ARTSHARKS Blog

Counting Sheep

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 07:39:00 PDT

Kym kulps Art

He Said:

Horse shit. This relationship is turning into it. Before her insomnia, before her therapy, before the sessions with the Chinese energy Master, we were kinda friends. Now she talks about the negative chi and sips herbal tea and I wanna pound a big Mac and a Coke and go for a jog round the block. What does she expect me to do? Change to suit whatever trip she's on now so she can go to sleep at night? I'm not that guy. I have no aspiration to ever be. I drift when she talks about "her experience". I start to notice how pretty the barrista is. I try to calculate how many phone calls I will need to dodge for her to get that this new and improved version of her is not someone I'm interested in hanging with. She pauses, I nod and stare at my coffee. She exhales and goes on. I'm sure her journey is precious. I hope it takes her somewhere good. Meanwhile, flag me down the next cab, I need to get out of here.

She Said:

I should explain. I've been away, in hiding really. I crawled under a deserted rock, curled up and died. I didn't need food, inspiration or release. I was dead after all. I slept for hours, or maybe days, a long dreamless slumber. Then a quiet sound woke me up. At first it tapped softly, like a faint knock at the door you're not sure you heard. But it soon transformed, into a heavy dripping, a leaky tap you forgot to turn tight. Finally, a grating noise, it started to gnaw at my insides. And as I was pulled back to everything tired and familiar, I felt very much alive - and needed to refuel.

In the shadows

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 07:39:00 PDT

Andy Warhol - Myths: The Shadow (F&S II. 267), 1981

he had to be quiet. he was almost walking on tiptoe. thoughts racing fast through his mind, he kept denying them in his head. "that's impossible. she said she was at her friend's" he thought as he creeped up the stairs, in the shadows, trying not to make a sound, "i'm imagining things, but i heard two voices, if it's not her then who could it be?" Then he stood perfectly still...

"There it was again!" he thought to himself, his heart pounding so hard he was worried they could hear it. An almost muffled up laugh came out of his study. She always had the softest laugh. and then came that other voice, one he couldn't recognize but somehow made him made nonetheless.

He slowly and quietly reached for the door knob, opening it without making a sound he heard her say in quiet giggles that they can't, they should stop, "he'll be here any minute now." He opened the door with such rage, he almost took it off it's hinges.

Everything went quiet. Everyone was still. Dead silence. Like the calm before the storm, everyone knew what was coming next...
________________

What runs through your head when you see Warhol like that?

"El Dante"

The manifestation of ugliness

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 11:38:53 PDT

The popularity of digital photography brought upon us an endless barrage of photo editing utilities that have altered the photography scene forever. Some use them for simple cropping and color adjusting to keep the integrity of the picture, while others use them to "uglify" their shots with light streaks, stars, and whatever stamps are out there on Photoshop. Local digital photographers where I’m at suffer from the disease of uniformity. Barely anyone’s creative anymore. All the shots and subjects are more or less the same. Like they were thought up by a puppet master; as if it was a country wide prank.

What I don’t understand is how some shoot digital but alter them in a way that makes them look analog, is that to compensate for a lack of skills or is it a nostalgia for analog photography?! Why don’t you go and learn how to shoot analog in the first place. This intense shift and instant gratification found in digital photography has stripped real photographers of the effort and work they actually put into their work from light metering to developing film. The anticipation of waiting for your results, the several frames taken just in case the first one you took doesn’t work out, all pay off when you pick up your film from the developer.

So YES, you’re not a real photographer unless you shoot film, deal with it.

"Anonymuse"

Anonymuse

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:39:24 PDT

ARTSHARKS would like to welcome the newest addition to our happy blogging family: "Anonymuse"

"I may not write fancy insightful pieces but i sure do know how to rant. Thank you, now move on!" - "Anonymuse"

Starting anew

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:31:57 PDT

Untitled Marine Vista #1 by Victoria Febrer

He looked back at shore where their house was getting smaller and smaller. He turned to look at her with the sun reflecting off her oiled up bodice. The wind was blowing her hair into her face so she bunched it up in that effortless way that made it look so good, and her so sexy. She saw him looking and a small smile creeping into her mouth. She winked at him before wearing her over-sized glasses and and leaning back to get maximum sun exposure.

He smiled back at her and looked out into the horizon. Seeing all that endless nothingness waiting for them made him heave a big sigh of relief. "This is our chance" he thought. "Things will be different this time. We can finally be happy now."
________________

Ever wanted to just run away? Pack up and leave? Some might object to the use of the words 'run away', they'd prefer 'starting anew'. Potato-potato. Leaving your troubles behind, no matter how you phrase it will never end your problems. If you're hiding from someone, they'll find you. If you're keeping a secret, it'll come out.

I say man up (ladies it's a figure of speech and it applies to you just the same) and deal with your issues. Break them down into points. Possible solutions. Plans A through Z if need be. They're not gonna solve themselves, and the more you just think about em, the bigger and harder they're gonna seem.

As Jerry Seinfeld once said: "You should just do it like a Band-Aid. One motion! Right off!"

"El Dante"

Validate me.

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:31:50 PDT

Writer/Director Kurt Kuenne’s fable about a parking attendant who gives his customers the validation they truly need -- dispensing both free parking and free compliments.

Here is where I stand on this whole validation thing. Most of you folks out there have been telling me that true validation comes from the satisfaction you get from the action itself and not the acknowledgment you get for achieving it. You know what I say… BS! I want to be praised, appreciated for whatever I've done or just simply for existing. And lets not kid ourselves and say a random compliment from a stranger isn’t all it takes to brighten up our day. I for one would be standing right there in line waiting to be validated.

So to whomever is reading this, I am waiting for any "reciprocated communication of respect which communicates that the other's opinions are acknowledged, respected, heard, and (regardless whether or not the listener actually agrees with the content), they are being treated with genuine respect as a legitimate expression of their feelings, rather than marginalized or dismissed." - Wikipedia.

Go on, don't be shy.

I'll scratch your back if scratch mine.

"The Not-So-Silent Observer"

Pain

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:16:39 PDT

Soiled II by Ruby Pester

She couldn’t stand it. The pain. The guilt. It was eating her up inside. She didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. It was an accident. She cheated. She was sorry. He said he couldn’t look at her. She couldn’t look at herself either. It hurt too much. She’s still sorry.

This is why I love Art. It invokes certain feelings and thoughts that nothing else could. As Picasso once said: “a painting speaks for itself.” To me this speaks of betrayal and pain. A self loathing and regret that results from an action that can never be undone.
________________

Have you ever cheated?

Been cheated on?

I have, on both counts. They both hurt just the same.

"El Dante"

Our very own Dante

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 07:11:03 PST

ARTSHARKS would like to welcome the newest addition to our happy blogging family: "El Dante"

"I always wonder what people are thinking, what they might be going through at that moment. I'm 'the shrink' to my friends. Apparently I'm very 'in touch' with my feelings. I don't mind. But I don't solve their issues, I don't help either. I just judge. They know it. They come to me anyway because I speak my mind, even when it's not what they wanna hear." - "El Dante"

Port-o-person

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:31:03 PDT

Cleithrophobia by ~meowluisa

As a female, you are often seen carrying a purse. And being that as females our needs are increasingly extensive, we seldom merely shove a select few items into a pocket here and there (there is no such thing as the little black dress with massive pockets). What we take with us is to a large degree emblematic of our various needs, whatever they may be. If we were to suggest a proportional relationship between bag sizes today and corresponding needs, then in some way are we increasingly needy? Or is it merely the deceptive psychology of “need” that encourages such behavior? I must admit, we women are such suckers for stuff, and having lots of it. When I have resorted to traveling light I have found it to be quite liberating, and I also find that I seldom miss anything that I did not bring along.

"Bint Warraq"

Oral Fixation

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:30:22 PDT

Smoke Gets in Your Eye's by *dogeatdog5

In a few hours I'm undergoing some new agey hypnosis like treatment to supposedly get rid of my cigarette cravings once and for all. Thing is, I like smoking. I like the statement of nihilism and rebellion involved in lifting lit flame to the waiting cigarette end. I love the deep inhalation, my mouth and lungs filled with something more dangerous than air, more tasteful and seductive.

I was an occasional social smoker for years, until lately, when stress levels and sheer frustration led me to a pack a day and first thing in the morning light ups. I don't know if I have an addictive personality or a compulsive one, I just know that this way of sucking on a cigarette like its gonna save my life can't continue much longer coz it ain't good for me no matter how much I momentarily, and Nicotine haze later, enjoy it.

My first love was a smoker and perhaps that's why I associate yellow stained fingers with tenderness; a whiff of smoke underneath cologne, ashtray kisses. Letting go of cigarettes is to quote Lady Gaga (and why shouldn't I, delightful genius that she is) like being caught in a bad romance. Its still romantic though, deadly cool. And I'm still attracted to people who light up, I love that defiant, self destructive, "who says I wanna live forever" thing.

A friend once told me that according to a self help book she was reading "only depressed people smoke". She was a self righteous recent quitter at that point but I'm sure there's some truth in that. I just can't help thinking that the gorgeous sunrise I'm enjoying would be even more fabulous with a strong black coffee and a guilty deep drag.

"Cat Among the Pigeons"

Snake Incest

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:30:19 PDT

Image by Guido Mocafico courtesy of The Coolist* Blog

Usually, I’m not very fond of pictures of nature, except maybe to use as my computer’s wallpaper. It feels as if too much of producing them depends on chance, and really in the end, what are they saying? Nature is beautiful? We already know that. But once in a while it seems I have to contradict myself. An artist will come along and approach nature from a new angle, creating intrigue from subjects we’ve all seen thousands of times.

Snakes in a box. What a pity trapping such a sensuously sinuous subject in such a mundane container, and how beautiful the result. Luxuriously smooth patterns and intensely muscular bodies writhing around each other. Have you every held a snake? It’s very sexual. Strength and fluidity, gracefully gliding along, the slightest movement causes a muscular reaction along its entire length, like a lover wrapping around you. You might call me a sick horny bastard, but these pictures speak to me of incestuous sexual tension. Something about writhing bodies in a box, and them all being of the same family of snakes (and NO I’m not stupid). You might also say that these are just glorified computer wallpapers, and I can’t really argue with that, but at least they’re cool.

P.S.
Dear Sir Alexander McQueen,
We love you and miss you.

"Yoshi “the sytch” Sanchez"

Sorry

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:30:15 PDT

Colin Christian

This was part of a collabrative process to mark the 35th anniversary of said feline icon. I love the kitty, but I also think anyone over the age of twelve who wears anything emblazoned with the kitty should be shot. A man fell in love with me based on some kitty inspired creativity, I fell in love back and it soured, but I don't hold it against her. Why do some logos, images, kittys, grow large and dominate our cultural imaginations while others wither and die? Hello Kitty faced a demise outside of Japan for a decade or so and then resurfaced with a vengance, it can't be simply clever marketing that got it back into favor. Sometimes I wish a Madison Ave ad executive would sit me down and explain that phenomenon to me.

Speaking of explaining things, I wish some one would show me how to handle people's childish behavior without regressing to that level. If you choose to ignore them (my default setting), then you're being passive agressive and hostile, and nothing gets resolved, and more festering ensues. If you engage, you lose out to naked agression, or have to deal with someone's complete inability to take responsibility for their actions. If you manage to muster the patience and the compassion necessary to follow the convoluted path of the blame-game arguement and find yourself either at an impasse or at that awful point where they say, you're right, I'm sorry, what have you gained except a sense that this person has sucked the life out of you to satisfy a need for attention, some faulty wiring in their own sad psyche?

I hate that part. The apology for deeds past, the apology for the hurt, the apology for inexcusable behaviour. I understand why it might be seen as necessary in order for people to move on but my soul wilts when I'm faced with that. It always seems to me that the apologizer gets more out of it than the recepient. (I should know, I considered starting my own AA, Apoligizers Anonymous, I was so addicted to the Sorry's.) "You're right, I'm sorry" comes as an epiphany of some sort, like the person wasn't aware of the impact their actions, like they are growing as human beings just by conceding to error. Screw sorry I say. Do something to fix it. Send flowers, post it notes, a voice message with a silly song, anything to show that there's a genuine desire to make amends. Hello Kitty judges you...

"Cat Among the Pigeons"

Black milk of daybreak

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:30:13 PDT

Anselm Kiefer's Margarete - 1981

I love poetry for two principal reasons. One, because of the rhythm it gives to words on a page; the sensuality and vulnerability it can give to the reader, and two, because it makes me feel more at peace with myself - there are others out there who torment themselves over lovers or who observe the world with the same fascination as I.

My favourite poem in the world is one that doesn’t quite fit this mould. It is Paul Celan’s Todesfuge (Death Fugue). Why is it my favourite? Because it can make me cry like no other piece of literature.

Read well, it is the most achingly painful poem in the world. It is ugly, it is terrible, it is difficult. It is death itself speaking about one of the most awful crimes of modern times, the Holocaust. And it is played out amongst crass words that denote drinking and music and dancing. At the same time, it is beautiful, it avoids vulgarity and it’s delicate and rhythmic.

Paul Celan is one of those men who I wish I had met. You know when people ask you those “which four people would you invite to a dinner party?” questions, and people answer with Elvis, or Marilyn Monroe, or Kurt Cobain, or if you’re a little bit edgy perhaps J.D.Salinger…? Well my number one would be Paul Celan. The man had such a romantically tragic life. He was tri-lingual, he studied medicine in Paris. He was a successful man until the Nazis came to power. Then he was incarcerated in a Nazi labour camp. His father died of typhus, his mother was shot dead. After the war he began to write. He wrote sporadically, until the events of his life were too much of a burden to bear, and he drowned himself in the Seine one spring.

He wrote other poems of course, but none with as much potency as Todesfuge. Nothing that has prompted artists to paint the poems, and nothing that has made a young woman cry quite so painfully.

"Flâneuse"

Virtual Actuality

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:30:10 PDT

Bill Bragg

I’m not crazy about talking on the phone. I prefer texting. There’s a lot less social interaction involved in texting. You write down what you want, they write down what they want, a few LOL’s and OMG’s here and there and you’re done. And if you don’t feel like continuing the conversation, you just don’t reply. I think many people feel that way. I also think that soon our tongues and thumbs will exchange places.

I wonder if that would ever really happen. Would our world ever become so digital that physical interactions disappear? It would be so hard to talk with thumb tongues. Would everyone be a walking barcode? Think of how much information barcodes can hold. Whole digital cities exist right now based on information that’s flying around from barcodes and facebook and such. Imagine a virtual reality, based on actual reality. The more these digital cities grow, the more information will be easily available about each of us. I could find out which spice girl was your favorite and what size sock you wear with a few clicks of a mouse. I could also find out what makes you cry. Does that make for a lonelier outlook on the future? No, just a creepier one.

"Yoshi “the sytch” Sanchez"

Say hello to Yoshi

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 02:05:00 PST

Ladies and Gentlemen, please joining in giving a warm welcome to our newest addition to The ARTSHARKS Blog's family: "Yoshi “the sytch” Sanchez"...

Yoshi was born in the water, lives on land and travels in the sky. He wants you to know he’s made of the stuff of stars.

You're a Sexy Cliche

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:29:38 PDT

Image from post by Brittany West

The amount of art and artists that have worshiped at the shrine of Barbie is huge. Some designed dresses, some soliloquized her in song, some in art. Barbie is the ultimate cliche; blonde, big busted and always sexy (more variations on this theme have been introduced since the mid eighties as a placatory PC effort, which does not detract from my argument).

Once when I was in the throws of a particularly nasty bout of self loathing a friend took me aside and explained that the way I was behaving was perfectly acceptable for someone going through that set of circumstances. I remember wailing that I didn't want to be a cliche, and my friend, Yoda like, said that cliches are cliches for
a reason. They are mostly true. I have been dating a cliche. I heard about men like him, I saw films dedicated to the type, poems, novels, I just didn't realise that I was involved with one.

I still kind of stubbornly refuse to give in to the idea completely, just like I was
reluctant to admit to being one myself, but they say the truth will set you free. And that's the best way to handle a sexy cliche; recognise it for what it is, develop a detached appreciation, and outgrow it, or, like many a little girl with one too many Barbie accessory (Malibu Ken and the convertible car is a particularly
irresistible one), you will find yourself enslaved to an expensive,insatiable, addiction.

"Cat Among the Pigeons"

Love Rehab

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:29:35 PDT

Flamenco Dancer by Fabian Perez

Fabian Perez bases his work on the glamorizing of the underbelly of Argentinian nightlife, the seedy and the mysterious transformed into seductive shades of dark, moody art. His work seems to appeal to men, he is one of the few artists that have been brought to my attention by more than one macho, non-fruity, non-pseudo intellectual red blooded man. I have a bone to pick with Mr Perez, his work was the bait one of these RBM's used to capture my attention, but I guess I can't blame Signor Perez for my ability to confuse an interest in sleaze with depth of character.

The flamenco and art in motion series are my favorite pieces in this collection. I love the dance anyway, the strength, the sadness, the implied defiance; since I can, and will, imbued anything with extra meaning, it goes without saying that this multi-layering of art, dance and sexy toughness would ignite my runaway imagination. I'm in a place where I am confused about my own judgment in affairs of the heart, I'm attracted to strength and symbols of it because I feel that being truly attracted to another weakens me, it weakens us all. It's hard to remain in control when you're falling in love, two states in direct conflict, but then if you never let go, if you spend all your time trying to protect yourself, you might never get a chance to be involved in something real.

In my mind, the flamenco is a woman centric dance (Joaquín Cortés be damned), the man is just required to keep the rhythm and occasionally lend a steadying hand. Isn't that how
heterosexual love takes place? The dancer is resistant, feverish, dangerous, passionate and slightly melancholy... or is that me.

"Cat Among the Pigeons"

A Whole Year of Valentines

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:29:32 PDT

Love Sculpture by Robert Indiana

So irresponsible of me but I love the feeling. I love the fall and the struggle and the mooning, long languid hours dreaming of the beloved's face and torso. I have been loving and learning, breaking hearts and getting mine broken in the process since kindergarten, well, consciously since teenage-hood, but that's still pretty darn long to learn something that I still can't sum up in a paragraph without getting tongue tied, confused and lost. My capacity to love has grown with each experience but so has my ability to disengage, I've also widened the pool of possibilities to the point that my younger self would find bewildering to say the least. And I still haven't found that magic formula where everything clicks into place, and it just feels right.

This entry is gonna be a barrage of lines borrowed from cheesy love songs but seriously, I haven't found out how to separate love and tears, and I'm not sure I trust a love that doesn't hurt, that doesn't come in a vale of sobs and charged emotion. I've been in "adult" relationships. I've started out as 'friends" (well not really, I've never deluded myself enough to befriend someone I have the hots for, who has that kind of discipline?). I've rolled my eyes at other people's drama and told them to grow up, all superior in my rational, scientific "this is hormone-induced madness" moments. That kinda lucidity rarely lasts long though and is no fun at all.
Productivity be damned, besides, blogs and poems and doodles of his face in a giant heart is creative and is a valid contribution to humanity I am sure.

I don't know how to feel about this sculpture though. I love it and I hate it. Kinda like I feel about all the people I've been romantically involved with over the years.(If I'm gonna be super honest, it applies to anyone I've felt a damn thing for, friends and family alike). It's commercial, obvious, redundant, and yet... and yet... classic somehow.

How do you tell someone you feel something without falling into that trap? How do you do it without being sappy or drippy or hysterical, and why in God's name would you want to? Do you atrophy inside if you don't express your love? Do you do it for confirmation, is it a passive-aggressive reflex, a bartering chip for all you emotional-blackmailers out there? I loved you you idiot and you threw it all away. I've been on the giving and receiving end of this sentiment several times (on a disturbingly frequent basis this past year). Always the same but different; full of hope, full of familiarity, desire and despair.

Excuse me New York, but I don't see none of that dark stuff in this damn sculpture.

"Cat Among the Pigeons"

Fragile Beauty

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:29:18 PDT

Too much has been said about the woman and the myth so I'm not going to cover old ground. I like self-reinvention. She did it and so did all the big "survivor" female stars, Maddona, Cher. After achieving commercial success she went back to taking classes, wanting to become a Method actress. After Joe DiMaggio, Arthur Miller and possibly, probably JFK. The reasons to love this woman are endless and the way we perceive her can shift from one image to the next, vulnerable, strong,playful, always feminine, always beautiful.

So why after decades of alternative poster blondes do we keep going back to prints of this woman, to defining female sexuality through her, to disseminating her brand of womanliness through popular culture? Its the mystique I think. Today's stars risk over-exposure, they are garish, they are perhaps too obvious, they do not have that softly softly Marilyn thing where even lolling around naked you assign some innocence to her.

Besides the tragic untimely death that lends the ultimate cache to any star, I think the cult owes a lot to the photographers who captured a side of her that the movies did not always communicate, and to her ability to project that fragile beauty that we so want to own and protect.

"Cat Among the Pigeons"

Out-of-Print

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:29:15 PDT

Image from 9GAG

I believe it was Cicero who said that a room without books is like a body without a soul. I have to wonder if this type of thinking still stands, with the advent of the Kindle and the like. Personally, I find that there is something strikingly comforting about walking into a room framed by shelves of books of all shapes and sizes and pregnant with words, and ideas. The subtle scent of thousands of pages bound together to create endless and timeless bodies of wisdom, (useless or otherwise) makes me somewhat nostalgic. It reminds me of the days when, as a child and not entirely convinced of the value of engaging with peers, I would race to read another installment of Lord of the Rings, Roald Dahl, C.S. Lewis, and the works of those good men who gave us a place to escape to. And when nothing in the outside world made sense, the simple act of holding a book up to yourself was like harnessing a portal into another mind and another place.

"Bint Warraq"

Sticks and Stones

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:28:09 PDT

He Said:

She has the face of an angel, and when she gets mad I need to leave the room. Her anger scares me. She says things that are mocking and cruel and make me want to gag her, strangle her just to shut her up. I don't know this person dripping venom, I don't want to know her, and I don't want to be the guy who inspires that. I can feel it coming. The change in the air when I've done or said something "stupid". The hostile tone. The disapproving stony stare. The ice cold greeting and the passive aggressive f@*# you kiss hello. The hairs on my skin rise, my neck tenses and before I know it, I grab my coat and I'm out of the door. I don't like her when she's angry. I don't recognize her face.

She Said:

My arm. He said, ‘it tastes like a peach’. Then he kissed it before sinking his teeth in. Playfully. He ran his hand though my sandy hair, wrapping strands of blonde around his tanned thumb. I looked up from the dirty sawdust floor. A towel hung on the rail. A ribbon around my neck came undone. He said, ‘marry me’. I laughed. Then he hummed. If you leave me now, you’ll take away the biggest part of me. And wrote imaginary words along the width of my back. I said, ‘I love you’, and meant it. Until the words died. Until I didn’t mean it anymore. Until the boredom set in. Until I changed my mind.

Judgement

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:28:12 PDT

Brassai's "Rue Quincampoix"

I suppose if you ask anyone how they got to where they are in their life, they can’t give a clear answer. Maybe the actor got a lucky break, the lawyer won a major case and the housewife simply got married. But for most of us, it’s all a bit murky. So if you ask me how it is that I am stood on this cold dark Parisian allée at one in the morning, I can tell you that I am here because of my work. But why, why I am here right now - I cannot answer.

I lead a lonely existence. Maybe it’s difficult to understand – I spend so much of my time with people. Yet these are no friends. Logistically, it is an arduous task to maintain friends and nigh on impossible to have a relationship. My work means I am awake for much of the night, thus I sleep throughout the day. And I hardly have a respectable, steady job.

My friends are the ladies and gentlemen of the underworld. Opium-smoking artists and writers, voluptuous whores, smooth-talking gang members. I’m not even sure I want to be a part of the “real world”. I would dread to pay taxes and hold polite conversation about politics and society. Though I do care about what you think of me. What do you think? That I am nugatory? Have you judged me already? You must be a little intrigued, a little bit interested in my world? For this subculture fascinates me – everyone is interesting. Everyone I meet has a story to tell.

I have my story to tell. Of how I meet women on dark corners in Parisian passages, how I enter brothels and know almost every Madame in Montmartre. But I am a photographer – and my photographs tell this story far better than I ever could with words.

"Flâneuse"

Tyger

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:28:03 PDT

Tyger by Guilherme Marcondes

This is a timeless mix media work by an amazing Brazilian filmmaker featuring the Japanese art of Bunraku puppetry blended with photographic images, CGI, and 2D flat art; it is his interpretation of William Blake’s poem “The Tiger”.

We are delusional in believing in our superiority in this plane. Stripped down to our primal selves, we are just another serving in the vast food chain of existence.

In portraying the ultimate power of this film “the Tiger” as another course to this universal meal, manipulated and controlled by something greater, feels hauntingly beautiful.

It humbles me to know I am part of something greater. Whether your outlook on this is religious, scientific, or whatever, we can't deny that in the big picture we are significantly, insignificant.

So to those egocentric, self-indulgent, vain-wastes-of-oxygen out there, all I have to say is:

You’ve been served.

"The Not-So-Silent Observer"

Another addition to the family

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 02:27:00 PST

It is our deepest pleasure to introduce, the newest addition to the ARTSHARKS blogging family "The Not-So-Silent Observer":

Growing up in a world filled with fairytales and dragons and where Tinkerbell was her best friend, she used to look at the world from behind a looking glass.

After years of silent observation, she feel its time to say what she thinks about everything she sees.

Its time to end the silence.

Wild horses

noreply@blogger.com (ARTSHARKS) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:28:00 PDT

Chen Yong Snow horses

He Said:

I had a book about the circus when I was a kid. It was one I read a lot. My favorite part was about the Hungarian horsemen. The illustration was of these long haired colorfully dressed men in reckless, dangerous positions on galloping horses. I thought they were the coolest, and if I was to run away and join the circus, that's the crowd for me. I worried though that I wasn't macho or brave enough for them. I worried about falling off a horse and breaking something. I worried about missing my mom. It was a relief to know that I would never have to find out for sure, but every now and then, I'd see a picture that reminds me of the horsemen, and I get wistful.

She Said:

In order to survive, it is a truth universally acknowledged that we must evolve. Transform, change, compromise, grow. Call it what you will. I call it bullshit. After bending and shape shifting and moulding into a version of myself that is considered to be acceptable, I just can't be bothered anymore. To break myself in. To play by the rules. And I won’t change, play nice or go quietly. I intend on making a lot of noise. You’ll have to drag me, kicking and screaming. And if I’m going down, you're coming with me.