Emily Quotes

And so, being young and dipped in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.

Edgar Allan Poe 

The evolution of my graphic art

early this year, I purchased a graphics tablet, for many reasons:

• to broaden my artistic horizons (how wonderfully pretentious)
• to try to find some sort of drawing style
• to draw 'fan art' (oh god, sorry, but that's essentially what I do)
• to crudely edit pictures of musicians

here is a selection, in no chronological order, at all, of some of my van gogh-esque work:

'John Frusciante (a bit scribbled)'

'The Precious Greenwoods'

'STAG!'

'thom yorke strolls meaningfully across calm ocean waves'

'yellow'

'blurina'

'Mail for Moz'

'Disapproving Nicky Wire'

'Self Portrait I'

'Self Explanatory'

'DJ Yorke'

'inner child (AKA Self Portrait II)'

'Jenny Greenwood'

'Self Portrait III'

'Dumb'

'Kawaii Greenwood, 1993'

'Self Portrait IV'

'Milk'

'Nicky Wire, in tub'

'In Rainbows'

'Talk Show Host with the Most'

'The bends'

Yes, they all have names. Yes, I've just created the names for this post. No, I do not have any art shows planned. Each picture is frustratingly different, right down to the signature (which in most cases I don't even bother including- i can never remember which one i settled on, so what's the point?). Perhaps inconsistency is my 'style'.

In his mind, all is quiet. The obnoxious buzzes of  sharp street corners sway and fade, leaving everything still, like a blanket of snow. he treads lightly among the bracken- pebbles and trinkets that line street floors, desperate, crying to be heard. A child across the way stoops to examine her find; it glints and sparkles in her eyes as she rubs it upon a soft thumb. What could be more precious, more beautiful than the humble stone? more weather-worn than the weariest traveller, cherished more than the latest fad, brighter than the deepest of passions. Naturally, this isn't considered as he sweeps past her with a smile. His thoughts- those small, liquid bursts of hungry ideas- are upon the unknown. The shameless emotion embroidered within his features remains as he tilts his head towards the skies,  deep in consideration of this wonderful anonymous. He was full of love, in his heart and in his stomach, dizzy at the idea of someone who felt as he did.

Sometimes, I think the only way to express the way i feel is to create someone to express it for me.

the people I admire most: an exquisite gallery

Edith Piaf (powerful voice, good eyebrows)

Quentin Crisp (Flamboyant and wonderful)

Thomas Yorke (the most talented singer of all time, ever... ever.)

Jonathan Greenwood (godlike. See previous post) 

The Comic Strip Presents... Peter Richardson, Alexei Sayle, Rik Mayall, Ade Edmondson, French & Saunders, Robbie Coltrane, Keith Allen, Nigel Planer (Comedy Geniuses)

Reflection

So in the past few weeks, my emotions have been knocked around in every way possible. I have been ignored, treated coldly by someone I cared about; I have been distanced from one of the people I love the most; I have looked up at the skies and thought my life good, thought myself lucky.

I'm not sure how I feel. I know that I'm not the only person in the world to feel pain, to experience difficult patches in life. However, my recent experiences have helped me to realise a few things about myself:

• I find it very easy to love, but very rarely have it returned. I am passionate about people who don't even know I exist. I care deeply about those who could never possibly care about me, who never will. I worry and I weep about hordes of cold, uncaring, depressed individuals. why do I do these things to myself? why do I have these feelings? I don't really know. But sometimes I wished that I could be icy and unfeeling- so not to feel a painful sting when the ones I love unravel and fall away, leaving me alone.
• I will never be beautiful. I always think of the normal people as the most beautiful- those with routine, with echoing laughter and family anecdotes. I have all of these things, of course i do. But I will never shine like those beautiful regular people. I will always be dulled and sad, tucked into the corner of a room, forever in awe of the beauty that surrounds me.
• There is a point to life. I don't know what it is, but somehow there must be. Sometimes, I feel full of passion and optimism for life, I see nature, hear music, watch the people around me being happy. perhaps days like that are why we should keep on living.

I'm not sad, I'm simply unsure of how to feel.

I'm not living, I'm just killing time.

- true love waits.

Kolniður

"I wonder, if I'm allowed, just ever to be." - Jonsi

Nothing, and I mean nothing, appeals to me more at the present moment in time than running away to the land of eccentric jumpers and wonderful music- Iceland.

This charming notion has of course been brought on by a wonderful selection of musicians- namely, Bjork, Jonsi, and his band, Sigur Ros. What could be more beautiful that staring at those raw, busy skies, exploring the wondrous grey and green, stopping only to catch a breath and remember that yes indeed, you are still on earth- the birthplace of Fascism, Liam Gallagher and Spam. Who wouldn't be tempted to follow music like this, wherever it takes them? it tugs at every one of my emotions, despite being in a language I can't understand. That's the appeal of songs like Kolniður; its message reaches even the chilliest of English hearts.

It's a romantic (and not altogether realistic) prospect; but one day when I slip away without a trace, record collection in tow, I'll be sure to send a postcard from that same chilly landscape. Or not. Do they have things as bland as postcards in Iceland? Stamps? I wonder who graces the humble Icelandic stamp. Anyway.

 Sigur Rós - Sæglópur.
Music to dream to.

Teenage phases may come and go, but irrational infatuation with male musicians lasts indefinitely. Take Jonny Greenwood. Beautifully shy guitarist, wonderful composer, colour-blind, lisping god. Is he attractive because he has such an astounding facial structure? Or is it because I know him through his music- I can peer into his mind, intrude into his innermost emotions, observe his opinions? It's all very concerning if you think about it; the minds of timid male musicians for years to come will  be under the devoted scrutiny of passionate music fans (I hope they don't mind).

Let's start on a wonderfully sentimental note.

Once, not too long ago, someone demonstrated a beautiful gesture towards me- I was dumbfounded, and I  doubt I'll ever forget it. That gesture has never since been mentioned, and scarcely was at the time, but it is something that I will always recall in times of self loathing or desperate sadness. I haven't ever shared this with anyone, and I don't think I ever will in person, simply because it's so soppy. hence, why I'm sharing it here.

The person in question had stumbled across a poem that they deemed appropriate to give to me; not only showing that they thought about me and considered the way I felt, but also recognised the same feelings within their own mind. They wrote it down on a piece of paper, and slipped it into the case of a CD I had loaned them. What they had written was this:

Circle Line
Seeing as I still had eight more stops
To go, and already read
The maps and advertisements from end to
End,
And studied my own double-
Eyed, four-eye-browed freak
Of a reflected face for too long; I took
To noticing another. Through a kind
Of snooker-shot of glances
Aimed against the glass, I could see her
Staring, but could not be sure
If it was at me. I smiled,
And saw her turn to speak
To someone next to her. I also turned;
And unexpectedly our eyes engaged

For just the instant that it takes for looks
To rocket through the tunnels
Of an unguarded gaze, and arrive
At the real self. Badly shaken
With embarrassment, we both looked back
At our images; safely imprisoned
In the hurtling stillness of the glass.

Robert Calvert.

I know it sounds silly, and I feel silly thinking it; but I believe that it was one of the most lovely, heart-warming things to ever have happened to me. Even if I stop caring for that one person, I will always remember that poem, and what it means.