Baudelaire's Perfume: The Art of Waiting; The Depth of Disguise

This morning is 9 AM pizza and coffee.

I am currently awaiting a meeting that I have been both anticipating and fearing since about 4 PM on Friday.  These ambush meetings are the worst, at times.  Hopefully they will involve an element of the best.  Only time (90 minutes and counting) will tell.

While I wait, I listen to the sounds of planes overhead.  I learn the creaks and pounds of an apartment I do not live in, empty but for me, my coffee, my nerves.

(I pause to turn on a lamp.  There's no need to behave like an actual intruder. I have been invited here, after all.)

Last night I went to temporarily replace the scarf I left at a dear friend's house who lives 61.8 miles away.  It won't actually replace the scarf, but will act as a soft and decent stand in for the next few weeks.

(pause)

I know that you read me as the responsible one in this. That my mystery is all in your head.  That everyone's excitement and quixotic tales are in the past. That's not the case with me.  I know you sense this, and I know it turns your stomach into an apple'd, acidic mess.

I hide my undoings well.  I wash and obscure the scent of these tales off of my arms, my neck, my chest before entering the room. You compliment the spice of my cologne.  And when our eyes meet, you dare yourself to read as much of me as you can, through them.



be well; be loved,

k.

(photo via trashy princes tumblr)

The Crinkling Sound of Your DIY'ed Owl Costume's Wings

A good and productive day.

The taste of cinnamon in my mouth, a hunger for potatoes in my stomach, and the crave of a thick lotion from my hands.

I realize that I'm different. But I can still relate to people. They may just be more akin to the lads in The Wolfpack documentary.  

Costumes diy'ed out of cereal boxes and cut up yoga mats?  

Fuck yes, and please. 

Isolation growing up may be horrific, but it also gives you a lot of time to think, and to become resourceful.

 Be well; be loved; find a job where the hiding, costume making and thought juxtapositions continue,


k.

(photo: damaris goddrie by wikkie hermkens for volkskrant magazine via mazzystardust tumblr)

The Tone of Your Voice: Echos In the Submarine

I went to the water today.

It was a gray, toothpaste green color and the winds were driving it wild.  Foam and waves and crashing and bitter cold, everywhere.

It was beautiful from behind a window.

There are days, and there are parts of this city, that make it feel like an abandoned seaside town.  It has something to do with the wear of the paint upon the houses that line the water.  Usually pastels that have been worn down to white and paneling, in parts. The picket fences around them that are too small, crooked and have given up.  There is something both reassuring and other-worldly in their state.

There was a time I had wanted to meet you at the water.

Instead, I have come here alone.




Be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Julia Mangold, Untitled, 2014- 0301, 2014 pigment wax on paper via vjeranski tumblr)

Plum-Colored Smoke and the Art of Artfulness

Tonight I'm here with blankets are all around me. I have on an oversized black knitted sweater and thigh high sweater socks. (Underwear, too. I have on underwear.) I have a bit of a headache, but my sweater socks tempt me to forget all of that.

I've been drawing and painting like mad as of late. It started, randomly, with a book I was reading that talked about how the brain works, how it memorizes things, how sound influences drawing, how images impact writing...basically the interconnectedness of art. It goes into a lot of the bullshit ideas of "good art/bad art". It gets into the idea of practice, just as any dancer, professional pitcher, singer, violinist, etc. would do.  It's gotten me to let go and just fucking make shit.  And so, I am.  It feels good.  It's interesting to see how it's impacting other creative spaces in my life. (I'm defining this loosely, here.  Creative spaces defined as conversation, flirting, work, humor...among other things.)

Anyway. I've been moved to incorporate more of my daily interactions into my art.  We'll see how it goes.

Like last night, for example, when a drunk man at the bus stop came up to me speaking in Spanish asking if I was French. I answered him in Spanish asking why he thought I was French.  He told me it was because I was tall. Then he pondered my accent and asked me what country I was from. But before I told him, he said, definitively, that I was from Portugal.

There's a four panel comic in that, somewhere.

Keep creating and keep expressing. 

It saves us.

It saves each other.

Don't let anyone convince you that makeup or gelled eyebrows is not a form of art. 

(And if they try and tell you this, take a glance at the eyebrows of those who say it. Haters gonna hate, and they know that you are brilliant enough in how you hold yourself to be in a museum on that merit, alone.)

Be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Jing Wen shot by Benjamin Lennox/ Makeup by Mathias van Hooff for Vouge China December 2015. via mazzystardust tumblr)

Open My Heart Like That: Just This Once and Forever

I'm experimenting with Sumi (Sumi-e) Ink, again.  I tried a number of years ago (roughly 7), but gave it a rest.  I'm back with it, again.  It makes everything looks so beautiful and gray scale once you get a feel for it. 

I'm going to get my feel for it.

(pause)

Things have been good.

Directed.

Productive.

I've been thinking a lot about silence and friendship and productivity and love and life goals.

I've been listening to lots of vinyl while doing so.

Be well; be loved,

k.

(photo: From the ink wash series Party Girls by Emily McMorran as seen on Kat Thorsen's blog)