It’s a basic human need to be validated and supported. Yet those seem to be the very things we refuse most and the needs we despise most in others. It’s frightening to me that people are judged (meaning condemned) for having insecurities. Who doesn’t have them? Insecurities are wounds from a lack of validation. So judging them is a lot like hating someone for having a bleeding gash. Humans are evil, no?
So what keeps me interacting with them? Moments that remind me that we are all just mushy piles of goo. What was this couple beyond the glass talking about, so intensely and yet tenderly? Something about their moment, as far away and separated from me as they were, grabbed me and kept me long enough for me to draw them. He leaned in, she swept her hair behind her ear, he looked down, she took a drink.
“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air”
This song has been a mystical fairy in my life ever since I can remember. It wasn’t until just after college that I began to truly appreciate the lyrics.
Was it the haze of being bed-ridden that made me begin this series? Perhaps the fascination I have with this new app? And why did I blog #3 first? Who knows? Here’s the first one and all of my novice attempts at painting with Art Studio on my iPhone with my finger.
Being bed-ridden for many days, this app is an obsession. I loves me some finger painting.
#3 in the hotel california series, done on my iphone with my finger, using the Art Studio App by lucky clan.
There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
“This could be Heaven or this could be Hell”
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say…
things are in full swing for the production of “pulse” a web series produced by my dear dear friends, triple click productions. it’s “alias” meets the “bourne” series, with a twist of “dr. who”. and what would be the icing on the cake? animated elements!
enter this kat.
updates to follow…
nothing rhymes with orange
eric ripert is like a serene uncle who keeps everyone together with yummy food and profound notions.
i wonder what would happen if i applied for a job as a teacher looking like this.
the best gifts i’ve received throughout my life were the kinds that told me that the giver cares for me, thought of me, and wants the best for me. i’m not going to be idealistic and say that they were all zero-dollar gifts. that’s rubbish. however all of them were costly in the ways in which it counts.
christmas has never really been about family for me. maybe it’s my buddhist upbringing. maybe it’s my church experiences. whatever the cause, to me christmas has always been about giving and gratitude. complain all you want about the stress of shopping, the financial burden, and having to meet up with a bunch of people that you’ll probably only see again next christmas (i’ve been the expert on that); the reality is that i know what i’ve been given–great friends, reconciliation within my family, a roof over my head, and a college education. that’s already far far more than what much of the world can hope for, and i can’t help but to want to let those around me know that i appreciate them.
alrighty, enough sentiment. have a happy christmas, folks!
while i was living in korea during 2007-2009, i visited my parents’ house in anaheim once, to gather some old stuff to bring back to seoul with me. during my hunt through old boxes containing my kitchenware and overpriced decor that i impulsively purchased from the MOMA store while i was in art school, i came across even older boxes–remains of my childhood. slightly eerie and touching at the same time, i must admit. don’t worry, i’m not going to drench this post in gooey words of nostalgia and all-too-early sentiments about time and memories… not yet, anyway.
no, these boxes were like a cemetery of experiences. i tend to like cemeteries. they’re places of openness and honesty. they offer closure and commencement.
anyway, in one of my cemetery boxes, i found an old book i had written when i was 6. it was a comic book about a king–a funny king who made all of his subjects laugh. i had created a small library card type of system for the front cover so that people can borrow it. however i never finished it and, alas, nobody was to ever behold the delightful antics of this stout monarch.
as an artist, i find it easy to do this: begin an inspired project and then never finish it. i’ve tried to start small projects so that i don’t grow weary of working on it. i’ve tried to keep myself accountable by telling everyone about a project (btw, don’t do that). i’ve also tried to take on projects whose subjects are so grand and lofty that it should force me to finish it… otherwise it’d be a disservice to society, right? oh, ignorance, how i seem to love thee.
yet it seems there is no pattern to which kind of project i will eventually quit on. it seems that it’s not the project that is the issue, but it is myself. it’s been said to death, so i need not add another word to the discussion of fear and accomplishments. all i know is that there’s a box in my parents’ house with an unfinished book written by a once courageous little girl, who now often sits before a computer screen or sketchbook, imagining all of the ways the present piece could end.