Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Postcards
This is a postcard design I whipped up today. The fellow’s name is Biloxi Tone. I imagine that with the empty bubble the purchaser of the card could inscribe any greeting he/she may be so inclined to verbalize. Or leave it blank for the receiver’s imagination to fill.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Space-time traveling
This is Petey. He is stepping into our dimension from a cloud of nebulous space-time portal gasses. Or something along those lines. Who can say for sure when it comes to Petey?
Friday, March 20, 2009
Sacred art
My good friend Mr Mike and his beautiful wife Ms Sarah had a child recently named Harper. Mr Mike commissioned me to design a tattoo to commemorate Harper’s birth. This is what we came up with. What a sacred honor to be asked to have your art on someone’s body in perpetuity. And check out those guns through the heavenly aura!
Cerberus’ Whereabouts
It had been said that Cerberus left Hades to take human form and settled down to a wife and family life in France. However my good friend Takuya San captured him and placed him on his shelf in Tokyo next to the Golden Owl.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Collaborative Crises
Here is a piece I made in my class during an Uncle Tim’s Timed Death Match Challenge. I like it so I am posting it. I have been sick the last few days and had internet problems so have missed a couple posts. If you noticed raise your hand. Heh. Anyway here it is:
I suppose he is praying that this kaleidoscope of crises the world is facing will turn out for the best.
Oh, and credit where credit is due, Nga Lam whipped up the batch of colorful circles that I turned into a psychedelic swirl. She threw them out while I was looking at some of her recent work.
I suppose he is praying that this kaleidoscope of crises the world is facing will turn out for the best.
Oh, and credit where credit is due, Nga Lam whipped up the batch of colorful circles that I turned into a psychedelic swirl. She threw them out while I was looking at some of her recent work.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Your apathy destroys me
This is the first draft of a storytelling exercise I am subjecting myself to. Just sharing:
When Timberton Shiplap’s mother first laid dreary and weary eyes on her newborn son she proceeded to vomit right onto his little gargoyle face. All babies look like gargoyles. No one in town ever learned what caused Magdelene to lose her lunch. She had not even eaten lunch due to the imminent arrival of Timberton. It seems that inauspicious beginning was some kind of sign. Good or bad depends on one’s point of view I suppose.
Aren’t all signs good and bad? What did it mean for Julius Bernstaub when the eagle landed on his cow? His wife died of shock (she was milking the cow at the moment), but the cow won top honors at the county fair for four years straight.
When Timberton was seven he had still not spoken a single word. But he was big enough to be confused for a medium sized bear. And no one could catch a salmon or a trout fish as fast as he could. Which is how he came about his nickname.
At sixteen Timberton couldn’t stop talking. But hardly anyone understood a word. It was as if a dam had burst and words were decades of frustrated water waiting to gush forth. Though incomprehensible his flood of verbiage was considered quite refreshing by housewives made apathetic by the tedium of housewifery and banker, businessman, lawyer, salesman, car dealer, tradesman husbands.
At twenty-one Timberton suddenly felt nauseous. He was living in a hovel in Bangkok at the time. He had been there an indefinite period and wasn’t exactly sure how he had gotten there in the first place. He needed a drink. He panhandled long enough to earn the money for a drunken night in a dive. He found his favorite place. He drank. But the nausea did not ascend. Timberton vomited on the bar. The bartender threw him into the street.
“Who are you?”
Timberton lay crumpled. The lights and sounds of the city overwhelmed. His nausea was not appeased.
“Who are you?”
Timberton began to pick himself up, but it was too much effort.
”I said who are you!!!!?”
Timberton was suddenly standing and an eerily familiar face was glowering (and perhaps glowing) into his own. “Who are you and where did you get that smell?”
“What smell?” Timberton gurgled confusedly.
“I would recognize that smell anywhere. And anytime for that matter. Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t have a clue what you are talking about.”
“Of course. You whites never could distinguish anything of any importance,” then the face said, “Let’s go.”
When Timberton woke up he was surrounded by monsters. At least they appeared to be monsters. He was beside a flickering fire. Shadows danced around the room. He was terrified.
“The chosen one has awoken!” The monster men burst into celebratory song and dance.
“What is going on?”
“You are the chosen one.” Whispered a shadow shrouded creature he had not noticed next to him.
“What?”
“You are the chosen one. The great mysterious friend. The emancipator. You are destined to free our people.”
The shadowed creature stood and commanded the attention of the rest. ”The great mysterious friend has awoken! Let the sacrifice commence!”
You decide. Is it a good sign or a bad sign to be marked with bile as a saviour and a martyr?
When Timberton Shiplap’s mother first laid dreary and weary eyes on her newborn son she proceeded to vomit right onto his little gargoyle face. All babies look like gargoyles. No one in town ever learned what caused Magdelene to lose her lunch. She had not even eaten lunch due to the imminent arrival of Timberton. It seems that inauspicious beginning was some kind of sign. Good or bad depends on one’s point of view I suppose.
Aren’t all signs good and bad? What did it mean for Julius Bernstaub when the eagle landed on his cow? His wife died of shock (she was milking the cow at the moment), but the cow won top honors at the county fair for four years straight.
When Timberton was seven he had still not spoken a single word. But he was big enough to be confused for a medium sized bear. And no one could catch a salmon or a trout fish as fast as he could. Which is how he came about his nickname.
At sixteen Timberton couldn’t stop talking. But hardly anyone understood a word. It was as if a dam had burst and words were decades of frustrated water waiting to gush forth. Though incomprehensible his flood of verbiage was considered quite refreshing by housewives made apathetic by the tedium of housewifery and banker, businessman, lawyer, salesman, car dealer, tradesman husbands.
At twenty-one Timberton suddenly felt nauseous. He was living in a hovel in Bangkok at the time. He had been there an indefinite period and wasn’t exactly sure how he had gotten there in the first place. He needed a drink. He panhandled long enough to earn the money for a drunken night in a dive. He found his favorite place. He drank. But the nausea did not ascend. Timberton vomited on the bar. The bartender threw him into the street.
“Who are you?”
Timberton lay crumpled. The lights and sounds of the city overwhelmed. His nausea was not appeased.
“Who are you?”
Timberton began to pick himself up, but it was too much effort.
”I said who are you!!!!?”
Timberton was suddenly standing and an eerily familiar face was glowering (and perhaps glowing) into his own. “Who are you and where did you get that smell?”
“What smell?” Timberton gurgled confusedly.
“I would recognize that smell anywhere. And anytime for that matter. Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t have a clue what you are talking about.”
“Of course. You whites never could distinguish anything of any importance,” then the face said, “Let’s go.”
When Timberton woke up he was surrounded by monsters. At least they appeared to be monsters. He was beside a flickering fire. Shadows danced around the room. He was terrified.
“The chosen one has awoken!” The monster men burst into celebratory song and dance.
“What is going on?”
“You are the chosen one.” Whispered a shadow shrouded creature he had not noticed next to him.
“What?”
“You are the chosen one. The great mysterious friend. The emancipator. You are destined to free our people.”
The shadowed creature stood and commanded the attention of the rest. ”The great mysterious friend has awoken! Let the sacrifice commence!”
You decide. Is it a good sign or a bad sign to be marked with bile as a saviour and a martyr?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Event horizon
The difference between a thing and an event is a thing lasts longer than man’s capacity to comprehend it as an event.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Uncle Envelope
Do you like paper? What about cool mail? C’mon! Everybody likes getting something cool in the mail. So go check out Uncle Envelope. It is an art project for children big and small conceived of and operated by everyone’s favorite joyful elephant (and friend o’ Thursday City) Kristin “Little Bear” Lindner. If you know any kids, or you are one, or you just like cool paper stuff in the mail you should buy a subscription or two. Hell, make it three.
I will be contributing for one edition. I am working on a series of cards illustrating the 12 Olympian gods. Below is a sneak peek at Zeus.
Check out his fey dancing moves!
I will be contributing for one edition. I am working on a series of cards illustrating the 12 Olympian gods. Below is a sneak peek at Zeus.
Check out his fey dancing moves!
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Catching lightning
Clouds dissipate
less quickly
than my lightning strikes
of gnostic insight.
If only
there were a way
to bottle them,
catalog them,
and later
put them in a book.
Instead I watch
as they sizzle
into oblivion,
my hand outstretched
for a pen and paper,
too late.
less quickly
than my lightning strikes
of gnostic insight.
If only
there were a way
to bottle them,
catalog them,
and later
put them in a book.
Instead I watch
as they sizzle
into oblivion,
my hand outstretched
for a pen and paper,
too late.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Say your prayers
The realm of the sacred has gone the route of the bison among us. No animal that knows the living wonder of piety would have ever let this occur. Praises be.
A jaguar warrior saying his prayers, of course.
A jaguar warrior saying his prayers, of course.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Scraping the bottom of the barrell
When trying to create one should always keep in mind that creation works best when it’s not trying.
So says Peter Picklebarrell.
So says Peter Picklebarrell.
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