The theme of this week is what direction do I take? I was born with an ability to draw which doesn’t mean that what I draw is either interesting or worth the little effort it takes. If I had whatever it is that is missing to draw and make money from it, I would be happy. I wouldn’t mind drawing anything if it paid the bills. I don’t have extravagant needs. There is ‘art’ and there is putting pencil to paper to order. I don’t worry about what I make in commercial terms, don’t give a shit about who my audience is or if there is even one.
Drawing I take for granted. Writing I love and find addictive, something that I want more of. I am not saturated with knowledge of the ‘great’ writers, I read but I don’t seriously analyse words and form and so on. I’m not big on editing. I write and what comes out stays there. I obviously amend as I go along, tweak it a bit. I try to make it flow and seem ordered a little. It is more visual than literary. Instinctive I suppose. Suppose is my least favourite word at the moment as I seem to be using it a lot. I suppose this and I suppose that. Bored of it.
More than one person in the last year has said that I should be writing. About six, I suppose. All of them know my drawings to a greater or lesser degree and while they don’t say ‘give up the drawing’, they seem to think there is something worth pursuing in the dull ramblings of a slightly fed up misanthrope. I had to try and deal with this ‘issue’ when I was on my degree. I would write, I would draw. Which was the better vehicle for expressing my ideas and so on. With ‘Milk, Two Sugars’ it can be both. I get to do all the writing for that. Really it is mainly knocked off introductions to the issue. It is after all, a visual notebook. ‘RUNT’ is still on the drawing board, or writing desk; a zine all of my own that is more words than pictures. In a sense, my project proposal would be RUNT expanded and made digital via the web.
I don’t know where to start other than reworking previous thoughts/texts and then hoping that something would inspire me to keep it going.
I did my first legitimate ‘digital art’ this week, I suppose. Two drawings that were roughly sketched then scanned and finished in photoshop, though not straying too far from the look of a pencil sketch. They will be in the next issue of creaturemag, online, unless something changes from the preview I have seen to the finished upload. Nothing amazing but a change as I usually send in words.
I think the main problem is that I am essentially lazy. I will do the bare minimum to get a result and I know that a novel, or some other form of concerted effort in writing takes time. I have a peculiar affliction that prevents me from spending too much time on a project. I have to calculate effort. For example, if I write a page a day and a book is two hundred pages and I allow for days when I can’t write then this book is a year away from being finished. A year is a long time. I might die before it is complete. Better that I leave behind notes of what could have been achieved than what wasn’t. If I spend a year on something I want a result; money, fame or at least for it to be published.
I won’t tire of the blog. There is always room for five hundred word moans. I look forward to ONE HUNDREDTH POST with a relish you can’t imagine. In the end, ideas are fantastic but if you can’t or don’t do anything with them then you may as well have a lobotomy. I have one friend who thinks that any idea should remain a closely guarded secret. If you tell anyone, even someone you trust, then the idea is out there in the ether and up for grabs. Someone will take your idea, absorb it unwillingly, and make profit from it. I tend to think that once I have written that idea down, I’m done with it. To hell if someone else pinches it. If they are so desperate for an idea that they would have one of mine, go on, cash in; have it, get rich, grow old happy and die. Will I ever make a Turdle? Not much chance. The idea amused me for a day or two, I could see in my mind a display of Turdles in a fancy gift shop, selling to the filthy masses. I am rich, end of. That window closed, why bother to try and make one now? I have bought the mansion, sailed the yacht, fucked the crew, eaten the buffet, fucked the crew some more. My mind did all this, no effort. Walter Fucking Mitty.
From the local art press: “..large-scale drawings exploring common themes across cultural boundaries, created using sixteen different shades of grey pencil.” Sex and death then, swirly figures looking pained. I will go and let you know, dear reader. Grey.
It might be a question of communication. Words are easier to make clear, easier to reproduce; they can be read aloud or quietly contemplated. And you can respond to them directly with that same clarity. Drawing is too ambiguous, open to any misunderstood reading of it; easy to ignore and burdened with preconceived notions of good and bad, skilled or amateurish. It is too easy to become anal and prissy in art. Writing is grounded. Some people try really hard to make it difficult and to exclude people but they are wankers.
To conclude, our joint group presentation should be written and read aloud.
