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.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Well, here's a good point to pick up.
Gosh I haven't used this thing really since I got facebook. And whether or not I am going to delete it remains undetermined, though highly possible, I realize that if I am going to spend extra time everyday primping and priming myself as portrayed on the internet, I should at least use it more for something like this than Facebook. You know, EVERY SINGLE THING... not most things, but everything; every single word, picture, bit of information, and so on, is held within the memory of a super computer directly feeding from that website. There is no complete privacy... maybe from other users like yourself... but as for the owners of the companies and those who pay good money and invest quite well into this arena, including the sick bastards who run our country..well, they have full access to that shit just as they can tap our phones and records.
So anyway, I've spent the past week in the OHSU hospital.. and a good deal of time doing nothing but writing. I will have a lot to put into this blog over the next week... but in the mean time, I'd actually just like to post an assignment I did for an art class... it follows the same format of a famous poem called "I am for an Art."
I did this assignment under the direct pretense of this unfortunate condition. When you're writhing in pain for a week straight from a cave of a hospital room with dying people all about you in a half school/half medical facility full of contradictions on top of a mountain away from your loved ones and the true (and/or illusory) societal realities, it's hard not to seriously and honestly think about that which is most important to not only you, but your own health, and even the health of a public and it's consciousness.
I am for art which attempts to destroy anything against the pureness of expression.
I am for art that doesn’t limit the potential for communication; to go beyond the boundaries of language.
I am for art which grants me the time and space to observe my surroundings, environments (both static and tangible), and under a realistic pretense; not under the hyper-reality created by mankind.
I am for art that remains out of filthy and corrupted hands.
I am for art as lived experience.
I am for art that deviates from the naturalization of perception.
I am for art that keeps me thinking beyond the expectations of banalities and societal norms.
I am for art that can give grounds to revolution.
I am for art that attempts to dismantle the convolution s of everyday life.
I am for art that can sing you to sleep.
I am for art that can sing you awake.
I am for art that provokes the skepticism for all reason and truth.
I am for art that keeps me safe from my sane self and insane to others.
I am for art that teaches what words cannot.
I am for art that can be insurrectionary.
I am for art that can make disorder out of imposed order.
I am for art that exudes blood and guts.
I am for art that gives me the means to reflect on the evolution of a conscious person.
I am for art that can portray the absurd while exposing the falsity of the real.
I am for art largely as a contribution to my own social survival.
I am for art that may possibly reach even a single other person, even if I never physically do.
I am for art as an extension of one’s own consciousness.
I am for art that does not adhere to any systematic belief system or any system of strict governance.
I am for art that defines existence for an individual.
I am for art that can speak to a person, like a conversation with a stranger of whom you’ll never forget and may never meet again, and becomes an influential memory on the creation of that individual’s future existence yet to be unfolded.
I am for art as a weapon, not a commodity.
I am for art which sits in harmony with all of the beauty of nature and all of the wreckage of corruption.
I am for art that does not have a face, but has a soul.
I am for art that remains detached from its creator.
I am for art that can take on myriad meanings depending on the settings of which it is placed.
I am for art that disregards imperfections in a deliberate regards to disregard.
I am for art that does not completely take itself seriously while taking its potentiality with the utmost seriousness.
I am for art that is of the artists and not of the cogs of capitalism.
I am for art that has no beginning and no end, but may suggest a certain experience within the definitions of time and existence.
I am for art that can move mountains.
I am for art that has the strength of a million humans.
I am for art that is as fragile as human existence.
I am for art that scoffs in the face of the fear of the look-in-the-other.
I am for art that is as ethereal as the last breath upon the rattle of death.
I am for art that is not obvious and has the potential to stop or slow time, if even for a fraction of a second.
I am for art that does not fear nor protect itself from destruction.
I am for art that never fully defines itself.
I am for art that helps me learn about myself, from myself, about others, and from others.
I am for art that won’t let anything ever stand in its way.
I am for art that contributes to my willingness to stay alive.
So anyway, I've spent the past week in the OHSU hospital.. and a good deal of time doing nothing but writing. I will have a lot to put into this blog over the next week... but in the mean time, I'd actually just like to post an assignment I did for an art class... it follows the same format of a famous poem called "I am for an Art."
I did this assignment under the direct pretense of this unfortunate condition. When you're writhing in pain for a week straight from a cave of a hospital room with dying people all about you in a half school/half medical facility full of contradictions on top of a mountain away from your loved ones and the true (and/or illusory) societal realities, it's hard not to seriously and honestly think about that which is most important to not only you, but your own health, and even the health of a public and it's consciousness.
I am for art which attempts to destroy anything against the pureness of expression.
I am for art that doesn’t limit the potential for communication; to go beyond the boundaries of language.
I am for art which grants me the time and space to observe my surroundings, environments (both static and tangible), and under a realistic pretense; not under the hyper-reality created by mankind.
I am for art that remains out of filthy and corrupted hands.
I am for art as lived experience.
I am for art that deviates from the naturalization of perception.
I am for art that keeps me thinking beyond the expectations of banalities and societal norms.
I am for art that can give grounds to revolution.
I am for art that attempts to dismantle the convolution s of everyday life.
I am for art that can sing you to sleep.
I am for art that can sing you awake.
I am for art that provokes the skepticism for all reason and truth.
I am for art that keeps me safe from my sane self and insane to others.
I am for art that teaches what words cannot.
I am for art that can be insurrectionary.
I am for art that can make disorder out of imposed order.
I am for art that exudes blood and guts.
I am for art that gives me the means to reflect on the evolution of a conscious person.
I am for art that can portray the absurd while exposing the falsity of the real.
I am for art largely as a contribution to my own social survival.
I am for art that may possibly reach even a single other person, even if I never physically do.
I am for art as an extension of one’s own consciousness.
I am for art that does not adhere to any systematic belief system or any system of strict governance.
I am for art that defines existence for an individual.
I am for art that can speak to a person, like a conversation with a stranger of whom you’ll never forget and may never meet again, and becomes an influential memory on the creation of that individual’s future existence yet to be unfolded.
I am for art as a weapon, not a commodity.
I am for art which sits in harmony with all of the beauty of nature and all of the wreckage of corruption.
I am for art that does not have a face, but has a soul.
I am for art that remains detached from its creator.
I am for art that can take on myriad meanings depending on the settings of which it is placed.
I am for art that disregards imperfections in a deliberate regards to disregard.
I am for art that does not completely take itself seriously while taking its potentiality with the utmost seriousness.
I am for art that is of the artists and not of the cogs of capitalism.
I am for art that has no beginning and no end, but may suggest a certain experience within the definitions of time and existence.
I am for art that can move mountains.
I am for art that has the strength of a million humans.
I am for art that is as fragile as human existence.
I am for art that scoffs in the face of the fear of the look-in-the-other.
I am for art that is as ethereal as the last breath upon the rattle of death.
I am for art that is not obvious and has the potential to stop or slow time, if even for a fraction of a second.
I am for art that does not fear nor protect itself from destruction.
I am for art that never fully defines itself.
I am for art that helps me learn about myself, from myself, about others, and from others.
I am for art that won’t let anything ever stand in its way.
I am for art that contributes to my willingness to stay alive.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
4 am sleep-writing
An artist is a person who hones acute skills and abilities of perception and acts upon them in such a manner that they themselves become a watermark upon a period of human existence. The purpose is not to create a grand masterpiece, but to render and produce with such a frequency that the art becomes larger than the life of the artist... that then becomes the masterpiece.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
bleh
Uncontrollable mood swings. Lots of them. I can't fight them. And with them comes the crippling lack of creativity. Self-loathe and lethargy. Too much time on my hands can capsize self imposed structure and ambition. And most of what I have produced lately seems to me a failure, or a faint voice at best. Days and nights are quick. I shower every morning, and under the teeming water I feel as if I was just there. The shower has always been a time for me to sort out my thoughts, plan my day, and reflect on my past-doings. Lately I just feel a premeditated defeat for the day... I know I will come up empty handed before I retire for the night. I'm wading in stagnancy. I am not necessarily pessimistic for my future both near and far, but I'm bereft of any enthralling optimism at the moment. I mull over plans to work on many different projects, but I hardly find the motivation to act upon them. I feel trapped. I look at the stray cat I have recently been taking care of. And I relate all too well with him. He yearns to be outside, to roam and chase everything boundlessly at free will. He sits at the window, he sleeps too much, and he meows every here and there at the door. I want to let him loose, but he comes back after a day with hunger and curiosity. And then he gets stuck with us again. This cycle of banal predictability just feels all too familiar and I need to pull myself from this incapacitating flypaper. It should be a simple mind shift from introverted self-pity back to confidence and being constructively focused. It's always easier said than done, as they say. But I think I just need more time to myself, to really figure out how I've derailed and how easy it really is to step back into full swing.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The ebb and flow of recent productivity has been very temperamental, to say the least. Some days I've written song after song, made painting after painting, and some days I've just loafed like a drunken sloth. Regardless, a couple of things I have had to focus on is writing lyrics for songs; both for my band Carrion Spring, and my own solo material. My solo material was also fleshed out with my brother and some other good friends, Lee (who also plays in Carrion Spring) and Richard. We've played 2 shows as a band, and seems to have had a surprisingly decent response. Last Thursday's Alberta Art Walk is tomorrow, and now, of course, as usual, am madly trying to produce a couple of more pieces of art. I'm completely broke, and though my parents are considering lending me this month's rent, I still would rather sell some work and do it myself. So, looks like I now embark on a frantic all-nighter.
Which, I should no longer procrastinate. So, without any further ado, here are some recent Carrion Spring lyrics, follow by some of my solo lyrics. I am starting to not completely hate what I write... I think.
Carrion Spring lyrics.
Hemhorrage
All this murk we're drownin in
a hemhorrage from leeches rotting on the wounds of cankered institutions.
so futile a tourniquet.
Become decrepit, every sinew.
every cog is rusting.
seams are ripping.
artificial selection
natural retaliation.
abandoning all stations
won't ever stop the bleed of these machines
acutely distort imminent disasters
to keep us calm before the storm.
Year of the Carrion
Glowing display radiates existence
to cleanse the mind
give life to dead time.
Still so lost, and getting worse with every minute
but we won't see it
through our own
reflections
so pathetic
to see that we are
locked up from the outside in
This womb is a graveyard
under a ton
of napalm
set ourselves ablaze
bring some light to an age so dark.
set ourselves
ablaze.
Troll's Toll
Fallen all the faculties, a pile on the floor
the death of an accomplice.
The shame if he knew of the blood on his hands
hung weary and limply
like flesh on a hook
and not even a soul glances at all.
Memories of stillborn inceptions
are burning at the stake.
Dancing around
choking on the ashes
Stumbling, falling
choking down the ashes
Collapsing
sow in the soil.
and here are some lyrics for my own solo material.
At Home
Oh this city is a wreck
but under the filthy haze
I tend to find myself at home
Trapped by the weight of an empty gun
waiting on a train
that hasn't run for years and years
the coal has all been burned
said she won't ever return
the rust is way too much for her to bear
In someways it's comforting to know
these covered tracks remain unknown
This blanket of ashes keeps me warm
Or so I tell myself she said.
The letters I write pile up
cause I haven't got a stamp
but they help make me feel
at home.
The dogs keep scratching at the door
and the lock ain't holdin up
The radio has lost all but one
station that plays the same
songs every night and day
the rust is way too much for me to care
In someways it's comforting to know
these covered tracks remain unknown
This blanket of ashes keeps me warm
Or so I tell myself, I know.
The wounded bird that's taken in
won't ever fly again.
won't ever fight again.
These Bloody Days
I'm tryin to be
as best as I can
even with these blood soaked sheets
but baby I swear I've enough to spare
So let these guts spill out all over the tile floor
it's enough to build a whole new man
I know it takes sometime to find how lost we really are
but I don't mind the trip as long as you know
how fucked we really are
maybe now's the time for me to mention to you
That I don't fear no death
and I don't fear no love
keeps it so damned hard to make these promises.
But even though sometimes my words are better than my actions
and the more you give the less I'll make of myself
I can not say the sober life is always best for me
but sometimes things fall into place in spite of
How fucked we really are
maybe now's the time for me to mention to you
That I don't fear no death
and I don't fear no love
keeps it so damned hard to make these promises
that i am hoping I will hold
i'm stickin to my guns
even though i'm running out of shells
And every now and then i feel
trapped between the past
and the times that I may still have
but for now
what we got will stay with me for good.
The Flood
I hear the wind scrapin' along the fence.
I seen better men than I left in the dust
ashes to rust.
The sun has been pouring rain for days and days.
Here comes the flood.
Stay afloat.
Says "soon there'll be change..."
it keeps them up on the fence.
Says "their used to it..."
as their singin' along
casual songs
songs for killing time
not the kind that will move mountains.
Here comes the flood.
Stay afloat.
Oh, our broken hearts can sing us back to life.
Glow
When the tide breaks low
I will cut the line.
Hangin off the moon
swingin' side to side.
Drowinin' in the glow
among the fire flies.
Don't go to far down now
the pressure could be all too much
for this air so thin.
Only half awake
far from piece of mind.
Sending up the flares
budding in the sky.
Staying hard to find
left me high and dry.
Don't go to far down now
the pressure could be all too much
for this air so thin.
Which, I should no longer procrastinate. So, without any further ado, here are some recent Carrion Spring lyrics, follow by some of my solo lyrics. I am starting to not completely hate what I write... I think.
Carrion Spring lyrics.
Hemhorrage
All this murk we're drownin in
a hemhorrage from leeches rotting on the wounds of cankered institutions.
so futile a tourniquet.
Become decrepit, every sinew.
every cog is rusting.
seams are ripping.
artificial selection
natural retaliation.
abandoning all stations
won't ever stop the bleed of these machines
acutely distort imminent disasters
to keep us calm before the storm.
Year of the Carrion
Glowing display radiates existence
to cleanse the mind
give life to dead time.
Still so lost, and getting worse with every minute
but we won't see it
through our own
reflections
so pathetic
to see that we are
locked up from the outside in
This womb is a graveyard
under a ton
of napalm
set ourselves ablaze
bring some light to an age so dark.
set ourselves
ablaze.
Troll's Toll
Fallen all the faculties, a pile on the floor
the death of an accomplice.
The shame if he knew of the blood on his hands
hung weary and limply
like flesh on a hook
and not even a soul glances at all.
Memories of stillborn inceptions
are burning at the stake.
Dancing around
choking on the ashes
Stumbling, falling
choking down the ashes
Collapsing
sow in the soil.
and here are some lyrics for my own solo material.
At Home
Oh this city is a wreck
but under the filthy haze
I tend to find myself at home
Trapped by the weight of an empty gun
waiting on a train
that hasn't run for years and years
the coal has all been burned
said she won't ever return
the rust is way too much for her to bear
In someways it's comforting to know
these covered tracks remain unknown
This blanket of ashes keeps me warm
Or so I tell myself she said.
The letters I write pile up
cause I haven't got a stamp
but they help make me feel
at home.
The dogs keep scratching at the door
and the lock ain't holdin up
The radio has lost all but one
station that plays the same
songs every night and day
the rust is way too much for me to care
In someways it's comforting to know
these covered tracks remain unknown
This blanket of ashes keeps me warm
Or so I tell myself, I know.
The wounded bird that's taken in
won't ever fly again.
won't ever fight again.
These Bloody Days
I'm tryin to be
as best as I can
even with these blood soaked sheets
but baby I swear I've enough to spare
So let these guts spill out all over the tile floor
it's enough to build a whole new man
I know it takes sometime to find how lost we really are
but I don't mind the trip as long as you know
how fucked we really are
maybe now's the time for me to mention to you
That I don't fear no death
and I don't fear no love
keeps it so damned hard to make these promises.
But even though sometimes my words are better than my actions
and the more you give the less I'll make of myself
I can not say the sober life is always best for me
but sometimes things fall into place in spite of
How fucked we really are
maybe now's the time for me to mention to you
That I don't fear no death
and I don't fear no love
keeps it so damned hard to make these promises
that i am hoping I will hold
i'm stickin to my guns
even though i'm running out of shells
And every now and then i feel
trapped between the past
and the times that I may still have
but for now
what we got will stay with me for good.
The Flood
I hear the wind scrapin' along the fence.
I seen better men than I left in the dust
ashes to rust.
The sun has been pouring rain for days and days.
Here comes the flood.
Stay afloat.
Says "soon there'll be change..."
it keeps them up on the fence.
Says "their used to it..."
as their singin' along
casual songs
songs for killing time
not the kind that will move mountains.
Here comes the flood.
Stay afloat.
Oh, our broken hearts can sing us back to life.
Glow
When the tide breaks low
I will cut the line.
Hangin off the moon
swingin' side to side.
Drowinin' in the glow
among the fire flies.
Don't go to far down now
the pressure could be all too much
for this air so thin.
Only half awake
far from piece of mind.
Sending up the flares
budding in the sky.
Staying hard to find
left me high and dry.
Don't go to far down now
the pressure could be all too much
for this air so thin.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
WTF!?
New piece of a small series, exploring the use of acronyms created by socializing through digital technology. more to come.
Perfect weather hits Portland again. Today was a good balance of chillaxing while being simultaneously productive. into it. Went down to the waterfront with the lady during sunset and watched fish jump out of the water. And lately the air around the neighborhood where my studio is has been hella dank with fumes of hops and barley from the nearby brewery. I am developing a palette for the smell. I am sure someday it'll end up being quite a nostalgic smell.
Perfect weather hits Portland again. Today was a good balance of chillaxing while being simultaneously productive. into it. Went down to the waterfront with the lady during sunset and watched fish jump out of the water. And lately the air around the neighborhood where my studio is has been hella dank with fumes of hops and barley from the nearby brewery. I am developing a palette for the smell. I am sure someday it'll end up being quite a nostalgic smell.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Current mindstate: Ice cream coma
I haven't even the excuse of a sweltering summer to justify my lethargy and neglect of updating my artwork online. Been busy, in a way... making music and art. Nothing that brings home the blocks of cheddar, of course. Rent has been a struggle, and actually I been hardly scraping by. I feel like I am stuck in the summer of 2002 again. Hopefully I can hang on until student financial aid disbursement.
The first half of summer has been pretty outrageous... there have been quite a number of house shows, mainly of friends and such. There have been several shorter road trips, many parties, my birthday, many guest couch surfers, among many other eventful things worth mentioning, but just not in this post. I'll do that within the next day or so. Until then, I'll just post a few freshly new, and some fairly new pieces of art. Bueno.
Medicate. Manipulate. Annihilate.
Sardines
Entropics of Love
Title Bout
Copy of a Rembrandt drawing for a class
Boat on the Columbia River
The Columbia River
Hippie bum with Devil Sticks on the waterfront
The first half of summer has been pretty outrageous... there have been quite a number of house shows, mainly of friends and such. There have been several shorter road trips, many parties, my birthday, many guest couch surfers, among many other eventful things worth mentioning, but just not in this post. I'll do that within the next day or so. Until then, I'll just post a few freshly new, and some fairly new pieces of art. Bueno.
Medicate. Manipulate. Annihilate.
Sardines
Entropics of Love
Title Bout
Copy of a Rembrandt drawing for a class
Boat on the Columbia River
The Columbia River
Hippie bum with Devil Sticks on the waterfrontTuesday, February 23, 2010
Unframed
I have not written a song with just me and my acoustic guitar in a really long time... since September, I believe. Maybe playing with my band Carrion Spring had me satisfied for a while... i guess. Anyway, I wrote a new song, and am excited to write more. The lyrics ain't nothing special, just stoked to have something new.
'cause in my head it's all been said
I feel I'm lost, my dues ain't paid
i can't break the guilt, the shame
that I may remain here.
stuck between these doors, I fold
never try to kick them open
what lies behind the mask
oh, a disgrace.
I don't want to play the camera
just want to be without a frame.
Held my words and all my sins
and killed a man, it's all the same
One to the heart one to the brain
forever remain here.
Broken shelves crushed under all
of 20-something years I've drawn
never drew myself out from
underneath this shell.
And I was right that you wrong
what's the use anymore.
'cause in my head it's all been said
I feel I'm lost, my dues ain't paid
and i can't break the guilt, the shame
that I will remain here.
I don't want to play the camera
just want to be without a frame.
So my current drawing teacher has had me study old masters by drawing their work... specifically the last few weeks, Rembrandt. It is actually quite fun and I feel like I am learning a lot from it. Maybe I'll post some photos of them in the future.
K I have a shit ton of work to catch up on.
'cause in my head it's all been said
I feel I'm lost, my dues ain't paid
i can't break the guilt, the shame
that I may remain here.
stuck between these doors, I fold
never try to kick them open
what lies behind the mask
oh, a disgrace.
I don't want to play the camera
just want to be without a frame.
Held my words and all my sins
and killed a man, it's all the same
One to the heart one to the brain
forever remain here.
Broken shelves crushed under all
of 20-something years I've drawn
never drew myself out from
underneath this shell.
And I was right that you wrong
what's the use anymore.
'cause in my head it's all been said
I feel I'm lost, my dues ain't paid
and i can't break the guilt, the shame
that I will remain here.
I don't want to play the camera
just want to be without a frame.
So my current drawing teacher has had me study old masters by drawing their work... specifically the last few weeks, Rembrandt. It is actually quite fun and I feel like I am learning a lot from it. Maybe I'll post some photos of them in the future.
K I have a shit ton of work to catch up on.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
New shits
Two new paintings which are currently hung along with a grip of other works at a downtown gallery space called Slinde Nelson.
I been having this problem lately where I stupidly fall asleep around 8 or 9 and wake up 11 pm. And can't go back to sleep. And now I am wired. How ridiculous.
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