26 hectopascal pt. 2

Everything will work out, eventually. One way or another.

the point(illism)

They had put quite some effort into claiming their sunny spots in one of the few gazebos overlooking the little lake in the middle of Quinnsbury Park. For an hour they had been lurking around it, waiting for an elderly couple to leave together with their slightly obese dachshund, to run inside and sprinkle as much of their belongings around the place as possible to avoid the invasion of exhausted park runners, pensioners and school classes on trips with their overly eager biology teachers. They did so giggling and breathless like two primary schoolers who just snuck out of class a heroic half an hour early. A group of middle aged nordic walkers graced them with long, disgruntled looks before moving on to find an empty gazebo, or at least a bench without someone already feeding pigeons on it.

His contribution to the artifical chaos was an old, brown leather bag, two enormous bottles of soda and a stack of library paperbacks that was rather impressive considering the fact that he'd carried them outside his bag, balancing a tower of old, stained paper beings around crowded park walkways. She had brought several large sheets of thick cardboard, acrylic paints, water, a set of brushes and a museum guide of a Monet exhibition that was almost a decade old. She leaned on the rail figuring out a good spot in the park landscape to turn into a painting, while he picked up one of the book, only to place it in his lap and let the fading autumn sunlight wash over his features with his eyes closed. She was enthusiastically skimming the guide.

"I really can't wait to get started, even though I have a premonition that I will fail spectacularly," she said, propping up a cardboard sheet against a pillar and laying out her colours and whatnots. His mouth twitched into something akin to a half-smile. "You're like a preschooler right now, all buzzing and eager, and in an hour you'll cry noisily about how it turned out completely different from what you expected." She ignored his teasing, knowing he'd probably turn out to be right - again - and started painting. "I gotta start some day, I mean I wanted to try impressionism for ages now, and I think that's one type of painting I could actually master. It's more mellow than, say, expressionism and it's oddly satisfying to keep dotting the paper. My goal is to forge van Gogh's sunflowers one day."

He chuckled. "Keep that criminal energy coming, it suits you." She threw him a dismissive, albeit still good-humoured look and started painting, but he didn't see it - his eyes were still closed, and he was so completely still in the sun that if the breeze didn't move his hair a little he'd resemble a wax figure. The book in his lap remained untouched for at least an hour, and she only looked up from her cardboard and the landscape every now and then as if checking whether he was still there. She wondered whether his back didn't hurt as he seemed to arch against a pillar of their shared gazebo in a rather unnatural fashion, and whether he was actually asleep, even though she didn't think he was. This was of enormous interest as she kept allowing herself to indulge in the contrast of jet black hair and porcelain skin he happened to display on himself, and she wanted to avoid him catching her staring at all costs.

The painting was turning out weird. She placed careful brushstrokes side by side trying to create texture, but if at all, the trees and the lake looked like an awkward, sloppy kind of pointillism, rather than the swirling dynamic of an early impressionist she was trying so desperately to go for. Her annoyance started to show on the cardboard, resulting in even more misplaced strokes, until she angrily put the brush aside and let out an exasperated little noise. "Well, I definitely see something happen there. The artist started their work conscientiously, carefully, until their temper got the better of them," she heard him say. "Not quite what the goal was, but true art nevertheless." The irony wasn't appreciated. "Oh, you're impossible! Seriously, sometimes I wish someone would punch you for your self-righteousness, and I hope to God it won't have to be me, with my tiny bicepses," she almost hissed. But he only smirked at that, because just as he took the freedom to be cruelly insensitive, he didn't mind people being insensitive to him. "I sense outright aggression! Don't restrain yourself, the cardboard is your playground!" he exclaimed theatrically, moving out of the way of leg aimed at kicking him in the shin. "You suck," she grumbled, turning away from him.

He watched  her back with a grin. "I'll buy you ice cream," he suggested amiably. There was no response. He took on more comfortable position to sit and watch her trying to save what could be saved. "You know," he said after half an hour of silence, "that's what people are," nodding at the painting. "What, passive aggressive failures?" she asked, still slightly peeved. "Nah," he replied, looking at the little dots and smears of colour, "impressionist paintings. You don't ever get what you see, if you start looking closer. It's just dots, and dots, and between the dots, there's nothing." They sat in grave silence for a minute, the only noise being the swoosh of the brush. "Aren't you the optimist," she said finally. He sighed. "Come on," said, running his hand through his hair and standing up. "Pack up your stuff. Let's have De Daumier-Smith have his blue period and give it a rest for today. I'll buy you ice cream." She crinkled her nose. "Who's De Daumier-Smith?" she asked. He didn't reply.

pep talk

~Me to myself~

1. Okay, okay, I get it - life is hard. It's a goddamn bloody chaotic mess most of the time but 7 billion people around the planet are somehow coping and you should, too.

2. Remember how shitty things were some time ago? See, you made it past it, so why not get to grips with life in its harmless stage?

3. You had the opportunity to intern at a magnificent place, the people were wonderful, they didn't hate you and you have actual WRITTEN WORK published in an actual PRINT MAGAZINE, you gathered experience, you realised it's exactly what you had always hoped it would be. And of course it's a tough job area, it's not easy to actually get employed and not work your skin off as a poorly paid freelancer, but you MADE A START and that's something big enough for now.

4. There's not much uni work left. 1 1/2 term papers, an exam and your master thesis. That's doable. Go kick some academic ass, gurrrl.

5. You bought new running shoes, you're gonna enjoy going out for a workout once in a while. You can do this, you fat piece of lazy ass. (just kidding. you couch potato)

6. The quicker you get all of your uni work done, the faster you can go and actually do what you found out you like. Right? RIGHT?

7. WRITE THIS FUCKING BOOK. You've got the characters. You've got the story. You made seven zillion notes about random ideas and side characters and quirky shit to incorporate, you've got this. YOU CAN DO IT.

8. Your cat likes you.

the less i know the better

I fucking ADORE this song and I hope this illustration/ animation does my feelings justice.

Ein von some scallywag (@somescallywag) gepostetes Video am 22. Jun 2016 um 9:50 Uhr

future present past

Future: I gotta pace up my uni game, do some things and finish post-grad lyf. I'm also quietly brooding over a zine. I really am.

Present: My art needs some recalibration, I feel horrible about the amount of short-haired girls I've produced during the last couple months.

Past: There is a stack of To-Do-lists from pre-internship times flying around that eagerly await treatment.

cosmic screw up

There is a place for everyone in the universe who's here, because you're already here and so your place is exactly where you are. Hence, the question is not "Where do I belong?" but "How the f-ing hell do I deal with where I am?"

stalkie talkie

I oughta get into drawing comics, it's mega fun even tho a load of work, too.
You know what's problematic? When you feel like you're expected to figure out what you can do best. I swear I don't know. I won't even try. I'm a bit scared. A tiny bit hopeful, too, but way more scared and insecure.

PS: I did stalk your girlfriend on Facebook and she really isn't pretty. Your loss tho, I guess.

just a pique churr post

how do i turn all of this into my job, that is the big mysterious question

move along, there's nothing free to get here

I've been persistent in my struggle to draw a really julianny Julian and knowing my skills and limits I think this is probably as good as gets. This is both satisfiying and boring. I'm not sure if I will not look at this a few months later and think "ugh, gross". Maybe my next target/victim will be amazing Alexa - again. I'm so tired.
Or maybe I get more original in my artworks, or maybe I get a life. Because actually, instead of creating output, I feel more like pausing, taking a good close look at what I am and what I want to be, put those two in a pot, stir, add some spice, let it simmer and surprise everyone, including myself. That's super difficult tho, and it takes time I'm not sure I have. Let's just say I feel the urge to, metaphorically speaking, change the wallpaper at my place a tad too often, and tend to forget that wallpaper is just superficial decoration. I kinda wanna change, but I don't know how.

But I'm not always sad, I swear by mine honour! I will prove you some day soon.

electric chances

Two artworks I basically forgot to feature on here. Apparently I have a thing for dusk. It's the second week of the new semester and I'm too sad/ill to go to classes.

two pixel julians

I kind of can't get to grips yet with what my Wacom is capable of, and what I am...

untitled #20 (acid)

I'm not sure of what it is, that feeling that pushes me towards lives I've never lived, distant places and illusionarily perfected people. I live those lives more vividly than any real experience could ever make me feel. The shabby canvas of existence must be filled with shapes, colours, words and scents from a phantasmagoric world that one Jean Baudrillard* would scornfully eye, and say "I told you, the images are all you have left." And I'd shrug the guilt away, scripting yet another conversation that never took place. I'd think of you, and you, and be a teenager again, and I'd be up to be a better me. A better me with you, or you. Excitement, touches of shoulders and cheeks, immersion. No time wasted, no shallowness, no despair- just bright lights, lit windows, ads and smog sunsets. Life. I do wonder if this is how schizophrenia begins, but I do wonder, too, if schizophrenia is not the most desirable state of mind. One mind becomes a lot. Then a lot become none. I was never great in mathematics. I wonder where you are, and you. And they. And me. Where am I? Am I on that canvas, or is that ashen face that stares ahead blankly me? Or am I already - We? Turns out, language does not tell a king from a madmen. Maybe the majesty of self-made schizophrenia is that what pushes me towards lives I've never lived, distant places and illusionarily perfected people. Monsieur Baudrillard, please tell me: If the Real is lost, how is it that I am not yet allowed to loose myself, too? Dissolve in palm trees, streets, clouds and arms that We painted, paint and will continue painting on bleak canvas.

*Jean Baudrillard (1929-2007), postmodern french philosopher.

how to ..?

Here's my first completely digital effort on one Clementine Creevy, front gal at Cherry Glazerr. I don't know that much about her but I saw this photo and crushed on her a little. She's got that natural cool if you know what I mean- a sort of effortless all-falls-into-place-so-i-dont-really-care air (...bear. sorry). I guess you get that when you're a Los Angeles native, but maybe not. I hope to get there some day when I stop worrying, just be my careless self, feel chill about it and good about myself. Be where I want to be. Allow for some pastel colours to enter my life. Drag them in there, actually. Feel some clouds pass. Make music again. Grill some cheese. Breathe.

I'm already 23 tho.

the artist is asleep

Sometimes trying to be an artist is pretty hard. I always have the feeling that creating needs to be a controlled process, something thoroughly planned, but it never is because the lines I leave on paper are up to unpredictable things. They have their own mind and a pretty volatile nature. They curl and escape and deceive. Sometimes they behave, but most often they don't. 

What am I then, still an artist?

this and that forever

Have this portrait of danish delight & ICEAGE singer Elias Ronnenfelt- that's him in the 'Forever' video which I cannot embed thanks to various wonderful privacy settings on every stupid video on the web, but you can watch the clip/hear the song here.

Important questions to ask this week:

Where have I been? 
Just about everywhere I usually am, can't get my shit together but I swear, starting from today I'll try to post more regularly. (Can you believe this, I used to have problems with posting way too often when I started this blog? Where did I take the time from??)

Are there any cool new bands around that are, like, proper cool and original and exciting, and whose music would actually increase your will to live, and not drown you in a depressive void?
That's an actual question from me to you guys, I'm all open for links and stuff because if I listen to whatever is on my phone for one more week I will just dissolve into nothingness #saveascallywag

Should I murder Elizabeth Peyton?
No! That does not change the fact that she is the epitomy of almost everything I despise about contemporary art industry. Gal gets a spot at some fancy NY art college (probably wealthy parents), makes connections, paints a shit ton of GENERIC, PSEUDO EXPRESSIONIST portraits of rockstars and IT girls etc., that look like try hard fakes of Brücke or Bauhaus artists, that ANY advanced class art student could have done BETTER, and that EXPRESS NOTHING, and she gets exhibitions and recognition for what? - for making a ton of bullshit, with people mentioning her distinctive style. I'm sorry if she's anyone's favourite artist but there is NOTHING distinctive about her style, and NOTHING expressive or interesting or new about her paintings, and I'm just raging whenever I see her name mentioned anywhere alongside with the words 'renowned artist'. If you don't know who that is, just google and then cry together with me and Leonardo Da Vinci in heaven about what we've come to.

Should I get back to exercising/sort out my wardrobe/maybe consider washing my hair more often than once a week?
Yes! That might be unexpected (or maybe not) but I'm really, really, really, really focused on looks/appearance. This doesn't mean that Regina George is my role model, but I have pretty draconic ideals and if I do not conform to them, that's bad. I don't, right now, and I do feel bad about myself. That's obviously not the way to go for everyone, but to look like you want to look is, for me, always the best way to also take control over everything else in your life. I feel like before creating something, I need to first create a me that I like. If that makes sense.

Come on, be honest... Is there hope for this blog?
Yes! I am now proud owner of a Wacom Intuos Pro graphic tablet and I have promised myself to dedicate at least half an hour every day to slowly re-do the graphics on here and on my society6 shop and my facebook page, too. Use it for new artworks, too. I also noticed that as I go along, I have several blogable thoughts and ideas every day, but usually I'm just too exhausted in the evenings, or people ask me to do things, or my cat Johnny (who joined my in the daily woes of life in August and I haven't shown you yet) claims all my attention for himself BUT I also promised myself to not let that take up ALL of my time and dedication since I have realised lately that in this life, there is nothing for me other that to work creatively and I need to brace myself and put my stuff out there, join projects, create, create, create. I will draw, I will write. If I'm lucky I'll get involved with music, as I used to. Other than that, there's nothing here for me. (draaahmaaahh. no, I'm serious. This blog will live.)

Anything else?
Nah, not really. Don't forget to say hi.

nintendo blood

another jc+voidz illustration. I'm freaking out a little here with digital editing but it's starting to get really fun !

cult zine

ok I couldn't wait to show you guys the stuff I made 4 the zine that the people at Cult Records plan to release & I HOPE SO MUCH THAT THEY TAKE MY HUMAN SADNESS PICTURE (1st one) because it's literally a heart's work and even tho I'd love them to include the other two, too, which are Karen O's Rapt and Cerebral Ballzy's Lonely As America...but they MUST take the Human Sadness illustration because if they don't Julian Casablancas is never going to see it and I must die. xx

weirdible

I seem to always find myself announcing huge ass things and then nothing happens- I'm very unsure as to what to actually do. Right now, I'm torn between either turning this blog into something magazine-esque (which would make it less personal and random and I'm not sure if you guys would like, and it'd also mean all ye olde posts must go) or starting a magazine in style of Nylon or Rookie but with my personal touch of course (which would mean that I'd start a whole new page and then no one would go there which would make me sad... plus, I'm kinda fond of/used to this blog and I'd like to keep it - at least as an artifact for myself - as it is now. I'd be looking for fellow contributors tho which would make it kind of cool again..? maybe..? not sure). You'll be the 1st people to notice or to be notified tho, and if you have an opinion on this issue, PLEASE leave comments below. Also, if you wanna know more about the content I'm planning or if you know you'll wanna participate as soon as I've sorted things out, COMMENT below.

Other than that, things have been happening, some of which I'd hoped for and some of which I'd rather they hadn't- I'd like to stress tho that my #1 thought these days has been that it's the most stupid thing ever that people always ask whats wrong and if I wanna talk about it. I'd really prefer if people just knew about the mess I sometimes am and left this mess alone, and tried to cheer me up or distract me instead. Since people usually opt for being stupid, this job is done by the music I've been listening to lately. Here's the playlist:

I'd like to point out 'human sadness', this song turns you into the piece of crumpled paper that you are and then tries to smooth you down again and it's brutal/beautiful.

I made an illustration for 'half a person', too:

I actually also made one for 'rapt', and one for another song, and one for 'human sadness' is in progress but they are for the Cult Records zine and I will show you when they've decided whether they wanna include them or not (I hope they do).

join the pony club

as you might have noticed my obsession with alexa chung is flourishing yet again, but I'm also pretty motivated to try different version of this new sloppy-cut-out-design of my drawings on plain coloured backgrounds, what do you think, are you guys quietly waiting for me to finally get over it, or is it cool? I kind of like the structure/look of finished-ness it gives, but, yeah... 

I am, however, being less productive than I wish was.

HALP

whatever happened, you're/I'm not here

are you still paying attention because I kind of feel like you do but I'm not entirely sure, though I'm entirely sure that I'd really like you to