Sexy books

After a brief and torrid sojourn with the Motley Crue autobiography I have gone back to my true love, the Yukio Mishima Sea of Fertility tetralogy. This is the 2nd book, “Runaway Horses”. The way he writes about boys sets the heart racing. I can’t imagine how great it would be if he liked girls.

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This is part of a larger plate lithograph I drew from a photo of a gypsy and a dancing bear. I always loved this photo. Years later my friend showed me exactly the same photo, but I haven’t seen it since. After I finished the lithograph I decided to splash some random ink across a new plate a-la Toulouse Lautrec. It ruined it; the same way I ruined the silkscreen cat T-shirt by adding a purple box at the end, and the Danse Arts poster by deciding in the last minute to make a random pattern on each one.

Interlude

I saw a man on the street today playing electric guitar. He was wasted away, all muscle and bone, almost elderly, with a rock’n’roll hairstyle, singing Cantonese pop from the 60’s. His speakers were rigged to his bicycle, and he had a kind of shrine surrounding him of news articles and photos and a fluffy white pet resting on a stool with a sign in English and Chinese warning you not to touch the dog or it’ll bite.
Turns out it was Danny Hui, old rising star who was torn from fame by heroin abuse, now alive again and performing on a Mong Kok street, half circus act, half giant.
I gave him $10 then the rest of the crowd started dropping money into the various hats and buckets around him. It’s crowd mentality – very hard to be the first one when everyone is watching.
I can’t imagine the balls this man must have. It sounded great, amid all the empty noise and clutter on the street. Imagine, amid all those people … a human.

Selling death

Whenever it crosses my mind I might die, I try to evaluate how many cute girls may die too, and this is how I gauge how big a tragedy it will be.
When groups of people die though, the news always says something like: “Twelve people died, including 4 children”. What does that mean? Children are more valuable than adults?
I think it’s not fair; the papers should get some perspective.

Thoughts (part 2)

What if I was the last man on Earth? How would it work? Would different countries take turns sending their best women? Would they get one shot, or would it be like a set of 10 opportunities? Would I get to name all the offspring? Would I get holidays? Would the younger girls have to go to the back of the line because they still had a chance with the second generation?

Boy power

I still have the eye-liner I borrowed from my mother 20 years ago. I’ve been using it a lot recently … it’s my new look. I’m thinking of starting a whole product line – make-up for men. The theme will be part “I want to be beautiful” and part “I don’t give the slightest, tiny fuck”. I want to call it “Fuck you, fuck me.”

A successful descent

My plane landed in torrential rain, and for a moment while we were descending I let my imagination wander and felt the possibility of disaster. It seemed an okay time to die – I had just used one of my free passes into the “Prestige Lounge”, the next issue of the magazine was mostly laid out, I’d read most of the Motley Crue autobiography, I had recently procured a satisfying orgasm. I had called my parents a couple of days ago and my last blog entry mentioned crashing and going to heaven. It seemed an okay time to go, and as fear started to creep in I remembered Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx standing up during turbulence and yelling “Fuck God, let’s crash!” and then I felt strong again.

Fun in Seoul

I’m en route from Old Lady Manhattan to Hong Kong, now in the Korean Air “Prestige Lounge” in Seoul. I must have crashed and gone to heaven. First a beautiful girl gave me a towel and took me to my own private shower room. After trying all the free hair products they had and taking “look-I’m-Tommy-Lee” naked photos of myself in the mirror with my phone I realised I was missing out on the free bar, so I dressed and hit the bottle, and the cappuccino machine, and the pastry counter. I finished the bottle of Jack, then when I went back to start on the Scotch there was a brand new bottle of Jack waiting for me. Man, I’m inspired. I gotta make money. This is how I want to live.

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I haven’t drawn for 2 weeks. This is a scan of an old plate lithograph from “Elfonzo’s Lost Cat”, a story I wrote about a man who lost his cat, then hatched a plan to find it by circling his house, gradually expanding the diameter of his search so as not to miss any spot. He grew obsessed, insane, looking for his cat. It ended with him taking a dump on the sidewalk and looking up and seeing his cat, but being too absorbed in his manic search to recognise the animal anymore.

Role-play

I’m flying back to Old Lady Manhattan this morning. It generally takes me 24 hours door-to-door as I fly through South Korea. This 24 hours is fun, fun, fun. I like airplanes. No phone calls - you’re forced to do nothing but doze off and watch movies while beautiful girls serve you and you play “If I had to choose just one” and read the Financial Times. I pay tones of money for each flight, but it still thrills me to get a free newspaper on the plane.

When I used to live in Bermuda I had to write my occupation on the arrival card, so I used to write whatever I wanted to be, like opera singer, conductor or matador. Travelling is just a form of pseudo-suicide.

I think the people in the Cartier shops in HK, S Korea and NY probably know me by now, but apart from that I could be anybody. I’m very tempted to act like an asshole for the whole trip, to play that role, just to see.

Thoughts (part 1)

I’ve been thinking about Tommy Lee from Motley Crue recently, and imagining we are friends. I think we’d make good friends, but he comes across as much more outgoing than me, so I wonder what we’d actually do together.

Nothing can stop me now

Today I hired a 2nd assistant, bought a new laptop for over US$2000, and purchased a 2nd-hand accordion.

That’s right, an accordion.

Diagnosis, murder

It’s Saturday morning, or more accurately, the end of Friday night. I’ve been with people. Generally I don’t spend a lot of time with people, I’m quite busy. This is the 2nd weekend in a row I’ve associated with people.
When you hang out with people you need to interact with them. This sometimes means putting up with their asininities, and sometimes, if they’re quite clever, means you get to intellectually pare with them. Tonight was a bit of both, but ended up, as any good human event should, with intoxication and dancing.
I like people, I really do. I just wish so many of them weren’t so hung up on themselves. Really, we’re here to fuck and have a good time. You can diagnose it as much as you like, but you’re going to come to the same conclusion: fuck … good time. Art … girls and boys. It’s really not that complicated.

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I believe my grandfather coined the title "Diagnosis, Murder" in his novel of the same name, under the pen name of "Sutherland Scott". A fine writer in my somewhat biased opinion.

Move on

So Israel just swapped Samir Kuntar, plus 4 other Lebanese prisoners, plus the remains of 199 Lebanese fighters for … the bodies of 2 dead Israeli soldiers.
I would usually laugh at the “persecute-them-before-they-persecute-us” circus that is the Middle East, but this whole thing is just a case of humanity gone straight out the window.
Sometimes I just wish everyone would kill each other and get it over with, I’m sick to death of all this petty god, possession, hatred idiocy.
I’ve seen a little of the Middle East, and I can tell you friends, they’re all just a bunch of people, just like me. Just as useless and pointless and beautiful as everyone else.
I know what it’s like to be pissed off and get in a fight, but I get over it.

The slow train to Tahiti

Can’t sleep. It’s been another productive, perfectly coordinated day (the worst kind). Had to get up and draw … spend a little time with myself. I’m seven small inches away from doing a Gauguin – quitting the bank and going to a small tropical island to unearth my soul in purely sensual pursuits. I think I’d take Baby with me though. And I don’t work at a bank.

I used to amuse myself and exasperate my history of art teacher by saying “I could do that” every time he showed us Gauguin. One day he handed me a sketchbook and some colours and said “Okay, so go and do it.”

That was the 2nd best lesson I ever received.

Nothing's wrong

I’ve spent the past 3 weeks stone cold sober, and the last 2 weeks in complete control of myself, dealing with mortgage brokers, insurance brokers, printers, deliveries, premeditated ejaculations, hair care, ironing etc. Adult things. Everything is running smoothly. I feel great. It’s so nice. Everything’s nice. Nice, nice, nice. How pleasant to see things running smoothly. How nice. How tediously nice. How comfortable and predictable everything has become. How stable I feel. How clean. Like I’ve been disinfected. Like I’ve been wiped down with bleach. Sterilized. Sterile. Squeaky clean. Like a soldier’s button. Like a happy, shiny soldier’s button. Happy, clean and nice.

Tomorrow I will do something stupid. Tomorrow I will make a mistake on purpose. Tomorrow I will feel my pulse again.

Vanity fair

Baby has a high school reunion next January so we are in training for the event. To start out with I’ve become a recovering alcoholic again – this is a sure-fire way to get rid of that unsightly ‘spare tire’ flesh that is becoming a constant pest. I thought maybe it had been a month or two since I stopped being a filthy drunk, but actually it’s been only 2 weeks. I remember last time it was 40 days and 40 nights and by the end I felt like some kind of lean, sexual python, slithering down Hubba Hubba Street. This task is, frankly, tedious, but it’ll be worth it in 6 months’ time. I won’t let anyone accuse me of not knowing the sweet poison of conceit.

I decided to draw with my left hand today even though my right is functioning pretty much as normal. I was a little disappointed to discover it seems to be exactly the same as drawing with my right, just slower. Perhaps I’m ambidextrous. Or perhaps I’m just not very good. Or perhaps my old suspicion is true after all, and god himself is moving through me.

Son of a bitch

I have recreated here the painful last moment I could feel my right hand. I have drawn it with my left hand because my right hand has been chewed to pieces by a vicious dog. This is the 2nd time I’ve been attacked by a dog – it happens very suddenly, and all in the same moment you hear that horrifying snarling sound they make through the saliva of their flapping lips, you feel the tugging against your limbs and you feel the sharp pain of the teeth breaking through the skin, pushing into the muscles. Almost immediately they let go and then go in again for a better grip, and at that moment, because you have already analyzed and understood the situation, you try to outmaneuver the animal, which is virtually impossible, but you can at least give it a less important section of your hand/arm to tear up. At this point, you’re in a bit of a conundrum. Do you attack the dog back? It’s hard to kick a dog when it’s locked on to you, and if you hit it with your hand you stand the chance of it shifting its teeth over to your one good hand. This is a good time to find a suitable piece of furniture to beat the dog off with.
Actually, after 4 days I do have the feeling back in all my digits but one, but I thought it would be more dramatic if I pretended I had to draw with my left hand. I almost enjoyed it - makes me feel like a tough guy, especially with the wounds.

The end of an error

This is the last page in a sketch book I’ve had since college (it’s about 15 years old). I’ve been filling up every blank page until now, when I can put it away and move onto the next book.
In celebration of this landmark, the world is slowly starting to feel secure that they can also actually bid a stony farewell to the Bush administration. Now I know how the men in the trenches in WWI must have felt when they were told the war was over, after having spent a year knee-deep in water in the same trench, in the same insect-ridden clothes, with the same hideous task. The future is bright. It’s so bright it’s almost unnerving. Think, when Obama is president, it’ll be like taking a weekend off and really cleaning your kitchen properly. It’ll be like getting sick and then getting better because you took the right steps. It’ll be like shooting a load into the gut of the girl or boy of your dreams. It will be like nirvana when Obama is president.
I can’t wait; let’s start the momentum of progress immediately. Let’s change.

Good riddance the past, I never liked you anyway.

Make love to the camera

I did six photo shoots today. One photo shoot sucks your soul. Six pretty much make you god’s whore. I always felt a good portrait session was a lot like a good fuck. You warm them up, you encourage them into a kind of pare and slowly you start directing them, start reading them, start manipulating them, then lure out their inner soul to the surface, then you delve right into the person. By the end you can read each other’s mind, they know exactly what you want them to do by the most simple command, and they comply, because its all good. And then it’s over. You take each other’s email address, promise to keep in contact, and they leave feeling great, but a little empty inside; a little robbed. Me? I feel tired, fulfilled, at peace, until the next stirring.

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I have less than 10 name cards left, including the one I’m using as a bookmark in Celine’s “Castle To Castle”. Running out of name cards is always an exciting time, because it means you need to make more, which means you need to do something even cooler than the last batch. Our new cards should be ready in the next day or two. Let me tell you about them. The front side is printed on a material that resembles, and feels like, suede. It’s a very expensive paper but it’s worth it. We have 6 versions of the front, each has a different pattern based on ink bleeding into watercolour paper. There will also be a debossed butterfly stamped into the front. The back is a textured paper, something like really gaudy wallpaper, with an exquisite, etched pattern on glossy card. It’s supposed to be unnerving, the trashy flashiness of the back, next to the natural elegance of the front. I think I fucked the back up though (these are 2 of the 6 versions of the front, by the way). The back looks too hideous, like a neon popsicle that has melted into pure sugar.
I’ve put this blog address on some of the cards. Partly to push myself to draw more, and partly because we’ve got a few jobs because of this blog, weirdly enough. Sometime my clients tell me “I was reading your blog yesterday,” and I assume they are going to say “and I think we won’t be doing any more business with you.” But they usually say something like “I didn’t know you were so odd, can you redesign something for us please?” It feels a little wrong, like the time I had a partially nude girl on my name card and I walked on to the exit ramp at a press conference and forced the president of Mitsubishi to take a card. It all happened so fast, the security didn’t know what to do, and I was back in the press section in a flash after he took it, looking completely confused. He never called me, but it all made sense at the time.
Well, we soldier on, I suppose.

Sick of goodbyes

Baby and I found a baby sparrow on the pavement last week. We brought it home and a week later it died. I feel a little sick with myself; more than a little responsible for taking it away from its nature, no matter how dangerous, and then not taking care of it properly. I still have no idea what happened, but I’m pretty sure it was very healthy until the last day, and it died because of some kind of neglect on my part.
It was a strange feeling, holding it, watching it dying, feeding it sugar water, a kind of helplessness I’m not familiar with – it’s like a panic, but a calm panic. You realize something needs to be done, but it’s too late, and, amazingly, it dies. It seems impossible, something so profound as death can happen so easily.

Creastruction

I ruined the picture I was drawing for Shannon tonight by pouring champagne all over it. It did turn out better in the end, although it was still not good enough to give to her.
This was the best lesson I received in college … we had a 3 hour painting class … at the beginning the teacher told us we would spend the entire class painting a landscape. Half way through the class he told us to stop and paint over what we had done. Everyone in the class cried and complained – after an hour and a half we’d gotten emotionally attached to our paintings and invested so much into them. Our teacher explained that today’s lesson was “destruction”, and we would never progress until we understood the value of re-viewing and re-creating; the value of destroying what we created.