This is my latest painting. It is painted in water soluble graphite and acrylic on canvas. Size 120cm x 160cm. Originally a small sketch, it was called ‘The Damned’. I would like to find a better name so if anyone out there has a suitable suggestion I would be most pleased to hear it. The painting is for sale (contact me on info@artist-gavinmayhew.co.uk for price) or prints from A4 to A2 sizes are available.

the face of the Devil

Alright, so I’ve been meaning to write this one for a while. I’m to tired to put the drawings in order, sorry. It has been a very good Thanksgiving and I am tired.

I really like this first fish drawing. It’s got a light green background that didn’t scan in, but I just picture him saying ‘hi there!’

This second one is an ATC for a surreal swap. I’m in a fish mood I guess. I read something about flying fish and this is what came to mind.

I went to a sketch crawl this past weekend. It was pretty cool. I found a very neat little tea house and met lots of other artists. Plus I got to draw for two hours which was very nice. This is the website to the idea of sketchcrawl: http://www.sketchcrawl.com/index.html

It was hosted by Utrecth so I got some cute erasers and a pencil for going. I hope they host more of those because I really did have fun.

This is the second page I did on my sketch crawl. I was trying this idea out for my surreal swap, but I haven’t refined it yet. I still really like the idea of fish swimming in a window with a sky for a background. I think I will play with this idea for a little bit longer.

One of my other challenges was a cute robot swap. It  was harder to draw a ‘cute robot’ then I thought it was going to be. I like how they came out though. I got the dino robot idea from my friend.

I started drawing this ATC but I fell in love with the simplicity of it. So I haven’t finished it, but it is sitting on my desk. It just makes me smile.

Since I am making most of my Christmas gifts I will not be updating my blog unless the recipient have received them…..or I get the time to work on other things besides gifts.

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A Special Thanks to Aisha {Link}

All artwork “Copyright Aisha Diandra”

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Betty Hutton (February 26, 1921 – March 11, 2007)

A hole. In the darkness. Where hope shivered. That little kid called ‘Tackspitter’. Sang for bleeding thumbs. And withered windshield wipers. And the sweet police.  Escorted Betty, her sister and her mother out of town. Like it was an apple. And they were the worm. And they would sing. Hoping to embarrass good fortune. ‘Don’t say goodbye. Just say until we meet again.’

Ceiling fans. Chopped up her name. Life is a stew. Betty became. The high priestess of frenzy. Jitterbugging. Thrashed around so violently. Orgasm in the orchestra pit. The drummer sued her for assault. Her lover confessed. It was too much. Too much of the same old shit.

Indian owner Bill Veeck held funeral services to bury the 1948 pennant. Christine Jorgenson. Went under the knife. The 1st person to undergo a sex-change operation. Betty’s mother bought Clarence Birdseye 1^st bag of frozen peas. And chipped her tooth.

On Broadway. On radio. In Hollywood. In movies. Where does she get all that energy? Success was satin sheets. Soiled. Cigarette smoke. Stains on the lamp shades. And that pool. Shaped like a kidney. Dr. Caligari’s cabinet. Without the cure.

Oh God! Let me fall in love! Some words sound better in music. Bouncing Betty. From lap to lap. Let’s call some friends, and have a party! Marriage. Kids. Sleeping pills. Divorce. Hotel rooms. Down

On her knees weeping in the shower. The water swirling so perfectly down the drain. Down and out as the jitterbug Detroit juke box queen. Down the sticky floors in the local theatre. Down with feathers & tears and a local boy. Down the paint red ran. In the long halls of the lonely hotels. On Avenue Marlene. Down in the kitchen. In St. Jude. Patron saint of the hopeless. On her knees before her broken hearted lovers. Weeping in her tower. Down lip stick smeared. Across painted skin. 86’d. Daddy ran off with suicide. Mommy ran a speak easy for the dead. None of Betty’s kids showed up. At the funeral

I went left once.  When I was meant to turn right.

I was lost.

Lost and free.

Because, really,

None of us ever truly know where we are.

And I was liberated in my awareness of my state.

I made my way home again.

Maybe.

And now, some timeless time later.

Things are back to normal.

Maybe.  And I watch you go down the steps

and round a bend,

and I know suddenly

that when I catch up

to where you should be

I know that you will be

gone.

I realize it suddenly.

There is something bigger

than taking a wrong turn left

or a wrong turn right.

Call it a True Wrong Turn, a Deep Wrong Turn.

It results in a stepping away.

A slip-falling away.

A lostness.

Irrevocably elsewhere and elsewhen.

I realized it as I walked in your steps

catching up with where you should be

That maybe it’s not you but me

Lost, lost, and lost.  A Wrong Turn.

As I began to round that corner

(to that place where I was sure you would not be)

I feared.

What if we all

always

fell, slipped in, slipped out,

Turned Wrong.

We might live together, sometimes, but then,

we all round a bend, and it is somehow a different bend we all round,

and what lives on the other side of the corner

is different for me then it is for you…

How could we ever even know if this was the constant way of things?

Finally, now, I’m around the bend.

And you, inexplicably, are still there.

I think.

I don’t have much information about Belgian photographer Raoul Ubac, but I was just looking at a few of his pieces that I saved.

A favorite…

I would like to find more surreal photography created before the advent of digital editing software. Suggestions?

This is what happens when it lands on your page…

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Special Thanks to Psion005 {Link}

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What to do when your head feels like this…

I’ve got some really beautiful photographs to share with you today, by Barry Underwood. The photos are of real light installations he’s set up, and they look really surreal. I usually don’t like ‘nature’ photography, but these are brilliant. Moths Wings by Passion Pit really fit these photos. More here.

J’ai des images belle pour te montrer aujourd’hui! Par Barry Underwood. Ces Photos sont des vrais installations qu’il a fait, et ils se semblent surréaliste. D’habitude, je n’aime pas des photographes de ‘nature’, mais ces ci sont brillante. Moths Wings par Passion Pit est le chanson parfait pour matcher ces images. On peut trouver plus ici.

Hoy: Palabra monosílaba de tres letras, generalmente, estúpidamente, indica presente, lo que será mañana y lo que fue ayer…

Hoy tu cabello se veía hermoso, pero no estabas ahí para que te lo dijera.

Nunca estuviste ahí; y todo inició con palabras. Como el aleteo de una mariposa, estas, resonaban en mi cabeza y le daban vueltas a un ideal tan hermoso, ahora tan absurdo. Tan absurdo como el puñal que dispararon a mi pecho.
Tan lejano como una estrella, tan tácito como la sangre que vierte de mis venas, mas continuo ahí parado.
Como idiota, cegado por mi locura y por mi ferviente deseo de algo que nunca se completara.

Hoy tu cabello se veía hermoso, y no te lo pude decir.

Las palabras me atragantaron, cuando de pie, caí en la realidad, y me golpeo como toro en la cara;

Cuando te vi sonreír y sonrojarte, lejos de mis brazos… en el infierno de aquel demonio. ¿Qué hacer?

Sentar y esperar, contar las hormigas a tus pies.

Observar el bello cielo otoñal, aderezado con esos pigmentos carmín que llenan el corazón. Pero son placeres furtivos, perecederos, momentáneos; a tu lado.
pero es lo único que llena aquel vació tajante, que, con tu navaja, cortaste y dejaste sangrar.

Hoy tu cabello se veía hermoso, y no dije nada.

Hoy tu cabello se veía hermoso y no me importó, tal vez, el otro idiota se dio cuenta y lo mencionó.

Hoy… Otra crónica perdida… Estúpido estribillo de una disonante melodía…

The script for my next Mircofilum, You Tube, is all but finished. The good news – it features the return of the dolls.

My last film I-Cons was, among other things, a satire about the inanity of Facebook. As the  title suggests, You Tube is a comment on what people post and watch on the most popular video sharing site of the century.

Only funny.

Anyway, the lighting is in place. My camera finger is twitchy again. Can’t wait to get started.

Meanwhile, in case anyone missed it, here is another chance to see the first incarnation of ‘the dolls’. Here at Metacafe, and below at YouTube.

Viviendo en una película.
Monotonía absurda del color, en el corazón de una rosa pútrida, ella existe.
La cosa no radica en el quien ni el como, sino en el ¿Por qué?
Porque hay un puñado de idiotas a los que se les ocurre clavarte una estaca en la espalda
Empalarte con un memorama de perfumes e imagines que juegan con tu mente, hacen estragos con tu estómago y pudren tu sentir.

Los recuerdos radican en canciones lacrimosas, melodías absurdas de vocales disonantes, un absurdo sentir. Pantallas de colores que se extienden en tu campo de vista guiándote hacia una estrella perdida en un horizonte de Cianuro, hacia un arcoiris de libélulas y mariposas.

Hacia un remoto desierto llamado Cinema Memoria.
Cada sonido es una patada en el subconsciente, cada gota, es una lágrima de ácido que penetra tu piel y viaja por tus venas, carcome el corazón y, en el suelo, el mundo se acaba.

Es un recuerdo en blanco y negro.
Sus labios rojos inspiraron esta canción, y su recuerdo, el fuego extinto de una pasión.

Estúpida embustera.

Lagrimas de acero y hierba laceran mi espalda,
Girasol amarillo, que aviva sus pétalos en el sol, maldita mentira esculpida en plástico barato.
Negro maquillaje de aquellos ojos que engañaron y perforaron mi coraza.
En tus manos, esta derretida mi alma.
Inútil títere…. Estúpida titiritera.
Y no es Odio, simplemente, no es amor.

Y como libélula, liberas tus alas al sol. Viajas a donde te parece, comecorazones.
Eres otra mierda de Dios.
Error de imprenta, maldita re-edición. Un libro de memorias forrado de plástico café.
Una vegana con chamarra de cuero y la ironía de un nombre.
Y aquella libélula voló.
Se esfumó de mis manos y perforó mi mente, destrozó mi cráneo, y perdí el sentido y la razón.

Cada mañana parece una mierda, comparada con la anterior.
El sol es opaco y sus ojos opalinos. La hierba arde ante mis pies y mis manos inexpertas, mis labios queman.
No se que decir.
Perdí la razón y la ironía. Un paso guia a otro en una banda de producción con tendencia al automatismo.

Soy un producto reemplazable, reducible, reciclabe y reutilizable. Una feliz bolsa de plástico en el viento.

Una gota de sangre en un vaso de agua.
Un ideal marxista ponderado a medio día.

Otra producción barata de las manos del creador.
Simplemente, un sueño de opino dentro de una caja de cartón.

I took a nap and dreamed I drove on the wrong side of a near-empty street in Japan. The roundabout was especially confusing. When I reached the capsule hotel:

1. An epic battle waged outside, and my only option was to scurry to safety inside. There were strange beasts on four legs, and they emitted a combination of smoke and fire, creating an evil, smokey aura around them. They were decidedly terrifying. My health was low, and as in most dreams,  I simply couldn’t move fast enough. Halting inches shy from safe harbor was to be expected. Thankfully, two arms pulled me in.
2. Bathrooms in the hotel were epically large and narrow. Each end had a door with a lock, of course, but also a video camera that could be activated. I could see who knocked for entry. This gave me strange comfort, yet also terrified me. It is commonplace to feel both aggravated and vulnerable when your routine is rushed. There is the possibility you could miss something. Knowing who required entry could give me dangerous options.
3. I felt like an herb in a Japanese apothecary cabinet, or an ingredient in a paper grimoire.

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Ethel Waters (October 31, 1896 – September 1, 1977)

Troubles are what you make them. Mother was 13. A brash little girl with buck teeth. Raped by a man with webbed hands. Ethel was born in a manger. Where the horses undress. Dragged around like a rag doll. Through the swamp. And the smell of giant tupelo and bald cypress.

Look at all those extra stars. In heaven. Born in the darkness. Ethel bathed. In a big lard can. Until she was 13. Ethel was given away. Like a second hand kitchen chair. To a big barrel of a man. A smile three blocks wide. Fucked her for fun. Beat her when he got bored. But all good things must end. He left. She was left. To fend for herself.

Worked as a maid. In a whorehouse. 9 until unconsciousness. Sang in dives. The smell of drunks. And stale beer. And late night confessions. Hearts torn by what they hated and loved. Worked the black vaudeville circuit. Mostly for food and applause.

President Truman increased. The minimum wage. From 40 cents to 75. J Edgar Hoover gave Shirley Temple. A tear gas fountain pen. And some advice. Don’t let anyone get too close to you at night.

Fell in love. Ethel was jealous. He was in love. With heroin. Happiness is a fist. Saved by World War Two. He went to Europe to find his soul. Ethel went to California. On the City of San Francisco.

Nominated for an Academy Award. Pinky.

Thief robbed her. Jewelry and cash. Some say it was a fella. With a big barrel of a smile. Who threatened to go to the papers. With a story about her life. Ethel went back to working for tips.

Found Jesus in a trailer park. Under the big tent. Toured with Billy Graham.  Oh how she envied the Catholics. And the smell of ashes. The splinters. And the fog of forgiveness. Where you could forget all your sins. And laugh at the son climbing down from his tree.

Sometimes it seems. You will live forever. Until its gone. Like the smell of dew and flowers. Buried in the morning sun.

..

Nunca o sonho de ficar mais magro foi tão fácil de realizar.

Agora a esperança permanece até ao post mortem. Se não consegue ser magro em vida, no Peru há profissionais que lhe garantem um belo corpo esbelto antes de chegar ao céu.

Afinal, até os outrora gorduchos anjos querubins, deixaram de ser fashion.

Tal como o desejado epitáfio de Jô Soares, também o seu poderá ser:

Enfim, magro.

E com sorte, talvez o céu seja um bom lugar para engatar:

This Morning “Seahorse”swam close to the Surface of the Water and Extended his Hand out so “Dragon Fly”could hold onto it,

They moved Forward Together through the Rough Crashing Tides,

At times it appeared that the Larger the Waves the Greater the Reward on the Other Side but this was Not Always the Case,

Together they Floated,

Swaying with the Oceans Natural Current,

Never travelling the same Flowing Water Path Twice

So Today,

I Leaped into the Blue Sky and Fragmented into a Million Tiny Pieces,

Each piece contained a Smaller Pattern of who I am as a whole,

Sort of like a Million Snow Flake Patterns being lifted away by the Wind,

Possibly spending years above the Ground being tossed around through the different Layers of the Atmosphere,

Each piece relaying information to the other pieces,

Fragmented yet Communicating as Unified