Why’s It So Blurred?
Expression Depression Transgression
It makes sense to look at what the others are up to. The brilliance around him burns his corneas so exposing his retinas to all that has been hidden. His anger had always been tamped down, melodramatic, hard to justify. Now it surges forward, though still a force that even he—the subject—feels compelled to handle with kid gloves. He is a patronizer of the self. He cannot focus without the right equipment (your Hasselblads, your Rebels)? How can he justify the expense with a mortgage to pay, beautiful small mouths to feed? Such beautiful mouths, one quivering with excitement, another held back, reserved, pounding internally with creative potential. Maybe there is justification there after all. The agony of caring, of love, the hatred of necessities. Food, damn food. Roofs, shoes, transport. Convenience. So he stands outside his own bank with a blank look on his face and an empty thought balloon readying itself for the filling. Nothing. Nothing so delightful as the dreamers and nothing so deadening as the schemers out to steal your lunch albeit lawfully, legally, thrilled to take your candy and your paint box mid suck, the brush from your hand midair, the breath from your speech as you attempt in your own way to bite the enormous hand that feeds. Art matters. He knows it. Art’s tough. He can take it on the chin. He thinks Art is worth more than money. He nourishes, feeds, offers, and so he gets swallowed up daily by the enormous crying baby that our better nature says cannot be left to die.
Russell Christian, and his alter ego, Art O'Connor, dream of moving mountains (that would be an earthwork),changing the world (soapboxes/protest signs/satire), putting it all on the table (installation/performance) and finding inner tranquility (thing making). He contents himself in part by drawing a lot.
Expression Depression Transgression
It makes sense to look at what the others are up to. The brilliance around him burns his corneas so exposing his retinas to all that has been hidden. His anger had always been tamped down, melodramatic, hard to justify. Now it surges forward, though still a force that even he—the subject—feels compelled to handle with kid gloves. He is a patronizer of the self. He cannot focus without the right equipment (your Hasselblads, your Rebels)? How can he justify the expense with a mortgage to pay, beautiful small mouths to feed? Such beautiful mouths, one quivering with excitement, another held back, reserved, pounding internally with creative potential. Maybe there is justification there after all. The agony of caring, of love, the hatred of necessities. Food, damn food. Roofs, shoes, transport. Convenience. So he stands outside his own bank with a blank look on his face and an empty thought balloon readying itself for the filling. Nothing. Nothing so delightful as the dreamers and nothing so deadening as the schemers out to steal your lunch albeit lawfully, legally, thrilled to take your candy and your paint box mid suck, the brush from your hand midair, the breath from your speech as you attempt in your own way to bite the enormous hand that feeds. Art matters. He knows it. Art’s tough. He can take it on the chin. He thinks Art is worth more than money. He nourishes, feeds, offers, and so he gets swallowed up daily by the enormous crying baby that our better nature says cannot be left to die.
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