Gibberings

Dad told me never to use XTREE when he wasn’t in the room.

January 5, 2009 ~ 01:56:00 PM * -08:00ST






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Log # 451

One Hot Minute, With Noah

Noah: I wish Boners Ahoy could come in the soft ‘n’ chewy variety.
Elizoo: That is contrary to the very nature of a boner, my friend.
Elizoo: You’re talking about Flaccid Smax.
Noah: This harsh reality leaves me disappointed, unfulfilled.
Elizoo: I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad boners.
Noah: Yes, why have you presented me with this sixth-grade embarrassment, this arousal at the sight of an octogenarian husk, this jailhouse sting?
Elizoo: I did it for the lulz.
Noah: Do you has regrets?

popdickle [Livejournal]

by Eliza Gauger on August 22nd, 2008 ~ 01:59:55 AM
Slotted into Dialogue | No Comments »
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Log # 449

2008-08-21: Coagulated Twittering

by Eliza Gauger on August 21st, 2008 ~ 11:59:59 PM
Slotted into Twitter | No Comments »
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Log # 450

Oh, It’s Not So Bad…



Oh, It’s Not So Bad…, originally uploaded by vebelfetzer.

I’m in the throes of deciding which half-finished paintings get
priority, and which go to which September art show (there are two,
overlapping, meaning I must split up everything that isn’t a print).
Methods of “dealing” have included shoving every bit of clutter into
the bedroom and shutting the door on it, and just focusing on keeping
the main staging grounds relatively rubbery, and workable. On the far
left, in the square canvas on the pretty easel, is Oil and Hell in the
Sky, a commission at a particularly awkward stage in development. The
big guy is the Vacuum Traffic Controller, who has acquired a
background since this was taken. His end is in sight. The thing
behind him is another giant portrait in the very beginning stages of
development, tentatively titled “the Priesthood”. On the drafting
table, painted on a particle board roundel, is the Cardiographer. The
white rectangle above her is one third of another commission, an
undead triptych with Catholic flair.

by Eliza Gauger on August 21st, 2008 ~ 10:30:18 PM
Slotted into Uncategorized | No Comments »
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Log # 448

2008-08-20: Coagulated Twittering

by Eliza Gauger on August 20th, 2008 ~ 11:59:59 PM
Slotted into Twitter | No Comments »
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Log # 447

2008-08-19: Coagulated Twittering

by Eliza Gauger on August 19th, 2008 ~ 11:59:59 PM
Slotted into Twitter | No Comments »
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Log # 446

2008-08-18: Coagulated Twittering

by Eliza Gauger on August 18th, 2008 ~ 11:59:59 PM
Slotted into Twitter | No Comments »
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Log # 444

Memories of Spleen

A long conversation, in the mode of self-pity, with J. Goldberg outside the Nucleus Gallery, out in the LA balm. Inspired by the stylistically carefree artists on the walls inside, we rumbled over familiar turf: generalized self-doubt; the tug-of-war between pushing ourselves to develop new ideas, vs. the necessity of retaining some kind of “voice” from piece to piece; having too many ideas; having too few; feeling left behind or, worse, as if we have missed our chance entirely. We growled at the pop-art darlings’ beautiful hardcover books. “I wish I could draw the same thing over and over again without being tortured with boredom. I’d be in Juxtapose, too.”

It’s the same old nonsense, really. We all feel so goddamned lonely, so precious and special in our arty little hamster balls. Bonking into each other and rolling around in soiled wood shavings like idiots. FOLKS IF I COULD JUST DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO MY GIGANTIC UNFINISHED PAINTING FOR A MOMENT (TORTURED GENIUS OVER HERE). Do I really need to keep picking up and gessoing-over all those discarded Berkeley canvasses? And then when something is done, really done, like a Bachelor’s or a commission or even a personal work, the feeling is less triumphant than it is terrifying: what next? Jesus god, that took eight thousand times longer than it should have, the client probably doesn’t even want it anymore, where is my tea I just set it down five seconds ago, is this tea from yesterday or is it just cold and sloppy, I can’t remember if I got paid for all those book illustrations I finished last year, I wonder if I pretend to have worms if I can take my sketchbook into the bathroom for a couple hours a day while I’m at work, oh fuck where is my to-do list, did I even make one, fuck fuck fuck something comes after this and I’m just not sure if it’s worth the time/trouble/miniscule amount of money they’re offering.

I try to remember a time when I felt triumphant, or even “good”, finishing something. I wonder how I managed to almost completely destroy my ability, and motivation, to write for pleasure, just in the what, year and a half? that I worked for Kotaku, Wired, et al. It’s unbelievable.

But I am here, that is to say, away. Out in space, out visiting, where the insects are plentiful and the views aren’t so ordinary yet. Tomorrow evening will be the journey “home” (as much as I can claim to have such a thing.)

I leave you on a dangle. Imagine the sound of a record being ripped off the table.

by Eliza Gauger on August 17th, 2008 ~ 05:04:05 AM
Slotted into Artwork, Berkeley, Comics, Demons, Depressing, Hate, Writing | 1 Comment »
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Log # 443

2008-08-16: Coagulated Twittering

by Eliza Gauger on August 16th, 2008 ~ 11:59:59 PM
Slotted into Twitter | No Comments »
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Log # 442

2008-08-13: Coagulated Twittering

by Eliza Gauger on August 13th, 2008 ~ 11:59:59 PM
Slotted into Twitter | No Comments »
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Log # 441

2008-08-12: Coagulated Twittering

by Eliza Gauger on August 12th, 2008 ~ 11:59:59 PM
Slotted into Twitter | No Comments »
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