23 September 2013

they didn't cover this course in art school because it's one you learn not only along the way... but keeps unfolding just when you think you got "it" down. The whimsical idea and ideology of the fact "I get paid to play dress up!" Is a statement of gravitas that feeds the dreamer and the kid that has never grown up flare I wear with a badge so honorable, Barbie and the Mattel team lend their applause to my cause. 
     But when it's your art- you pay, to play... the costs that you accost are not just the countless kit restocks or Starbucks stops while navigating through downtown with one hand on the wheel another holding your coffee and cigarette while barking colors, fabrics, textures, what tools you need for creating this stunning visual imagery- into the phone on your lap to avoid that other costly mistake you made with the phone in your royal fucking hand , this princess was not sitting pretty with that particular slip..  As the other princess still didn't understand why the police officer would not speak to her on the phone... I just call that a Wednesday sometimes. 
     But when it's "your baby"... Your idea, your concept, that gets your entire body in excitement as you try to paint the fucking pictures with words to the team you need to bring the conception into fruition with fingers, hands, and toes... And when it comes to life and you see it? Even better than you had moments painted in your mind- your heart rips open excitedly as bursting is an understatement when you get to see the pictures in your head come to life... And when it's perfect to you, your perfect, your smile from ear to ear brimming with pride, when you really let it all out there, fearlessly, 

(I'm working ferociously on the taking time for mastering the art of the methodical approaches I need to reign in... In terse to the "there's method to her mayhem" exhaustion ears are bleeding from). 

It's honest, it's beautiful for that first and foremost- to me, and it's open to judgement and others interpretation once you learn to...


It may be because most of my "adult life" (where it when that began or may be, still unbeknownst - but for sake of current point to make... Let's pretend I started one somewhere) when I felt a need to constantly explain myself, almost ; ok- no, to a point of defending myself for my choices that consciously not only I made/ make, but having to explain why. 

Click... I don't have to, or better yet- I should not if I really am screaming about this art shit at all... It's there. Explaining only to those maybe a bit only to my editor or with my photographer- the two of you have to be able to click sometimes with silence that means a word- a bit (only if asked) why an editorial for example about molested raped taped children whom well... because lobotomized almost masks of what once was as the adults with the mascot large heads... The mask versus the entire head is the child versus the full grown adult... and you can picture yourself into the story if any of it fits for you, you wear any of "it's skin"... The submissive dominance abuse scars stitches bruises triumphs stumbles crumbles rumbles wreckage salvaged savages... 

was it good for you? what did it do? 

gave me a lot of good material... and I get my demons out. I get them out- and not at anyone or myself, and for no harm- or alarm- shock value bullshit- but to get out- speak up, bring attention to- in productive ways, better ways, for the kids, my kids- the kids kids continuing running paying it forward and running up... it's ok that I fall and scrape my hands, my knees skinned with the gravel driveway blood- you bite the belt strap of hydrogen peroxide as the bandages are wrapped- and you shake it off and you don't just "get back up", no- rewind, examine, now when you "try again"'this time- something has to change so the same result does not occur or that my dear little white sheep... Is the definition of insanity... that- Oxford and I will take you to the grave with that definitive definition... Xx bella 

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