i know i know

it's pretty much the tritest assertion to ever make. But it's true. Edouard Manet is the fucking shit.
He perfected Illogical space, the female gaze, proportional trickery, and the modern venus. Greatest hits, but let's not forget the asparagus.

crumb

I don't care

what society says; when the crackhead on the sidewalk asks you to slow dance to the kiss fm soul show, you don't say no. you just don't.

fucking classic

open/close

sighted:


blind:

nineties drawing

derived from a nineties childhood. hope it brings nostalgia and vintage environmentalism to your heart.

fortify for the work week

at first gentle, then rough.

bibliography

to the cat comic:




to my employed life:



** replace dipping area with stapler

lunch cats

this is living in new york.

cat comic

i made this cat comic about my first job in bk at the pillow factory during my unemployed months. like many other exceptionally scarring experiences, the full effect of the absurdity and abuse is lost even when channeled through cats. no food stamps, no government check, just focus studies, dignity-swallowing womanly wiles, and cats. all i could draw was cats.

there's a reason why coffins are lined in velvet.

once my boss' husband got fired from his hedge fund job,
he shaved his hair in to a mohawk and came to work with us.
this period is marked by a lot of gchat with his still-employed banker bros and spousal squabbling.

so many father figures at the bar across the street.

this is the man

who calls my work every day and screams his head off.

this is his aesthetic:



no comment.

music sounds different anymore

hooray i love you

seriously, I need a reason to love new york lately. I point to the following causes:

1. random shit-affirming encounters whenever I leave my house that make me sad to be a female, a sighted person, a person at this point in history. give me the cave, and the bonnet. fuck, make it a burka.
2. sakura = not so sublime
3. chelsea work commute and the cold, withholding love of the c train, the most underachieving of the blue trains
4. corporate doldrums; endless salutations, weather speculations, the compacted smells of homemade microwave lunches in the lobby, and office protocol

a-boo a-hoo.
thanks for listening.

as reward, here's terry riley milking a goat, and then drinking the milk from that very goat.

http://www.ubu.com/film/aether.html


disclaimer: i don't think the other composers in this series milk goats.

too real for baby squares

A girl named Linda wakes up and goes for a morning stroll in her neighborhood. On her way, she encounters some locals, including a shirtless bearded man whom she calls 'Santa.'

via stopping off place


children's book by frank asch of moonbear fame. these kinds of obsessive drawings will never cease to give me the perpetual vapors. this is how i draw when left to my own devices, when i have no ideas and just a need to make some marks. linda feels like every day when i come home from work except there's fried chicken bones in the stairwell, and the occasional condom. love your hood.

thanks g

from this one time listening to music in your room.

rag and bone

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

wb yeats the circus animals' desertion