According to a dear and anonymous friend, electric shocks might be a good idea for a select few of all that suffer severe Downs, why I include it in my educational poster on the Curing/First Aid Mending (haven't decided which is the most apropriate) of Broken Hearts. Problem is, most who ever try might loose the good memories too. And a little of memory on the whole, in what the experienced refer to as "frying". The memories that go, for better and worse, are represented as post-it notes -- what else?
(N.b. Work in progress. Yet far from perfect...)
A curious by-effect is that you get some curious aftertaste of garlic in the mouth -- or something like that. My friend can't remember precisely, which is precisely the thing that speaks against frying in the first place. Thus only the really desperately low try electrified amnesia voluntarily.
"Well, perhaps it helped..." -- my friend says --
"...or not."
I think that it was dear friend Marie who came up with the idea that certain kinds of stinging thoughts might in fact be Bees. Hatching and breeding in the brainhive, they soon find their way out and buzz about; they don't leave a poor heart alone for any time worth mentioning and they have the habit of reappearing, in dozens or swarms, as inconveniently as possible.
These winged heralds of longings uninvited are intended for a large poster -- working name of Methods for Mending Broken Hearts -- an anatomical scheme and overview. As for the heart, I haven't quite got started yet so right now the bees don't have anything to sting. But it'll come. You don't really know that you have a heart before you get the Wrong Kind of Bees buzzing around it.
Merely a little ink-and-aqua sketch, still conveying my feeling for the weird kind of apparatus known as the Clock Card Machine or Punch Clock for short. It can be seen whenever and wherever truly pointless activities take place -- as soon as you see something really silly going on, keep an eye open for the punch clock -- it might be hidden in the most weird places, behind the corner, under the carpet, but I promise you that it is there.
The actual machine has fallen into disuse -- but as a mental state it's next to incurable. You put in a card and the machine goes bing and you get the stamp of Worthy Member of the Society and you are now free to forget the total pointlessness of your endeavours and may look down loudly upon artists and other free souls that earn doodley-squat but might be suspected of doing something worthwhile. Just look at them. As if Society was made for having Fun...
"Is that a real profession?" Bing!
"Can you make a living out of that?" Bing!
"What is it good for?" Bing!
"Well, I can afford..." Bing!
And so (bing!) on. This perpetual noise might make it difficult for an artist to concentrate. My office is opening when my eyes open, and closing with the eyelids too -- on some days I'm out of office between, say, four and seven a.m. I'm not in any mood to hear any binging then. One has to remember that some victims of Mental Clock Punch can't help it and honestly believe that their way of life is sane -- despite all logical, not to mention ecological evidence on the contrary. In other words: They suffer from mechanical self-esteem. You have to remember, dear artist, or dear anyone who lives and works outside the box and the clock -- the poor fellows who have to criticise your profession are merely to be viewed as a (natural but irksome) part of your profession... Bing!
I've decided not to hurry with this one. I'll add colours later. Constant hurry has been something like the theme of the week...
...for instance, there's a jolly fine new little show coming up with Anita, my dancing friend (I'll stay behind the piano) and this wants a poster...
...and practically meanwhile, as I was busy practising & rehearsing for the same, I had this neat little order -- also for a poster, or at least a flyer -- for a "political cabaret" -- all I got to know really was that it was about a cleaning lady. Who cleans train cars. Adding a little theatre to it quite exhausted all that I could come up with on those terms. But working with information doesn't necessarily mean that you're very informed yourself -- you have to go on what you've got while time is madly ticking by -- and they did like the image.
It is being mailed and snailmailed en masse now as I write this. -- As for the first work, I'll try to get it done 'til next week. Tick tock.
Good evening, good night; Monsieur, Madame? We wear masks. We are not what we seem, what we say and what we hint are two different things. I made this little scene without thinking -- lest I'm not wearing a mask myself, who knows.
The dancers in the background were inspired by the Spring Finale Show hosted by House of Shapes, Stockholm just a couple of weeks ago. There were mostly groups performing from this institute, very few solos. They had kids dancing a little but delightfully out of synch, the more mature ensembles showed due personality among their ranks -- it was the teenagers' groups that danced the really eerie parts: They looked very impressive, but the perfect collectivity of their movements made many of those groups feel like relentlessly perfect dancing machines, their members marionettes of sorts. I wanted to pull a few strings, see what happened...
Let us have a close look at the couple. I think that they might be dancing too? You're very welcome to comment on this Facebook page -- and do bring you mask if you have one.
