The Old Fool: An Epic Tale To Enrich Painting

Hello again art lovers!

I hope all is well in your worlds.

I know, its been a while since I’ve posted a new blog entry.  I wish I could say that I’ve been painting for the duration of my M.I.A status, but I haven’t.  You see, I began painting the “Kakhati” art around the simple theme of laughter.  Kakhati is a Sanskrit word from ancient India that roughly translates into English as “Laugh out loud”.  Anyway, after working through a few pieces,  I felt like “Kakhati” could be enriched and possibly even flourish if a little more thought was thrown into the mix.  With this in mind, I attempted something new.  I wrote an epic for source material.

Don’t bet me wrong, I know other artists like William Blake, have been fond of combining their painting and writing talents to make more elaborate works, but I’ve never really utilized the combination.  Writing has always been one of my great hobbies and truthfully, I’ve probably written much more than I’ve painted this year, so it seemed natural to assimilate the hobby into my work.

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I’ve only completed a few newer pieces and they’re  little more than quick studies, but now that my epic is finished, I have a treasure trove of rich, fanciful imagery stored up in the ol’ dream machine.  The tale centers around an amnesiac who lives alone on an island.  As a result of a frustrating, zen-like conversation with a hungry pelican that swooped down to steal his roasted fish, the amnesiac is charged with a perilous quest and dubbed the “Old fool”.  The old fool must find the black wolf that carries the stolen of bag of countless treasures.  Inside the bag are three items which will console the weeping dragon.

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kakhati_spring_dragonAs you may be able to imagine, I am very excited about the upcoming paintings featuring a selection of imaginative scenes from the epic.  I’m still not sure whether I want to use oil paint for realism, or watercolor for a more whimsical approach to the imagery, so I’ll  probably do both.  A long-time friend and collector of my work phoned the other day, and after hearing about the project, he graciously offered to provide the funding for most of the supplies I needed.  I happily accepted the support, so it’ll only be a matter of time, before the old fool’s adventure is  translated into visual art.

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To see other recently completed pastel studies and my current selection of work in watercolor, oil, mixed media, ect, please visit my website ckirkart.com.

Until next time, have a great week.

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CKirk

⇑⊕ ckirkart.com ⊕⇓ 

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Tossing Litter From The Synchronicity Highway

Hello again art lovers!

I hope you’ve all had a great week.

I did.  I took a break from restful days and spent a couple of them hammering out an eclectic mixture of overdue tasks.  The new-found access to different aspects of my personality (A sort of controlled schizophrenia) seems to have major benefits.  Selecting the proper program with the proper function for the proper situation has reduced stress, increased productivity/fun, and helped communication exchanges become more transparent and effective…at least for the time being.

Anyway, I finished up the art work and scans for “The Tale Of Moby Dickhead: A Heart Warming Story Of Life Finding A Way Despite Evolution”.  Originally, I intended for my 5 year-old son to do the art work but he refused to cooperate.  Go figure.  I attempted to have the drawings viewable in 3D, but it didn’t work out quite the way I hoped.  Despite the art not going exactly to plan, I do enjoy reading the story quite a bit…especially when orating as the acclaimed English actor/narrator John Hurt.  Oh, that’s right!  I forgot to mention that as long as the readers imagination is healthy, the story is interactive!

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“The Tale Of Moby Dickhead” will be available for your reading pleasure next wednesday, June 24, 2015.

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Also this week, A long time collector of my work named Lisa has commissioned me to paint over the faces of a commission she commissioned from me years ago.  She’s become enamored with painting over parts of paintings so I’ll oblige her and paint.  More news on this later, but for now, I’ll mention that I spent considerable minutes tweaking the information on the information page of my website.  Information is now as accurate as possible in current space – time.  If you love to eat information and desire more click here.

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In other news, I packed up the pieces of a major sale!  That’s right, a 30 x 40″ canvas and a limited edition Deluxe Set  of Apoko – Lips 2014 prints will shortly be in route to St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands.

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If that wasn’t good enough, the mass of art was purchased and will be exhibited by Clay, a long-time friend and collector of my work who has returned to the island to reopen the Seven Minus Seven Gallery!

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I’ll post more news about exhibit dates as soon as I have them.

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I’m thrilled.  In my experience, it’s pretty rare nowadays for the gallery to purchase an artist’s work prior to exhibiting it.  Clay dances to the beat of a different drum in a lot of ways though.  That being said, the limited edition Apoko – Lips Deluxe Set is a collection of 13 high quality prints and was meant to come in a customized container of some kind.  Because of the fast approaching exhibit, the collector needed the art before I could get the specs for the container worked out.  I originally envisioned a decommissioned bazooka missile painted pink to contain the set of prints.  I’m not sure if this is doable though.  I’ll find out and let you know.

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If you would like to view high-quality images of my Apoko – Lips collection, inquire about options or pricing visit my website ckirkart.com and shoot me an email.  I’ll be happy to help.

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Until next time,

Ckirk

ckirkart.com 

The Tale Of Moby Dickhead: A heart warming story of life finding a way despite evolution

The Tale Of Moby Dickhead

A heart warming story of life finding a way despite evolution

Story & art by Ckirk

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The reader should imagine the story read by acclaimed English Actor and narrator John Hurt.

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If the reader doesn’t like Selection John Hurt or simply prefers an american accent, the reader may substitute acclaimed American actor and narrator Morgan Freeman

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If the reader dislikes both Selection Morgan Freeman and Selection John Hurt, feel free to substitute who you will.
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Peter Cushing, Jeremy Brett, Tony Clifton or Jim Henson’s muppet, Super Grover, could all be excellent selections.

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 If the reader’s dislikes all options due to being too patriotic or conservative (See above group) due to heavily imprinted domestic/territorial reality tunnels , then he or she should not bother reading the story as sentiment, theme, and moral will not register.

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There was once a magnificent sperm whale that propelled through the oceans of the world, mouth agape and fat from ingesting an immeasurable genocide of miniscule plankton.  In fact this whale was by far the fattest, most magnificent of whale’s and  he mated annually with an untold magnitude of sea cows.  Where aquatic copulation was concerned, this deity-like mammal didn’t even bother to stay within the bounds of his own species and frequently mounted any thing that he happened upon in the current.  In fact, contrary to popular belief, on April 15, 1912, the Titanic did not collide with an iceberg prior to sinking.  No, the “Unsinkable Ship” simply charted the wrong course then unfortunately, met and was dwarfed by the behemoth’s lust.

Yes, life was good for the god of whale’s, too good one might say.  After racking up an untold surplus of time, gluttony and excess, the whale became ungrateful for his gifts and the daily bounty  he effortlessly vacuumed down to sustain his girth.  The whale cared nothing for his scores of lesser sons that permeated the seven seas, wouldn’t remember the cows who birthed them, nor was he bothered by the occasional vessel he sunk during the age of man.  After centuries of care-free reign, the gods, nature, the universe, or maybe a coalition of the great forces had a cruel joke in store for this mighty beast.

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It was a day like any other and as usual, the hefty mammoth plowed through the currents weightless and hungry.  The whale was just coming up to full speed when his body began to jerk and periodic tugs pulled him backward, only for a moment at first, but the violent tug o’ war motion soon brought the god of whale’s to a halt.  The beast panicked as he quickly began to sink.  He then felt a burning sensation deep in the upper and lower areas of his body.  Two pairs of cystic abscesses rose and then began to pulsate all while the whale sunk deeper and deeper toward the ocean floor.  Suddenly four small appendages burst forth from the swollen boils and the pounding pressure exploded outward into the ocean creating a scarlet aura that soon surrounded the sperm whales massive body.

The whale was sated with a temporary relief after the eruptions ceased and the cysts were emptied.  He had not yet discovered his four new un proportionate appendages and the disadvantage they foreshadowed.  Mustering all his remaining strength, the whale pulled himself upward to air which was an element the god of whale’s rarely needed to partake in.  Just then, the beast found he was quickly being submerged once again.  It was as if an even mightier beast such as Jormungandr pulled with powerful jaws clamped tightly around his wide fluke.  The whale felt twenty tiny digits wiggling frantically.  The small chorus of movement surprisingly was composed of ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes on two tiny hands and two tiny feet divided between two tiny arms and two tiny legs.  Could this be the whale’s defeat?  Most likely so but hang on, we’ll see, you never know.

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Suddenly it sounded as if thunder was brewing, slowly at first it rumbled and then rolled until the roll became louder and louder.  After a few seconds the ominous grumble met the end of its line and fired forth a name that was less than divine.  “MOBY DICKHEAD” exploded throughout the whales mind!  It flashed electric time after time.  The name boomed and cracked again and again.  It was mighty as if Thor Odinson himself had sent his hammer flying.  “MOBY DICKHEAD” echoed on loop all while the whale blurred, doubled and drooped.  .

The whale felt the thing in his head swell up larger in front.  Panicked, he tried to remember the movement that would carry him up.  His fins and fluke were no longer enough so he wiggled his twenty tiny digits and waved his four new appendages.  By then his exhaustion was far too great and his senses overloaded by the new sensations that threw themselves upon him.  In spite of the whale’s best effort to hold fast his underwater world grew black

Something familiar and wet, lapped his fluke.  the whale’s eyes opened slowly centered in their fat surroundings.  Perception was blinding and black dots danced around his vision.  He saw  small feathered things flapping about. A grainy, itchy substance irritated his pale underparts. Just then the forsaken whale became aware of a sense of small movements.  It was his newly formed appendages finding their way underneath his marooned body and his twenty tiny digits scratching away at the reachable irritant.  Despite this small achievement, the whale found his body was dry and he could hardly move.

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The fire traveled slowly across the great blue overhead until it was hidden by the waves and the pale rock that governed the tides appeared in light’s absence.  This pattern took place many times before the whale’s deep hunger set his new big brain into action.  The small feathered things still flapped about and were never far from sight.  Moby Dickhead raised his jaw and let it hang agape and motionless.  After a while the feathery things flocked inside and used the whale’s great teeth as posts to rest upon.  It was only a few at first and despite the annoyance of their pecking and pooping, Moby knew he had to be patient.  After a short while, more and more congregated inside the whale’s open mouth.

Finally there were enough for a meal and after realizing this Moby Dickhead let his upper jaw drop and lock! Feathers were flung and floated about the ivory cage.  The things flew circles in panic!  Their screeches added to the pandemonium.  With much effort the whale flopped his heavy pink tongue up and down, resting each time in between the range of motion.  Eventually, all the feathery things were either knocked about, crushed to pulp, or hurled down the wide tunnel of the whale’s throat.  The newly acquired big brain was of some use finally and his life was sustained for a bit.  The waves still systematically splashed his fluke and throughout the day washed more and more of his depleted body.  During the drier parts of passing, the new appendages moved where they could and his twenty tiny digits brushed and scratched away his irritants.

The newly acquired big brain could also be a curse.  Now a static creature, Moby Dickhead was often troubled by boredom and his new understanding of the events that had occurred.  He wasn’t above longing for his former glory either.  He concocted many theories that would’ve explained what brought about his down fall and almost daily he would find himself prey to dark moods.  Feeding in the manner mentioned above would help with these negative brain storms and afterward Moby Dickhead would be grateful that he had at least found a way to eek out an existence.  The stupid feathery things he consumed daily would have to do until the gods, nature, the universe, or a coalition of the great forces found him humbled and deserving enough to grant growth to his tiny appendages.  When these thoughts found their way into the light, Moby Dickhead would dream of a day when he could walk the earth and search out more suitable sustenance.

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The End!

1 hope you enjoyed reading The Tale Of Moby Dickhead as much as 1 enjoyed writing it.  Feel free to leave comments.  Also, be sure to tune in Wednesday, July 1st because next week’s blog post, Follow The Purple Cube,  focuses on the first Apoko – Lips piece (Detail image below) created in over two months and offers you some of my favorite ebooks by different authors for free.

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Until next time,

Ckirk

ckirkart.com

How Ronald BlackFoot Found His True Talent

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There was a young man who we’ll call “Ronald” to make this story a little more amusing.  In fact, I think we’ll call him “Ronald Blackfoot” because he probably needs a last name to be a believable character.  Anyway, Ronald was no George Clooney but he wasn’t a bad-looking young man.  Well, it wouldn’t hurt his looks if he’d shave off the pencil thin mustache that teetered above his upper lip.  You see, Ronald was an aspiring artist and idolized Salvador Dali like so many fledging artists seem to do.  He wasn’t a very good artist..well, he had a natural talent for drawing, but Ronald had never fine tuned this ability, so his sketches were only slightly better than Rob Liefeld’s malformed, misproportioned comic book characters.

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Because Ronald couldn’t draw very well and probably would never even attempt to sell a work of art, his nights were filled with drinking after work in dark, steal smelling bars.   Ronald worked in a profession that so many other alcoholics, drug addicts, and sex fiends find themselves in…he waited tables. Anyway, one night after walking miles under the roof of a restaurant owned by two fat, abusive Greek brothers, our young hero drug himself to the bar next door. At closing time  Ronald stumbled home. Upon reaching the apartment complex where he lived Ronald came across a sweaty dirty looking guy who appeared to be dancing in place. Yes, he was a crack head but it didn’t register with Ronald at the time.

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After a brief conversation, Ronald entrusted the crackhead (Foolishly) with 20 dollars for a bag of weed that of course had to be retrieved from another location. I’m sure anyone reading this will not be surprised that the crackhead did not return with our hero’s pot.   After a while, Ronald marched home to fetch some large kitchen knives and he somehow managed to conceal them in  his slacks. Ronald steamed back to the area where the crackhead had left him and he knocked on the door of an apartment where the his adversary had stepped into for a moment during their earlier conversation. The scruffy young fellow who answered the door surprisingly let Ronald inside, after all, our hero looked like a nice enough fellow.  Soon after, with kitchen knives in hand, Ronald persuaded the three young men inside to tell him everything they knew about the crackhead. They obliged him promptly and didn’t hesitate to be helpful.  Ronald even asked one of the young men to record the information in a notepad so he wouldn’t have to put down his knives and the kid began writing.  Ronald felt empowered.  Not only was he armed with two large, sharp kitchen knives, but also with information.   Ronald had the crackhead’s name, which was Patrick, and knew where he lived.  Ronald had Patrick’s phone number, and if that wasn’t enough, the three frightened young men had also given Ronald Patrick’s  job information.

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Ronald waited in the apartment with the three frightened youths, but as you can probably imagine reader, the crackhead Patrick never returned to the apartment, so around 7 a.m our young hero walked to a pay phone and dialed the # of the crackhead’s employer. Someone answered. It was a man. It was Patrick’s boss. Instinct kicked in.  Ronald spoke into the dirty, scratched up mouthpiece of the phone and  introduced himself as Charlie Contreras, and went on to claim that he was in fact, Patrick the crackhead’s bail bondsman. Ronald then explained that Patrick had missed his court date that morning and that he, or rather Charlie Contreras, was trying to locate Patrick due to his bond being forfeit.

The employer asked, “What did he do?” “Well, I can’t tell you that sir, but let me ask you…do you have kids,” Ronald asked the man on the other end of the phone. “Yes, two little girls,” the man answered. He then said, “Why do you ask Mr. Contreras?” Ronald paused for a moment and then said sternly, “Well, if I were you…I’d keep Patrick the hell away from those girls of yours sir.”

Ronald and the man on the other end of the line, spoke for a little longer and then they hung up. Ronald walked home in the early hours of the morning. The sun was rising and the sky turned blue and pink.  Birds chirped.  Traffic was starting to hum as people made their way to work. Ronald felt satisfied that he’d really fucked Patrick the crackhead over for stealing his 20 dollars. His employer who happened to be a father of two little angels believed Patrick to be a pedophile and would of course fire him immediately.  It was really all too easy.  Retrieving the information to strike had been much simpler than he had thought.  Also, Ronald remembered nothing of concocting the “Bail bondsman” story earlier, during his hurried blitz to the pay phone.  The story just popped in his head out of nowhere.  The threat of violence against the youths  seemed like reflex.  It all came so natural.  By the time he realized all of this, Ronald found himself standing in front of his apartment.  He unlocked his door and instantly collapsed on his old worn out couch.  The exhilaration had already begun to leave his body and Ronald quickly drifted off to sleep.

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Later that morning our young hero gradually came to.  The headache quickly started and he could feel his heart beat inside his head.  It sounded like a bass drum.  He felt like someone had poured sand down his throat while he slept.  The dehydration was awful.  His body felt like a shriveled husk of a prune.  Ever so slowly memories of his actions on the previous evening began to creep up on him and then they stopped their slow seep and hit like a sledge-hammer.  The hideously hung over young man remembered everything that took place.  There had been no blackout to conceal his deeds.  Ronald had done a horrible handful of horrendous things and he shrunk in terror as he half expected the police to kick down his door at any minute.  He spun his head toward the scuffed up-end table, covered in cigarette ashes and beer bottle caps, and then he looked at the red fragmented numbers on his crappy digital clock.  He had one hour to shake off his hangover, get dressed and arrive at the Greek’s Restaurant for his 8 hour shift.  Panic set in but then something strange happened.

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The young man’s heart slowed as he remembered the previous night’s events.  The memories that initially set off his anxiety suddenly seemed to sedate him.  Ronald said quietly to himself, “Fuck it..I quit” and he did.  Our young hero didn’t even bother to pick up the phone and call to inform his former employers of his decision.     After the previous night, Ronald realized that he was wasting his life drawing malformed figures unintentionally and working at shitty dinners serving food to the elderly and overweight for 2 dollars and hour plus shitty tips.  Our young hero would seek out a profession that allowed no – encouraged him to excel at his new-found talent for fucking people over!  Ronald Blackfoot would become a banker,  a doctor, or lawyer, maybe even a politician!

Until next time,

ckirk

ckirkart.com