Runaway

If you haven't watched Kanye West's "Runaway," starring himself and the lovely Selita Ebanks, do yourself a favor and set aside some time to do so. These 35 minutes are packed with delicious sounds, imagery, and the sneaking suspicion that a vision beyond the obvious society-persecutes-the-outsider plot line exists. I want in on it.

Raphael Mazzucco

I want to take a moment to pay homage to someone who has been a favorite of mine for years-- artist/photographer Raphael Mazzucco. His photographs and multimedia pieces are rich, sexy, and a complete aesthetic pleasure. I would die for a copy of his impossibly gorgeous (and comparatively expensive) "Collected Art" book... for now I'll stick to clicking through his website for hours while I procrastinate.

Sometimes the most effective self portraits aren't of your face.

I'm working on the second book in my "How To Be Good" series, which deals with questions of spirituality. As I dig through the archives to contribute my own personal history to the images, I've discovered that I have a large collection of snapshots I've taken of my feet throughout the different chapters of my life. I love the idea that old images can take on new relevance when examined in retrospect.

This girl scribbled curse words in her sketchbook all day.

Thank you, Modest Mouse, for accompanying me tonight on my first detectably chilly drive home of the year.

Sometimes I feel like I've been rendered speechless by the implications that I've made myself aware of. 

(Some things are better expressed without words.) 

Tonight I watched Art School Confidential, and I would  recommend it to anyone who has recognized the hypocrisy and irony that rules the artistic environment, especially hideously long critiques and defensive classmates... gah. Despite my slightly off-put attitude towards artmaking following the movie, Max Minghella was positively lovely to stare at for 2 hours or so... ladies.

Some people mistake the idea of "finding themselves" with never having to be unhappy again.

Damelo

When I am at my most vulnerable, honesty escapes me when I least expect it, and I am rendered helpless by these stolen authenticities. It is essentially revealing something intimate to someone you don't know, like mentioning you were shopping for shampoo when describing the backdrop to a larger story. Doesn't everyone take a moment to wonder at the lather, rinse, drip of stranger's hair at moments like these? Also, I am often surprised with how flawed I find my own philosophies to be. It's as upsetting as seeing a employee who treated you poorly embracing a lover outside of their workplace. Their shared tenderness is jarring, and confuses my instinct to categorize them as a soulless other in my quest for compartmentalization.

I don't think it is narcissistic to study oneself closely. As Milan Kundera would put it, I have always tried to see myself through my body, and I want my truth to be a good one. The first thing I do when I come home from a particularly heavy experience is carefully examine my face, to see which traces have been left behind; if my own errors weigh heavily around my eyes, or if I have managed to thwart them until their next repeat. When I loved, I tried to understand what made my skin and eyes brighter. It felt like an outward expression of my inner wholesomeness; an appearance I rightfully feared would make an unceremonious exit. I am trying to withhold criticism of these blemishes and small imperfections, and rather see them for what they are; the open wounds of life. As they disappear in passing weeks, I project onto them my own marvelous perception of the human body and the ability to heal itself. If my skin can do it, then so certainly can my soul.