Abstract Expressionism vs Nonrepresentational

If you're anything like me, you've probably been operating on the incorrect assumption for a very long time that abstract art means art that doesn't look like anything at all. Unfortunately, this is tragic result of a confluence of events and definitions occurring at the New York school of art in the middle part of the 20th century.

 

This piece of art, (the big pink one) by Barbara Howell,
which I have hanging on my own wall, is not abstract.

  

Jackson Pollock is not an Abstract artist. He is an Abstract Expressionist.

First off, let me try to explain what Abstracting actually means.


To abstract something means that you are PULLING AWAY from the image in front of you, to give a more vague interpretation of the thing.

LET ME TELL YOU WHAT I MEAN BY ABSTRACT


LET ME TELL YOU WHAT WE MEAN BY ABSTRACT:

 

Original

 



Representational

 



Abstract

 



 

 

When something becomes Abstracted, it means that it has become simplified in its form. It still presents mostly as the thing that you were originally observing, but the game is to see how far you might be able to abstract a thing before it becomes unrecognizable.

 To create an Abstract work of art - you need it to be something. It does not always have to look like that thing, but it still has to have the original INTENT of being a thing.

If a painting was never made to look like anything at all,
then it is called Nonrepresentational. Salvadore Dali made a lot of these.


AND ALONG CAME THE FUCKING NEW YORK SCHOOL AND SCREWED THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE


Now that we know what "Abstract" actually means - we can delve a little bit deeper into what the fuck "Abstract Expressionism" means, and why you should ALWAYS use the full title when referring to Jackson Pollock.


Here he is, that interesting fellow called Pollock. Very famous picture right here. The art that he is creating is called Abstract Expressionism.

Why can't you call it Abstract?

Because there's nothing in it but feelings. This is not a painting of a chair, or a lamp, or a pear, or a vamp - it is an idea, a feeling, an expression.
 
 
To be an Abstract Expressionist - you are ABSTRACTING AN EMOTION. ABSTRACTING A FEELING. ABSTRACTING SOMETHING THAT WE HAVE NO WORDS FOR.
 
 
Think about this: If I had merely described the images of the Canon Cameras above - you would have known relatively what I was referring to, without having to see the images.

But sometimes we just don't have the words to describe how we feel. And that is what Abstract Expressionism is.

SO. Stop using the word wrong, you fucking assholes.

Names to Never be Used Again

 Nobody will ever name their kid Karen for the next fifty years. Karens have been lost to time, but only for meme culture - which is a fucking shame. That meme culture had to create something terrible - and I'll place a wager that the first Karen wasn't even named Karen.

Not true with Adolf. Adolf was certainly named Adolf - and there are perfectly understandable reasons why nobody will ever be named Adolf again.

HOWEVER, isn't that some bullshit? Why did the actions of one single Adolf have to ruin the name in the heart of time itself?

The NAME didn't do anything bad. It was a person who wore the name.

We wear our names like clothing, suits, jackets, jorts... we don't belong to them any more than we belong to our shoes. We wear shoes. 

OJ Simpson is forever tied to a pair of gloves. But what was the name of that brand of gloves? Have you ever bothered to look up the answer?

It was Isotoner. And in all honesty - nobody gives a shit. The name Isotoner was not famous before or after the OJ trial for any reason whatever, only cared about by rich fucks, and only worn by even richer ones.

I think it's high time we repossess the imagry and the names of things that have stained them with evilness, and turn them back into goodness. If every little boy born in the next century were called Adolf - wouldn't some of them turn out to be good men? Couldn't we change the culture of fear that surrounds it?

We need more women in the world named Karen, and more men named Adolf - lest we let our FEAR dictate our actions, instead of our using our massive human brains to overcome those ridiculous sentiments.

What is a name?

Where do you live? What's it called? Detroit? Seattle? Tampa?

But what was it called before you were born? I don't ask it in this fashion to be solipsistic about it - I ask it to say that before the stars burned, what was it called?

Did you know that the place in which America sits had names before white people got here? Many names - but many today have agreed to call it "Turtle Island."

Turtle Island is the name that the indigenous peoples of North America call their home.

People used to live here. People have lived here for THOUSANDS of years.

10,000 years before the pyramids were built - people lived here.

 



The island that I was born on, Whidbey, also had a name before white people ever got there;

Tschakolechy - this is the name of my homeland, the place where I was born, but never bothered to learn much about.

I was born in a foreign country called America.




I made ANOTHER YouTube video?

 I don't know why I haven't figured out before now that I should really probably be doing Booktube videos. I read a lot of books. And I write shit too, so, here's my first Booktube video:




a story told in book titles

 For Art Appreciation class, I was given the assignment to tell a story using book titles.

Here's what I came up with;


learning how to draw

So, I've been learning how to draw.

I've always wanted to know how to express myself in other mediums, and drawing has always been something elusive for me. It seemed unobtainable, but then I took a couple of drawing classes, and I can see the things now. Shadows and shapes and shit like that.

I'm still terrible, but here's some stuff that I've done so far;









i will be 30 soon

I can't help but feel that I've wasted my twenties.

I'm still working on the same Bachelor's degree that I was when I turned 20. I've cycled myself through four prior collegiate institutions by my own failures or the fuckery of circumstance.

However - I got my first 4.0 grades last year, and they keep coming. I think I have finally figured this shit out - but the irony - my Pell Grant runs out a little over a year from now, and I've got more than that to go.

I finished the first draft of my novel - but it's the same damn novel that I started in my early twenties.

If I'd been born rich, if I'd been more successful in my business ventures as a kid - I'd have finished the thing six years ago. I'd be on my eighth novel by now, and I'd have mastered the craft.

I never got to sleep with someone in their twenties while I was still in my twenties, and that's probably my biggest regret. Do not confuse the issue - I've WANTED to get laid the whole time, but that's the problem with being a virgin - you don't have a choice in it. Being a nice guy sometimes means you don't get laid by the girls you want.

There aren't as many one night stand stories about people in their thirties as there are about people in their twenties.

I think I might have to save up for a professional, doesn't seem like much else I can do about this problem right now - if I want to get laid, I probably have to pay for it. I have no problem with that, but there again is the problem with being of lower income - a decent pro will cost me three months salary.

And I'm still fat - but I made a promise to myself - I will not be fat when I get to thirty. NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. And when I get fit again, maybe it will let me feel better about not wanting to sleep with any fat chicks.

I have no problem at all admitting that I'm loathed by fat chicks. Fat people generally, I'm in Bill Maher's camp. It's your own damn fault, just as it's my own damn fault for being fat.

I've wasted half of my twenties being fat. I don't want to be fat anymore.

And most of my teeth are gone now. My enamel is completely gone, and it's only a matter of time until every single original tooth in my mouth is gone, and I'll have to reenlist just to get all the new ones back. Or become a successful Hollywood actor and pay for a new set.

Anyways.

I'm almost thirty. Fuck.


more notes on a fucking napkin

 







the gods might be dead

Atheism.

Here is my introduction to the world of this new fact of my nature.

I'm an atheist, and I probably have been for a lot longer than I might have even known. I don't believe in God anymore.

It certainly isn't for a lack of morality that I became an atheist, in fact I think of myself as probably more of a moral man now than I was back when I had somebody to blame for all of the ills and problems of the world.

Through my understanding of evolutionary biology to its knowable extent, I've come to this factoid:
    that the fundamental laws of the universe are far more chaotic and weird than can ever have been "created" by a creator.

There is no God. Those are weird words for me to say. Those are weird words for me to write. To admit to myself in this strange fucking cosmos. God is an invention like the steam engine and number two colored pencils.

Or I should say rather that I am just simply not convinced in the story of God that has been handed down to us through the generations, translated and transliterated ill well by fucktards in Tudor robes and pointy hats. Because it's a story. It's just a fucking story.

Like the novels that I write, somebody created a beginning and a middle and an end and the end will never fucking happen like it's written in that fucking story because it is a fucking story. A story. Not even a good one. The morality is all fucked up, the story of the Bible wouldn't even work on a soap opera, all of them fucking people - nomad kings in the fucking desert imagining burning bushes and building giant arcs? Ugh, lame.

Half of the bible stories should begin with the words; "This person consumed vast quantities of psychedelics, and then God spoke to them."

Because the story of the Bible is about as believable as the story of somebody who just got down off of an acid trip. Lizards climbing the walls and donkeys sprouting horns and breathing fire. You don't go to another dimension on Ayahuasca, and an angel did not have sex with a virgin, and there is no such thing as a four-headed lamb.

Have I been PWNED?

 Simple answer: yes.

Longer answer: every couple of weeks my information gets sold on the black market. YES I AM AWARE OF THIS.

What can I do to fight this? I change my passwords periodically and I take my computer into the store to get checked for malware, but that's about it. Java and Python and whatever... I don't know that stuff.

I'm a normal person. I'm a normal person in a normal world - I know I'm being fucked over, but I'm normal, so I don't have the tools to fuck back.

So, this will be my next language - the language of telling black hats to go fuck themselves.

I bought an Ink Quill

 I've been thinking about the Quill game for a long time, so I finally bought one. Here's my first ever quill shiz:







an author's note


Pretend you’re reading a book right now.

If my editors are the crack shots that I have been led to believe they are, and of which I think they think they are, and if my publishers care more about the quality of the content rather than the profitability of an unknown author – they would’ve had the decent sense to put some maps of the world somewhere in the book that you are now holding in your hands.

Hopefully these maps are near the front of the book, or the back of the book.

As long as they’re not in the middle of the book. That just sort of tends to ruin the feel of the book as you rub your fingers along the edge of its pages, or better yet, open it up and flip through it to feel the course of gushing wind upon your face emanating from within the dark world deep inside it covers.

With most books, these simple actions to me are enticingly erotic, make my nipples tingle, my dick get hard, and goosebumps form underneath the jungle of hair on my lower arms.

There is nothing quite like the thrill that comes from taking my thumb, setting it on the upper right-hand corner of a book, and listening to the torrent of pages rub against one another under the strobe lights of the freakish night club that is called Literaria.



Putting inserts in the middle of a book is basically the literary publisher’s version of cockblocking.



I’d be damned surprised if they didn’t realize what they were doing on some sort of subconscious level.

Come to think of it, if my editors and publishers, or agents, or estate managers, or future robot overlords – all hail – have decided to put anything in the middle of this book that does not belong there, I want you to catch them unawares and throw this book at them.

Put a little gash in their forehead.

After this, when you have inflicted a considerable amount of damage to the left hemisphere of their brain – which is responsible for putting inserts in the middle of books – and the suspect in question is hemorrhaging from the gash in his or her forehead, I would like you to shout top of your lungs:

“Take that you miserable git! That’s what you get for putting inserts in the middle of a book, you inconsiderate paper-pushing uber-Christian pathetic waste of precious oxygen! Random House must have doorhandles, yeah? Why don’t you take those random doorhandles in that random house and shove them up your ass‽”

That should put them in their place.

freaking moving

 






I got jabbed

 Got my first half of the Covid vaccine today.

Hey guess what? I'm not dead.

If someone is foolish enough to believe that bleach will cure covid just because an orange-haired dipshit at a podium said it would - is the fact that they actually drank bleach the Universe's way of indicating that this person shouldn't be around anymore?

If someone is foolish enough to believe that vaccines cause autism even though this has been scientifically disproven, should they let their children die of the measles? Or polio?

If someone is foolish enough to think that the Earth is flat, should we launch them all into the sun and ask them to figure out how to get back on their own?

If someone actually honestly believes Fox News, should they suffer the cures presented by that channel's hosts? Should they be firebombed by Jeannine Pyrno, or locked in a cage by Megan Kelly?  Should Shep Smith be able to take their children away from them? Should Rush Limbaugh or Eric Trump be allowed to funnel exhaust fumes directly into their homes?

There are a lot of silly ideas floating around out there, and it's difficult staying afloat right now with all the fucking morons out there who pretend they know anything.

But I got jabbed today, and I'm not dead.

So for those two million people who are out there protesting for whatever the fuck, go FUCK yourselves.

Trainspotting

I've just watched it for the first time since it came out and I was the five year old lying on the floor of my own version of Beigbe's House waiting for the fists to stop hitting the walls.

Trainspotting is supposed to be the seminole film of Scotland.

Apart from the accents, it didn't feel very Scottish to me. Aye, there was this one scene where the gang departs the train in the Highlands and one of the most beautiful summations of a modern Scottish sentiment is unveiled; "The English are just wankers. But we were Colonized by wankers. What does that make us?"

I would rather have seen that movie.

Trainspotting isn't that movie.

I don't know how I feel about it. Other than the terrible memories it dredges up in me.

Looking back at all of the useless cunts in my life, I'm just fucking glad I never ended up as one of the main characters. If my life were a Trainspot, I'd be one of the background characters.

I'm glad I never got trapped into heroin. I can not say that for half of the people I grew up with. I can not say that for my family.

I've had eight bottles of beer on my shelf since March of 2020. There are currently six bottles. In eleven months, I've had two beers. That's my rate of vice consumption.

Not to say that I'm not an addict; I'm addicted to sugar and masturbation. And I know that if ever anything tore a hole in my arm, I'd jump off of a roof to get out, because I know that I'd be an addict.

This is why I've never chanced it. Not with anything. 

I'd be an addict because I'd use my shitty life as an excuse for it. I'd be an addict because everyone else in my life seems to be addicted to something, so why the fuck wouldn't I be? I'd be an addict because of my genetics, the way my little double helixes all float around zipping and unzipping themselves, carrying around the original sin of my blood; 

that I'm an O'Connor, and it was an O'Connor who got Colonized by wankers.

That I could have been a king, but now I watch my family of Irish Romanovs get shitfaced or chainsmoking and crying on the porch or get hammered or thrown against a wall or running from the cops or bashing in the bay windows or sucking dicks for money.

Trainspotting dredges up these memories. Trainspotting does somersaults in my stomach.

Trainspotting is a horror, a fantasy, a reality show, and a bank job, all in one.

It's a great movie, but it made me feel like shit. 

When good vids get fucked up


 

JUST MORE WORDS

Words are the ineffable formations of mind states left behind as an afterthought of stardust collisions and gaseous explosions. Yet they are treated today with so much foley? What happened to the power of words?

Ingrained within the human desire for togetherness might also be a desire for exclusivity - that you are a part of something new, unique, and niche. And in that also comes the bastardization of etymology. Younguns don't give a shit about history, right?

There is no prescident for the vague and shadowy misappropriations of words that have been engrained into our language from the time of Johnson's Oats.

This is not, though, a dig at culture, or indeed its adoption of new words, invented or otherwise.

Inevitability. Causality. Where do I fit? Where do we fit like jigsaw pieces to a giant puzzle of confused disorder? How long do we march to trumpet beats and have our feet get mangled on ground made of cellophane tape, with a crowd of disheveled onlookers and grubby, grimy politicians in pinstripe suits with wide lapels from Hugo Boss?

Mopped up. Chopped up. Done up, forever wasted in a basket by the door. Some words don’t make the cut. Some words are sealed inside plastic bags and sloppily tossed in the fridge as leftovers for weekends and fancy party tricks. Some words we pick up and tip into a large stew to simmer, ready for plucking upon a happenstance; words like jigger.

Cut to black.

DRIFTING

They tell me I'm supposed to be unique on here. I'm supposed to have this special voice. A writer's voice. The fuck does that even mean?

I'm not unique. I'm not abnormal. I'm not a fucking abnormality. I'm the average modern millennial fucktard.

I am alone. Self-imposed, self-imprisoned... in my own head. It's fucked up there, in my rat race corn maze.

Last week, I walked into a Lover's for the first time in my life, and I was startled by what I found - it was a department store not dissimilar to an Old Navy, but instead of khaki shorts and polo shirts, there were sex toys and lingerie. The store's employees, to be sure, must have seen plenty of people like me - 26 year old virgins - before. They were almost immune to me.

I bought a fake vagina - and it makes me feel good, but it's only made of rubber. It's just a tube of cyberskin with a fake vagina in it. I know it's rubber, and this fact somehow makes the experience less than entirely satisfying. It's always an empty high, because at the end of it, I have no one to share it with.

With a real human female, the experience would be more time consuming, and I'd have to spend several hours on foreplay before I ever got to the climax, but the climax - I'm assuming, as I've only ever been allowed to do the foreplay bit so far, would be better. So much better - not that I'd last any longer, but It would be a shared experience. Someone else - a real life human female - would be just as sweaty and salty and happy and ashamed as me.

Unfortunately, you can't have sex without emotions. I don't like those emotions.

"You're going to have a family one day," my female coworker, with a family of her own, says to me.

"No," I say.

"Yup. You are," she says, while ripping an old piece of aluminum foil off an hotel pan.

"Not a fucking chance," I say.

"Why?" she asks.

"I'm opposed to it. I'm set against it," I reply, dropping a bag of chicken fritter tenders into a vat of deep frying oil.

She furthered her irritating line of inquiry, and I changed the subject. I didn't give an answer. But you already know the reason, if you happen to be one of the three people in the world who actually read this blog without barfing - not including the IC.

Why? Because I'm immature. Not in the standard interpretation of the word- but in the dangerous definition of it. I make bad decisions, because something in my brain is different than everyone else's. I poorly manage my finances, I usually don't do things that I don't want to do, and I am an exceptionally terribly accountant of my own time management.

These are not the traits of a decent parent. These are not the traits of a decent cohabitant. These are not the traits of the H word.

I shove the drill bit further into my psyche.

The galaxy spins.

The universe unfolds.