Cool Basquiat Paintings

Jean-Michel Basquiat has long been a favourite artist of mine. I love his use of colour, and his beautifully expressive, chunky figures. There's so many very satisfying shapes in his work.

On the 21st of September 2022, I went to see a Basquiat exhibition at the Albertina in Vienna, and I saw some stuff I loved.

One thing I love about Basquiat is his frank and silly depictions of human anatomy and sexuality. Here's a perfect man with a perfect cartoon penis. He looks a bit sad, but also has a halo above him, just like most men. He's perfect. And again, it's those wonderful rough shapes that make up an eclectic, textured background that make the composition so satisfying.

This is Pater (1982). The museum description reads:

Pater is the Latin word for father. Basquiat presents a generalized archetypal father image. This father can be a hero and role model, but also has an air of severity and authority about him. In this context, it would seem likely that Basquiat processes in this painting the complex relationship he had with his own father, whose home and custody he broke away from already at a young age. Like his portraits of his black heroes, the protagonist in Pater is both victimizer and victim, oppressor and oppressed, winner and loser. This polarity is not least expressed through the scribbly halo over the head and the cartoonishly overdrawn male genitals.  

The genitals in question.

Basquiat often conveys really great expressions. Look at this guy:

He's mad, but sort of in the way that an enemy in Spyro the Dragon is mad. There's such a great cartoon abstraction here that kind of works to emphasise and almost mock the emotional expression within. Looking at the sword and the weird hairy feet, I'm reminded of drawings made in the margins of school books. There's something pure about it. 

The bloke who wants to stab Spyro with his sword.

Finally, I really liked this drawing of his girlfriend and her big shoes:

A perfect image. 

I Must Keep Posting

It's been almost three months of daily blogging here, and I've only now hit a bit of a struggle point, just because things got a bit busy this month - I had to travel, which took some time away from me (but did allow me to watch Zootopia 2 - it was okay), and I've gotten behind on some other tasks. Nevertheless, I continue to blog. I will not be stopped. I will simply write something more inane if I must.

And the thing is, with the pressure of increased time constraints, or lessened attention that I can give to my gorgeous blog, it still feels relaxed. I'm used to a certain amount of eyes on my posts elsewhere, so this blog retains that beautiful small, isolated feeling even if it gets an increase in readership, and I feel monumentally relaxed. You know, I can make five thousand posts about my Pluribus grievances and basically no-one's going to unleash their rage in the comments. Partly because (I assume!) the readers of this blog are here because they already like me. This is not a place that invites and entices the unfamiliar - you basically have to be lead here, Pied Piper style.

They should add a riddle mechanic for accessing blogs, just to make it a really secretive thing. Only those who are prepared to venture within the DIGITAL LABYRINTH may enter. Wow. Perhaps we (those of us who are Blogger enthusiasts) would enjoy that even more.

Beautiful photo from my cousin.

It's nice to deal with the problem of time getting away from you in this super freeform way. Because usually, I try to approach my blog posts here with a sort-of magazine-y, or YouTube-light sensibility. What will be an interesting title or topic? What can I talk about that has an intriguing hook? But then, I can always fall back on the more diaristic ideas, or just post some drawings and talk about them. And it feels nice to drop back onto that kind of post, like it's a big cushion waiting for me.

This blog has the endless appeal of coming up with topics of interest, as YouTube does, but without the same importance looming over those choices. Here, I am totally free. And so, catching up with posts that I need to write feels freeing. The fact that Blogger is not popular, relatively speaking, is its own wonderful gift. There is a unique sense of connection in the small and intimate. And I guess that's one reason I consider it imperative to keep posting every day.

Another powerful drawing of a hand.

I could, and maybe will, at some point drop down to a less frequent posting schedule - a few times a week maybe, who knows - but for now, I remain committed. I must keep posting.

Hands

Hands are the enemy of all artists. This is a known fact, and a terrible truth that I tend to ignore, because hands can be circles or blobs of any kind, in many cases. The suggestion of a hand, for me, is usually enough.

But still, I feel that crunch within me, that sense that really, it's all for nothing if I can't master the hand. I need, then, to practice drawing hands. I need to become a hand understander. I must do this.

So today I made a few hand sketches, looking at my own dear hands, and I willed myself to BE the hand. I can do this. I am the hand.

They are oddly complicated structures - they need to be just right, otherwise they turn into a repulsive mass (and we have all witnessed the tragic failure of AI image generation software in its attempts to craft human hands - very sad stuff).

But you know what, these are pretty good. I'm on my way to hand enlightenment. And I'm not showing you the hands I destroyed along the way. 

The Allure of Cambridge University Press

I went to the Cambridge University Press Bookshop recently, and it struck me as very special. Perusing the shop, I felt comforted by the shelves of very dull and corporate-looking book series. Many of them scream educational in a really satisfying way.

In particular, I loved this shelf of Canto Classics, these wonderfully bare designs accompanying a range of fascinating topics published by Cambridge University Press. According to the university website, this imprint aims to collate "the most successful titles published by Cambridge over the past half-century and more" and looking at these books, you get a real sense of the breadth of study on display.

It includes books like C.S. Lewis' 'The Discarded Image' - an exploration of medieval and rennaissance literature -, and Hobspawn and Ranger's 'The Invention of Tradition' - an examination of how startlingly recent many things that we consider ancient traditions are. These are immediately dazzling, beefy topics that I'd love to know more about.

The books, despite their decidedly school textbook appearance, are enticing. The sheer intrigue of their ideas is utterly compelling. And so, I like the way they look - the way they communicate a certain businesslike academic severity. You are going to be studying this thing, the shelf tells you. And I really want to. 

I immediately started fantasising about reading all the Canto Classics. Will someone stop me? No. I could do it. I believe in my power to complete strange challenges. Goodreads returns about 130 results for 'Canto Classics'. Would that be so hard? If I read 30 books a year I could do it in five. Stranger things have happened. 

A beautiful Jane Austen, as all bookshops must have.

This is just one of my dreams, brought on by the bookshop, but I also liked the extensive linguistics section. General linguistics, applied linguistics, sociolinguistics. They have it all. Every linguistics.

I noticed, too, the very blue series of 'Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought', which intrigued me. They seem frightening, but I like just how sci-fi this general design looks. It enhances that sense of unwieldiness. Yes, we have to show outer space here - this is how endless and vast the topic of 'political thought' is. Mother, I am afraid. Nietzche is going to get me.

In the more general non-fiction section - the place where people who are not attending Cambridge University might just buy a book for fun - I found three books I liked the look of, which I will reveal to you now. 

The first is this beautiful edition of Shakespeare's sonnets. I love the lilies framing the cover, and we have a shining endorsement from Judi Dench. If Judi Dench said it was bad I would have burned its pages in the shop, but she says it's good, so I don't have to do that.

The second is 'The Witches of St. Osyth' by Marion Gibson. I just want to read some witch history, but I also love that spooky image on the front. It evokes American Gothic more than anything else.

Lastly, 'Twilight of the Godlings' by Francis Young. This one looks vaguely romantasy-styled, which is an interesting design choice to see applied to non-fiction. It's not garish, but it looks very youthful and mysterious. I need to know about those Shadowy Beginnings.

These are the books that caught my eye - but which shall I read first? Hmm...

Fighting with my Journal

I think I have now, finally, gotten used to the transparency of my onion skin journal. I have reached an understanding. Sometimes it concerns me, the building obscurity that eventually happens for some pages - drawings rendered more or less invisible by their page-neighbours - but I've come to mostly accept it. It takes a strong mind to embrace the terrors of a see-through journal. And I am that strong mind.

For a while I drew on both sides of every page, but I started to feel like that was causing too much chaos - especially with the way that pencil transfers from page to page with any pressure from the other side of a drawing. I thought, yeah, lets give these pages some more space. One half step further away so that the transparency doesn't get bombarded. It was a broadly good decision, because really, those undersides of each page left alone look pretty nice, and I realised that the best drawings to make, for layering purposes, were ones that incorporated a high contrast between blocks of pencil and blank space.

I'm also trying not to be too precious with this journal. Because its made with this delicate paper, and has its pretty ouroboros design on the front, it announces itself as a special item. I must refute this and declare it filth in order to lose all inhibition and fully enter into the realm of the journal. The task must always be: to ruin the book.

I drew a particularly horrid bird, and what really makes it lovable to me is that I hate it. Aww. I adore my hateable creature.

Eww...

This is exactly what it's all about. Draw a hideous creature. Accept it into your heart. Never look back. New page new unpleasant image. If this goal is met, you are winning.

I really loosened up after drawing as many dogs as I could fit into a page. This was the moment I was unleashed. I became myself through these twelve dogs (Jesus' disciples btw).

After this, I remembered collage existed, and I realised that I needed to paste a chopsticks wrapper in here to really feel complete. There's something really compelling to me about collaging in here, but just sparingly, just occasionally. So you never know when a collage is coming. 

And then it's back to more creatures. More creatures.

More creatures. 

My Lovely Mario

This beautiful man, this small plush bloke trapped in a t-pose for eternity (except for when you squeeze his tummy and his arms come down to his sides as if he really is startled by the squeeze) is my own Mario, obtained last year through a dog-themed racing game at Coney Island, and I love him very much.

He's very soft and huggable (of course), but one thing I like about him is that he has a loop on the back of his head, so you can hang him anywhere easily, like so:

Because of his eternal t-pose, hanging him on the wall like this evokes the wall-mounted crucifix. Mario looks ridiculous like this. He is no Jesus, and yet his pose is impossible not to associate with Christ through the sheer power of positioning. It's kind of remarkable how strong that iconography is. All you have to do is be up somewhere, arms outstretched, and you yourself become a sort of Jesus.

I've been thinking a little bit about Christian iconography in Japanese media after Skittybitty's mention of the early Zelda series's explicit Christian references in her video on the Gerudo and colonialism. In Japan, the first game had Link wielding a bible (renamed the 'book of magic' for its US release), and in the second game, Link obtained a cross. By the third instalment, the series took on its own new mythology, but some concept art survives of Link praying in front of a crucifix.

Amazing.

I love the way that Christian themes and iconography are often incorporated into the mythos of JRPGs in particular - religious theming can be such a great shorthand for various sorts of mysticism or tradition or worldly history. But one thing I appreciate is the flippancy of its inclusion. Link's bible is inextricable from his broad European fantasy influence in an interesting way - the crunchy background to the forest-y world of the elves contains, as we well know, Jesus Christ our lord and saviour. He gives Legolas a thumbs up. It's awesome.

It's like Vampire Survivors. A game in which my favourite weapon is indeed the bible. That thing kills.

Now, none of this has much to do with Mario. They're not including a lot of religious stuff in Mario games despite his Italian nature. But one iconic t-pose nevertheless evokes a Jesus. And so, my little man becomes an anachronistic clash of popcorn modern media, and the exalted background of our world's esteemed and ancient religious culture. Good for him. I'm going to hug him.

Irritable & Sleepy

I hate travelling. It's not so much the actual journey (although that can be its own special hell), but what I call the "settling-in" period - the first day or two that I'm in a new place. During that time, I hit peak irritability. Everything is annoying, and I'm literally sleepy.

Me and my donkey, on a boat.

There are always, it seems, hiccups to a new place. When I stayed in Cambridge recently, they had relegated the washing machine to a strange outside shed, like it was being punished. I felt bad for the washing machine. It deserved to be in the house. It was over the course of my time there that I realised it was oddly challenging to keep my washing and drying to the daylight hours so that I didn't have to awkwardly peel clothes out of the machine by torchlight, praying I wouldn't drop any socks on the mildewy floor, or the wet ground. It was not a joyful experience.

My drawing of the tragic situation.

Mostly, though, the house was nice. I liked its desk, I liked its small dishwasher (not having to do my own dishes is a treat that is always appreciated), and I liked its TV with Netflix left logged in. Very nice. It did have a horribly uncomfortable couch, but I simply sat elsewhere whenever possible.

Beautiful Cambridge.

Perhaps I have lost my carefree spirit or something, but I really have to take a day or two to just be annoyed whenever I arrive somewhere. I accept that I am, on these first days, a hater. And nothing can prevent it. I just have to let that evil ghost within me loose into the world. And then I'm fine. I accept the foibles of a location, the glistening downsides, and I get over it.

It says a lot about the enduring comfort of familiarity. If something sucks at home, I might just be used to it. On the other hand, perhaps every inch of the world just needs to be more perfect. 

Isn't that right, Mr. Super Mario?

 
At times like this, the only thing left to do is to enjoy some Japanese punk music.