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Creating Is Just the First Step

30/9/2019

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I realised the other day that as part of my creative endeavours, a lot of time is spent in processes. Sequential activities that in themselves do not require much inventiveness but are necessary to get the job done.

With my current book, for example, a reflection on growing up in Tokyo in the seventies, I was able to complete the first draft relatively steadily and smoothly, writing a an hour or two a day. I finished the first draft in five months. The writing flowed. I let it.

I wasn’t trying to impress anybody, do anything too challenging. I would just write whatever came naturally - thoughts, feelings, memories. It felt good not to pressure myself and I think that the easy, honest approach is reflected in the finished manuscript.

Once the first draft was done, the processes began. In order to print it out at the library at college, I had to save each chapter on my iPad to a PDF and then email it to my school account. Once I had sent off all eighty emails, I went into the library. There, they had to be opened, downloaded, printed, numbered and collated. A process.

Red pen next. Corrections on paper. Then re-inputting, with the amendments and improvements into the computer. Which then needed to be individually copied and pasted from eighty seperate chapters into four documents of twenty - to make it easier to eventually input it into inDesign - the software that will format it for professional printing in book form.

And on it goes. You get the idea.

In some ways the actual ‘creation’ part is easy!

Once the cover is conceived and designed and the book has been proof printed and corrected a few times, I will do a small digital run of a couple of hundred.

Then I will begin the process of attempting to find a publisher in Japan. A huge process itself, I am sure.


Does it sound like I am whinging? I’m not. I am lucky to be doing something I believe in. To be able to make efforts to manifest projects of my own devising. Things sparked from passion and inspiration, things that are personally relevant and meaningful.

I suppose I am more commenting on the awareness of how much time and focus is necessary to realise various projects - books, exhibitions, music releases.

It’s (almost) work!

The fun and games part - the experimentation, the invention, the playful creation is only the beginning of an extended journey towards completion.

It’s the same thing with my music. Getting a track down in it’s raw form - weaving all the sound strands in and out harmonically, throwing in splashes of accents, controlling and releasing the beat - can be euphoria inducing. But once it is all put together, each sound in it’s place the job is only sixty percent done. Editing, refinement, equalising, mixing and mastering. Processes that must be attended to with equal focus and diligence.

All this I-doting and T-crossing has it’s own feeling of accomplishment and reward, too. It requires more discipline, sure, but their is a payoff in satisfaction. Not only have you done justice to your initial creative impulses and creation, but you have pushed through the demands and met the requirements of the task before you. ​
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Aspects of Self Expression

26/6/2019

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Through my writing, I investigate the inner workings of my thoughts and feelings, using words to steer towards discovery, understanding and a degree of enlightenment. ​

I can site down with nothing particular in mind and let the words flow - in the form of a poem, a short story or a short essay, such as this, to reveal what they will. Leapfrogging from thought to thought at times. Sometimes more like sitting on the bank of a gently running stream and observing leaves float past, recording each ones peculiarity as they pass.

I do much of my writing when I land at the cafe, after an hour at the beach where I stretch, walk and swim. So I am invigorated, at ease. The cafe is right nearby and outdoorsy. I have come to get to know most of the staff, who are a particularly good spirited bunch. This adds to my feeling of comfort and belonging - which in turn invites free flowing writing.

My other form of self expression, the most recent addition, is music. I have been attending a creative college called SAE studying music production for the last few years now. The campus is delightfully low key and has wonderful facilities. Each day I have access to any of six studios, in two hour slots, in which I can hide away and focus on my song creation. I use a Berlin based software called Ableton Live, considered to be the best in the world, to craft my tunes. Ableton has a steep learning curve and although I was making sounds pretty quickly, it wasn’t until after two and a half years of study and practice that I felt confident enough with my creations to begin releasing songs. I spend six hours, six days a week in the studios experimenting with new sound combinations and structures; basically, playing around having the time of my life. I say that, but at times it is challenging and takes dedication and commitment to see a project through - especially because sometimes they go awry - like a pack of wild horses - and have to be corralled into some level of obedience.

The third way that I express myself is through my artwork. I first attended art school in Sydney a full forty years ago and I have no stopped making images, in some form or other since then. I have had studios, on my own and shared, over the years working on big canvases and have had twenty five solo exhibitions of my work over the decades. These days, almost all my work is digital. I use an incredibly versatile app called Autodesk Sketchbook on my Samsung Note 8, using a tiny stylus on the screen to create, using collage, an array of textures and brushes as well as Photoshop style adjustable layers (average around fifteen per image lately) to create new images. I spend one to two hours every day on these pictures; usually three new ones per day.
It is fun and relaxing; an exploration of colour, shape and image manipulation. I earnestly seek out fresh thrills - exciting juxtapositions and dynamics. It’s an exercise in free experimentation and thoughtful positioning and ordering of levels. I explore mood and atmosphere. I strive to innovate and create visual excitement. Again; it’s play.

Spending time every day involved in all of these forms - usually eight to ten hours - gives me purpose and fulfilment. Although I have at times made money in each of these areas, I would not call any of it lucrative. My motivation is pure. I just love the act of creation. Writing this now, I realise how lucky I am to be able to exist in this manner.

You could say that I am expressing myself, and in a sense I am, but mostly I just feel like a conduit, allowing the creativity to pass through me - onto the page, into the picture or into sonic wave formations. One can detect ‘my style’ in each of the forms but it is not something that I am consciously aware of.

When I review my work, I can learn a little about my internal workings, but it is not really something I do or am that interested in. I am just happy to be able to get busy with the next project. Like now. I will finish this and immediately embark on some fresh image making. Then I will head into SAE and into the studios to work on some new songs (I usually have two or three going concurrently). What a life, eh!

Simple, serene, expressive.
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Effortless Effect

13/4/2019

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Is coming to terms with one's insignificance a good thing or a bad thing?

Not sure. But it certainly frees up a lot of time. 

Regardless of the ultimate futility of it all, I have been voraciously spending six hours a day in the studio working on new tracks. 

Nourishment, it appears, comes from creative expression - same as always - but now add the tasty sauce of productivity satisfaction and you've got yourself some chewable results.

Not one to neglect my art, I spend a minimum hour a day on making new images. And the same goes for my writing: minimum hour a day.

I can almost feel death coming. Not yet. But I am aware of it's eventuality more profoundly than previous. 

It's what we are all racing towards.

I ask myself - am I doing all this stuff to leave a mark? No.

Why then? Cause it is rewarding, feels good. It's how I relate to life. Like all creators; I am compelled.

Fills in the time. Masks the pain. Distracts from the struggle. 

Creating new stuff, for me, is fun because there are no rules and I can be loose and try new things and not worry about outcomes or opinions. It's a relationship with an open minded giver.

It builds internal layers, adds pieces to the puzzle, lubricates thought; centres you.

Discipline is adopted willingly. That's something special right there. 

You can do whatever you want. Putting effort into effortlessness. It's an art. 
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Whoever 4 Ever

9/3/2018

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Communicating is one of my things.

Just not so much by talking.

Rather than use dialogue or conversation, I share my points of view in other ways - randomly alternating an arsenal of creative proficiencies - art, music and writing.

It’s an every day, many hour activity these days. Actually, it always has been - but as time has gone by, I have definitely become more focused and dedicated. Part of the reason is that I get a deep satisfaction from losing myself in what I’m doing. It’s a way of really getting into life. Like an athlete does, lovers do, and scientists. Dedication and application get results. And one of the delightful benefits of the creative life is that one continues to improve and advance with age (not ‘forward’ advance - it’s more multi-dimensional). There are no limits. Lovers break up, athletes lose speed and power but an artist just keeps going and going. Often we start slow, seem lazy or unmotivated at times, appear temperamental, are irregular in our output in both quality and quantity - but we keep on keeping on. The rewards are rarely material or financial - which can make enthusiasm hard to muster at times - but they are, especially when one has persevered for decades - soulfully rewarding.

I have been write things here, in this artist’s journal, steadily for the last five years. It used to be more often - and sometimes I feel like I am being neglectful of it. But the thing is; other pursuits - poems, collages and new electronic music tracks are taking up my time and energy every day. So, to set aside some time to delve into my headspace and express it in writing - not through a poem (which I love doing) and is like a tasty snack - but in stream of consciousness straight forward prose (going with the flow form)  is rarer. I never really know exactly where these journal entries are going to lead - exactly what is going to come out - and to be honest I find it easier to work on one of the other creative forms - they are more inventive and engaging.

The other thing is, I don’t have to do as much introspection. I don’t have to self reflect, open up, be raw as I whisper and wispish as I roar as with the other formats. Writing for this journal is more like going for a long run. It takes commitment. Especially right before starting. The payoff is usually there - it can be cathartic, revelatory, amusing or insightful - but not always. I don’t allow myself to edit of judge what I have written - either as I am doing it - or afterwards. I just let it all out. Keeps it real, keeps the flow. When I read back on these, down the track, I want to know what I have expressed is not only honest but un-sculptured. I just want pure transcription of mind space.

So, I am here now; doing one. And what I was thinking was - what is it exactly that I wish to communicate? Is there anything that is going to make a difference? To me or anybody else? Is making a difference even my goal? Life is such a turgid, ever shifting, momentum that no one thing, nothing is really of much lasting relevance in the long run.

So why bother, eh? Especially with something like this that is non-essential - that is just the blurting out of one little human, one artist fellow who lives in a rented room in a small town and essentially does the same thing day in-day out: sleeps in/goes to beach/goes to cafe/writes/makes new artworks/goes to studio to work on new tracks/comes home/makes giant salad/surfs the net/does more writing/watches stuff/goes to sleep late/then starts again.

Creature of habit.

Essentially, I am just existing in a most basic way. I have tried to work things out so that I don’t receive many (or any) phone calls, very few emails and get no visitors where I live. I have streamlined my simple existence so that I perform the basic functions necessary for survival - to make it through the day - and then the rest of the time I fill with either nature time (meditation and exercise), coffee time (stories or poems on my iPad), art time (on canvas or digital) or music time (Ableton explorations at SAE , where I am studying - in one of the studios).

Stuff like socialising, going to an office/job, participating in group activities - are no long part of my routine. I have gone from minimising these things to eliminating them altogether. Not sure if this is ideal - now that I am saying it - but it must be what I need for the moment - otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it. (Flawed logic - I know. Self delusion has got me into all sorts of strife in the past.)

Part of the reason I am conducting my time in this way is because I find some common things quite taxing. Although I can function perfectly well in any and all social situations, as time has progressed, I find them less and less rewarding. Of course, there are exceptions - like family. I always have time for my loved ones. (But I do live away from them - so the expectations are naturally limited.)

I have heard the monikers ‘hermit’ and ‘recluse’ used in reference to me recently.  When I get home to the share house, I usually just go in my room and stay there - concentrate of working on my stuff. I’m not a fan of lounge rooms in general - most definitely not if there is a TV on. I hate feeling like I am wasting time - unless it is intentional - and sitting around shooting the shit is not something I chose to participate in. (Luckily my two housemates have their own blend of quirky habits and seem OK with it. Slightly puzzled, at times maybe, but accepting.

Should I be saying all this? Ha, ha. Fuck it - it’s true! The truth will set you free, it’s been said. (A relief - let’s hope it’s right.) But no, I don’t have any fear around saying it like it is in this forum. It’s all just temporary. Interpretation. Could even be fiction.

Labels are only labels, concepts and opinions ephemeral. Obviously, my life is much more intricate and abstruse than this brief account may reveal. I CAN act ‘normal’ (conforming, placating other’s expectations) - but I CHOOSE not to have to. It does not serve me or my mission - which is feeding my spirit and mind, fully creating new stuff all the time.

Did some one say ‘obsessive’? LOL. Again - just a word. And nothing wrong with healthy obsessions. You have to do something, right? No one is getting hurt. Confounded, maybe.

Although, it is totally beyond my control as to how this is interpreted - I do hope that for some readers, it opens up and sanctions new behavioural possibilities. Shows that it’s OK (I say!) to follow your own intuition, forge your own path - even if it puts you in the ‘outsider’ or dare I say - ‘weirdo’ - category. Truth is nobody else is keeping score. Everybody is fully consumed by obstacles and developments of their own - whatever that may be. Every one is doing what they must to navigate through this crazy (and occasionally partly sane) realm we inhabit.

Saying that, what is the crossover on a perception level? Say between me and you? There is much we have in common - interpretation of things - of everything - must be so different. We are all the sum of our inputs/experiences/upbringings and much of what we are is essentially just a reaction to what has been forced upon us up to this point - mixed in with a whole lot of other things, of course. It’s all so random!

Just thinking about it now is kind of blowing my mind. Not an atomic bomb level - but, you know, a hand grenade, at least. How can I even be writing this - and you reading it - and what the hell am I talking about? What am I trying to say? And why? Makes me believe that, despite what we may believe that we are all much more connected and entangled than we may think.

We all know life is freaky. Every day brings new examples. We want to keep on living - even though if you really assess it - it’s kind of hard work, mostly. Thankless even. It seems more that way, as continue to get older, anyway.

Every age has it’s own stages, it’s own challenges and rewards. When you get past fifty, there’s an undeniable shift in your relationship to life itself. It’s not only me - others have confirmed - youth and all it’s trappings are over. Many of the things you relied on to keep you interested and engaged are no longer in your spectrum. If they are they are fading. New attitudes, new behaviours become  essential. I say all this like it’s some sort of revelation, surprise. And that’s because it kind of was - for me at least. It’s like the fun part of the game is over and while the game itself continues on and you remain as a player - there are parts that are no-go zones. And some of those parts may likely have been your favourite bits. The bits that you were not only good at but enjoyed.

It takes adjusting, let me tell you. (If you are around my age, you’ll relate.) At a certain point you have to do a total reassessment and work out a new approach - physically, mentally and spiritually. Mortality is a bigger consideration. Bigger picture things need to be considered. Health becomes vital - requires more vigilant attention, maintenance. Ignore it at your peril. (Some do.)

Fantasies - of great success, of perfect love, of enduring romance, of fool proof security, certainty, of changing the world - lose their muster. They are harder to sustain. As you grow and become more substantial, realistic, perhaps even of more social value - you realise more clearly how puny you and your aspirations really are in the scheme of things.

This revelation is two pronged. It can be rather depressing, distressing. But in another way, it is strangely comforting. The pressure is off. Self expectation can be corralled. After all, what is the point? Of anything?

It’s insane. But it’s also sobering.

What a journey it has been, I find myself thinking. So much! But where has it all gone? You can’t hold on to anything. Memories - they are fine and enjoyable (with a degree of payoff) but they can also be quite maddening because some of them include lifetime peaks - things that can never be recreated or relived. They can be reminders that you’ve had your go at being young and wild and reckless - and it’s over! There are still things you can do, of course, with effort, that will be rewarding -  but the pay-off is reduced to 71% (estimate). They are not as prevalent or as flowing freely anymore and - I don’t know - it’s just not quite the same.


It may sound like I am complaining - but I am not. I have more or less come to terms with it all. Life has beaten into submission! (LOL. Cry. Wipe tears and shrug.) A long and slow, relentless assault. White flag!

The other prong that I mentioned - the positive one - comes once you have found acceptance. Some hoity-toity, altruistic qualities start floating around. Stuff like dignity, wisdom, endurance. You don’t immediately get any of these but, in tiny increments, they find their places in your existence. Some consolation! (It is.)

Just being a survivor is something. Connecting on deeper planes with others of your age (and all ages, in fact) brings some comfort. You are able to make conversations and connections more substantial, meaningful. Empathy is up.

A resolution not to give in too early or without profound resistance wells up in you. Sure, there’s plenty that you can’t change - but with focus and effort you can sustain what remains. You can work with what you’ve got - and by now you know well what that is - to hone it, perfect it, squeeze out whatever juice is in it.

Maybe you will become a teacher, an advisor, a mentor. You can give to your protégés the information, knowledge and encouragement that you wish you had received along the way on your own journey. You can make your life less about you and more about others. (This is a good one - natural for parents, of course - but available and rewarding to all.)

So - there you go. There I am. Here I was. A verbal ablution. An unfiltered declaration, a semi-spiritual sound off.

See what I mean? I just start writing and let it all pour out. There’s nothing particularly profound or even insightful here but it is where my head is at currently. I share because I can, because I choose to. I do it because I know myself that reading another’s truth can be illuminating, comforting. I have committed to sharing mine, as best I can - not as often as I wish, lately, as I mentioned - because above and beyond anything else we all need and want to feel connected.

The fact that I am able to share my vulnerabilities, ambivalent perceptions and my unresolved feelings without censorship is subtly uplifting. By necessity, out in society, we feel compelled to present our strongest selves but underneath, inside, we are all susceptible to a ceaseless flood of challenges and demands. If nothing else, we are versatile creatures, for sure. Each uniquely individual - but probably more alike than we realise.

So, it’s unlikely you will find yourself seated beside me at a dinner or engaged in a D&M phone convo like we may have done in the old days, so this is what you get instead - a slice of headspace to mull over and interpret in a way that best serves you. Whoever you are.

Sincerely,

Whoever I am


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Listen Hear

7/1/2018

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So I am sitting in the cafe working on a new poem.

And two ladies walk in and shuffle around with the waiter in tow, trying to decide on their destination table. They chose one close to mine, just a metre away.

It’s always interesting how the proximity to others will effect or not effect my writing flow.

Sometimes, I purposely don’t look at people, not more than a passing glance as they approach perhaps, so that I don’t have a detailed visual of them and thus can find it easier not to be distracted by them.

But sometimes, a certain voice, certain conversation - either it’s dynamic or content - will be hard for me to completely ignore.

A part of my brain analyses what I hear, the nuances, the emotions in the voices, the dynamic of the interplay between the players.

In this case, right now, these two are not overly distracting. They are reasonably somber and self contained. Some people do a bit of showing off in public - which I find irksome - others are more relaxed, discrete.

What I did notice though - without so much listening to the content of their words - was the ebb and flow of the conversation - the way that they each influenced each other’s mood and response.

It made me realise how any pairing of two people is going to be so completely different, depending on the individual energies. And how, if you were making a film, for example, the chemistry of the two players is so crucial. I suddenly realised just how much difference it makes. In the direction of the interchange, the dramatic levels, the mood.

They are talking a little softer now and with a more flowing to and fro.

Wait. No. One has gone silent for a while.

I like that. Means they are reasonably comfortable with each other. I can detect forced conversations and they are not rhythmically as pleasant. The slight unease is palpable.

I am not listening to. the actual sentences being said, their voices are of a reasonably low register, so it is almost a hum I am hearing.

I think it may be mother and daughter. I am not going to look. Sixty/forty it is, though. That kind of dynamic. One voice is definitely younger, the other offering advice like suggestions, it seems.

Other sounds I can hear are the traffic outside the window behind me, a low volume pop song from the far corner of the room, the shuffling of the sous chefs at the bench to my left, an occasional ‘bing’ from the bell when a dish is ready.

Some random snippets of conversation coming from people passing by outside. Cutlery crunches. The low hum of a bus engine. The clamouring lid of a large pot. The scrape of a wooden chair leg on the concrete. The tap of the espresso handle from the barristers corner. Plates ringing as they are stacked. Another chair is pushed along the floor, this time more vehemently. A small motorbike passes by, then another.

I have been studying music production for the last year and a half now, so I realise that I have been training my self to listen with more acuity. To accurately pick out select sounds and frequencies and to pay attention to them. This is part of what I do when making a song.

I just finished a new one today. It’s not mixed yet, but the main body is there. I like it. I like most of my new songs immediately after they are done. Generally speaking your latest is your favourite. Not always, though. Sometimes you will luck out and make a really beauty that stays at the top of the list for three, four, five songs forward.

I haven’t written much in these journal entries about my musical production. In some ways this is because it is so special to me. It’s a whole new area, a completely new domain for me to learn about and explore, create in. So I have kept it kind of sacred, been silent about it, not wanting to quantify or examine it because it is still precious and fresh. I haven’t wanted to dissect or discuss the process - just to get on with it and into it.

But now, after having finished probably fifty or sixty original tunes, I finally feel ready to release three or four into the world - make my debut as a musical artist.

I can listen to them and feel happy with them, that they represent who I am. I have by no means mastered the art of song production but I have found my own way through it to the point where the sounds that I am selecting, refining and juxtaposing into a coherent piece are an authentic representation of my feelings, my head space.

Through a mixture of dedication and focus, daily application and experimentation, I have found my groove, eased into a style that is uniquely mine, a sound that pleases me in it’s inventiveness and it’s sonic signature. And there is a coherence in the most recent pieces, the ones that I will release, that unites them harmoniously, even though they are individual tunes. This is a good thing, what I have been patiently aiming to achieve.

So, I am now almost at the first level of being a music producer. My first representational works are nearing release. It is exciting.

They won’t change the world. My expectations are realistic and humble. For me, the greatest pleasure is in the production itself. What happens with them, where they go and how they interact with the outside world is not up to me and quite honestly, is not my concern. I have been an artist and a writer of prolific output for four decades now and have yet to have even drawn the average of a standard wage from my creations if you add up my time spent and materials outlay. Whatever early fantasies I had of making money, or even a basic living from my art output, have dissipated completely. I am not being defeatist, just realistic. Self promotion has never been my strong suit. I like to just get on with making new things. It is likely, I could have been more financially successful if I had put the time in to translating my stuff into money, but it is not in my nature. So be it. So, I hardly expect any dollars flowing in from songs - not at any stage. And I am totally cool with it.

I am dedicated to creating new stuff. That’s what I do. Everyday. It’s what I am good at.

The ladies are still here, chatting away. They are slightly more animated now, aloft with their second caffeine shots.

I completely zoned out of them for a while there, when writing this. That’s what happens. That’s what I like about writing, making art, making music. That detachment, that immersion.

The blissful escape, the transcendence. Worth far, far, far more than money. ​
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Improvisational Speculation

15/7/2017

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It’s morning and I’ve just woken up and I’m going to write.
People write for all different reasons.
I like to write in a free from, musical kind of way. Jazz style.
I like to improvise. Let what is there come out as it will and then build onwards from that.
Thought to thought in sequence. Sentence to sentence link.
I like to coax out my message.
Invite it for a visit.
What is it you would like to talk about today, dear subconscious?
What is floating around in there that wants to appear, be expressed?

Often I will write poems. They are a little slower than free form writing. They involve a similar flowing approach but with the rhyming involved, they tend to take turns and make unanticipated leaps. A key rhyming word at the end of a phrase will appear like an arrowed sign on a pathway - saying go this way - pointing off track - maybe towards the seaside or deeper into the forest. Poems have a magical air about them. Like you are being led by fairies, or leprechauns or some kind of local friendly beast, perhaps beckoned by a shaman. They involve trust and a sense of curiosity. A bit of courage. You are being led somewhere new - so you follow.

The reason I write, primarily, is self discovery. I want to allow my voice, the one beyond my regular function voice, the voice that is partly my present self but partly my guide, my higher self, to bring forth something. Some suggestions, some observations, some directions. It really is an amazing thing to be able to do, if you properly consider it. These little symbols that have meaning. String them together into something. Something out of nothing. And it’s effect can be significant. Meaningful. Even life changing.

It’s free and available to all. That’s another nice thing. Anyone can do it. You just get started. I’ve seen and read some truly amazing pieces produced by some of my students in creative writing class. We do a lot of 5, 10, 15 and 20 minute automatic writing exercises. I will give a starting line - something simple like ‘I remember…’ or ‘The day was dark…’ and then each student just goes for it. Pen to paper - never lifting, never looking up. Almost like transcribing to an inner dictation. The editing can come later. The fixing up. The making sense of. While we are doing the exercises, it’s all about going for it, getting out of your own way and getting it onto the page. Sprint drills.

I has some students that never really wrote much before who produced some surprising and delectable pieces. They would shock and delight themselves as much as the rest of us. At the end of each exercise, one or two people would read out, share. Some are, at first, a little reluctant, shy, but it’s a safe environment. We are all in it together. Common cause. At the end of the reading, others can comment; if something comes naturally. Often just smiles, or grunts or ‘ooo’s. Nothing negative. It’s not a critique. So, yeah, I remember some really wonderful stuff - from both newcomers and more experienced writers alike. The point is that really, what we are doing is allowing a light to be shone on our souls, we are accessing a true element of self, one beyond our daily functions. And in there lies the wonder.

Now that, it seems, I have briefly put on my teacher’s hat - I encourage everyone to do some free writing of their own. It’s absolutely rewarding. It’s as invigorating as a walk in nature. And just as good for you.

How amazing that we can teach ourselves, learn from ourselves! What a system! And the more you think and express and observe about your self - beyond the superficial level - the more you realise that ‘you’ are not just the ‘you’ that you know. ‘You’ are part of a much bigger network, a much greater knowing. That’s just how it is. We function as individuals but also as representatives of the species. And what species is that? Humans. Humans we are called. But why are we here? What are we doing? What is the purpose of it all? The whole game?

These are things to think about, to write about, to ponder and prod. Of course there is no ultimate answer. It’s all just about finding a flavour or a feeling, one particular to you in that series of moments, as you create - that will express your unique take on the question. And in producing that you make something that other humans can later appraise, absorb and respond to.

‘Ah, yes! I know that feeling!’ Or ‘Hmmm... what exactly is being said here?”

It may be written work, a painting, a drawing, a comic, a song - anything. It will be a reflection of life. It will be a manifestation, a symbol. One that can be shared and enjoyed by others. Others in exactly the same boat - or, more accurately - their own vessel on the same seas. One that they will observe and respond to and possibly be inspired to create their own version of. And how do they do that? Just by deciding to. You can do no wrong. It’s easy (in a sense) - all you need to do is tap in to your true voice, your true feelings and express them.

It’s about truth. Honesty. Transparency. We are all looking for clues all the time to add to our infinite internal databases. We hunger to know what life is for, what it is about, what our purpose is. We want to be immerse, engaged, connected. That is our nature.

And being creative, freely, and without self judgement or censor, is one of the simplest and most profound ways of doing that.

I just had a little go right then. Start, go, finish. You always end up somewhere. And, almost always, you feel a little better than when you left. You’ve made a mini journey without having to go anywhere. You traversed time from a solitary position in space and did so while on a mission. So, in a sense, by the very act of doing what you did, you answered your own question. What am I here for? To write.

But what does it mean? Ahhh… let somebody else try and figure that out. ​
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Whtevr Yr Srchng 4

27/6/2017

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I wrote a card the other day to my teacher, Tyler, at SAE where I am studying electronic music production. It was a brief note, thanking him for sharing his expansive knowledge with a selfless patience, empathy and his own easy style. I bought it from the Op shop for 50 cents. It had penguins on the covers, about 20 of them, 6 of them saying 'Cheers!' ​

What I noticed as I jerkily dragged the pen up and down and sideways across the glossy white rectangular paper to form the words is how out of practice my pensmanship is and realized that, apart from filling in a rare form here and there, it has probably been a couple of years since I've actually written anything on paper.

It's all iPad and computers these days, texting on the phone (Samsung Note), emails and poetry, essays and short stories in Pages. My typing speed is probably up there in the 40's by now. With delete, copy, paste, highlight and move, easy access to online dictionary, thesaurus and rhyming apps; using technology is smooth and productive.

It used to be that I kept hand written, hefty journals. Carried them around with me everywhere and wrote in them daily. Somewhere storage, stashed in boxes, they still exist - comics scrawled, ideas jotted, poems composed. From about 1980 to the mid 2000's. I'm not sure how many - fifty, a hundred?

Now my stuff goes straight to the cloud. I churn stuff out much faster, more consistently. I love it. The process has been streamlined. After decades of scratching and scribbling, I am happy to be speed tapping and screen reading.

Then there is this blog, Art Gets Me High. My forum for art/life/creativity related thought and feelings, like this. It's an outlet that I started on a whim and has now been ticking over for going on four to five years. I would not have written the contents herein in my journals. The immediacy of the connection - from my thoughts to immediately published online incites a directness, an enthusiasm and encourages off the cuff expression.

Truth is I don't know who exactly reads my stuff but it doesn't really matter. It's just nice to connect. To have a voice. To fill the void (my void, our void, the void.)
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One thing I can find out is how many weekly visitors and page reads the site gets. There's some graphs and some numbers. I like to check them every few days just to see. The numbers have been steadily growing over the years and sometimes a sudden spike will surprise, perplex and mildly delight me. Someone is reading it. I'm not wasting my time. (Not that I ever thought I was. Numbers don't lie. Not like words can. Ha ha. Of course they can. It would be funny if actually they were randomly generated all this time and in fact the whole site was never even uploaded!)
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The info page also tells me the origins of the visitors and pages landed. The other interesting thing that I noticed the other day is Search Terms. This month's one was pretty funny: theo single bed frame cream. What the?!

As best as I can work it out - the tag from Theo came from the name of the headmaster of the National Art School I attended in the early eighties. Single: my relationship status. Bed: where I love to spend much time. Frame: they hold my artworks. And cream: hmmm... with my ice coffees - but did I tag that?
Anyway, quite a search term. I wonder what that person was actually looking for. And when they landed on my site - did they read any of it. Get into it? I like to imagine they did. And that it liberated their minds - changed their lives forever. That's what it's for. ​

It's changed mine.
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Enlightenment, Insight & Hysteria

19/4/2017

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Enlightenment, insight and hysteria
A turgid mix indeed
You have to have a standard beyond the usual criteria
Only you know what you need

You don't have to be great 
To be good
It's not a competition
Essentially, everyone wants you to succeed
There are lots of people who can - and will - help you
All you gotta do is find them
All you gotta do is ask, accede

It takes a bit of courage
Takes application and self belief
It takes persistence and dedication
You'll improve slowly and surely steadily
Bit by bit, by degree

At first there is lots of stumbling
Mucking around, trying out new things
The field is freshly laid, all open
So takes a while before you get wings

And even once you do
And you can fly some
There's bound to be crashes
Loss of altitude, of direction

But you'll find your way through
Testy times will be overcome
With a mix of mad dashes
Bold attempts at experimentation

It's a cluster fuck of anguish
Interspersed with incidental elation
Some times
For ages it just feels like hard work
Struggle and alienation

But it does have it's upsides 
It does have it perks
Unpredictable delights
Sometimes you get exactly what you deserve
Surprise, surprise!
Gotta love those highs

You're an artist
A free spirit
Not shackled by convention
You're a creator - zealous
Of expanding dimension
A master of your own domain
You can put reality in suspension
After all 
That's some skill

And at will
Easy thrills from esoteria
Your imagination
Is an open ticket
To enlightenment 
Insight and hysteria

Enlightenment, insight and hysteria
Look around, baby, here you are
On Planet E
Trying to express yourself
And you answer to nobody
But your own conscience
You're a hero of the anarchist
The underdog
The naturist
The pollywog
The satirist

You're an artist
You're an artist
Fuck fitting in!
Be as madcap as you need to be
​

You're fur real!
A fucking artist


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Naive @ Nineteen

16/3/2017

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This is how naive I was at nineteen:

I had already attended a year of university in Sydney. The one thing I learnt there was that I did not like university.

So, when I returned to Tokyo for Christmas to see my family, I knew I was not going back for another year of it. Also, I did not sit for any of the exams. It seemed pointless. I had not been going to lectures or had even opened a text book for months. Instead I was watching double feature art house films and fooling around with a sexy minx who would show me love. (Then while I was away trample all over it. Destroy my trust forever.) (Pretty standard rite of passage.)

My parents called a meeting in Yoshiro Taniguchi's iconic and opulent lobby of the Hotel Okura (sadly, no longer) on the day before I was due to return to Australia and begin the rest of my life.

"What are you going to do now?, my father asked when I declined further further education - of the dry academic kind.

I shrugged. I truly had no idea. I hadn't even thought of it. (Naivety alert!)

What was I good for? Good at? Skateboarding. Playing video games, pinball, pachinko. Writing weird little stories and poems. Contemplation. Drawing random comic style faces with ball point pen. Sneaking into movies.

What future from any of those?

"What about art school?" Four simple words. I will never forget them. A casual suggestion from my Mum. It was like a pathway opened up in front of me. 

Art school? Art school? What is that? I truly had no idea they even existed. (Naivety alert 2!!)

Where you go to learn to draw and paint...

That's a thing? I can do that? That's a real option?

"Um...yeah, sure." I did not hesitate. I felt it. It felt right. Art school.

By some incredible fluke, I was in year one at National Art School in Sydney less than a week later. By shear coincidence when I turned up with my portfolio (a loose bunch of my biro sketches and a few watercolours I had done while skipping uni) on day three of the class in progress, someone had suddenly just dropped out. The headmaster, Theo, ever the practical Greek, shrugged and said, "I guess you can take his place." And I was in. No other assessments, form filling, consideration of existing waitlisted applicants... nothing. Right place, right time. And thank god for that. It was awesome. The entire three years.

First year was a creative buffet. Sculpture, life drawing, photography, printmaking and painting. Second year - you chose a major. I chose photography. Photography had the most pretty girls. Plus I enjoyed going out into the world and capturing intereting moments and viewpoints. Plus, the teacher, Arthur Georgeson, was just back from living and studying in New York and he was amped. It was inspiring. But, sadly, it did not have a third year curriculum. Somehow, kismet again, I managed to convince Theo and a couple of others to let me swerve into year three of Painting. 

We each had our own mini studio space in a cavernous, high sealing, wooden floored old cell block on the second floor. It was heaven. Every day, all day, making pictures. Sketching, pastels, collage, oils, acrylics... big, small, on the floor, against the wall, at a desk... 24/7 creativity.

And here is the interesting, rather integral thing:

I learnt most... not by making art ... I learnt most by looking at and appreciating others art. Those around me, teacher's stuff, lots of gallery visits, books from the library, slide shows in Art History (only once a week for three very valuable hours hosted by Geoff somebody who was a legend)... 

As an artist, you yourself are limited to your own abilities and imagination - you draw from one well. 

But as an art student you are splashed and doused in dripping wet art from all angles. Stuff you could never do, would never do, would never have thought of.... and it fires you up.

You begin to ask yourself - what is it that I love so much about that? How can I translate that feeling into my stuff? Using the tools at my disposal - can I mimic that, respond to it, carry on from there? WHo am I as an artist? What do I have to say? How can I adapt my natural abilities and inclinations to most accurately express what's inside me?

Of course, practice makes you better, improves your natural style, sharpens your skills, but it is actually really through looking and thinking that you become better. 

It's a group effort. Everyone chips in to everyone else's advancement. We all do our bit.

Some works come easy but often it is a struggle. Paintings often start great, then go crooked for a while. You want to push it and usually you end up going too far. So you have to bring it back. After much trial and error, you eventually come to some conclusion. Then it's time for the next one.

It's an interesting process. Because there are always so many options you make a lot of mistakes. 

Then, within it all, you want to have fun. You want to feel free in your expression, you want to experience release, a symbiosis between yourself and what takes form in front of you.

It's hard. Harder than writing, I think. (Which can also be hard, of course.) But, I love it. I really do. 

Thanks to my parents for their patience and suggestion, to Theo for his lackadaisical decision to let me in on the spot and thanks to the bold and perspicacious artist's sprit that resides inside me, I have been painting, making art of some sort or other, now for 35 years.

I found my calling, stumbled into it. And in a funny way, I'm still stumbling around, doing whatever. A new comic book here, some music creation, a book of written works, new artworks for a show... I go where I am carried. 

From a distance it may even look like I'm performing some mysterious dance, a waltz, a fandango with my muse. A pattern may emerge. It may be that the convoluted path I have chosen has actually delivered me to a remote clearing. A mountain high plateau from which I can see not only from where my journey began far, far off in the distance but where I might like to head from now on. 

I may have actually arrived at a place where I have found some signs that reassure me, gently let me know that this is always where I was meant to end up. It may be that my training period is complete. I followed the signs, no matter how faint or obscure, challenging or onerous at times, I stuck with it and now I can confidently continue with my direction, assured that it will lead me home.

I have become the man, the artist, that that naive and gentle hearted boy could not have imagined - and yet, somehow, managed to become.

I suspect he'd be cool with it.
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Echoes Inside Us

25/9/2016

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- You see, what happens is I get the rhythm in my head, the rhythm of their words. The rhythm of their words and the atmosphere and direction of their retelling of their journey. And it stays with me for a while after I have bent over the little paper corner and folded the page chunks together - to trap in all the good stuff until I next venture in.

Just like with people that you meet, you connect with varying intensities. With this guy I am connecting strongly. It's not so much about similar experiences - it's more about his expression of his perception of his recollections and the easy going, dot-connecting retelling - that is comfortable and familiar. He has a poet's flow, a writer's eye for detail and an outsider's clarity of the bigger picture, told from a vantage point of complex feelings mixed with a slightly amused detachment.

White Out is the book and the dude's name is Michael W. Clune. I read his previous book - A Gamer's Life - and truly enjoyed it's honesty, perceptiveness and originality. Nothing showy, just his soul talking. I asked the library to get this one in and they did. On the same day that it arrived, so did Dave Eggers new one about an intrepid woman in a bomby campervan with her two young kids in Alaska and I started reading that first, having relished all his previous publications, especially Zeitoun. Alas, Alaska left me cold. Fifty pages in I started skipping. By ninety I was out of there. Open White Out and mmm.... yeah... inviting and familiar. I am a quarter way through. Savouring. (Which doesn't mean reading it slower.) 

The embodiment/mimicking/temporary inhabiting of a character also happens sometimes with movies. I suppose it's not an uncommon thing. The voice gets in your head. It's not unpleasant. Like a visitor. With reverb. It lingers, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. 

It has prompted me to transcribe my thoughts right here, now. I have not been as regular as usual with my logs. (I don't mean poos.) Truth is, I have been busy. I have been seduced in a way. Drawn away from my painting and writing for a time. And what has captured me? Kidnapped my imagination and siphoned off much of my creative output time?

Music.

Over the last six or seven months I have been building tunes on Garageband. Every day. In my usual focused, tunnel vision way, I have devoted myself to the audio invention process and completed over 120 new songs. It's been my little secret. I haven't wanted to speak of it, less it's power be dissipated. But now it's cool. My first CD has been pressed and will be released next month. It's called Lolipopman. Twenty tunes. A mixture of folk, pop, punk, spoken word, old white fella hip hop and ambient. It's a new work of art - just in musical form. The writing is still there - it's relatively abundant in lyrics - but the colours are now sounds. The concepts are compositions. For me, as a comparative novice in the music field it has been a delightful departure. 

It has interfered with my comic, painting and writing output - but you can't do everything all at once. And these songs are like my newest fling. I am captivated. 

There. Confession done. No more sneaking around, making excuses for my infrequent blog appearances. To apologise is unnecessary, but I have felt a little guilty some days. I like being here, translating my up-to-date thoughts and feelings and observations about art and the creative life. Free flowing the little white words on black background from my mind, through my fingers and onto the screen. I like communicating with my friends in the clouds, across the skies, who are, like me, swimming in alternating turgid and serene oceans of their own. I like our conversations. Even though they are more like monologues. But they're not. I can hear you listening. I feel connection. Just like when I read the words of Eggers or Clunes or Carver or Salter or whoever gets through to me and finds a welcome place in my evolving consciousness. I know I am at home with you sometimes. And it feels comfortable, even comforting. Echoes inside us. They lead us closer to our destination. Our every changing destination.


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art for art's sake

4/6/2016

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Sometimes I ask myself: Why am I spending all this time and energy creating new things every day?

I already have volumes and volumes of writing, a huge storage space full of unsold paintings from exhibitions over the last twenty five years, more than 5,000 files with digital collages and artworks... And now, my latest new passionate pursuit - songs and spoken word pieces with musical accompaniment - 75 of them and counting in the last three months.

Why so much?

For starters; I love it. The act of creation. The journey, the exploration, the challenge. It focuses me, seduces and delights, gives me a purpose and a mission.

Creation is my lifeblood, really. My purpose. It is the expression of my being. It is a revealing and celebration of my soul. My time spent making is the most rewarding of the day. And I do it every day. Something is pulled from the air, made up, expressed. I am compelled. Drawn. Called upon.

In that sense, I am lucky because I always have something to do, something that will transport and uplift me. 

I do on occasion, however, ask myself: Is it just fluff? An indulgence? A delusion? What purpose does it serve beyond filling in my time? (Cause for the most part it doesn't make me a living. Perhaps it could, if I put some effort into promotion and selling, networking. But I can't. I don't have the drive for administrative or procedural efforts. It is time I could be spending making more new stuff, after all.)

It is not for me to think these things - to question my natural pursuits.

There are many of us. All around the world. Since the birth of our species. Artists and creators who make things not for themselves but because they are compelled. It is a river that flows though humanity. It nourishes the tribe. Not in a practical way, like say the creations of a baker or a cabinet maker, a farmer or a builder will, but in a more ephemeral, deeper, subconscious way. Artists are the keepers of the psyche. The nourishes of the unconscious. Chosen to reflect back and embellish upon the experience of a human in the place and time inhabited. We create an alternative representation of life. We augment, dissect, reprocess, decorate.

It is a blessing and a curse. But the longer you do it, the more it becomes the former. With perspective, things take shape, garner meaning, piece together. 

I consider all the wonderful things that have inspired me during my formative years: the books, the films, the artworks, the songs. They helped form me. They nourished. The informed and expanded my awareness. I am grateful for each and every effort made by the artists whose work affected me. I am glad they did what they did. I am glad they went beyond, overcame their personal doubts and depressions and manifested what they did. 

And, so, I realise, too, that is my purpose, my function. I am here to serve those who come after. Whatever it is I have to give, it will find a place, plant a seed. One that will grow into the next generation and beyond. 

The artist is a vital part of our species' fabric. 

I am a thread. I can continue to duck and weave, add colour and texture, glow and shine. Because in my own humble way I am contributing to a wonderful tapestry, a glorious, complex shawl that warms, feeds and protects all our precious, hungry souls from emptiness, mundanity, mediocrity and mindless conformity.
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An Artistic Machine

6/2/2016

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​     I'm now an artistic machine. A very human one, indeed, but a machine in the sense that my artistic involvement with life, absorption and output is constant, synchronised, automatic.

I paint and write every day. I think about projects, current and future, the much of rest of the time. Even when I am not physically producing, I am inputting and assessing things from a creator's standpoint. I notice what I am noticing. I store thoughts, ideas, observations for future integration.

When I use the word machine, I do not intend to de-humanise my process in any way. If anything, I am even more organic, fallible, sentient in my approach than before. It's primarily the output to which I allude and the churning nature of my inner mechanics. Over time they have been constantly updated and fine tuned to my circumstances and environment. They have been put through a steady stream of rigorous tests, physical, moral, emotional and metaphysical. They have been pushed close to the point destruction numerous times and because of it, through adapting, have become stronger, more streamlined, with more clarity.

I have stubbornly surrendered my bold and reckless feelings of immortality and replaced them with new sentiments of acceptance of limitations - temporal and physical, gratitude and 'make the best of what you've got to work with' attitude. As do all, eventually, I have had to face some hard, hard lessons, my knees have been buckled, my belly has been sucker punched, I've had the air knocked out of me. I've been on my knees, begging, flat on my back, bleeding and in the wilderness, stumbling, utterly lost and distraught. 

And yet, here I am, still. My resolve has hardened, my outlook has broadened and in-look has substantially deepened. None of this I asked for. It was thrust upon me. Life! Life! I've got one. It is messy, ragged, precarious and precious. Fewer things now are taken for granted. Essentials: like my teeth, my eyes, my hearing, my digestion, my mobility and my consciousness. All of these things have been put in jeapordy over the last half a dozen years. 

When I look in the mirror now, I cannot fool myself. The open eyed and open minded young man who for so long commanded the helm is no longer present. He has been replaced with a more hardened facade. One that is wrinkled, sand blasted, worn. Youthful zest has been replaced by weathered knowingness, the slightly weary and wary gaze of a survivor.

Of course, none of this is unique to myself. I know that. It's a rite of passage. What I am doing, is expressing the process and outcomes in my own away. I am recording my experience of this stage of life passage. Sharing it. The reason for putting it in words is two fold. One: it's an interesting challenge for me, one that helps bring form and clarity to it all, adds to my insight, fractionally lessens the burden. Two: for eventual readers of these words and thoughts there will be, for those who have been through or currently going through similar, a comforting and perhaps fortifying assurance. We're all the same, we're all one - that vibe. And for those who are younger, yet to reach this point, these messages can serve as a harbinger, a map, a parable that may serve as a guide, a foretelling. 

Cause this whole fucking experience goes way beyond what you can imagine. Each of us is tested not only to our limits but beyond our limits. Who knew? Who signed up for this? We all did, apparently. And then what? Mission completed, we vacate. Game over. We return to the vastness.

But in that gap, in that time between eating dirt and turning to dust, during the few years or decades left, in which I currently reside we are treated to a fierce new flavour. My mouth is full of it right now. My head is, too. It possesses me, in fact. It informs my decisions and choices, artistic and otherwise. It's a whole new stage. There is no manual, per say. You've got to pick and forage for your plans and strategies of your own. But as long as the passion has not died, as long as there  are a few more "fuck you"s to mutter, a few more dreams and aspirations to not give up on, a few close and meaningful individuals to care for and about, as long as there is breath, there is hope, there is reason to carry on, to continue to grow, build, make and materialise. 

You learn that as long as it's not one of those times when you've got no choice - then you've got choices. And you know now, you've learnt; choose wisely. Or recklessly. As you see fit. It's your life trickling through your fingers... make the best of what you've got left. 
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The Gift

2/2/2016

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I've been painting most days recently, banging out a new canvas each week. On reflection I realise that when I paint I have absolutely no pre-conceived idea about what is going to appear. I have no direction, no concept. I just put down some colours and get started. I am not doing the painting, I am just following it along, being guided by instinct, impulse, lead by the spirit of the work itself. 

It's an interesting way to work and suits me. If I try and do anything with any structure or enforced direction or content, I immediately feel uncomfortable. I like to just cruise along, chuck down some colours, some lines, shapes - you know, see what comes together.

This way, there is no pressure. No wrong or right, no expectation. I am experimenting, playing, going with the flow. It's a pleasure. 

And that is why I paint in the first place - to enjoy pure expression. 

After each one is finished, I'll spend some time with it, over a few days, weeks or months and get into it. I'll put the fresh ones up somewhere that I can see them and enjoy them on another level - as an observer. This brings another, different, round of interaction. I know that  I made the image and can look back at different areas and choices I made in the process and recreate how it came together, consider what I have created.

In many ways, it's quite an esoteric procedure from start to finish. From blank canvas to a complex, living visual personality. I may not know what I am going to say when I commence but they each certainly say something, at once distinct and ethereal in the end.

I don't try to analyse. My appreciation is purely visual, emotional. The colours are tasty. The shapes are interesting and playful. There's a mood, an atmosphere. Something exists where once there was empty space. 

The artwork will then go on to call out to others, show itself - and from each viewer elicit a personal and unique response. Because when making it, I had no concept in mind and it wasn't until the work was complete that it claimed an identity, I do not have any investment in how people respond to the work. Once it is done, I'm an equal viewer. Of course, because I was there for the whole procedure I have a unique relationship with it but it's common for others to derive a lot more pleasure from my pieces than I do. And that's great.

I love to try to imagine what others see and get from my paintings. It's such a complex and emotional response, unique to each, that I can only do just that: imagine. Paintings evoke intricate and powerful feelings. That's part of their charm. And their openness to interpretation. They don't have a manual. There are no guidelines, rules for responding to an artwork. You look at it as you do, see what you see, feel what you feel and in those minutes that you are doing it, well, that painting is all yours.
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The Story of Sid

23/1/2016

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Isn't it great when life surprises us, teaches us something about ourselves, about life itself, about others, humanity in general in a way that impacts us so strongly that we never forget it...

It is humbling and also uplifting. It smashes, or maybe melts away, disintegrates an existing, limiting world view and gives birth to a new one that is much more appropriate, informed, useful.

 For some reason, I just remembered one that I got while I was at art school in Sydney in the early eighties. 

One of the reasons that art school was great was that there were a lot of freaks and weirdos in attendance. Not in an extreme way (mostly) but everyone certainly had a quirkiness to them. The other really cool thing is that, at least in those days, at that school, it was all about doing stuff, making stuff, creating. So you got to know people through their work. We showed each other who we are through our expressions. Thinking about it now, it's a pretty damn awesome way of doing things. And the goal, the goal is not to be the best, the coolest or the most whatever... the goal is to be true to yourself. To cut through shit and put soul into it. Nobody was trying to outdo anyone else. There was heaps of support and encouragement but not too cheery or overt, certainly not put-on or motivated by anything artificial. Everyone was pretty chilled, just being themselves and through a natural order of things, things fell into place. 

Society these days is not like this enough. Too many are motivated by money, fame, attention, status. But really, all that is phooey!

Yes, you heard me. Phooey!

I have never used that word before and I like it. I like to believe that I have always wanted to and was just waiting for the right moment to present itself. And it has. Just now.

What really rocks, what actually is of substance, of lasting meaning, or enduring value is more real stuff, baby. Stuff like .... relationships, showing care, connecting, having adventures big and small, love, kindness.... you hear me, I know you do. All that stuff. It used to predominate, but it is being sounded out by the roar of media bullshit.

Of course, we don't really believe it, not fully, all that crap, but it's a pity to have so much INTERFERENCE happening, so much glitzy, shimmering, desire and craving creating CRAP bombarding us from all angles. It is distracting. And rather time wasting. Paper thin, though. Without substance.

Anyway... back in the day... (let the old codger speak)... I was lucky enough to spend three years in an institution that was fully into the dynamic and glorious pursuit of ART in all it's wonderful forms.... from printmaking to sculpture, to line drawing to B&W film photography, to painting and a little bit of art history. The people, mostly kids just like me in their late teens and early twenties, were the best part of it all. The teachers, too, back in those days, were all practicing, exhibiting artists. They didn't just talk the talk - in fact, some hardly spoke much at all - they lead by example. 

And, of course, we all learnt, grew, from watching and sharing classes and creations with each other.

So, there was this one guy called Sid. He was a little older. Maybe early thirties. He was a blue collar worker. Used to be a bricky. He was real Aussie; down to earth, kept it simple, straight forward. He was a gentle man and even seemed a bit simple at times. Although, he wasn't. He was lucid and passionate and devoted to art. He left behind his job and took a big chance by coming to art school. Even amongst a collection of not-fitter-inners, he didn't quite fit in. He was a nice guy, though, and was treated with respect but some of his early art attempts were.... I don't know... you know... I guess kind of immature and under-formed. So once in a while there were a few snickers. He didn't seem to be cut out for it. And yet, there he was plugging away. Enjoying himself.

He and I got on pretty well. We are both the type to get along with most anyway. But it was more of a mutual respect thing than a friendship. 

I have got to admit that I never expected that Sid's pursuit, as devoted and dedicated and invested as it was, would lead anywhere. He seemed to be missing a few of the essentials, some connectors. He was a bricklayer, after all. I did admire his guts to chuck that in and give the art a go, though. 

Year one ends and we each choose a major for second year. Sid chose painting. I chose photography. For some reason, in those days, though, photography was only two years, whereas painting was three. I hadn't properly realised this, so just before the end of year two, I put foward my case to the head of school and the painting group leader, that I switch over to painting and go into year three, effectively doing a double major. No one had ever tried it before, and I was very keen and the dudes were pretty mellow and not that interested in sticking to rules, so they said OK. I was elated, of course. Year three you get your own studio space, a few square meters each, in this big old building. There was hardly any instruction. We all just did our own practice. We painted. All day, every day, for a year. And it was awesome. The rest of the gang accepted me immediately, knew me from year one, and were happy to have some fresh flavour. I loved that year. We were young artists! It felt beautiful!

Anyway, here's the thing... Sid couldn't do year three, for some reason. A medical thing with his new wife or something. But he did complete year two in painting. 

At the end of year two there was a showing. Everyone got to chuck their works up for exhibition. All the buildings were bursting with fresh, zestful works. I recall walking through it all and being surprised, delighted and inspired. More specifically, I recall walking round a corner and seeing three large paintings on canvas. They were abstract. Big block shapes, rectangular. Textured, multicoloured pieces. I was impressed. They were truly magnificent paintings. Surely, these weren't done by a student! There was a confidence to them, a sure handedness, that extra special something that makes some artworks transformational, elevated. I was transfixed by them. As were many others. After a prolonged staring session, I moved in closer to little tag to the side. The name was familiar. It was him: Sid. 

He had broken through! He had found his way. He made it work. He expressed his true self with paint. They were giant bricks!! OMG. I will never forget it. It was close to a miracle. Who would have thought he had it in him. A true artist. Sid. Good on ya, Sid. Wherever you are. You inspired me, mate. Awesome. You broke through. Bravo!


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The Factory is Open

1/12/2015

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Sometimes I start to write an entry and I just can't.

Maybe I will know my topic and find it too challenging to get into it, or maybe I will not know exactly what I am intending to say and things will not gel.

Sometimes I even begin an entry and then stop halfway, either due to lack of direction, lack of conviction or lack of motivation. 

These things do not happen often. But they happen. 

As one who questions things, I have to ask myself, 'why am I writing this?' And, if the answer is not satisfactory, I will cease. I don't like wasting time. Not mine, nor yours.

And when I say yours, when I refer to you, I, of course, do not even know who you are. I will know some of my readers personally, for sure, but others not. I also do not know who reads any given essay, even amongst those who I know sometimes pop in for a gander.

But it doesn't matter. Because I am actually, really, talking to myself. I am talking to an element of myself that wants to understand how I think, how my mind works, how I put the world together, take it apart. 

I am curious about every element of existence. Strike that. I am curious about the things that I am curious about. There is plenty of stuff that doesn't interest me.

I have strived for more than forty years to gather as much information and life experience as I can, at every opportunity, through interacting with people of all sorts, through travel, through absorbing books and music and art and films. I dive in deep when I am into things. 

In the late seventies and early eighties, movies were my passion. I made an effort to see as many as possible. I would go to revival theatres and watch double bills - movies like Performance, El Topo, Dog Day Afternoon, Midnight Cowboy.... Films by European masters like Truffaut, Bergman, Fellini... Japanese greats; Kurosawa, Ozu, Imamura... plus Kubrick, Altman, Lindsay Anderson...etc, etc - I just wanted to soak it all up. 

I was studying. I also did the same with books. Less the classics - more the contemporaries. And music - I recorded onto cassette thousands and thousands of hours of stuff. Art, too, of course; I could not get enough.

And my point? I realised today that I have been loading up big time for a long time. I have been a perpetual student of the arts for decades and decades. It's all self study, a vary loosely structure curriculum. ie. find what ignites my interest and get right into it. Go deeper and deeper. When it gets boring - move onto the next thing.

So what is to become of all this knowledge? Am I full yet?

No, of course not. I continue to stock up. But, what is becoming apparent now is a growing urge, need, to use what I have learnt to make some good things, some lasting things, some inspirational things. Stuff that will fire up the young meez of the future.

Naturally, as well as absorbing over all this time, I have been consistent with my output as well. But I believe I am yet to really reach my pinnacle. I am yet to bring it all together into something wonderful. But now, the time has come. I am getting nearer and nearer. I can feel it. My output - of paintings, of comics, of ideas and of writing has increased considerably. Things are taking form more easily. Purpose is becoming more apparent. 

Cause, seriously, let's face it - at 54 - I can't wait around too much longer. I've got to go for it. And I think I am ready. I am ready. 

I cannot say yet, right here, exactly what form it will take - because I am not precisely sure - but I do know the roads are converging. I am tuning in more accurately. I have created - through data input over my creative lifespan to date - a massive repository of all kinds of artistic and expressive notions and techniques and sensibilities. I have stockpiled, in fact. The warehouse is full. The factory is oiled and ready. Production has begun. Even I know not what will appear out the other end - but I do know something - it's going to be absolutely wonderful.
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    ART GETS ME HIGH

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    Author & Artist

    Lewie JPD 
    Blog Mission Statement: 

    "I am taking this opportunity to openly and freely express my simple truth in a relaxed, stream of consciousness manner, without self judgment or editing while transcribing and celebrating the process and practice of being an artist.

    My goal is that I will have some fun recording sentiments and thoughts as they come to me, coupled with my recent imagery. As well; to learn something of value and share something that may inspire/offer insight to other artists, creatives and sentient beings."


    Disclaimer: He's high!
    Er, obviously.

    Pass the paint brush!
    *no drugs required

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