How one graphic designer is slaying the art world with flare…

Too often do we take graphic artists for granted, these tamers of imagination, never realizing how difficult it is to draw obscure dreams or curiosities from an alien mind. Whether it’s a tattoo artist prepping a permanent artwork for a client, or a painter trying to convey the ‘true nature of cuteness’ for a commissioned oil painting of someone’s beloved pet, being hired to take responsibility for someone’s creative idea is exhausting.

This is the reality of graphic designer, illustrator, and well-rounded tamer of mischief, Rebecca Hendin, an American who currently calls London, England her home. Her artistic pedigree is varied: transferred from California College of Arts in San Francisco to Central Saint Martins, receiving her BA with First Class Honors, now diving into her MA in Communication Design. It all reads impressive on paper, absolutely, but the proof is in the glossy pages of the artist’s portfolio that will make or break a client’s desire to hire.

“Each project is specific to its circumstance, as the projects often stem from client-produced briefs. If I’m doing paid illustration or graphic design work, I work from a brief. If I’m doing a private commission, painting or otherwise, I sometimes am working to a specific person’s vision, if they know what they want. All clients are different, as far as how strict their briefs are. Of course, if I’m doing my own personal work, there is no brief, other than what I’ve imposed upon myself. Then I try to make something that I would personally find interesting or funny or strange (or all of these).”

Rebecca isn’t one that’s all talk and no walk, no. There clearly is a reason why this 24 year-old woman is a successful professional in her trade in jolly old England–she has flair worth begging for.

“Over the course of studying and working in illustration, I have come to see illustration (and communication design as whole), primarily as a social tool– public art in its truest form. One needs only to open a newspaper, book, magazine, turn on the television or computer, glance at a sign, and there it is. In our modern visual culture, the images that surround us also shape us, for better and for worse. Thus, the illustrator is in a potentially powerful position.”

Inspired by the array of galleries, museums, artists and the intense culture of a bustling modern London, Rebecca doesn’t limit herself to being stimulated by the everyday life we often take for granted. Seems nothing is off limits, everything is fair game. How often do you come across such a diversified portfolio, that makes dead poets and arrogant politicians elicit a purring of hunger in your heart to have that print? Her work is challenging, cautiously exploring limitations and is infused with insanity and a spirit of true artistic freedom.

“Ideally, I want to create work that makes people think, and I believe that subversion and food for thought are best and most effectively served with a slight jab to the viewer’s side alongside a cheeky grin. Thus, humour plays an important role in most of my work. So it does, too, for a principle I hold strongly is that life should never be taken too seriously. As such, I think the same of art.”

Imagine a dare, shall we? Find a person who has a desire to have something from their imagination made into a work of art, but has no ability in the artist sense to make it happen. In essence; find someone who can’t draw more than a stick-man and wants a portrait which depicts them as their World of Warcraft avatar in their everyday real life. Imagine the process to make their epic fantasy into a reality, then repeat the process over and over for months on end with many clients lining up. And let’s do this while completing an MA at a prestigious university in London. Rebecca makes it look so simple.
Read More: http://zouchmagazine.com/fondle-my-imagination-please/#ixzz2ENH373ci

It all started with a newspaper. Or tabloid, rather. I was standing outside my mailbox holding a blinding white envelope in my hands. The address read from England, and had only taken 5 days to cross the wide Atlantic Ocean to reach the confines of this paint chipped and rusted mailbox here on Vancouver Island. Bloody miracle in itself that is, seeing as our national postal service seems to loose my packages destined for Ontario on a regular basis. Perhaps they dislike me.

Regardless, this envelope in my hands was my first physical introduction to Quiet British Accent; a UK based small design business centered around sporting culture.  Inside was the tabloid titled “England. Not England.”

As the sweat collected on my forehead under the summer sun while I rustled through the pages of the tabloid next to my mailbox on my dead end street, I knew that something mysterious was blooming inside of my head, fueled by this 12 page publication that showcases an ironic twist on the hoopla of sports, through art. It is the “Leaving Home Edition, 2012″, to be exact. And it was born to be an alternative to the Euro 2012 hype that invaded Europe this summer, causing mass hysteria in the sporting world.

Brilliant, right? No where on the pages are there editorials showcasing players or statistics, using dirty tactics of sarcasm to denounce a rival or hype up a champion. Rather, there is abstract poetry of sporting commentary chopped up and pasted in a code like literary structure reminiscent of Leonardo Da Vinci’s famous backward writing. Each page is a curious graphic design inspired by sport, but showing anything other than the traditional competitive propaganda affiliated with sporting entertainment.

Creator Jason Gale and his wife Sharon are QBA, and are a pair of designers  (Jason is a graphic designer, while Sharon designs clothing and is an art educator) who began creating, apparently, when they were young. They focus on the constructs of sports, and aim to produce artworks in varying media that echo irony and new perspectives on the deeper structure of what really churns beneath the entertainment allure.

“We are fascinated by the culture that surrounds sports. A growing culture that is gaining in reach and power all the time. We are not, however, active participants in any sport at all; it’s the culture, style, politics, and behaviours that interest us.”

It’s not too often that you come across a husband and wife team who begin a design firm that is generated off the culture of sports in a manner that counteracts the traditional winner / losers / failure / victor dichotomy of the athletic world. But when you watch riots after soccer matches, or a whole city demolish itself after losing Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final in Vancouver; it’s refreshing to know there are people out there in the world that are helping to really showcase this idiocy and madness of behaviour behind the energy of being a spectator. It’s like a beautiful slap in the face of rationality and an eye-opener for your slumbering conscious.

“A lot of sporting organizations and hierarchies seem to be riddled with incompetence at best and outright corruption at worst. Sport has such an opportunity to help the disenfranchised, yet the opportunity is often wasted. We will be pointing out missed opportunities and inequalities, as well, simply highlighting aspects which interest us. Hopefully with a smile on our face and our tongue in our cheek!”

Corrupt hierarchies in the sporting worlds dragged out in public to be showcased for their despicable acts of greed and malice through art. Penn State must be walking on egg shells around QBA these days. I request the next tabloid feature a full page spread of Jerry Sandusky and Joe Paterno. Something tells me that would be a sell out in record timing…

QBA has a collection of curious items such as the winter toque which quip’s a neutral stance on competition with the words “Not Going Down & Not Going Up” (inspired from a football chant, “We’re not going down and we’re not going up. We won’t win the league and we won’t win the cup…”) On their website the commentary paired with the toque reads: “Promotion and relegation. Ecstasy and despair. Yin and yang. Dark and light. Opposites only exist in relation to each other and some of us reject all the fuss. Some of us find joy in a mid-table security”. Or the t-shirt which reads “Mid-Field Gentleman” stacked in choppy formation, which let’s the wearer decide if they are a “Midfield general or a midfield gentleman”.

For the Olympics QBA is showcasing a new item highlighting the wonderful Brit, Fanny Blankers-Koen; an Olympian who won four gold medals during the last London Olympics in 1948, and once held the record for high-jump and long-jump. QBA has created a tote bag and art print screaming “We Love Fanny” in protest of her omission from the Transport of London’s recent map of 361 Olympic Stars.

“Fanny should be a household name,” reads the description on QBA’s site,” Aside from the small matter of being named the woman athlete of the 20th century by the International Association of Athletics Federations, she was a pioneer who smashed prejudices about gender, age and motherhood”.

Portions of the proceeds from sales of the “We Love Fanny” totes and prints will go to women’s sports charities in England. Feminists and equal rights opportunists, as well; hard to not want to get more involved with QBA, if I do say so myself…

Read More: http://zouchmagazine.com/red-card-for-bullshit-and-deceit-oh-sporting-world/#ixzz23c1NLJr7

Distance prevents me from enjoying the ambiance of Montreal, the sea of creative madness that is currently churning in the historic architecture of original Canadiana. But alas, I am here, and you’re there, dear Montreal. See, this isn’t just a tragic love story of girl meets city that sparks a wild hunger to create helter-skelter and run away, throwing caution to the wind a-la Beat Poet promiscuity of the 1960’s revolution! It is much more fanciful than that. I met a fellow, through this world wide web. He has a message, a movement from a generation that swims under the radars of mainstream attention. He has the ambition to change the system away from the methods currently construed as the righteous, proper methodology of artistic accomplishment. He is actually a they, two men; Tim Barnard and Jason Botkin. The fathers of the art collective ensemble En Masse, based in Montreal.

Jason agreed to share with me all that is En Masse via a high-tech email correspondence.  (Perhaps the one and only time I loathe this new fan-dangled wizardry of the internet, feeling a loss at not being able to speak with him in person.)

Created in 2009 by Jason and Tim, at the Galerie Pangee in Montreal’s old port district; a revolution was born. Originally produced as a ‘one-off’ large scale drawing experiment (with dubious hopes of success), the project rapidly gained momentum and, as Jason states so stoically, “Has gone out the roof!”

“Tim and I had been throwing drawing parties for years, having been roommates while attending The Alberta College of Art and Design together in Calgary. We’d been given access to the Galerie Pangee for a stretch, and after entertaining the fanciful notion of some mega-salon-style-exhibition of all the great artists we knew in Montreal (without gallery representation), we fell upon the En Masse (EM) idea: cover the walls in paper (10 feet by 150 feet), and invite these same cats to the space for a heavy collaborative workout.”

Wait, it gets better. There is no constructive rhyme or “plan” to each work of art, just a few key rules that every artist must adhere to: no colours other than black, and white. Think collaboration. Exercise respect. Now, here is your paint (“A secret mix like india ink, but super opaque, and waterproof…recipe available upon request!!”) and brush. Have fun.

In a nut shell that’s what transpires on each En Masse drawing session comprised of multiple artists, all in tune with their own creative conscious. Described as a conversation, each mural is a slaptastick compilation of genius that doesn’t seem to quiet down, or take much thought to stop the transition of the story from artist to artist. It’s a beautiful thing to behold, truthfully. And that’s where beauty lies; En Masse is more free-flow-conversation, a movement built on sheer joy and creation.

“The drawing builds organically, playing off of the first strong elements put into place. Someone will do a face for example, perhaps leaving an element of this character ‘open’ for others to continue and modify the design. As space steadily fills, the imagery begins to take unexpected twists and turns of intricacy and composition, dependent on the quality of artistic ability and more importantly, the quality and quantity of communication these artists share through the process. It’s always magic, and infused with the joy of uninhibited creation.”

Easier said than done, I thought, as I perplexed the notion that these murals could be born from the many hands of varying artists (let’s try to imagine 20 men and women vying for their space on one wall in a room), with little to no restraint? How can a collective successfully provide a singular voice – through art – that is represented by a diverging culture of different minds?

“Three guys form the core of the Montreal-based EN MASSE Project: Rupert Bottenberg, Fred Caron, and myself. We run the day-to-day administration of the initiative, making sure our baby grows strong legs. One of our more challenging tasks lies in choosing which artists will participate in each event. Having now worked with nearly 150+ characters internationally, our list is long and ever expanding!

The flavor each artist brings to the mix gives each mural overall character. We’re careful in our choice of artists, especially on a commercial contract where we need to work with people who are predictably solid, show up on time, and collaborate very well. That said however, we always strive to fold in new players to the mix to keep it fresh.

Originally, Tim and I invited friends, and then folks we did not know but wanted to work with. These people recommended their friends and thus the list grew. Now, we’re very fortunate to receive a steady stream of emails from artists around the world looking to participate in some way. We’ve not got space for everyone unfortunately, but as we grow, many more opportunities are being created to be able to bring new cats into the mix, both locally and internationally. We’ve got some exciting stuff cooking up in the kitchen let’s say!”

The conversations of En Masse don’t just stop in Montreal, oh no. As Jason stated in one of his emails, En Masse plans to become an international initiative movement, bridging the gaps between seen and unseen artists on a global scale. Murals are already in Detroit, San Diego, Tijuana, Toronto, Ottawa, having recently left behind a sizeable contribution to New York City. Next on the mural conversation hit list are Vietnam, Texas, San Fransico, Taiwan, and many hot spots in New York and the surrounding area. En Masse is on a mission to infect the cultural hubs of cities throughout the world. Really isn’t something I would recommend being vaccinated against, this artistic infection.

New York was the latest victim, inviting the boys to bring their artists to take part in the week long Fountain Art Fair in Manhattan. Judging from the videos, photos, and overuse of exclamation marks in his final email, I assume the trip was insane with titillation. Hard not to be when you’re set loose in the Big Apple with permission to pop-white-walls’-cherries in an artistic collaborative free-for-all. Am I omitting a scent of jealousy? Probably. Even a zombie would be surging for brains to hear about this show-down of artistic revolution.

“The NYC trip came about through our recent adventures in Miami. We did projects with Scope Art Fair and with Primary Flight, and while there, we were introduced to the Fountain Art Fair. Who then invited us to Manhattan for their 2012 Armory week edition, located at the original Armory location. This was a Big Apple event all the way, working with many new cats from all over the country and including a few from Japan. We had a blast!”

I know, Jason sounds all too good to be true, what with his vision to start an arts quest with his best mate from school, and invite the underground scene of unknowns and under-appreciated artists to join the utopian ranks of his En Masse project. Yet, he is perhaps the most genuine, nice guy I have never-met. Look, right here, as he closes out the interview with this tidbit of amazement, when I asked how one might start their own conversation-project-not-to-be-mistaken-for-a-collective.

“Being an artist takes courage and tough skin. These traits don’t necessarily come naturally, one must cultivate them carefully sometimes, while others who may have these characteristics in spades go on to make very successful careers out of mediocre work. Becoming a professional artist also means learning some basic business skills, which are often totally foreign to so many of us (myself included). Advice about starting a project like this…lots. If you want some, probably the best this is to drop me a note at info@enmasse.info and take me out for lunch sometime. I really like sandwiches.”

Read More: http://zouchmagazine.com/en-masse-pioneers-of-the-artistic-orgy/#ixzz1wEY8BOQ3

Walls. White. Lonely. All around me in this private misery of my at-home-office. It has taken a strong hold on my furious wanderlust imagination to not deface (according to the landlords wording on my claustrophobic lease) these white walls. I want to. Very much. I try to sway my hyperventilating, overactive creative inner-Meghan from bringing the street-art world indoors,  concentrating on writing. As I stare at my laptop, ignoring the pleads from my whitewash prisoners, I hear my Skype ping, clicking open the message box like a rabid wolverine tearing apart a downed elk. My savior. Remmy. My old friend from the glory days of old. It’s his fault I find myself in this bind of impatience and upheaval, tormenting my adult responsible side with the free-flow-kitten who used to paint walls without second thought. Art came before civic duty!

Remmy and I have been going back and forth in a debate about what is true street-art.. We used to be a group, you see, this Remmy character and I. With a third fellow called Paully, we called ourselves the ‘Pit-Crew’ and scuttled through the night, bombing murals onto vacant walls, or derelict structures left to decay in the bustling concrete evolutions of rising modern cities born of glass and gip-rock. We didn’t vandalize, we revitalized. With style. Paully and Remmy flung spray cans like a sharp shooter from some Dirty Harry wet dream. My weapon of choice was the paint marker. Spray cans seemed so, perverse. Ejaculating hue’s of saturation, penetrating porous landscapes. Messy. Uncontrollable.

A graffiti pissing-contest, really. Who can spray better. I don’t like to rush, I am a woman with control on my hands, and my art isn’t about being included in the boy’s club of who can cover more turf quicker with my dripping cans. My tools of the night weren’t included in the graffiti-street-art dichotomy of my partners. I was the gal who followed along her boys, the roadie of support, it seems. To me, they were the numbskulls who chattered too much in my ear to ever say no, thus, pushing me out of my apartment and into the night to paint another public art piece. The Jiminy Cricket will one needs when doing a full-time art degree in the throws of an Eastern Canadian winter.

I asked the lingering questions to my old friend about his outdated sentiments on what made graffiti, or street-art. He asked me if I still used my paint markers, to which I replied, but yes, of course. These are my tools…

“You’re cheating. That’s not graffiti. It’s paint in a marker that anyone can use. Graffiti is spray paint, Clarkston, you know that. If you want to be known, you have to be able to control a can and leave a fucking epic mural that makes people stop and respect. You draw. Your art isn’t guerrilla like ours is Megs… ”

His words always draw me back to the mandate of living in a man’s world, where woman sits in the background, not a person, but a spectacle of uninvited amusement. Sided with his idea that his rash tags of premature ejaculation of creativity are considered rebellious or influential to our drone inhabited society. My laughter pierces my audience of white walls; his air of being unique in a sea of redundancy. Street-art, graffiti, tags, whatever the taste of the culture, are everywhere in cities. Using a spray-can isn’t going to make you part of an unlawful club of radicals, like my partner here so devotedly believes. You have options in this world; make art which makes people pause, and think, or piss on a community, leaving a rancid stain for all to cauterize their retinas with.

What tools you use doesn’t matter, so long as you let your own creative passion dictate the optical presence which is born. My art is conscious of my surroundings, inviting the natural aura of the environment to become a part of the finished work. I’m not leaving a mark, in my feminine “pussy-foot” (as my male counterparts describe) art; I am becoming the context of what already exists. In my eyes, that’s what true street-art is.

Relaying my sentiments to my old partner resonated with amusing banter.

“You’re not unique Rem. You’re marketable. You’re a show-boat product that screams for attention. You’re not revolution; you’re mainstream pop culture.”

Ellipses followed by the familiar ping of a Skype hang-up. His hope of having me jerk-off his ego seems to be the dominate will and want of most male artists these days. Praise for being a fixture in the All Boy’s Club, no girls allowed, unless we want to swoon over their big-boxstore pre-packaged imaginations.

I’m a small business, offering one-of-a-kind pieces that adapt to the world around us. I don’t ask for much, just a little respect for my process, appreciation for art, and support for women in my line of work. Boom. Sign. Sealed. And delivered. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some white walls to rescue here.

All good things must come to an end, or so the saying goes.

There is a paging revolt charging through my heart these days. The rush echos into my mind, and I can’t shake this notion that I am about to become part of a legacy too soon extinguished. While the world churns around us, holding each of its inhabitants as an unwilling participant in this song and dance of evolution; small changes are occurring within Canada that are about to shake up the map of imagination. Perhaps this cryptic message is reading as confusion to the masses across this vast country, but trust me when I say, the feeling is mutual to those who it’s centered around the most. What I am speaking of is the battle currently being forged in Halifax, Nova Scotia, between an institution of historic legacy, and Governmental budgetary.

The Nova Scotia College of Art and Design (NSCAD) is under the penny pinching microscope these days, by the provincial government, and then some. In short, money is tight, there is nothing more to give, and NSCAD is staring straight down the barrel with two choices to beg for; amalgamate with Dalhousie University (known more for it’s trades and science degrees, than for the arts) or shut-down, ending a 125 year legacy. Prices are being placed on the value of education, of independence, of creativity and imaginary revolution. The epidemic of outlandish post-secondary education costs is no secret; to follow the seed of knowledge is to walk the plank into the ravenous sea of bankruptcy. Hoisting the highest tuition fees across the country (Full-time Undergraduate fees for the Winter 2012 Semester total $3229.05) already puts the province in a certain black listed category among up-and-coming post secondary prospects, fresh from High School. Yet, encouraging the extinction of the arts, while promoting the rise of Sciences with more provincial funding, advocation, advertising, and promises that yes, this is the job sector to become financially graceful within, also has the free-thinking “bleeding heart liberals” (as us artists are too often categorized) up in arms.

Opening eyes to see the diminishing encouragement of the magical entities that is artists is happening rapidly. As if the human race has met in secret, agreeing to wash away the passionate freedom thinkers and optical activists, thus eradicating the natural desire to put honesty in the form of optical beauty. When did the world of logic, of science, become the one and only entity for our species to inhabit? When did Hollywood become the only acceptable art form to praise, to encourage? When did proclaiming “I am an artist” become coupled with the fear of being told one has the bubonic plague?

To envision a world without thought or recognition, nay, love or encouragement, support and dedication to it’s artists is to accept a world void of magnificence. Each drop of brilliance produced from a brush, each stroke of genius emanated from a pencil, each word of candor penned for a performer on Broadway, each note birthed from a musicians mind, each caress from sullen fingertips draped along a musical instrument; now mythical talents hidden, revoked from teachers agendas. To deny art from being taught as a truly invigorating, original academic platform, is to deny the world the equilibrium of magic and science.

I am angry to know that I am part of an outcasted breed of human, who is treated as nothing more than filth, in this era of misconstrued equality of talents. I am apart of a whole who view this world through a different set of eyes, who sees life in a new form, in a new space, than the reality we traverse. I am apart of humanity who is sharing new perspectives on dated ideals; now being punished for thinking outside the box.

How void of imagination this world is becoming, soon to be enveloped entirely of nothingness but template designs of genetically engineered “creativity”, produced by white coats in sterile chambers.

True love is something poetic, magically shot straight out of Casablanca for your viewing pleasure. Composed of sultry coiffed hair, lathered Revlon and puckered hues of crimson; love is the things fireworks are made of. Love is Rick and Isla Tan going to a new land in a dangerous time. Lovers in a dangerous time…or so the story goes.

Then there is the love of fine vandalism, bountifully lathered in the shape of contour lines, plastered on alley walls in the heat of passion. Quickly now, before the po-po come to reveal my lecherousness for this hefty jiffy marker. Passion for this chick comes in the throes of feverish line movement onto public objects, under the blanket of wickedness. Momma should never have let me be rebellious with my Crayolas on the dining room walls all those decades ago.

But then comes that moment when the familiar becomes too mundane, too resolute, too obsolete. The act of contour lust – graffiti assignation in the night – becomes blah. Where’s the spark gone? When will the hunger return to bed with canisters, markers, and stencils commence?

But then “they” show up. The sultry sublime simplicity of dreamweaver, of mystery. Some nightwalker creeps through the shadows and relieves their creative urination on neighborhood territory. The North End. My home. My territory. How curious my mind rambles when come daylight, my walls are caressed with slapdash murals of one-lined fantastical caricatures of imaginative ruffians. Oh lord, be still my heart, there is a vandal Casanova on the loose…and he has my bosom going pitter patter.

Or is this a he? Perhaps a she? Maybe an it, that, or who? No matter; this late night citizen, under the guise of Kauz, has my love. No material vanity, no marketable goal or capitalist empire to fuel with the art of creation; Kauz just wants to play with the clean canvases of the concrete jungle, the city. Simple tools, no carriage of spray cans lining his “studio”, no murals of elaborate tags to proclaim “I COPIED FROM THE BEST!”, Kauz just wants to invite the world into “his” imaginative noddle.

I am getting ahead of myself like a lovesick puppy sucking back on the teat of marrow. This lust, this passion, this craving to view more of Kauz on the walls, street signs, sidewalks and doors. I want “him” all the time. Now the game of cat and mouse begins, and I aim to tango with my new-found desire. Tit for tat, Mr. Kauz, Ribbon is on the art attack. You tag my heart, and I’ll entice yours by similar means; graffiti wheat pasting.

So here’s looking at you, Kauz, I’m on the prowl for you tonight.

Ego. The middle mistress in the psychic apparatus orgy Sigmund Frued slayed in the 1920s. Pillow talk revealed she harbors the “…organized part of the personality structure that includes the defensive, perceptual, intellectual-cognitive, and executive functions.” In essence, she is a woman who preaches, “be your self, exude confidence, and accept no tolerance for crass mannerisms or hogwash”. Ego. She can be a loyal ally and a demon in the sack; she can grasp your manhood in her talons and flash sadistic glee as you crumble to her demands.

In November, a colleague wrote a titillating article titled Approval Seekers & Ego Killers #2, Jumping The Shark. Usually I am not a woman to defend the moral standings of contemporary artists, as I too am uncertain about their ethical motives. However, desecrating the labor and genius of forefathers such as Marcel Duchamp will force me to make a point to ignore my “anti-artist” ego and encompass my “VIVE LE CREATION” ego. In English: you don’t diss an artistic homeboy who wasn’t afraid to slap the pompous art-flogging bourgeoisie in the noodle and say “how do you like me now?” The relevance of the artwork “Fountain” – in which Duchamp under the guise of R. Mutt, placed a urinal in the gallery – was to elicit debate on what constituted art in the modern area. Found art. Reusing functional objects and debilitating them to unusable standards. Naturally, I can’t explore the whole cosmic world of art history in this article, and if I was to attempt such an endeavor, Mr. Zouch would disembowel my feminine aura. But for any budding artist or connoisseur of the art world, investigating diligently Duchamp, his “Fountain”, and why we owe him our loyalty for teaching us to be true to our individuality makes sense.

Now, not to castrate my colleague with this passion my ego has for artistic practice; irony is leaving a bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth. A young man who dapples in the cartoon environment, finding comfort in the quality of illustration opposed to canvas seduction, does have resemblance to the Master he has just masticated and spit out. His notion that, while an artist, his love for cartoons separates him from his grandiloquent peers is charming. Similar to Duchamp – who did seek monetary approval from his pieces and was an artist exploring new outsider motives – our young cartoon friend is made from the same blueprint. Yet, he either is very fluent in acting coy, or is unaware that he too is profiting off the capitalistic tit while attempting to remain true to his originative practice; produce for art and not artworks.

Pulling from his opinionated art rant; “Oh God, I really want to become a conceptual artist and create bullshit material to sell for offensively large sums of money!” The notion of sarcasm and pompous attitude surmount. This is the point where I took the article as a solid debate to stand up for my “bullshit material” and confide through the power of word to said young cartoonist that yes, you too are producing contemporary art for materialistic gain. You too are wading in this self-deprecating ocean with the rest of us artists. His assumption that many of his peers conduct this life to produce sellable works is insulting. Not all of us choose to take part in the masquerade and strain to be accepted by the elite; we produce art out of emotion and want, with no desire for profit.

Yes, art is a murky trench of symbolism, terminology, feelings and notions that even the best of us have difficulty understanding. But that doesn’t mean we – as artists loyal to our trade – should denounce those who challenged a collective decades ago and showed creationists to explore new routes outside the conventional. Revolutions are a good thing when they embrace urinals and not firearms. Perhaps rather than staying content in the simplistic cartoon void, which was and has been on the stage of the contemporary world for sometime, said young man should see inspiration in Mr.Duchamp. Mad and confused by us materialistic contemporary monarchies?

Start a revolution. Make a change. Inspire a new generation of perspective and encourage others to be unequalled.

I need to unzip from this temporary ego and slip back into my familiar “anti-artist” suit, before this shade of crimson on my face becomes permanent.

My Tuesday mornings consist of a boisterous academic soiree revolving around the concept of modernity. At times I like to walk on the edge of insanity and attend class without my daily booster shot of caffeine, but the lesson’s quickly learned that this will result in a public flogging with Dunce Cap leading the charge. Not for the faint of heart, not for the weak; Karl Marx and modernity walk hand-in-hand on Tuesday morning, and aren’t afraid to fight for their love.

Each morning we are led into a two-hour discussion of the importance of cognitive thinking. The awareness of surroundings, the importance of questions and a dialog of objection against ironclad systems and depriving governments– all manoeuvred to our intellect by a simple man standing at the front of the class. Professors are always fickle creatures. Reminiscent of actors on the stage of a Broadway production; I spend most of my time attempting to filter the fact from fiction. To weed out their scripted plagiarism and honest opinion pertaining to their educator manifesto. It’s the most elaborate performance a creature can admire, the act of learning and being taught. This particular professor is a cacophony of contemplation, as if his brain is chronically set to revolution. Yet, something about him wafts the persona of expensive architecture, luxuriant automobiles and custom tailored suits. Preachers of communism, Marxism, modernity and sustainability always are the greediest capitalists at heart…

His words are powerful, his ideas are congruent with artistic revolt, revitalization of an independent humanity that thrives on individuality rather than suckling at the lucrative tit of scum-bag corporations. Pin-stripped businessmen in the gang of stock-market and insider trading; he wants us to embrace our talents and flip this world on its head. I can’t disagree; I too challenge the system and push for a fresh perspective on contemporary. For the artists in this cracked globe to generate ideas rather than profit. Then again, I could just be bitter at the fact I furnish my apartment with garbage day surprises and thrift store clearance sale delights. Being a starving artist isn’t as “rah-rah revolution” as we imagine…

At some point during the lecture, I found fantasizing about new Jacob boots more appealing than the Haussmannization of 19th Century Paris. Can you blame me? I’ve been wading in this discussion for years, and while interesting, these boots are the cats-meow folks. Sex on my feet…but what brought me back into the reality of my academics was the notion of co-habitation between Capitalism and Sustainability; is it possible for the rich bureaucrats to use sustainability to a moralistic advantage? His parallel of Facebook – a website of practically nothing of relevance or functional value – has a net worth of over 50 billion dollars. It doesn’t bring awareness of the depletion of the coral reefs, the bordering of extinction of the Tasmanian devil due to a facial tumour that is unexplainable, increases of tuition fees that will see many students wallowing in debt until they are on the cusp of retirement, or hell, the current wave of suicides amid gay youths in North America. Facebook is a vanity of greed that we willingly feed into each and everyday; your drunken self portraits are helping to keep the rich richer, and well, entertain thousands of folks with your rendition of Showgirls laid out so tidily on the social network. You and all your “friends” are committing gluttony by sucking at the capitalist tit, and refusing to flick on the light bulb and contemplate returning to the days of old, when your ancestors gave a shit about living off the land and SURVIVING.

Ask anyone on the street what sustainability means, and chances are that their hamster is neglecting to turn the wheel inside their skull. Ask them about the latest updates to Farmville, and they are happier than a hog in shit.

The lecture continued, and I found myself wanting to throw caution to the wind and debate with our fearless leader that yes, capitalism and sustainability can be loyal lovers. They can produce offspring named Hope and Change. But then Facebook, Google, Burger King, Democrats and Republicans, Conservatives and Liberals, Walmart, Ticketmaster and Air Canada careened through my head. When you have money, you have power. Screw moral ethics. Screw your fellow man and this rock we inhabit; Darwin said I deserve this position of power. Survival of the fittest, and that fat cat capitalist is rolling in his cat nip, pissing on your uprising and displeasure. You’re just a crystal in his odor-saving litter-box folks.

This train of thought continued until it was time to exit. It’s a dangerous time in the modern world, ladies and gentlemen. Why are we laying down and letting this condemnation bulldoze us into an apocalyptic decay?

Then one student asked a question that resonates with me still, and I challenge all creative minds to ponder: How can we, as artists, shape modernity today?

Beginnings are always the hardest part for a writer. Authors will stew for days, weeks, months, debilitated by attempts to pen their latest literary feature. Writer’s block always creeps into the author’s bed, impregnating the mind with silence. We’ve all given birth to this child, this soundless bundle of bedlam. The infant we crave to abort. Writers starve to have this child vacuumed from their womb. Somehow gestation always proceeds, we coast through that third trimester, and unwillingly cradle our tongueless infant. The bastard child we never wished for. We each have our own remedy to sooth this babe into a manageable state. Mine is television. More importantly, what I refer to as “Reality Smut Programming.” My mute newborn always screeches like a banshee when the 30-minute dunce escapades cascade into view.

For the past few months my medicine has come in the form of MTV. The lineup of mind-numbing ignorance is readily accessible for my streaming pleasure. It’s the Devil on the airwaves, and I am dizzily jerking it off for my viewing pleasure. My excitement climaxes with each minute of smut, pushing my mind and body to the point of orgasm. My lover and my abuser all at the same time; it’s highly titillating. Invitations to follow the trials of juvenile procreation, the art of “Gym, tanning, laundry,” crowned with the journey of ”real people” bustling through the Hallmark moments of The Real World; there is something for us all on Smut Programming.

Five words awoke me: I Used To Be Fat. Ears perked up, brows shifted into a stance of perplexity, my head tottered in an arc of curiosity. Clicking the link invites me into a world of concussed self confidence, debilitating facades of happiness, ambitions to shed an exterior shell for the holy grail of “optimal weight”, and the loving admiration of drill sergeants riding the latest wave of egg white omelets with a side of steroird-organic compound margaritas. For 5 hours I subject my eyes to the dissection of youth, being verbally assaulted for their active “participation in obesity” in modern America. Over the course of one summer – timespans ranging from 89 days to 104 days – these youth have the honor of “recreating their lives” before they enter university. Morning, noon and night, they learn that the gym is their Valhalla. They profess that “thin will make me happy, make me popular,” that they are unsuccessful in their lives because physically they are “wrong.” Transformations take place, family encourages vanity, it’s the start of a new beginning, of happiness and “control.”

What people neglect to see is the obvious risk each sequence creates: the impending evolution of a rabid eating disorder. Each episode, they declare that a medical professional has been consulted before each taping, that the physical body has been observed and cleared for boot-camp. All is well in the legal world; commence metamorphoses of troubled, unhealthy teens to inspirational young adults wading into the world of “thin is happiness.” What isn’t discussed or explored is the mental implications and severity drilling the term “obesity” into these kids heads will have on their futures. YOU’RE overweight. YOU’RE obese. YOUR life will be better if you change your appearance. Lose weight, feel great– isn’t that how the story goes?

Skinniness is not happiness. Weight loss is not a healthy state of being. Learning to portion your meals can digress into starvation, and most certainly will. Workout schedules can manifest into chronic regimes of physical pain and abuse. Three hours of cardio will evolve into marathons of treadmill sprints and eliptical endurance contests with the voices in your head coaxing you to lose just a bit more. It’s easy to let the cascade take hold, to keep letting the “thin” climax intensify just a bit more. Being thin will not make you happy, it will not make your life easier, and it will not always improve your physical or mental state of being. In essence, you’re just reversing the same state of uncertainty, lack of self confidence and horrors of self-deprecation obesity plagued.

But no one will tell these kids this truth. No one is willing to look past the legal obligations and describe what the ritual of an eating disorder will entail, the risks these boot-camps of “betterment” and “inspirational encouragement” will do to these impressionable minds. No one will care or consider the toll five words will have on these kids: I Used To Be Fat.

You will witness a youth changing her life, encourage her on her journey and provide  amorous support via “oooohs” and “ahhhhss”. Perhaps you will become inspired or jealous at their her new physical aura. You will witness what MTV is telling you is beneficial reality, something worthy of tears and exuberance for the vigor these kids are releasing. But what I will witness is the start of an anorexic tendency; learning the scale will produce lies and encourage weight loss. I will see restriction of nourishment, steps leading into starvation. I will see compliments become reinforcement for skin and bones. I will see a mind begin to collapse beyond any semblance of reason and a darkness take hold that will never be consumed by positive light again.

As an anorexic-bulimic entering her 12th year of active disorder, I am witnessing a generation evolving into a toxic mental state. Shows revolving around weight loss need to be throughly explored before being cannibalized by impressionable peers. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” and MTV has Satan steering the helm.

I’m a bit confused these days on how to make art. It’s been a week, possibly a few months, where I’ve just been waving my pen around in an aimless attempt to create something. Even a line would be welcomed at this point.

Somehow the whole act of drawing has become some mysterious, confusing, mind- boggling exterior activity I swear I’ve never partaken in before. Let alone spent nearly a decade at various academic institutions “fine tuning” the skills of classical masters. Once upon a time this right hand of mine was an independent entity from my body; it lived its own existence and did whatever the hell it wanted. Most times it was churning out doodles, drawings, paintings and photographs so beyond my realm of consciousness that I honestly felt as though accepting them under credit of my name was plagiarism.

Emotions used to play a huge factor in the creation process, and I discovered that anger was potentially my best ally. Admittedly, I would traverse my daily routine with the impression that every moment was a “Hulk Angry” occasion, thus, I took no heed to respect others’ opinions, or physical bubbles and SPLASHED right into their emotions. The Hulkier I got, the better that night’s art work binge became.

Then “it” happened, this notion of being an ADULT. That illness which afflicts us all. You graduate from your school of choice and believe that yes, you too will be able to subside on your creative juices alone. You won’t be one of those artists who is also a / waitress / bartender / window-washer / barista. Heavens no. You’re different. You have this aspect of uniqueness and that umph to lay siege to the market and reign supreme! You are the Gangas Khan of art, and you’re going to leave the masses beginning for mercy. But then you wake up late for your shift at McDonalds three years post -graduation and begin to understand that being an artist is perhaps the hardest career choice one can be tossed into. And you just happen to have that talent which is now making you more of a pathetic loser than you were in high-school.

At least that’s what’s happened to me, here folks. I’ve become much worse off than that pimply adolescent who wore her pj’s in class and rarely washed her hair, (or teeth, for that matter). I exited with such promise from The Victoria College of Art and Design in BC back in my early 20’s, on my way to another institution to further my practices. My professors saw potential and praised my work, sighting things along the lines of “fascinating” and “prolific.” Yes, my head grew 10 sizes too big and I was a living lollipop. Then the fall came, the debt piled up and I realized that hey, even though people like my art and seem to think it’s worth complimenting on, no one buys it. No one wants to pay money for it. They don’t mind accepting it for free, because after all, artists aren’t real people to all those other career jockeys running the rat race of life.

So, then I learned that hey, I have to survive somehow, so I go out and started working the endless slew of minimum wage jobs and experimental career choices. Most often people assume I’ve had an interesting life thus far and it’s been abound with excitement.

“You’ve been an editor! A journalist? You worked at an antique shop? You were a fish monger? You worked on a crab boat and spent summers in the Yukon?”

Yes, and yes to all of the above, and then some. As romantic as it all sounds, it’s been a daunting lifestyle, bouncing from job to job just to sustain some minimal aspect of life. But here is where the real rub and confusion comes in:; with survival comes the loss of creativity. I have no ability – or energy – to churn out artworks after hours spent at my temporary career of the month, then coming home to work on writings for various publications (all pro-bono), then working on commissioned designs for friends or businesses. When the lust and time to create an original Meghan Clarkston piece arises, I’m as lost as priest in a sex shop. It’s all dried up to make way for room for my “adult” lifestyle. So here I wheel around on my Easter Long Weekend, sketch book in hand, and slowly trying to find a balance with my passion for art, and with the realization that I will always be that artist/waitress/barista/bartender.