I wish the world a curation of starry solstice. An ancient friend of mine, a stand still sun. Brothers and sisters breathe longer hours in warm maternal splenda. I wonder where the sun finds inspiration to burn—birthing existence in unceasing blond brilliance, angelic voodoo. Connection between art and healing is lost too often for me, abandoned seraph. I am not me without belly laughs, moods of lilac wine, good-for-nothing literature, furry four-legged creatures, drawing delicate physiques, or darkly rich espresso. Yet, I am most out of body without family. My greatest fear is that you experience this heartache. So beloved, create. Be mindful of your magic. Every day practice felicity and honor us with empyrean poetry. May she keep these words close to her heart as she follows them towards an artistic nirvana:
her body is like that of a lily plant, godly and rebirthed from grips of past masculinity, and to exist in the same timeline of you, makes me a believer of utopia, all the sweetened beauty, her leaf, her nature, what would it be like to contour, i will become of it, better i will draw it, i have the absolute conviction of touch, with even such a melodic touch, i move with tenderness, following the blest edges, a masterpiece made, with a hand of pigment, liberated to one line, on an empty canvas, of the divine
Your illustrations are an essence of you. The ink may be visible to any eye, but if the viewer see curtsy rather than line, here beauty lies. Alas the artist’s poetry is understood. I can’t help but hope this be the case in all forms of astral exploration. We live on the same rotating rock, so God help us appreciate another’s art. I like to explore this idea often, that you and I are connected. When we witness humans manifesting spiritual practices, gender, sexuality, even if we don’t identify with their characters, they inspire us to be weird. Yankee doodle melody of macaroni, androgynous pretty boys eating the elbow noodle. All idiosyncratic manners are works of art, I believe. My unceasing faith, this thread is most simple yet labyrinthine.
an expressionless canvas, any pigment will do, the eye, the hand, movement, a body, her heavenly breast, his floppy dick, more movement, a willingness, to even just utter, self-expression through flux of body and eye
Dawn breaks its golden, oafishly unbending through prairie linens. A sole woman fantasizes for an eternity of lazy Sundayery and birdsong. Her day begins desperate, pleading for an abstraction of memory. Of me, but also of you. Go back to the memory of your first creation; was it that of a contour? It must’ve started with line. A child shivering while they occupy a cold beige desk, an uncomfortable seat. The lab coat affirms to “Produce your best possible head-to-toe drawing of a man, kid!” Feeling fear of a skeletal printer paper cursing us an evil eye, raging for self-expression with its whiteness. The note of a blank canvas is the same ringing silence to a loner, existing as its only friend. The cellulose is warm, like a sweet, almond-like fragrance. Bearing hope from its faint vanilla aroma. In the fullness of time, a small heroic phalange wanders through a mustard Crayola cardboard. It must be pink, it says.
sit close to intended object, lean forward, focus eyes on point along its contour, place pencil’s point on paper, imagine pencil point is touching model, wait until convinced, that pencil is touching model upon eyes are fastened
Gripping all of its magentas, the hand draws a sun in perpendicular corner. Soon a lanky stick figure with rosy flesh smiles back while perched on a hill or two—a new friend. Paper and pigment meet child, child meet pigment and paper. We’ll add a smile to the yolky sun too, and perhaps a fluffy cloud. Imagining its bounciness, aching to be in the heavens for a moment. Prancing amongst other cherubs wondering if the chubby puffs of white taste like the cotton candy we thought it would. Falling through the microstructure features of a cloud’s particles, its fog, would be a barbaric death. Possibly irradiated, although not enough to seriously hurt. One could be electrocuted and have a chance to still suffer from hypothermia or damage from its hail. Hitting an airplane, parachuter, or skydiver all pose a major threat too. We’re due posh maturity. Fearing colorlessness, I continue to dream of frolicking on clouds like trampolines.
move eyes slowly along model’s contour, move pencil slowly along paper, guided by touch than sight, exactly coordinate pencil with eye
It has three-dimensional quality by thickness, length, and width of the surrounded form. Oh, to be Michaelangelo, finding inspiration while looking at the moon (the same pearly sphere I look to when lonely) and discovering the intense beauty of a contour. I am no Michaelangelo. I am merely a student. I value most the escapade, so long as I have the patience to look. Essential to have fresh, vivid, physical contact with the violinist, peach, worm, honeycomb, holistic healer, Aries rising, dewdrop, beer-belly cultural epoch, whoever or whatever the figure may be. It must incorporate all the senses so as not to fail. Even then, it is no failure if done with total conviction and grace. Decree understanding the very nature of your model, by touch, yes, but their rarity too.
A lily leaf, connected with queenly divinities from the Bronze Age of Crete, island’s reigning goddess. Sacred to Hera, Queen of Heaven. Arose the drops of her breast milk, embracing the earth during the creation of a Milky Way. Not only white, pinks, blues, yellows, reds of tulip, daffodil, and hyacinth. The balance of its delicate, scented blossoms and its lovely intoxicating tuberous roots. Organic human anatomy, may its heavenly have justice! Every blemish, every wart, every leaf, every pube, every perfection shall be drawn!
consider only point you are working, no regard for any other part of figure, develop absolute conviction you are touching model, slowly, searchingly, sensitvely, do not worry of proportion, this problem will take care in time
Naturally we arise to remember embracing the simplicity of existence in our first-ever illustrations. There is no color or complexion, only outline. There is no politics, just a figure smiling back at us and a star giving thanks for its existence. Psychologists, remember them? Tadpole figures. Youngster’s abstract scribbles provide a surrogate measure of intellect. We start with a head and trunk, adding a solo set of limbs to the extremity of this basic shape. Details of eyelashes are added. But the body wasn’t slim. There was cosmic curvature. Male and female genitalia were considered too. The child, now full of creative bliss, returns with a peculiar masterpiece. Peculiar is merely satisfactory according to the frosted cloak. They see only a mess of mark, wasted potential. Articulating to the babe a critique of their failed folio. Our vulnerable and gullible adolescent aura was criticized for coloring outside the line, not following the mold. Our most human is stunted. Synchronicity of the two: first, persuaded to believe our creativity is a disappointment at this aurora of imagination. Second, how we embody individuality on canvas, glosses into a tangible reality letdown.
contour has a sculptural quality, a dancing silhouette, go dance, you’re not going to dance, is she mute, i’m sure you’re a good dancer, you’re hot but too shy for me
After extracting memory of stroke, look at it as an alien would. An extraterrestrial brain that knows nothing of the human sort but may have an eye for art. A line has a romantic essence if you allow it. I’d like to order something rouge, la vita in scarlatta. Witnessing it swirl the paper, bleeding of ink, hoping desperately to create form. My good makeup, so let me permiss. If the artist allows it, it being pure self-expression, shall change their art forever. If the viewer allows it, it being vulnerability to relate personal trauma through the painting, shall change their lives forever. This is the essence of human existence. I dream of it often, hoping it will become reality. I dream too often, I think.
The arts have been with us since the earliest of earthlings. Does our materialistic Cenozoic lack Stone Age inventiveness? Inspired by a wooly mammoth, seizing a near orangish chalk of rubble and an ochre pastel. Hoping to capture the shaggy beast’s magnificence with an abstract, crayon-on-stone. Did Neanderthals understand then the brain’s link to aesthetic spirit? With lack of fiction, something we cannot help but do, oneself is emotionally absent. I often wonder if Matisse was a child that colored within the lines. What about da Vinci? One abstract, one realist. Refusal to abide by artistic trends, precisionist detail of high renaissance. Henri flowed harmony and joyousness, rather some “sloppily” or “unfinished”. The child-like patterns of sculptures, ranks such great like an Archimedes discovering relation of circumscribing cylinder and mathematical wizardry. A non legittimo genius he was.
draw not what it looks like, not even what it is, but what it is doing, no hinder, move at will, above all, for the love of all things holy, summon unconscious effort
When was this loss of inner child at play? When we added color, flesh, detail? Was it creative practice when we started to compete with our neighbor? Am I reaching to say this is a collective trauma? It’s no cataclysmic event that shattered the basic fabric of society. But it did change a narrative of what one’s body should and shouldn’t look like, also an acceptable way of expressing creativity—color inside the lines. Cobalt isn’t skin color, nor is emerald. A simple toddler-drawn line, our own toddler-drawn line. Defining our own identity was robbed while all forms were told to us by magazine, now the silicon bodies we see on blue light rectangles. A young girl stargazes at a femme contour of slim shoulders, twenty four inch waist, small hips, perky boobs, hairless too. I can’t eat this so I can be that. Whitewashed bias transfers a body, a face, a smile, a personality, one that keeps her mouth shut. She’s blond, tall, skinny, blue-eyed. I’m a compensated blond, skinny now, and blue-eyed. But a giant, soft, hippie vegetarian. We were too young. A euphoric escape, now another cage.
Most humans believe identity to be concrete, unchangeable. I can only love that and no other. Exhausting trying to be a character. We wait our whole lives to exist as only one people but search to challenge this idea that we must have one aesthetic individuality. The time to break these models is much overdue. Accept your uniqueness and be human enough to be all versions of you in one body. This anxiety all from a line, silly a shape gets to determine worth. Darling, I’m sorry for what they did to you. Your poor heart. We can heal her together, okay?
