Tuesday, May 22, 2007
little boy blue
A half empty milk bottle. Misplaced shoes. The beloved toys and dolls, waiting for her to return and love them. Scattered clothing, waiting for her to fill them. The corner she used to play in, her corner. Everything is right where she last left them.
An empty house.
I am normally obsessed with order, but I just can't bring myself to pick up after the debris she left behind, just yet. I don't want to smooth out the wrinkles she left on the throw on the sofa, or disturb the baby dolls that she lovingly put to sleep last night. I don't want to clear out her play corner, because there is nothing to fill it with. For such a small person, she filled the house quite alot. Everyday.
I don't have the heart to tell her toys yet that she won't be coming back for awhile. They'll be sad. But toys wait hopefully, loyally, tucked away in boxes with eternal smiles on their faces, waiting to be loved again.
This is a heartbreak I didn't really anticipate. I know it's silly. Why all the tears? I'll see my niece and my sister again. They're not even that far away.
Things are just different here.something made on a lonely airport train terminal
Terminals are sad, bitter places to me. It's a place of painful goodbyes, last embraces, and final glimpses of loved ones, before the terminal swallows them up.
Maybe someday, Sydney terminal will become a happy place when it returns someone I love to me.intellectual art
It was a chance ecounter. We were both minding our charges in the playground, and we were both artists. In every other sense, we were different. He was much older, Afghan, and the father of a toast-colored little girl too small to climb the monkey bars by herself. I was young, female, and in charge of my 3 year old niece.
But we were similar because we were artists, familiar with the joy of creating, he pain of not being able to create, and the angst of what we are by nature: lost souls.
He was a painter, and a learned one as I soon found out. He had gone to art school and knew his theory through and through. He was well-read in his field, and had pored through scores of material. "Show me any painting, any of the classics", he said, "and I can tell you who made it." He knew his masters. He made it clear he was a deep thinker and was also well-schooled in philosophy. He liked his paintings to be intellectual, he said, challenging. He knew the industry and had his work framed by the same framer as the best artists in Australia.
He seemed to be searching. Artists only talk about being an artist when they're searching, or when they've found something. But he seemed to be searching.
He bitterly told me that he should be well-established as a painter by now, and would be so if he hadn't wasted his life being a used car salesman and taking on other odd jobs. He never wanted marriage or children, but now has no regrets over it. He's lucky, he said, because his wife understands him, because an artist's life is a lonely, lonely life.
He seemed like a hard man to live with. I listened, and spoke only to draw him out. He was a man who needed to talk. He was going through a process.
"What about you?", he said, a bit disinterested. "Are you an art student?"
"No, but I'm thinking of studying it one day", I answer, "it's just something I've done since I was little, and well, I print them out on stuff and sell them online, and well... here."
I showed him a sample of my artwork printed out on a journal, full color.
His expression changed. In his eyes, I had suddenly transformed from just another wanna-be kid, to someone who could actually, well, draw. He apologized, he said, he didn't know my skills we're that developed, and that I had a good foundation, and that skills-wise, I was far ahead.
"But your work", he said, "it's good but it doesn't challenge me. When I look at it, I see a man and a woman. I like to make my paintings very intellectual, very philosophical, very theoretical. To me it's always fresh when I look at it, because it's challenging. Your work is a bit commercial, very decorative. Very pretty, but it doesn't challenge me."
I smiled, and I didn't say anything. I was not offended. He meant well, he really did. And I was game to hear an honest critique from an educated artist.
'Not everyone is educated in art and philosophy", I told him, "and just because a piece of art can be appreciated by the common man, it doesn't mean it's not good."
"I suppose so", he said, and then, "You're already 24, still young enough. If you want to make it, you have better start now."
And with that, we parted amicably. I never got his name.
The artwork he had critiqued was, to me, one of my life's masterpieces, but not in its technique or its skill level. In fact, looking at it now, I see a thousand imperfections. But it's a masterpiece because of the meaning and feeling I had infused in it. I made it for the love of my life. There is not a bit of it that its untrue, not a bit of it wherein I censored myself. I made it without caring if anyone understood it or not, but somehow, people take one look at it and they know it was made for the lobe of my life, and that it was made with sanctity. This learned artist took one look at it, and told me it was very nice, but unchallenging; skilled but "decorative".
Each to his own. I've never tried to be "challenging" or "intellectual" when I draw, I just make sure I'm in love with what I'm doing, while I'm doing it.; and I make sure it is true.
It makes me happy when people want to decorate their lives with what I make, if they want to wear it on themselves, or place it on the everyday objects they use. It means they're willing to live with it and see it everyday. It means it is a beloved piece of work.
Well, maybe someday, I will get around to making intellectual, challenging art. But personally, I'd never want to hang it on my wall.
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Thursday, May 10, 2007
a pat on the back!
It's been about a month since I opened my online store, and one of my customers sent me a review of my merchandise."The shirt was such a comfy fit, nice material, great print. The design reminded me of Dalagang Pilipina, and fiestas in Lucban, Quezon!""Liked the shirt, loved the journal! The colours were vivid and the print quality was outstanding. What a shame to use for everyday writings! Still don't know what to do with it - maybe a scrapbook for fave photos, like a brag book or something !"Thanks, Rocellita for the nice review! I can't wait to add more merchandise. As of now, I only have 4 items. I've gotten a few customized orders from people who want me to draw their child and put it on a mug, a bag, etc. That's another venture I might look into soon.
In the meantime, please check out my store! It's got good stuff, and I'm really proud of it. FYI, you can't order any of the merchandise direct from me. You must order and pay for it online, and it will be delivered to your home!
For any inquiries/ special requests, please email ala_paredes@yahoo.comsuwerte
While I continue my unsuccesful job hunt, I've decided to keep the despair at bay by focusing on the things I'm good at. I haven't had much luck job-hunting, but somehow there are certain things that are always suwerte for me: art, blogging/writing, and TV. I don't know why. So, that's exactly what I will do until the one person out there decides to take a chance on me and employs me on a more regular basis.
I've been working here and there for a year, and none of them have paid enough. Why I cannot even get the most menial jobs, I don't know why. Maybe I move my face too much during interviews. Henry pointed this out to me. In Australia, he said, people don't move their faces very much, and only raise their eyebrows when they have to. Also, Australians don't vary their tone alot, and barely move their mouths when they talk.
I move my eyebrows every other syllable, act out what I'm saying, and move my hands around alot when I talk. My tone is sing-songy, and I even vary my eye-size when I speak! What can I do, I grew up in a country with an expressive language! Even in the Philippines, I'm considered a more expressive person than most. Do I have a personality problem?!
Or maybe I don't dumb myself down enough. Maybe my answers are too "smart", and I articulate myself too much, when all they want to hear is "yes" and "no" (or "ye" and "nar" hahaha).
Or maybe I am trying too hard to turn the tides my way, trying to get jobs that are not meant for me, when I should really just trust that fate has other plans for me. Am I trying to muscle things too much? I've never been one to muscle things, I've always gone with the flow, and that's always worked for me. But if I don't muscle things, I'll feel like I'm not doing anything to help my situation.
Or maybe this is a test in resourcefulness. The more I can't get a normal job, the more I am forced to rely on my innate talents and skills.
*Sigh*
Given all these things, I am convinced more than ever that I belong in the arts and entertainment sector. (As if it hasn't been evident since childhood. They don't call me "Drama Queen" for nothing. ) All my bubbly self-expression has no place in "decent" jobs. *sigh*
I'm meant to be one of those people who get paid on a per project basis, who don't know where their next bite to eat is coming from. I'm not meant to ever have a "real job". In fact, I've always been more suwerte that way.
I don't know if that's good or bad.
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Sunday, May 06, 2007
or am i dreaming?
The first song was "Crush".
"Tripping Billies" was unbelievable and sent a rush through the audience.
Yes, Carter Beauford was a god and is the coolest drummer ever.
Stefan Lessard is the yum (okay, magaling din siya mag-bass haha).
The only word to descibe Boyd Tinsley, the fiddler, is pyrotechnic, and the way he would prance around the stage like a crazy ball of energy reminded me of a satyr.
The instrumentals were at least 5 minutes each.
Plenty of jamming.
The entire audience sang along to every, single song (except "Sister", because it was a solemn moment).
We got in line at 3 PM and waited for 3 and a half hours. We we're one of the first 50 people, me, Mio, Lars, Den, Sacha, Andee, Erwin, Thel, Fiona, Den's boyfriend (how do you spell his name?), Lucy, Len, Len's brother, and Gutsy.
We were the lone group of 15 Pinoys lumped together in the line. We sat on the ground sharing food, swapping magazines and newspapers, taking naps, and watching the sky get dark. At 6 PM, the gates opened.
I would like to note the presence of many obnoxious-American types. The loud, proclaiming type. The kind that shouts "We are American, and we are here to see Dave Matthews" when they're not one of the first to be let in. Geez. Shut up, kid. This is not about you being American. Besides, venue rules state that any handbags, and egos, bigger than the standard A1 size should be left in the cloakroom. Opened beverages and bad attitudes should be disposed off in the rubbish bin before entering the Hordern Pavillion.
Anyway...
As soon as they scanned my ticket, I made a dash to the front. We were about a meter and half away from the stage. Not close enough to touch Dave's hand, close enough to say we were really close. Close enough to have to fend off T-rexes trying to elbow you out of the way and take your space.
The lights dimmed. The audience cheered. The lights went bright again. False alarm. Boo. A few minutes later, the sound techs left the stage, the lights really dimmed, and we waited for the front act.
As we waited for Xavier Rudd to start performing, a man came on stage. He was very inconspicuous, average looking, averagely dressed, had no spotlight on him, and even passed behind the drumsets. He went up to one of the side mics, and started speaking before anyone actually figured out who he was.
I think everyone was a stunned for a second when they realized that Dave Matthews had come out to introduce his front act. When my brain started working again, my first impulse was to scream, "I LAV YOOOO!!!", in a very Pinoy way. I know he heard it. Everyone did. I have it on video.
Xavier Rudd was very cool. He basically sounded like a techno Pinikpikan or Joey Ayala, except the only other band member he had was a back-up drummer, and he played all 12 or so instruments all by himself. He plays a mean didjeridoo (note to Pinoys: didgeridoo- a native, Aboriginal instrument made out of a naturally hollowed-out tree branch. Produces a deep, haunting sound that sounds like it's coming from the belly of the earth.)
But I couldn't wait for DMB, and sort of zoned out through Xavier's set. So great was my anticipation that I cried when I heard the first few notes of "Crush", and cried again during the instrumental.
What's amazing about DMB is that all the members are these high-caliber, flamboyant musicians- except the front man! Dave has this disarming ordinariness onstage. He's so human, totally average in every way. As a singer, he's not a virtuoso, but the beauty lies in the expression and the individuality in his singing, and the passion and honesty in his song-writing. His band members are more flamboyant than he is, but that doesn't mean to say he has no stage presence. Anyone would feel compelled to listen to anything that comes out of his mouth. When he told the audience to please be quiet and listen when he played "Sister", the audience stayed quiet. God, I love him! He has this one funny facial expression he makes all the time, and he loves to deliver his spiels in that deep, growly voice he uses in "The Last Stop".
Because I'm such a geek, I wrote down his playlist:
1) Crush
2) Nobody knew the name of this song. Some guy beside me whispered that it was "Seatbelt", but I can't seem to find anything on it.
3) Tripping Billies
4) Dream Girl
5) Jimi Thing
6) Lousiana Bayou
7) Sister (acoustic)
8) So Much To Say
9) Too Much
10) Dancing Nancies
11) ???
12) Don't Drink The Water (collaboration with Xavier Rudd)
13) Down By The River (collaboration with Xavier Rudd)
14) Ants Marching
Encore:
1) Grave Digger
2) ???
3) Stay (Wasting Time)
To my disappointment, he didn't play Rapunzel, Lover Lay Down, and Grey Street. But that's okay because I'm watching him again next year when he comes for the Bluesfest.
I bought a very overpriced t-shirt, that turned out to have a rip in the armpit when I checked it the next day, but oh well.
And here are my photos, and my videos:
1) Dave's surprise entrance (hear me shriek "I Iav yooooo")
2) Crush Instrumental (cry cry cry haha)
3) Ants Marching instrumental where my camera ran out of memory
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