His name was/is Glenn Arthur.
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.
The stars are all the salt and pepper that makes us lucid. This month is only a few days in and it is melting away into cooler fall. These lines and colors slowly tap onto my canvases.
I’m making new plans for the next big painting and how to frame them. It is going to be such a big and beautiful adventure. I can’t see the full future of it but I know it is going to be big and loud and amazing.
Side note every day is Inktober when you are always making.
It’s almost Inktober. I’m working on a few things to start posting every day.
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.