We measure our lives in years, months, days, seconds. Time does not move. All measurement is a memory. Some memories are true. April made up her own story. I was there. I know she’s telling the truth.
Each month has a pic. Each pic has a story. Some of the stories are true. Some of the stories were found on Wednesday afternoons. This is fiction that is non. Meaning I might have made it up if it hadn’t happened. Or the reverse.
Anthony Lister is a street artist. His work is graphic. Violent. Very expressive. And he’s having fun with it. I’ve often consider riding around Toronto taking photos of the street art that I’ve seen. Some is good. Most is derivative. Its just tagging. Signatures left all over the place. Like you used to see in washroom stalls. But Lister’s work is good. The thing about street art. No matter how good it is, it is temporary.
Sometimes I get so envious. You run into someone who’s remarkably talented. Creates wonderful work. And in his professional life is also successful. Such a person is Barry Downard. Check out his work on his sight.
Brian Viveros has created a world around fetish. Or at least that is what I read. He mixes in fascism, cigarettes, boxing, blood, tattoos, and a beautiful woman. Always the same woman. Or at least a version of the same woman. His work is interesting. But it also strikes me as pretentious. He has started to make films. I won’t say that I sat through all of them. In fact I will admit to only spot watching them. Which I recognize isn’t terribly fair. He appears to be attempting to create a world of brutality. Where some sort of truth lies.
It reminds me of Valhalla Rising by Nicholas Winding. And there is a suspicion of mine that this has something in common with heavy metal music. A call back to basic primordial sounds, sights, experiences. Except that pretending to be basic is not the same as being primordial. And no amount of chest pounding will make us Neanderthals.
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