Bullshit, Stupid, Fucking Optimism

That is what she said:

"Your art is bullshit... you're stupid... and I am sick and tired of your fucking optimism"

Is that the truth or is she a fucking psychopath?

 

"We ought not to die before we have explained ourselves to each other"
Thomas Jefferson to John Adams

This is all I am trying to do with my art. It would be kind of neat to have it sucked into Stephen King's black hole and have it land on another universe. But, like he said...so to speak... lets not infect other civilizations, life forms with our toxic garbage.

There is convincing evidence that the airplanes did not bring down the twin towers 9/11 but, demolition explosives did the job, by the hands of toxic minds.

But, explaining one's self is not so simple a task, when one is conceived in a state of lies and feeble minds... that seem to have permanently damaged one's DNA code.

I really do not give a fuck to what to what she says. I am impervious to suicidal depression and ridicule... not to say that I am a "fucking optimist" either. I do get swamped down, write and sing the metaphors of life with some kind of fantastical anticipation and rubbish nostalgia. Here is a song I wrote a time ago in some dark place:

Destiny's Road

There's nothing left in my life
Except me and this ol' guitar
I blew it all
Cant even remember what "IT" was
Even this is strange to me
Sittin here singin this song
I don't feel like I belong

My fingers hit all the wrong chords
My voice hits all the wrong notes
The strings twang
Can't even play this twangy anti-Christ Anarchist

But the pain of these words give me comfort
Can't write about hope any more
I'm not even a Baby Boomer
Just an old wooden door
... hangin around waitin for the big wind

There's nothing left in my life
Except me and this ol' guitar
I blew it all
Cant even remember what "IT" was
Even this is strange to me
Sittin  singin this song
I don't feel like I belong

Maybe I'll just go to sleep wake up feeling better tomorrow
I just gotta stand here
I just got stand here
I just gotta stand here strong
even as my head is swimming in this bog
Even as I think it is all too late
I just gotta stand here strong

But, there is nothing left in my life
Except me and this guitar
I blew it all
Can't even remember what it was

But, I just gotta stand here strong
Maybe because my momma said so
It will all turn out right in the end
There might be a miracle whem you wake up
The sun is gonna shine in the morning
The sun is gonna shine in the morning
You just gotta keep on believing
The sun is gonna shine in the morning
You just gotta keep believing in Destiny's road
You just gotta keep believing in Destiny's road

Still... Momma...

There's nothing left in my life
Except me and this ol' guitar
I blew it all
Cant even remember what "IT" was
Even this is strange to me
Sittin  here singin this song
I don't feel like I belong
 
My fingers hit all the wrong chords
My voice hits all the wrong notes
The strings twang
Can't even play this twangy anti-Christ Anarchist

But the pain of these words give me comfort
Can't write about hope any more
I'm not even a Baby Boomer
Just an old wooden door
... hangin around waitin for the big wind

But, I promised my momma I would try
Just so I know she won't cry
I just keep on believing in destiny's road
I just keep on believing in destiny's road


Then I wrote this other song, while layin' on the front seat of my old truck some where on the shoulder of a road somewhere in Montana and in the genre of Hank Williams sad stories, which I still haven't put to music

How does one take stock of one's self? I always declared that one should not be the judge of one's own products. She says it's "bull shit". Perhaps it is. Many have praised it. Some have stood in front of it and cried. Many wanted copies. Many have offered congratulations.
Some have been shocked, others offended. Some wanted to purchase the originals
(not for sale).

If it‘s not “worth a million dollars” it’s not art .


Art is a process of discovery for me, vicarious participation in a visual performance, presentation, the dance of the hand. I sit outside the screen, the play by play and watch the action, anxiously anticipating the next move, the next event of the brush or twist of the wire. And I do not interrupt the play. There is an unknown quantum of energy, sitting, as if outside of myself that dictates what I see and what my hand does. I fight the embedded propaganda of social/metaphoric constructs, not letting them interfere with the transmission of data that comes from that mystical place… lest it should disrupt the purity, the honesty, the integrity of the creative process. But, this is near impossible to achieve, as this creative action sits inside my brain surrounded by toxic electrical interference. It seems I have not succeeded in my mission in all that I have written or manipulated, which serves only as evidence of unrequited love..

I took it a step further, by adding an actual external element… painting a joint canvass with my love partner, an artist, an independent thinker… the enemy... yet of the same genome pool.

Portrait… painting with the enemy… lovers’ collaboration. All night long we painted on this one canvass and I recorded the event, as a spy in my own conspiracy. We shed our clothes and began… naked, as if in some kind of ritual or “right of passage” casting off the facades of social decorum and pretensions… in this pending patriotic war of nations and national identities. It was a risky venture…with no rules. It was not a game and sexual intimacy would not be the prize. It was going to be brutal and bruising. Egos would go down in flames that night… no rising of the Phoenix.

Ari was exotic, outrageous, bold and alien .





“She attacked the canvass like a matador…taunting the bull. Ole, ole.

 

I thought I would be intimidated by her aggression, her energy, her unmanageable will to power. Instead I was at great peace, not needing to jump in, to have my turn nor my place, which I had staked out before I began, before she took over with her mindless swirls.

 I needed to feel the urge, the impulse, the moment, the entry point to take my place, make my mark. I knew my mission, to retain my figurative identity in this bloody theatre of war, in the midst of the fury of her instinctive abstractions. But, could I survive in those fanatical attacks of that mad, naked woman and her chaotic brushings, scrubbings and hen scratchings?

That was my challenge and it was sexually exciting, exhilarating… even inspiring beyond the passion of any such flickers in past creative moments. And it was amusing… kept chuckling out loud to myself as I watched her stabbing that surface. No part was safe from the frenzy of her bristled phallus, paint oozing from the tips in orgasmic spasms, squirting hither and thither… spawning new life. She was absolutely fascinating, spellbinding, entrapping me in her web of clandestine intentions.

 

 

She rested and we laughed, sat and looked…she went at it again… more swirls more chaos… Masturbating… I watched her joy, as if voyeuristically peeping through a hole in the wall…
She rested again..I picked up her phallic icon, loaded it with gypsy white

 

and touched a dot in the center of one of her spheroidal swirls. I made an appearance, became grounded and continued with a calculated solar-like splash of lines, figuratively establishing my wild white hair while being careful to not destroy the lines she laid before me.

                                                                  
             

                                                                            



 
 I wanted to come, in disguise, between her lines. She did not recognise me, even though some of her strokes wiped out some of mine. So it was, throughout the long night… she with her abstract attacks and me with my clever figurative disguises. I broke her code, anticipated her subsequent moves and sustained fewer accidental wounds as the hours passed.

She did not know the enemy was inside. It was all Kafkaesque… full of intrigue and finally resignation.

The next morning, her young four year old child stood pondering the painting and asked,
“Mommy, whose portrait is that?” 

 

Ari and I stood at the raw fleshy vulnerable precipice of humanity that night… That was 20 years ago. I can still feel the breath of the razor’s edge.

　
I wanted to be that rebel child, defying fear, splashing paint onto a canvass, following no golden rule. I was afraid to let people know what I was painting, so the abstract figurative style disguises the message, unless it is pointed out.

Throughout that painting phase, which lasted about three years and while involved in what might be said, extreme intimacy with artist Ari Kanina, I produced about twenty fourpaintings on various themes: the dichotomy between man and woman, sexuality, religion, homosexuality, goddess love, environment from woman perspective, war, aging, the psychology of fear, arrogance, flight, introversion, love, self pleasure, bigotry, passion, renewal, levity.

I wanted to create a body of work about the process of probing life because, I could not find answers or formulas or a matrix in which to live. To this end I felt I had to confront my own bigotry, look at my anger, inhibitions, and fears, of which there are many..


Selamat tinggal


Rod

rod_malay@hotmail.com

　

 

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