"Emotional Sketcher"
CHPT 3
Peter's Confession
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1. Cold December
2. Bullets
3. Don't ever notice
4. Angels in nightmares
5. (unreleased)
6. (unreleased)
7. Last Confession
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Remember to bring tissues for your heart.
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"dinner alone EP, sold in neverland"
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Cold December
In the beginning, hands were too uncertain and shaky-
white papers on scratched up browned tables, and
heated floors spiffed with sounds of foot steps so clear..
It the expectation of being complete, or amazing that quite literally torments me from within. Not easy looking in eyes filled with unfathomable sadness- like alone standing on street corners in cold Decemeber, hearing sounds from cars and people passing by to just feel at ease, included.
Coping Narration
Ever had one hand tightly gripping the drawing utensil, other flat on your chest feeling the sound of a beating heart- reminiscing about how it used to skip a beat or two like a normal human being.
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I usually situate near the entrance or exit, get comfortable in positions that have the most rejection and listen. Would expect claps or hugs, but mostly steps of hurry and colognes of distinguished. The cashier glares at my posture as it Is as uncomfortable as it gets: feet curled, legs curved in, fingers curled, and eyes dusted. The physical state of my body does not bother me. Not a sliver of thought for adjustment of body language, nor anyone near me. I sketch the happy, elderly, obnoxious, confused, underaged. The commonality lies within how their facial expressions forever speak volume. It is the attempt in tempting temptation before dramatization gets ahold of my speechless soul. I get sentimental, vulnerable in times of chasing the wanted. I forfeit my dignity in places where one refuses to linger- catching these wandering souls with minds equally as mad and concupiscent.
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2 .
3 .
Bullets
HEART BROKEN!!
When sketching I feel more invincible than ever.. No longer nodding ";when beats hit,'";= shivering when cold knocks 0)(88(and hungry when organs start singing. Must I abandon humanity to focus on another being, or OBJECT? Was I ever focused on anything when making something out of nothing for some1, 2, and 3 more pages until timer ticks..
Pets
Cute, fluffy Dachshund
Strong, bulky bull dog
Plump, mannerly pigeon
Round, stained Chow Chow
They aren't just animals, but bits of humanity left in mixers- inspirations, demons, and healers when creativity runs dry- facilitators of spaces full of menaces- drinking and driving through lanes of
speeders.
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Faces
Faces scattered with reminders of ugly, beautiful, silent, loud, deep, and shallow. I love telling life stories on faces full of histories. Eye lids are folded, usually weighted and savaged by stress- big ear lobes of tiny cuts and dried skins, dangling carelessly from side to side- breath of complaints, heard only by blowing wind and rushing footsteps- puffy cheeks of innocence dappled with magnificent freckles.. Observation of surrounding, silent trial of self reflection that enriches the inner well being.
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Postures
"Why are you acting so tough"
"Why are you hiding all emotions"
"Why are you walking with a limp"
"Why you wearing your heart on your sleeve"
"Why you accept defeat with a broken heart"
"why are you scared when you're secured"
What more questions can I draw from people, how long can I continue doing so. I am no longer an artist, but a therapist that provides treatment for people that doesn't need one. Many sit comfortably, some choose not to because they aren't used to warmth. The room could be 200 degree many would still put on more clothes, and drink more hot drinks. How could I provide what they need through these drawings, words, and writings. The energy might not be reciprocated but that is ok.
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Company
The seats and drinks cold, heart in a slumber.. Only temperature of another could melt these layers of ice suffocating me. Love seeing how others remove their disguises, showing how beautiful vulnerability is. Pour your heart out little ones, it is time to let go. These sketches speak more than just depictions, but realities shared between THEM and I. I'm so used to reacting than initiating- could these hands do more than just padding shoulders and bandaging scars. I'm part of their COMPANY now, these drinks are free for all take a sip if you need it.
Public
Heart forever unsettled.
Vauxhall park on Saturday afternoon, Gail's coffee on Wednesday morning, Bru coffee on a gloomy day, Paris Baguette with my brother, Bar Italia another crossed from list, Max's cafe on days I feel normal.. I go public places to see how many hearts overburdened and sealed up. Many have calendars made, maximum effort to stay together in a broken world that tires you in every way possible- happy ones stay behind barricades, "blind" ones stay sharp, and sad ones stay home- plenty empty tables near toilets, sauce stained plates and napkins in buckets of dirty water- ambitious steps infiltrate before the storm- same old uncle in the same old seat, dressed in the same old jacket with the same old shoe, drinking the same old tea in the same old cup with the same old set of hands..
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I'm better now, writing out all my wrongs for others to heal.
Confession
Kidding, I'm nowhere near
Don't ever notice
"self"
Ever walk past a stranger looking so loveable that you take a second look- boxes get checked off like weights taken off of shoulders too numb to feel. What if art isn't a display of who you are now, but future versions that you envision. Do you ever realize the damages your artworks do to people around you. Don't ever notice these little noises, they don't matter much in the bigger picture. We are ignorant, perch and chill under umbrellas of self-indulgence.
"Lies"
We tell ourselves that this will certainly work, but forgot at what cost. We lie to ourselves that every mark represent how we feel when love been long gone. The only way is pretend to love everyone around us like how wanted to be loved, objects included. We have lost our love sensors centuries ago, only thoughts of contempt remain. How could we remember the excitement when first started doing what we've doing for so long, and so wrong.
"Banksy"
Banksy’s art screams careful carelessness. He disregards the space as his artwork unleashes its potent scent of judgment and “ignorance”- alarming dosage of anonymity and absence of obligation for audience protrude from spaces of prominence. Banksy’s works are like diseases that aren’t meant to be cured but spread- contradicting thoughts that infuriate and confuse people to a point of self-destruction- objective-driven agenda pushes for consensus through disobedience, not agreeableness.
Dismaland project*
Condemnatory, public humiliation of theme park sparks controversy and overwhelming attention- walking through reminders of the cherished and invested in a hurry- swivet, abrupt realization as everything “updates” and turns pages- he drops the bomb in the memory palace bursting in silver and gold. Commoner compensates through excavation of the familiar, and the chosen guards coasts from worshippers of solidarity. Banksy interprets memory as momentary, tertiary, a sanctuary, and Teletubby- no lines or boundaries, confidently he lifts and articulates the brand news on old news. It is matter of comfortability, that a change could be mandated when two “fellas” cool with one another. The question then becomes “what is what if what turns to when and then or how”. Two images, one with lens and the other NOT. Read the fine line between reality and modification, it is a hard read that requires more physicality than ever.
"Balloon girl" by Banksy from Art of Banksy, Regent st. London
Banksy inspires me to ask question how much "innocence" I have left in me. Should I lay these brushes down and start living. Read motions as still, and still as ever-changing that communicates with me. Banksy's works are satirical if read humor as humor and not cover up of disappointments in humanity and lack of empathy.
"Paint pot angel" by Banksy from Art of Banksy, Regent st. London
"Dismaland" by Banksy from Art of Banksy, Regent st. London
Marcin Dudek
"Neoplan"
From the outside, exterior of the destroyed represents overwhelming severity of the event; but no remorse, or patience of savoring pain is present. When one steps foot inside, the world view becomes clearer but grimmer: sea of confusion composed of folded cloths, blinking tv, alluring foams squeezing out of abandoned seats.. Unlike its generalizing exterior, every aspect can be interpreted as a story on its own. The show is then led by abstract paintings secreted in oozes of illegible writs; cradled in shell of gallery, the bus provides extra layer of false safety and blockage from education. Marcin inspires me to interpret artwork as stoppage during the journey: clear head off extra thoughts to venture towards the next destination.
interior view, "Neoplan", by Marcin Dudek in Edel Assanti
Sadie Cole HQ
"Hardcore" group show
Elaine Cameron-Weir hairshirt with lucky cilice, SS 23 cartoon violence collection, 2023
orchestration of violence done in minds of the "sick": connect familiar reminders of peaceful with plethora of wicked thoughts. I am the camera man, steady recording chilling scenes with professionalism. Weir and COBRA's works are like the last few stages of butchering process: absolute precision abstained from any drop of sympathy. The works inspire me to be lenient when judging others' scars- sinking ship with baggage that can't be unloaded, wild fire no amount of water can extinguish.
The works are confrontational, procedural, and tantalizing. The gore is the barrier from gazing eyes trying to ascertain. The explicit and accurate positioning of organs, depicting an illusion of simplicity in process and aftermath. They sit on pedestals for display, attracting attention like when free money is handed.
KING COBRA/ Doreen Lynette Garner, In the feast of Hogs, 2022
KING COBRA/ Doreen Lynette Garner, white bread, 2021
Angels in Nightmares
Ever walk in just to walk out
Ever feel hopeful to just feel at loss again
When I have too much of something it becomes overbearing- body twisting to shake off bees from places unseen.. This unit is about holding the lantern for "others" as my boat sinks. These drawings have my reality, demon, and angel. Ever look in the sky and ask "lord is it ok to do this again if it makes no changes".
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"Repetition"
Do this every day, same day, different day, odd day, even day to feel ok. It is a form of spiritual healing and diary writing. By repeating the practice, I gain knowledge on how people maneuver physically and emotionally (I thought I did). The comfort level rises as sincerity drops- thoughts open, eyes and heart closed when hands move. It soon becomes an activity of majority-muscle-minority-spirituality.
(Lie)
"Angels"
What is the closest thing I can connect my mind to without getting over-sentimental? I constraint myself as hard as necessary- I don't want no more connection, they are poisons keeping me from going to sleep. CUPS, empty but filled with these words from my heart. HANDS, smooth but covered in calluses from chest rubbing. EYES, diluted retinas with enlarged sclera and droopy eyelids.. These are my ANGELS reminding me to not get too deep because the shadow is already hard to handle.
Last Confession
Understand how seasons change like people and areas around you. Be strong but capable of vulnerability. These drawings are more about me than them. The connection is stronger between me, the nearby, and within. Ever write something to rip up later, that's what I'm feeling. I hope this is enough, time to put these candles and bottles away..
STOP