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Artist's Statement 2008~
(I thrash my way into oblivion catching my hangnails on jagged doorknobs being taught about great painting and gray painting and how to unlearn and relearn philosophy theory giving a sh (no.) dropping all of these like cards in a losing hand the objecthood dart feeling like a stuffed lioness a taxidermy-cured (though beyond a cure) body with a pelt too stiff to rub the wrong way I am at a stage where Ive stopped blinking and started drinking too much coffee and stopped being cohesive at the exact wrong moment and as a matter of fact the only thing seen is that its all cool and trendy even to write it down especially to write it down because hey it must be valid somehow if you write anything
Get a piece of paper get one major and fiddle toy play experiment with the other branches other drum sticks guitar picks but dont let it make you less specific less of a painter less of a sculptor less of a musician writer anything everything just keep
One of them.
It was back when computers were these boxy-looking animals with black screens and green letters like cubes. Everything had right angles and straight sides or nothing at all; an old woman wearing some loud printed dress came in and told us what a mouse was, what a keyboard was, and from then on there was always a computer in our lives. My classmates and I were addicts at the age of seven or eight. We were typing long before we were learning how to write in cursive.
Does that make any sense?
Thats the one question I dont remember ever stopping to ask myself until several years after Id learned the basics of computers and penmanship. The whole question your education deal didnt enter the scene until junior high, when I started hanging out with the kids who slept between their instruments and their skateboards and broke the dress codes on a daily basis. Even then, the only part of my educ
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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