When I Say Anything Counts...
…I mean anything counts.
(Pencil on paper; pattern for new book)
This may seem off topic, but I swear it feels relevant: I like patterns and networks; I’m not particularly invested in examining the nodes of such things. It’s the ephemera between the nodes I like. The abstract floaty bits.
I suspect this type of proclivity is hard-wired. It’s as defining to my me-ness as my eye color and tendency to forget where I put my keys (to be fair, the keys are nodes and not patterns, so I tend to forget they exist until I have to drive my car to get the food I wish wasn’t required for my existing because it, too, is a node, but a possibly squishy or slimy node and those are insufferable qualities). Even if this trait isn’t something you experience inherently, it’s possible that I can explain it to you. Which is useful because…
…being unattached to nodes means I'm very good at not being attached to discernable attributes of achievement. And after going back and looking at the sludgy kiddie pool of social media after 4 years away, I have a whole new understanding (more of a suspicion, really, but for the sake of my ego I’m going with “understanding”) of why artists fucking hate themselves. Jesus jumped-up Christ on a cross, that shit is poison. It mimics a network, but it’s just a straight line of shitty performative emptiness, slid down the pipe of observation like a maker's fair version of the human centipede.
No one should be touching that shit. No. One.
The presentation of what it means to be an artist on social media is a grotesquerie. It is a monstrous amalgamation of what algorithms would think art is, if algorithms could think (don’t make me shout about AI). The benchmarks of followers, the weird forced emergence of trends (if I ever see another manicured hand making neo-surrealist tripe prints with a little press I will go out to my garage and hang myself with my extension cord), all of it is a lie. Stop. Listening.
I don’t know if there’s a way to use social media without it poisoning your mind. I know it feels like it’s necessary. And that’s probably the worst part. But, I guess this is one of those places where harm reduction might be apt, in lieu of the perfect solution. So here's my attempt:
The lie in the social media structure is that you have to somehow fit in to the algorithm to be worthwhile. You have to be an acceptable node. But that’s not how real networks function. Networks emerge in the ether from great complexity. Healthy networks cannot be strung between clone nodes. “Over-specialize and you breed in weakness. It’s slow death.”
I’ve been telling people for the last month that they can do ANYTHING for 365 and it counts. If you say you’re going to draw, any drawing counts. If you say you’re going to write, any writing counts. Even a line, even a single word. The only reason they don’t think they can do it is because they’ve picked up the notion that art (any art), must be this audience-ready performance of utmost perfection that can fit beautifully and effortlessly into the simulation of life that is the social media landscape. That landscape is the equivalent of us taking the worst part about being a person (lying about everything to seem effortless in front of others), suping it up on ketamine and crack, and torturing it just long enough to instill a sense of vengeance before arming it with a sledgehammer and sending it on its merry way to circle back and relentlessly beat us all to fucking death.
This isn’t the kind of enemy you fight with rage. It’s the sort of thing you chuckle at and then sidestep, letting it toss itself, flailing, sledgehammer clattering, down the stairs. It’s just ridiculous.
What you make counts. It always counts. Engaging with that creation, the abstract floaty bit that leaves behind the mark, the node, if you will, is what matters. Everything else is noise.
Time's Inevitability Crushes Us All
(Digital; drawn on my phone)
One more day in November and then we have 31 days until the project begins. I can already feel the desire to cheat, to work ahead, to cover all my bases. To make sure I look like I'm on top of things.
Being a person is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to have conversations with myself about the things I already agreed upon with myself. C’mon, self! A little cohesion would be nice.
☆sigh☆
I won’t cheat. I promise. Damnit.
Portraits of the Bert
(Digital, drawn on my phone)
For the holidays, the Bert and I sleep in a guest room with two double beds. Normally in absolute opposition to even the suggestion of snuggling, he will always attempt to share this tiny bed with me at one point or another.
The above picture is him at the foot of the bed, while I scrunched up at the top trying to draw him while not moving or getting my feet anywhere near him. The below picture is him when fully stretched out on his very own bed. I actually suspect he only wants to lie on my bed because he’s offended that his bed has a cover on it.
I'm not sure what the actual time was, but maybe 30 mins for each sketch? A dog is a terrible model. He’ll only hold a position for about 10 minutes before he moves. Just another way that dogs mock what you think is sacred. Deep, impressive portrait? Not on my watch, buddy.
(Digital, drawn on my phone)
Toluca Prison is Gonna Kill Me
(Ink + gouache)
The nurses swinging pipes? Fine. The bitches with the knives? Fuck that. Spider mannequins? Fuck them. I did not agree to those things becoming more dexterous and omnidirectional. I might have blacked out for a moment after the screaming in the… you know what? I’ m not going to tell you where, because spoilers. It’s definitely going to be my heart that gives out.
Playing the Silent Hill 2 remake is a weird experience. I played the first one when it came out, 23 years ago, when I was 23 and the graphics on the brand new XBOX were hideous. Now I’m older and Pyramid Head looks good and I look like shit. Somehow having played it before makes the pervasive SH2 anxiety worse. Or maybe I’m an anxious bastard. That’s just true. I can prove it with a prescription for not one but two anti-anxiety meds.
After spending my requisite 40 minutes beating monsters to death with a lead pipe and shouting “Oh, fuck THAT” at my nearly black television while the sound of radio static filled my home, I read an article about how, if you’re going to have a blog, you should have a clear topic.
It may appear that I lack one of those. It’s a critique I've gotten all my life: artwork too inconsistent in type, style, and theme; and a CV so odd that some people think I’m lying (yes, I am a painter and tattoo artist with a PhD in art history who used to be an adjunct professor and I did, yes, work at a comic book store and spend a summer as an assistant inker and, I swear, yes, I do bind books but not very well so please don’t be upset about it). And how the hell is Toluca Prison relevant to a blog (ostensibly) about creating art every day?
I mean, it’s kinda not. But it’s also my actual life. I didn’t sit down and stare meaningfully at a canvas that was perfectly lit for recording my mostly fake brush strokes. I didn’t work on anything artsy in my warmly lit and aesthetically pleasing painting studio. I sat on the couch and screamed obscenities at make-believe monsters. And then drew a 5-minute sketch of one as my piece for the day.
Sometimes, I paint something that has emotional or intellectual depth. Sometimes, I paint canvases that are 7 feet tall and take me months to complete. But as an everyday practice? Nah. That’s not what I’m doing. And it’s not what anyone needs to do to be an artist or engage with their craft. No one needs to perform their role to some fucked up standard of a script none of us agreed to.
I have some deep thoughts rattling around in my brain. Believe me, I was brutally trained to harbor those thoughts. If you catch me at exactly the wrong time (for you; for me, it’ll be fun), I'll probably share them with you and you’ll think, “what a pretentious jackass” or “why does anyone know this shit?” In that depth is love and respect for art and the human drive to create. But most of the time? As an actual person doing real life grown up shit in a world where the ocean currents might collapse and someone posted on Reddit today that Hitler might have just been a metaphor? Yeah… I’m gonna be leaning heavily into shooting monsters in the face twice to knock them back before beating them into a bloody mass with a lead fucking pipe.
Just the Date
(Ink, pencil, + gouache)
All I managed to draw today was the date. I had glorious intentions of trying out some new pens, but my brain exploded and I spent 3 hours hiding in the dark instead of being productive.
I have… a lot of projects happening all at the same time. There’s a dollhouse taking up the entire table in my studio, I have a pile of signatures for my new journal (the leather is rolled up on the floor below the aforementioned dollhouse), there are two gessoed canvases leaning against the wall together like belligerent drunks, taunting me about how they’re supposed to be tarot cards, and there are 32 tabs open in my chrome browser about how to build websites on platforms I don’t use.
Whatever is the opposite of procrastination is what is wrong with my brain. Precrastinatory overindulgence. That’s what I’m calling it.
Oh. Yeah. And I'm making a friend a rosary based on the tree of life even though I don’t know how to do that.
Jesus Christ.
The current journal.
The bathroom in the dollhouse.