I've been working with the stuff for the past week, and let me tell you, It's awful. The smell fills your nose, dizzies your head, and lives in your carpets. It sticks your fingers together and finds every little cut on your hands. Oh, did I mention it can burn you as it dries? It makes the carving process all the more fun, I suppose... Such an unpredictable material.
Oh, the joys of making props for movies. (I'm making fake quartz crystals. It's a long story)
Movies, movies, movies... you separate the men from the boys.
Luckily, Seu Jorge's work on the Life Aquatic Sessions helps to mellow me out.
Expect a full post when I have more than five minutes of free time. As for now, it's finally time for bed, and it's just as well, tomorrow starts at 5:30am.
Rest well and take heart, because if life seems tough right now, at least you're not choking down noxious fumes while carving a gelatinous skin irritant with a sharpened kitchen knife at one o'clock in the morning.
[We can be heroes, just for one day]
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Humble pie... not as good as it looked on the menu
Art’s a funny thing, you really shouldn’t take it too seriously.
You see, you can’t just pour your heart and soul into a serious project and not expect a few people to laugh at it. It comes with the territory. After all, there are 6 billion people in the world, so you have to take into account that there’s gonna be 6 billion different interpretations of something you’ve done or said.
Well, for a brief moment last week, I forgot that, and it made me very upset to find that someone didn’t understand the deep, complex, emotional point that I was trying to get across, and instead, laughed. I felt disgraced, embarrassed, incensed. “How dare they?”, I thought, pretending that I was the all-powerful creator of everything good, clever, and true, “How dare they think differently about something!”
I had become what I’d hoped never to become, an “Arteest”. Yes, it’s just as it sounds: An outrageous French pronunciation of the word “Artist”.
Now, I’ve been taught to think of myself as an artist in the sense that I create things, and through those things, I try my best to express Truth and Beauty and Goodness to the world, but never forgetting that it’s about the people. This, I believe, is what it means to be called an “Artist”, a noble title, no doubt.
An “Arteest”, on the other hand, has no regard for other people, only themselves. Their art is the only thing that matters in the world, and if they ever face the threat of being brought back to reality, they hide behind the veil of their art saying, “You just don’t understand me”, or if your interpretation differs from their own: “You just don’t get it.”
Shut up.
How did I get to that point? How did I let myself behave in such a way? I’d forgotten the most important thing: never make the art more important than the people you’ve created it for.
Once I realized this, it became clear that my “detractors” we not, in fact, laughing AT me, but WITH me. Though it was not what I intended, I had brought joy into other people’s lives through a story of my own, and if that isn’t a good enough reason to do what I do, then I have no business doing it.
I’ll leave you with a quote: “...for in this business of show, you must have the heart of an angel, and the hide, of an elephant”
Yes indeed... yes indeed.
[Life is a beautiful thing, as long as I hold a string. I’d be a silly so-and-so if I should ever let it go]
You see, you can’t just pour your heart and soul into a serious project and not expect a few people to laugh at it. It comes with the territory. After all, there are 6 billion people in the world, so you have to take into account that there’s gonna be 6 billion different interpretations of something you’ve done or said.
Well, for a brief moment last week, I forgot that, and it made me very upset to find that someone didn’t understand the deep, complex, emotional point that I was trying to get across, and instead, laughed. I felt disgraced, embarrassed, incensed. “How dare they?”, I thought, pretending that I was the all-powerful creator of everything good, clever, and true, “How dare they think differently about something!”
I had become what I’d hoped never to become, an “Arteest”. Yes, it’s just as it sounds: An outrageous French pronunciation of the word “Artist”.
Now, I’ve been taught to think of myself as an artist in the sense that I create things, and through those things, I try my best to express Truth and Beauty and Goodness to the world, but never forgetting that it’s about the people. This, I believe, is what it means to be called an “Artist”, a noble title, no doubt.
An “Arteest”, on the other hand, has no regard for other people, only themselves. Their art is the only thing that matters in the world, and if they ever face the threat of being brought back to reality, they hide behind the veil of their art saying, “You just don’t understand me”, or if your interpretation differs from their own: “You just don’t get it.”
Shut up.
How did I get to that point? How did I let myself behave in such a way? I’d forgotten the most important thing: never make the art more important than the people you’ve created it for.
Once I realized this, it became clear that my “detractors” we not, in fact, laughing AT me, but WITH me. Though it was not what I intended, I had brought joy into other people’s lives through a story of my own, and if that isn’t a good enough reason to do what I do, then I have no business doing it.
I’ll leave you with a quote: “...for in this business of show, you must have the heart of an angel, and the hide, of an elephant”
Yes indeed... yes indeed.
[Life is a beautiful thing, as long as I hold a string. I’d be a silly so-and-so if I should ever let it go]
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Welcome Back Kotter
Do you know what happens to all the mice in your apartment when you go on vacation for two weeks?
They die.
They starve in your sink because your dirty dishes, their main source of nourishment, aren’t piling up anymore, and they’ve already licked the old ones clean. So they bury themselves among the wooden spoons and pint glasses and dirty plates and wait patiently for the leftovers that will never come.
This exact scene is what I found when I returned home the other night, and I’ll be honest with you, after I got past the “oh, that’s disgusting” phase, I felt sorry for the poor guys. My heart broke for them, whereas before, when I knew of their existence, but never saw them, I would walk around the house with my baseball bat, taunting them and joking about the things I would do if ever they dared show themselves.
I was cocky then, just trying to show off for my friends and make them laugh, but now, it was reality slapping me cold in the face. One by one, I took them out of the sink and deposited them in the trash (Not the most dignified final resting place, I know, but I wasn’t about to go out and dig through two feet of snow to bury them), as I did this, I discovered one poor fellow, trapped at the bottom of a drinking glass, was not quite dead yet.
It was clear that he didn’t have much time left to live -- almost completely paralyzed from starvation. I knew what I had to do, but it sickened me. I didn’t think I had it in me, but after a long conversation with myself, laced with many profanities flung out of fear, I finally worked up the nerve to do it.
I made it quick. I made it painless. After all my jokes of “splatting” the mice in my kitchen I had now followed through on my threat, and I felt terrible.
In my own roundabout way, I am getting to my point, and it is this: This is growing up.
After two weeks of spending the Holidays with my parents -- eating their food, watching their TV, spending the night in a house filled with people whom I cared about and who cared about me -- I now returned to face the harsh reality that there was no one waiting for me at my apartment. There were no fresh cookies cooling on the stove. The groceries in the fridge were bought with my own money, and half of them needed to be thrown out. And on top of all this lay the dead mice in the sink filled with dirty dishes that I should have taken care of before I left, and the awful realization that no one is going to take care of this for me anymore.
I have to make the hard decisions. I have to pay the bills. I have to clean up the mess. I have to kill the mouse.
The break is over, and it’s time to be an adult again.
And you know what? It kinda sucks.
But this is growing up. This is what it means to be alive, and in this world, you’re either living, or you’re dying, there is no third option.
So I’ll take the former. I’ll “Cowboy up” if you will (or even if you wont).
[When things start splitting at the seams and now the whole thing's tumbling down]
They die.
They starve in your sink because your dirty dishes, their main source of nourishment, aren’t piling up anymore, and they’ve already licked the old ones clean. So they bury themselves among the wooden spoons and pint glasses and dirty plates and wait patiently for the leftovers that will never come.
This exact scene is what I found when I returned home the other night, and I’ll be honest with you, after I got past the “oh, that’s disgusting” phase, I felt sorry for the poor guys. My heart broke for them, whereas before, when I knew of their existence, but never saw them, I would walk around the house with my baseball bat, taunting them and joking about the things I would do if ever they dared show themselves.
I was cocky then, just trying to show off for my friends and make them laugh, but now, it was reality slapping me cold in the face. One by one, I took them out of the sink and deposited them in the trash (Not the most dignified final resting place, I know, but I wasn’t about to go out and dig through two feet of snow to bury them), as I did this, I discovered one poor fellow, trapped at the bottom of a drinking glass, was not quite dead yet.
It was clear that he didn’t have much time left to live -- almost completely paralyzed from starvation. I knew what I had to do, but it sickened me. I didn’t think I had it in me, but after a long conversation with myself, laced with many profanities flung out of fear, I finally worked up the nerve to do it.
I made it quick. I made it painless. After all my jokes of “splatting” the mice in my kitchen I had now followed through on my threat, and I felt terrible.
In my own roundabout way, I am getting to my point, and it is this: This is growing up.
After two weeks of spending the Holidays with my parents -- eating their food, watching their TV, spending the night in a house filled with people whom I cared about and who cared about me -- I now returned to face the harsh reality that there was no one waiting for me at my apartment. There were no fresh cookies cooling on the stove. The groceries in the fridge were bought with my own money, and half of them needed to be thrown out. And on top of all this lay the dead mice in the sink filled with dirty dishes that I should have taken care of before I left, and the awful realization that no one is going to take care of this for me anymore.
I have to make the hard decisions. I have to pay the bills. I have to clean up the mess. I have to kill the mouse.
The break is over, and it’s time to be an adult again.
And you know what? It kinda sucks.
But this is growing up. This is what it means to be alive, and in this world, you’re either living, or you’re dying, there is no third option.
So I’ll take the former. I’ll “Cowboy up” if you will (or even if you wont).
[When things start splitting at the seams and now the whole thing's tumbling down]
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Why We're Safe from an Alien Invasion...
I’ll tell you why the aliens have never invaded...
Because, it’s not really much of an accomplishment to conquer a society that chooses to watch a program like MTV’s “Jersey Shore”. There's no pride there, they'd be the laughingstock of the galaxy:
"Hey man, we just conquered Earth!"
"Isn't that the planet with "Jersey Shore?"
"Err... yeah... But, we enslaved all their people and quelled all resistance and --"
"Yeah? Well I filed my taxes today -- four months before the deadline... So, you tell me who had the bigger day."
You see what I mean?
It’s like walking through a forest, turning over a log, and finding a bunch of worms. The reaction is, “Cool, some living things! I’ll capture them and take them as pets-- oh, wait. They’re slimy and they subsist on a mainly “rotting wood” diet. I think I’ll just flip the log back over and let them wallow in their awful existence.”
So, it looks like we’re safe for now. We just have to make sure that MTV continues to provide a steady stream of deplorable, mindless, base programming to throw the aliens off the trail and disgust them enough to leave us alone.
Of course, the danger is that we’ll end up ingesting too much of these shows and become a vapid, vain, and vulgar society intent on getting everything we want instantly and with no consequences.
What a terrible existence that would be...
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to max out a credit card to buy some fashionable electronic that I don’t really need and will become obsolete in a month. Ta!
[pack and get dressed before your father hears us, before all hell breaks loose]
Because, it’s not really much of an accomplishment to conquer a society that chooses to watch a program like MTV’s “Jersey Shore”. There's no pride there, they'd be the laughingstock of the galaxy:
"Hey man, we just conquered Earth!"
"Isn't that the planet with "Jersey Shore?"
"Err... yeah... But, we enslaved all their people and quelled all resistance and --"
"Yeah? Well I filed my taxes today -- four months before the deadline... So, you tell me who had the bigger day."
You see what I mean?
It’s like walking through a forest, turning over a log, and finding a bunch of worms. The reaction is, “Cool, some living things! I’ll capture them and take them as pets-- oh, wait. They’re slimy and they subsist on a mainly “rotting wood” diet. I think I’ll just flip the log back over and let them wallow in their awful existence.”
So, it looks like we’re safe for now. We just have to make sure that MTV continues to provide a steady stream of deplorable, mindless, base programming to throw the aliens off the trail and disgust them enough to leave us alone.
Of course, the danger is that we’ll end up ingesting too much of these shows and become a vapid, vain, and vulgar society intent on getting everything we want instantly and with no consequences.
What a terrible existence that would be...
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to max out a credit card to buy some fashionable electronic that I don’t really need and will become obsolete in a month. Ta!
[pack and get dressed before your father hears us, before all hell breaks loose]
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Biggest Story of the Year! (So far...)
So there I was, sitting in an airplane on the tarmac, 2010 just seconds away. Around me, I see couples puckering up, ready to ring in the New Year with a kiss for luck. Everyone, it seemed, had someone to share the special moment with.
Ten.... Nine.... Eight....
Well, I wanted to kick off the New Year with some class myself. Alas, I had no woman of my own with which to lock the lips.
Seven.... Six.... Five....
I being to flap my arms wildly, scanning up and down the aisle, not a single lady in sight. I fear the whole plane would have thought me a nutcase if they weren’t too busy gazing lovingly into their partners’ eyes.
Four.... Three.... Two....
There! A lady -- a single lady!!! I’m in a fever pitch now. My “fight or flight” instincts kick in. I jump out of my seat, lips extended, ready for the kill.
One....
I sweep her up in my arms. We are the cover of a Harlequin romance novel. I look her dead in the eye and plant one on her supple, pouting lips (too graphic? I’m sorry.).
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
My head is buzzing like a corn field in July. Everything’s spinning. I still hold the kiss, imagining, for a moment, the entire aircraft applauding my accomplishment and breaking into a rousing chorus of “Auld Lang Syne”.
Unfortunately, this is the world that exists only in my head.
The woman I’m kissing tears away and slaps me hard, cold, harsh reality comes rushing back. As I rub my wound, I get my first, good look at the woman, and I make a startling discovery: I’ve just kissed the pilot. ( A female airline pilot? What are the odds?)
Within moments, I’m escorted off the plane. It’s a disaster, and it’s a blur. It’s all happening too fast to simply explain the mixup. Down the skyway and into the terminal, I’m thrust to the ground. No luggage. No tickets. No way home.
Well, what was I to do? I had to find some way home, so I wandered the terminal and found myself a flight to Toronto that had a few seats available. Seeing as how I didn’t have a passport and was now considered a “security risk”, I had no trouble at all in boarding the flight. I was even upgraded to First Class.
Twelve free glasses of champagne later, and I was home, safe and sound in Grand Rapids.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before the story hit the major news outlets.
Upon hearing the news, Dick Cheney once again criticized the Obama administration’s poor response in dealing with the “threat”, then promptly shot his best friend in the face, adding, “See that? THAT’S how you do homeland security.”
Too soon?
[You look so defeated lying there in your new twin sized bed]
Ten.... Nine.... Eight....
Well, I wanted to kick off the New Year with some class myself. Alas, I had no woman of my own with which to lock the lips.
Seven.... Six.... Five....
I being to flap my arms wildly, scanning up and down the aisle, not a single lady in sight. I fear the whole plane would have thought me a nutcase if they weren’t too busy gazing lovingly into their partners’ eyes.
Four.... Three.... Two....
There! A lady -- a single lady!!! I’m in a fever pitch now. My “fight or flight” instincts kick in. I jump out of my seat, lips extended, ready for the kill.
One....
I sweep her up in my arms. We are the cover of a Harlequin romance novel. I look her dead in the eye and plant one on her supple, pouting lips (too graphic? I’m sorry.).
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
My head is buzzing like a corn field in July. Everything’s spinning. I still hold the kiss, imagining, for a moment, the entire aircraft applauding my accomplishment and breaking into a rousing chorus of “Auld Lang Syne”.
Unfortunately, this is the world that exists only in my head.
The woman I’m kissing tears away and slaps me hard, cold, harsh reality comes rushing back. As I rub my wound, I get my first, good look at the woman, and I make a startling discovery: I’ve just kissed the pilot. ( A female airline pilot? What are the odds?)
Within moments, I’m escorted off the plane. It’s a disaster, and it’s a blur. It’s all happening too fast to simply explain the mixup. Down the skyway and into the terminal, I’m thrust to the ground. No luggage. No tickets. No way home.
Well, what was I to do? I had to find some way home, so I wandered the terminal and found myself a flight to Toronto that had a few seats available. Seeing as how I didn’t have a passport and was now considered a “security risk”, I had no trouble at all in boarding the flight. I was even upgraded to First Class.
Twelve free glasses of champagne later, and I was home, safe and sound in Grand Rapids.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before the story hit the major news outlets.
Upon hearing the news, Dick Cheney once again criticized the Obama administration’s poor response in dealing with the “threat”, then promptly shot his best friend in the face, adding, “See that? THAT’S how you do homeland security.”
Too soon?
[You look so defeated lying there in your new twin sized bed]
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