re. from Posterchild

Hey!

Thanks for the kind words! I'm glad my work has helped inspire you to
make yours. If you have any pics I could check out, how about throwing
them up on the forum?

Take it easy,

Post

On Fri, Feb 13, 2009 at 2:02 PM, Canker Bane  wrote:

> Dear Posterchild,
>
> I am a fellow artist who sees the streets as a canvas, a place to display
> and create, not necessarily destroy. I want to thank you for updating your
> blog so regularly, for every time I visit I find myself inspired. The
> tutorials especially were very useful, not so much for how they explained
> but for what they explained. Inside I feel there is always this compulsion
> to create things, but as people we don't always obey these drive.
> Your work helps to catalyze these urges into something tangible, and again I
> would like to say I am grateful.
>
> Best regards,
> Canker Bane
>

My initial reaction regarding this reply?


Street artists are people too!

Within myself I find a compulsion to create, a compulsion that is both a feeling and a desire simultaneously. It has been present for as long as I can remember, and to this day I love how when fed, it continues to manifest itself in new, tangible ways.
Printmaking is currently my favorite form of expression. I love the stage of preparation, whether it be exposing a silk-screen or carving a linoleum block. It is relaxing and soothing, and offers me an opportunity to escape from the craziness of the world for a short period of time. When the preparation is complete, there is an always an overwhelming sense of satisfaction that swells after the first print is made, a sense of satisfaction that only grows after every print.
Recently I have fallen in love with Typography, which propels my love for Printmaking and has piqued my interest in the field of Graphic Design. Typography appeals to me because of its infinite possibilities with seemingly set resources – the letters and numbers of language. With these twenty-six letters and ten numbers you can create art and designs that evoke fear, sorrow, and joy – every emotion within the human spectrum.
Artists who are prolific and create things on massive scales inspire me. Viewing the works of Richard Serra, Posterchild, Robert Smithson, Rone, Barry McGee, and many other artists drives me to better myself and my art. How far I wish to go with my art, I am not yet sure. But I truly believe that it is always better to do something in and with life rather than nothing at all. There is nothing wrong with seeking the best.
The purpose of my finished art is to serve others. I take the time to indulge in it and be selfish as I plan and create it, but once I feel that I am finished the art is no longer mine – it is the worlds. With my art I seek to inspire, to instigate, and to catalyze those who experience it. I wish for my art to help people feel things they have never felt before, to make them think things their paradigm would not have normally allowed, and to spark action within their hearts. If my art achieves nothing and if the audience walks away with little more than exposure to something nice, I have failed. For then my art is useless, as good as wallpaper, and I and the world have no need for useless art.

randumb.

So I sent an email recently to Posterchild, thanking him for inspiring me. Let's see what happens

Today will be a fun fact Friday.
FUN FACT:
Whenever I sit in front of a computer, there are always specific sites I go to regularly just to download pictures. First, it was 4chan. I would go to the /hr/ board and download what appealed to me. The pro of 4chan was that things are created in threads, so if I see a thread I like I get lots of pictures around the same topic. The con of 4chan was that it was the cancer of the internetand possibly society and was destroying me.
Werd.
So now I use Ffffound. (Thanks C_ _ _ _ _ _.) And I am very very very satisfied. Very.
Why?
Because I actually like pretty much ALL the images. Sure, they're mostly art & design related. But I think that's super super cool.
(in case it wasn't already obvious, when I can't think of an appropriate adjective I just repeat basic ones.)

Something I found recently that I really like:

Yeeaahh!

Maybe one day Ffffound will link to here. That is a hope.

Parson's Challenge.

Morning.
Every morning I wake up and I have to do the exact same thing. I'm tired of doing this, every morning of every day of every week of every year.
I feel like I've lost myself in this flow that is life, and that the feeling is absent and now I'm not sure what is present.
My thoughts are fluid but they never remain on any one thing, especially I. It’s hard to believe that right now is the now, and everything happens.
Why do I find it so hard to find everything real?

Noon.
You sit there staring at yourself in the mirror but when you look away the moment is gone, and the reality fades away.
Your head turns back and your eyes lock once again, and this time things are different. Some thing seems to be clicking.
You take a moment to ponder but the enormity of the thoughts you touch upon overwhelms you completely.
You are satisfied though, that at least you’re getting somewhere.
You look forward to comprehension.

Evening.
He walked out of the room with a smile on his face.
Someone who wasn't familiar with him might have thought him crazy.
But that was not the case.
The smile on his face was one of satisfaction.

Casually he took a pen and drew a line on the wall, called his grandfather over and soaked in his reaction.
He sighed with a smile.
This was life.

Portfolio.

Austin
24x10 in., silk-screen on paper, 06/2008

Canker Sore
14x17 in., linoleum block on paper, 10/2008


Glasses
5x8 in., watercolor/ink on paper, 12/2009


Bing Bing
5x8 in., acylic/ink on paper, 01/2009

Spartan Legacy Shirt
10x15 in., bleach on cloth sewed on t-shirt, 07/2008

Blonde Redhead Love T-Shirt w/close-up of design
8x10 in., spray-paint/stencil on t-shirt, 11/2008

Cpt. Emo T-Shirt w/ close-up of design
10x15 in., spray-paint/stencil on t-shirt, 09/2008

Cliffs
11x15inc., collage on paper, 08/2008

Explosion
11x15 in., collage on paper, 08/2008

Waterfall
10x10 in., collage on paper, 08/2008

Wave
10x10 in., collage on paper, 08/2008

Whirlpool
10x10 in., collage on paper, 08/2008

Love story.

It all started six years ago, that morning still etched vividly into my memory. The rain poured heavily that day as it combated with the blanket of mist for control of the ground. The streets everywhere were empty as people sought shelter from the elements, and alone I walked through the gray city and strode through the curtains of water.
That’s when I saw her.
The dress she wore was a bright, rich red and shone in sharp contrast against the surrounding landscape. She sheltered herself with a bamboo umbrella and on her back carried a bundle swathed in burlap. She carried herself elegantly and cleanly, the only expression of life that dull morning.
You captivated me the instant I saw you.
But what you looked like, that is not important anymore. Only who you were matters.
I stood where I was in the street, unable to take my eyes off of her. She continued to walk and, without the slightest show of hesitation or interest, walked by as if I didn’t exist. Her umbrella shielded her eyes, but beneath it I could see her mouth and the faintest sign of a grin. Holding her umbrella steadily she walked through and left the town.
The next morning it rained as it had the previous day, and I walked the same route, my thoughts not on any one thing.
That’s when I saw her again.
The same actions were enacted out as if it were the same morning. She walked and shielded herself from the elements with her umbrella, and on her back was the same bundle. Again she just strode by, but this time I saw her eyes and together our gazes locked for a slight second.
These mornings continued for what seemed like eternity, but finally the rain let up and she disappeared along with it. Never had the two of us spoken a single word, yet I felt decimated by this loss. Those countless sightings of silent presence had become so much -- just the two of us in the world, aware of nothing else but each other.
When the rain stopped, people flooded out of their houses and buildings and the world came back into color. But I did not care. I only wanted to see her.
Years passed, and every morning when it rained I thought about her. I would walk into the empty street, and would look for her and her red dress, her dress that could never be missed in this drear, drenched landscape.
After enough time, any hope of seeing her again vanished from my soul, and walking out those rainy, empty mornings became just a habit – nothing more, nothing less.
Then one morning it rained particularly hard, and every drop on my face felt like a slap of admonition.
And that’s when I saw her.

---

Waves crashed against the small island, generating a roar that only intensified the current atmosphere. As rain poured down in torrential sheets and lightning cracked in the distance, two figures stood silhouetted against the chaos. They paid little heed to the elements threatening to overpower them, but saw only each other. The man had facial features like those of a hawk, and his very persona radiated the intensity of a born predator. His hair was short and his stance natural, despite the strength of the wind that constantly whipped against him and his coat, his calmness frightening. Both of his claw-like hands were empty, yet on his back he carried an unmarked, hard black case, which looked as if it could hold nothing other than one broomstick.
The woman stood opposite the man on the island, and from her stance and expression one gathered an aura of confidence and elegance. She stood clothed in a dress which flowed around her slim, athletic body. On her face, she wore a smirk but that was the only prominent facial feature which betrayed any emotion, as her eyes were covered by the bangs of her hair. As for the rest of her hair, it was tied up tautly in a bun and meticulously placed on the top of her head.
“We know each other well, don’t we?” the man said.
“After being married for over 15 years, I would imagine so,” the woman replied. “But you know why we have to do this.”
“I won’t give you the case. You know that’s not possible.”
The woman’s smirk grew into a grin, and she said, “Well I suppose I’ll just have to take it then, won’t I?”
From seemingly nowhere they both drew forth weapons with seconds and began immediately. The combat was intense, and they both felt the pressure of the situation. Only one of them would be able to leave this island and alive, and both were intent making sure that one wasn’t the other. The man had been concealing three revolvers in his coat, and began firing at a rapid pace. He would juggle the pistols, firing two at a time while a third was suspended in the air waiting for its moment. His technique was excellent, yet so was the woman’s.
From her dress she had withdrawn a long, steely sword which bore little emotion compared to her. She was clearly enjoying herself as she leapt forward and deflected the man’s bullets, cutting through them as if they were cotton candy. The woman approached and closed ground quickly, and within seconds she was in front of the man. She let out a grin, feeling victory close at hand.
The man had not dropped his composure this entire time, and this was no exception. Coolly, he blocked the woman’s overhead swing with the guns in his two hands, and as the woman’s delight melted away, he craned his neck and caught the third gun with his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
And with that, he jerked his mouth forward, emptying the contents of the revolver in the woman’s face. Her body twitched for a moment, and then slumped down slowly onto the man’s. The man caught her with his arms, and gently lifted her up. The woman’s face was the still the epitome of beauty, and displayed no shock or sadness whatsoever. With the woman in his arms, the man turned towards the sea and began to walk. When he encountered the water, he kept moving forward, and as the water moved up his body, he continued to walk. Soon, only his head was visible, and then, he was gone.

I just realized it's like "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" but the woman dies.
Oh well.