I've really come full circle since my freshman year. Back then, my artwork consisted of a lot of gore, sharp objects, and draperies being mysteriously suspended in mid-air. Think a combination CLAMP and Utena style because, really, that's where I stole the ideas from.

In my mid years I grew tired of fantasy motifs (and, frankly, stealing other people's ideas) so I began searching for my own truths in what I observed around me. That cummulated in my series of portraits painted from candid photo shots of my friends in their most honest moments.

And now...

Reality bores me. I think it's all the constant amateur psychiatrist/couples counseling that I've been doing for friends that's really making me want to stop observing. Oh, and the presence of both grandmas in the household. Now, I draw from my knowledge of human anatomy and compose images and paintings first without the aid of models, and then enlisting models and posing them so they match each composition entirely.

Then I removed the real life/photo references entirely, drawing from complete memory and a stockpile of facial features to sketch out a possible painting or two. Or twenty.

And now, I find myself returning to surrealism.

Lately, for a few months or so, whenever I find myself in a particularly stressful situation, I come back home and paint myself dying in some manner because of it. In "AP Week" my head explodes from all the stress, resembling Yggdrasil. Then, in "Cut Away the Excess..." I... well, you really have to see it first before I explain. Then, earlier today while picking graduation photos, I realized exactly HOW FUCKING MUCH I let myself fall.

New painting will be of me succeeding in caving half of my head into the glass wall that I sat in front of while the females of the family argued over which picture gave me a smaller chin/gravitational pull.


Margaret Cho was right about gay men taking eating disorders one step further.

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