Friday, May 20, 2011
Seasonal transitions
Summer can't keep frontin' for long. It's so damned close, and I can tell just by the grapevine on our porch... it's leaves have burst from the vine's buds and are growing ever so rapidly. I got a couple weeks of school left and then I'ma be a free wild man. I got a job which is cake and actually enjoyable (at least thus far), and equally important, will allow allow me to not only make rent but as well have plenty of free time. And I am grateful for the shift hours, where I work throughout the night. While the majority of the people I know, if not all, retire one by one to their slumber, I am up cooking food for the restless and the inebriated. When I arrive home, they are on their last legs of sleep. When I give into delirium and submit to a demanding rest, they are beginning their day. And when I awake, I awake into the pinnacle of the day, where the sun is high and so are people. The last time I truly had this type of lifestyle, where not only could I stay up extremely late every night for my own personal enjoyment, but to fulfill my financial responsibilities, I too could be mindfully active until damn near morning. Back when I was in NYC living in Manhattan, working at bars, running on opposite hours from everyone else. This is where I am able to really get involved into art, and I can't fucking wait. I already have been working my way to this lunar schedule, and have been getting a taste of what's to come. To work with passion and haste from the day into the night, through the night, and maybe even into the sunrise, is a feeling like no other. I feel alone, and I enjoy being lonesome. Being lonesome easily puts boredom into question, and rather be consumed by it, it becomes easy to be distracted with anything but boredom. That's where I like to be. I believe people should be able to define time for themselves, so even though we run and function on some determined structure and impetus, we should as well not forget that we have what we tend to call "free time." Ha! FREE! It shouldn't be called "Free" time at all. It should be called bought time. Because the majority of society makes their money to buy a little bit of free time for themselves. But that free time is already set out like a picnic full of food and drinks for 2, but without the hassle and prep! A friend shared a link to this artist who spent 35 fucking years building a beautifully functioning diorama of San Francisco solely out of toothpicks. It works on gravity and kinetics. One can tour this 35 years of brilliance, but really it's more than that. It's timeless.
Anyway, couple of new pieces I made for some projects for school. The Obama one was done for a class, but more so for a small group show I am in at the Peoples Art Gallery of Portland, which will be up for the month in Pioneer Mall. I am curious, and excited... especially because I will be involved again with this gallery space in 2 months, but this time in more of a feature show. And we are given the opportunity to work collectively and collaboratively on an installation. Hoooo wee!
This was the other project I did for class, which is made out of two 2 dozen buckets of KFC chicken. Purchasing the chicken sucked. Touching the chicken sucked. Removing the meat from the bones sucked. Smelling the chicken sucked. KFC is like a sauna of dead chicken air and grease. Making art with it sucked. I had nothing but angst the whole time, having to touch the shit. But I ignored the angst, and just made a flag... There are no stars because we are no longer united as states of citizens... we are united as consumers through capitalism. And the food that KFC makes and sells, the spectacle it is a part of, from factory farm to marginalized families fingers, symbolizes the the type of oppressiveness we are unified by. So I took the meat, and offered it to a homeless man who was socially deranged and most likely mentally sick. And I had him eat it... I watched him eat this food within this social climate, there on the filthy side of Martin Luther King JR Blvd, seeing him savagely lace into the disgusting industrial meat, the passing cars spewing their exhaust all over us, all the while I am bummed that I spent 20 dollars on chicken that I couldn't afford to spend on anything but healthy food for myself, all to make a stupid little flag. That stupid little flag embodies all of that.
These past few days I have been trying to figure out which I like better; Indica or Sativa. I think, even though Indica is supposed to make you sleepy, I kind of enjoy the effects. Tomorrow I'll how well Sativa and I jive.
Anyway, couple of new pieces I made for some projects for school. The Obama one was done for a class, but more so for a small group show I am in at the Peoples Art Gallery of Portland, which will be up for the month in Pioneer Mall. I am curious, and excited... especially because I will be involved again with this gallery space in 2 months, but this time in more of a feature show. And we are given the opportunity to work collectively and collaboratively on an installation. Hoooo wee!
This was the other project I did for class, which is made out of two 2 dozen buckets of KFC chicken. Purchasing the chicken sucked. Touching the chicken sucked. Removing the meat from the bones sucked. Smelling the chicken sucked. KFC is like a sauna of dead chicken air and grease. Making art with it sucked. I had nothing but angst the whole time, having to touch the shit. But I ignored the angst, and just made a flag... There are no stars because we are no longer united as states of citizens... we are united as consumers through capitalism. And the food that KFC makes and sells, the spectacle it is a part of, from factory farm to marginalized families fingers, symbolizes the the type of oppressiveness we are unified by. So I took the meat, and offered it to a homeless man who was socially deranged and most likely mentally sick. And I had him eat it... I watched him eat this food within this social climate, there on the filthy side of Martin Luther King JR Blvd, seeing him savagely lace into the disgusting industrial meat, the passing cars spewing their exhaust all over us, all the while I am bummed that I spent 20 dollars on chicken that I couldn't afford to spend on anything but healthy food for myself, all to make a stupid little flag. That stupid little flag embodies all of that.
These past few days I have been trying to figure out which I like better; Indica or Sativa. I think, even though Indica is supposed to make you sleepy, I kind of enjoy the effects. Tomorrow I'll how well Sativa and I jive.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Here comes the sun.
I just received a new job today, the first which I have applied to. I haven't had a legitimate job in almost 3 years, aside from weird freelances and such. Student financial aid has helped to keep me afloat, but I am no longer making all of my rent and bills with room to spare. I am to be a pizza maker at the newly renown pizzeria, Sizzle Pie. I can't say I am stoked to regress in my area of expertise, for my first legit job (at 14) aside from working an apple orchard and a paper boy was working pizzerias, but the owner of the joint seems pretty awesome, as does the whole operation itself. They make the best pizza in town, and have a great popularity with good reason. Maybe I can finally save up to purchase a small vehicle. I recently had to do an assignment for a conceptual art class where I went on a derive, and I just finished writing about it. I am deciding to share it with the blogosphere.
It began quite spontaneously. I’d been drawing anatomical muscle structures for a life drawing class for hours now and I needed a break. I stepped away from my drawing desk and looked out my window. The rain had given up and the grey clouds eerily sat against an evening sun. That moment I decided this is where I will wander for an hour. One hour to roam, to get out of my house, to see and be. I grabbed nothing but a small journal, a jacket, and I head to the door. I swung open the front door, and before I set my feet down on the porch, I receded back into the house and grabbed my skateboard. There is something beautiful about riding around a city with aimlessness. Just as one may hop a train across the US and see the countryside like never before, the same exists with a skateboard. You invite trees with their gargantuan roots which push up the sidewalk like mangled teeth, for trip over it you will not. Instead, you jump over the crooked slabs of concrete and ride the decline on your front two wheels. You can skate full speed in the street, or skate with more observation on the sidewalks. The best is to jump from one to the other with fluid motions. You make of the concrete world what its intention was never meant, an oppressive dimension that says “you walk here, you park here, you don’t trespass here, and you sit here.” Skateboarding subverts and transgresses this.
Riding down Rosa Parks I skated into a small courtyard of a nearby church which I have never gone near before. I pass this slightly metro looking church on the daily, be it on foot, bicycle, or skateboard. I’ve noticed from passing by so many times that the demographic seems largely Latin American and Mexican. At this time on a late Sunday evening, no one is around. I skate around the church, through all of its sections. There one a small little garden I stumbled upon, where a statue of Jesus Christ with a bleeding hole at his ribs and Mary weeping sits nestled in lush greenery. I think to myself, this statue has beauty to it. I care not for its dogmatism, but I am enamored by the decency of the artist’s hand. It seems the work is unsigned, or at least there is no obvious signature. I would love to make a statue like this, but instead of common people, or people who have made some sort of tangible impact within civilization. I’d love to study sculpture, apply my knowledge of anatomy, my observations of contemporary culture, and create a piece like this, but with real substance- not some hollow figment of a failed imagination. Maybe I should even come late at night and switch at the statues! I’d remove the dying Jesus Christ and replace it with a living and youthful African American child making do with this plighted urban suburbia; something that could make you smile. I skate on, past the school’s section of this religious commune, where the sports field and playground rest lonely behind a tightly locked fence. The park feels like a virgin crying to be tainted, and even though I skirt the idea of climbing the fence, I skate to Peninsula Park to see if the roses are almost ready to bloom instead. The sky is beginning to glow with golden hues and I know dusk is falling upon us.
I arrive at the park, and sit down on a bench which overlooks the enormous garden of roses surrounded a monumental fountain. This garden is a completely communal effort, where every fall neighbors in the area clip off the roses and prep them for the winter, and in the spring they again prep them for the explosive season of color and warmth. At first glance it would seem the park is still and silent, but as you pay closer attention there are cacophonies and symphonies going on all at once. I immediately grab my moleskin from my back pocket and hastily write on its pages:
Here I am at Peninsula Park. Roughly 100 feet from me sits a pair of homeless people on a bench, adjacent from my view of the spewing central fountain. They’ve a large shopping cart full of junk shrink-wrapped in filthy plastic grocery bags and they’re hacking up death. At the foot of the fountain stands a young couple, fancily dressed in black and are well-groomed. Chivalrously, the man courts the female upon the concrete pond’s ledge and they close in to one another. As they begin to embrace the female raises her arm and turns a digital camera facing inward and snaps a photo as they pose. She steps down with his diligent hand, they again embrace, and she takes another photo just as they begin to really press themselves against one another. They look and reflect on this photo, kiss, take one another’s hand, and skirt across the courtyard back towards the weeping trees. A small black child is bicycling around them and the bums roll cigarettes from discarded butts while talking aimlessly. They blather, choke and cough, blather, choke, and cough.
I came here to see how the rose bushes are doing. There must be several hundred of them. Their leaves now stand courageously erect from their skinny trunks, and there are numerous red buds protruding from the stems. Beneath the gazebo the couple now chases each other like squirrels in slow motion. Their interaction is quite curious and seems as almost artificial, where the laughs sound rehearsed and their movements are like stumbling toddlers. Along the path of rock and dirt surrounding the park is the black child on his bicycle, humming to himself and intentionally wobbling his handlebars like a mayfly in the wind. A few oak trees down from the gazebo along the dirt path are the bums, now standing at the foot of a gargantuan trunk. The bum standing closer to the path folds his arms and obscures the view of his partner, where, from my vantage point, I can see him squatting behind this human shield, and begins to defecate among the tree’s roots. A passerby stares straight ahead, fully aware of this lewd display, and the standing bum stares off to the road without a wince. Now they are back on the bench, sipping from enormous Super-Size Taco Bell cups, which could be soda, water, or hell, maybe even their own urine. I walk from the bench I was sitting upon, down the long and gradual brick staircase, and into the vast courtyard. It’s a small maze of bricks and roses. I walk to the fountain and stand on its ledge. I lean out with my weight against my skateboard and stare straight into the surging water. The lapping sound of water falling from dancing streams creates a steady meditation, like heavy rain against your roof at night. Staring straight through fountain at me from the other side is the small black child who is sucking on a lollypop and his feet planted firmly on either side of his bicycle. Above him is a grayish blue sky with voluminous clouds on fire. The last few moments of light are casting a rainbow throughout the synthetic geyser, transposed directly over the black child’s gaze towards me. The whiteness of the spraying water with its prism of spectral light surrounds me, and then engulfs me. The couple is still prancing around beneath deciduous and evergreen trees, the female snapping photos of the chasing male. A dog seemingly from nowhere runs off into the grassy park beyond my view and the cloud’s flames within seconds extinguish. I step down on my board and skate back towards my home. Just as I reach the sidewalk, the black child bicycles up to me, looks me in the eye, and says “sup,” and rides off before I even have a chance to respond.
It began quite spontaneously. I’d been drawing anatomical muscle structures for a life drawing class for hours now and I needed a break. I stepped away from my drawing desk and looked out my window. The rain had given up and the grey clouds eerily sat against an evening sun. That moment I decided this is where I will wander for an hour. One hour to roam, to get out of my house, to see and be. I grabbed nothing but a small journal, a jacket, and I head to the door. I swung open the front door, and before I set my feet down on the porch, I receded back into the house and grabbed my skateboard. There is something beautiful about riding around a city with aimlessness. Just as one may hop a train across the US and see the countryside like never before, the same exists with a skateboard. You invite trees with their gargantuan roots which push up the sidewalk like mangled teeth, for trip over it you will not. Instead, you jump over the crooked slabs of concrete and ride the decline on your front two wheels. You can skate full speed in the street, or skate with more observation on the sidewalks. The best is to jump from one to the other with fluid motions. You make of the concrete world what its intention was never meant, an oppressive dimension that says “you walk here, you park here, you don’t trespass here, and you sit here.” Skateboarding subverts and transgresses this.
Riding down Rosa Parks I skated into a small courtyard of a nearby church which I have never gone near before. I pass this slightly metro looking church on the daily, be it on foot, bicycle, or skateboard. I’ve noticed from passing by so many times that the demographic seems largely Latin American and Mexican. At this time on a late Sunday evening, no one is around. I skate around the church, through all of its sections. There one a small little garden I stumbled upon, where a statue of Jesus Christ with a bleeding hole at his ribs and Mary weeping sits nestled in lush greenery. I think to myself, this statue has beauty to it. I care not for its dogmatism, but I am enamored by the decency of the artist’s hand. It seems the work is unsigned, or at least there is no obvious signature. I would love to make a statue like this, but instead of common people, or people who have made some sort of tangible impact within civilization. I’d love to study sculpture, apply my knowledge of anatomy, my observations of contemporary culture, and create a piece like this, but with real substance- not some hollow figment of a failed imagination. Maybe I should even come late at night and switch at the statues! I’d remove the dying Jesus Christ and replace it with a living and youthful African American child making do with this plighted urban suburbia; something that could make you smile. I skate on, past the school’s section of this religious commune, where the sports field and playground rest lonely behind a tightly locked fence. The park feels like a virgin crying to be tainted, and even though I skirt the idea of climbing the fence, I skate to Peninsula Park to see if the roses are almost ready to bloom instead. The sky is beginning to glow with golden hues and I know dusk is falling upon us.
I arrive at the park, and sit down on a bench which overlooks the enormous garden of roses surrounded a monumental fountain. This garden is a completely communal effort, where every fall neighbors in the area clip off the roses and prep them for the winter, and in the spring they again prep them for the explosive season of color and warmth. At first glance it would seem the park is still and silent, but as you pay closer attention there are cacophonies and symphonies going on all at once. I immediately grab my moleskin from my back pocket and hastily write on its pages:
Here I am at Peninsula Park. Roughly 100 feet from me sits a pair of homeless people on a bench, adjacent from my view of the spewing central fountain. They’ve a large shopping cart full of junk shrink-wrapped in filthy plastic grocery bags and they’re hacking up death. At the foot of the fountain stands a young couple, fancily dressed in black and are well-groomed. Chivalrously, the man courts the female upon the concrete pond’s ledge and they close in to one another. As they begin to embrace the female raises her arm and turns a digital camera facing inward and snaps a photo as they pose. She steps down with his diligent hand, they again embrace, and she takes another photo just as they begin to really press themselves against one another. They look and reflect on this photo, kiss, take one another’s hand, and skirt across the courtyard back towards the weeping trees. A small black child is bicycling around them and the bums roll cigarettes from discarded butts while talking aimlessly. They blather, choke and cough, blather, choke, and cough.
I came here to see how the rose bushes are doing. There must be several hundred of them. Their leaves now stand courageously erect from their skinny trunks, and there are numerous red buds protruding from the stems. Beneath the gazebo the couple now chases each other like squirrels in slow motion. Their interaction is quite curious and seems as almost artificial, where the laughs sound rehearsed and their movements are like stumbling toddlers. Along the path of rock and dirt surrounding the park is the black child on his bicycle, humming to himself and intentionally wobbling his handlebars like a mayfly in the wind. A few oak trees down from the gazebo along the dirt path are the bums, now standing at the foot of a gargantuan trunk. The bum standing closer to the path folds his arms and obscures the view of his partner, where, from my vantage point, I can see him squatting behind this human shield, and begins to defecate among the tree’s roots. A passerby stares straight ahead, fully aware of this lewd display, and the standing bum stares off to the road without a wince. Now they are back on the bench, sipping from enormous Super-Size Taco Bell cups, which could be soda, water, or hell, maybe even their own urine. I walk from the bench I was sitting upon, down the long and gradual brick staircase, and into the vast courtyard. It’s a small maze of bricks and roses. I walk to the fountain and stand on its ledge. I lean out with my weight against my skateboard and stare straight into the surging water. The lapping sound of water falling from dancing streams creates a steady meditation, like heavy rain against your roof at night. Staring straight through fountain at me from the other side is the small black child who is sucking on a lollypop and his feet planted firmly on either side of his bicycle. Above him is a grayish blue sky with voluminous clouds on fire. The last few moments of light are casting a rainbow throughout the synthetic geyser, transposed directly over the black child’s gaze towards me. The whiteness of the spraying water with its prism of spectral light surrounds me, and then engulfs me. The couple is still prancing around beneath deciduous and evergreen trees, the female snapping photos of the chasing male. A dog seemingly from nowhere runs off into the grassy park beyond my view and the cloud’s flames within seconds extinguish. I step down on my board and skate back towards my home. Just as I reach the sidewalk, the black child bicycles up to me, looks me in the eye, and says “sup,” and rides off before I even have a chance to respond.
Friday, May 6, 2011
More new paintings
Some newish stuff and new stuff. Job interview tomorrow... hoping I get it, but hoping I don't as well. Fuhhhh.
Just got word today that Forever Escaping Boredom and Bear Records are going to jointly put out the new Carrion Spring full length on cassette tape! Now we just need to get another label to release it on vinyl. I am so fucking stoked for tapes... the only portable music playing device I have is an inexhaustible amount of cassette players. I guess I have been obsessed with tapes since I am a kid... so even though vinyl is super legit and all, for me, tapes are going to be the big kahuna. Surfs up.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
New painting
New painting. More to come in the near future. Been working on a lot of new stuff for school, as well to get some art shows this summer and score a scholarship.. I hope.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Day 1 of temp mural
Spent roughly 4-5 hours today working on this. S'bout a third to half done. Hopefully can put in another 4 or 5 tomorrow. And then finish her up Thursday. Pretty stoked about it. I won't explain what's going on, in a couple of days it'll all be there... good grief, the suspense!
The flu is still shredding me life to bits, but I powered through it today. I couldn't take another minute lying like a salted slug in my bed. In my room. In my house. Indoors. I swear to god I've been watching the walls move.
I have some new plants, which I should photograph sometime soon. I guess that sometime is whenever I can afford a new camera, for my fucking digital broke at the Godspeed You Black Emperor show. Those bastards sucked the soul out of my Cannon. Fuck it. I forgive them.
But these god damned plants in my window sill. They are all beautiful, but one of the bastards has some small little fly infestation and every 30-40 minutes I end up clapping one as it tries to enter any one of the orifices on my face.
Ok. Time to go watch the coolest series I've ever seen called Carlos. If I last 20 minutes I'll be surprised.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
sickness
I am sick. Again. The frequency of unfortunate health conditions for me is preposterous at this point. I have the flu, which is nothing to fuck with. I've never had the flu, but figured it to be something like the common cold. I didn't realize how fucked up you can get from a 103 fever and what type of muscular pain ensues from head to toe. My body is constantly in a frenzy, either sweating profusely or bone chillingly freezing. There is no respite, even with ibuprofen. The ibuprofen actually helps to bring on the heat. Needless to say, this has fucked up my weekend. I was supposed to have worked and made hella cash, and made a mural. Instead I lie pathetically in my own sweat watching documentaries or the walls breathe. I did play 2 shows back to back, and I wasn't feeling all that great either of those days, so maybe this is payback. Both of the shows were worth it though. The first was a solo acoustic set with Des Ark, Pygmy Lush, and local greats, Slow Teeth. All were awesome, but Pygmy Lush fucked my whole night up. An amazing band. The day after was with Carrion Spring, Hang the Old Year and Lumber Lung. That show was fuckin awesome.
But I was an idiot that night. I knew I was getting sick, so I did what I used to do when I was a teenager. I drank a bunch of booze and thought it'd kill whatever was writhing inside of me... which worked countless times in my youthful past. But the flu don't give a fuck.
And this sickness comes only a couple of weeks after our tour, which I unsurprisingly (somehow) ended up in an Oakland hospital for 2 nights. I am guessing I worked myself to exhaustion the last 2 weeks before we left for tour, and through exorbitant deprivation, put myself into the hospital. We had played one of the best shows of Carrion Spring's existence that night at the Yellow Room, with such rad bands like Calculator and Matsuri, and then went off to continue the party. The partying was pretty tame and eventually by 2 am or so laid myself down on one of the bench seats in the van. Within minutes I realized my heart was racing at some unfathomable pace, and noticed I was going white and blue. I began shaking uncontrollably and could hardly breath. I thought I was somehow about to die... that was it, this was death. I hadn't ever felt anything like this before, and it felt incredibly wrong. So luckily, Thom was in the van as well and he drove me to the ER. After a lot of bad interactions with the ER unit, they finally found that I was possibly having what's called atrial flutter, or something of the like. My heart rate was recorded over 180 beats per minute. My typical sitting heart rate is usually in the low 50s!!! So I was administered 100 volts to the heart through defibrillators. I don't remember too much after I arrived at the hospital, but it was pretty insane.
And now I lie all phlegm and sweat in my bed, fevered and useless. It's just not fair!
So I just had to send an email of my "artist bio" for this upcoming mural, which ain't anything to flip over, but is nevertheless a rad little opportunity to work big. At a time, and for the most part still do hate writing artist bios. But I've come to realize that doing this can function as a moment to reflect on how far you may have come along since the last time you wrote one. I think an artist bio is like that of product packaging. In only so many words you have to convince the viewer of the content's legitimacy... because there are so many of the same product, just a different label slapped on it. I think an artist needn't an explanation of the ingredients. But, the people still demand to see what's behind the mask. So it's fun to work with that. This was the bio-
My name is Adam Brock Ciresi and I am from NY. I've lived in Portland for 4 years now, and am entering my final year studying at PSU. I am 27 years old, and will probably live to see 28. I make music of varying styles in varying projects, just as I enjoy doing the same in painting and other forms of art. If there is anything I've ever truly related with, it is punk. But I find this interesting to use, because I feel if someone reads this they may immediately think of some preformed person, covered with safety pin piercings, studded leather,a 4 foot green mohawk, a CBGB's shirt, a torn up pair of Converse, so on and so forth. For such a large majority of people, this is probably and sadly the case. And this is capitalist consumerism, where an image is rendered into a commodity, and then spewed back into society for all to place on themselves like a mask. People pay good money for this! For me, I see my formative years as an "artist" as a means to resist this type of life.
So I am stoked for this term at PSU... for a change! I am taking a life drawing class again, with a teacher I love. I am taking a painting class with a cool teacher who is letting me making 8 paintings all together for the term. This will be good, I right now need the discipline for sure. The other class, a 100 level theory based class seems like it will be ok, mainly because the teacher seems pretty rad.
I am glad to know I will be doing nothing but producing art work for the next 10 weeks. And then I will need to find a way to survive this summer in Portland. Gulp.
But I was an idiot that night. I knew I was getting sick, so I did what I used to do when I was a teenager. I drank a bunch of booze and thought it'd kill whatever was writhing inside of me... which worked countless times in my youthful past. But the flu don't give a fuck.
And this sickness comes only a couple of weeks after our tour, which I unsurprisingly (somehow) ended up in an Oakland hospital for 2 nights. I am guessing I worked myself to exhaustion the last 2 weeks before we left for tour, and through exorbitant deprivation, put myself into the hospital. We had played one of the best shows of Carrion Spring's existence that night at the Yellow Room, with such rad bands like Calculator and Matsuri, and then went off to continue the party. The partying was pretty tame and eventually by 2 am or so laid myself down on one of the bench seats in the van. Within minutes I realized my heart was racing at some unfathomable pace, and noticed I was going white and blue. I began shaking uncontrollably and could hardly breath. I thought I was somehow about to die... that was it, this was death. I hadn't ever felt anything like this before, and it felt incredibly wrong. So luckily, Thom was in the van as well and he drove me to the ER. After a lot of bad interactions with the ER unit, they finally found that I was possibly having what's called atrial flutter, or something of the like. My heart rate was recorded over 180 beats per minute. My typical sitting heart rate is usually in the low 50s!!! So I was administered 100 volts to the heart through defibrillators. I don't remember too much after I arrived at the hospital, but it was pretty insane.
And now I lie all phlegm and sweat in my bed, fevered and useless. It's just not fair!
So I just had to send an email of my "artist bio" for this upcoming mural, which ain't anything to flip over, but is nevertheless a rad little opportunity to work big. At a time, and for the most part still do hate writing artist bios. But I've come to realize that doing this can function as a moment to reflect on how far you may have come along since the last time you wrote one. I think an artist bio is like that of product packaging. In only so many words you have to convince the viewer of the content's legitimacy... because there are so many of the same product, just a different label slapped on it. I think an artist needn't an explanation of the ingredients. But, the people still demand to see what's behind the mask. So it's fun to work with that. This was the bio-
My name is Adam Brock Ciresi and I am from NY. I've lived in Portland for 4 years now, and am entering my final year studying at PSU. I am 27 years old, and will probably live to see 28. I make music of varying styles in varying projects, just as I enjoy doing the same in painting and other forms of art. If there is anything I've ever truly related with, it is punk. But I find this interesting to use, because I feel if someone reads this they may immediately think of some preformed person, covered with safety pin piercings, studded leather,a 4 foot green mohawk, a CBGB's shirt, a torn up pair of Converse, so on and so forth. For such a large majority of people, this is probably and sadly the case. And this is capitalist consumerism, where an image is rendered into a commodity, and then spewed back into society for all to place on themselves like a mask. People pay good money for this! For me, I see my formative years as an "artist" as a means to resist this type of life.
So I am stoked for this term at PSU... for a change! I am taking a life drawing class again, with a teacher I love. I am taking a painting class with a cool teacher who is letting me making 8 paintings all together for the term. This will be good, I right now need the discipline for sure. The other class, a 100 level theory based class seems like it will be ok, mainly because the teacher seems pretty rad.
I am glad to know I will be doing nothing but producing art work for the next 10 weeks. And then I will need to find a way to survive this summer in Portland. Gulp.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Carrion Spring tour and new album
Mother fuck it's 3:10 in the morning and I have to be up at 8 am for a class and I don't know how that is going to ever really happen. I've probably slept all of 6 hours over the last 3 days. Tour is just another 3 days away. It's finals week. I still need to send the album off to get mastered and I still can't stop mixing the thing. Tomorrow I am going to make some linoleum cuts of the album covers and then hand print 100 copies. And then hand sew them shut. We are playing on the radio show Revolution Summer at KPSU from 7-9 this Thursday. I hope anyone hears. The next day we leave with New York's finest, Dead Channels, on our short voyage throughout California. Jason Romero booked our shows, and I love him... just get us that last confirmation brothaman and all is gravy. On Friday we play in San Jose, at the Texas Toast house, I think? I dunno, holler at me Jason. Saturday we play at his house, the Yellow Room, with Calculator and Matsuri. Pretty stoked on that. Sunday we play Santa Barbara at the foundation press with buncha bands... I'm amped to play with Lumber Lung.
Our new (and first) full length album has been underway since the very last days of 2010. Eventually Carl Saff will master the damned thing, but for now we are just gonna get a cheapo master to have with us for this extended weekend tour. I think I've still got some patches lying about my room somewhere. We are too frequently unprepared for everything.
I should finish my final paper for that Street Art class I have to be up for in 4 hours. Yes, that's right... a class on street art. I too thought it contradictory. Still can't tell how stoked I am on the class itself, or that its just a lot cooler to talk about vandals than doing math problems. Banksy will someday soon be the new Chomsky. Right? I guess one recognizable benefit has been my growing lack of interest for institutionalized contemporary fine arts, even though I've never really given a shit regardless. Studying many of my favorite prolific and profound artists is inspiring but it ultimately is just a class, not some radically pivotal shift in academia. I mean, shit, it's not even recognized within the art department.
Somewhere in the distance of this city, I hear a car horn going off. It has been going off for close to 5 minutes now. I wonder if it's because of an attempted thievery. Or maybe a terrible accident and no one has arrived yet to the scene. Strangely curious.
Our new (and first) full length album has been underway since the very last days of 2010. Eventually Carl Saff will master the damned thing, but for now we are just gonna get a cheapo master to have with us for this extended weekend tour. I think I've still got some patches lying about my room somewhere. We are too frequently unprepared for everything.
I should finish my final paper for that Street Art class I have to be up for in 4 hours. Yes, that's right... a class on street art. I too thought it contradictory. Still can't tell how stoked I am on the class itself, or that its just a lot cooler to talk about vandals than doing math problems. Banksy will someday soon be the new Chomsky. Right? I guess one recognizable benefit has been my growing lack of interest for institutionalized contemporary fine arts, even though I've never really given a shit regardless. Studying many of my favorite prolific and profound artists is inspiring but it ultimately is just a class, not some radically pivotal shift in academia. I mean, shit, it's not even recognized within the art department.
Somewhere in the distance of this city, I hear a car horn going off. It has been going off for close to 5 minutes now. I wonder if it's because of an attempted thievery. Or maybe a terrible accident and no one has arrived yet to the scene. Strangely curious.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
old gods, new masters.
waited all these years
for a second coming
given up dreams and denied reality
So pretend now we lived in a world where
within communication
there existed no such ideologies
of God
and an ultimate judgment
of all your attempts at living
beyond any capability you've known before
before this moment
that exists in between flickers of the flame
upon the pale wall of a dark night
any moment
execution can be infamous
but not as profoundly beautiful
than the experience known by its creator
Now for everyone else
compensation is the next best thing
and the shot is heard around the world
it is amplified through myriad institutions
through oppression
through manipulation
through distortion
through divinity
but as well
through art
through the dissenters
and for anyone
for everyone
this shot can ring as loud as the crack
of a bullet to the back of the head
deafening
but not as lucky as deafness
because you still hear the ringing
and you'll lose so fucking quick
the ability to know
that you'll even hit the ground
but you've hit the ground
and you feel at the back of your head
and it hurts like you've never known
and you look at your hand
and there is no blood
and now you you know what it is to be alive.
for a second coming
given up dreams and denied reality
So pretend now we lived in a world where
within communication
there existed no such ideologies
of God
and an ultimate judgment
of all your attempts at living
beyond any capability you've known before
before this moment
that exists in between flickers of the flame
upon the pale wall of a dark night
any moment
execution can be infamous
but not as profoundly beautiful
than the experience known by its creator
Now for everyone else
compensation is the next best thing
and the shot is heard around the world
it is amplified through myriad institutions
through oppression
through manipulation
through distortion
through divinity
but as well
through art
through the dissenters
and for anyone
for everyone
this shot can ring as loud as the crack
of a bullet to the back of the head
deafening
but not as lucky as deafness
because you still hear the ringing
and you'll lose so fucking quick
the ability to know
that you'll even hit the ground
but you've hit the ground
and you feel at the back of your head
and it hurts like you've never known
and you look at your hand
and there is no blood
and now you you know what it is to be alive.
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