First time consuming and annoyingly repetitive piece of the year. I love and hate the process all at the very same time of pieces like this. But at the end I love every single bit of it. Number 4 of this year...
Saturday
Tuesday
Monday
Saturday
Thursday
Night walk
I truly believe that fog is the most amazing thing ever. I just love the blurriness mixed with the cold and humidity. I cannot wait for Humboldt.
I actually feel sorry for him. It must suck to be owned by a corporation. They at least gave him his Tk society's.
And back home...
Wednesday
Tuesday
JR non stop..
I think we have no idea what the word struggle really means.
The wrinkles of the city - Shanghai 2010
Uploaded by JR. - Watch original web videos.
The wrinkles of the city - Shanghai 2010
Uploaded by JR. - Watch original web videos.
Saturday
shit
I am scared.
What if... I stop caring so much? What if I stop crying? Will I be a robot like the rest of the population?
I need to cry.
I need to break down. Without that, I am nothing but another robot just working. It's ok to hurt and feel pain, makes me human, makes me have passion makes it WORTH something. It ain't worth shit if you don't give one.
What if... I stop caring so much? What if I stop crying? Will I be a robot like the rest of the population?
I need to cry.
I need to break down. Without that, I am nothing but another robot just working. It's ok to hurt and feel pain, makes me human, makes me have passion makes it WORTH something. It ain't worth shit if you don't give one.
Friday
Thursday
Never Sorry
Ai Weiwei. The Guy is a genius, and he is down...
He has the only twitter that has some significance, even though twitter is banned in China.
He has the only twitter that has some significance, even though twitter is banned in China.
Wednesday
Tuesday
Monday
JR
This is probably the best trailer ever! I have to see this. Hands down JR is the best street artist of 2010.
Sunday
new
Emily is finally posting! lets see how long it takes for the next post.
and I'm onto the next one...
And New years resolution: do more less fucking around. just like he said:
Art...
He paints and as he paints, he withers away.
In this world; a piece of life must be taken away from you so life can resound within your art.
You wither away, but only slowly.
At times, we've seen people put all of their life in one single painting and never paint again, not because they don't want to but because now they are being cremated, burned a-dead. We cannot bury because artists will envy the body that lays below and dig it up. Desperate for the paint that still may reside. No, we must burn the body so it's only gray ash. Only few have a deep desire for the ash, we can live with that.
The paints are not even really necessary; I'm sure that when you give life you might as well give blood; a deeper red than most people could imagine. Because it's not just paint; it has nutrients! It has substance and longevity to it. It has oxygen; breathed, no harmful chemicals; nothing harmful at all unless it has AIDS. But here, here we don't have AIDS. We have canvases; blood. Sometimes you get more than just red. Keep yourself locked in an a vault with no oxygen, you get blue. Take off your piece of skin and cover the canvas with no oxygen, you can get green and purple. Smoke too much, and hack up half of your lung and you have black. Your body is a portal to art greater than anything. For your body is a piece of art. And NEVER will you be able to give your art the sort of perfection that you have within yourself; but at least you can try.
And at least, some do try.
What is the point if it is not everything? What is the point if it's only half ways there? With more substance comes more abuse. Abuse a little; you are fruitless. Abuse it to your full potential and I think we are finally making progress.
In this world; a piece of life must be taken away from you so life can resound within your art.
You wither away, but only slowly.
At times, we've seen people put all of their life in one single painting and never paint again, not because they don't want to but because now they are being cremated, burned a-dead. We cannot bury because artists will envy the body that lays below and dig it up. Desperate for the paint that still may reside. No, we must burn the body so it's only gray ash. Only few have a deep desire for the ash, we can live with that.
The paints are not even really necessary; I'm sure that when you give life you might as well give blood; a deeper red than most people could imagine. Because it's not just paint; it has nutrients! It has substance and longevity to it. It has oxygen; breathed, no harmful chemicals; nothing harmful at all unless it has AIDS. But here, here we don't have AIDS. We have canvases; blood. Sometimes you get more than just red. Keep yourself locked in an a vault with no oxygen, you get blue. Take off your piece of skin and cover the canvas with no oxygen, you can get green and purple. Smoke too much, and hack up half of your lung and you have black. Your body is a portal to art greater than anything. For your body is a piece of art. And NEVER will you be able to give your art the sort of perfection that you have within yourself; but at least you can try.
And at least, some do try.
What is the point if it is not everything? What is the point if it's only half ways there? With more substance comes more abuse. Abuse a little; you are fruitless. Abuse it to your full potential and I think we are finally making progress.
...
I can sit here and smile.
And just smile and sit here.
I'll be over in the corner, but I won't rock myself to sleep; that'd seem peculiar, right?
I won't hum, that would make it seem odd too.
How about I just sit silent, but not into a blank stare.
I'll sit with a little twinkle in my eyes and keep my legs criss-cross applesauce.
Seems normal, right?
Like a normal kindergartener.
I won't sit straight, well, at least not too straight, I'll slouch somewhat.
And I won't cry until you leave.
And I'll wipe up the tears before you come back.
Check mirror.
Make sure my eyes aren't red.
You'll never know how distraught I was.
And just smile and sit here.
I'll be over in the corner, but I won't rock myself to sleep; that'd seem peculiar, right?
I won't hum, that would make it seem odd too.
How about I just sit silent, but not into a blank stare.
I'll sit with a little twinkle in my eyes and keep my legs criss-cross applesauce.
Seems normal, right?
Like a normal kindergartener.
I won't sit straight, well, at least not too straight, I'll slouch somewhat.
And I won't cry until you leave.
And I'll wipe up the tears before you come back.
Check mirror.
Make sure my eyes aren't red.
You'll never know how distraught I was.
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