Visual Diary

Is bad art, art? I'm Chelsea And I made this art.

[theabsurdlove]

Speaking to people you're around they're not interesting but you like them at the same time you want to kill them because it feels like they're wasting your time.

I want to speak but not to you and not with my mouth, I want to say something, anything I want that conversation to go on and on until the cigarettes burn out and the wine stains our teeth as if we were flossing. But you're boring. And so am I.

[theabsurdlove]

In the epic movie "Birdman" Riggen Thompson is frustrated with the question of why must he always beg for love and the idea that if he is not loved by someone he does not exist which is why he then kills himself on stage, in realisation that his existence is futile because a woman he loves told him that she did not feel the same way. The abundance of truth within these two ideals are quite common to most humans, we don't take rejection lightly and might end up also believing our existence is truly dependant on a significant other. In the movie they also touch on those who see themselves as undeserving of love, through Laura the younger woman in his production whom he is having a relationship with, she loves Riggen but throughout the play we realise that he is not good to her when she tells Naomi Watt's character that "he's never said anything like that to me" in the 3 years(i think) they've been together, regardless of the amount of time they've been together she has never demanded the love she sought and knew she truly deserved from Riggen. This idea is also emphasised through Edward Norton's character, when he is on the roof/balcony he rejects Emma Stone's character because of his inept sexual stimulation he refuses her love because he truly believes he is not man enough for love, just because his dick doesn't go up his self hatred of that one iota of what loving someone is about, he removes himself off the list of people who can or should be loved. I wish I was more like Riggen, he at least sought out the love he wanted and that love being fame, adoring crowds of unknown people adoring him (well mostly the "lazy fucker" critic) he found love that he wanted and to his imagination was the purest form of love. Pretending as though your worth is merely measured through whether or not a person finds you suitably fuckable is crippling, and it does raise the question do I exist? with sex being so dispensable if that is your underlying worth why are we here, why do we matter if we can just be replaced with with 50 bucks in an alley way or a plastic doll, a dildo.

Ps. I'm feeling some type o way and I thought this would be a great sideline analogy of the story, thats whats so great about Birdamn there's an abundance of substance to analyse and to answer the question yes you are worth more than your sexuality, the only thing being is that you need to either find the person who sees value in your conversation, ability, passion, but bear in mind that, that person is not easy to find and neither is overcoming the idea that love is sex.

Pps. You need love, but not the kind of love most people used and were used up by. *drops mic*  

[theabsurdlove]

TV taught me how to feel so now I have no real life appeal

[theabsurdlove]

TV taught me how to feel so now I have no real life appeal. [gouache on paper]

[theabsurdlove]

[theabsurdlove]

[theabsurdlove]

Don't turn your back on the sunset keep going until it's dark bearing in mind you might get mugged #thrilling! #sunset #pretoria #tuks (tap for sound for #DeeEdwards)

[theabsurdlove]

MONSTERS {almost finished} [gouache colors on cardboard]

[theabsurdlove]

[painting by Rene Magritte]

MONSTERS

I’m working on a new project the whole idea is based on identity; losing it, keeping it or not having it at all.

I read an extract by Junot Diaz on race and representation in the media I found it on Berlin art-parasites on Facebook. Somewhere in that she speaks about vampires/monsters not having a reflection because they have been denied their own reflection. I think she is talking about how the media takes away the true reflection of certain races by branding them criminals.

Whereas I’d like to look at this in terms of human nature. We want to be good, we don’t want to be monsters that’s why we try our best to cast out this attribute from our self. When people do bad things they say “I wasn’t myself” but who was it?

The old books written about vampires say they have no reflection, this blood thirsty…well, perverted creature, is exorcized out of the human body and into fictional books, movies. And there in those books he is the reflection of humans because we could “see him” although it’s just a one way mirror the monster doesn’t see us, what is left of his “good”, and since he never sees it he understands himself as pure in his monstrous nature.

Since this creature is a reflection, mostly creation by humans it had to come from us, it was within us and we cast it out only to marvel at its pure savagery in a book or tv. Thus summoning the creature back into ourselves.

We try so hard to cast out the bad in us to remove our shame, and questionable behavior yet had we succeeded in this extraction and thought ourselves so just, and never thought the need to test our goodwill, would we know our will is good? Would we not too become monsters? Shall we cast out the only thing that tests our good? Being good does not mean being pure of heart, bad thoughts and actions are of vital importance to make us more humane.

There’s comfort in literature, the same thoughts you had this morning at 4 am possessed by insomnia were written down by Hemingway, Bukowski, Albert Camus.

Anyway here’s a quote befitting this by Friedrich Nietzsche: “be careful, lest in casting out your demon you exorcize the best in you”

*drops mic*

pics it up again littering is bad

[theabsurdlove]

Yesterday's doodles

[theabsurdlove]

Richard Siken

“Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, 'I am falling to the floor crying,' but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well.” —Richard Siken

[theabsurdlove]

Selfie portrait, because I have a donut tattoo 

[Gouache colours on canvas]

[theabsurdlove]

She. [drawing in paper]

[theabsurdlove]

Benedict Cumberbatch on love

[theabsurdlove]

Fuck the depressives, give me a poem of hope

I’ve read many, empty carcasses of woe and called it art as if it was attractive, bitter poems of broken hearts as if that’s all I’ve known as a human, as if I have never been gay for a single moment in my life. No more sad poems of broken hearts, I haven't been very kind to myself so a poem of hope to wake me up is.

John Keats, “To Hope” me the fuck up 

WHEN by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night, Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray, Should sad Despondency my musings fright, And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away, Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof, And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, Strive for her son to seize my careless heart; When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart: Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright, And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer; Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow: Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, From cruel parents, or relentless fair; O let me think it is not quite in vain To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air! Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll, Let me not see our country's honour fade: O let me see our land retain her soul, Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade. From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed--- Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest, Great Liberty! how great in plain attire! With the base purple of a court oppress'd, Bowing her head, and ready to expire: But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud; Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar: So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed, Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head!

[theabsurdlove]

Sleeping. Escaping doesn't always mean making it -Titus Andromedon [drawing on paper]

[theabsurdlove]

Irresponsible without being so responsible [charcoal on cardboard]