Since I was at college I’ve been secretly obsessed with boxes and keys. Boxes with locks or hidden doors in items of furniture. I’m not sure why. I do remember being upset when I went back to my art school to see some friend’s artwork and discovered that the emergency fire key in the glass covered box had been removed. Maybe that was the beginning of it all.
Sometimes maintaining a blog is akin to screaming in a vacuum. No one can hear you and you scream and shout in frustration until your eyes burst and your lungs are pulled through your ragged throat.
I’ve got an idea for an offline based on-going art piece about interpersonal connections in non digital media. continue reading…
I don’t know if it’s feasible or if it’ll pan out at all but it’s a fairly quick set-up but the pay off won’t happen for a few years if at all.
In my head I can see a tiny Scalextric track, a short circular loop, with two cars racing on it, I haven’t thought about that yet.
There’s a single crossover section on it and the cars are given ever so slightly varying power supplies but are kept roughly the same speed.
There is no finish line. continue reading…
Howl — Official Relapse Records Band Page.
Now there’s a young lady, possibly the only one, that wouldn’t freak out if I went up to her face and shrieked “LOCUST”
I really want to see this when I have a bit of spare cash. Next month hopefully.
I’ve rediscovered my blog. I’m sorry for two things:
I’m having a bit of a creative surge at the moment. It’s only got a few directions at the moment, two or three projects in motion. Only one of them is a traditional art endeavor, the other two are more esoteric and although I’m excited I’m also very nervous about explaining them or showing them off so publicly.
The language I used to use to voice my ideas has long been lost to time and it’s going to be a while before I’m confident enough to express my thought processes or defend my implementation.
I think it’s going to be a long time until I show much here apart from the odd sketch, couplet or literary twitch.
The battery in the kitchen clock is almost drained. The second hand, blood red on the pale face, beats weakly like the heart of a dying bird.
The confident tick of its pulse lies the time to me.
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