Art, and the Necessity thereof.

I can't tell you where exactly the thought came from, or if it actually came from any one thing in particular. I suppose it's merely been festering in the back of my mind for a series of time not actually being verbally expressed...until now.
There's something incredible about spending every hour of every day in a college art department--intertwining my life with those who are so incredibly devoted to a passion that most likely will not even put food on the table. I'll make a blatant statement and say, people are amazing! There's an incredible amount insight that the creatures of the World of Creation have, and I've come to accept the fact, much to my pleasure, that those insights are limitless.
The reason why I bring up the members of my art family relates particularly to my festering thought. I feel as though a career should be something meaningful. Something that contributes to society and creates a legacy for the worker, whether as great as being a CEO of a major company, or as simple (but just as important) as being the provider for a young family. But passion is also important. So important, I dare say it rules the very work we do(except perhaps for self control/motivation. But it's much easier to do a good job when you're excited about your work).
Therefore I beg the question, Is Art Necessary?
Pleasurable, yes! A luxury, most definitely. But is it necessary? Does it contribute to society?
The reaction I received and will now share with you is the answer my fellow students proclaimed to me as I asked them this formidable, question.
YES!
Hah! Typical. Of course they would jubilantly answer without a moments hesitation. Of course they would proclaim without a thought or question as to why this particular question was being asked. Strong willed art lovers!
Alright, smarty pants. So why?
To my surprise, the main point that my two friends focused on the most was evolution. The fact that without art the human race would be extinct, ruined, basically back to the stone ages unable to progress . HECK YEAH! I loved the idea, but I probed further.
How's that?
Consider....well, everything. There is not a man made thing that has been created that has not been designed by someone at some point. Yes, design is apart of art. The formulation of the idea, the process which it goes through until it is desirable and then the process by which it is created. Art.  Art is in everything all around us. The handles of our doors, the chairs we sit in, the architecture of the houses we live. Our clothes, our hair, the cars we drive, heck, the obvious things. Music, television, movies. Art! Everywhere!
So, with so many things already created, why is my art relevant? It goes right back to progression. Something doesn't come from nothing. Everything we have influences each of us. Someone else's art is going to influence our own, and in return we will influence others. We will appeal to their sensibilities and cause them, in their own way, whether great or small, to create something of their own.
Point: Art is important. There would not be an incredible amount of artists in the world if that were not the case.
It is our primal instinct to create. The wise men or spiritual leaders of  ancient tribes were artists, viewed as superior and magical. Some believed that artists were possessed in a good way by Gods, manifesting the power of the Gods to create. I've also heard an analogy comparable to the not completely closed seams at birth (Clef lip, as an example). Artists, are perhaps the same way. Born without all of our seams closed, therefore our creations are the leakage of those seams from other dimensions and/or lives.

There. I have bestowed upon you the combined knowledge of my prodigiously wise peers. Depart with your knew found respect for the artist and remember that every man made thing you see was constituted by someone extraordinary.

Five Reasons Why We Need Art: http://speakartloud.wordpress.com/2010/04/23/41/

Why We Make Art: http://greatergood.berkeley.edu/article/item/why_we_make_art

Why Do We Create Art: http://painting.about.com/u/ua/artglossaryu/Why-Create-Art.htm

Sketchbook busyness and other news

It was made quite evident to me, via a good group of friends of mine, that having the same sketchbook for four years probably isn't the best thing. I didn't think much of it before until I made myself the goal of completely finishing book before Christmas break, and found, to my dismay, that I draw like a twelve-year-old.
I've been more enthused than ever to draw everything and anything I find even remotely fascinating(or something I believe I could make fascinating).
Since the break, I've filled over 40 pages in my new little sketchbook, drawing something just about everyday. Yay! I can already tell see the progress and thought sharing just a few images might be fun.

 You know you're sketchbook is in good use(or really cheep) when it starts falling apart. I don't go anywhere without this thing.

 

 One of the fundimentals of sketchbook is the fact that, if we see a good composition and/or picture/draw etc. we record it. This was the cutest picture ever that I spotted on Pinterest.

 

 I had forgotten just how much I LOVE charcoal. This medium just sings to me. The marks I can make are amazing and the contrast is mind blowing. Love it!

I've been reading a book of Fairy Tails lately.  Randomly, when I'm reading along, an image will pop in my head. This one is from The Goose Girl, however, it's not necessarily accurate with the story. I fancied a different story from the one I was reading and this is the picture that was produced.

In the original version of Hansel and Gretel(Grimms version, at least),  Gretel calls over a duck to help them cross a large stream that is too deep for them to wade across. Hansel looks quite distressed in this image.

 This lovely lady popped into my head randomly one day as I was daydreaming (an extremely useful past time which I should try and initiate into my life more). I'm pretty sure she's disproportionate, and the window needs a lot of work, but what ev.

This is a lovely picture by Andre Kohn. The line quality in his pieces were mesmerizing. I couldn't help but copy.

During Christmas dinner we were fairly board sitting at the kids table away from the heated conversation of the adults. A friend of mine and my niece and I decided to entertain ourselves by suggesting things for me to draw. This is one of the products of that. An old dragon with ram horns and bat-like features.

 A quote pictured along with an immage from EH Shepard's original artwork of Whinnie the Pooh. (I believe this is floating around Pinterest)

 Some fantastic illustrations I found on t-shirts from the website threadless.com




In other news. I have some fantastic new frames on some of my older paintings. They're looking super fancy now.

The boy, the room, and the meaning thereof

This was quite a confusing dream I had a few nights ago. I dream a bit differently than others and this time was no exception. As I described the details of this dream to some peers of mine they suggested I make it into a book/short story.
That's exactly what I did.
The meaning is completely unknown. Perhaps if you have any suggestions as to the translation thereof, send them my way. Otherwise, I'm at a loss.



 

You are a young boy, perhaps seven, with musty brown hair ruffled by sleep, adorned in a blue and white striped nightshirt and pants, perhaps a bit too big. You have a name--it’s a very lovely name but that’s not really what’s important. What matters most is the room. You are far away from home, far away from the warmth of your bed. You’ve been adventuring through buildings and dreams and fairy tails of your own making. You’ve had many a companion, young like unto yourself, and you’ve thwarted many a witch and stepped into rooms filled with the souls of lost children. And that was all nice, but it was nothing compared to the room.

A building towers into the sky, ripping through the air, sealing itself in the vastness above the earth; connecting metal with sky. You’ve never seen the bottom of this building and there’s a part of you that fancies the idea that it’s not attached to the earth at all--that it’s foundations are in the spires striking up at the endless blue sky. The architecture is unlike any you’ve seen before. Unlike some buildings that may have arches or spirals, this building is completely linear with solid metal polls running vertical through it’s expanse, from top to, well, where ever it ends. The building is rectangular in nature however splits into two rectangular spires at its uppermost levels, leaving empty space between the two reaches of building. Normally  you would assume that a buildings sides like this would be completely flat, but you’re fascinated to know that geometric domes were built into the sides of the building, giving it a most unique and esthetic look.

This strange, black, metal building is where the room is. Located on one of the corners of the uppermost levels, surrounded by windows, at least on two sides. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you remember the plants that grow within. Exotic, and green. Oh, so green! Unlike the usual greenhouse, this room is decorated in elegant tile. It looks as if it would have been a room to welcome guests into a luxurious and spacious building. If you remember right a glass shandalear hands from the ceiling, but you could just be making that up. It’s not really clear to you how these plants grow. From what you know of the room there is no soil, and they do not spring from the perfectly placed tile. Its as if the place where soil might be has been lost and the plants merely float, separate from the dimension where they receive their nourishment. Or perhaps you just haven’t been observant and there really are pots filled with rich soil on the ground.

Despite the importance this room is to you, you only stay for a brief moment, knowing you must find a witch who resides just outside the building. The two walls are covered from floor to ceiling windows, and you find a small one, which you can open and crawl from, pulling yourself out onto the side of the building. It does not surprise you that you do not fall, and you are able to stand easily on the side of the building, as gravity has shifted to accommodate you. This is miraculous indeed, but you’ve had many a strange experience it no longer shocks you, besides, how else would a witch live outside the building with no earth below?

You step over metal beams, your feet pressing against black glass as you walk, your eyes searching the area for the witch. You know she’s dangerous as many witches are, but it’s important for you to find her. The air around the building is open, and she appears to be no where in sight, but you know she’s there, hiding. As you scan the building you see glimpses of her as she dodges between hiding spots, enclosing herself in the air that surrounds the building. You don’t dare call out to her, for she is dangerous, and obviously knows you are already there.

Suddenly, you feel a malicious presence behind you.  Your heart automatically picks up and you catch your breath, turning and stumbling backwards, your heel catching on one of the protruding beams and you fall on your hind, but you don’t notice as your eyes are focused on the matted hair, pale faced, dark eyed woman. You could easily describe her hair as a bush of black and grey curls whish perhaps a few other things protruding out of the mass. Her cheekbones are sharp, too sharp, her cheeks sunken in and her chin too masculine. Dark black circles surround her black eyes as she stairs at you and suddenly you know from the expression of intense curiosity, that you will not be harmed. Not yet…

She speaks to you, walking around you slowly as if dancing upon the black glass, her bare feet taking careful steps around the protruding beams, though her eyes never leave you.

You reply to her question with the utmost hope that she will not be enraged, explaining, in a roundabout way of how you came to be on the side of the building. You lie. “I was lost,” you tell her, your heart flapping in your chest like a frightened bird.

An unlikely lie. She pauses, raises a dark eyebrow and speaks again, asking yet another question.

You swallow, and this time answering it with the truth. “I was on an adventure,” you tell her, “I ran through a long hallway with my two companions, one was a boy, like me, and the other was a little girl,” You pause, but she says nothing so you continue, not even sure if she’s still listening, “We found a room,” you explain, “I did not think I could go in, for only the souls inhabited the space and I am still a boy. But we went in.

“There were four children, two seated at each desk at the front of the room. The teacher was a witched—“ you leave out the part that about feeling as though the witch was familiar to you, deciding that it would not be a good thing to mention at this time, “—she asked me to a game to free the souls of the children. I agreed and we played.”

The witch, who had been pacing in delicate circles around you, her dark eyes staring at the dark glass below her feet, suddenly looked up as if something you had said sparked her interest. She then asked you a question.

“You see, there was a painting on the other side of the room. Periodically the string that was holding the painting would release and the painting would fall. However, it was possible to rearrange the hooks on the painting so that when the painting fell, it would always catch itself again on the hook. We took turns, arranging the hooks before the painting fell. It never hit the ground, therefore I won, but the witch was so enraged that she would not release the souls of the lost children and I fled out the side door leaving my two companions behind. That’s when I came here.”

The witch spoke to you more, accepting your story. As she spoke she took a seat next to you, placing her feet before her and wrapping her arms around her knees. She was quite ugly, you decided.

The conversation continued smoothly, though awkwardly, you think, when suddenly something you say makes the witch jump to conclusions. She immediately puts some distance between the two of you, throwing accusations in your direction.

You’re fairly embarrassed, for the accusations she makes puts images in your mind.

“No, no,” you try to explain, hoping to calm her, “I only have one passion. I do not wish to seduce you, for I do not want you. You see I have a room.”

You can see her rage begin to fall to a low simmer as your rebuttal has shocked and interested her.  She wishes you to tell her of this room.

You cannot tell her that it is the room which awaits on the corner of the building, so instead you describe it quite faintly.

She takes a cautious seat next to you.

You hold our your hand, cupping it in the shape that one of the domes hold and in your mind, as you describe the room, you imagine plants bursting fourth from the glass of the dome. You describe the fact that the room has many thriving plants but does not have the situation which the plants can live and that the tile, like the black glass of the dome is elegant and does not appear to belong in a room full of plants, but is there anyway. It is as if the plants owned the room.

Suddenly, the witch jumps to her feet, her black eyes widen in rage. She knows you are speaking of the room on the corner. A shock of fear and regret stings your chest as you watch the evil crooked creature dash towards your room in a screaming rage. You run after her, your feet pounding on the glass, desperate to calm her as you watch her drive into the glass windows shattering them as she hurtles into the room. You climb in as well, avoiding shards of glass on your bare toes.

Your feet are about to hit the tile and you know she is about to do something awful to your room. Perhaps she will set the room ablaze, burning the beautiful flourishing green plants. Perhaps she will shroud it in so much darkness that it chokes all of the life and color out of the plants and tile. You can only imagine…

She is about to destroy the room when a small brown rat scuttles out in front of her and begins speaking to her in a croak of a voice, like that of someone who’s smoked too much Tabaco and is speaking through a narrow tube. You’re a bit calmer now; your panicked attention also adverted by the rat with the human’s voice. As you take a closer look, you see that a small twig with leaves is growing from the rats eye as well as other parts of his body.

Then, you remember. The witch had taken the soul of a man and sealed it in a pin, then she had take that pin and pit it into the eye of a rat. As the skin grew around the head of the pin, completely engulfing it, the twigs began to grow from the rats body, producing only two sad green leaves.

As you remembered these fine details, the rat convinced the witch of something, and she immediately disappeared, too your great relief.

The rat then turned his attention to you, and you are silently grateful to the strange creature for distracting the witch and saving your room.

The rat begins to speak.

“You are in grave danger,” it hackes. “You are about to morph into your second life,”

For a moment you are confused, but then you remember periodically morphing bodies and living as another for a period of time, taking on a life that also continued to live even when you were yourself.

“Your second life has continued to live, and he has gained a disease of the fingernails,” the rat described, “it is spreading and it is killing you. You will morph soon and you will die.”

You feel your temperature drop and your mouth becomes very dry and itchy.

“What do I do?” You ask, already feeling the transformation taking place.

You imagine the rats expression looks mournful, “there is nothing you can do,” he wheezes.

The sun dropped and suddenly the room became very dark. The brilliant colors in the plants and tile loosing their shine. A very old man, ancient, big boned, and skin that sagged from his bones appeared in the corner, or perhaps he had always been there. His big wrinkled hangs rested one on top of the other on a straight wooden cane.

“You have but one option,” his voice was old but strong. He was obviously wise. You approach, feeling the sensations of your right arm beginning to weaken. “You will change lives and you will die, but perhaps there is something you can do.” He looked down from under his big, sagging eyebrows at the little rat, who seemed to catch the silent communication.

“There is a jar of dirt on the cabinet next to me,” the man explained as the rat squeezed itself into a gap of the small cabinet. “Hurry and spread it on the ground in a half circle.”

You do so, taking the small jar, reaching in and retrieving only a handful. You let the minerals fall from your fingers into the shape of a half circle on the ground, your hands beginning to shake. You’re too young to die. You used to have two lives, now you would have none. What would happen to your body?

“now,” the boom of the old man’s voice catch your and you quickly notice the sting of tears forming in the corners of your eyes. You shove them away, focusing. “reach into the cupboard and retrieve your arm.

Sure enough, as you had began to transform, your right arm had slowly began to shimmer and eventually disappeared. You open the stiff cupboard and poke your head inside. You see the rat at one corner, and he points to the other side.

You look.

The arm has been severed from just above the elbow. The fingernails are grotesquely discolored, and the skin of the arm is beginning to swell and distend. In the dim blue light you can see dark shapes of bugs scuttling over the flesh. They scatter, fleeing as you reach your arm in and grab ahold of the limp limb, retrieving it.

“Put it on the pile.” The old man directs.

You obey.

Suddenly, it doesn’t matter any more. Suddenly, you don’t remember that your end is almost near, and that your body will become like that of the distended diseased arm. Suddenly, the man and the rat at the blue cabinet loose interest in your mind, and you stand turning around.

Mesmerized you slowly step forward approaching an alter of candles. The room is dark save for the golden shimmer of the plated metal up on which the candles rest. A harsh but beautiful red glow illuminated the room, giving it a rich, but deadly feel.

You must save her. You MUST save her. And to do that you must light all of the candles. Out of the corner of your eye you think you see a whips of a female figure, but you are too busy concentrating on the lighter placed before the alter. You pick it up, noticing how different it looks. Outlined in metal, a single square with nothing on the inside save a metal lever that when pushed down forced another lever upward, the force and striking thereof creating a flame. Despite not having an arm, you use your right stump, holding the lighter in the most impossible way, lighting it and putting the flame to the wick of the a middlemost candle. As you set to work, lighting the candles you see that the air around the candles shimmers and sparkles, and a part of you know, despite the beauty, that the air is toxic and dangerous. As you flick the flint and the flame appear igniting on the wick, the toxic air, floating around in pocket randomly begins to ignite, causing miniature explosions. You know it is dangerous to continue, but you do so anyway causing miniature explosions as you go. On about the sixth or seventh candle, a pocket of the flammable air ignites on your right shoulder, bursting into flame scorching your clothes and skin. You try to continue lighting but the flame causes more pockets to ignite, which causes more candles to light which ignites more pockets of shimmering air. With each explosion a pocket of air near you also explodes, one after another consuming you in flames. You scream repeatedly in fear and pain as flame and gas engulf your body.