Part Of A Poster Design For A Really Great Short: Hitgirl Handguns... Its Almost Done. These Are Drafts

Love the shelf!

Urban pad mixes rustic-modern with reclaimed pieces

Late night writings #5

And to cure my madness... I paint. The floor is literally littered with painted paper... The images become real after a while.

This is my life. I am responsible and irresponsible. I am rich and broke. The concept of family is elusive. I paint.

EEEee3e a 3r a great one of those are d

Humility

Now i realise that my art is primitive... My creativity has been subject to entropy. I'm soooooooooooo last decade. Heck, half of me hasn't left the '90s... There is nothing. My style doesn't even exist. Or does it?

Done.

Work in progress. The name will come soon. When I take a better picture. 

Took this with a Sony Cybershit dsc... I thought it would be too much hassle to get out my dslr.  All the colours look weird.

The 2nd photo is better no? That's that dslr goodness. 

Iz

Hey kbanfield check this out. 

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.

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.

Merry Christmas!!!

but the carpet's gotta match the drapes... *rainbow voice*

About to overthrow a paradigm...