my opening speech.

getting a blog is much like someone handing a microphone to you suddenly. i feel speechless. hmm. promise this will get better.

this is my first entry. i wrote this a couple monthes ago. i change my mind frequently. this is both out dated and stupid.

enjoy (if you can make it thru it) with all the grammar and spelling mistakes!

i find myself stuck more than i want to be in terms of where i want to take my art. i can see some the obvious hurdles in terms of mastering photography techniques, and perhaps when this starts to happen in a serious way my outlook may change. the same goes for graphic design and illustration. the naive excitement is wearing off with the computer. the things that really excite me is the idea of infinite pixels. to be able to zoom in to infinite. that would be extraordinary. hyper reality to taken to a very new level.

i do feel in some ways hyper reality has both spoiled art and opened a completely new door for art. i’m torn. when i look at a lot of art that is happening out there, there seems to be this desperate grasping to some sort of art safety net. there is always things that will really stand out as remarkable and surprising but for a huge part it’s like we’re clinging to something of the past. i sincerely see hyper-reality as the way forward but that in itself is a end to a brilliant past. a brilliant past that we would all be sad to see go. i don’t think there is really any way around it though, as a society we’re being streamlined in one direction whether we like it or not

the context in the way we see art has to change i think the same way the direction of art has to change. art needs to in some way loose the personal touch. it needs to be void of a point of view. it needs to act only as a vessel of displaying reality not as a means of giving you the artist’s slant. this is very hard to articulate. the easiest way is to give an example is making the connection of smoking pot and listening to music. pot acts like a filter, a filter that can make one drop their guard to something they may or may not of hated. it makes you neutral. you can listen to and gain appreciation for a piece of music without very much effort. the music merely becomes part of the moment in which in which we’re part of. there’s a balance of contentness and curiosity that takes place when smoking pot; if one wants to explore deeper they can give more attention to it, if the moment is just good than keep it going. it goes as deeps as one wants to go. (much like the infinite pixels). but that same piece of music played in another context that same person may quickly protest, or cheer, what ever side of the fense they lean on in terms of musical taste. i think art should be neutral.

what lures me to caputre the moment is just a sense of unexplained clarity. the moment simply was awake, and more than usual.

this new era of art, although hard to explain, it’s even harder to adapt to. it goes against the common grain even though we move all in the same direction. our instincts is to hold onto the past, our instincts tell us to relive another era as if it had the truth. we feel confused and frightened today. we have no idea what is going on. we’re moving very quickly, too quickly and when fully realize this as we all do in short bursts we panic and retreat back to safety. it’s only natural to do this. i think artists who realize this new order understands this more than anyone becasuse it is the artist that always seem to embrace the newist technology whether it is through music or just in terms of new tools to use in everyday life such as in art making or communication. their a few steps a head in knowing what we (humans) are up upon.

i think the thing that is frustrating and inspiring is everything seems so temporary. there is very little in this city that feels like a base. in many ways we’re the starting place. that is what is so inspiring and frustrating. toronto is a city that feels like the oldest organization is from 1989. i know there is orgaizations that are from longer than that but for things i care about i’m lucky if they are anymore than 10 years old. it gives a lot of freedom to what you can do but it also holds no guidence. theres hardly a moment that you think that someone who changed the course of history was once sitting in you chair. most of the time i feel i’m part of a just frivolous trend that will end any minute. i’m very cautious of that and i know it effects my creativity, my friendships and general career moves. i’ve become far too cynical. this is not to say i expect love and peace everywhere. i do but that’s for another time.

the problem is that people have no problem with hope anymore. hope. it’s a four letter word that rhyrmes with dope. cope. scope.

what are you going to do about it? probably nothing.

and i don’t blame you. (you)

the mr. jackson arrives to the stage, he clears his throat and has a drink of water. stops and stares at the large crowd, a crowd that may be as much as 50000. it’s a huge deal here. mr. jackson hold many of our dreams. he’s a man of wordiness. a man we admire. his beard is very long. long and very red, almost apple red. braded hair done delicately, with rose petals tangling at random, in fact exactly random on this long locks of reddish yellowing hair.

he speaks:

“sometimes”, clears his throat, “most of the time i feel my writing holds no merrit. it’s not academic or particurly informative persay to the current topics in motion at any moment motion is alloted for. my writing is based on understanding, moments that exsist inside moments, but not on the same side but more the otherside looking over the fence at “you” (wink wink). crowd has a hardy laugh, almost an intense chuckle. “it can be a bit envasive at times but also rewarding depending on the side of the bridge your looking over, or as the country folded in neat piles might say, “the side of the field your looking at is changing fast”. it changes just like “that”. or thaght as they say in newfoundland’s most middle town.”

“isn’t he smart. he’s only getting started” says the indentical twins, except one was gay

“give it up for for mr. jackson!!!!!!!!!!” “!!!!” “?”
clapping started strong. intenisty filled the statum, pandamonia.
abrubtly stopped, followed by 4 maybe five seconds of silence.
suddenly pandamonia, intenisty and strong clapping for 10 seconds if not 11 than abrubtly stopped by a tap on the shoulder from the guy in front of the guy behind him.
a big question rose. a question that is still questioned today.

mr. jackson starts a slow but intensely sensial dance but his back faced to the back, his front facing the audience. its a nervous tic he has, that licking his lips counter closkwise disorder he has.

mr. jackson was never invited back. (weirdo)



(weirdo)

decades later, a new speaker arose. it took years to get over mr. jackson. he left a fridge.

Arose was, mr. japon, but pronounced japonne. he was quick, slick, and had a fantastic smile.

it did happen.

things change quick, really quick, his slickness we presume ended his career.

the next speaker was mrs. juddleston

no relation to mr. juddlestone.

she’s her own women. strong and free.
she makes constant eye contact, even when shes blinking.
she writes her speaches while at yoga in the ymca with the coach and three staff members. written clear and precise. no fuddling. straight from the heart.

enough of all the speakers. been going on far too long. far too long. said a blind man that was cleaning his ears. (“cant loose them he sad a while back

he tapped on the white glass table. his hair is white, so is his skin and teeth. he’s really fucking white. his pants were blue, shirt green, and shoes black. his jewerly was gold and brown. he carried a notebook with recipes for disasters he likes to say followed by a laughing fit, and coughing fit. he wore elbow pads to protect his elbows from all the sitting he does. he loves the word “futuristic”

he took to the stage. gave a sincere smile to everyone.

“Realism is like taking acid in flouresent room. the moment’s far too awake. that’s realizm. Realism makes you slightly nervous. it’s edgy, not because it really trys to, but the viewer would probably rather not talk about it. about what, if it’s just about realizm why would it be awkward? it’s awkward because when someone realizes their walking in the contemporary they usually tend to clam up. that brief moment that pauses nostagle can really freak people out. it’s easier to live in a bubble. far easier. “

some native drumming started but on a drum machine. (slowed down ever so slightly)

and that was that.

he sat there often. sitting, thinking and looking. when the thinking stopped he tapped, or tapping.

it’s too bad he said. the bench used to be yellow. looked better against the cement. the blue cancels out the cement. at least from my vantage point.

thoughts like this were revealed everytime someone came and sat with him. people usually left a dollar or two and ran off.

he didn’t need the money. his name was gordon just so you know. gordon with the “on” and not “onne”, he liked to make the very clear at the start. he had millions. no one knows how.

he collected anything that had right angles. he had rooms made to store all these items. it wasn’t newspapers or anything like that, it was more things like floor tiles, and frames and record covers. although, he carried a protractor and it wasn’t always 90 degrees, he watched out for the fakes. “fucking hate fakes” he said when approached by the possilibity of being tricked. he wouldn’t tolerate it.