28/52 Demons

I finished the Cups Suit:


& drew all of the Coins Suit:

Census 2010

So about a week ago, amidst a typical busy day of classes, meetings with cohorts about all of the silly arts & music projects I'm working on, and generally stressing about my dwindling bank account, I stepped into the elevator at school and was greeted with an obnoxiously hot pink flyer. Though it had multiple typos and a predictable misuse of punctuation, it caught my eye. Well, the part about "flexible hours" and "$17.50/hr" caught my broke, starving, desperate art student eye. It was an ad for jobs with the 2010 Census.

So, I applied. I filled out an application, I gave them my drivers license, and I took a ridiculously easy 22 question test to prove I could read, write, and do simple math. I suppose that's really all you need to be able to do in order to perform the duties of a Census taker--fill out paperwork. Now, up until this point, I really hadn't bothered to delve too deep into the political discussion concerning the Census. I knew what it was for, basically, and all I really wanted to know past that was How much do I get paid?, and What do I have to do?.

The Census Bureau employees I met with were pretty vague about the job descriptions, and horribly unorganized. They let most of the art students sitting in this lecture hall fill out their I-9s before telling them they would be shredded if they didn't have their passport, birth certificate, or Social Security card handy, which of course no one did, as no one told us beforehand we would need it. They instructed us to fill out some questions on the application in a manner that completely contradicted the instructions. The meeting took about an hour too long and I rushed out as soon as I finished the bubble answer test.

I knew that I would be going door to door asking people questions about their households and families. I knew that I would be knocking on doors in my neighborhood, and not shipped off to Orange Mound or somewhere else that an unarmed white girl with a government badge probably shouldn't be at night. That all sounded reasonable enough.

But lately, I've been getting flack from my peers. I suggested the job to a friend of mine who is unemployed, severely broke, and without a car, as I thought it would suit him quite well. In fact, if he worked the maximum 40 hour weeks, He could make enough to pay his bills until mid-Summer in one month. His response was that he refused to be a government lackey, and that he wasn't going to sell out because he didn't agree with the Census. I've heard this from a few people now, but none have them have really been able to tell me what it is about the Census they dislike--not in any specific terms.

So, I decided I should probably go research this. So I did. I sat in front of my laptop for two hours straight and read articles, forum discussions, reviews, rants, arguments, and interviews from CNN, NPR, NY Times, etc. And honestly, I had to really dig into the bowels of Google to even find dissenting opinions. And when I finally did, it was as vague and empty as the arguments I've heard on the street.

Let me pause here and say, I'm not necessarily for or against the Census. I'm deciding.

I'm not going to bother going into the details of why the Census exists. I think the average person knows that it was written in the Constitution by our founding fathers as a headcount of the population every ten years. Most people know that this count is to periodically revaluate the Congressional and Senatorial seats each state gets based on their state's percentage of the national population. If you want to brush up on the basics, check out U.S. Code, Title 13, Ch. 5, Sub. II, Article 14.

Why would people be opposed to that? I've categorized (pun intended) those opposed to the Census into four main groups.

ONE) Ignorant racists. When the Census is taken, it's taken without bias. The government wants to know how many people are living in that house right now, regardless if they are guests, or cousins, or illegal aliens. A lot of illegals don't file with the Census because they think that information might be used to later find them and deport them--but it isn't. Census information is not publicly available to anyone than the Census Bureau for 72 years after. In any case, that means that the population of illegal aliens is figured into the total state population, and therefore electoral seat distribution can be affected by illegal populations. So, say a state like Texas or California, which is right on the border, is going to have a greater percentage of their population be illegal aliens, as opposed to somewhere like Wisconsin or Tennessee, where there are much fewer. Those opposed believe that the Census should not take into account illegal aliens, because they will then reap the benefits of the Census, such as the reallocution of state funds for schools, hospitals, and roads, but without ever paying into the taxes that pay for those things. However, those same people in opposition also believe that the Census should be used to hunt them down and kick them out. And, of course, their logic for why Obama allows aliens to be counted and not deported is that he is an illegal alien himself. Although, firstly, he isn't, and secondly, Obama did not create the Census. Thomas Jefferson did, dude. (You can check out that article, interview, & ignorant comment here: New Obama ATROCITY against U.S. citizens)

TWO) Uninformed minorities. Yes, the Census does want to know what race you are. If you are one of the houses lucky enough to get the long form, you'll also be probed about your immigration status and what country you lived in ten years ago. But like I said, and like anybody can look up for themselves, the information taken in the Census is confidential for 72 years after it's taken (check out FAQ #32 on 2010.census.gov's Constituent FAQ). Elected officials and priests have been known to preach against the Census in minority neighborhoods. The National Coalition of Latino Clergy & Christian Leaders just last year had rallied nearly 4 million of their followers to boycott the Census as a means of protesting for citizenship. They don't want to be counted without first be legalized, which you must admit is noble, but do they not realize that the Census is not even close to the right arena for this fight? Do they not realize that those enormous populations of illegal Latinos in California will be ridiculously under-represented if not counted? Check out this article in response: National Latino Group is Wrong About the Census. Some black community activists tell black citizens to mark only "Black" under the question concerning race, among the myriad of other answers, even if they are mixed with some other race, because it "threatens to dilute funding" to answer honestly. What's ironic about it is that up until the Civil Rights movement, blacks were only allowed to check "black". Check out this article about it: Isn't It Time to Make Peace With Your Friendly Census Bureau?

THREE) Conspiracy theorists. The most dominant anti-Census voice on the internet are aging hippies that are obsessed with missing microfilms and the shooter on the grassy knoll. One of the most established I've come across is Gary D. Barnett, who appears to be an all-around disgruntled government employee that moonlights as a "rebel". You can read his anti-Census article here (In Preparation for the 2010 Census!), but I must first warn you that it is typical of a fifty-something year old guy that used to protest in the streets about the Vietnam War while stoned out of his mind that now has expanded his vocabulary, cut his hair, and taken a desk job that he justifies by shittalking it on the internet at home. I've found a lot of this kind of opposition, and it's mostly paranoids that think the government wants to know when they leave for work in the morning because they're going to sell the information to petty thieves and burglars. Much of it comes down to the ever popular and rarely backed-up stance of "WELL WHY DO YOUUUU WANNA KNOW?", except they are the types who are never going to be satisfied no matter what answer you give them. To clarify, I'm not saying it's stupid to question the government--I think that an intelligent citizen should, and a good government is one constantly questioned--but I also think some people just like questioning things to question them, and that they are not at all interested in the answers.

FOUR) Wannabes. This is the first group of opponents I encountered, and I can only categorize them as such. These are basically the young version of the conspiracy theorists. It's not so much that they think that the government is tapping their phone lines or raping their babies, but they think because they're a generation raised on the internet--and I am one of that generation--they know what's really going on all the time. Also, whether or not you realize it, because of our age, this generation has a much heavier personal responsibility to know what's going on in the world, what it means, who it involves, and how it affects them personally than their parents. I feel like all of these twenty-something kids talking about "selling out to the government", "being a lackey", or how they "don't agree with what the Census does to people" have all been reading articles written by assholes like Gary D. Barnett and his generation. They don't have a real argument past some cited incidents from the internet, and who the hell can trust that anyway? Most of these people are the type that aren't going to send their Census forms back because they think that it makes them rebellious or individualistic, when in reality they're just asking for a dreaded Census worker--like me--to come knocking on their door. And most of them won't be so defiant and rebellious in the face of a living, breathing, tired Census worker, who is just trying to get through a shift and go home. And even if they are rude and defiant to that poor art student that's just trying to get rent paid, they're even bigger assholes. Harassing the waitress doesn't make your steak magically cooked right. Shooting the messenger doesn't solve anything, it just stains the carpet.

When it comes down to it, the only real, substantiated argument I can find against the Census are against the Census takers--poor assholes that have to go door to door harassing people. And really, if you read up, an overwhelming majority of the horror stories associated with Census takers are fakes--the workers, not the stories. The Census is taken on April 1 in years ending in a zero. The forms are sent out in March, and nobody comes knocking on your door unless you don't send it back. So if some guy comes to your door in February, introduces himself as a Census worker, and then asks what color underwear you're wearing, it's just some creep. Likewise with groups of "Census workers". Census takers work alone. There's a pretty decent list of what to know about Census workers here: Avoid Census Taker Con-Artists.

Like I said, shooting the messenger just stains the carpet. It's not as if harassing the poor schmuck knocking on your door is going to abolish the Census, it's just going to make another human being's day that much more awful. I think when it really comes down to it, it's just that the Census Bureau is kind of retarded--and by that I mean unorganized, clumsy, and officiously bureaucratic, but not malicious. I think most people hate it because it's mandatory, and everyone deep down has problems with authority, even if what they're rebelling against is something aimed at helping them. And a lot of people are stupid, and paranoid, and gullible.

I think the best bit of wisdom I've run across is from a Time.com article by Jessica Reaves, who is in favor of the Census because:
If we don't define ourselves, the government will do it for us.

Jay Reatard Obituary: Finalized

I finished my spread on Jay Reatard's obituary. I really like the front page illustration. As always, click for a bigger image.

Ex Libris: Color Comp

I did some test prints of my Ex Libris litho plate today. It looks okay. Hopefully it'll print better the more I ink it. Here's a test print and the Photoshop colored version. I'ma print the color parts on Epson & print the plate on top. & learn how to register in the meantime. Woo!

Jay Reatard Obituary: B&W Comp

Ex Libris

I'm doing an Ex Libris stamp with waterless litho for Digital Printmaking. This is my rough sketch!

Jay Reatard Obituary: Color Comps

These are 2 color comps from the thumbnails down there that I told you not to look at. I guess you can look at these if you really want to.

10 / 52 Demons

This is a semester long side project to illustrate 52 demons, and from them create a deck of cards.

In my "demon" research, I came across this definition:
In the contemporary Western occultist tradition (perhaps epitomized by the work of Aleister Crowley), a demon... is a useful metaphor for certain inner psychological processes, though some may also regard it as an objectively real phenomenon.

I've decided to illustrate my own deck of tarot cards, which is actually 78 cards in total, but I won't be including the 22 Arcana Major cards (perhaps later?). The Arcana Minor cards are already divided into 4 suits: Cups, Wands, Discs, & Swords (or hearts, clubs, diamonds, & spades). They have 14 cards per suit instead of the standard 13, so I'll be executing 56 in all.

This is Ace through 10 of the Cups suit.

Married to the Road

I have recently conjured the suspicion that being a young woman dating a musician in 2010 must hold a great parallel to the young women of the 1800s who tried to date sailors. Everyone knows something about sailors, and that something is usually that they are married to the sea. That old idea is a warning to lofty girls not to fall in love with them, for the hearts of such men will always belong to the sea. They are just as fickle as a modern day, struggling, touring musician. When they are away, they fantasize of home, wish and yearn for it, and seem to find little pleasure in their voyage past the spark of the first few days, as they remember all of the hardships a tour entails: uncertainty for a place to sleep, absence of a real bed or reliable companionship, monotony, close quarters, physical exhaustion and abuse. But when they return, it is only a matter of days before they are sitting at a bar, beer in hand, talking fondly of the road and reminiscing as if they cannot wait to get back out there and do it all over again.

And what of the women? We sit at home, at first relieved to have them out of our hair for a moment, yet within days have fallen into similar suit, missing their warm bodies in our beds, their inherent protective presence by our public side, and whatever combination of petty little details, like the smell of his pomade, or the ironically pink hued boxer briefs in the dryer. We, just as they, wish for the day they get home, and vicariously follow every rough night, every violent storm, every tumultuous wave they at sea endure. We, as women, are just as abused in this sense, for we are stripped our ability to coddle & nurture the abused, just as they are made to face it all without the coddling of a woman, which all men will deny a real need for, yet crave regardless.

Indeed, musicians today are not married to the sea, but to the road, and their guitars their boats. Their job is to chase something just out of reach, and to suffer the obstacles. The love they hold for something which primarily yields irritation is something they may never really understand; the need to leave, the urge to return, and the desire to repeat it all over is foreign to this species. Yet, we women are born with an understanding of emotional contradiction; we are made of it. That is why we can kiss them goodbye and kiss them welcome, time and time again. Though, I think it still takes a certain kind of woman to tolerate it all, don’t you think?

People Watching

This is a guy I see at my favorite watering hole a lot. He's squatty, bald, with a big Jew nose and dark circles around his eyes. He's always wearing the most hideous turtleneck sweaters, drinking gin, and talking absolute bullshit about religion, politics, philosophy, society, and every other pseudo-intellectual topic a pretentious turtleneck-wearing douchebag would try to discuss at a bar on a Friday night. I've also noticed that he is always with a woman, although I'm quite sure he's gay, and she is always eight times drunker than he is. She's usually just giggling and agreeing with everything he says really emphatically. Actually, they might always be drunk because they need to dull the pain of his nasally, high pitched voice and condescending tone... Or they might just literally never get the chance to speak or contribute to the conversation because he never stops talking. I haven't figured out what to name him yet.



This is a guy that works at Huey's. Nevermind which one. He has a haircut that you usually only see on lesbians, swooping right into his eyes, and he always has this face on like he's about to cry. This drawing doesn't really look like him; I really only used him as a base, but when Take My Breath Away hit the chorus as he walked by, I had to draw him.

Growing Pains: The Expansion of MCA

By Lauren Rae Holtermann, Editor

How many of you have a class that gets out past 8PM? Or even 9 or 10PM? Have you ever walked into a classroom or lab in the evening to find a dozen Memphis City School teachers staring at you blankly? Did you ever wonder why?
Part of Memphis College of Art’s mission statement is small with purpose. The school’s enrollment has generally hovered around 300 students, with 285 in the undergraduate program, and around 15 in the graduate program. However, over the past two years alone, the student body has grown to about 450 students, and frankly, there just aren’t enough places to put them all.

MCA is not a typical institution for higher learning in a lot of ways, not excluding geographically. We have no campus; rather, our college is confined to one building at 1930 Poplar Avenue that is under a 100-year-old lease with the City. Part of that lease are very particular limitations on how, if at all, the school is allowed to physically expand. In a nutshell, we can’t build outward or upward. You do the math.

So how is MCA going to accommodate the ever-increasing influx of new blood with the same amount of space it’s occupied for eighty years? Believe it or not, there is 6,500 square feet of space not purposed for student use in the building, and it’s sitting right under our noses: faculty and staff offices.

Starting at the end of this semester, administrative offices (Student Services, Admissions, Business Office) will be moving into the Grad Center at 1939 Poplar. By summer’s end, all of the professor’s offices will be relocated there as well.

The graduate program, which has been steadily expanding in part due to the recent demand for public school art teachers, accounts for about 90 students of the record breaking 452 head enrollment of last Fall. That’s a 600% increase since I started my undergrad career.

The grad program consists of MFA, MAT, and MAArt degrees, has been spread out between the constricted space of the current Grad Center, and classrooms throughout Rust Hall in the hours before, after, and between regularly scheduled undergraduate classes. As I mentioned before, if you’ve ever wonder around the school in the evening, you’ve probably accidentally interrupted one of them.

So where are all of these poor displaced Grad students going to go? To 477 S. Main--a 1920’s era building with five stories and a basement. Fifty thousand square feet that will be in the very near future known as the Memphis College of Art Graduate School. Grad students will have more than enough space and facilities to themselves, and as a result, the program itself is due for expansion and improvement, such as the addition of new majors, like perhaps Photography or Graphic Design.

Other than the transportational inconvenience it may potentially pose to some students and faculty, it will be nothing but benefits for those associated with the MCA Graduate Program. But how will it affect the rest of us?

That 6,500 square feet of newly freed-up space will be repurposed for liberal study classrooms, studios, and new Mac labs.

The response from students and teachers has been mixed. Betty Spence, Director of the Writing Center, is opposed to the move, saying, “This move will put a substantial dent in--if not destroy--the teaching and learning environment at MCA as we know it.” The close-knit community of students and the proximity of teachers is something that makes Memphis College of Art different than universities. In response, President Jeff Nesin says, “The goal and our job is to give you [students] the best we can give you.”

And in the long run, that seems to be what the school is doing. There will be more space for undergraduate classes in Rust Hall, meaning fewer classes will be scheduled in the late evening. Graduate students will have their own space and more opportunities for growth. Even the relocated professors and instructors will be making out fine, as each will have their own private office spaces, an upgrade for a lot of teachers, who have literally been put anywhere space permits—broom closets not excluded.

Originally, amidst all of the controversy and opposition from MCA instructors over who should stay and who should move, it was declared everyone would. Every office besides the administrative offices on the first floor (those spaces can’t be renovated into classroom space) and the Security offices will be emptied. However, there will be a few exceptions to the rule based on the location of the office in question, and the need for that professor to be near the studio. For example, Haley Morris-Cafiero, the photography instructor and lab tech, will probably stay where she is, as will Bill Price and Maritza Davila, who teach Metalsmithing and Printmaking respectively.

President Jeff Nesin responds to the ensuing controversy with, “Any change at all makes people crazy for the first fifteen minutes. Then a new year begins, and no one really remembers things being any different.” I related the situation to the recent EPA policy enforced move of smoking areas from the beloved Smokers Alley to the island of concrete twenty feet away, now lovingly referred to as Smokers Pad. In return, he mused back to the days when Smokers Alley was created, when smoking indoors was originally banned.

Sherry Yelvington, Vice President For Finance And Administration, assures me, “We’re working to make things better for you students, not more difficult.”

“The more we move, the more we will activate an actual campus,” adds Nesin. The musical chair game is set to be complete by August 1st, just in time for the Fall 2010 semester. Shuttle services will be arranged between the separate buildings all day rather than just morning and afternoon.

And as for us? We have nothing to worry about, and a lot of look forward to. I will be the first to admit that the situation is not ideal. The accessibility of faculty and staff during any standard school day is convenient and by now, this being my eighth semester, completely expected. Like Nesin said, it will take some getting used to, but every breathing, expanding entity goes through some growing pains.

Why do we read horror?

I'm taking a class right now called Forms of Fiction: Horror. It's exactly what it sounds like: a literature class focusing on horror stories. Yes, I go to art school. I get to read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, Dracula, The Exorcist, The Shining, and The Secret Lives of Monster Dogs, and go to class two times a week to sit around with a bunch of other horror dorks and talk about it. I expected all of this, and I've been waiting a few semesters to get into this class.

What I didn't expect to encounter hit me yesterday. Real discussions about not just writing style, plot devices, character development or effectiveness of suspense or drama, but questions being posed like, "Why do we like horror?"

I didn't have an answer. It's something I have definitely thought about, but never really forced any conclusions out of myself toward. I have been a total geek for zombie lore since I was fourteen when some fellow outcast kid on my bus loaned me a VHS copy of the original Dawn of the Dead. I watched it four times in two days, just amazed. It was like someone kicked open a door that I had always passed thinking it was spare molding on a blank wall. And over the years, I've questioned it. Why am I so drawn to zombies? Why do I buy books breaking their idealogies into metaphors for human nature, culture, and society? Is it the blood and rotting flesh? Is it the limbo between life and death? Is it simply an attraction to the unknown?

I, at some point, deduced that the commentary on human nature is really what intrigues me. The idea that our brains are shaped by the ethics and mores of the society we are reared in, but that at our core, we are animals. For all of the progress, knowledge, technology, innovation, emotion, learned restraint, traditions, expectations of civility that a few thousand years has yielded via mankind, we, as a species, are still as base as the others on our planet. We require food, we feel the urge to travel, we crave company and the need to be a part of a group, yet inherently know we are alone as sentient beings, and when it really comes down to it, we'll save our own ass first.

And of course, I didn't realize it that afternoon in my mom's living room hogging the VCR in incredulous wonder, but the meat (pun intended) of the philosophical and social commentary of zombie flicks is in the living characters, and their responses to the undead counterparts. The ideals and values that people cling to in a post-apocalyptic world versus the mindset of necessity. When manners, social graces, formalities, and preconcieved notions of human interaction have been erradicated, man becomes a science experiment, stripped to pure instinct and emotion--dirty, volatile, selfish, violent, and malevolent.

So, why do we read horror?

Burton, my professor, quoted Stephen King as a contribution, who said horror literature is a means for us to take out the monster, play with it for a while, and put it back. Who is the monster? The monster is the shadow. Burton pointed us toward some light Jung reading, which really just organized all of my thoughts on the matter into something much more concise. "The Shadow", according to Carl Jung, is basically your unconscious. It's all of the shit that makes you you, that you're not aware is even there. The idea is that fate is a myth, that things don't just happen for no reason, you're not attracted to certain people 'out of nowhere', and that when you meet someone you absolutely detest, it's really that you hate the things about them that are a part of your shadow.

I already know this. I don't really hate anyone, but I can think of a few people I completely despise. And over the years (I'm so old and wise and sage now, and the ripe old age of 21), I've learned things about myself I seriously never expected. Things I thought I was the entire opposite of. Things that people I didn't understand my attraction toward have brought out. Not all of them are good, but through this whole lifelong process of getting to know yourself (that I hope I live long enough to complete, in some form), I've figured out what it is about me that I see in those that I dislike. I have always known everyone you meet is your mirror, I suppose I just didn't grasp how effectively the mind can separate itself; how efficiently the unconscious can mislead the conscious.

We read horror out of curiosity for the darkness that lies in us all, at that inherent level, that a majority of us now accustomed to a civilized society will never fully witness firsthand. We read horror, so I have decided at this point, to satiate those urges that are a part of us. I remember in eighth grade, I decided of my own volition to go to church for about six months, because I genuinely had no idea what Christianity entailed and I wanted to know why everyone thought it was so cool. I had some qualms right off the bat, and made the decision to leave when my pastor told me I was a bad person to question the Bible, or anything it had to say. I remember one of my biggest issues was the idea that God made man in his own image, loves him unconditionally, yet curses him with grief for having natural sexual urges. It made no sense to me. Likewise, I think humans naturally have inclinations toward malice, violence, anger, sex, apathy, greed, and selfishness. I'm not saying if you got it, flaunt it. But denying the things that make one human is a denial of life. Those urges must be addressed.

Carl Jung says, "Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is. At all counts, it forms an unconscious snag, thwarting our most well-meant intentions."

Put quite simply, if you repress pieces of your outward being, whether they be good or bad, they unbalance you. Indeed, "the shadow" is not necessarily a bad thing. It's not that cut and dry, just as there are rarely true examples of good versus evil, rather, it's all dependent on a balance. A pure concentration is never an option. We, as humans, are amorphous shades of grey living, breathing, and interacting in a grey world. Have you ever seen a white brain or a black brain? No. That's what I thought.

It's important to get to know yourself. It's important to explore your shadow, and make decisions on the kind of person you want to be based on what you've go to work with and how it relates to your world. I think it's also important to acknowledge your basic human traits, and find ways to exercise them. Reading horror literature or watching zombie flicks has worked for a lot of people for a long time, but it's not the only way. It's all a matter of balance.

Illustration 4: Jay Reatard Article

Thumbnails:

Comps:



These are for class. Don't look at them.

Commission: Jason M. Vawter

I recently got a commission for an illustrated portrait. Here's the original photo:


& here is my interpretation:

[click to embiggen]

How did I do?

822 v2.0

I have three numbers tattooed on my wrist
next to the image of sickly green & yellow rose. I have these three numbers that I gaze at everyday, and I forget what they mean, sometimes. I forget why I put them on my skin permanently. I have this vague notion, this memory of a feeling, this fleeting air of excitement and sawdust and rancid beer and solvents that lingers in my brain. That is all that is really there on a daily basis; what I claim to be the daily reminder of why I am still putting forth my precious spare time, my short patience, my meager extra funds into something that everyone involved defines in their own terms.

822, those are the three digits that grace my left arm. "What does 822 mean?" asks every other Circle K clerk selling me a pack of Parliaments. "Uh, it's an address.. to a warehouse that I... used to squat in?" What kind of answer is that? It's the truth. I'm too rational at times, too logical, and far too goddamned serious for my own good. Yeah yeah, it's gotten me this far. I mean, how many 21 year olds do you know that have kept a 3.0 in full-time college, held down multiple steady jobs, run a bi-weekly newspaper, and still found the time and energy to found and maintain their own arts organization? Not to toot my own horn here, but seriousness hasn't done me too wrong.

I guess I just have to remember. Isn't that why we make memories? Isn't that why we try, in so many different ways, to document them? Isn't that why my walls are covered in cards, my flickr full of photos, my skin filled with ink? I have to remember the way I felt about a time and a place, even if I'll never experience it again. I forget to remember that far too often. My explanations need amending. 822 is an address to a warehouse that I used to squat in... with a group of the most motivated, interesting, and exciting people I had ever met, that I knew from the start would be my best friends.

I have to remember that. I have to remember the night that I got this tattoo; the way I felt. I knew that night if I thought about it too much, if I made it into something more serious, that I wouldn't go through with it. I have a bad habit of remembering why things fail, detail by detail, rather than hanging on to the memories of why I did it in the first place. Rozelle Artists Guild is this hip, city-renowned group of young progressives. Rozelle Artists Guild is 5 or 6 idiots still figuring life out under the guise of an entity. Rozelle Artists Guild is a failed business. Rozelle Artists Guild is a successful collective making a difference in Memphis. Rozelle Artists Guild is still figuring it out. Rozelle Artists Guild has it more figured out than you. These things are all true to someone.

822 is where it began. But 822 is not where it ended. Losing the warehouse was like breaking up with a boyfriend you've been with for years. It wasn't fun everyday. Sometimes it was difficult, sometimes it felt like more work than I was up for, sometimes I wondered why the fuck we had ever bothered, but at the end of the day, I just had to remind myself that it was worth it. That it was such a good beginning, I wasn't ready for it to die. I knew that night, standing in Studio 42, that if I didn't do something important, something permanent, something to always remember where this started, and how motivated and excited we all were, that the memories of bonfires, full studios, the workdays when everyone pitched in, the comraderie, the ideas, the thick atmosphere of creativity and naivete and determination would fade into the criticism of how 822 was lost.

I saw 822 yesterday for the first time in over a year. I remember crying when we lost it, thinking it would be low-income apartments, or boat storage, or condemned in twelve months. But it's none of those things. As Mark put it, there is yet another crazy asshole in there, trying to transform this old piece of shit building into something good. I'm glad to see that edifice standing, and vibrating, and improving, however slowly. I am glad that what little us 5 or 10 naive assholes did to that warehouse ended up being a few less steps for the next guy, rather than a waste.

And now? What does 822 mean to me? 822 is our roots, our history. And our future lies in a new address, a new building. And I'm terrified. What are these kids thinking? Do they really think they can take some old piece of shit building and turn it into some kind of arts hub? Do they really think they have what it takes? Well, I think we do. We did it before, we can do it again. Now, 822 means something different. It means mistakes we won't repeat. It means wisdom and knowledge. It means a full rolodex of contacts. It means half a city has heard our name, regardless of the association it carries. It means that this team, having grown from 2, to 3, to 5, to 8, to 30 and 40 and up, has finally settled into 5. Five people that are up for a challenge. Five people grown wiser and older and tougher through concrete and murals.

This quonset hut... It's an awful idea. It's a repeat. It's five young idiots who have the heart but no means. It's five idiots who will want it with everything they are, but will still get distracted trying to pay bills, find health insurance, put food in the fridge, and beg for recognition for the individual talents we all have. Separate, that's what we are. Just five dumbass twenty-somethings. But for some reason, when you put us in a room, or an abandoned building full of junk, all we see are possibilities. All of the sudden, we will work for free, we will blow off dates, we will sweat and toil and beg all for what?

That, my friend, is what you must wait for. We're not through yet. Chapter two is beginning. 822 is a ghost, but I am remembering what it felt like to think, This could really work. We could really do this. And it might be a longshot. We might be naive. We might fail miserably. But I recently came to the realization that letting the fear of failure dictate your decisions is a stupid philosophy for anything. And that even if we do, we're going to win anyway. Bankrupt us, overdraft us, evict us, cave rooves in on us, burn us, bake us, we just keep going. We always have, and we will until the end, whenever that may be.

822 means I'm not giving up just yet.

These are not New Years Resolutions

When I was ten years old, I went to the doctor for a cough. I still remember my doctor's face: half shrouded by a salt & pepper beard, thick round glasses, and a typically bulbous Jew nose that foreshadowed his quick and nasally speech. He asked me to look at the ceiling, then recoiled in shock at the size of the lump on my neck. He tested my blood on a hunch, and correctly diagnosed me with Hypothyroidism, a fairly common gland disorder that most don't know they have until much, much later in life.

Since then, I have made several large additions to my medical chart. I am afflicted daily with the symptoms of many illnesses, all due to genetic mutations. As a result, I'm frequently sickly, weak, tired, and sore. I'm in different kinds of pain every day, I gain weight for no reason, and during the semester, I punish my already pathetic bodily functions with stress, caffeine, and sleep deprivation.

& I'm tired of that. I'm tired of just putting up with all of the little things that compound and make my days long and arduous. I will always have more to overcome to achieve the same goals as those around me, but I have no reason to make it any harder than it already is. I have read the books, and the websites, and I am not exaggerating whatsoever when I say I have seen at least fifty different doctors in the past five years. I know my options, and I think it's time I really try to make a change, and stick to it.

Consistency is one of my biggest pitfalls, and it always has been. I am responsible, organized, motivated and hardworking. I don't miss deadlines, I don't cancel appointments, I don't skip class. But as much as I resist routine, my body is craving it, and I think it's time I reappropriate some of my time and money to taking care of it.

These are not New Years Resolutions.
These are promises I'm making to myself that I will try on a daily basis to keep.

1. I will cut down on cigarettes. I would like to reach a point where I only smoke when I drink. I'm tempted to say I will quit entirely, but I'd like to start small.

2. I will stop using deodorant with aluminum and toothpaste with flouride. It's overwhelming how many things I assume are innocuous simply because I was raised by people who assumed the same. My family are smart people but not necessarily the most vigilant healthwise. Flouride-free toothpase doesn't obliterate my stomach, and aluminum is linked with Fibromyalgia, one of my least favorite medical issues.

3. I will take time out to ride my bike, even if I don't want to. Although I'm very active, I don't actually engage in any significant cardiovascular activity, aside from taking the stairs instead of the elevator and walking extensively. And I have a sweet ass bike now.

4. I will limit my alcohol intake. I am terrible with money, and I think one good step toward better money management is spending less on things that are not necessary. My body is too fragile to be a heavy drinker. One night a week is really all I should participate in.

5. I will take all of my pills everyday. I am so bad at this. After ten years with a daily pill regimen, you would think that I would have it down. But I don't. I will find my weekly pill caddy, dust it off, and fill it up every Sunday night. And I will actually take vitamins too.

6. I will up my protein intake, and curb my carbs. This is one of those basic dietary rules that really helps with my muscle pain, fatigue, and weight stabilization.

7. I will lose weight. I'm not uncomfortable with my body, but I've got this delusion that I am incapable of losing weight, and I have a feeling that it's not really as impossible as I think.


These are not New Years Resolutions, because those are made to be broken by Valentines. These are promises I'm making to myself that I will try on a daily basis to keep.

Goodnight, 2009.

Here's to 2009. May you die a painful death. Hello, 2010.

Thank you, Memphis Flyer

This past week, I was forced to wake up considerably earlier than I wanted to, and to operate a motor vehicle at that, but rather than chasing the fantasy that bed might still be warm, I decided to power through the morning. I needed help though, so I stopped into one of my favorite midtown establishments, Otherlands, for a cup of a coffee and a bagel sandwich thing. Typically, I read as much of the Memphis Flyer as I can during the time it takes me to down a cup, inhale a bagel, and smoke a cigarette, folding the rest in half and tucking it under my arm with the idea I might actually finish it later. (Unfortunately, most of those newspapers are in the floor of the backseat of my car...) But instead, I decided to sit and slowly caffeinate, prepare myself for the day, and read the Memphis Flyer cover to cover.

Now, that in itself may not seem too terribly interesting, but perhaps for the simple fact that I had not taken to time to do so in months, sitting at a table by myself in a crowded coffeebar, unshowered and slovenly dressed, sipping on over-sugared coffee and reading articles that ranged from city budget allotments and public education to movie reviews, the sadly ever-shortening News of the Weird column, and the usual subtle yet hilarious jab at the Flyer's more conservative rival, the Commercial Appeal (specifically, its readers who log on to CA.com and spawn threads and threads of racist, ignorant shite) just seemed awesome.

No, nothing was specifically special about my morning (early afternoon to most of the rest of the world), and in relative terms, nothing was very special about that particular issue of the Memphis Flyer. But in an age and a society and a culture where information is limitless in its availability to everyone, where journalists find themselves adapting beautifully written articles into 140 characters for Twitter updates or Blackberry news tickers, it's good to know there are still writers out there that actually use paragraphs and grammar, and still have the venue to exhibit style and nuance. I had forgotten it's importance there for a second being that I have a special tone for my AP Mobile breaking news updates on my fancy iPhone, but it was a big blunder on my part. Especially for someone who likes to tout herself as some kind of writer, too.

So, thank you Memphis Flyer. Thank you for being free, for sticking it out through a recession & decline in paper news media, for giving spotlights to the little guys, and for always having a sense of humor.
Speaking of the little guy! Here are a few write-ups I came across during my slow midtown morning that caught my eye:

P&H Art Bazaar takes Bizarre Turn via Gadsby Creson

This past Saturday, December 12th, marked the date of the annual P&H Art Bazaar, an arts flea market for fine Memphis art patrons and daytime drunks to shop for holiday gifts. Although the turnout was considerably less than previous years, the loyal attendees were treated to a badass interactive performance piece hosted by Gadsby Creson, wife of P&H arts advocate Dwayne Butcher, and one of my personal favorite MCA staff members.

Gathering all of the unsuspecting guests around a pool table covered in brightly spraypainted beer bottles, vases, and handmade ceramic knick knacks (which appear may have been boosted from a elementary school art class), Creson led everyone in several too many rounds of Jingle Bells, all the while "checking on the turkey" in the oven, ensuring the guests of her "holiday party" all had drinks, and answering phone call after annoying phone call from the dreaded mother with no navigational skills.
After ten minutes of agonizing group singing and ten or eleven answered phone calls Creson, got flustered, grabbed an armful of vases and ran outside, leaving the four rounds of carolers trailing off in confusion. As we slowly herded outside, we found Gadsby chucking the glassware and a fireplace mantle made from cinderblocks, complete with tacky stockings, screaming in frustration about her mother's surprise holiday visits.

The moral of the story? No moral. But the point, Creson explained, was a response to the overwhelming stress and wastefulness of the holiday season. The breakables were hocked off for 25 cents a piece, and participants chucked them off the back porch of the P&H Cafe at the concrete fireplace in an attempt to relieve that stress.

No one could resist. Even in freezing temperatures and misting rain, it was two hours of consistent bottle smashing before the ammo was exhausted.

Hats off to Gadsby for thinking of such a fun way to blow off steam, and for keeping the P&H's take on art unconventional, interesting, and best of all, destructive.

And thanks to Dwayne Butcher for hosting another successful year of happenings at the P&H Centre for the Arts.

...and I apologize again for hitting your truck with bouncing ceramics...

Brief Interview with MAD Magazine Illustrator Tom Richmond

1. How long have you been drawing? Did you always know it was what you wanted to do?
I've wanted to be an artist for as long as I can remember, since before I started going to school as a kid. Comic books got me interested in drawing and storytelling. I've never wanted to do anything else.

2. Do you come from a family of creatives, or are you the odd one out? Were they supportive of your interests?
I am the only person in my family with any creative skills at all. I'm a total genetic throwback... or the mailman's kid.

3. Did you go to school for illustration? If not, what did you originally attend college for, and what happened to change your mind?
I went to the College of Visual Arts in St. Paul, MN, where I learned traditional illustration and fine arts. No cartooning classes were offered.

4. When did you begin working regularly for MAD Magazine, and how did you get involved with them?
My first piece in MAD appeared in October of 2000. I've been working regularly for them ever since. I started seriously pursuing work from them about a year earlier, and after a lot of sending in my latest work, meeting with the editors and art directors and some begging, I was given a shot with a MAD job.

5. Do you enjoy working for MAD? How, if at all, is their working relationship with illustrators different from other employers you’ve worked for?
MAD is like most other clients in that there is an art director, an assignment, preliminary pencil reviews and direction and final art delivery. However the dynamic with MAD is different in that they expect a lot more input into the job than just drawing the images. Their artists function as visual "writers" as well, and an integral to the humor and delivery of the MAD experience. It's more involved and more fun.

6. Describe your process, from start to finish, on a completed illustration. Go as in-depth as you wish.
See this series of blog posts for that answer: http://www.tomrichmond.com/blog/2006/07/15/diary-of-a-mad-job

7. How has your process changed or evolved over the years? (For example, do you now use digital processes in place of handskills for some steps?)
I have incorporated new techniques into my work, while keeping the central look or "style" consistent. Certainly i think my skills have improved, from composition through to color use and more effective drawing.

8. Do you have any major stylistic influences? If so, name them.
The usual suspects among the classic MAD artists: Wally Wood, Mort Drucker, Jack Davis. Other comic book artists like Ty Templeton, Hilary Barta and Bruce Timm. Also illustrators like Norman Rockwell, Frank Frazetta, Maxfield Parrish and especially Andrew Loomis.

9. Did/Do you have a mentor? If so, who, and how have they helped you?
I'd have to say if I had a mentor it would be Sam Viviano, the longtime MAD artist and current art director. He has taught me more in the time I have worked for MAD than I ever learned in college or through other experiences.

10. What are you working on now?
Currently on the drawing board I have a movie poster job, an advertising poster, a series of spot illustrations for a magazine and a graphic novel I am just getting started on.

11. What’s next for you?
Whatever comes my way. I'm getting involved more in the movie and TV business, so possibly animation and futher images for film might be in the cards in the near future.

MADly,
Tom

Tessellation!

Plumed Serpent into a tessellatable shape:



& tessellated:

FIVE CHARACTERS!

So, since I missed nearly a month of class for surgery, I feel like I have been working non-stop to catch up and keep up simultaneously. I am still so utterly behind it's disheartening, the most in Illustrated Story II. I feel as though I am finally making headway though, as I've at last finalized and fully developed my five characters, so I can begin actually writing comics about them!

Here they are (click to embiggen):

History of Type

This is an assignment on a reading about the history of type. We had to condense around 5000 years of typography and written communication into 15 steps, so I chose to do a comic instead of the standard bulleted list, albeit that would have been far easier and I may have slept more last night if I had.

Five Interesting Articles

The Tools of Doctors, and a Price for Patients
An article chronicling the development and widespread use of technology as a means of diagnosis for doctors, and how each new discovery and invention is met with different opinion in the medical community versus the public.
[See also: Knowledge of Shadows: Introduction of X-ray images into Medicine]

A New Electronic Reader, the Nook, Enters the Market
An article about book retail conglomerate Barnes & Noble's new answer to the Amazon Kindle, featuring a "lending" option.
[See also: Amazon Kindle]

Changing the World
An opinion column about the gross passivity of modern Americans and their beliefs that they as individual citizens cannot affect change on the present dismal state of affairs, and how this mode of thinking is what allows the status quo to remain unchanged.
[See also: Are Americans Passive Cowards?]

The Alluring Power of Blood in Spiders
An article which notes the level of attraction to the opposite sex in Evarcha culicivora jumping spiders increases with the amount of blood the spider has ingested.
[See also: Female Spiders Eat Small Males When They Mate]

Slaughterhouse Live
An article about a class offered in New York City that teaches ethically-conscious, borderline vegetarian, and financially frugal citizens how to kill and butcher their own meat.
[See also: How to Butcher a Pig]

New Blog & New Banner

Recently, Live From Memphis offered to let me have a blog on their website. Okay, that was like in January. But I finally got around to setting one up during the excess spare time I had lofting around the house post-op. I haven't really squared down a theme or anything like that. This blog really doesn't have one, but so far on LFM, I'm trying to post Memphis related stuff, specifically social & cultural commentary, criticisms and showcases on the good & bad happening in this city, reviews on art shows, art happenings, indie movies, and other cool shit locals are doing, and other things of the sort. I drew something in the park the other day and made it into a banner last night. Check it & my blog out at: livefrommemphis.com/holtermonsterinhiding