Monday, January 28, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
OH LAWD THE WRANKLES!! someone help me with some ironing tips...first ever wheatpaste,
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
WHOS COMMIN WITH ME??!?!
you may ask yerself; what's she hootin n' hollerin about?
in their words...
Calling ALL Artists for the 4th Annual Art Outside Brouhaha! March 6th – 16th 2008.
To take part in AO08 Go Here- www.artoutside.org/ao08faq.htm
Ladies and gentlemen of the art world, we are seeking any and all creative humans who use their skill and imagination in the creation of aesthetic objects, environments, or experiences that can be shared with others. That is, we are looking for those whose life is art, and everything they do is DIY. We are searching for those who are creating the Hand-Made Nation. We are calling !ALL! make-believers, dreamers and reality re-arrangers. We are searching hi and low for lowbrow-urban-contemporary-pop-surrealism, pop art, op art, hard-edge, lyrical abstraction, post minimalism, which might be interpreted by some to mean that we are looking only for painters, but that is most definitely not the case. For you see, of course, we need masters of typography, sketchers, illustrators, satirical stencilers, screen printing is way cool, and yes, you too, graffiti fools. Do you manipulate earth/land/sand/plants/junk into art? Then we have a home for you. Every culture jammer in the hood. Now we know, some of you may be saying “What about Dadas’ Dadaists, though?” Of course we are calling all inspired by DADA- that’s what gave us the fluxists, productivism, neoplasticism, pittura, metafisica, arbeitsrat and quite possibly Bauhaus. Well, we are looking for all of “you”, if any of you still exist. Now one may wonder… What about the cubist? We say, “But of course.” Conceptualist? Indeed. Instalationists? Please! One might ask if we are seeking anything that might fall under postmodernist modernist modernisnist who are not distracted by abstractionists and others IST’S. Of course there is always impressionism, post-minimalism, pre-contemporaryism, and expressionism. Are you working in symbolism or surrealism or any of the other -isms that we have not yet mentioned? Well come out. But wait that’s not all, that could not possibly be all this call for ARTE is all about? Well, Dali you’re right. This call goes out to kinetic sculptors, fire sculptors, sound artists bending invisible waves, and video projectionists playing with light. We must invite the minds of the poets and their spoken slam voices, along with improv comedians who mimic the true history of time. Or was that the klown? How can we forget about the klowns! Performers “performing” art, puppeteers with their puppets, musicians making sounds. Oh, and least we forget outsider artists wanting to be outside.
In short, we invite all the conceivable movements, modes, and theories of art known to wo/man. We say to you, the Artisans of the world who wish to unite because the world needs ART, because the world’s not right, It is time. Your window of opportunity is now. Our space is your blank canvas. Your dreams are our inspiration. You and your art are invited to take part in this epic artistic endeavor.
The world may be going to hell… So let’s make some art.
To take part in AO08 Go Here www.artoutside.org/ao08faq.htm
P.S. If we happened to have forgotten any form of ART in this call for art then we do deeply apologize. Please note that you too are invited.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
i don't know...
i also don't know
Friday, January 18, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
I’ve lost it. What to write. I went to bathroom I thought of Chinese food I shed a layer of clothing. I thought of boys and asking several out and had conversations in my head. Thought about a particular one a lot. Suddenly realized I had God boxed this particular boy just hours before and envisioned his name on a small piece of paper (like the fortune cookie paper) floating in air and following path of dotted lines into box. God box. It’s this box (full of notes usually) that I put my problems and worries and obsessions in when I can’t do it alone anymore. I write down a name or a heated paragraph or a sugary sweet plea and I fold it up and say a quick prayer and toss it in.
I imagined what a great screen print that it would make, and proceeded to think out the process that that would entail and pondered whether or not I should just get on up and screen print a couple, WHEN suddenly- the thought occurred, as they usually do,(sudden and unmoving once having arrived)
“My god box might be stolen”
As in my sacred, sacred, almighty and powerful God box was thieved. Swiped. Attained inappropraitly, ill gained. Stolen stolen stolen. My follow up thought to that was “no” haha which is probably the most common response to any of my inner truths. No. No. NOPE. Nah-uh go away. SHH! Nonono. go away. F_CK! Ok. I guess you can stay. Your just gonna sit there in the middle of the room with that elephant guy everyone always talks about. You know the one. The pink one? Anyways, take your coat off then..go on. Go on I said! Hi, let me introduce myself. My name is Emily and I balk at You.
Psh. Truth. You and your silly capital letter, pro-nouned ass.
Once I got over the fact of how unoriginal I am in that I am a beginner writer and thus I am going write blatanly of/about myself mostly, I sprang to my feet and ski socked it to my computer, two feet away from my bed. And now I sit. Typing and checking email, sucked into the vortex that is the computer. My loved pet monster. That owns me. Or rather “pones” me as my brother would say. I am so poned, man, by my ‘puter and the internet. Totally puter-poned.
I feel super thirsty due to the mountain of Chinese food I ate at dinner tonight, which was totally f-in awesome, by the wiz-ay. A little slang for ya there. Little Southern youth sli-zang. It‘s a language started by rappers. No, not rapports, RAPPERS. Those fast talking folk with weird vocabulary and who whoop n’ holler and tend to repeat themselves a lot. And shout redundancies. No more on that. Moving on.
I was sitting at a round table (which after using such a phrase I immediately try to conjur up metaphors to King Arthur. None coming forth. So nevermind) with my family in Korea Town Shopping Plaza on Bu-fad Highwaaay. My writer, rock-climbing, every-sport-‘cept-football, musician brother to my left; next to him my fashion designing oil painting jewelery making little cousin; next to her my producer uncle, her father, from England; next to him my Key Grip, film-industry, computer tech dad; next to him my financial advisor, executive producer aunt; next to her, her friend, theater director and actress visiting from London; next to her my hybrid painter writer all around altruist mother. Then me. Artist writer model, imperfect beautiful goof.
Brilliant and exciting conversation sprang forth. I was deeply inwoven in the beings around the table. I have taken my close and extended family for granted for many a year and am here to report no more! I have a feeling about my family today much like the feeling I use to get when I would long to be someone else. To be in someone else’s life and in someone else’s skin and how it would be better somehow. Except I am that someone else now and I have that family today! I’ve been surrounded by both all along But only in the past couple have I come to love know and embrace the two with a full and openly grateful heart. They haven't changed so much as I have. I mean they change and stuff, but what I mean is I have had dramatic and upheaving change occur within me in the past couple. And its rad man.
Which brings us to the meat and potatoes: I don’t want to be anyone else but me today.
Though I don’t always accept myself, and I often dislike where I’m at emotionally and spiritually, yet I still yearn to be just me. My phone display has been “be yourself” for the better part of this year. If we must dice it into better parts and whatnot. Some of my year of parts included death and pubescent lusting. Fear, faith, laurels, pain. A well loved friend died, my gramma died, I started to “date” (snigger). I expanded my inner circle outer. Now I can say I have social scene like a well-balanced belly button. Something of both sides; me in the middle bouncing. Like lent. Though personally, my belly button lent does not bounce, it just sorta collects into itself and nestles. If yours bounces, please start a short documentary film and let me be art director.
Last summer, I fell in love with the girl i had become. Feet steeping in cowboy boots and neck toggled with wooden beads; laying in the middle of an abandoned parking lot cradled between highway underpass and furniture store. Wondering whether or not I had “abandoned myself to God” and stuff. Laughing upwards into swelling night sky, nails gritted into pavement, body rolling with a joy electric. Resting head on chest of a brother. Jason dear. Another night, same parking lot, dancing in the chemistry before the storm with three sisters. The air alive in an intensity I remember today like cobalt. Rain finally bursting forth like the flesh of an over ripened fruit. Product of the land, left in sky, exploding downwards once again. Heaving ourselves into growing puddles and laughing untethered.; the warm asphalt muck contrasting with the sharp chill of the seeded rain fruit. Clothes sagging heavy and clinging cold. Soaked to the bone and moccasined, I ran into myself and was enthralled. I fell in love. With art, with life, with a power unknown, with my family, with my friends, with our mortality, our humanness, with moments.
This summer and through the winter, with cutout in one hand and a can in the other, pencil stabbed into tresses, face squinched into rubber mask, I found more life. Looking like war and feeling like a child, I painted and sketched my way into some beautiful places. Art became a deeper and more urgent form of my higher power, of life. (Three of the saaaaaaaaame) Arms bracleted with rolls of blue tape I pounced into projects. Sweaty bandana strapped and sap happy I crouched and I painted. I measured and I taped. With gristled fingerless gloves I aimed. Backyard driveway turning colors one splatter at a time. This fall microns, sharpies, and paint pens reigned my nights. Knives and boxes birthed secret worlds and people out of delerium and procrastination. Keyboard keys clucked and screen purred, as I discovered the joy of words and stories written in truth. Gallery hopper extrodinaire (haha), I was to be seen on the scene, found inside galleries all over the city. Soaking in the sweet, strange juices of the art world in Atlanta. Always trying to find an accomplice to join in on the fever. (Rue..:)) that’s what happens to a smiley face in a parenthesis. It gets fat and has double chin syndrome.
I dig this romp called life and I am glad to have been a part for yet another day.
And by the way, I have a new Godbox. The old is going to Goodwill. Maybe I'll leave a note in it (tehe:))) triple chin
Mo’ lata yo.
Friday, January 11, 2008
my first giant drawing, to be wheatpasted to my van. HOO-RAY! need practice with proportions...and I am not used to "shading" or whatever, crosshatching all that jazz, I find it more natural to draw as few lines as possible. Maybe I'll try that next time.
(thanks to Robin for being so still for so long, and neu! for bein groovy)
I'm off to a 'black and white ball' birthday bash. feeling guilty about the state of the nation and my utter lack of political anything.
The only quote that soothes my heart is "Do what you can, with what you have, where you are" I could step it up a couple notches in my general vicinity.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Not lookin at people when I drive.
Don’t look don’t look don’t looooook, oh I can feeeeel them ew. They’re lookin. What am I gonna do- smile and wave? Hey whatchyu doin? Driving? Oh haha me too heh. No.
Actually I drive a radly painted mini van and people often look, and just the other night I was at a stoplight in East Atlanta and smiled at a group of toussled looking hippie boys sitting outside of Joe’s Coffe shop. They smiled back. I almost yelled “it’s spraypaint!” but didn’t. Human contact thing. Gets in the way of miserable isolation thing.
And..driving like it’s a great big f-kin race. And I must win. Like we are all in a Knights of the Round Table battle video game of painted concrete and traffic lights. Bob-weave, shit--slow f-ker DAMNMIT loookin for a hole, where’s a hole. THERE’S ONE GO! NHAAA-yes! HAHAHAHA cackling. Evil evil cackling.
As well as putting other people’s lives in danger. Nevermind my own. And it’s not like I can disappear into the mist after I drive like a total douchebag. My car is f-kin rainbow and starshine and sh-t. (note pictures posted below) God I love cursing. It’s so delicious. I wish we could all curse all the time. Like everybody all the f-kin time. Old grannies and stuff too. Grannie writes a check at register and asks you your name, then says “well thank you very F-kin much Bartholomuel, you b-tchass!” in granny lady voice and stuff.
Also noted recently:
farting in the prescence of co-workers.
Pushing acrylics in their little happy slots on their happy little shelfy shelves, when suddenly, subtly, sneakily, and cunningly..she approaches. Down the tunnel, a feeling of foreshadowing comming over me. You know the one, right before the bomb drops? When shes only planning on seeping secretly into the world. When she hasn't quite made the full journey. And thoughts like 'Is it gonna be bad? maybe its not deadly. Maybe it's something else.' - 'Nooo nope, there it goes. THAR SHE BLOWS! sniff....snifff...... Oh God. There it is. The monster I have created unawares. The Hanus anus gas attack.' (that's in for shock value) HAHAH Is this how Sara Silverman feels all the time?
So She's out. In the aisle, growing in slow and horrific ripples, outwards and on! And he comes walking towards me.
Fighting begins. The inner struggle. Move forward towards, or run away, or say "don’tcomeoverhereIfarted?!
I can tell two of my co-workers I fart. I mean I guess I can tell all of them, but I’ve only told two. Given them the ah 'dirty bomb drop' warning. “so don’t go over there man…” widened eyes paired with arm flailments. Are me and this guy on that level yet? Are there really levels? I just would rather tell him that there is a cloud and avoid the whole- him smelling my nastiness than pretending it didn’t happen and standing in the putrid cloud having a conversation thing- distracting thoughts such as “I know you can smell it, Did you just flair your nostrils? You did. You so smell it. What are you gonna do now buddy boy? Move away? GODAMMIT! I am a disgusting fart machine, that is what you are thinking if me and my fart right now, I am trapped in my own shame filled air” and if I move the cloud will follow.
That could be a slogan for a presidential race. If I move the cloud will follow. holy crap cloud and could have the SAME LETTERS WITH JUST AN L MOVED OMG cool.
Farting is being human. Halllllllllllllaaaaloooya. That was fun, multiple letters all in a row bring me joy. As does register scanners beeping at exactly the same time. As does picking my nose in public, which I also believe we should all be able to do all the time. without guilt or shame.
And on the word ‘neutral’
I helped a lady today with portfolios and I was like super neutral Like Sweden. Which someone, one of my co-workers actually called me recently. She was all you are like that neutral country. Sweden . Then added that it was a compliment. I will so take that. WOO to the HOO! I don’t think I have ever been called neutral before. Manic biatch, manipulating c-nt, f-kin hor, liar on one extreme. Cute, sweet, innocent, decent, inspirational joyous bubbly creative nice young woman with a moral compass on the other. I say if one was to put all of those words into a blender one’d get “human”. More specifically me. I am those things, though I’d like to happily report more on the sane-ish sides these days. In the past, had my co-worker said that I would have hated it. Call me rogue or dark or brooding or dark or daring or rough around the edges with my life experience, or dark. Did I mention dark? one tough bitch..call me those things, not neutral. Today, I take that, with a huge sigh of gratitude. Psychic change anyone? And as far as darkness goes, I’ll leave that to Charlie Murphey. I’m more of a bright pulse threaded in with a dim glow. A nice pleasant dim, not a stupid irrational and incompetent dim. Like dim if Darth Vador and Hans Solo were gay together and adopted a foreign baby from Russia. No not really. Was that inappropriate? Rude? Mean? I don’t know. Someone let me know.
I write things down on little pieces of paper all the time. A lot while driving actually.
This is what I wrote this morning;
A grey day over the city
The orange cones standing out
Like enlarged pores
Atop the concrete surface streets
And by the way, don't come over here I just farted.
JK on the last part.
I couldn’t wait. Had to type it
Lyrics maybe? Anyone? Thoughts?
More later as usual.