Thought it'd be good to show to you a tiny little glimpse of where I find the inspiration to create art. It comes from everywhere imaginable, but little gems like this really work for me. And although most of my art so far hasn't clearly shown or highlighted certain subjects in as direct a manner as I'd have liked to (or as much as my theory in relation to my art would make out), I personally find everything I do to be linked in some way with politics. We're in the midst of a full blown war right now, most people just don't realize. I see politics and art as an inseparable pair, a yin and yang ting.
When I first seen this a while back I didn't actually believe it was a legitimate mainstream sponsored video, couldn't believe it!
Great! isn't it?
- If you find this video to be normal, then you probably are 'normal'(no offense intended)
One of the most influential artists to effect me as I was growing up. I looked up to this guy, I didn't know much about him other than his name was EVERYWHERE.
(Marc Ecko's Getting up! remember that too, mint game!)
Artists from the street will always get more respect from me than institutionally taught artists, that may be quite a thing to say AS I'M GETTING TAUGHT AT ONE MYSELF! ha, but it's undeniably true. Artists who have worked only in the studio can develop breathtaking work, techniques, ideas.. don't get what I'm saying twisted. Some of the best artists in the world have been studio based artists. I consider myself currently to be a studio based artist, but on the streets is where I found a passion for art. Out in the open air in full scope of all impending dangers surrounding me. It was exciting. It got me a sort of fame among people my own age who took notice of it too. All the typical appealing traits about the thing we know as 'graffiti'. Artists from the street remember what we are (partially cause you're forced to, with the level of intrusive surveillance our country sees as 'security'), we remember we're tiny (huge in some cases) dirty, grimey stains on what would be a clean polished surface if it weren't for our kind.
If a real artist wants to do something, he/she will do it, regardless of barriers blocking them from doing it. This is a vital aspect of art. A one that has been severed to pieces by rules and regulations, a one gladly accepted by all the people ruled under it. So when I hear about the FUCKING RIDICULOUS measures you need to take whilst exhibiting in a gallery space, all the bureaucratic bullcrap you've gotta deal with before hand. Health and safetyyyyy issues, taking into account 'offensive subjects', paperwork.. ..blah, blah, blah
What's going on? why can't an artist just hang up or on install something in a space and that be that? (You can really, they just don't want you to realize this)
WHYYY, WHYYYY, I DONT KNOW.
Besides that little side shoot, here is a little excerpt from http://www.graffiti.org/dj/ja.html It's a pretty sick story/interview thing. You should check out the whole article; but here's my favourite part, when I first read this it just kept me laughing, especially the chase bit hahaha, really worth a read.
'AT ABOUT 3 A.M., JA AND TWO OTHER WRITERS go out to hit a billboard off the West Side
Highway in Harlem. Tonight there are SET, a 21-year-old white writer from Queens, N.Y., and JD, a
black Latino writer the same age, also from Queens. They load their backpacks with racked cans of
Rustoleum, fat cap nozzles, heavy 2-foot industrial bolt cutters and surgical gloves. We pile into a car and
start driving, Schooly D blasting on the radio. First a stop at a deli where JA and SET go in and steal
beer. Then we drive around Harlem trying a number of different dope spots, keeping an eye out for
"berries" -- police cars. JA tosses a finished 40-ounce out the window in a high arc, and it smashes on
the street. At different points, JA gets out of the car and casually walks the streets and into buildings, looking for
dealers. A good part of the graffiti life involves walking anywhere in the city, at any time, and not being
afraid -- or being afraid and doing it anyway. We arrive at a spot where JA has tagged the dealer's name on a wall in his territory. The three writers
buy a vial of crack and a vial of angel dust and combine them ("spacebase") in a hollowed-out Phillies
blunt. JD tells me that "certain drugs will enhance your bombing," citing dust for courage and strength
("bionics"). They've also bombed on mescaline, Valium, marijuana, crack and malt liquor. SET tells a
story of climbing highway poles with a spray can at 6 a.m., "all Xanaxed out."
While JD is preparing the blunt, JA walks across the street with a spray can and throws up all three of
their tags in 4-foot-high bubbled, connected letters. In the corner, he writes my name. We then drive to a waterfront area at the edge of the city -- a deserted site with warehouses, railroad
tracks and patches of urban wilderness dotted with high-rise billboards. All three writers are now high,
and we sit on a curb outside the car smoking cigarettes. From a distance we can see a group of men
milling around a parked car near a loading dock that we have to pass. This provokes 30 minutes of
obsessive speculation, a stoned stakeout with play by play: "Dude, they're writers," says SET. "Let's go down and check them out," says JD. "Wait, let's see what
they write," says JA. "Yo -- they're going into the trunk," says SET. "Cans, dude, they're going for their
cans. Dude, they're writers. "There could be beef, possible beef," says JA. "Can we confirm cans, do we
see cans?" SET wants to know. Yes, they do have cans," SET answers for himself. "There are cans.
They are writers." It turns out that the men are thieves, part of a group robbing a nearby truck. In a few
moments guards appear with flashlights and at least one drawn gun. The thieves scatter as guard dogs fan
out around the area, barking crazily.
We wait this out a bit until JA announces, "It's on." Hood pulled up on his head, he leads us creeping
through the woods (which for JA has become the cinematic jungles of Nam). It's stop and go, JA
crawling on his stomach, unnecessarily close to one of the guards who's searching nearby. We pass
through graffiti-covered tunnels (with the requisite cinematic drip drip), over crumbling stairs overgrown
with weeds and brush, along dark, heavily littered trails used by crackheads. We get near the billboard, and JA uses the bolt cutters to cut holes in two chain-link fences. We crawl
through and walk along the railroad tracks until we get to the base of the sign. JA, with his backpack on,
climbs about 40 feet on a thin piece of metal pipe attached to the main pillar. JD, after a few failed
attempts, follows with the bolt cutters shoved down his pants and passes them to JA. Hanging in midair,
his legs wrapped around a small piece of ladder, JA cuts the padlock and opens up the hatch to the
catwalk. He then lowers his arm to JD, who is wrapped around the pole just below him, struggling. "J,
give me your hand, "I'll pull you up," JA tells him. JD hesitates. He is reluctant to let go and continues
treadmilling on the pole, trying to make it up. JD, give me your hand." JD doesn't want to refuse, but he's
uncomfortable entrusting his life to JA. He won't let go of the pole. JA says it again, firmly, calmly, utterly
confident: "J give me your hand." JD's arm reaches up, and JA pulls JD up onto the catwalk. Next, SET,
the frailest of the three, follows unsteadily. They've called down and offered to put up his tag, but he
insists on going up. "Dude, fuck that, I'm down," he says. I look away while he makes his way up, sure
that he's going to fall (he almost does twice). The three have developed a set pattern for dividing the
labor when they're "blowing up," one writer outlining, another working behind him, filling in. For 40
minutes I watch them working furiously, throwing shadows as they cover ads for Parliament and Amtrak
with large multicolored throw-ups SET and JD bickering about space, JA scolding them, tossing down
empty cans.
They risk their lives again climbing down. Parts of their faces are covered in paint, and their eyes beam as
all three stare at the billboard, asking, "Isn't it beautiful?' And there is something intoxicating about seeing
such an inaccessible, clean object gotten to and made gaudy.'
Another good point about JA, he comes from a very privileged background, yet he is still street. As a matter of fact, he couldn't have done what he has done without being in the position he is. His father is a millionaire.
I got set the task of creating some form of book, so here's what I made.
Front cover.
The paper I used was organic. I tied the pages and cover together with miniature dreadlocks of my own hair. Trying to keep it organic was the only sorta itinerary I followed whilst making it. I didn't like the idea of this project at first, as it's very very specific - create a book. As I would like to be painting non stop if I could.. so it is what it is.
Sorry about the shit photo. Bear in mind it's 4 past 1 in the morning, I can barely see and I'm not quite sure why I'm doing this post right now, I just felt like it.
This is a woodcut print. This is my most favorite print I've done yet, I'll call it Chemtrails.
This was the second print I got from the same roll of ink. I liked the way it looked.
When I showed this page to others in the studio, it got the best response. People seem to dig drips. I'm planning on doing a whole series of these. I'll posty when I do.
My house!
As far as I've gotten with it. I haven't shown even half the pages of the book, I just picked some that caught my eye.
