I'm not making abstract art. But this kind of drawing is making me dizzy because of pretending to be a bit Max Ernst. I am going to emulate my pretend mentor. I'm trying this out personally. It's supposed to be a good idea. He'd laugh.
His dad painted. And he lived in a mysterious forest. And the thing I had like him was fevered hallucinations as a kid. I got pukey and disoriented. The doctor gave me shots in bed at home to make them stop.
Does anyone not think Max Ernst was the greatest ever, ever? Are they nuts? Is their head off?
Who can have that much talent and not be murdered by it. Be completely killed by it. It would kill me. It could. Right? How could you survive it?
I can't believe he existed. It's like the bible. It's got to be made up. A team of fabricator's lying and lying. If not then I have to kill myself for being pathetic. Or go on a long fast to be purer. No food until I'm skin.
Why I ask you. Why? Why? Why? Why? I think he inspired artists too much. Now there's too many of us. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Do you think he liked knowing how it would make me feel, looking at his art, wanting to tear out my nervous system and convulse like a spastic colon, just spewing. What a prick!
Where is a pillow. I want to hug my pillow and snuggle. And die. But also I want to have one of those long artist lives like Hokusai, Matisse and George Grosz and all those other great art guys.
See my art Balls! They have potent flowers that are coming!
I've been broken into little pieces by being silly and by wishing. Boo. Look out for my little pieces.
Max Ernst lived in Sedona and I did too. He liked rich women who were into art. Apparently they adored him. I like any women into art but I like to be the richer one even when I'm actually very poor which has happened often. And I don't know if any of them loved me very much.
Miro was cool too. I'd like to have some of him too. My wife was happy to find something new on my blog today. Then she came home and fought with me. I added this and now I'm sad plus there's an echo in here.
I like this drawing. I am starting to enjoy doing drawings again. I've been really hating it for about 49 years. It started in Kindergarten when I noticed how pretty everyone else's paintings looked on their easels. Mine looked like poopy mud and my classmates wore there smocks like artists instead of like a diaper like me, for being so sloppy. They mixed colors better and also knew how to use them alone, like green only as green without other colors piled on. Everything I did turned into a shit looking mess. That's what happens when you use all the colors. Not white light. It just turns poopy.
Big fat women sleep on subways, they're invulnerable and generally undesirable to the average predatory male. Old women sleep too, they're just overwhelmed and exhausted by the trial and effort of commuting. But most young girls and women are targets, and there are lots of bad men.
My wife has beautiful hands and feet. I love looking at them and caressing them. This is a constant source of pleasure for me.
I'm not sure what I'm stealing from these people. I know it's not their souls. But I am taking liberties. I feel like I do when I look at my wife and children as they sleep, it's safe to be very very close.
This year, his grade six year, we enrolled our son Jacob at Avondale Alternative School. He loves it and so do we. They combine grades 6, 7 and 8 into one classroom and now he's got lots of older friends. The kids are all really sweet. Avondale likes parents to be involved so I did a 5 visit workshop teaching Jacob's class how to make a zine. It went well. They liked the project.
Jacob was in the school play the Music Man. He was part of the barbershop quartet. Jacob was offered a bigger role by the drama teacher but his home room teacher insisted that his participation be limited. This way he'd concentrate better on his studies. I thought it was a lame decision and I was disappointed Paula and I were not consulted. Nevertheless he has thrived this year like no other year before. To see your child eager to face homework, it stunned us. We never imagined that would ever happen.
It's easy to draw sleepers and readers. Everyone else is jittery as hell. The nicest people I meet on public transit are the ones sitting near or beside me when I draw. I get a lot of smiles and warm words of encouragement. Never had any outright hostility. It seems I don't offend much when I stare. Maybe that's because I find people so beautiful to look at, they're OK with my attitude.
The whole process of drawing in public is fun because my likenesses are so close that in a few minutes I can nail facial features while the train is moving and I'm standing even. People like seeing the accuracy. It's nice how time spent drawing turns into skills. Now I just wish I had a style. Something unique.
The baby in the stroller was from Israel. His Dad and Bubie were a little uptight with me staring at their child/grandchild. Until I smiled and showed them the drawing. Then they relaxed and the father chatted away with me about his long journey to Canada via Austria and England. He plans to move to San Diego to the warmer weather.
I'm not making abstract art. But this kind of drawing is making me dizzy because of pretending to be a bit Max Ernst. I am going to emulate my pretend mentor. I'm trying this out personally. It's supposed to be a good idea. He'd laugh.
His dad painted. And he lived in a mysterious forest. And the thing I had like him was fevered hallucinations as a kid. I got pukey and disoriented. The doctor gave me shots in bed at home to make them stop.
Does anyone not think Max Ernst was the greatest ever, ever? Are they nuts? Is their head off?
Who can have that much talent and not be murdered by it. Be completely killed by it. It would kill me. It could. Right? How could you survive it?
I can't believe he existed. It's like the bible. It's got to be made up. A team of fabricator's lying and lying. If not then I have to kill myself for being pathetic. Or go on a long fast to be purer. No food until I'm skin.
Why I ask you. Why? Why? Why? Why? I think he inspired artists too much. Now there's too many of us. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Do you think he liked knowing how it would make me feel, looking at his art, wanting to tear out my nervous system and convulse like a spastic colon, just spewing. What a prick!
Where is a pillow. I want to hug my pillow and snuggle. And die. But also I want to have one of those long artist lives like Hokusai, Matisse and George Grosz and all those other great art guys.
See my art Balls! They have potent flowers that are coming!
I've been broken into little pieces by being silly and by wishing. Boo. Look out for my little pieces.
Max Ernst lived in Sedona and I did too. He liked rich women who were into art. Apparently they adored him. I like any women into art but I like to be the richer one even when I'm actually very poor which has happened often. And I don't know if any of them loved me very much.
Miro was cool too. I'd like to have some of him too. My wife was happy to find something new on my blog today. Then she came home and fought with me. I added this and now I'm sad plus there's an echo in here.
I like this drawing. I am starting to enjoy doing drawings again. I've been really hating it for about 49 years. It started in Kindergarten when I noticed how pretty everyone else's paintings looked on their easels. Mine looked like poopy mud and my classmates wore there smocks like artists instead of like a diaper like me, for being so sloppy. They mixed colors better and also knew how to use them alone, like green only as green without other colors piled on. Everything I did turned into a shit looking mess. That's what happens when you use all the colors. Not white light. It just turns poopy.
