ARTIST / SHAUN KARDINAL

All work by Shaun Kardinal

Science in the seventies and white high-socks with one navy stripe, one red. Wood-panelled station wagons and the first time a teenager ever heard Sabbath. Desert lots with satellite dishes, family holidays to look at a waterful, canyon, monument. Psychedelic orange interiors, macrame plant hangers, aviator sunglasses.

These are all things Shaun Kardinal's work makes me think of. Memories that aren't mine, but seem so warm and nostalgic anyway. I have a great love for what this man does, not the least of which is produce affordable art.

In his own words:

I like to create. But, of course, you know it’s more than that.

I am constantly inspired by, frustrated with, raving about, and occasionally crushed by the work around me.

I cannot see enough of it. I must always hear more of it. Even when I’ve worn myself out of it.

I want to make cheap art. Free as often as possible.

Revelations require not recompense.

Which I totally agree with, because every day I'm delighted by the fact that there are just so many things for us to marvel with. So many, in fact, that it's hard to keep up. 

Shaun Kardinal is one of those many.

His Tumblr.

And Flickr.

HAPPY STREET

Images via Bona Drag, LveLand, Minka Sicklinger, Bandit Brand, Daughter of the Sun, Amanda Charchian, Jen Gotch and Pinterest.

Judas Priest baseball shirt and high-waisted jeans. Warm beer in hand and hair all messy.

Singing Waitin’ Round to Die and None But the Rain. Drawing coloured eyes all over everything.

Ditchin’ responsibilities for passions. Spending rent money on new boots and a killer jacket.

Looking for that dusky blue summer sky. Prophetic neons. Heavy under all that silver and brass and turquoise.

Reading up on history and how to see things differently. Tuning for a station that plays Bowie and the Stones.

Shaking sand out of the sheets. Aching dawn. Not going gentle into that good night.

Undisciplined. Sleeping late. Staring at the ceiling while the opening strains of Eclipse strike up on your stereo.

Living heavy // travelling light.

☪

Also, my Bona Drag Boutique shopping list is getting way out of hand. 

DUSKY OPUNTIA

Dusky Opuntia 2013
Longer days, warmer weather, a full yellow moon rising over the suburbs ≜ Hot mornings, cramped planes, familiar salt air filling lungs ≜ Eucalypt fires, a reunited family, hundreds of years of shared memories ≜ Verandah-post wisteria, midday cicadas, the winding road we take to get there ≜ Newspapers, cold beer, my father in boots on the front lawn ≜ Freshwater streams, river-washed gravel, seven people talking at once ≜ Old fireworks, the beat-up ute, walking home through the paddocks at dusk ≜ My book collection, my mother’s garden, the light that is always shining on the hill ≜

WE SHARE SOMETHING SPECIAL

When I was a kid, we went camping in the Tablelands behind the coastal-rural area where I grew up. The Tablelands are a kind of mountain highland separating the coast and the flat, dry plains out west; they were all waterfalls and deciduous trees, sheep and granite boulders. My favourite thing about camping at the Tablelands – apart from jumping off waterfalls and climbing the big fig tree – was that I got to take home bunches of brilliant yellow everlasting daisies and a whole collection of bleached bones of a long-dead sheep.

A combination that pretty much sums up my interests, both as a kid and now.

So when I got back from that camping trip, I was excited to share my find with kids at school. It was standard for me to bring bones or snakeskins or big quartz rocks into class for show-and-tell, because to me, they were just pretty cool things I’d found. But I was disappointed when the other kids thought they were a bit gross. I couldn’t understand it; I mean, they were just things, artefacts. These were the processes I’d read about in encyclopaedias and watched unfold before me on the farm. Just life and death and shed skins and feathers. Just things that are around us all the time.
Now I’m older, I’m still fascinated. My mum is even in on the natural artefacts trip now, she collects bones and feathers around the farm, and cares for my cacti and turns my old cow skulls into succulent planters. And my dad is probably to blame for the natural sculpture preoccupation in the first place: since before I could remember he’d bring home brilliant rosella feathers, water dragon eggs, or gum tree branches with evenly spaced spikes where cicadas laid their eggs. Last time I was home, he’d hung a fox skull on the fence to bleach for me. But other people helped, too. My grandmother, dad’s mum, wrote me a letter and taped a flattened, preserved lizard to the top of the page. And Harry, who lived across the river, gave me a lucky rabbits’ tail, which I kept as one of my favourite toys. I was heartbroken when one of the girls at preschool told me it was disgusting. And when I got my first car, the guy who worked at the petrol station plaited me a red-and-white leather key chain with palomino horse hair hanging from it. When I moved to the city I often got asked if it was a voodoo charm, or if it was human hair, and told it was creepy.
But they were all just things, artefacts.
And that is a big part of what is in my illustrations. These things are not dark or threatening, they just simply are. I hope there is a sense of wonder in it, a sense of reverie. I hope it says something about how crazy it is that these little cells grow and build and make a frame, or a fibre, or a feather, or a shell. It’s crazy that snakes wriggle out of their old skins, that crystals can be so hard and so transparent, that our eyes see things upside down and our brains turn them the right way up. It’s crazy that humans can communicate with a look, that we can sing melodies that resonate in others’ chests, that birds can still fly in the rain, that dogs are like little alien humans that love us. It’s crazy what cacti look like, what platypus look like, what stars look like. It’s crazy that water dragons bury their soft little eggs in gravel, that mushrooms grow in rings after rain.
We share something very special.  

PERCEPTION

  Aldous Huxley compared the brain to a 'reducing valve'. In ordinary perception, the senses send an overwhelming flood of information to the brain, which the brain then filters down to a trickle it can manage for the purpose of survival in a highly competitive world. Man has become so rational, so utilitarian, that the trickle becomes most pale and thin. It is efficient, for mere survival, but it screens out the most wondrous part of man's potential experience without his even knowing it. We're shut off from our own world. -Tom Wolfe

COLLECTIONS

     

BECAUSE THEY SAY YES

... It made me think about the ones I left behind in hometowns and cities further north, the ones I miss desolately, especially when it’s 3am and I’m coming unstuck. Or when things are going bad – or good – and I need someone to be ready with a celebratory-commiseratory Jack’n’coke and a Gunners album cued up at the ready. When I need someone who laughs in my face when I try to intimidate them, who makes me cry when they cry, who can quote, verbatim, the stupidest things we’ve ever said or done, who will sit up until sunrise, chain smoking and talking about the history of rap music.

And the other thing about us, about why the people who love us are good. Because they say yes, they always listen, nod, accept, laugh – they’re always open and hopeful, aiming for collective happiness, not driven to bitching by boredom. They’re honest, and they’re honest about who they love, who they are, and what they can’t stand. They’re honest about what they might not know, and they humbly share what they do. They try to avoid harming anyone or anything else, they avoid misery, conflict, and ordering other people around; they have no sense of entitlement; they are polite, self-deprecating, and they share – both joy and burdens. They like dogs, art, the ocean, skateboarding, music, books, drinking, freedom. They almost never talk about real estate, insurance, celebrities or income tax. They’re fuck-ups, too, selfish, sometimes, but they’re hard to beat. They're amazing, unparalleled, and I miss them and they know exactly who they are.

MINOR REVELATIONS

Over the weekend I discovered that this is an excellent little local band, that I can not be drinking as much as I used to, that Humble is scared of popcorn sounds but is willing to stick with me through the most treacherous of hungover-Daria-watching marathons, and that I was right in the assumption that a lot of people just don't get it. 

And from that, we can discern that I haven't really done anything productive lately. I did, however,  list a few more shirts here and here, and then that's it for those styles. Mostly because screen printing is really difficult and stressful and on the next go around, I'm paying someone else to suffer that job.