b. Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia
email@example.com | firstname.lastname@example.org
“La Fee Verte” The Green Fairy Peering Into A Mirror
She is moving alone in his house, and everything is about her. They are camping, but far away. She comes from a plane that crashed on the mountains. These pictures are not pictures of buildings, but drawings. Drawing is sweet, buildings are sweet. But this building will never be built, because she chose to be an artist instead of an architect. They cheer every time they see a new word (the possibility of form) wherein body and language meet, then traveling through the mouth to extend from the lips and into enunciation. Let the ink drop, let it flow. From parts and wholes in addition to consumption purely for enjoyment. Maybe it depends too much on its original inspiration. They are not my preferences, so maybe I can contribute something different to the negation of the negation. The sea that thinks.
What are we, what are we longing for? Where does all the yearning come from, why are we doing this?
Boasting and trauma are two sides of the same coin. You have to stand outside the chaos to see its humor. When a disease turns all of humanity into the living dead, the last man on earth becomes a reluctant vampire hunter with an avidism for detail. Having recently lost my sight, I retreated to the safety of my home to regain control, alone with my thoughts and a pocket portrait of a pretend boyfriend eating soap - the inheritance of lye burns, check boxes and mirrors. The viewer has been watching himself all along, fascinated by the sadness of its own truth. See yourself as others see you in six steps. When the phantom disappears, more driven, anxiety prone go-getters substitute for the amputated phantom limb.
I am fiction, and you don’t even believe it. The warehouse consists of an incredible miasma of optical illusions within a story, in a story, in a story. Draw an onlooker or observer into the scene then let me sing, sing, about them. Desolate landscapes, and here I am, recording their surveillance. I just want the image to break up, to breeeaakk up, to dissolve. There is an alternative to everything, especially the hype unlike the deception of the hipster lure, grease lice and controlled untidiness. I want to shout in technicolor, immediately beautiful. I think in emotional lines and care for their theatrics - the swishy lines. Some work together in love inside a wattle hut while young at heart adults slurp on intoxicating kiddie cocktails and carefully plan foregone conclusions with an exaggerated sense of responsibility. These leftover sugar packets on my head have turned into a dragon with two crowns. I just stumbled into this by accident, because I wanted to possess his gift at conveying a consuming passion.
A life hinged on imagination and to start my own critical murder investigations with bathroom breaks.
I’ll send something if I have time!
Someone is alone in this city tonight, someone’s mother as a young girl. Pink is for girls, blue is for boys. Always a terminal hello or terminal goodbye. Cheap whiskey and black coffee. All night drunks and lost jobs, and the good times you can have with bad time boys. Illicit masks, untamed sexual prowess spraying hypnotic perfume into the night sky. From ordinary conventions to the real, perform. Divide the space evenly half and half, but often the materials seem to stray across the boundary and the revolt against quickly turns into the revolt for. Fooled by the hidden danger which sleeps inside all of us, shift your perspective and your past will change. The hotel has always been an anonymous, replaceable comfort. Temporary. Transitory. The order must be broken.
What if I ate only one type of food and how to dress for sex? Always these bittersweet berries on board building up around the eyes and the spray painted shadows on found paper. Lost messages posted on telephone poles, lamp posts and cafe bulletin boards. The egg, the womb, the head and the moon. Beach scenes with many mistakes and the sight of a very well dressed man acting silly. Exquisite insanity, become a good person. I try to do what’s right. Winning to lose, a winner by ego and greed. For a few dollars more, sad bastards reason away any attempt to make their life happier but the torment of self deception remains and grows.
The bread of life does not lie. The most meaningful life is reserved for the mavericks. Dirty, poorly dressed strangers in a strange land and their ever assimilating successors - who having reached the geographical edge of the Western culture, have nowhere else more to go. So I continue to dream and travel in memory between the psycho-spiritual mythical margins of the East and West through fragments of my inner dialogues.
I create artworks of metonia; holistic art as catharsis to help us connect to our true potential by opening up a clear conduit towards self awareness and self realization in light of mans fortitudinous audacity and foolish, visionary heroism. I use interchangeable minimalism in
collaboration with a buttheaded acappella group singing existential vocabularies. Birthed visuals that enable the universal ability for every person to connect through the suffering and joys of the human condition from the confines of their gated communities.
I’m a crusader for being yourself and loving yourself, but i’ve found it hard to practice. The hardest thing to do is to be true to yourself, especially when everybody is watching. Keep grounded. I believe that everyone and everything is interesting. Everything I create comes from my soul, inspired by my experiences. Part of what I’m interested in is how people who live anti-normative lifestyles contend with opposition; how to transform compliance to autonomy, etc. I am filled with doubts sometimes, but I will go on. To be resilient in mind. What seemed desirable and achievable was already impossible; I now work to let go having found a conceptual grasp of something so eternally true and deep inside.
Become your dream everyday.
Live fully from meaning and heart.