ratscats

1. When does "artistic nude" lose its meaning?
2. Is it superficial to turn away volunteer models for the sake of an aesthetic photograph?
3. When does "modern art" lose its meaning?
4. Is it a bad photo by virtue of the fact that it is on Instagram?
5. Do mature themes equal artistic maturation or a departure from your roots?
6. Where is the line between over and under processed?
7. Is abstract traditional art just an excuse for not attempting (and failing) at realism?
8. Is it okay to feel a twinge of shame when you talk about your art?
9. Where is the line between "Professional" and "Lacking passion"? Conversely, where is the line between "Emotional" and "Whiny/Childish"?
10. Is experimenting with several different media just an excuse to not settle down and become proficient with one of them?
11. Is realistic traditional art creative in any conceivable manner?

~an artist with nothing to do

1. You shall never compare yourself to another artist.
2. You shall not call a piece "minimalist" because you are tired of working on it.
3. You shall never be ashamed of old work- it is a reminder of where you started.
4. You shall never blame unsatisfactory photographs on your lack of equipment.
5. You shall never refuse to teach, and dare not refuse to learn.
6. You shall not fear painting- a little lack of control over your strokes is good for you.
7. You will be frustrated, anxious, and angry about your progress at your progress as an artist- you shall not let that stop you.
8. You shall take criticism as it comes, and more importantly, learn to accept compliments for what they are.
9. You will get it in your head that you are unpopular, average, and uninspired; it may be hard to stop believing this, but you shall not let that stop you.
10. You shall not rely on a muse for happiness or artistic inspiration [redundant], art itself shall always be your muse.
11. You shall never try to be witty in your written works, it is best when it just happens.
12. You shall learn to let go of all control while working, you shall not let go of skill.
13. You shall let art teach you about love and passion and sacrifice and adversity. Art will welcome you without prejudice or judgment.

~an artist with so much to learn

I reckon I have something to say about March.
March is the friend that will not leave-
"Yawn. It's getting late. Yep. Better hit the hay."
March is a bully- barking "March!" left.left.left.right.left.
March where exactly? Somewhere warmer I guess.
The snow now sits in mounds. Just stupid mounds,
leaving bald spots that reveal the scabby yellow Earth.
March is the awkward preteen phase with acne and braces.
But more than any of that, March is you-
Winter is dead, lonely longing and Spring is young new love-
And then there is March. You. March 13th to be exact:
The one that no one really knows what to do with.
A fish out of water, really; You are March.
Bullying and awkward and stubborn and confusing.
But you know what. March is the first inkling that
Things could change, March is when I hear the first songbird
Outside my window in the morning, March is the first early
Sunrise and this feeling in the air- March is patience, and hope.
And, you know what, I think I might just love March.

Pick up a red pen.
Your finger is cold and soft-
I remember now.

He said, "life isn't fair."
I thought so, until you said:
"Then we'll make it so."

Addiction.Relapse.
Who doesn't know any better?
Pass me a lighter.

All neat and proper,
Too afraid to toe the line:
What are you hiding?

Tell me and I'll search:
But I won't use quadratics,
Because you are x.

exposed pennames, rain, mystery, and being reminded of something better...this does not bode well

P.S. None of this is good ^ technically, it's more of a "haiku dump" [much like a sketch dump but with words] to scream what I want to say without saying anything.

~keep flowing, Mr. Tin Man.

There is no medical condition that renders one mute without damaging the vocal chord. There is no prescription for a constriction of one's chest, the weighing down of liquid lead in the esophagus, the rhythmic clicking of the jaw as one grinds his or her teeth together, caging the words that yearn to escape. I promise you, I looked it up on Web MD, [oh look, I have cancer -_-]... Sometimes you tear a ligament, break a bone, sever a spinal cord, whatever- the decorated Dr. MD PHD LSD incarcerates you into a cast and prescribes time to mend what is lost. For a gymnast, or a soccer star, time is far too costly- what a waste of skill and prowess. What if you sever/break/sprain your brain? No, I'm not getting all literal here, just thinking, if you can call it that, aloud. Mental breakdowns are not exactly "break" downs...nothing just snaps off...It's more of a corrosion, as if from smoking or alcoholism. First you lose the lightness in your eyes, then your characteristic laugh, the smile fades soon after, and then you cannot open your mouth at all. That's all fine, I suppose you get used to it after a while, silence is a nice respite from the white noise in your mind that starts leaking out your eyes and nose. It's when your fingers [or wrist, if we are going old school] just forget how to spit out words onto a page... that's when the rancid acid has melted your brain to meaninglessness. You just stop. Every keystroke feels unfamiliar, impersonal, every eraser mark like another erosion of your soul. At least you never lose the drama, what would life be without it.... Then one day, you're forced to sit back down and produce something profound. You stroke the spacebar, smudge the graphite on the page with your sweaty palms, and try to relearn to ride a bike. Then you produce some ghost of what you once could, scan it over, and hit publish, allowing your insignificance and inferiority to infect the rest of the world, if any bother to read it.

~an artist with nothing to do