3. Who the fuck climbed up/down to leave that can of Dutch Gold up there? I tip my hat to you, sir or madam. It was like finding a little cairn on a clifftop in Donegal, or an Inuksuk on some remote part of the Trans-Canadian highway. It was almost spiritual.
I love visiting the heap of scrap-metal on the docks because it is beautiful and fascinating, but it also fills me with a mixture of fear and guilt and dread, and I don’t know if that stems from the vague sense that the environment in general is doomed, or the worry that when the rise of the machines happens, they’re going to be justifiably mad about this.
Oh no pigeons.
Unfinished head study, painted on a tablet with the ArtFlow app. It’s like fingerpainting but less messy and I can do it in a bar. 2014 is the year I find new ways to be antisocial and productive at the same time. Why not combine my strengths.
I got a new graphics tablet and having pressure sensitivity is a revelation but it is also very distracting because all I want to do is paint mouths over and over forever and ever.
It sometimes catches me by surprise that I actually live like this. Like some wood-burning, subsistence-farming, nature-bothering peasant recluse.
Turns out I’m pretty okay at it, except that I feel guilty about all the woodlice that presumably burn up in the fire, and I am still appalled by how everything dies in winter.
Aw, hey, thank you! The short answer is crusty stuff inspires me. Lumpy things. Knobbly body parts. Textures. Stains on rock and concrete. Rust. Anything that hints at a process, the passing of time, or some hidden mechanism at work, like bones sliding around underneath skin.
