Tag Archives: art

Mood

Posted on by under Book Reviews, notes

It’s a lie that to create something beautiful, some part in you has to be broken. But I don’t know that. Because I have a twisted perception of what beauty is.

That’s easier, that’s smaller, and sadness fits. It fills my heart up from the inside instead of existing around it the way my happiness does. It’s small enough for me to hold its definition in my hands even though I don’t know what it is.

 

(I just finished reading Love Letters to the Dead by Ava Dellaira and it was small but quite deep and I fell down)

2016.01.01 Message to Myself

Posted on by under notes
Stop being scared. Stop that subconscious second guessing when you freeze and walk around and just let your thoughts crawl around like ants but never becoming something. Stop being indecisive because you’re not at a creative peak. You don’t feel it. Sit down. Do it anyway. Remember this, remember this, even though I know you won’t, even though I know I’ll have to write it again, a hundred times a hundred ways, all through life reminding you of what you know, repeating what’s been said, don’t you know it’s all we are? Don’t you know it’s all we do? So if you choose, and get to do so, so if you create and corrupt and empty your veins and pour
     then you’re one of those repeaters. Say it until you listen. Say it until the world listens. And then say it again.

Speed Painting on Youtube

Posted on by under Artwork

Yesterday I was messing around with some watercoloring and decided to film it! So I made this little speed painting video, just some messy flowers but it was quite fun so I think I’m gonna make a more serious one. The most difficult thing though, is that I’ve realised how much I lean forward when I paint so I have to find some angle where you can see anything apart from the top of my head. Well.

 

All we do is gain or lose control

Posted on by under Longer thoughts

I wish I could lose control.

Splash colours until people cry by looking at them,

turn myself inside out and wipe my blood on the canvas.

Instead I give up halfway through ugly eyes, drawn as if I were a pretentious 12 year old. Disproportionate figures and shapes that never become anything. The thing is, I don’t know how to draw. I repeat lines, and colours, look and remake, but when it comes down to my own expression, I’m empty. Just recreate by hands and in mind. Like we all do, are we nothing but radios? We understand something we think no one has understood before and we tell it or teach or live it. And even tuning in to that, the repetitiveness with which people think their minds are free, is just another of those realisations. Is that what I’ll blare about until the day I die?

Sometimes (too rarely) I forget to act normal in public and I sit weirdly curled up on the bus with the bumps shaking my handwriting. It’s slowing down though. Minutes of looking out the window between every sentence. My mad sadness settles into sleepiness. To quote a song that I like: I don’t know if this, is a surrender or a rebel.