Dirntbag added a blog entry in Dirntbag's LandfillJersey, Channel IslandsOut my window
dusk is slipping quietly
under a horizon, through warped panes
where white paint is chipping,
savannah sun gold-leafs the sand,
makes molten lava of canals,
raises hum of the sound
by rotting sea weeds and
festering dead sea creatures' bodies.
Gulls rule this domain;
pecking at the tide to retreat,
and leading it, rushing,
back in again.
In the morning I walk from
the steps, canvas-shoed,
to collect yesterday's shed skins,
and in the evening, from the very same steps,
I can swim, though the water's more gray than blue.
Kitchen window frames
France's misty coast,
and, cackling at our view compared to theirs,
the seagulls can't help but boast.
Flapping as my sunshade flaps
when the attic window is open,
laughing their briny laugh
like the lapping of the ocean.
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Dirntbag added a blog entry in Dirntbag's Landfillferal english (an ars poetica poem)before there was matter,
there was poetry, or perhaps
they were birthed in unison -
tendrils of existence,
hot as black smoker vapor
escaping into the sea, or space’s void.
words can only come in to play
in one, specific, crystallized way,
exploding out of nothing and shouting
to everyone in Earth’s foetal form;
no-one, as of yet.
in the naked time, before anything
with eyes was around to think of beauty,
there was poetry; in the way atoms collided,
the way particles swirled in elegant
gyre, spiraling colour onto blankness.
in the lumbered locomotion of
amoebas before they had their Greek name,
billowing membranes, oozing
towards a meal.
in the strangling caress of vines
climbing the limbs of
rainforest trees in order for gymnast arms
to reach a drop of sunlight in the canopy.
poetry pushes up from feckless soil
with carnivorous jaws, spiting
the climate, and location, and god;
raw writing with no reader.
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Dirntbag added a blog entry in Dirntbag's LandfillThe Major Arcana Tarot Cards (6/22)I decided to make some tarot cards for art class. Tarot cards have been around forever and there's no set pictures that go on them. They can be used to play games, but are associated with clairvoyance and can hypothetically be used to "tell your fortune." There's some more information on tarot cards here. The "Major Arcana" is a deck of 22 trump cards, differing from the "minor arcana" which has four suits. They include perscribed names including the fool, the magician, the high priestess, the empress, the emperor, the hierophant, the lovers, the chariot, justice, the hermit, fortune, strength, the hanged man, death, temperance, the devil, the tower, the star, the moon, the sun, judgement and world.
It's been a really fun project because I got to develop my illustration style and learn a lot about technique. These are done with watercolour and coloured pencil, but I may redo some of them.
They go with my running theme of mythological/fantasy things, which fits in to the larger theme of viewing the world and yourself from new perspectives in order to learn new things and resist becoming insular.
Some of the colours were a bit off from scanning, so I had to do some editing on the computer.
The Hanged Man
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Dirntbag added a blog entry in Dirntbag's LandfillBermuda Islands: 32.30N, 64.78W
CGI product of a cartographer’s hand,
ceci n’est pas les Bermudes;
ocean and land reduced to pixel-widths,
swallowing waves and erupting verdure
portrayed as singular swatches, labeled,
to assist your comprehension. Your
home has become a single stroke
of pigment, layered on dullness;
dead ocean, devoid of life, and barren
land proclaiming its monuments
like some poor ruin of civilization
inflating its fame after collapse.
This condensed universe, like a femme fatale
on the cover of a magazine, reduced to
a piece of meat in eyes seeing her as a page
instead of width and breadth and shape;
unable to access the white-hot core beneath,
and unaware that this exists atop a
volcano only. To the person who has
never seen her before, Bermuda is
pulp fiction, a painted figure
smoothed over by a salon painter;
a textbook, run-of-the-mill, example
of an island.
As if this collection of rocks jutting
just atop the raging sea is not deserving
of status as an animated, emotional green;
instead relegated to an HTML colour code,
the dregs leftover from a worldwide
Berlin conference. But how shall we show
her true sound and fury? Shall we photograph
her every inch; map her body and become intimate
with each grain of sand?
Or shall we paint a single scene, with human
touch of hand, pouring colour in to her outline?
Even the most lovely of paintings, where gangly,
drawn trees looked more real than the canker
of our live casuarinas would not portray
her as she really is; just as Picasso’s chickens
made the common rooster cower at his lack of chicken-ness,
Bermuda would shrivel at the portrayal of her
crashing waves as lit with more rage than she could ever muster.
Underneath the beauty it remains an image still,
and ceci n’est pas les Bermudes.
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Dirntbag added a blog entry in Dirntbag's LandfillThe Turned Painter (a short story)William Bouguereau’s “Birth of Venus” depicts the goddess in an almost defiant position. Contrasting with her previous representations as coy and demur, Bouguereau’s Venus confronts the viewer with the simple fact that she is not concerned by her own nakedness. Her smooth body twines up from the seashell upon which she is standing as if there was no one watching her. Perhaps quietly aware of her onlookers, she allows crowds of sea nymphs and tritons to bask in her radiance for the moment the painting captures. This scene for once does not belong to Venus’ body, but to Venus in completeness. Born from the sea, Venus retains a little of the ocean’s power – the knowledge that she is still a goddess, and her universe dominated the wall before Dorian Hardy.
The verbal purpose of the charity ball was to fundraise for the museum. It’s secret purpose was to let people see and be seen rubbing shoulders with the creative elite, but Hardy, disregarding both of these, attended only for the art. Of course, there was a healthy amount of people-watching to be done as well, but this was a secondary interest. People milled about in garbs of varying shades of darkness, mostly speaking English albeit with a French accent.
“What do you think?” Hardy wrote surprise over his face at being disturbed by the tall woman, but in actuality he had heard her every step, smelled her nervousness from across the room, and sensed her decision to finally trot over to him like a lost sheep.
“In a word,” Hardy looked away from the painting and then at the woman, “exquisite. What is your opinion of it?”
“I find Bouguereau’s work…” she began, “ancient. It is a monument to outdated techniques and views on painting.”
“You beg the question then, why speak to someone who seems to be enjoying his work so much?” He spoke playfully. Hardy knew the answer of course; that humans were driven by conflict and to impart her views on to someone of differing spirit would be satisfying to her.
“I believe it is healthy to have one’s views challenged by others from time to time,” she smiled up at him – though she was tall, he was taller, “and on the off-chance someone could change my mind about something I have such a steadfast opinion of, that person would be interesting company indeed.” The determination with which she flirted amused him.
“I shall try, then.”
Though Dorian Hardy despised what the painter and his doting supporters stood for; the non-evolution of modern art, he could not help but appreciate their skill, technical mastery, and vision, and he weaved this explanation in to his conversation with the woman. She was probably one of those typical Frenchwomen completely enamored by the Impressionist movement. Looking at this painting was not simply visual entertainment – it was an entire sensory experience, as much concerned with history as it was with art.
He was reminded that viewing art was not something that could be done comfortably with other people, but that it is not an experience wherein you are alone; there is a profound connection between the artist and the viewer with the painting as a portal. There were amazing painters, amazing poets and amazing composers, but to be a truly brilliant artist one must be besotted with all three – a living, breathing silhouette of creativity; a vessel for imagination’s gardens to germinate. A true artist is tortured because their lives belong to art itself, and this concept is unable to be understood by people who are not artists; whose lives are ruled by their loved ones, or their work, or nothing at all.
Hardy appreciated, however, that the woman was not one of those unfortunate individuals plagued by filling empty conversational space with laughter. She was not a giddy person, but an entertaining one, and she interested Hardy in the same way a cat is temporarily interested by a feather on a string. Her dark hair bounced around her in tight curls, flowing over modest breasts encased in a dark green evening gown. The dress ran a slit down her thigh, exposing the delicate sculpture of her leg muscles, formed so by her stiletto shoes.
Dorian Hardy wasn’t exactly sure what interested him so much about the human body. After all, he found humanity itself quite insufferable. The moods and actions of people resembled insects in his mind; their strange, ungraceful movement, their capacity to be driven by exclusively basal needs like hunger, thirst and the desire to reproduce, and Hardy regarded them thus; as pests. There was altogether nothing enamoring about human behaviour, but their anatomy had been a subject of interest since Da Vinci. The equilibrium of their slim frames, their capacity to stand on two flat feet, their languid or frenzied poses – all ranked next to the finest art, music and writing for Hardy. Emotion could not be written so understandably on a medium other than a human face.
Hardy admired their capacity to truly feel such violent things – as if God or Maybe the Devil himself gripped their hearts inside their chests. The screams of humans were enrapturing; the communicated evidence that the very fire for life burned through them so intensely that perhaps their ribcage, the beams of their flesh-house were beginning to splinter and fall.
“Help me… help me!” they screamed in words, but they could have growled and achieved the same effect – their entire message was written in tone. The woman continued screaming throughout the entire affair – even when Hardy’s hands were inside her, feeling the blood rush around her body as her feeble heart pumped with the enthusiasm of a chased hare. Exposed like this, each cog could be observed working in perfect unison to power her entirety. But she was not a machine; she could not be likened to one because she carried something no machine has – the simple, unpredictable, pleasure of doing things with no other purpose then to be beautiful. She had stopped screaming now, still breathing, but the fight gone out of her.
Her hair radiated about her head like a halo, and her blood barely soiled her clean skin, exactly as Hardy had planned it. One arm rested beside her, as she had no energy to move it. The other clawed pitifully at herself, where the skin of her chest used to be. Hardy looked in to her helpless eyes and began to sever her heart from its vessels, carefully clamping them shut so the still – excited blood inside them wouldn’t burst to ruin the scene. Her animated hand fell softly on her clavicle, as if in surprise.
He placed the heart in her outstretched, open palm and a contentedness washed over him. The canvas already rested on its easel, yearning to be marked. Hardy retrieved the softest pencil he had and began to sketch, glancing between his subject and his surface. It was so terribly inconvenient to paint something that moved. Still, Hardy knew the importance of painting in one sitting – to capture the scene as it lay in that moment, and not a garbled mosaic of it over the course of weeks. His feelings at the time of painting influenced the work as much, or more so than the figure he painted, after all.
“This is… exquisite,” the utterance escaped the young man’s fill lips, like cows lips in the way they rested when closed, as if they were a piece of pottery and its lid that did not quite fit together. “The darkness of the subject combines in such juxtaposition with its painting style, it’s almost a satire.” He spoke facing the painting, depicting a woman clutching her own heart in her hand, almost to himself but obviously fully aware of Hardy’s presence next to him.
“Indeed, and this is what the painter aimed for,” Hardy replied.
“How can you be sure?” the young man asked, imploring, bashful. He was a picture of innocence.
“Because I am he,” Hardy stated, also speaking to the painting as he did so.
The young man turned around to face him, glancing up and down his figure in disbelief and stuttering. “I…”
“It is a pleasure to meet someone who understands my work so well,” Hardy smiled down at him. He was a blond man of average height, but with a strong jawline and an explicitly symmetrical face. And those lips…
They shook hands.
“What is your name, if I may ask?”
“Arthur. And I suppose you are Dorian Hardy…”
“Arthur, forgive me if I am too forward, but would you ever consider sitting for me?”
The "should have been revising on study leave but instead I did art for like 5 hours" special:
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