Hello wonderful readers!
I hope the weather is treating you well, and you are wrapped up, snuggling and cuddling in front of a gorgeous fire. I just wanted to take a minute to say, have a wonderful festive season, and a brilliant New Year. For those celebrating, Merry Christmas! Let's make this year end as we hope to start the new one: with a bang, lots of love, hugs, kisses, and that tingling feeling of love and overwhelming joy.
Seasons greetings lovely people. See you in the New Year x
Thursday, 13 December 2012
A young Swedish artist contributed to thewonderwound recently, and having a look through his work I found his Observatory series complete. A three piece set, the images were an exercise for the artist to practice his craft as a digital artist, re-toucher and photographer. As one would expect, the use of software and colour was good, and created some nice-to-look-at work. However, the artist noted the images of this exercise had been inspired by a movie poster (any guesses which one?), which seemed self-explanatory: Wahlin is of a digital generation, and inspiration for his peers is largely found on screen.
|Inspiration derived from film posters is just an example of where gen Y get there inspiration from|
His work, in contrast to Nick Alive’s (another artist featured on this blog) is a strong example of the generational differences that a decade can make. One artist works in graffiti, life informing his creations, the other is yet to see the world but can already identify with the darkness, economic and environmental crisis’ that cripple his generation, but is still eager to go out there and soar among the stars.
This recognition is largely down to the type of art available to us and what it says about our world, which inevitably provides us with inspiration: before the Romantics, imitation was the highest form of flattery, and artists would therefore spend years learning the styles of the greats before them. The French Revolution was an indictment of neo-Classical ways in society, and the neo-classical art then provided a base line for the Romantic Movement as something to avoid and reject. Artist then drew inspiration from an almost pantheistic lifestyle as a result of this rejection.
And this goes on: art is inspired by our time if the world works, rejected if the world does not. Pop Art in the fifties challenged the traditional fine art as a reflection of the attitudes of life, the styles of music and advertisements and comics that were around at the time, and after the depression and Second World War.
Now: we live in a digital age where the remakes of popular comics and films by those older and more experienced in the creative industries have darker tones, that influence today’s younger artist to create a slightly dystopian tinged style of art. Mixed in with the hopelessness that is conveyed to us every day through news outlets, this is understandable. But then you have this little glimmer of hope: technology advances every minute, the medical sciences come closer to making breakthroughs, and every now and again, someone does something wonderful and kind. So, generation Y produce art that is dark, and dirty, and degenerative, but also something that boasts a little something hopeful and magical.
Monday, 10 December 2012
Eyes covered in a strange green shield, but still I can make out the bright lights close to my face. My eyes close.
My hands hang down the side. My body lies flat. There is a sound of dripping. Open my eyes, just a little, and something blocks part of the light out. A strange kind of man, not a man, something, something with big white bulbs for eyes, and a large, glistening forehead, a mouth and a nose that is a flat green square taped around the lower half of his head.
Close my eyes, nothing I can do, but stay as still as possible, give in, in the hopes I will get out. There is prodding. There is poking. There is clamping shut and opening wide, and I keep my eyes closed, as if it is all a bad dream.
That strange kind of man speaks a foreign language, nothing like I have ever heard, a combination of letters and numbers. There is no response, just the dripping.
Then nothing. Open my eyes, just a little, enough to see he has moved away. Dare to open them more, get myself up, break into a run? He moves back above me before I can consider it, but even I know that time would make no difference. They would get me at some point, just like they will get everyone, every human.
He holds something in his hand, and is too busy assessing his order to see my eyes half open, staring up at the metal bar with a small, razor sharp hook on the end of it that he holds an inch above my face. His hands are a sterile white, and feel unnatural as he touches my cheek, adding a little pressure, as the bar, the hook start to claw at me.
The tough scraping noise makes me cringe, but I do my best to keep still, seem unawake. It starts to hurt, as more noise begins. A loud vacuum noise covers the dripping, but the scraping is louder still. I feel my mouth fill up with a thick, tasteless gunge, making me convulse, it gets harder and harder to stay still. My insides knot, as I try to keep myself from drowning on this stuff.
Then it stops.
Eyes, half open. The strange kind of man, disappears from view with his tool. The lights go off. I try to pick myself up, fumbling, stumbling, a little as I try to find the ground. Remove the green shield off my eyes.
“Apart from the slight tartar build up, your teeth are really strong, and are in a good condition,” he says, removing the green mask.
“See you in six months.”