I am for an Art...

I am for an art that kicks ass and takes names.

I am for an art that blows my mind to bits.

I am for an art that rockets me into the future. 

I am for an art that puts me in a never time.

I am for an art that shoots planets and stars together into fiery light. 

I am for an art that has me scrambling to put my organs back into my body.

I am for an art that makes me really hungry. 

I am for an art that shocks my hairs into goosebumps. 

I am for an art that shaves thin layers of skin off my finger. 

I am for an art that sizzles with butter and olive oil. 

I am for an art that creases my brow and folds me in half.

I am for an art that has me saying, "Huh?"

I am for an art that splashes on my forehead and floods the halls. 

I am for an art that rips the fabric of space and time into arithmetic. 

I am for an art the implodes all over the gravel as strawberry jam.

I am for an art that doesn't take shit from no one.

I am for an art that hums a song that isn't real.

I am for an art that swallows me and spits me out as someone else. 

I am for an art that spoons me in the early morning. 

I am for an art that wipes mud off of the windows. 

I am for an art that loves diving into mud!

I am for an art that tirelessly stacks boxes. 

I am for an art that hides in my closet and gives me nightmares. 

I am for an art of a toothpick used to pick earwax. 

I am for an art you cut into a million pieces.

I am for an art riding a totally gnarly wave. 

I am for the art of my mother's red pen.

I am for the art you warned me about.

I am for an art yearning to meet that special ism.

I am for an art that flips you off.

I am for an art that threatens you if you look at it funny.

I am for an art sliding down a shear cliff into a coffee ocean.

I am for an art that gives me no answers.

I am for an art that gives me all the answers.

I am for an art that shines in a pitch black room.

I am for an art that hates me.

I am for an art that loves me.

I am for the art of delicate persuasion. 

I am for an art that uses a crowbar to lift taffy off the floor.

I am for an art that is alliterative and noisy.

I am for an art busting out of prison. 

I am for the art ready to bite.

I am for the art mapping out the broken dreams of childhood.

I am for the art of blasphemous giggles and blushing altar boys.

I am for an art that takes itself too damn seriously.

I am for artist's who make art. 

I am for totally redundant art.

I am for artistic shower heads and over beautiful mundane objects.

I am for an art that lowers you into the well.

I am for the art of slap happy apprentices in the sumo school.

I am for the art of dead birds, snakes, family cats, and baby rabbits in my backyard.

I am for the art of hopeless tears.

I am for the art a box turtles scrape and the waxy eggs inside.

I am for an art that carves out a log for knick knacks and antique toys.

I am for an art that destroys me inside and out.

I am for the art of beads out of bone and elaborate walking sticks.

I am for the art of a ladybug on your finger and a worm writhing in your palm.

I am for an art shivering behind the service entrance, taking a desperate smoke. 

I am for an art that doesn't apologize for its faults.

I am for an art that takes my lunch money.

I am for the art of pigtails, pig tails, and tail pigs.

I am for an art that wants to an astronaut when it grows up.

I am for art that knows me best.

Writing as a Romanticist

The Raft of the Medusa - 

I am swept away by this image of horror and gloom. The browns and viridescent waters drown me and I dwell upon those poor souls who unfortunately plunged into the depths. The pallid skin of survivors and strangely, the power of their bodies, holds me rapt in dazzled bewilderment. The storm clouds are about to explode over the waters and will soon ravage their ramshackle raft. The almost orgiastic pile of bodies, in the throes of death, pain, despair, but also hope writhes in the center of my attention. 

The group at the front frantically waves their tattered rags at a black speck ahead. It appears to be a boat. Rescue is close at hand! But still, my eyes linger over the dead immersed in the ocean waters. How many were lost to madness or cannibalism? I shudder at that thought. I turn away from this enormous record of tragedy, yet I feel staring deep into my soul into this night. How could this terrible event have been let to occur?

My Own Personal Commonplace Lab

I'm making this up. All by myself. Scandalous, right?

This is a bad time to be working. That being because its 4:42 A.M., my brain is dead, and I have a splitting headache. But lately I've been considering to myself what is art and what does it mean, especially while I attempt to not go completely insane at this school. I've gotten used to making "art" and "work" for people other than myself. That's not the problem. The problem is that I don't know how to make art for me anymore. When I "try" to do that, I lose something and I don't even like the work anymore. All of the ideas I have in my head about personal artwork either stay in the womb or I hate them and don't think I can create them. I'm convinced that until I get the hell out of here, in just a week or so, I will never be able to accept my attempts to make my own work. Granted, soon after I will be transplanted into another institution.

I look at so many "modern" and "postmodern" artists and I envy them to no end. They have these personas, do what they "love," and make it look so damn easy. Pollack, Warhol, Duchamp - they didn't even have to try that hard to produce. I feel like a fool that I can't produce with any sense of ability or abundance. I don't even know what I want in art anymore. I know what I want my career to be and to prepare for it. But in another way I can't but feeling I'm going to be up at times like this with these same conditions and emotional baggage for the rest of my life. 

I also feel like no one is listening. How do you get people to listen? For me its been a struggle my whole life. I have this whole notion that people need to know me or see my work. But shouldn't I just be creating for myself? Isn't that selfish? I keep getting caught between that. I am an artist. I guess. I don't feel like it now. This inescapable anxiety I have, the stress headache, the insomnia. Does this make it ok? 

I love art. I love looking at it, absorbing it, understanding it, and feeling it. I can't get past myself when I look at great art. I have a Deviantart account, for example. I am frightened to put up work because there is so much good stuff (and horrible stuff too) there and I am scared that everyone would put me down and shit on my crappy technique, composition, etc. I have put up work before and one time I ended up having an argument with someone about a damn figure study. (They didn't aesthetically like the model's body (well, my honest portrayal of it) and said it was too girly. I snapped at them for not knowing what real men look like. Great, I'm now an officially snobby, defensive bitch.) Another reason I'm afraid is that I don't have that much to show for anyway. I feel like a failure and like a fake, masquerading as an artist, but in fact not possessing any artistic talent whatsoever. 

But do I have to have talent to make work? So much of what I see now isn't talent, but good ideas or bad ideas that become marketable or valuable. Do I have to sell myself now, even though I'm still just a student. Do I have to make something new, strange, and unheard of to become valid? God, I don't even know anymore. 

(I'd love to upload an image, but this morning its not really letting me :(  ) 

Artist's that Inspire Me

Frank Cho - http://www.libertymeadows.com/index.html (I do hate the sexist imagery tho)Syd Mead - http://www.sydmead.com/v/01/home/Artgerm - http://www.imaginaryfs.com/Artist_profile_Stanley.htmlDonato Giancola - http://www.donatoart.com/

Yoshitaka Amano - http://www.amanosworld.com/