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Human Connections

22/10/2018

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     As I walked along the beach today, I thought about how I have been lucky in my life to have been able to spend chunks of time with very diverse groups of people.

I came to be thinking about it because of a friend of mine, Colton. We’ve just been friends for a year of so and although we haven’t really hung out that much in actuality, the bond is strong. It’s based on a positive outlook on life, a love of music. self expression and spirit. I answered an ad for a Korg Electribe rhythm production sampler on Gumtree and ended up at a boutique studio tucked away in the hills of Wilson’s Creek. I was met by the sound engineer, a Canadian with dreads and an easy manner. I didn’t buy the sampler but a few weeks later I invited him to a electronic music jam session in Byron and our friendship was formed.

He is one of a handful of musicians and music producers I have come to know over the last few years since I started doing my music production diploma at SAE. There are many top quality people like my teacher/mentors, Tyler from San Diego and James from Scotland. As well as them, there are the audio techs at school, fellow students and numerous DJs and local musicians who I have come to be friends with.

Spending time and interacting with these peeps has been a wonderful side benefit of my decision to studying music. Being around musos, I have come to know the breed from the inside. And I must say, they are a quality ilk. Easy going, considerate, and talented. Before I found myself enmeshed in the audio world, in my decades previous as more of a visual - art and film - person, I have to admit, I kind of always considered audio studies to be less desirable. It didn’t seem to offer the same vitality and energy that say, shooting or directing presented. I never considered it as something I would choose. Ironically, now that I am in it - deeply immersed - I have come to realise that it is a fantastically rewarding pursuit - in some ways the best ever. It’s like I stumbled into an entire world of wonder and magic that was always right there - I just never knew. It has been a revelatory experience, one that seems like it will continue to engulf, thrill me and pay me creative dividends way beyond expectations.

As well, it has connected me, more tangibly, with a new group of excellent people. Audio people are a true cool breed and I am very happy to be part of this exciting new subsection of creators.

I recall feeling a similar thrill when I was just nineteen and in my first year at art school. I looked around and thought; Wow, everyone here is kind of a weirdo! I found a place to belong! Previous to that I had tried two universities - Sophia, Tokyo and Sydney and found the whole academic world to be far too passive - too rote - too dry - and mostly unrewarding for me. At art school it was all about doing - expressing who we were - as honestly and intensely as possible. Not about being fed a whole bunch of old, preexisting concepts from books. We were there to discover and find meaning by making stuff - images, drawings, paintings, sculptures. I was lucky, cause back then National Art School was 95% practical. Just doing. There was an art history class - but it was just looking at slides after smoking joints and casually discussing images together and with the teachers - who were all practicing artists. Indeed, in third year of the painting major, we were each given a small studio space on the top floor an old sandstone jail and instructed to go for it. Teachers would drop by now and then for a chat, but really it was about allowing us to forge out own ways. A lot was learnt from each other. I loved being friends with and hanging out with artists back then as much as I do hanging out with musicians these days.

Back in high school in Tokyo, the group I eventually became part of was twofold. One was a couple of guys from the year below me. I was young for my class and although I did have a few friends it wasn’t till I somehow started hanging out with a Canadian, American and Brazilian guy from the class below (Richard, Kurt and Ricky) that I really found a place to belong. It helped that we were all non-conformists, rode motorbikes and liked partying. The other group I found place with was with the girls from the girls school. They would all go to a tiny basement cafe called Comos, in Hiroo, and drink coffee, smoke cigarettes and banter. Somehow, I became part of the gang. There were a few other guys, as well, but it was mostly the girls. A Hawaiian, a Texan, a Korean and a Japanese Brazilian were the stand outs. I learnt so much about life from these chicks. The Hawaiian girl, Jenny, and I became best friends eventually. She was one of the best people I have ever met. At the time, I was a little over weight and kind of an outsider, but through humour, a love of casual hanging out, and a willingness for explorative mischief in general - I became an integral member of the group. I was privy to some amazing stories and inside info! At school I was a non-achiever, not into sports or any extra curricular activities. I had trouble with authority and an efforts by teachers to order me around would get my back up. I mostly avoided trouble (by not getting caught) but did not find much value in the system - other than it supplying my clan and opportunities to facetiously rebel.

Another group that came out of this time was the night life people. I used to go out to discos and nightclubs and became friends with a number of Japanese nightclub workers, owners and partiers of the time. I also got to know some hostesses, high end call girls and members of the yakuza (tough but honourable). Being fluent in Japanese at the time was unusual and having lived there since the age of ten, I had insight into and respect for their traditions and mannerisms. I was a friendly, fun-seeking teen and was quickly able to become a kind of mascot to a number of interesting characters. In a few Roppongi nightclubs I was more than just a regular, I was availed special treatment - like being able to hang out in the DJ booth, sit in the VIP areas on occasion, and supplied with plenty of free drinks. It was pretty awesome. My preferred garb of the time was the full disco regalia - wide collared open shirt, vest and jacket - with heeled shoes or cowboy boots. I was as close to John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever as there was. It was an awesome time. A few times I almost got into some trouble, but somehow always managed to avoid anything serious. And again, it was because of my proximity and connection to the group that I was able to find meaning and satisfaction in the scene. I had incredible access to the Japanese ‘mizu shobai’ (nightlife world) of the time and got to witness and experience some dynamic and exciting things thanks to my proximity and friendships with key players.

A decade later, in the 90’s, it was all about film. A group of us used to hang out at the Tropicana cafe in Kings Cross - actors, writers, directors - and talk about projects and dreams. This was a fun bunch, too. I had found a new gang. The Tropfest was born in this time. I was there when it was first discussed - just an idea. John took it up and ran with it. My friend Rob Mac and I each had our short films in the first two - screened at the cafe itself back in those days. Rob and I went on to make a TV show called Coo-ee Australia for Japanese TV on spec. Many of the actors from those days have done well and we’re still friends. I continued to be involved in the film business for a decade, working on mostly Japanese TV commercials, TV shows and documentaries around Australia, New Zealand, the US and Japan. Film crews were my new family. Another fine bunch of people. Grips, DPs, art directors, runners. Lots of free spirits convening on projects. Like a circus troupe. Hard workers. Hard players.

After that I tried my hand at screenwriting, studying in LA. That was pretty solitary. I spent about three years immersed in that world. Studied at various places, read a thousand screenplays. One by one, I wrote six features. None of them got picked up. Maybe if there had been a gang, I may have endured.

The next group was poker players. What started as a casual tournament down at the local ended up lasting for a decade and over 3,000 tournaments. In the end I was semi-professional, making a few hundred a week, playing most nights, travelling around to wherever a good game was. Poker players are another strange breed. Itinerant, quirky, strong personalities. I got to know some good people, making friends from Lithuania, Germany, Britain and the US, as well as plenty of Aussies. Shared some good adventures and laughs.

So… it’s all about the people. Forming connections, bonds. Finding your tribe, or tribes that fit with what you are doing. Sharing pursuits, passions, techniques, goals, dreams. And now that I consider it all, it is the friendships and those special connections that endure. Memories were made. Some I will never see again. Most. But it doesn’t matter. We shared some good times together. It’s good to be part of a gang, affiliated with and immersed together in a common pursuit. We humans are good for each other.

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The Kid With The Camera

9/8/2017

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   When I was just nine years old, living in Wahroonga, Sydney, on the very edge of Kurringai National Park with my family, we had a Japanese gentleman visit us. He was a friend of my grandfather and had a little Yashica camera. He let me play with it. Then, seeing how enamoured I was with it, he declared before leaving that he wished to gift it to me. It was one of the best presents I ever got. It was not for this kind hearted gentleman to know but it was a kick off point for my artistic career. Ten years later I was majoring in photography at the National Art School.

     Film was not cheap to process in those days and we were a family of modest means, so much of my shooting was imaginary. I may not have learnt much about shutter speed and aperture but I did become familiar with composition and subject matters. I learnt to look, to seek out what I thought would be worth capturing within my surroundings, environment. To begin to develop, take notice of, my natural inclinations. We are all different. We all see things differently, notice differently. The more we pay attention the more we notice patterns. And, too, over time, with practice and application, our taste becomes more refined. Art is one of those things that is self rewarding. You move up levels almost indiscernibly. So gradually, it’s not till some time has past and you can compare your recent work with older work that you see the changes. 

    I recall, too, the thrill of processing and printing my first roll of black and white film at art school. Removing the exposed film from it’s protective shell in the blackened booth then winding it on the spool in complete darkness was not easy - especially the first few times. But we did plenty of practice runs and the class encouraged each other. Once the film was processed with the right chemicals for the right times, it was hung in the drying cabinet. Then you would take it out and cut it into strips to insert into train track sheets - ready for a proof sheet. So, off to the dark room with it’s towering enlargers, it’s seductive red lighting and the noxious smells of developing and fixing liquids sloshing around in over sized trays. When the proof sheet is done and dried, you go back in and start making some prints. In those days we worked with 8”x10” Ilford paper - matte or gloss for the regular prints - and later, as we progressed, bigger sheets for more impact.

    The class, a motley crew, would go out on excursions, all of us holding our humble, functional SLRs. It was the first year of the 80’s - so no one had anything fancy. Early Cannons, Pentaxes, Minoltas. The heavy click of a slow shutter. The sometimes stubborn, solidly built dials for aperture and focus. Everything was manual. Our teacher was just back from studying in New York on a Kokak scholarship. He was hyped and passionate, meticulous. A stark contrast from all the other teachers at art school who were laid back, tired, a little lazy. All of them were artists, trying to survive. Some has teaching skills, others just showed up. I didn’t care either way. I was happy to have found somewhere I belonged, after having tried and dropped out of two universities already. I didn’t want to hear someone stand up front of an echoey hall and pontificate. I did not want to see a textbook ever again. I hated them in high school and was not about to voluntarily stick my face in another one. Art school was loose and easy going. We were treated like adults, like young artists. Eccentricity, individuality were expected, encouraged. It was not somewhere for rote learning. We were there to learn primarily about ourselves. And to do that through expression; drawing, sculpting, photography, printmaking and painting. It was fucking heavenly, to be honest. I felt like I had hit the jackpot. 


    That wee boy, the one who was nine, the same fella who used to be bullied cause he was sweet and sensitive, a dreamer, the one who grew to dislike and feel alienated at school more and more as it got increasingly serious and competitive, authoritarian, well, he, now ten years on, found himself surrounded by others who witnessed and experienced the world a little differently. He found somewhere where the powers that be were not trying to channel him, whittle him, box him in, group him. He found somewhere he could relax, do his own thing, at his own pace, in a way of his own intuitive devising. Finally, finally, he could breathe again.

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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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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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On Photography

24/9/2015

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When I started at the National Art School all those lifetimes ago, first year was about trying a bit of everything before picking a major. We did drawing, sculpture, printmaking, photography and painting. They were all fantastic and I was so happy to be making art every day - whatever the format. It was such a refreshing and invigorating change from university (I had tried two - Sophia University in Tokyo and Sydney Uni) which to me seemed to be more about following and towing the line than expanding one's own thinking or awareness. In contrast, art school was all about self expression, experimentation, freedom and passion. 

When the time came to pick a subject to specialise in, I chose photography. Ever since my very first experience in the dark room, I was captivated. The process was mystical and magical. Go out, grab an instant in reality on film, process the negative (winding those spools in the dark! Oh, my!), then make a contact sheet (it was all B&W in those days), choose your favourites, then enter the red lit, moody, moist and fume filled dark room to play with the enlarger, the light sensitive paper and the chemicals to expose and develop an image. It was all so ethereal.

You could never be sure what you were going to get. It was taking a slice of life and transforming into a piece of art. It was based on reality but leaned towards interpretation, expression, personal vision. The challenge was to surprise yourself. Seek, seek, find, capture, push, push, process, manipulate and create a reflection of yourself in the form of captured light on paper. Blacks and whites and all the shades of grey. Fifty, one hundred, a thousand. Mood, mood, mood.

Armed with camera and lens, a few spare film rolls in their canisters, I would venture out in search of potential magic. It taught me to see. More closely, more broadly, to notice the light and the shadows, the lines, composition. How to frame an image. Whether to go wide or zoom in. The options were endless and the experimentation endless. Action shots, water shots, still lifes, portraits, night shoots.... I loved it all. 

It was about discovering the artist inside you - starting with how you look at things. How you learn to see beyond the obvious, to celebrate the delightful nuances of the seemingly mundane, to notice the games light plays - to chase it and capture whatever you can.

It was a great way to train. It was about self application, about expansion of vision, about appreciation of subtlety and boldness and the shades in between. Our class was lucky, we had a teacher who was just back from studying in New York. A passionate, devoted, inspired photographer named Arthur Georgeson who was relentless in pushing us to push ourselves and our imagery. He taught us much. He shared his love for hand colouring and a couple of us really, really got into it. Taking the pictures even further from the original. We also manipulated Polaroids, SX-70s, and drew and scratched and collaged our photos. It was a splendid year.

When I found out that for the photographic majors, it ended at year two, I begged the head of school to let me continue on into year three, to swerve into the painting major. I was in love with creating images, I was just beginning, I was ready now to tackle the challenges of canvas and paint. I knew where I was coming from. I had things to say. Let me, let me! I pleaded. None had ever asked before. Certainly not with such verve. He shrugged. There is a space...Tony dropped out... Tick, tick, tick.... OK!

Painting was just as thrilling and my foundation in still images gave me confidence and a slightly different edge amongst the other painting majors - many of whom I knew from first year. They welcomed me. There wasn't much structure to it anyway. No classes per say. We each got a studio space; a bit of wall and some panels. And we came in five days a week and worked, worked, worked. But it was fun, fun, fun. Just as it should be.
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feelin da poz art vibes 2day

14/1/2015

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The only way you are going to get any value out of being an artist is to create what is true to you. To follow the path that is your creative destiny. Nobody can advise you or tell you, you just have to start walking in the dark and hope that you eventually see a dim light up ahead then walk towards it. 

I'm not here to give reams of advice about being an artist because the only real advice is: do the work. Get busy with drawing, painting, creating those images. Those things that are you. Don't even think about it too much. One thing leads to another. You will find out what to do as you do it.

I think back to art school and the joy of creating an exciting new image. It was world changing. Ahhh, to be so sweetly full of curiosity and excitement and bluster. I loved, loved, loved painting so much. The colours, making new marks, inventing characters and worlds. The potential of everything. The magic of fresh revelations, new ideas.

And now, 34 years later, I am still making new pictures every day. I estimate that I have created somewhere in the region of 12,000 images. It's quite a quantity. It's not so much practice makes perfect - it's more 'practice is perfect' - cause there really is no destination. Being an artist is it's own reward. To be able to absorb the world, savour it's myriad flavours and re-express it in your own unique style is rather glorious.

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life's a gamble 

13/9/2014

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It's all about who you know. And who you know depends upon who you meet. And who you meet depends upon where you go and what you do. Where you go and what you do is up to you. 

What I am saying is that if you want to achieve something, then you follow the path towards that goal. Along the way you will meet people. Some of them will see what you are doing, like it, like you - and choose to assist you in getting to where you want.

After leaving art school I learnt this lesson a few times. Once in Australia and once in Japan. In Australia it lead to having my animation being broadcast daily as the new opening credits for a very popular TV show. In Tokyo it meant that I was able to return to my high school and get paid to shoot and direct a music video of my devising that included a scene of a beautiful girl in a mini skirt dancing on the desk of the high school principal in an act of defiance and celebration.

First: Sydney. I had recently graduated from art school and decided to try and make some money as a freelance illustrator. I put together a portfolio with some of my work and started doing the rounds; visiting art directors of magazines, ad agencies and publishers. Generally, it was usually one job for every six or seven meetings. I got a few breaks - did a few illustrations for Playboy magazine, some comics for a new fashion magazine and one or two other small jobs.

I had always liked the aesthetics of a free magazine called Billy Blue. The content was light but they had great covers. Very arty. Many of them were done by a then relatively unknown artist called Ken Done. His work was awesome even back then - loose and fresh. I did a few mock up cover ideas of my own and went in to see the art director, Ross Renwick. He was a great guy and positive. He didn't run any of my covers but hooked me up with his second in charge - a guy about my age, mid twenties - Jamie Barnes. 

Jamie really took his time looking through my work and I could tell that he really loved it. He had great taste and could pick the strongest and most interesting works with ease. He particularly likes experimental work I was doing with Polaroid SX-70s. We clicked. He never ended up getting me any work at Billy Blue, despite the fact that every month I would submit a new cover idea proposal. He did, however, welcome me into his circle of creative friends which included two amazingly talented, visionary, free spirited art directors, Graeme Davey and Mike Heffernan.

Through Graeme I ended up getting a regular gig for Waves surf magazine doing a monthly full page, full colour comic as well as some fun work for General Pants that we collaborated on. Mike got me my dream assigment of the time - an album cover (Life's a Gamble by the Oz rock legends The Radiators), front and back, plus lyrics insert - without any restrictions. The brief: "Go for it!" I did wild and crazy collage, front and back, sourcing cut-outs in the hundreds and compiling them, old-school cut and past style with scissors and glue (Photoshop had not been invented). I also got paid a super premium amount for the work. Mike loved it the record execs loved it and the band - who were each incorporated in the back cover art - loved it, too.

On the strength of that work and Jamie's backing and initiative I was invited to animate a promo for Channel Ten in a collaboration with an animator, whiz kid, Ray Van Stenwyk. We went to town. That led to being commissioned to do a new opening credit animation (shot on super 16mm film, one frame a time, using a custom frame designed and built by Ray). It was for the very popular afternoon kid's show Simon Townsend's Wonder World. It ran for many years.


Tokyo: I'd been working as a freelance illustrator in Tokyo for a year of so. This involved riding my Kawasaki 650zx all over Tokyo with my portfolio on my back, cold-calling art directors from magazines, design houses and ad agencies. I met so many different people. Only maybe one in ten ADs actually got my style, but they really got it and used me straight away. 


One of these was a great man called Ken Arai. He was the AD of a Magazine House popular culture mag called Popeye. The biggest selling mag of the day. He gave me a regular gig that lasted years. Four illustrations in every issue. It was a huge break and I had a lot of fun playing with it - and in expensive Tokyo; loved the regular paycheck, too. Money for game centres, yakitori and sake!


On the strength of that work and my Oz animation reel, I was suddenly, and surprisingly offered to direct a music video for a Japanese pop star, Taro Shinohara. Again I was given full creative control. The song was called 'Crying Youth'. My concept was we'd go back to my old high school to shoot a fantasy sequence with a rebellious Taro and a sexy girl (I cast my wife, Bianca) dancing wildly on the principal's desk. It was a very satisfying and vindicating experience. I threw in some animation and inventive titles and it was a big hit. It all came from someone saying, 'Well, you are not for us... but why don't you go and see this guy." Funny thing is I almost didn't go to the meeting because I was sick of rejection - but something nudged me along.


So, just like it says in the Rad's title track - you play the game, roll the dice and hope to get lucky. Sometimes you do.


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between rascal and rogue

2/9/2014

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Second year of National Art School. I befriended a guy from the same year, other group - I was B, he was D - called Tony. He was a happy go lucky kinda fella, very intelligent, was into wild philosophising and speculating. Smoked rollies (ciggies and joints), liked a drink or six, and - I found out later - was partial to pills and speed.

At the time I was really into reading Carlos Castaneda books about expanding consciousness, lucid dreaming, shamans, peyote, etc. I loved those books so much. I remember a few times reading one of them in bed and letting out audible yelps of excitement. Oh, the possibilities of mind expansion...!

Tony and I had always been cordial to each other during first year but never hung out. Then over a few days early in year two, we started to enjoy each others banter during a shared drawing class. He was a tall, read headed with a great sense of humour, but a quick temper. He'd had a few girlfriends - beautiful looking - dark, brooding types. He was popular but edgy.

One night, after some drinking, he couldn't drive or get home, so I offered for him to stay the night at my place. He was already pretty pissed when we got there but we enjoyed hanging out some more. He polished off a half bottle of whiskey on his own. Around one or two, he pretty much passed out. My girlfriend and I helped him into a make shift bed in the lounge room and closed the door and went to bed ourselves. Before sleeping I read some more Castaneda.

I dreamt of a large serpent. Dark and ominous dreams - which are unusual for me. I usually dream of fun, engaging adventures. (Many times, still, this morning included - I wake up and think after a dream - wow, if only life were that good...)

I woke up suddenly to a large crashing and banging. It was still dark. My dream had put me in a spaced-out mode. My girlfriend also woke up. It was really loud and continuous. We turned on the light and opened the door to the lounge room. Standing in the middle of the room was Tony, eyes wide, confused, disoriented. He had a gash on his forehead and his face was bloody. His T shirt was ripped.

He had woken up in the pitch black and not known where he was. In an effort to try and find his way out of the room, he had overturned the dining table, all the chairs, pulled down the bookshelf and smashed almost everything. It was quite an unforgettable moment. Surprise, disbelief, confusion... He looked at us. We looked at him. Our still sleepy minds pieced together what had happened.

"I had to pee..." he said, like a lost little boy. A moment silence. We surveyed the room. It was like a bomb had hit. Our eyes all met again. We all burst out laughing. We laughed and laughed and laughed.

We cleaned the place up somewhat and put a still groggy, patched up Tony back to bed. This time we left the door open. The next morning we all drove to art school. Tony walked home from there, choosing not to attend that day.

Weird thing was; he never came back. I never saw him again. One of his ex girlfriends told me that his pill taking and drinking were pretty bad and that he was prone to blackouts. A few months later, someone else said they saw him passed out in the gutter. Sad, sad, sad. 

He had a lovely nature and was a talented artist. His inner demons were too much to deal with. Don't know how he's ended up but what was good about his spirit, his roguish smirk and staccato laugh, his red curly mop and freckles retain a place of merit and respect on the mantlepiece of lost friends in my memory chamber.



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anonymous usher

23/8/2014

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I always wanted to work in the movies.

When I was fourteen or fifteen my father formally called me into their bedroom for a discussion. I was having a few issues at school - trouble with accepting authority, occasional truancy, playing class larrikin, detentions and suspensions. My grades weren't great, I rejected the concept of homework (they can make me go to school but once I am out, my time is my own), I chose not to participate in after school sports or clubs.

Not your ideal student, I now see quite clearly. But at the time, I was instinctively rebelling against what I perceived to be injustice and domination. I did not choose not belong. I did not belong. The rigid, intense, result-oriented system did not integrate well with my free spirited, easy going nature. Teachers attempts to force me to comply only resulted in a stronger sense of anarchy in my young spirit.

I wish I had been there, the me now, to support and nurture that young fellow.  He wasn't a trouble maker, not really, he just had a sense of freedom and fun. He truly had not interest in chemistry or physics class. He knew that studying those subjects, as well as Latin and Religion, were a waste of his time. I would have said - if he has to be locked up here, why not just let him do art and English, drama and choir all day. And a long lunch. Maybe leave a bit earlier. Come in a little later. Four days instead of five.

I know now that the me then, was essentially the same as the me now. I wasn't someone who was going to be changed or melded by a bunch of strangers. Especially not by austere, sometimes deranged, sadistic, even perverted, assholes.

In the few subjects I had good hearted teachers (English, Art, Geometry, French) my attention giving and grades were pretty good. I just found it impossible to tolerate bullies and dictators.

My father, bless him, was a very different kind of person to me. He was an achiever, he thrived on rules and structures, he did not mind following, behaving. I was, in his estimation; a failure. If not already, then destined to be one if I kept up with my rebellious behaviour. I know this because he told me so.

"What do you want to do with your life? What is your plan? What do you want to become?" were the questions I was asked that evening, at that meeting, which felt serious and important, formal. Both my parents were there but my father was leading. They were worried about me, he said. The school had rung again. (The truth is mostly I tried to keep out of trouble, ie, not get caught. And  mostly, I succeeded. The reprimands and punishments I received were a minor fraction of my actual infractions. So, I was actually, in my own way, quite canny and intelligent. I also was aware of having been selected for and invited to attend a special school for advanced intelligence children after testing. I decided I did not want to go, when given the choice, because I did not want to leave behind my friends. Regardless, we soon left Sydney for Tokyo.)

"I want to make movies", I replied, after giving it some thought. The answer felt right, in fact, it felt like the only possible answer with any veracity. At that stage of my life, I also liked collecting comics, listening to radio drama, drawing, writing stories... but I loved movies. They were powerful and captivating things. Enthralling. If I had to be involved in some sort of formalised activity - well, that would be it. At least it wouldn't be boring.

"Movies?" My father scoffed. "How can you say that you want to make movies? What makes you think you can make movies?"

Oh. I have to answer. 

I had actually made a few Super 8mm films by then, but nothing elaborate. I did not have any feature credits to my name... In fact, I did not even know exactly how the process worked - screenplay, rehearsals, actors, director, producers, art department - I just instinctively responded to the question with honesty and optimism.

"I love movies." I said. And do what you love, right? Wrong.

"Just because you love movies doesn't mean you have any talent or will ever be able to work in movies. It's a very specialised industry. I'm talking about work. A job. What kind of job are you going to be able to do when you leave school? If you keep up the way you are, you'll be working in Woolies at the checkout. Is that what you want?"

"Er, no." I replied. (Thinking: it wouldn't be that bad. Standing behind the till. Playing with the machine. Chatting with people...)  But I said no. And it wasn't my dream, nor my goal. 

"If you don't start behaving and doing better at school, you will end up nowhere, with very little..."

The meeting was adjourned soon after. I agreed to try harder. I accepted that my answer to the question of what I wanted to do with my life was not acceptable.

I feel sad now. If only I had been encouraged. If only in that rare, important moment, when I was point blank asked what I wanted to do with my future, I had been listened to, heard. Things could have gone so differently. Why ask a young boy that question then squash his heartfelt, impulse response? Obviously it did not fit in with my father's agenda and world view. It was not about my life. It was about his life. And about curtailing the disturbance that my behaviour was causing. And, just like the teachers I hated, trying to make me into something I wasn't.

That moment was a very long time ago. That was the moment that a father inadvertently condemned his son to a life lead with an attitude of underlying defeatism, surrender, displacement.

                 ------------------------------------------------

Cut to me at twenty. At art school. Living in Sydney. I still loved movies. A year before, I had been to every cinema complex along the main street in Sydney seeking employment. Just fill out the form, I was told by unenthusiastic lady ticket sellers. I never heard back, of course, from any of them. It was a closed shop. Those jobs paid well, vacancies were rare and often handed to friends and connections. Being an usher was considered working on the fringe of show business. It required wearing a bow tie and a fancy jacket, dealing with the public with class and efficiency. Nobody walking in off the street was going to get in. That much became clear. Still, I really wanted to work in a movie theatre. Better yet, a multi-theatre complex.

One afternoon, while with my brother and my girlfriend, perusing the books at the old Gould's book shop in it's original location in George Street, directly opposite Hoyts cinemas before heading downstairs to Crystal Palace to play some snooker, I had what I can only describe as a moment of pure, unfiltered inspiration. I was zapped, nudged by some energy, given a specific mission.

"Wait here guys, I'll be back soon." I said, and ran out the door. I crossed the street. Entered Hoyts. "I am here to see the manager!" I pronounced with premeditation. 

"Do you have an appointment?" the lady asked. 

"Yes!"

"What's it in regard to?" she asked.

"About working as an usher."

She checked her big red diary. Slight frown.

"You're a bit early." She harumphed and climbed off her high stool. "Wait here." She trudged half way down the corridor of ticket sellers and disappeared into a doorway. She reappeared with a message. "Mr Cesarro will be out in a minute."

Whoa. I can't exactly say things were going to plan, because I didn't exactly have a plan. Well, I did. I wanted to get a job there. But I hadn't exactly anticipated speaking to a manager. He appeared, beckoned me. We went in through some glass doors, then another security door to his office.

Suddenly, I was being interviewed for the position. My instincts were honed enough, from years of talking my way around a subject and out of trouble at school, that I was able, much to my surprise, to charm my way into an immediate job offer. I was to start in a few days time. Two shifts a week, Friday and Saturday nights, to begin with. I was to go immediately to see the head usherette, Laurel, and get fitted for a bright red jacket and receive a call sheet, instructions and a torch. I walked across the lobby, almost floating. I was nearly there. One final test to get through. The manager had called ahead, so she was expecting me. It all went smoothly. I winged it. I was in.

Mook and Bianca could not believe it. How??? Really? Yes, it happened. They were happy for me - and it also meant free movies for them, at least twice a week. And I loved it, too, even more so. I had accessed an environment, an institution that I had long desired to infiltrate - the dark pantheon of cinematic wonders, the arena of entertainment, manufactured fantasy. It wasn't yet the level of actually making movies - which was still my ultimate goal - but I had forged through the first protective industry layers of obstruction, using will and wit and temerity. I was no longer just a paying member of the public, I was in the club. On the fray of show biz. Movies were free, now - all you can watch. Not just at Hoyts, but due to a reciprocal agreement, at any and every cinema across the city. Not only that, but I would be surrounded by cinemas (seven), immersed in film, connected more closely to the world of my early predilection. Finally.

I was working in movies!  

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shown the way

28/4/2014

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When I was in my early teens, we were living in Tokyo and my Mum was a member of CWAJ. Christian Women's Association of Japan - it wasn't a religious group, from memory, it was more about women empowering women through cultural exchange and events. The members were about half expats and half Japanese nationals. One of their main things was that each year at The American Club, near Ropppongi, they would hold a wonderful exhibition of the new works of contemporary Japanese print makers. This would include silkscreens, etchings, lithographs and woodblocks.

There would always be a couple of hundred awesome artworks to purview. The first year, my brothers and I were dragged along kicking and screaming, but we quickly came to enjoy the range and invention of the works. Well, I did, for sure. 

There was also, always, a full colour catalogue that had every print included. I would often pour over it at leisure, studying my favourite works. At that stage, I had no idea that I would go on to do three years of art school and become an artist but did know that I liked art. 

Woodblock is the most traditionally Japanese of the printmaking forms. My Mum actually studied it for quite a number of years with some top notch Japanese tutors. Over the years she became very proficient and created some wonderful and popular woodblock series of her own. (Good on you, Mum!) 

It's quite a labour intensive process. Each colour within a print is carved from a separate block of wood with special tools. Some prints will have eight, ten or more blocks. Then the printing involves the application of the ink, the lining up of the pre-prepared special paper and the rubbing of the paper so that the ink penetrates. It's a delicate and technical process - enjoyable to watch. (Once.)

Over the years, my parents collected many dynamic prints from the CWAJ shows and also from small galleries. I also witnessed things like the choosing of frames, decisions on where to hang them, etc. I did not know it at the time but these things surely influenced and enriched my art head space. Tokyo is tight on space and homes are smaller scale, so prints were generally much more prevalent than paintings. In fact, I recall coming back to Australia to live at seventeen and noticing paintings in homes and being intrigued and enraptured by them.

My uncle Dick, I now recall, a wealthy man, had one of the country's pre-eminent private collections of Australian art. He even had a granny flat full of them and would take us on a tour with animated and learned commentary included. He had originals by Dobell, Whitely, Nolan, Boyd, Crooke, Drysdale and Klippel as well as many others. Visiting him was an art lesson in itself. Funnily, even them, after doing the tours more than a few times in my teens, I never considered that I may one day myself become a painter.

It really wasn't until I had dropped out of Sydney Uni, first year, and returned to Japan to see my family that it even became a possibility. I was eighteen. Uni was not for me. I was doing a BA, studying Literature, Computer Science (!!!)(it was 1979), Japanese and Psychology. These were all areas of interest but I simply found the format of education too dry and personality lacking. A large lecture hall with one guy telling everyone what to think. Boring! More than I could bear, in fact. I quickly began cutting classes and going to the movies. Then later, visiting a sweet girlfriend. Two areas I was much more naturally passionate about. And that taught me much better.

So, I was back in Tokyo to see my family. It was the day before I was due to head back to Australia. My parents convened a meeting at the Okura Hotel. We sat in the lobby. The point of discussion was 'what was I going to do?' I was drawing a blank. The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn't want to return to University. Time ticked. There was some tension. Off the cuff, my Mum said, 'What about art school..? You've always liked art...." 

Ping! What? Art school? They have those? That is an option? I seriously did not even know. But now that I heard it, it was like... er, yeah! Next day I was on a plane back to Sydney.

I looked up Art School in the Yellow Pages. The closest one was East Sydney Tech in Randwick. I turned up holding a portfolio of portraits I had done with a biro, mostly copied from comics. The year had started a few days earlier. The selection process was completed months before. And yet, somehow..... I got to show my portfolio to the head of school. Theo. He liked it. Someone had dropped out that morning. Theo shrugged. "You're in group B. Next door. Start now." I was in. It was truly something that was meant to be. So random. So spontaneous. So glorious! I loved it. Three years. A double major in painting and photography. Many, many wonderful classes and experiences. I was on my way....


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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!
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    Pass the paint brush!
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