While we typically use post-it notes for quick reminders and random notes at home or in the office, a Danish artist has found them to be perfect for his interestingly spooky sketches. Take a look at some examples after the jump!
John Kenn aka John Kenn Mortensen (b. 1978, Denmark) - 1: 386, 2013 2: Happy Halloween, 2012 3: 288, 2012 4: 306, 2012 5: Umbrella, 2012 6: 318, 2012 7: Glas, 2012 8: 320, 2013 9: 371, 2013 10: 383, 2013 Drawings: Pencils on Paper
Whatever you now find weird, ugly, uncomfortable and nasty about a new medium will surely become its signature. CD distortion, the jitteriness of digital video, the crap sound of 8-bit - all of these will be cherished and emulated as soon as they can be avoided. It’s the sound of failure: so much modern art is the sound of things going out of control, of a medium pushing to its limits and breaking apart. The distorted guitar sound is the sound of something too loud for the medium supposed to carry it. The blues singer with the cracked voice is the sound of an emotional cry too powerful for the throat that releases it. The excitement of grainy film, of bleached-out black and white, is the excitement of witnessing events too momentous for the medium assigned to record them.
Myths are stories about people who become too big for their lives temporarily, so that they crash into other lives or brush against gods. In crisis their souls are visible.
There is a love that equals in its power the love of man for woman and reaches inwards as deeply. It is the love of a man or a woman for their world. For the world of their center where their lives burn genuinely and with a free flame.
The love of the diver for his world of wavering light. His world of pearls and tendrils and his breath at his breast. Born as a plunger into the deeps he is at one with every swarm of lime-green fish, with every colored sponge. As he holds himself to the ocean’s faery floor, one hand clasped to a bedded whale’s rib, he is complete and infinite. Pulse, power and universe sway in his body. He is in Love.
The love of the painter standing alone and staring, staring at the great colored surface he is making. Standing with him in the room the rearing canvas stares back with tentative shapes halted in their growth, moving in a new rhythm from floor to ceiling. The twisted tubes, the fresh paint squeezed and smeared across the dry on his palette. The dust beneath the easel. The paint has edged along the brushes’ handles. The white light in a northern sky is silent. The window gapes as he inhales his world. His world: a rented room, and turpentine. He moves towards his half-born. He is in Love.
The rich soil crumbles through the yeoman’s fingers. As the pearl diver murmurs, ‘I am home’ as he moves dimly in strange water-lights, and as the painter mutters, ‘I am me’ on his lone raft of floorboards, so the slow landsman on his acre’d marl - says with dark Fuchsia on her twisting staircase, ‘I am home.’
Mervyn Peake, Titus Groan (via emperorirene)
Oh my gosh, it’s such a beautiful book. I read this about 10 times in a row. It’s flabbergastingly beautiful.
OK, theoretically Titus Groan/Gormenghast taken as a pair are one of my favourite books, but I’d forgotten they’re THAT good…(via pennypaperbrain)