Revolutionary dreams.

I had a dream last night that I was back at my first job of working at Michael’s arts and crafts. Picking up extra shifts. The other ladies working there couldn’t figure out why I was there because everyone’s hours had been cut short. This was shortly followed by an announcement over the intercom that employees are not allowed to do any employee purchases due to the economy which put a stop to me selecting new pens for my holster. So I begin to leave to store which then the boss and I end up at the front doors at the same time, me leaving, her arriving. She is wearing some kind of garish feather outfit. I could only compare this to that thing once worn by Bjork, except in black.

Outside of the store a revolution has erupted. Citizens against tanks. Digging out little trenches in the mud as people get shot left and right. Soon the new leader is in office with others, all in black military dress. The leader is complaining because after the whole revolution the new idea for how to run the government isn’t working, but the old idea will work, which all the aids approve of using and just saying that they are using the new citizen run government.

Perhaps I should stop watching so much Babylon 5 before falling asleep. It definitely had a 4th and 5th season feeling to it. Sans the space setting, though it just seemed to be replaced with a Fallout 3 Washington D.C..

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New Birth.

Hey. C'est moi. It has been a few years. Since I last discussed into the void here I attended grad school for architecture at the University of Washington, finished the Master's program by the skin of my teeth, graduated into a global pandemic (I would not recommend this), gave away most of my worldly possessions, and am now flâneur-ing around Europe on the slim budget of my life savings. Allow me to reintroduce myself : I am the artist, Gaston. My interests include ; architecture, sustainability, art, vintage fashions, antiques, and flâneries. All while consuming massive quantities of tea. “I know where I'm from, but I don't know where I'm going.” I recently heard this line at a video playing at the Tate Museum in Liverpool, and it rang strong in me. In the film Casablanca, when Rick is questioned on his nationality he responds that his is a “drunkard,” insinuating that he has renounced his American nationality for that of someone who owns and runs a bar. From ...

Windy Coffee. [part 1]

Fulya was looking at my sketchbook the other day and remarked that she liked the random sketch that I had made of some girl that I saw walking along with a little plastic cup of coffee during the wind storm a few weeks past. As I still have some small pieces of very good watercolor paper [that I had sized to be used for some small frames I had collected but did not have anything to put in them yet], I thought that perhaps I could transfer a little sketch to a little piece of paper to play with techniques. Namely the layering of water colors. Something that I know I have been working on a lot, but practice makes perfect. I also wanted to see how using my new mechanical pencil filled with blue graphite would work in hiding my lines as I initially worked. I forgot to take a picture of the transition between not having the girl inked at all to inking her and starting the background. I was having a hell of a time trying to figure out a setting in which to put her. At first I was th...

French underworld tattoos at the turn of the century. The man sports a tattooed mustache intended to foil the prohibition of facial hair in the Foreign Legion. The World of Tattoo by Maarten Hesselt van Dinter. I can only dream of being anywhere near that combination of badass and crazy. Though at that point the Foreign Legion was probably still the best place for criminals to get their record cleaned so perhaps he is as well quite legitimately scary upon all of that. I find myself flipping back to this page time and time again to romanticize the French underground from around 1900. Give him an accordion, a beret, and some braces. Prostitutes who could easily kill you if you ever come up short and tattoo the names of their ‘actual’ lovers between their breasts, close to their heart. Tattoo ‘Je mother fucking t’aime’ in a tattoo cursive along my collar bones.

High Contrast Grey.

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