Always making
I never really know how this will go. It has a power of being a lot of fun but at the same time because everyone is doing it so maybe it’s not special? I want to find a journey of growth in this. I always look for ways to grow and learn from making. I’m not sure what I am going to find in this.
It’s almost Inktober. I’m working on a few things to start posting every day.Â
You grow older in the mist of a powerful painting. I remember being 10 when I picked up a brush for real for the first time. To make a thing and mean to see it alive was a hard and long journey. I felt like I was at the end of a hallway trying to get to the doorway where Piccaso was standing.
This paper man! It gets me. I keep learning it better each day. It feels like learning to hold my liquor in college.
These Papers are made in the deepest part of the world. I feel the freedom moving pasts my fears.
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.
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.
jaws_blake 