Medium

In some delusional half-insane dream I had the other day, I came to an important realization about myself.

I already know that Art is my calling in life. It doesn't matter much which medium it is: paint, ink, pencil, writing, poetry; I do it all. But what I came to realize in that dream, and what certainly holds true in reality, is that there are FAR more mediums than the ones I do (I have NO musical talent whatsoever). There's one medium that stands above all others though. And that medium is Creation.

Think about it. I can draw ALMOST anything I could think of. I can paint almost anything I can think of. But what do I have when I've done that? I've created a picture of something. But not the actual thing. To be able to CREATE what I see, now that would be something! To come up with an object and hammer and fold it into existence, THAT WOULD BE ART!

That's what I love about art! it's the compilation of things that weren't there before! But If I could CREATE my own things, create energy and mass, well, what I could do would be limitless.
But alas, I cannot do that. I am no God. But I don't want to be a god. I just want to be the Genesis (Yes, I believe they're separate entities)

Ah, but Humans are so limited. Whatever though, I have something new to add to my list of things I wanna be when I grow up. I wanna be an author, artist, or a creator.

Turn Your Brain Inside Out

Here I come ping-ponging back to Art. I noticed I didn't say anything about this previously, so I'll mention it in this post.
Forewarning: I speak entirely from my own experience. Do not take my word as law for any of this, Do Not Turn Your Brain Inside Out. (It hurts)

This post is a further study of inspiration
In my experience, when an artist creates a work, they usually have a message or an emotion they wish for others to see. In other words, art has a purpose. A tough concept to grasp, I know. When one draws from emotion, it has to be an emotion powerful enough to take form. In other words, one couldn't say "I feel kinda tired" and expect to draw an amazing piece. If I were to try, I'd end up with a bunch of lines, a circle and a tomato. Conversely, if the emotion is strong, like love, hate, or pain (Yes, Pain is an emotion) it can immediately take form.

If you don't know what you're feeling, drawing is an excellent method of finding out. I suppose it's somewhat of a Freudian belief, but if you draw from your mind WITHOUT CONSIDERATION, I believe it is an accurate reflection of what one feels inside. Certain objects won't interest you in certain moods, while others will immediately draw attention. This does, however, loan itself to the same folly as dream interpretation, that is, several possible meanings.

Another source of inspiration is to take an event happening in the media, and apply one's emotion to it. I'd love to provide some pictures that I've done like this, but I still can't quite figure out how to do it.

Ah, I'd also like to note my particular choice of imagery. Several people have asked me "Kayvon, why do you always draw such creepy things?" My response to this, to quote Stephen King, is: Why do you assume I have a choice? If I were to attempt to try and apply Occam's Razor to that question, I suppose I'd end up with something like: It's what interests me. In my opinion, if Art doesn't tear a hole into your mind and evoke a higher level of thinking, it isn't worth doing. Hell, if Art doesn't evoke SOMETHING, then it's useless. Even if what it evokes is just a little sideways cocking of the head and a "What?"
I like that. I like thinking about people seeing my art and wondering, pondering, considering, questioning, and applying that same wonder to their own lives.
Yeah, so basically, the purpose to my art is to troll the hell out of people.

The Author Gambit

Right. Back on topic this session. I considered deleting that last post, but Pinza didn't say anything about it so I don't think I'll have to.
Anyway, I wrote a short story a ways back. It's still in its infancy, but I hope it'll be somewhat entertaining. Ususally, I'm pretty... against posting my writings on the internet.. for copyright reasons (In that I don't want people copying me (Paranoid, I know)). So, this story didn't take me that long and I thought it was pretty cool, so I don't mind losing the "Rights" to it. Anywho, here it is:

Prey

I looked into his eyes. I saw happiness. I saw hate. I saw need. I saw fear. I saw
his being. All of this while just walking down the street. Same with the next guy, and the
next girl, I could see who they were, in just one look. I walked to my school. Talked to
my friends, learned their secrets, saw their fears, their hopes, and their lies. I knew witch
stories were true. I knew who each of them were. Worst of all I knew what they thought
of me. In the group I'm not the leader, I'm not even the smartest, fastest or the strongest.
Except that I can see.

 I walked to my first period class. The teacher there, he was a cheater,
cheated through school, cheated in taxes and cheated on his wife. He didn’t like me at all.
I think he knew I knew. I had learned the hard way that people do not like to know that
you know their innermost secrets. My mother, a decent woman, was destroyed by guilt, a
wrongly placed guilt. She had beaten a man, who had tried to rape her, to death. She was
terrified of what she had done. I asked her about it once. She slapped me and told me
never to ask about that again.

 Second period. That teacher, a very nice lady indeed, was pure,
clean and uncontaminated by the sins of life. Break. I talked to friends, reviewed their
fears. Nothing had changed. Ding-dong. Third period. The teacher was an alcoholic,
never graded our papers, and hired a ho or two from time to time. He was a terrible
teacher. I saw his death happening in the next couple of days. Ironic. A drunk driver,
while driving drunk himself, would hit him. I chuckled as I walked by. He snarled at me.
It made me laugh all the more. A change in his emotions made me stop laughing. There
was something in his eyes. Bloodlust. There hate there too. And, there was buried deep in
his soul, murder. I shudder came over me, his anger was not at his life like it usually was,
but was focused in an acute point, and directed, at me.

 I shivered again. I had seen murder before, but never aimed at me. I choked, I freaked, I panicked, I got up and asked if I could leave. He said “no.” I swallowed, and sat down. He looked around.
Looked at his pencils, pens, his rulers, the scissors, the keyboard, an umbrella, looking
for a weapon. I prayed then, prayed to god that I would make it through this period. The
bell rang. I started. I smiled. I laughed. I was safe. I was alive.

Then it hit me, literally. A .22 caliber round penetrated my ribcage and broke out the other side. I collapsed and fell to my knees. In a sick, delusional way, I remembered playing horsy with my younger
sister. I was in that position then, and now. Blood dripped from my mouth and chest. I
coughed, coughed blood. Then the second bullet hit. Entered through my upper back and
exited out my leg. I fell onto my stomach, rolled to my back to look at the ceiling.

He towered over me. And then, as my vision darkened he said; “there isn’t room for two of
us” with the weapon pointed at me he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the ground right
next to me. He drew the firearm up, pointed it at his head and pulled the trigger for the
fourth time that day. He fell to the floor next to me.

 I looked at him. There was something in his mind. Not something, someone. And then it was in my mind. A conceptual parasite. A mind taker. Brain eater. Thought leach. I sensed its mind
then. Evil. No thought, just move from one host to another. And so in one day I had gone
from master and predator of all those around me, to prey, cowering in the inner darkness
of my own, scared mind.

(No Title)

Okay so I was gonna write something about being an author this week but frankly, I'm too pissed to really bother with that right now.

So, do you guys remember just a little while ago, when Osama Bin Laden got his face shot through? (If you don't then you live under a rock) Do you remember when people were cheering in the streets, waving signs, grinning happily? Do you remeber our society celebrating the death of this man? Do you also remember the topic of the death penalty, and all those years we've been taught that "Killing anyone is wrong"? Yet there we were, celebrating not the possibility of victory in a war, but the death of a single, derranged man. I'm not saying we should've been sad. But frankly this hypocrisy enraged me. I believe in the "Eye for an eye" philosophy, especially when it comes to killing. But most people, in their glorious, righteous idiocy stand firmly with their illusions of all life being sacred. Where did that belief go when this man died? So we see that the "Great People of America" are hypocrites, and I despise that.

And on the topic of the despicable, let's veer off to the lovely world of politics. I've always known politicians were full of crap. I came to the realization that their "Debates" and "Discussions" were nothing more than a couple snakes slithering about to end up on top long before AP Language, but now I know just how much manipulation they pour into their statements. And exactly what to call their little rhetoric ploys. It's like Howard Beale says: It's all bullshit. You turn on the TV and that's all you get. So I don't turn on the TV anymore as a, shall we say, "Bullshit Filter".

But what is one to do, when hypocrisy and bullshit get past the filter? What does one do when the bullshit is coming from a person one cannot feasably filter out? One waits til he's 18, and shuts his damn mouth.



*I'll be back on topic next week probably

On a side note, I'm gonna laugh if I get in trouble for this post, because honestly, that just proves my point.

Art, Hoses and Corporate Death.

So this session I'm gonna focus on art. Namely the inspiration I get to do mine, and what I art is to me.

For inspiration, I oft find myself turning to music. Little phrases that repeat over and over and over that thrill me to hear. An example of this being the other day, when I was listening to Rob Zombie (The particular song being "Never Gonna Stop" and one of the lyrics is "The devil riding a dinosaur" (Yes Rob Zombie is an odd fellow). And well, that line just tickled me. So, I had to oblige and draw what that'd actually look like. (I'd upload it but I don't really know how yet...) Needless to say, the picture was easily one of my favorites. Other times I have a phrase that I see and fall in love with, example being the graffiti on the railroad tracks that says "Eat the Living". The way it was written, the location it was at, it just threw an image into my mind and I had no choice but to get it out.*

This is a great transition into what art is to me. When I get an image in my mind (a strong enough one that is), if it sits up there, it'll keep pushing and pushing and interrupting various things until I get it out. So in essence, to me art is my way of emptying my mind. Think of a hose, that constantly drips water out. If you seal off the exit, the pressure builds.. and builds... and builds until KABOOM!!! you've got rubber hose EVERYWHERE. That's me. If I'm not constantly drawing or writing or being creative, I'll explode.

So that this entry isn't a total tangent, I'll relate back to the occupational piece. I'd rather be a bum on the street selling paintings than a corporate scumbag rolling in cash and dead inside. Yeah, that's a bit harsh as a view of the corporate world, but to me that's what it is; death.
I guess for my profession, I kinda want to be alive you know?


*A few of the people who are reading this have probably seen the image. If not come talk to me elsewhere. I'll see about uploading it.

Author or Artist. Or Authartist?

    So.... I guess this is what I'm supposed to do... Weird. Meh, I don't like writing this stuff down.

Whatever though, it's homework

    Anyway, a career choice I'm interested in.. Hmmm... Well, if you really wanna know, the only thing I wanna do in life is to be a catcher in the rye. 

    NO. But seriously, if you know me at all you'll probably note that I'm an artist, and that I love to write. If you don't know me... then, I guess I just explained all of that. Aside of that, I couldn't imagine working for some corporate scumbag as little more than a mindless zombie. Like, going to work at the same place everyday doing the same things over and over would be quite vexing. So, either an artist or an author it is for me.
     For being an author though, the one thing is that you gotta write. I'm kind of a lazy son-of-a-gun, so as you can imagine, that doesn't happen much. Another thing, in order to actually make a living being an author, you gotta get attention. So how's a person to get attention you might ask? By being special. Think about it, hundreds of millions of books out there. Why would a company choose YOU (Well, me, actually)? One has to do something out of the ordinary, something shiny, new, or impressive. So I've got a nice little key of opportunity here: I'm sixteen. How many sixteen-year olds out there have time or the patience to write a 200+ page book? If I'm lucky, I'll get called a "Prodigy" or something to that effect, the book will hit mass market and BLAMMO! SET FOR LIFE! 

   Bein' an artist is something I could do on the side. Like, comission work so I don't starve to death while writing some best-seller novel. Yup. I'm pretty confident there's a market out there for my crazy little pictures. My avatar (or profile picture, whatever) is one such piece. 

     So yeah. These are the careers I'm interested in.  I guess that's it?