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.

​     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. 

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.

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!

It pains me to think about all the books I haven't written. There are so many in there. So much waiting to come out. Intricate plots and characters diverse flow through my mind on a daily basis. I love books! I love reading! Hell, I even love writing! So where are the books? All the books I haven't written?

Will they stay in me until they come out? Or will they fade gradually, disintegrate, dismantle, vanish in a crowd of other things called distractions, called living, called demands of daily existence?

New ones seem to appear quite easily. Ideas, at least. Maybe it's all incubating, just waiting for my burst of rigorous self application, dedicated word production. 

I can live with that. I can believe that, even. Like a spring being pushed down... when the time is right... release! Book one, two, three.... Soaring up and out into the consciousness. All the thoughts and feelings, concepts and scenarios that reside inside me, along side me, abide my lenient, procrastinating ways.

An artist needs time. An artist flourishes with an overflow of non-commitment, excels at leisure, jerks at pressure, winces at expectations, scoffs at demands. Even from self. Leave me alone. If it's going to come out, it's going to come out. 

Who gives a shit about ambition? It's a fucking joke to imagine that you gotta strive for success. Fuck success. What we want, what we need more than anything is authenticity. Is real. More real than ever before - felt, lived, experienced, conceived - and then, at the right time, in the right light, with the right intentions, pure intention - expressed. Like the birth of a new sun. A new universe. 

To be false in any way, to be motivated by anything other than divine inspiration is just chewing time. And chewing time is fine, practicing, partaking in things that humans do; no worries. 

But the real stuff has got to come from the source. And that is not on tap. That is not accessed through will or demand. That is given to the worthy few who have shed enough skins, who have suffered their share, who have practiced and practiced and practiced their craft until they become conduits. Conduits for a higher purpose. And that purpose is enlightenment. The advancement of human consciousness. A worthy pursuit. A rewarding escapade.

So, what of me and my books, I wonder. What of the hundred millions other meez, all thinking and feeling the same thing. Will we find salvation? Will we finally pen our personal, poignant, powerful tomes, the ones that reside inside us?

It does not really matter. Because if we don't, another will. Then when we stumble upon their works we can smile and sit back in comfort and glee, content with a reflection of our own inner voices that while not a splitting image, is damn close enough. Yeah, we can all relax, you see. Whatever needs to be will be.

Steve Smith is a Bondi legend. We've known each other from around North Bondi since the early 90's. You'll always see him painting a wall or a sign outside whatever new joint has popped up in the area. We worked out yesterday during a chat that he's probably responsible for about 25% of the painted signage in the much loved beach suburb over the last three decades.

I bought one of his paintings from the Mori Gallery in Sydney back in the 90's and it's one of a very few I have ever purchased. Usually I'll do a swap but in Steve's case I didn't feel that suggestion to be appropriate (although he possibly would have said yes), plus I happened to have the spare cash at that time (a rare thing for an artist). It was a good investment anyway, having tripled in value. 

In a word, Steve's art is trippy. It is populated with eccentric characters in eerie, post apocalyptic, dreamy, carnival scenarios. There's a mixture of dark humour, social commentary, playful provocation and wild fantasy. His style is detailed and accomplished, a kind of realism in a stylised comic book form. 

His output is prodigious and his work ethic is strong, matched by his natural talent, great colour sense and steady hand. His large pencil drawings are also extremely impressive.

As an artist, a decade or so my elder, I have always admired his dedication and devotion to his talent. He'll come home from a long day sign writing or painting on a film set and get straight into a session of painting or drawing of one of his own new works.

His personality is vivacious and gritty. He's been around the block more times than most and he'll be the first to admit that the fact that he's still around is a near miracle. For myself and many other of his friends and followers from around Bondi and beyond, it is always an enriching pleasure to bump into him (on his pushy, usually, or up a ladder) and share a few moments with a man of great character and experience, rough around the edges and not afraid to speak his mind, but with a heart of gold.

(Click on the image to see some more of his works.)

I remember in high school when I saw the reading list for the upcoming year at the start of year ten or eleven that it included James Joyce's Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man. 

I got a little bit excited, thinking; this could be good. Surely a young artist is going to do some wild and crazy things. There's got to be some controversy and fun stuff. Maybe I'll even get some insight into the creative mind.

How wrong I was. It was truly disappointing. Boring with a capital B.

Cut to present day, I see a link on facebook to a page with the title, The Ten Stages of the Creative Process. Worth a read, I thought, and massaged mousey's shoulder to click and open. It wasn't great. No soul. I didn't even finish reading it. Drivel, essentially.

But it did get me thinking - I can write a better list than that. So here it is. I changed the title a little. And the content is completely different. Not a single point the same. I wrote down my ten points first and then filled in the blanks. 

Creating something is an exhilarating, rewarding process. It involves an array of feelings and processes. It is a synthesis of multiple procedures interlayed with emotional and cognitive ups and downs. What is that process? Can it be explained? I don't know for sure. But I will try...

1. Initial impulse

Who knows where they come from. They pop in to your head and buzz around like a wild bee. They flick on like a spotlight in an abandoned dance hall. They fly out of a drainpipe and soar skyward at full flap. They make have lineage, they may make know sense at all. But when you get them - the burning, crackling, electric first notions - you feel a zing. It's like feeling the pull of a fish on your line. It's a big one! Stay cool.

2.) Further thoughts

Once you realise that you are onto something good, you stay with it and mull it over. Might be for a few minutes, hours, days or weeks... depending on the size and scope of the project. You give it further thought, venture down different tracks, consider potentials, options. This is an enjoyable stage because anything is possible.

3.) Consideration

Now. Is it really worth doing? Is it worth the time and effort? What is really involved with getting this project from idea to finished piece. Would you be better off spending the time on an existing project or a different idea? Some ideas burn bright but then don't have the fuel to last to conclusion. Some ideas are out of time. Sometimes they come to early, sometimes too late. Some are simply not worth the effort. But don't judge too harshly.... it might be worth hanging on, testing it out further.

4.) Ideas pinging

You are going to give it a shot. Now it's about what is going to really work. What you need to do to give it your best shot. You are excited and ready. The ideas are popping. You're inspired, motivated. This is another great stage. It's the height of the foreplay. After this, the pants are coming off.

5.) Realisation

Action time. You are into it. It's about releasing all that conceptual energy. Letting it flow. Manifesting your truth. Making, building, sketching, writing.... piece by piece you construct your vision. Like Michelangelo chipping away all the bits of marble that are not part of the sculpture waiting inside the block to be revealed, birthed.

6.) Expansion 

New things come into play. It's impossible to anticipate everything. Improv is a big part of any great work. Using what pops up, throwing away pre-conceived segments that may have looked good in concept in the planning process but now somehow don't quite fit. 

7.) Consolidation

Bringing it all together takes confidence. And trust. Trust in self. Doubt is common. This is the stage where the unsure, those lacking commitment, conviction, have been known to give up. Eighty to ninety percent of the way there. So close. But so far. The last ten to twenty percent can be the hardest. There is no more whimsical behaviour. This is the serious end of things. This is where you tie off all the knots. You commit to your vision, you clarify, pull the threads all together. Pieces become a whole. It's a thing now. Birth has been given. There is crying involved in this stage. Pain and struggle are not unknown, either. This is where you face your demon and conquer them. 

8.) Refinement

"Kill your darlings," is how Truman Capote put it. For writers they must jettison bits they love, bits they worked on extra hard, bits they are proud of. They must trash anything that does not serve the story. Same with an artist, a dancer, a musician. It's not only about what is there. It's about what isn't. It's about empty space. Pauses. It's about allowing the viewer, the listener, the reader to fill in the gaps. Doing this part well is a learned skill. It's something that one truly gets better at with practice. It's difficult but rewarding. It's about aiming for perfection. It takes time. And sweat. But it's worth it. So worth it.

9.) Presentation

You've done it. You have completed the creative process. Well, mostly. You have done all you can do. Now it's time to present it to the world. Set it free. Share it. Show it. Sing it out loud. How it is to be judged should not overly concern you, for your job is done. If you are happy, that is what matters. But to not heed the response of others, too, is unwise. Every one is a potential teacher. Each can see or hear things that you may not. Listen and learn from feedback. Positive and negative. it's all the same.

​10.)Assimilation

The project is over. It's now history. It now has a place in your scrap book or worthwhile pursuits. A part of you is in it and it is a part of you. Look back on it objectively if you can. See what you have done. Feel proud. See the small mistakes. See what you would do differently next time. Don't be too hard on yourself. It will soon be time for the next great thing. You are lucky. You can create. You're a god. Small g, sure. But still. You're fucking lucky.

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

Maybe if Jimmy J comes back and visits the future, he will read this and rewrite his solemn tome with a bit more zing and zest. Maybe, he'll come back and visit and get so caught in all the distractions of modern life that he won't even get around to writing at all. One can only hope. The bastard took such a promising title and did it no justice. As an artist, I doth protest.

Hold grudges? Me? Still raving about and resenting a required reading book from forty years ago!

Now, that's funny. I raise my whiskey glass and propose a toast, Jimmy J!

To the tormented artist! Like I said; we're fucking lucky. Jimmy J? Jimmy J? He's passed out. 

Ultimately, that's what these blogs are. Written expansions and extrapolations of what is going on in my head. Probably only a few percent of the total is being recorded - but that is better than none. Also, usually it is a collection of the quality thoughts of the day. Why waste time writing down lesser observations, if more illuminating, enriching ones have occurred? But still, they are just one man talking to himself about what he is thinking, sometimes feeling/doing.

So, why bother? Well, good question. Why bother, why take up the time, the space? Because.... I am compelled. As an artist I am compelled to not only study and absorb as much as I can about others (especially interesting characters), but I also turn my dissecting, analytical gaze upon myself. And why not? I have full access. (Or think I do.)

It's not an ego thing, believe me. My ego - though at times certainly robust - especially around the 30's - is no longer a driving force or even a major consideration in my daily existence. It has been beat out of me. Life has battered it down, thrown it around and crushed it enough times now that it nows that it best just lie there and chill the fuck out. 

These days I run on other juice. Higher plane stuff. Not lofty - hyper spiritual, dogmatic, superior or religious - just humble, glad to still be around, the simple things in life are the best, nature and children are delightful, I hope I can get through today without stress kinda existence. Many of you will relate, I am sure. Life teaches us all the same lessons. We just learn at different rates. 

So these conversations with myself are something that we all do. I have just chosen to record some of mine. For amusement, research, prosperity's sake. I don't have a bank account to save money in, so I write a blog. It's a different kind of value. Someone expressing their truth. Someone connecting human to human without expecting anything in return. Someone expressing their limitations, their insecurities, their imperfections, their mundanity, their loneliness, their vulnerability along with their dreams and aspirations, their curiosity, their passion for play, for freedom, for truth. 

What I always wanted, really wanted from late teens on was to break through, to transcend normal boundaries of consciousness, to access the pure stuff, the essence. I had a thirst for knowledge and experience that was unquenchable. I listened to, read, watched any and every bit of other creator's outputs that I could access. What were they saying? Had they been able to go further? And how? I was inspired by some books, some records, some movies. They possessed elements that were juicy, inspiring, dark, moving, strange, unique. Each was a piece of a giant puzzle. A puzzle way too large to even contemplate putting together. Still, I collected the pieces in a ferocious frenzy. And in the meantime, I lived out the daily drama of my life. I tried to keep it simple but life is never simple. And in retrospect, I am glad. I learnt most from the the gnarliest encounters. I grew most when it hurt.

Now, I can see the bigger picture. I have placed many of the pieces into position. Of course, I am still collecting. Everyday, in fact. But there are not as many pieces available. There are some gaps in the picture that I know should be filled but I cannot access or find the pieces. I have an inkling, though, of what I am looking for. And more to the point, I am happy to finally be assembling something, something that makes some kind of sense. At least to me. Perhaps only to me. 

I won't try to describe it. In fact, I can't. Not yet. But I can create little pieces. Pieces of my own. My artworks, my daily comics, these blog entries. One day, they can be added to the bigger puzzle. They will fill in the final blanks. And then the picture will be complete. 

That's a while off yet. I know because I can see how much needs to be done. And knowing that I have to do - that I have a mission to create pieces of juicy, dark, inspiring, strange, moving and unique pieces - not only to complete my own picture but to help fill in gaps in those of the new seekers, other foragers, hungry freaks - to now know that things are coming full circle brings me great relief and satisfaction. I am a part of something. Something weirdly wonderful.

Hang on. Have I just been talking to myself?

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.

"Miles from nowhere
Guess I'll take my time
To reach there..."

Cat Stevens was a guiding force in my formative teen years. I learnt every word on the album Tea for the Tillerman and would listen to it (on vinyl; end of side A, flip it over and put the needle back down on side B, rpt - a process unknown to more recent arrivals on Planet E) over and over. So many incredibly soulful, meaningful, spiritual songs. All of them as relevant and poignant today as they were when first released in the early 70's. 

Father and Son
Wild World
Where Do The Children Play
Miles From Nowhere
But I Might Die Tonight
On The Road To Find Out

That's just some of them. I'd have a favourite for a few months and then move onto the next. As a rebellious teen, I didn't get any guidance from my parents or school. I was pretty much left to my own devices to work things out. Real world experiences, friends, a steady flow of books, and a few select albums. Cat was number one. He had it all - the inventive, pure, melodic music with the meaningful lyrics. Other faves were Elton John (Yellow Brick Road) and Jackson Browne.

"Be wise, look ahead
Use your eyes he said
Be straight, think right
But I might die tonight!"

Cat was an anti-establishment, anti-authoritarian guy. He seemed, in his mellifluous, calmly charismatic voice, to be talking to my young teenage self, saying, "you are right not to buy into all the bullshit, find your own way." Some of this I had worked out myself, it was innate, but having Cat back me up, with his wisdom, quiet charm and self assurance sure helped.

Tonight I made a simple video recording of myself reading my poem 'As An Artist'. It was a fun, one-take job, with a slapped on bookend titles. I've watched it five or six times and have thought about it.

I've also been watching some mid season episodes of SO3 of the HBO series 'Girls' by Lena Dunham in sequence. Man, it's excellent stuff. Drama. It's about NYC mid twenty year olds; relationships, work, daily life stuff. It's quality. 

I love watching great quality stuff like that. Mad Men is another favourite. Beats any movie by miles.

What I got to thinking is about my own relationship with writing (the main character, Hannah is a writer in the show) and life. On rewatching my poem I realise that it is pretty me-centric. There's a scene in one episode of Girls where a med student cousin of Hannah's complains about writers and how self centred they are and how everything is about them. Made me think. I guess it is true in some ways, but at least in my case, it's not an ego thing. It's more about observing and commenting on the species in general - and what better way than having complete access to the internal workings of an actual specimen.

What I mean is that what I find fascinating about being a person is how complex and unpredictable it is to be one. I could write about what I observe in others, but I would never know any one else as completely as I do myself. And what I try to do is to observe, consider, then report on the machinations of that person who I happen to inhabit. It's not showing off. It's revealing. It's not even really a choice. It's a compulsion. Not a bad one. A good one. It's an attempt to peel back the layers, to discover and uncover truths. Universal truths. 

That is what this artist's blog/journal is about. Recording stuff as it happens, around me and in my head. I do it for fun, but also to learn and to grow. I also do it because I have always enjoyed reading auto biographies: people sharing their stories. This is me sharing mine. As it happens/occurs to me. With whoever stumbles upon it. 

Welcome to a modern day stream of consciousness mix of Jack Kerouac, Anne Frank, Salvador Dali, Raymond Carver and Dr Seuss. (For starters!)  

 

As an artist
Uncertainty is certain
Just being is a burden
You wanna break free
Show the world how to see
How much better it could be

As an artist
Vision is pure
You search for your style
The obvious is obscured
By the crap you were taught as a child

As an artist
You yearn and you hunger
You are full of hubris and anger
It doesn't come easy, not ever
To enrapture you endeavour

As an artist
You strive for you own kind
Of perfection
It may look messy, insane
But they are your rules, your game
And nobody can tell you what to do
What's true
What's meaningful
Or necessary
Is that a cricket ball or a cherry?

Some days you hate everything
Nearly as much as yourself
Other days almost heaven
Somehow
It's going to work out
You tell yourself

As an artist
No lies
Except whenever
No limitations
On the number of limitations
Courtesy of society or self imposed 
You lack propriety
You jump on toes
Just to hear the crunch
A shot or a joint before lunch
Some days 

As an artist
You yearn to escape
You need to unwind 
The fucking jumble of gibberish
Awash in your mind
You wouldn't mind
If it wasn't so awful
You wonder what it would be like
To be normal 
Sometimes 
But not for long
You don't need to belong 
You don't want to belong
Now do you

As an artist
Your pain
Is everyone else's gain
Especially after you're gone
You'll be celebrated, idolised
Or forgotten
Who cares
You care
Stay strong

As an artist
You have no choice
But to do what you do
To follow that path to the end
And trust your intuition
That you vision will see you through

Today, at least
Your pain has been released
Onto the canvas
Down for the count
Breathless and speckled
Staring, mouth agape
At the new creation on the easel
A fresh image to appease you

It's easy
As an artist
To tell yourself anything
To sell yourself short
To yell on the inside
To inseminate and abort
In blindingly quick succession

And details too decadent to mention

But at least you have one thing
Of which you can be certain
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

As an artist

I don't have to tell you what that is
Now do I

Sitting here watching some old episodes of the tv show The Voice on my computer. I love the emotion of it all. I love how unknowns are given a chance and underdogs are discovered and nurtured by the professionals after they have passed the blind auditions and are selected on vocal merit.

Some of the performances are captivating and deeply soulful. Singers get to express their truth directly, through their voices. It is not something that can be faked. Honesty and soul shine through. 

What caught my attention is in the cutaway interviews, the judges talk about 'being an artist... '. What they mean is performing artist, obviously. But it made me think about visual artists. And the differences between us and performing artists, in particular singers. They make beautiful sounds straight out of their mouths, they enchant, enrapture, transfix and transform people. It is a very powerful talent. It runs so deep and is timeless and profoundly moving. A visual artist on the other hand, mostly labours alone, often in silence; feedback or encouragement is rarely immediate and sporadic at best. We spend years, playing, experimenting, honing our skills and craft, attempting to make images that will express our souls. 

A great singer can sing someone else's song and make it their own. A great artist can only make their own art. What makes a great artist is his or her ability to transcend the norm, transcend the limitations, restrictions, the expectations and create an image, or a series of images, that are so packed full of subtle power, so full of life itself that they cannot be ignored. To do this is extremely difficult and usually takes a long, long time. Devotion, passion, dedication and desire. Desire to journey to the edge of soul and gather up all the good bits, bring them back and throw them out onto the canvas in a act of pure mastery and magic. In it's own way it's just as powerful as an amazing song. Not as immediate, not as flamboyant or as attention getting, but just as moving, nonetheless. 

I've been seeing these images pop up on my facebook page over the last few days by an artist I don't personally know. They are incredible. They immediately move me, I am transfixed and intrigued by them. If I see in a book, or online, someone who's work I really relate to, I will sometimes check if they are on facebook and 'friend' them. Most artists, bless their souls, respond. We don't correspond, really, I just 'like' their posts of new works and vice versa. It's pretty cool and one of the things I dig about facebook. But this guy, the one I am referring to - I don't recall how I came to know his work or when I friended him. I kept seeing his works being posted over the last few days - so many winners! - these were awesome paintings, wow! Thick and fast. I finally went to his page and worked out that his loving wife was posting his stuff. He recently passed away. She wanted everyone to see the beautiful works he had been doing in the last few months, years. It was poignant and sad to realise that he will be creating no more. 

If I think about the feeling I get listening and watching a great singer doing their song and the feeling I get when I look at his works, I realise they both inspire me in different ways. A song, sung in a certain way can bring me to tears. These artworks, on the other hand, fill me with something equally as moving - not as immediate - but more esoterically, more subtly and in some ways, more profoundly. This man is not painting for an audience, he is not performing. He is following his calling, attentively, joyfully perhaps, recording in images his interpretation of the sensation and experience of being alive. He has left behind a beautiful and abundant legacy. I never knew him, but I feel like I do. And as a fellow artist, I respect and admire him for his talent and devotion. I thank him for his inspiration. Conrad Mecheski; you live on through your art, sir, and those of us who are priviliged enough to hear your unique, enchanting song exude from your gentle, complex, captivating images will continue to be uplifted and exhilarated by them for a long time. Thank you.

One of the joys of keeping an artist's journal like this is that there are no plans or pressures. I just start writing, whenever, whatever and let the flow take me where it will. It is oft times as revealing to me as it would be to anyone else. Of course, I have a more intimate knowledge of myself than anyone else, and yet, due to the complex nature of consciousness, psyche and psychology, revelations can and do still appear out of nowhere.

By now, although an amount of ego still remains (mostly dormant, reading a book in the shade), I act predominantly from other areas of self. These writings for example, although about self are not recorded in an attempt to elevate my self opinion or baste my ego. They are done as means of introspection and revelation. I use my self as a case study of sorts in an attempt to dissect and understand the nature of being human. I happen to be this person, so I observe him and make reports. I am glad to be him, er, me, because, if nothing else, as a specimen, I am unique and can be amusing at times. I mean; he is.

The other morning when I awoke, I got up and went online. I noticed how quiet it is, to sit at your computer and sample the internet. I realised that this is one of the things that I like about using my computer. It is quiet. Almost silent. Peaceful. 

A list of some other things in life I really appreciate:

solitude
serenity
as few demands or expectations as possible
freedom
self devised schedule
few time constraints
staying up late
sleeping in
commune with nature
library visit
reading time
thinking time
creative time

I have directed/constructed my days so that there is an ample amount of these things in each day.

My phone rings maybe once a week. This suits me fine. Even less would be better. I used my phone - a large screen Samsung Note 1, with a stylus to create artworks in a program called SMemo. An average of three hours per day which yields four or five new works. I create these works mostly in a cafe or at the library. Sometimes sitting in my car.

My car is from the 90's. It's small, rusty, rattly and lots of things don't work. But it gets me there. A nice car is something I would really like and I do spend a fair amount of time imagining the joy and luxury of owning a Range Rover Evoque, a Lexus or a new model Merc. These are fantasies akin to those that a hungry man on a desert island would have of unlimited access to a bountiful and succulent buffet. They get me through the rocky ride home. And still, I am grateful to have a vehicle that takes me to destinations of my choice.

I live from week to week. My income is at the poverty level. I have enough to rent the smallest room in a share house of four, buy fruit and veges for the week and put petrol in my car most of the time. A few times a week I will have a meal out, the average budget is $11. My favourites are the Sunday curry, which I eat sitting in my car by the river at sunset, the bean nachos from the tiny, rowdy small town pub which I eat while reading my book, surrounded by unruly, loud and friendly old school ockers and the mid week small pesto and pumpkin pizza at the RSL club, which I supplement with a generous amount of apple sauce from the condiments table. These simple treats give great satisfaction.

Although I would, of course, like to have more money to do things like travel, buy big canvases and lots of paints and update my technology (and the car), I am not willing to trade in all my freedom and time for it. I have lived for decades now with very little and have come to appreciate the glorious things that are free. Like the beach, friendships and family, exercise, creating, writing and reading. A characteristic of my personality is that I require a pervading low pressure zone.

In some ways I am a social outsider, living on the fringes, but truth is, it's better here. Society, mainstream society at least, although filled with mostly good hearted and well intentioned people, has some priorities, expectations and demands that are excessive, misdirected, unjust and antiquated. I don't feel like I fit in, so I stay out. Luckily, I am an artist, so I can do this. Compared to a more conventional modern existence, it may appear lacking, but it isn't. Like many fine characters I know, I can't do normal. And, hey, that's OK.