'Don't be ashamed because you are a human being, be proud! Inside you is an endless series of strong rooms, one after another. You never come to an end, and that is how it should be.'
                                                     Thomas Transtomer, Roman Arches

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So, I was in the waiting room of my psychologist, standing, staring out the window, as I do, feeling calm and looking forward to our sessions, when a guy I know from poker appears. We greet each other with a g'day, a few words and a smile before my counsellor calls me in to her chamber. "How did it feel to see someone you know?" she asked. "Fine," I replied. "It's like seeing someone at a juice bar. We're both here for something healthy..."

No stigma in my opinion. Interestingly enough, me and that fellow have always been open with each other and discussed relationships, past troubles, etc countless times. Two life veterans who have been through the wars getting some help - well, it just seems sensible.

I was taken to my first psychiatrist when I was just nine years old. I stubbornly refused to wear jumpers. Even in winter. I just didn't like them. This worried my caring parents, so they sought professional opinion. Makes sense. They were young, still in their 20's. The experience for me was amusing, interesting. I was on the look out for questions regarding my jumpers, but none came. There was a sandpit in the office. A good sign, I thought. The doc was relaxed, I was relaxed. It was enjoyable. I don't recall a single question. 

After that, I chose to see various professionals from about my mid twenties onwards. On and off. On my own and sometimes with my live-in girlfriends - usually at the tail end of our relationships. Worth the effort, still. 

I've always enjoyed talking openly and confidentially to a professional about what's on my mind. Unloading, sharing, exploring, testing the boundaries... There's a limit to what you can do by yourself. I've seen a few duds - one's who weren't up to scratch - but knew pretty quickly they weren't right for me and moved on. I have a clear preference for female counsellors. I just feel more comfortable. And I appreciate a woman's perspective, insight (in general and during counselling).

Mental well being is an important thing. No matter how lucid, well adjusted or strong we believe ourselves to be we can all use some feedback, guidance sometimes. It's imperative. It helps. At the very least, a good hour session will clear your headspace for some new stuff. At best, it can be clarifying, insightful and uplifting. 

It's common to get into a mind loop, stuck in a (unproductive) groove, find yourself losing the battle with an unhealthy habit, stagnating in a going-nowhere relationship. Times like these especially, it's imperative to reach out for professional guidance.

I've always found that they don't say too much, really, they just let you talk and find your own way to a realisation, a clarification and a solution. After all, we humans aren't that different from each other, essentially, and follow similar patterns. If there is a way into the corner, there's a way out. 

My brother Mook sent me this picture of a parking lot in Tokyo yesterday. In it's place, up until recently, was Roppongi Square Building. RSB housed five or six nightclubs, a tiny cafe and a sprawling, ground floor game centre. I spent much of my youth in that building. 

I was a regular at the cafe, afternoons, after school, I would ride my motorbike there and hang out with the cool twenty-something Japanese dudes drinking coffees and puffing away on Seven Stars. I was the only foreigner there, somehow I had been admitted into the congenial gang. Sometimes we would saunter into the game centre and play the latest low-tech, novel amusement machines - bingo pinball. 

I had completely forgotten about playing these machines but suddenly I was reminded how much I loved playing them. They were quite difficult to master - many decisions and stratergies and also ball control with gentle tilting and jousting with the machine. I wish I could play it again. Right now. Getting the ball down to 23, 24 and 25 - sometimes crucial -was a major task and then navigating it into the exact number you needed to line up your bingo - well, when achieved was an ecstatic moment.

The game centre had plenty of electronic games, of course. This was mid to late 70's, so it was all about Space Invaders, Mission Control, Car Driving Games, Pac Man and the like. During the day, on weekends, my brothers, Mook and Rich, and I would go there, if we weren't in Shibuya - which offered more great games centres PLUS pachinko (upright Japanese ball bearing game) PLUS movie theatres with the latest releases. 

At nights the Roppongi game centre was very popular with post dinner visitors and pre and post disco and nightclub revellers. I can smell and feel the boozy, smokey atmosphere right now. Even at their rowdiest, Japanese are quite contained and always polite. It was an awesome place to grow up on so many levels.

And many levels is what RSB had. My favourite discos - Nepenta and Giza were housed there. I would go there at least one night a week. I had a three piece suit and cowboy boots. It was the disco heyday in Japan, Saturday Night Fever created a frenzy and nightlife boomed. I had so many experiences there, across the threshold, that I plan to write a book about it one day soon. I saw things, did things, was immersed. I grew up there. From kid to seasoned night crawler. Roppongi nights. Like no other.

We lived in Nishi Azabu. Our modest home was positioned right in between Hiroo Station and Roppongi Station on the Hibiya Line. Before I got my motorbike and started riding to School, I used to walk down to Hiroo (pictured above) and catch the subway and two trains to school. In the bottom right hand corner of the picture, downstairs, B1, was a tiny black leather, atmospheric cafe called Eruza. But everyone called it Comos. It was where the girls from Sacred Heart International School would go after school to hang out, drinking brews and smoke. A few of the boys from my class would go there after school also, arriving around 45 to 50 minutes later with commute. I was lucky to live close by and would almost always be part of the last group to leave around 5:30 or 6. I could just walk up the hill, Zaimokucho, to get home from dinner. It was the most education I got, down there in that dark, moody cafe. The banter, gossip, information exchange, romancing and friendship that were created and nurtured down there were priceless. 

Even at the time, I remember feeling so lucky and grateful being able to have such a valuable after school outlet for personality exchanges and general youthful exuberance and conceptual rebellion. We smoke ciggies, drank iced coffees, told stories.... there were tears, uncontrollable laughing sessions, serious arguments. But we were cohesive. A core group of about a dozen girls and half a dozen guys. My best friend, Jenny, a Hawaiian girl, was a cheerleader, sports star, academic achiever and very friendly and popular. She was an essential part of my belonging and maturing. She was very kind and beautiful on every level. We never dated. She went out with my friends and I went out with hers. The friendship was more precious, too precious to risk loosing. I was, even back then, in some ways an outsider, a joker. I had long hair and would risk getting in trouble at school if it meant getting some good laughs. In fact, I remember more than a few times, being suspended from school, and riding my motorbike to Comos, spending the day hanging out there reading one of my ever present paperbacks, waiting for the girls to arrive. Jenny would see me there already at three and know I had been mischievous. 

She was equally as playful in spirit but managed to avoid reprimand. We shared a love of fun and people. Her acceptance and embrace of me got me in with the rest of the girls, too. (I was 9 months to a year younger than everyone in the year.) There was a Texan, a Korean, some Japanese American halves, a Brazilian/Japanese at the core. I got close to them all and learnt SO MUCH from them about the workings of the female species. Many times, it was just me and the girls. I would just sit back and listen, absorb, throw in a joke now and then or answer a query, as best I could, about my own gender. It was almost like being a spy. But I never betrayed their confidence. Not once. I had too much respect for what I considered in many ways to be the superior sex. They were certainly more mature and wiser. Plus, they definitely looked and smelled better. I loved being around those girls! I think I kind of knew how lucky I was but tried not to make a big deal of it. Looking back now, I realise I was REALLY lucky. Insights gained then have taken me far in relationships and in generally understanding and appreciating humanity.

Ah, all these memories from a picture of a parking lot. They pulled down the building of my youth but they can't touch the priceless and golden alter of my friendships and experiences.

It's interesting. I have noticed something. Over the past six weeks, I have been spending my art hours doing portraits. No other imagery - just pictures of faces. I have been doing an average of four a day and have done over 160 of them. I have had a period of faces-only before, a few months ago, when I did 80 of them. This time, I wanted to do outdo myself and I have. 

I have always loved drawing faces, starting from when I was twelve or thirteen. I would copy them out of comic books and magazines. They hold so much life and energy. Each one has a personality. There is lots of mood and so many ways you can take a portrait and portray a person.

The thing is, and this is what I have noticed: since only having faces to chose from as my daily output, I have been posting significantly less often on this artgetsmehigh blog. Often I would drag and drop one of my daily artworks and just start writing in response to it - a meditation on something, a poem, a memory... but with the faces, I am not so inclined. They do not encourage me to respond in the same way. 

I do enjoy doing them and looking at them afterwards, as well as seeing them all lined up together, but they do not spark the same response in me that the random pictures do. I'm going to curtail my face marathon soon, I think. Maybe once I hit the 200 mark. Or maybe it's too late and I am too hooked in. 

Addicted to face. 

Addiction has to be faced. 

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!)  

 

When you take snapshots of yourself and select your favourite - what are you looking for? Are you trying to see/portray yourself for who you are or are you trying to capture/present a version of yourself that most fits your ideal self image?

Makes sense to do the latter, of course. But a selfie is just the cover. What really is important is what's inside the book. And what is equally important is that - this may come as a surprise - that YOU READ THE BOOK.

The book of self. New pages everyday. Some bits you write, others are written for you. All you have to do is record them. Some bits get erased. Some segments are abbreviated. Some are drawn out. 

What is your story, though? 

These days there are lots of book covers being flashed around but there is less and less content being revealed. Why is that? 

There's always so much going on that things like long, intimate conversations with lucid friends, meaningful connections, investments of time and energy in those in need, etc - have become less prevalent. 

Character. Personal morality. Philosophy. Discourse. Ethics.

In this money focused, ambition driven society there is less and less time for these things. Perhaps because the world has become so thick with information (and disinformation), in addition to entertainment and various forms of distraction (facebook, twitter, insta for starters), it is so easy to just drift along on a raft and never have to paddle or pull over to the shore and stake a claim or make a home. We are overwhelmed by complex systems, wheels within wheels; social, political and physical.

The world now takes it's own selfie, every day, every minute, every second. And we are not sure what to think. It is always changing! It's alluring, dangerous, stimulating, confronting, familiar and foreign all at once. Are we part of it? Have things gone beyond the point where one person, any given single entity - with their views, opinions, feelings, thoughts, outlooks - really matters? Is it all too much? Is the river now a tidal wave, a tsunami? Are we all just hanging on and hoping to land somewhere safe?

We take selfies to benignly assert our presence in the modern day. Look! This is me! Having fun, acting cool, being silly, sexy, wild! I exist. I am living the life. Whatever that is, at the moment. Don't ask. Questions make for discomfort. Questions stir things up. Especially questions we avoid asking ourselves. Those ones. The ones we are not sure we are even equipped to answer. Why bother? It's easier to just float along from day to day. Things will work out. 

Thing is - who are you?

Don't you want to get to know yourself? Look at yourself? See what you are made of? Get to know your true essence? 

If you do, you can, and you won't regret it. To find, you must seek. And the answers will only come once the questions are asked. And no one is going to do that for you. Not once you are an adult, anyway. It's your responsibility. In some ways, it's your primary one. To get to know yourself. Beyond what is on the cover. Beyond the presentation. Open the book up. Look inside. There is a world as grand and magical as you can imagine. There are things there that might make you uncomfortable, even fearful. But the truth is there is nothing to be afraid of. It's all you. 

And you, my friend, you're a flawed and complex, sentient being. Just like us all. Do not judge or condemn. Accept and embrace. Discover. Uncover. Allow. Once you can do it for yourself, you'll be able to do it for others. 

What does this mean in real terms - beyond the new age slogans? I don't know. It's different for us all. What I am saying - to myself, really - is that there is a need for more substance, more fibre, grit, integrity. What good is it to simply exist, without allowing your character to grow, to be revealed, to be celebrated in essence? Why not at least try to sort through your shit and dust off your dreams, pick up the book you have neglected and start to make up some stuff that you will proud of one day. Make a story, live a story, that you want to read. It doesn't matter what the fucking cover looks like, it's what's inside that matters. We want laughter and tears and meaningful, wonderful events to occur. Substance. You hear me? 

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.

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....

I really should be writing here more often. Because everyday I have revelations and interesting thoughts, dynamic mini-conceptual-breakthroughs. And yet... and yet... I let them come and go and many go unrecorded.

Why? Am I being lazy? Neglectful? Some sort of sabotage? Not sure. 

There is a bit of laziness. Like - I don't need to write it all down. There'll be new stuff tomorrow. If it's really important I'll think it again... etc

BULLSHIT.

I should be keeping an updated log. It's my job. I'm a poet, a writer, an artist, a philosopher. If I become too lax in my journals, well... well... the progression will be too staccato. Some important revelations may be overlooked, slip away. 

Sure, no great loss to humanity, but a shame, nonetheless. For who is to say what is important and what has an effect and what that effect may be. My job is not to second guess those kind of things. It's just to do what I have set out to do in this blog and record my truth, un-edited, freely, unselfconsciously. Then, let the words do their thing, go where they will, be whispers or screams, be heard and hindered or ignored. Be laughed at or with. Not my concern. I am simply the conduit.

My life is lived differently to many. I am a solo explorer. I spend an inordinate amount of time with my self. I use the time to create art, just to be, to observe, to experience being alive, to witness and assess the human condition. I pay close attention. I am my own guinea pig. I am the scientist and the subject. A living experiment. Ongoing. So I must write the reports! I berate myself.

So what's the AMAZING thoughts from today? 

Er, I've forgotten. Ha ha ha. 

No, let me think. 

Today was about trying to balance the mix of inner world and outer world. As our perception, our concepts, our beliefs are the filters through which we perceive the outside world, every experience is subjective. There is no truth. Just versions. So when I go out, like I did today - to the cafe (flatwhite and new artwork!), to the shops (slippers!), to the beach (bodysurfing!), to the pub (poker!) - what I am really doing is using the existing structure of reality to comfortably fit into my idea of how I want things to occur. 

And I'm happy to report that, apart from not winning at poker, it was quite successful. I did notice that along the way, various small things did stress me out and as best as I could and as swiftly as I could I made an effort to quell these moments of unease. They were only trivial - a lady parking her car too close to mine unnecessarily - a guy at poker taking forever to shuffle as he crapped on with some uninteresting tale - as examples - but I noticed the mini spikes in my serenity and attempted to limit their amplitude. 

We all seek, desire peace and comfort. We want to belong. We want to feel at ease, unthreatened. This is basic. Beyond that we want some excitement, some joy, some attention, some love.  We're all the same. But different. Different needs and expectations, different perception and behaviour. 

All you can do is try and streamline your own life experience to best suit your true, individual self. And who is that? It's an evolving thing, of course. Be to fully know yourself, you need to pay attention. And more than that, you need to consider things and make modifications. 

Having said that, some choose not to at all. And that can be valid, too. Who am I to say? My personal quest is to find meaning and substance where I can and then share it. With a joke, an essay, through images or video. Whatever is at hand. 

Which brings me back to the starting point. The reason I need to be more consistent with this blog is because if it is going to be worthwhile - then it's up to me to make it so. I can't predict what will come out. But I can make the effort to begin with the first few words  - whatever comes - more often. And, so, I will.

I did this artwork yesterday, then conveniently dreamt I had a horse just this morning. He was big and wild but we got along well and he was very friendly with me. It was in one of those funky dream landscapes, vividly real at the time but on contemplation afterwards, lacking definition. It was in an urban environment and there were plenty of other people with horses. For some reason, he didn't want to come in contact with the other horses, so we went down a big hill.

Any amateur psychiatrists in the house?