This week my usual sketchbook post has jumped over onto the Volcom blog, where it's in the company of radness among posts from artist Jamie Browne, typographer Gemma O'Brien and creative babe Billie Edwards, to name a couple.
Volcom Tees Me tank; vintage jacket; rings: Rejoice the Hands, Tree of Life, vintage; vintage turquoise necklace.
I love nothing more than an 80s-esque eagle print and an acid wash jacket.
OK, maybe I love a couple of things more ... Scotty, Humble, my Harley boots, Ted Nugent, spiced rum ... but yeah, not that many things.
I've just stocked two limited runs of my favourites of the moment -- Gyrfalcon, and a hand-finished run of Trust the Path -- in my online store here.
Gyrfalcon is a piece that holds a special resonance for me, with the initial sketch drawn on the road in Belgium in anticipation of the arctic shores of Iceland, earlier this year. And for added bonus points, there's a bit of a Yeats reference in there, i.e., The Second Coming, which brings us in a round-about way to Joan Didion's constantly-echoing-in-the-back-of-my-mind book of the same name.
Well, I love nothing more than references that run in vein-like traces to ever greater discoveries, so consider that self, indulged.
It’s a weird feeling, packing everything into boxes, deciding what to keep and what to discard, winnowing away at all that life detritus and accumulation.
I’m a terrible hoarder: in every corner of the house there was something hidden or taped to a wall or safeguarded in a wooden box or a glass jar. There was a piece of ivy growing in a green bottle on the windowsill. Dried paper daisies that I’d collected on the walk back from Nethercote waterfalls during the past summer in Eden. Buckets of urchins on the front porch where my dog couldn’t get them. Polaroids, taken everywhere from Iceland to Barcelona, from Brisbane to Las Vegas. A box of kangaroos jaw bones I bought before Northern this year. Flowers pinned to the wall with electrical tape next to my desk. Leatherworking tools from my dad. Books from my sister. Invitations to weddings, funerals, engagements, christenings.
But I had to sort through it all, and make sure it fitted into a smaller volume than previously. I hope I didn’t throw away anything I’m going to miss.
All because we now live in a new house, in a new suburb, and the vibe seems good. It’s spring, so everyone along the street has amazing gardens, and our little lemon tree still had a couple of stragglers on board when we arrived. There’s a tree on our neighbour’s place that hangs over the fence and almost touches the ground, like a willow, making a little green room at the back of the yard. The floor boards are all twisted and the walls are a bit cracked, but there’s French doors and wooden window sills, and Humble can stand on our bed and stick her head out the window to see who’s come in the front gate. There’s a good Mexican place at the end of our street. Yesterday we found a park with a creek and a dog park and a lookout and miles of native bushland.
And last week I sat at the table on the back veranda and painted and drank and listened to Talking Heads and Notorious BIG until it got dark, and it all seemed really excellent. So I promise I’ll be back again soon, making things and taking photos and chasing ideas around … because, yes, the vibe seems good.
You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back home to romantic love, back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame, back home to exile, to escape to Europe and some foreign land, back home to lyricism, to singing just for singing's sake, back home to aestheticism, to one's youthful idea of 'the artist' and the all-sufficiency of 'art' and 'beauty' and 'love', back home to the ivory tower, back home to places in the country, to the cottage in Bermude, away from all the strife and conflict of the world, back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for, back home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden for you, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.
- Thomas Wolfe
OK, I have to move house in a few weeks, and some of my compulsively hoarded stuff has got to go.
With that in mind, I thought I'd cut down my stacks of extra prints, posters and original artworks by running a little giveaway on Instagram (@raychponygold) ... head over there and check it out, so I can get these artworks out of my cupboards and onto some people's walls!
The basic gist is to regram any of my work, tag it @raychponygold and #heyponygold, and you're done. I'll close it off at 12pm Saturday (Melbourne, Aus time).
OK, so I have some residual out-of-control-hurtling-through-space feelings that I think come from travelling and then trying to readjust to normal life, and then parting lots and then getting sick, and then being told we have to move house and contemplating moving back to the coast and then deciding to stay in the city.
I am tired and I feel weird.
But in among all this life-chaos was a really fun couple of days spent with the other Volcom Ambassadors in Melbourne -- we hung out, had a product night featuring a typography workshop with the super talented and equally ridiculous Gemma O'Brien (@mrseaves101), and put on an all-girls art show.
The pictures above are from the 'Girls, Girls, Girls' show at Juddy Roller gallery, and of my work that was in that show ... What an epic end to that particular stint of out-of-control creativity, connection and laughter.
Also, thanks Life Without Andy for the cute pictures.
Here's a little sneak-peek/experiment/first ditch of something I'm working on in those little slivers of spare time that I occasionally glimpse. Hopefully I can make a bit of progress on this over the summer, and put all the results in the one place for people to look at.
I don't want to say too much about it yet, just that it's a project that means a lot to me, has generated a lot of familial laughter so far, and is very close to home.