Painter Files Podcast ep 21

His name was/is Glenn Arthur.

Painter Files podcast ep 20

I always find my words in these podcasts. I’m so quiet in a lot of life. I love to paint in my head rather than slow down and be a part of everything. I must look crazy to most people but it makes me happy. I figure the idea is to find what makes you so happy.

I hope this finds you well and the photos are from this week in my studio. I loved this week’s end.

Painter Files Podcast ep 18

IMG_3985.jpg“The Universe giving birth” painting.

In this podcast: my fun painter madness comes to a lovely and polite podcast (I hope), our art adventures, strange but helpful books, trying to be a better person to my self, feeling proud and hopeful. Plus: all the stuff I’ve been doing lately…like painting and self-help work. 

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Things I’m dig
∆ Comics
∆ Yoga in the morning or tea
∆ Frannerd videos
∆ Started to listen to again Celia Cruz
∆ Thinking about all the great advice I have been given this week

On my reading/watch list:
Side Hustle (from idea to income in 27 days)
Little Boxes on Netflix

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question

What do you do in the cold seasons to stay positive?

 

Last two weeks I spent in search of perfect painter madness. This journey I love so much in The Fall. I try all my best to not lose my inspiration with the cold brown leaves. Mostly I feel, that I am doing well. I think taking weird filter camera pictures is a big help. The dinners outside of my studio with our friends help too.

making

Something so magical about drinking wine and laughing over ideas of paint and beauty. I adore the lines of words that jump across the ceiling from mouths to the sparks in my iris.

I’m walking in the paint tonight. The pigments are hard in the air and a fan blows the wet over the dee edges of the threaded watercolor paper. So thick and wild like a woven coffee bag from Salvidor. Coffee beans are the only thing I can think of the reminds me such a perfect pongentness.

As my blood feels hot I open my bay window to let the cold 40-degree air in so my painter madness doesn’t get the best of my waiting in the drying game. Paint has its own timetable and we dry out waiting for it to make up its mind.IMG_3918

New Paper on the Painter Files Podcast Ep. 10

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.

scratchy desk instax

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.