Childhood, it's a phase... just another passing craze. A fad...quite popular at the time but ultimately we all grow out of it... 

Quel dommage!

A scene from a slow burning project I've been working on...

Model: The lovely Miss Teagan Renee. Reference Image: The imaginative and talented Miss Clara Palmer.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel... Throw down your hair extensions...

The Contract

I wrote up mine, sealed and signed. Now I find myself trapped in a most pleasant bind.

Now write up yours...

I share space with two felines, lets call one Lady Bella and the other Little Miss Milli...

From day one Bella has taken everything in stride. She doesn't have much going on up stairs...in fact she seems to have a blank stare drawn on her pretty little face in permanent ink and for the first six months of her life she was cross eyed, which made it clear to me that she was not much of a thinker. But still, she bounces right along in a state of perpetual bliss. She purrs, she plays, she jumps from object to object without giving any thought to the thick ground below or the fact that she might not make it. She always seems to be happy, even when she's not and never makes a fuss because she knows that life is not something to be taken seriously.
 

Milli on the other hand is blessed (or perhaps cursed) with intelligence. She observes everything from a safe distance and creeps around ever so cautious and slowly. She analyses, predicts, perceives everything to be a possible threat to her little world and always has that worried look circling in the deep waters of her eyes. For the first six months of her life she caused herself so much stress and aggravation she left yellow puddles of anxiety trailing behind her. She still jumps at the softest sound, something moving in the corner of her peripheral and is terrified of her own shadow.
 

Now when they both come across a slightly ajar door and find themselves overcome by a cats curiosity and all the possibilities that lay waiting inside there's no question they would take to this kind of obstacle quite differently. Milli paces back and forth as though working on a fool proof formula, some grand scheme or a general’s plan of attack but eventually succumbs to the method of sitting and staring up at the door handle intently. Waiting patiently for it to magically open wide and welcome her inside.
 

While Bella simply breezes on by and uses her empty head as a battering ram until the small opening is big enough for the rest of her body to squeeze through.
 

 Perhaps we should all take a page from 

Bella's colouring book, no?

An age-old relic of mine... 
                              true, but hardly irrelevant...

It's April 1st

   and we're all fools! The joke's on us old chum...

Holy inflamed tendons batman!

Things have been a little quiet in my creative world as of late and I thought I might share some insight into the cause of my hiatus.  I don’t think there is any way to describe the passionate relationship my right hand and I have together without it sounding a little suggestive so I’ll get the masturbation jokes out of the way now. 

Ah, the human hand. Look down at your own assigned pair for a minute or so and marvel at their unmet potential, the infinite possibility at your fingertips. A developed ability to build, create and shape so many different things. The intricate mechanics of it all can be overwhelming. Wired communication with the mind, through which the intangible attempts to become tangible and the imaginary...real.

In light of recent, or long-term developments to be precise, this intimacy has been hindered I’m afraid. Threatened even. My dear wrist has fallen to the bothersome affliction known as tendinitis.  Apparently our hands really don’t enjoy repetitive movement all too much and over time may slowly deteriorate if one does not heed its quiet (now loud) warning.

Who knew?!

I hadn’t actually put much thought into how much strain my poor hands have undergone on a day-to-most day basis for the majority of my young adult life, and have been completely oblivious to the awkward positions and manner I move them with until this was brought to my attention. A word of warning: A continuous rotation, of drawing, typing, writing, painting and music making with little or no rest is certainly not something to detest but is probably not for the best. It’s no wonder my digits have been in such a frail state.

So no more puppet shows for a while children. I must ease off a little…but only a little because I’m stubborn that way. I will however be re-evaluating my computer habits and gauging things I believe to be important, and whether this cursed machine is of any importance to me at all. Anything unnecessary to the grand scheme simply has to go!

I’ve been going stir crazy not being able to create as much as I would like and my mind is humming with new thoughts and ideas. There have been moments when using my hands has pained me greatly but not being able to use them pains me that much more. So I shall find a way to work around this minor obstacle. I’m more self-aware than ever, growing stronger by the day and can assure you…this shall not be the last time you see this anonymous face!

These hands were formed to create things of beauty and will do so until the soul is torn out of this well worn and lifeless body...

Mantra Sinatra

How much will you invest? In those dapper suits and polished shoes.  The never-ending commute. Every minute of every day already engraved in stone, a scheduled dictatorship. Another quick bite behind the workspace you rule with an ironed out fist. Grappling a lifeless rodent and the caffeinated beverage you need to make it through the longest day of the year...the every day. With eyes glazed over, sit back, relax and bask in sunshine illuminated behind a blinking screen. Your posture now in rapid decline, a Hunchback ringing bells inside a towering inferno that feeds off paper, files, the hopes and dreams of your long lost youth. 

10,  20,  30 years?

                              A temp job for the ages…

What do you think happens to the early worm? And will you, like your old man one familiar day put on your Monday’s best, squirm face down along the path well travelled and hang yourself with a navy blue necktie freshly pressed?

Or will you play the wild card. Take a chance. Lace up ridiculously over sized shoes, carelessly apply a layer of mess-tacular face paint and run away to the circus with me?

"So how's that little project of yours going?"

"It's going...you know... at my usual pace"

"Slowly?"

"I like to think of it as leisurely, well rehearsed and painstakingly thought out."

"Uh huh...wake me when we're done."

 Sunday Afternoon Conversation with Self...

PEZ Nation

Illustrator - Photoshop Concoction: Circa 2007

I have decided to go through my website and retire some rusty old pieces. Just plain tired work, really. I might place the ones I'm still fond of here to ensure their temporal survival in time and space. You...the lucky few I do not wish to get lost in the void of 'what once was' still hold a special place in my heart I guess. As for the rest of you, it appears your once bright and sparkling selves must succumb to the impulsive purge.

Apologies and a wet kiss goodbye my pretties...

Chelsea's Silly Grin...

 Mixed Media: Pencil - Ink - Crayon - Photoshop Concoction: Circa - 2010

Here's to the happy accidents, the jester's smile, the twisting shapes that form our surroundings and the undefinable energy that flows through everything...

It's 2 am. You're soaking in chaotic sounds. Slumber, the tomorrow that comes soon after...well... you're thinking about anything but. You don't wish to lose your head again so you start decapitating Saint Bernards and Photoshopping their noggins onto the bodies of 18th century composers instead. In a sleep deprived daze you find this type of thing hilarious. 

Working not so subtle references to painful examples of family friendly entertainment centered around disobedient pups and milking it. Defacing portraits of musical greats you admire who share the same name of said pooch and thoroughly enjoying it.

Fore some reason you feel this contrived connection warrants staying up for another hour or so to spend time on another recklessly thrown together piece.

Roll over Beethoven...roll over and play dead!