Behold

I've been suffering from stifled happiness lately.

It's the kind of happiness that your work schedule and the general atmosphere of life does not permit you to expose.

It's the kind that makes you feel selfish and guilty of even feeling, even as your responsibilities are falling stagnant by the wayside and deadlines keep lurching towards you.

It's the kind that makes you giggle in privacy and squeal upon awaking on mornings, but you dare not let the sorrow of the world hear your exclamations and attempt to snap that joy away from you.

This piece reveals the joy that I protect in a little box of my heart as I mask myself with the troubles of the day.  

Trust

Question: Are artists happy?
My personal answer: No one can be described as "happy". Happiness is a temporary state. What artists are is a personal revelation of ALL states, whether visible or hidden. The artist is "complete". This world prefers "incomplete" people and admires "complete" people at arm's length. The world needs incomplete people to remain numb so that the overall propaganda/status quo can continue to function.

Anyway, enough of my rambling. This piece was based on me trusting my hidden fantasies - that inner child who could care less about rational ideals. I consider this very rudimentary in its technique, but it was necessary. My childhood was far from perfect but in the midst of all the grayness that surrounded me, it was nice to still imagine in color back then. 

Range

    

  

         

        

     

If one were to ask me "what is my range," the rational side of me will draw a linear graph depicting my range of development from birth to my current ripe old age of 30. That, literally, is what I intended on uneasily providing an artistic representation of this week, but then I happened on a happy accident with my acrylic paints. I discovered the way my discarded paints were drying onto my palette - there was a sheen finish that I found after peeling behind the front side, which was usually textured with remnants of paint daubs and careless sploshes. I am clueless to the reasons why I seem more fascinated these days by discarded remnants than my usual thirst for clean, new and perfect. We shall see where this goes...

Anyway, I am surprised as to why I was able to drop that first idea so quickly, but I do feel it does somehow capture my "range". 

Provide

I found this metal board discarded in the studio and I was drawn by its deep red color. I envisioned a face on it - an emotional face. Ironically, the face ended up evoking any and every perceivable emotion from others than the one I chose to portray. The part that troubled me the most was painting the eyes. I struggled to really make them the way I needed them to be. After finishing my painting I missed the color of red that was hidden behind the paint, - which I initially intended to keep somehow in the portrait anyway - so I slashed into the background until I saw what I once loved.

I honestly feel like I managed to conjure up something that has eluded me for a while. It feels separate from me on the surface but sparks something innate inside of me.

Touch

Week 1 - Touch

I began with this feeling for something long and tactile to be handled and be heavy to hold. I proceeded with this discarded wood with the intention to give it a fake facade and then, with the red, "scar" the "perfection" of the white and puncture its apparent seamlessness. I wanted to "bloody" the pristine - to bring about the human to the method. It is my struggle in my design - not necessarily in the technical portrayal of my work, but bringing the human into my work, the disorder, the imperfection...in hopes to bring about true beauty.