Ok, so I am thinking about starting a new blog.
Not that I don't like this one, it's just this one tends to get personal on occasion, not overtly personal, just stuff I wouldn't want my mom to read (and if she does read it, I wouldn't like to know.) The reason for starting a new blog would be for... *gasp,* dare I say it? Resume material. Apparently, nowadays, an artist is nothing without an "internet presence." My only problem is, that blog would be for "business" yet I'd still have to say interesting things about life and such. I'd also have to keep it up at LEAST once a week or maybe once every other week. And as you can tell, I am sure, I have a hard time updating this one.
I like writing. I like writing about personal stuff. I have at least twenty or so blogs in my draft section of this site which no one will ever see because when I started writing them, they sounded good, but by the time I got about half-way through they either sounded stupid or were far too personal. I don't want this to turn into my high school Xanga (which is oddly kind of like a myspace. It was nice for a while, but it's now considered pretty much a high school/jr. high sort of thing... except for the realm of music apparently.) where it was a mix of completely banal everyday/commonplace activities (like dances and tests and sports games and such) and angsty high school drama.
I have far more than enough angst to fill a blog to overflowing I'm sure. But I don't WANT to do that. I read that stuff and think "What was I DOING? People don't want to hear this crap..."
I don't think many people at all read this blog. Which is ok for me... I can be deep and personal (to some degree) without feeling like I'm going to get judged for my opinion by too many people, but now I'm thinking about branching out.
Should I take a leap? I probably will I'd just like some moral support. Furthermore, what will this look like? Should I journal? Should I take pictures of my artwork? Should I... what should I do?
I'm running low on room in my current sketchbook, so I am thinking of getting a new one of those... and then drawing in it every day. I think I am going to make that my goal... to draw in my new sketchbook at least one thing every day.
What do I do, my friends?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Dorian Gray of Truths
Ah friends, that euphoric moment when we were closer than blood relatives is long past. That moment when the single bottle of wine entered all of our bloodstreams, conjoining us in what we thought, what we convinced ourselves, would last forever. We spoke petty secrets in the night that we swore we would never tell another soul.
Naturally, we knew, what we pushed into the backs of our minds, that this moment would not last past those three months. But who cared of that then? No, we said to ourselves, we will always be family. No matter what comes of us, the names of those there with us would be engraved forever in our souls.
It was a lie from the beginning, but we cherished that lie. We embraced that lie with every brushstroke and thinning of paint. We covered it in plaster and melted out the wax to fill it with bronze. We breathed it in with the chink of the tools against alabaster. Our lies would chip off like those fragile shards to reveal the hideous masterpiece of truth underneath.
I started writing this ages ago. I would have deleted it only except for the awesome title.
Oddly, I find myself missing Cortona... what is even sadder is that I don't necessarily miss the people, my friends that I made in Cortona, but Cortona and indeed Italy. Every artwork I see that I saw in Cortona, In Firenze, in Roma, in Urbino and everywhere else, these were my old friends. I knew their faces before Cortona. We had good conversations, old those paintings and I. I used to curse at them and I tried to memorize unfamiliar Italian names which sounded funny on my lips. Nanni Di Banco, Ghiberti, Bruneleschi... how was I supposed to get all these ridiculous sounding names straight? Why do I care what they carved, bronzed or built? But now I speak their language a little better and can respond in kind words and light jokes.
I miss the streets of gold after it rained and the uneven sidewalk. I miss the incredible view and the stars at night. I miss thinking to myself, 'I can't believe it, I'm actually here.' I miss Bella and all of Gino's wildly inappropriate comments. I miss the fresh-pressed, barely even hinting at slightly fermented wine. I miss the dirt and the olive trees. I missed the one-eyed kitten and the boccie court. I miss the walnut trees and the pears. I miss pasta in the kitchen every afternoon and drinking orange juice out of wine glasses. I miss the chocolate, hot and otherwise. I miss the pub and the theater. I miss the history and everything that had the crest of the Medicis. Yes, these are the things I miss.
I'll return to these things one day, and we will walk together, making fresh memories.
Naturally, we knew, what we pushed into the backs of our minds, that this moment would not last past those three months. But who cared of that then? No, we said to ourselves, we will always be family. No matter what comes of us, the names of those there with us would be engraved forever in our souls.
It was a lie from the beginning, but we cherished that lie. We embraced that lie with every brushstroke and thinning of paint. We covered it in plaster and melted out the wax to fill it with bronze. We breathed it in with the chink of the tools against alabaster. Our lies would chip off like those fragile shards to reveal the hideous masterpiece of truth underneath.
I started writing this ages ago. I would have deleted it only except for the awesome title.
Oddly, I find myself missing Cortona... what is even sadder is that I don't necessarily miss the people, my friends that I made in Cortona, but Cortona and indeed Italy. Every artwork I see that I saw in Cortona, In Firenze, in Roma, in Urbino and everywhere else, these were my old friends. I knew their faces before Cortona. We had good conversations, old those paintings and I. I used to curse at them and I tried to memorize unfamiliar Italian names which sounded funny on my lips. Nanni Di Banco, Ghiberti, Bruneleschi... how was I supposed to get all these ridiculous sounding names straight? Why do I care what they carved, bronzed or built? But now I speak their language a little better and can respond in kind words and light jokes.
I miss the streets of gold after it rained and the uneven sidewalk. I miss the incredible view and the stars at night. I miss thinking to myself, 'I can't believe it, I'm actually here.' I miss Bella and all of Gino's wildly inappropriate comments. I miss the fresh-pressed, barely even hinting at slightly fermented wine. I miss the dirt and the olive trees. I missed the one-eyed kitten and the boccie court. I miss the walnut trees and the pears. I miss pasta in the kitchen every afternoon and drinking orange juice out of wine glasses. I miss the chocolate, hot and otherwise. I miss the pub and the theater. I miss the history and everything that had the crest of the Medicis. Yes, these are the things I miss.
I'll return to these things one day, and we will walk together, making fresh memories.
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