Shaking Hands

I've fallen in love with illustration.
There's a massive, translucent line or lagoon at odds with the incision between what we see and can communicate with, circumference's us, and how we exhibit and frame the physical things response to our acknowledgment, it's own language, and the manifestation of that through a picture. When one analyzes the two, you begin to see within this lagoon, not an abrupt laceration of the two sitting abreast the other, but rather an inconceivable blur as one becomes the next. It is in the blur where the breathing earths metaphysical characteristics evolve into something more cinematic and charismatic. Using ones extremities to lasso a ghost or an aura within ones self or an object. To then invite that to the page. To portray it senselessly as it does not affect our senses. Miraculous.
An artist is never fully acknowledged for their work because one never fully understands the artists motives. How they felt and what they saw. What is often more frustrating is when perhaps the picture portrays an idea that conflicts the artists own personal message. But then, art will always continue to be different for everyone as we are all approached by art differently. As we are all judged by people differently. In the art community you must be willing to be judged for your work, because your work will judge you. Art will judge you.

take away for today: inventive and standard setting.
Russian Ark: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J--TDEHizVA
Vassilis Zidianakis: http://www.atopos.gr/rest/english/index.html

Heaven told me it would hate me

Pouring a martini into a coffee mug is so satisfying. If the heat won't be there to warm you the burn will, and the familiarity of a toasty mug is complimentary. The comfort of the two together is enough milk ones way into addiction. Which is an issue i fear I'm battling currently. The mug makes it easier to drink, and far less casual. Casual would be with a stem attached to the bottom. Habit is an ikea mug, a zip up hoodie and Seinfeld. So i'm working my way into an illness, and it startles me, but not as intensely as say an addiction to tobacco would. I worry about the smell of cigarettes, i realize I'm not going to reek of alcohol on Monday morning. Perhaps I will one day. For now i enjoy fruity mixes and red wine. White wine tastes like liquid gravol. Sorry lovers.
And then there's the friends who smoke. No i don't know if i like to smoke with neighbours. I don't spin. I like spinning. It's wicked obvious as well. It billows. I speak 7 years pre current age. Sub socialistic. Unopinionated and horrifyingly simple with dialect. It's a mock of the sapience and a farce of my poise. I am unknowingly conveying the unornamented version of me. Though hard to say, is no one i would put a name behind. And still, I will continue to, in isolation, use. By myself my mind is macabre. For the rest of my life then I will continue to enjoy chilled wine and bread. Simple food. Soul food. An addiction to une vive.
I could hide this addiction. I could fuck this addiction so hard.

Take away for today: http://www.parasolmag.com/

lovely. free. mindful.