New Year's Eve

I just finished a painting for a silent auction to be held at the Art Amiss NYE party. This is it. The theme of the party is "blue masquerade," so a stipulation of the painting was that it had to be (predominantly) blue. Also, it has to be 12" x 12". 

So, maybe 2008 has not been all it was supposed to be. Not everyone had a job and made a baby, but there were some good things:

-I got married

-I netted a (small) profit on my art

-I (sortof) helped elect a great presidential candidate

-I finally got to declare a major

-I got a studio

If only someone would write a prophetic song outlining all the wonderous things that will come to fruition in the next year...(That's your cue A+).

Kevin

Inchies

I made some inchies. If you didnt know, they are one inch by one inch works of art. These are all collage, and the one third from the left was scanned sideways. Take a look.

Christmas Fail

Because we are broke, we can't buy presents for people. Whitney decided to make cookies, and I was planning on doing a series of acrylic paintings with stencils of a picture of us on our wedding day. People would like that, right? 

Things I should have realized before delving in:

1. No matter how much I want this to be screenprinting, it is not.

2. To cover twenty four sheets of 18x 24 paper requires a lot of paint.

3. If a painting doesn't "look like" someone, it is a failure to most people. 

4. It is not screenprinting.

5. Drawing Paper, when covered with acrylic washes will curl like nothing else.

6. This is not screenprinting.

Several hours into the project, I realized it just  wasn't gonna work, so I bailed. I will probably use some of the stuff later, but who knows. It's the thought that counts, right?

May everyone's Xmas be merry and severely lacking in chair throwing and fighting over ham bones.

Sixteen Weeks of Satan's Spawn

Seriously, that's what it has felt like. But, this semester is done, and I am alive. All is good.

I went in for my final critique yesterday for my special project class. For a little background info, I initially proposed that for this class I would have to complete at least twelve large scale paintings. My teacher totally shot that idea down as unrealistic and lofty. For the final critique, however, I hauled in twenty-three pieces. hah....lofty, my ass. 

Here's the most recent of the work I did, it is all water based stuff on paper, some collage as well.

This is based on the character "Ivan Ilyich" from Tolstoy's "The Death of Ivan Ilyich." An existential crisis takes on a whole different meaning when it's being had by a seven year old girl.

Now, for the next few weeks, all I have to do is go to work twenty hours a week. This will be an epic break. 

Have good day, everyone. I know I will.

Do Not Bend-Blessed Images Enclosed

"Saint Madeline-Patron Saint of Terms and Conditions."

As I inch towards the end of a brutal semester, I'm in disbelief that I'm actually  gonna get a break. You're right, I probably won't. Not really, at least. But, at least I won't have papers to write for several weeks. 

I finished Diary: A Novel. Fucking Great. Palahniuk is a fantastic writer. Now I think I'm gonna move on to something Vonnegut. Mostly b/c I can't find any other Palahniuk to download. ahem...buy. 

Enjoy Your Weekend!

Death of a Saleseman

So, Finals are upon me, and one is already out of the way.  The tough one that is. Now I get to paint my ass off for a few days until my Final Critique on Tuesday. This is the fruit of this evenings labor. The text comes from the last lines of Death of A Salesman. Aren't babies weird? I mean, really?

Today I began the audio version of Chuck Palahniuk's "Diary: A Novel." Killer, so far.

When Freud met Woolf

I finally finished with the illustrated short story I made instead of a paper for my World Lit. Class. It features Sigmund Freud and Virginia Woolf. Have a Look. (Edit: I have included the text with the images, because the print is too small to read.)

After having been troubled by a dream, Virginia Woolf reluctantly comes to the lair of Psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud. She is ready to submit herself to whatever techniques necessary to rid herself of the torment of this dream. The proper greetings are exchanged once she enters.  Through the thick stench of cigar, Virginia begins to explain her reasons for coming

. 

“I have, for several weeks, been in agony over a dream. I have come to you for help in understanding it.”

Her voice waivers with embarrassment as she explains the circumstances. Dr. Freud accepts her pleas and instructs her to lie on his couch.

 

Her head finds one end of the couch while her feet, with effort, find the other. She begins recounting the dream with a newfound frankness in her voice. 

“The peculiar thing about this dream is that it feels vastly more real than any I’ve ever had before. I am wearing a beautiful red dress…”

“…And I am writing at my desk when suddenly I am stumped by the question of what femininity actually is. I sit there smoking a cigarette when suddenly it comes to me- I should go to the library and research it! Surely I will find an answer there! So I begin to gather my things to leave…”

“…And in doing so, I knock my cigarette from the ashtray into the rubbish I’ve written and tossed into the wastebasket. The papers burst into flames and suddenly the room of my own is on fire.”

“I quickly realize that the windows have all been nailed shut after our last burglary, so I dash to the door, but it is stuck. Pulling with all my strength, I can not get it open.

 

“With a horrifying shriek, I made a cry to my husband Leonard for help. He comes quickly, and I hear him yell through the door."

“I phoned the Fire Department- they will be here soon. But I can’t get this damn door open!”

“While Leonard tries the door, I begin feeling the flames kissing my skin on every side.”

“Slowly, from far away, I hear the Fire Truck coming and just as it gets close, I wake up. And as I lay there panting, and sweating, I realize I am thirstier than ever before, and get up for water.”

Sigmund sat, staring smugly at her for several moments before beginning his diagnosis: “What we seem to have is a case of self-destruction. Your Room is a clear symbol for yourself and your woman-hood. And the fact that it went up in flames when you had decided to pursue your question signals that your longings for scholarship will be your downfall.”

“And that your husband was unable to save you because your room would not let him in is a clear sign that you need to let him unlock your door with more frequency…metaphorically speaking.”

Rising briskly from the couch, Virginia exclaims, "Rubbish, all of it, pure rubbish!" Glaring at Sigmund and angrily wagging her finger she continues. "How do you expect anyone to believe this when you have absolutely no understanding of women and their concerns." To which Freud replied: "HA! This coming from a woman who has never once taken any class issues into consideration when discussing femininity." Storming angrily out of his office, Woolf yells, "In your case, Sigmund, the cigar is so much more than a cigar."

With very little adieu, I present My Studio.

Ive taken some pictures of the trash pile that is my home studio. It is  crammed full of papers, paints and absolute randomness. Stuff is everywhere, and that's how I like it. 

Once our roommate left, I converted  her room into a studio by completely covering the walls, doors, and part of the ceiling with butcher paper, and then laying down a piece of carpet over the existing carpet. This affords me the luxury of throwing paint if I ever need to...or at least not having to concern myself with keeping paint off the floors and walls. Take a Look!