King of Nails

Sydney Art Month 2012 at Paper Plane

2012-01-31T15:16:00.000-08:00

Paper Plane has asked me to be a part of their Sydney Art Month event in March. The event will take place over the nights of March 1 & 2, and I believe it will be a kind of 'live drawing' type deal. I don't know who the other artists are yet, but I do know that there are four of us, and that we will each be getting a WALL to draw on...

...RESPONDING TO THE IDEA OF THE APOCALYPSE.

So yes... you might say I am a little bit excited about this...

Whenever I feel like shit, I remember that Julie named a painting after me.

2012-01-28T17:32:00.000-08:00

Summon the heroes of the county

2012-01-28T04:54:00.000-08:00

Good eye contact

2012-01-26T20:37:00.000-08:00

4am observations

2012-01-26T08:30:00.000-08:00

I am in awe of you. Your work makes me weep and curse and swear that I am going to be better. Your work resonates and makes my heart ache and fills me full of questions, questions about us and out past interactions, of what this meant and what that symbolised, and that night, and what you said to me, questions about all of it. Your paintings hurt me in my heart, real pain, horrible pain and longing, and that's the only way I can put it. You make me wish I was a painter. You're the best artist I know, and I know some pretty fucking great artists.

I probably love you.

A novel my father gave me

2012-01-23T23:14:00.000-08:00

When I moved out of home I was 17. I packed my few possessions into the car and my father drove me from Townsville to Brisbane. My father is a very thoughtful giver of gifts, and he gave me his copies of Joe Jackson's Blaze of Glory album, which I had played continuously since I was eleven years old, and Chaim Potok's My Name is Asher Lev. I found Asher Lev deeply moving and it instantly became my favourite book, which it remains to this day. When I re-read it a few years later, the then-frail copy (Dad had owned it for many years) burst apart at the spine, although I kept it, unable to part with it. Last year I found a more recent edition of the novel and read it for a third time, the first novel I read after moving to Sydney, just like Brisbane ten years earlier. I didn't think it possible, but it affected me even more this time. If you have not read any of Potok's novels, a theme he often explores is that of father and son, which he does with passion, eloquence and a profound sadness. I can only liken this to myrelationship with my own father, who finds personal sentiment and feelings hard to express in ways other than his work- which is infused with so much passion, faith, desolation and beauty- and certain gifts, such as Potok's novel, which had affected and inspired him. Messages within messages. After I finished the novel for the third time I was excited to find that Potok had written a sequel later in his life, The Gift of Asher Lev. It continues Asher Lev's story some twenty-five years after the original novel finishes, and it was everything I hoped it might be. Some of the characters of the previous novel had passed with time, and those remained had become richer, fuller, and new characters reflected personalities of friends I love so well. I have not read, whether fiction or not, a better account of the isolation, the raw obsession and the alienation that is the life of the artist. We strive to articulate what things mean, what we were thinking and going through when we were in the throes of the making these things, but it is impossible to fully articulate. We can try, we can come close. But if it were possible, that would be the end of art. Asher Lev's curiousity, His mother's sadness, his father's vigour and rage. Jon Dorman's alcoholic melancholy, Devorah's darkness, Kahn's drive- these all work as ciphers for a life now lost to us- this is as close as we can ever get now. This is it. Don't fuck it up, don't waste it...

They stole the crown and the brain

2012-01-19T20:57:00.000-08:00

Stentorian Bark

2012-01-18T03:54:00.000-08:00

New blood/bad as me

2012-01-15T16:27:00.000-08:00

I'm on fire

2012-01-12T04:03:00.000-08:00

No cheese? No Metal? No art? No go!

2012-01-12T03:56:00.000-08:00

The sweet science

2012-01-10T18:16:00.000-08:00

Blindness (and another Flynn doodle)

2012-01-10T02:04:00.000-08:00

Ghost

2012-01-10T02:01:00.000-08:00

Embryonic

2012-01-09T05:02:00.000-08:00

I think I had a wierd, realistic dream.

2012-01-08T03:39:00.000-08:00

Drawn from a book on Vivienne Westwood or something

2012-01-08T03:35:00.000-08:00

Short stories

2012-01-08T03:11:00.000-08:00

Two Sith up to no good

2011-12-30T16:38:00.000-08:00

Check this out!

2011-12-30T16:35:00.000-08:00

Happy new year (again)

2011-12-26T18:40:00.000-08:00

Some more things I am working on...

2011-12-26T18:36:00.000-08:00

No title yet

2011-12-26T18:33:00.000-08:00

My grandfather's home

2011-12-26T18:31:00.000-08:00

Unfinished drawings of St Paul and a man in the bottom of a well (from Wind-Up Bird Chronicle)

2011-12-26T18:27:00.001-08:00

Biro

2011-12-26T18:25:00.000-08:00

School

2011-12-26T18:22:00.000-08:00

Julie had another show, another winner

2011-12-26T18:20:00.000-08:00

Jean-Luc, blow up the damn ship!

2011-12-26T18:18:00.000-08:00

The departed

2011-12-26T18:16:00.000-08:00

Happy mistake

2011-12-26T18:15:00.000-08:00

I obviously messed this up, but I quite like it.

Quote

2011-12-26T18:13:00.000-08:00

How to draw a horse

2011-12-26T18:11:00.000-08:00

Cowboy time, dog

2011-12-26T18:08:00.000-08:00

Beard

2011-12-26T18:06:00.000-08:00

Meat Loaf interview

2011-12-26T18:04:00.000-08:00

Beginnings, etc.

2011-12-26T17:59:00.000-08:00

The hate is real

2011-12-26T17:58:00.000-08:00

Happiness

2011-12-26T17:53:00.000-08:00

This is finished now

2011-12-26T17:51:00.000-08:00

Graffiti

2011-12-26T17:50:00.000-08:00

Favourite

2011-12-26T17:49:00.001-08:00

Drawings in progress

2011-12-26T17:45:00.000-08:00

The good captain

2011-12-26T17:40:00.001-08:00

Dogs

2011-12-26T17:38:00.000-08:00

Shitty

2011-12-26T17:37:00.000-08:00

Zero

2011-12-26T17:35:00.000-08:00

My mum hates my art

2011-12-26T17:29:00.000-08:00

The triumph of painting and other favourites from the Cowboy Time grid

2011-12-26T17:26:00.001-08:00

Five drawings: some finished, some not.

2011-12-26T17:23:00.000-08:00

Happy new year

2011-12-26T17:22:00.000-08:00

Vagina beam

2011-12-26T17:20:00.000-08:00

I don't think I showed this at the exhibition... or maybe I did...

Three drawings (components from cowboy time grid)

2011-12-26T17:18:00.000-08:00

I'm so white

2011-12-26T17:17:00.001-08:00

Random crap

2011-12-26T17:12:00.000-08:00

The studio

2011-12-26T17:05:00.000-08:00

Cowboy time

2011-12-26T17:04:00.000-08:00

I know it's late, but merry christmas!

2011-12-26T17:03:00.000-08:00

Would you like Ice with that?

2011-12-26T17:01:00.000-08:00

Interview

2011-12-22T03:36:00.000-08:00

Postcards

2011-12-22T03:29:00.000-08:00

The horror of cane

2011-12-22T03:08:00.000-08:00

It's a Man Ray kind of sky (version)

2011-12-22T03:04:00.000-08:00

Samson, writhing, powerless

2011-12-22T02:58:00.000-08:00

This is not what I meant

2011-12-22T02:49:00.000-08:00

Giants will destroy us all

2011-12-22T02:45:00.000-08:00

Did you ever hear of Superman?

2011-12-22T02:38:00.000-08:00

I am emotionally robust

2011-12-18T17:04:00.000-08:00

Let us be lovers

2011-12-18T16:58:00.000-08:00

That is so fucking lame

2011-12-18T16:55:00.000-08:00

'I don't think love really works like that', she said.

2011-12-18T16:48:00.000-08:00

Death of the hero

2011-12-18T16:42:00.000-08:00

I drew these exactly three years ago while watching a Lou Reed documentary in Adelaide...

2011-12-18T16:35:00.000-08:00

Three more deaths-

2011-12-18T16:29:00.000-08:00

Phone it in, Batman!

2011-12-18T16:25:00.000-08:00

Flaking metal, a silent witness

2011-12-18T16:22:00.000-08:00

You need company, hero

2011-12-18T16:19:00.000-08:00

I know your unrest

2011-12-18T16:15:00.000-08:00

I think you should get over him for me

2011-12-18T16:10:00.000-08:00

Life drawings (c.2007)

2011-12-18T16:06:00.000-08:00

We make good pets

2011-12-17T01:44:00.000-08:00

Amputee Kelly

2011-12-17T01:41:00.000-08:00

As I watch a world I created rot

2011-12-17T01:36:00.000-08:00

We listened as the first animal was jettisoned, but heard nothing

2011-12-17T01:32:00.000-08:00

So you're all dead now...

2011-12-17T01:27:00.000-08:00

Assortment

2011-12-17T01:18:00.000-08:00

Untitled porno iconoclasm part two

2011-12-17T01:13:00.000-08:00

Untitled porno iconoclasm

2011-12-17T01:09:00.000-08:00

Sad professor

2011-12-17T01:04:00.000-08:00

Two things I wrote about my grandfathers a few months ago. One passed away recently and I thought this might be an appropriate little tribute to them.

2011-11-27T18:17:00.000-08:00

Horses and Cowboys
Western films, and particularly horses, make me think of my grandfather. My grandfather used to breed racehorses, and kept horses most of his life. I remember seeing him ride around on a horse like it was nothing, even past his middle age. He rode with a casual ease and grace that was surprising for such a big man. He would wear blundstone boots and stubby shorts and a cowboy shirt with cutoff sleeves when he rode. My grandfather’s name is John- my mother told me that I was named after him, as well as my other grandfather, her father, also named John, also a farmer, and the great satirist Jonathan Swift. He liked cowboy films, especially John Wayne films. He could spot when the cowboys were riding a different horse from shot to shot. I could never tell the difference- A brown horse was just a brown horse to me- but to him the difference was glaringly obvious. He could tell you the breed, anything. He was always known for his hot temper but I rarely saw it. I think he had mellowed somewhat by the time I was around. I would remember him for his somewhat course, bustling, very dark, and very funny jokes. He put it on somewhat for us kids. He was a master of affectionate teasing. He was in hospital recently and I visited him a few times. He had not brought anything to read, so I offered to bring him something, and he asked for some Westerns- those little, illustrated, cheaply-printed magazines that you used to find in newsagents and corner stores. I couldn’t find any for the next visit, so I brought some Phantom comics and Johnny Cash’s autobiography. I knew he liked Johnny Cash, and Roy Orbison, who Johnny writes about in the book. I was happy to hear that he knocked it over in two days- in his view this was no small feat, as the type was so small. He didn’t read the Phantoms though.

Cane
My mother’s father was a cane farmer, and when he was younger, a rice farmer. His name was John and he had one hundred acres of cane, and a house and a big shed that housed a boat- all of which he built himself. My mother always said he was good with his hands. He died when I was fifteen, unexpectedly, from a blood disorder. By all accounts he was a good man, and a hard worker. Both of my grandfathers were hard workers, and would be proud to be known as such, and not much else. I remember at his funeral, other men from the Air/sea rescue were there in a line, outside of the church. They obviously had a respect and a reverence for him, and this gesture moved me to tears, even before I entered the church. I didn’t know him well, but that was the kind of man he was. He laughed a lot, and told jokes at the dinner table, but was not the sort of man to talk about himself beyond the rains or the cane or the fires. On family holidays at Cape Upstart, where he had built a hut just off the beach, we would walk down to the creek and fish. He taught me to fillet a fish, and how to hook bait properly. He would take my brother and I out on the rounds on the farm on his quadbike or tractor. We would watch as he checked on the flow of water and adjusted it accordingly. Sugar cane always reminds me of him, and the farm. One of my uncles runs the farm now. I like that. There is something noble about farming. I remember being afraid of the cane, especially after I was explicitly told by my Grandfather that I was not ever to go into the cane, because of what was in there. What he meant was snakes and rats, and sometimes wild pigs, but I understood it to be something much worse, as any child would. I remember the majesty of cane fires, and the deep red-orange colour it would cast over everything, and the slow, thick smoke that would billow into the air, and the heat that seemed to reach so far.

A few failed experiments, a few odds, a few ends.

2011-11-21T13:31:00.000-08:00

Boy meets girl/boy loses girl/boy dies

2011-11-21T13:27:00.000-08:00

You don't know Jesus

2011-11-21T13:17:00.000-08:00

Slaying of cow

2011-11-10T20:26:00.000-08:00

A drawing

2011-11-10T20:23:00.001-08:00

Bittersweet me

2011-11-10T20:19:00.000-08:00

Blasphemous comic ideas

2011-11-10T20:14:00.000-08:00

All the sad young men

2011-11-09T21:50:00.000-08:00

Folk death '95

2011-11-09T21:36:00.000-08:00

Jess, 2007

2011-11-09T21:32:00.000-08:00