This paper man! It gets me. I keep learning it better each day. It feels like learning to hold my liquor in college.
There is the power in the universe that grabs you. It is not like arms but more like solar fingers. You are a part of it and it you. The paint feels like a slow whisper of all the places the fingers stop to play the piano. I think that it is all part of a long dance that started before you and anything related to you and will end long after you. This all feels like a journey on the map of a placemat in a pancake house.
Art found me and me it.
A groove hits the chills on my skin and the world fades out. Just me a canvas and a brush, yah know? I don’t know that anyone gets that feeling as much as I do. I Daydreamed that scene from the movie Strange Expectations, there is this part where the painter Finn gets these large ….giant canvases and paints all these images that have been living inside him and is suddenly mentally free to feel everything he has been too busy to free. I feel a lot of adulthood is so busy you just don’t go on all your adventures because of a leg set of ideas that you can’t make real. With this paper, I feel so free and I can’t wait to make these ideas so I can make completely new ideas where space will be. Art Adventures.
There is something hard about reading a book. It pulls me into this world and I see the perspective of the characters. I become fully immersed and in that moment I am me.
It never really mattered how the character is different from me I am them. I feel the erg to paint from the heart of the person. Their fears and lusts. I learned a long time ago that was the type of reader I am and so I make it a point to only read about painters. I’m selfish that way I think. I want to learn how fictional versions of me from far away are and see the world and die. It’s morbid and yet perfect for me. In my life, I think I used to fantasize about how I would die one day and then how my art would be this time line in an art history book or see homes I would never be a loud in personally.
I try to not let the race of a character limit me reading them in. I know that sounds strange but I have never read a character who is West Indian/ Brazilian who grew up in America. Most all characters are white painters. They are dying of AIDS and are mostly homeless or very rich but never Black or Brown. Even the side characters aren’t Black or Brown of the ones I have read. I think when I was younger that hurt me a little because I didn’t understand how if I followed their examples I wasn’t ending up in galleries like they did. I thought I was cursed.
I remember trying to write a few little books in my twenties but turning them into comics because I could make the words tangible with images and that meant more to me. I did find a few books at age 32 but they were translated from Portuguese or Spanish.
The comic I’m working on now has a life of its own. A universe of its own. I want to feel the images in my eyes. Feel the tears well up in my soul as I make them because any less is not food enough for my soul.
My hope is that I give as much as I take in in life. That I will make as much as I am able to consume. So much feels like it is force feed into our ears and ears. All the remakes and mindless shows don’t feel like they are here to take us on journeys. I remember being a kid and watching these film and forgetting it was a film for an hour. The magic is lost to me most of them time now. I don’t know if I am more aware or that the writing has gotten worse this go around. I do run across golden moments in watching some times. I guess I’m just looking for a message in the art form or even to feel like it is an art form.