i don’t know where my pants are. christ… oh no…
oh man my mum is coming over… IF YOU KNOW WHERE MY PANTS ARE PLEASSE EMAIL ME OR DRIVE ME HOME. my knees
fkin COLD NOW.
this painting is as much mad boy in a paroxysm of passion carving heat fury and RAPTURE (in the end times sense that’s oh yes the sense the swell the sway the scent of the wind blowing paint on my face)
vast amount of mixed media on canvas.
i used a rake, broom hands elbows feet, a squirrel i found smoKing my damned cigarettes…
This is a major work. It is not only large .. but… more.. The surface is deeply textured – I used plaster, pastel, charcoal, oil paints, wood chips, flour, a small (well medium) bowl of muesli, pencil on some of the figures, and a toy chicken, life-sized, that has become bright orange and red instead of white. he isn’t in the painting.
he became a paintbrush, for a brief but, he tells me, deeeply satisfying period.
it had always been robert’s (the stuffed chicken) ambition to be used as a painting implement in a rash and careless manner. He also disturbingly tells me it aroused him and he wants to do it again. i dont have any more big canvases built… he keeps on giving me those beady chicken eyes… ALSO.. sand, dirt, grass cigarette ash, little bleach… and parts of the phone that my finance threw against a wall. (it was NOT me she was mad with. it would not have hit the WALL then.)
… and bitumen within the acrylic, though the figures themselves are in oils. The brilliance of the colour comes from using expensive sign-writers’ paints with chemicals in them that taste good on my cigarettes and smearing them around with my hands after mixing them up with all that stuff i mentioned earlier.
The artificial nature of the paints is over-ridden by the application of the paints and other paraphernalia…, in a sorta random mad paul-human-ish way,
layer upon layer upon layer (like a star wars fantasy.. anyone who gets this pun i will personally give a lightsaber.)
I suppose that would make the PROCESS organic and this may be time for me to finally end my life for using that word and suspecting myself of being a hippy…
the organic process denies the artificial materiel. and i got a sandwich i covered in toxins and didn’t care and ate it.
So. I have my cigarettes with the oil paint (it always seems to be something with cadmium in it that gets all over them, dunno why. I dont MIND heavy metal but not ALL heavy metals and it seems to be all the ones in paints…) I have my dark, violent music, and lots of books to read. I have my health…
I’m thinking of bringing out my own aftershave, maybe eau de turp’s, or cologne de cadmium, For men, when having a pencil in you’re hand isn’t enough…
This piece works, for me, anyway, like this.
No post-funeral sandwiches and small talk.
But but I do know, some things some, and the real answer to this mad roar of endless pain, is that there is NOT AN ANSWER.
I will have to have to have more shock treatment.
To survive. I don’t like dying. It hurts.
(living hurts though it hurts you right now it hurts)
I will have to trade my mind for my life for a while and, and,
WHAT KIND OF DEAL IS THAT??
EXCISE my personality remove expunge it – all my work will STOP
and sometimes it can hold my trailing pieces together close and it hangs me from sticky painty threads
I am on the cusp, a breath, a stroke away from something… some…
Velocity and density and why don’t I quote myself again why vain lunatic cripple why..,
HOW DO I DEVOUR MY OWN HUNGER?
come on come on come on listen to the SONG
3.2m x 1.9m
Available for purchase