An Incision to the Artist's Brain
Message log, Jan 2013
I figured it out! 2 am I figured out Gunther's piece! God it is awesome
here, I wrote this:
"Ethin was a pianist. A composer really.
Undeniably his playing affected my work,
his rhythm my pace, his piano-key smashing my code..."
Soon after that revelatory conversation, Jared pushed out the first draft of The Last Website, sucker-punching my brain and soul.
Evenings became blurry, caffeine-injected bouts of brainstorming online with my brothers: sketch/upload/discuss/rinse — repeat.
Ideas spawned like jackrabbits, no sooner born than murdered for their ineptitude.
A lot of bunnies died those first few days.
Then, eyes gluey with art-drenaline, palsied hands drawing something (I wasn't sure then, nor am I now), and too inundated within the throes of flow to halt or verge course, she came out.
Alibi was this powerful lynchpin that we kept coming back to, an obscure cusp that we never needed or wanted to define. Every medium was lured toward her, tentatively rising then arcing over, never touching.
Illustrating became a bizarre, frankenstein-esque conglomeration of what I learned drawing the last piece, and an exploration of stuff I never tried before.
By visualizing the text I was navigating the story's emotional arcs: mine, my brothers', the chaps' at Opoloo, and the audience's.
Imagery is such a vital force, and yet in storytelling, it somehow tells the least. Three great movements, trysting in violent harmony to move pen and paint.
It shows one viewpoint, generally slanted; one window into a story that, in showing, hides.