About To Overthrow A Paradigm...

truth about him from the eyes of a fern

i saw him painting yellow in the rain.  

weathered with moss and pale patches that looked like a gutter with massive, dried toothpaste stains - the wall of the dull, intrusive cellphone tower caught my interest, one day.

first, i noticed the great portion of soothing blue that began to mask the ugliness, then i was quickly enchanted by the yellow—the colour of that good, beloved kind of powdered curry. i was  D   R   A   W   N. through the back glass, i managed to see only an afro—glorious in the rain. the taxi ripped me away from the scene—curious, inspired, intrigued.

but i found out. thanks, Dani :) it was KRISTON BANFIELD.

for all his life, and nineteen of mine, Kriston Banfield and i were “neighbours”. he is now 20 and laughed when i divulged my occasional “give one” or “take one” formula for sharing my age. but i stated it honestly. it was not important for me to cheat youth or maturity in that instance.

we walked for a bit in the rain while i tried to regulate my excitement that he was a new source of inspiration for me, and i hope, the community.

his vibrant, enlightened beings will share spaces along the lengthy one-way-in-one-way-out road in my “Past de Lighthouse” community. i allow myself to be carried away with my own sentimentality and be persuaded that the fantastic, emulsified characters will move people to appreciate this public form of expression. perhaps it will encourage them to relay their own positive messages, activating a new sense of pride in the valley.  

Banfield’s animated use of colour and his kinetic lines constitute energy, movement and change. they communicate and evoke so many thoughts and possibilities, to me.

i am in full support of what he is doing and am grateful that he is taking time and showing interest in doing it here, in “de bush”—in Santa Cruz. FULL RESPECT TO THIS POSITIVE YOUTH. he real kewl too. check out his blog: http://kbanfield.tumblr.com/   

Light.

Her eyes are so soulful... Their traditional wear is so beautiful though... #awesome!

Today’s photograph features a woman dressed in traditional Iraqi clothing.  Taken in Baghdad, Iraq.

What is an artist?

IMO, an artist is someone who creates from within their very spirit and soul... with every motivation secondary to the base desire to cover your canvas (whatever your artform may be) with the very essence of your being. An artist does not talk about being an artist. An artist does not call oneself an artist neither should one expect to be recognised as such.

An artist creates. 

Not without purpose or without message ingrained... That is a byproduct of your influences and environment... but at its core, pure creation and your very DNA. 

Create.

This is what I do on the daily. #product #photography #work #seamlessbackground. Still got so much edits to do tho! Big up #canon cuz my ole faithful #rebelt2i still hanging in there. #denim #grip

EEEee3e a 3r a great one of those are d

Late night writings #3

The power of the mind. You just thought of it, in that you just processed it, in that you realised that in a split second (or maybe less) you became fully aware of what happens all the time subconsciously. 

We use our minds for all sorts of things... Some wondrous, some mediocre, some light, some dark... And you can imagine the list of all the things. 

I use my mind to paint pictures. What do you do with yours?

Whenever I call kbanfield and say I'm feeling uninspired, he always says just start and get it done and stop complaining... He is a real motivator. I was thinkin that its like if I look out through the peephole thingy I'd see him like this outside my door. So i felt inspired to do this sketch. 

kbanfield check this out for inspiration... just kinda reminded me of you

Runaway Kali ~ by Laura O’Connor http://cargocollective.com/lauraoconnor http://society6.com/LauraOConnor/prints

Photochemical

Gonna start shooting film again...

Late night writings #6

And so the world keeps turning, my existence naught but a sneeze in a crowded train station. I ponder on my worth as my chapped lips separate in stupor and amazement at the way the world has evolved around me, like a tree growing through a chain-link fence... I am poor. I am hungry. I am desolate. I am incredulous, for believing I am of superior build. I am in fact a shadow. I am a collection of memories that, to some, will cease to exist in time, and to others, morph into an unbearable burden, annoying barnacle, blood-sucking tick that they must pry off of their very flesh. Then they will all look down, heads bowed in pity and sorrow, at what could have been, but combusted in and of itself.

All ashes now. All I was.