I would also point out that I am alive & well & operating on a stable basis but I wrote this, particularly the later section, honestly & that can be a difficult thing to experience.
I have previously stated that painting is a life or death issue & here is the proof.
Don’t say that you have not been warned…………………………………
The reason why I destroy the larger part of my output is so that I may preserve my memory of each piece in its perfection & not have them exposed to further critical analysis, mostly by myself but also by anyone else who views them. They are only important to me whilst providing the possibilities to produce further works that may excite or interest me. It is the journey that interests me & not the destination.
This is selfish & I am aware of this, but it is only because I hate to experience what other people call reality.
Throughout my life I have experienced extremes of joy & misery. The point at which time ceases to exist & the moment is all that there is. At this point anything is possible: uncontaminated by any external influences such as breathing, eating, society, morals or any other physical criteria.
I have a form of synaesthesia which is particularly apparent when under the previously mentioned extremes.
Joy has a colour & it is a rectangle of gently ululating gold surrounded by orange & red.
Misery is a tunnel of static like greys with sparkling flashes of silver & black.
Despair & panic are shaped like a killer whale & are black & white with flashes of red.
The world seems to rotate upon an invisible axis whereby an infinite number of possibilities occur or depths of perception that were previously invisible line up & can be observed. This state can be momentary or can last for several days according to general perception. It is because of this that I have attempted a number of times to achieve a form of visual depiction of these states in a variety of ways.
Whilst strictly a graffiti artist I applied multiple processes to letterforms to achieve a complex of purity that could not be altered & from this I developed a two dimensional form of compressing time into a single point that would allow the viewer multiple possibilities of perceiving a single form, this was born of a form of vorticism but embraced aspects of perceptual theory learned from 9th degree & other forms of perceptual experimentation as a method of compressing every possible essential variant of a letterform so that when viewed the observer chooses one or several interpretations of a commonly understood element (ie the letter).
After this I became more interested in a search for a type of thematic lyricism often associated with figuraton that combined a blurring of multiple methods. Again this begins with a readily understood common cipher, in this case being the human figure, & applying one or a number of processes to it. These processes are in this instance ones of symbolic resonance often taken from literary sources or a number of mixed metaphors that will reveal themselves over time & research. This means that there exists a thematic motif that can be perceived in a number of ways & when subjected to closer inspection should reveal layers of meaning in much the same way as symbolist poetry operates. I mention this because it has become a straining for pushing myself into greater extremes to experience the delirium that allows these worlds to become apparent.
Stop reading now because it is about to get nasty……………………….
To illustrate the practice:
I have been deliberately forcing myself deeper & deeper into areas of misery & depression in order to suck the marrow out of these feelings, I would rather have joy but it is elusive & fleeting & I cannot seem to find anything of this type to inspire me. I would also mention that I am something of a coward in terms of physical pain & so require an external driving compulsion to send me into areas where I am so tormented that action becomes inevitable.
The action on this most recent occasion was to attempt strangulation.
I achieved the initial stages pretty quickly & effectively & blacked out with a minimum of discomfort but something must have gone wrong because I regained a form of consciousness during which I saw a portrait that I had previously disregarded as being not worth completing as a personification of a fuzzy grey Thanatos with piercing eyes emerging from a sparkling suicidal greyness.
The blood vessels in my eyes & all over my face had now blown so it was difficult to see & I was very disorientated & slightly concerned as to how much permanent damage I had done now that I was still alive & too exhausted for another attempt immediately whilst the impetus remained. I considered opening my wrists but when I tried to reach for where I had a pack of razors so that I might complete the job fairly painlessly whilst I was disoriented I fainted almost completely & lay wheezing on the floor with the tourniquet still partially in place & the painting became a focus for my blood swollen, semi focussed eyes as I drew half breaths around the obstruction knowing that I was foolish & my torment would not cease & that I would have to face another morning. Not only this but unusually C had decided to come down & talk at me about being miserable so I cleared the equipment as best as I could & sat by the easel with my back to her & pretended to be interested in a distracted way until I could make no more pretence at being ok & snapped at her unfairly so that she would go away & let me vaguely compose myself.
I slept in a shirt when going to bed later so the marks on my neck where covered but she noticed the blown veins & concluded that I must have a heatstroke & a rash to which I concurred. I have no wish to worry her any more than is necessary with my stupidity.
When people comment on my paintings & say that they are beautiful & that the eyes are filled with something otherworldly I generally avoid a direct response because to me they represent a failure to interact with a world that I can barely tolerate. A failure to speak openly with anyone close to me & a failure to communicate correctly in anything other than ciphers that no one will ever understand. When I attempt to be as accurate as possible people think that I am being difficult or obtruse & this increasingly so in these times of unfettered opinionated ignorance. I have tried to edit myself into only the best parts so that most of the whining, frightened corporeality is removed & that I can perhaps survive as an idea or memory of these better elements of myself, however mistakenly, in the minds of just a few people who took the time to be interested. I have a problem with not being able to prevent the negative aspects of my personality from leaking out & poisoning things. Most often it only serves to hurt those who I care about which has the effect of amplifying the initial influence. When I get this way I often try to withdraw & limit the influence.
Is it wrong to want to cut away all that is bad about me so that only the better aspects remain?
It is painful to have to exist closer & closer to normality as the only thing that keeps me going even vaguely is the wonderful panoply of possibilities that can be viewed at the apex of creativity even if it is destructive in its nature when I apply it.
My beautiful, hateful, grey faced Thanatos.
How I despise your face knowing that your presence means yet another day of misery. Your disparaging glance is a reminder of every one of my myriad failures & the inescapable , red hot pricks of conscience & consciousness, a measurement of just how far I will always be from that blue lit oblivion that I crave.
Today I have tried to catch something of the grey Thanatos that I glimpsed through the noose & I thought that it was time to be honest about aspects of the creative process & about just what an idiot & coward that I am for thinking any of this makes any kind of difference. I am a stain on the world & the sooner that I get up the courage to wipe myself from its appalling surface & stop snivelling the better it will be.
I am still here after this episode & still struggling along just like everyone else. In my view all artists are bloody selfish & self absorbed & it isn’t really as romantic as it seemed when reading about those tortured souls chronicling their own downfall. What started out as a poetic ideal of redemption has turned into a horrid, desparate & ugly grind & overall I would have preferred to not have made this journey but whilst I am capable I thought that it may serve to explain what it was like so that no one else has to.