As a writer and artist, the supposition of anyone, especially higher authorities, deciding for me what is to be published and what is not, barring my right to editorialize and engage the world with what I deem to be fitting and threatening to imprison me if I did not discontinue the occupation of offense, is the very confrontation I have been desiring to have for a very long time. ((Just did not see the assault to creative freedom coming from my mother))
I should have mind you. In truth, the demand for the end of ART that shows truth and does not distance itself from it, art that materializes dreams and does not stifle them, language that takes all that was stolen from a man who had to spend half his life in prison dreaming of the little things that make life sweet, all because someone did not like them, and would have then incarcerated again because they drew a pretty picture is the very fight I have been goading and desiring. Wanting to know who would stand with the artist, who drew human kind to the perfection given to him or who would see him locked away because the human kind he drew happened to have bare nipples.
It is a wonderful social science and because in America I am free to write and draw what I choose, it would be hard to set such a precedent. My guard must continue to remain of course and alone on my mountain top must I remain because the enemy of my freedom circles the skies at night, hoping to dive down on my citadel.
To be locked away for the words and art, that my friends, is worth fighting for. The right to share all of the ugly things that happen to people in out very pleasant world and since I can’t afford to pay anyone for their tales, I merely share my own. Why do I tell these stories? Because they happened and to pretend that it does not exist, that it can be buried away in time and pictures of sun rises and sun sets, flowers and birds is the fairy tale. For people to feel justified in the confining a person against their will in a crazy home because they drew Pokemon, and a comic book or horned demons and aliens and mad-hatters, yes, that is worth confrontation.
To miss out on the fresh air and peace I have because I published works of art that included tits and dicks, this my friend is why I contend with the world and I’d be damned if I was to merely vanish- be forgotten, behind the evils of people like my mother. She accuses me of being evil and a negative force in the world because of the images I produce, without taking in the explanation. Demands I stop producing material as if the temptation to read and indulge in the material is too great and will destroy her in some way. Absurd, but because she believes it, she is liable to act on it and this is why I’ve always kept a wide berth of the tidal wave.
Apparently this is the same energy that sent me to prison the first time: Of course we all know, she is the reason I went to prison the first time: Will I stop writing under the threat of prison?
No!
For this is why I write, to end the attempts to lock away dream weavers and visionaries for the spark of imagination not conceived by the dulling of the brain.
Though the above issues are important that is not what today’s article is about. I just wanted to address the issue of what threatens artists and has the potential to spread from my little side of the universe if I am not able to address it sufficiently. Retaining my freedom in the process.
Today’s article is about two pieces of traditional art I have been working on for a friend. Which should please my mother, there are not tits associated with this project.
In previous posts I’ve mentioned my thoughts on tattoos and my feelings on how that brand of art should have been respected by the guild, years before street art, stylized art and digital creatives, came along. I learned how to polish works of art from street artists, ex-convicts, tattoo artists and illusionists, not taking anything away from these traditions, I’ve just always been mesmerized by the shock value. I think all the amazing New Age artists that to this day are under appreciated, ignored or forgotten and as I’ve worked on my newest, “Diamond in the Rough,” and “Jesus,” a portrait , I remember them, wondering how they are getting along.
Alexandra Sibrian is the young lady that requested the art after reviewing my art and showing me her body tats. Asked for the sleeve of flowers and a leg tattoo. I was excited to do it and find myself pulling onto the influences of ten to twenty years. I looked at Ms. Sibrian and she was the very image of the kind of person influenced by the messages my art sends to people, my words imprint on people and I am so pleased that the work, the guild, and the energy still has an effect on people.
Could the world in which my talent built create an entire culture and I am apart of it? I can hand my card out to people and as they visit the site, love it or hate it, they know where I come from and I hope as the years go by, this is not lost. It’s possible to desire so much, to want to be relevant, in this competitive field by commercializing my work: It’s tempting but as the admirers grow, all I desire is that the art grows in its flow and is appreciated.
In doing the work for Alexandra, there was a lot that went into devising a design that would not only speak to me, “Diamond in the Rough,” but to her, a woman I don’t know, but sought to empathize with from the few words spoken to one another and her utter refusal to give me much input.
What can be said about a person that wants flowers on her sleeve and Jesus face on her leg?
Nothing I’d want to presume, but would need to hear from her to get it right. As an artist, the motivation of others requests for a piece of art is typically immaterial. I am not supposed to care and I hate feeling that way, because I love getting to know people. Art as a medium is supposed to connect people. Just as the lines on a canvas connect to shape our dreams. Without our ability to connect: well art is created but the soul reflected is the artist. Life is stifled, little progression is made, if I believed that I did not need anyone. I could insulate myself and only create what my dreams tell me to, but that is not why body art is created. The images crafted are adornments. They cling to the skin of the person and tell the story of the person—at lest they are supposed to. Being an anthologist and storyteller, the idea of body art revealing a person’s past, tribe, politics, religion, philosophy, even their tastes in music, was always fascinating. I’ve always been filled with anger at the denial of creatives outside of the tattoo, street art or the sphere of the traveling kid into the same space of the classical, ventage, and traditional galleries. As if there is something base or unappealing, unsellable and incoherent about the art. To those unaware of the beauty, call it serial, pop art, flash art and crowd it in the same pool of New Age and Modern.
Pardon me, but if the art is incoherent, that usually means it is unfinished and when a tattoo is put on a person, inked and vibrant, it is very clear to all to see what is their. So much so, it’s been shunned by the conventional world and only in the last few years has it been normalized enough for people to have a tattoo and work a decent job.
If all modes of art were to be considered incoherent, none should have marked as dreams of demented but prodded for the explanation. The truth is, no explanation was needed. People saw the image and knew very well to beware or include.
To this day I will never comprehend how the tattoo artist was denied gallery space anywhere in the world. But true to myself, I am not going to wait for someone’s permission to display my prints and art. I will share it and ask you, could you ever deny the talent of the artist?
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