Monks

Dear Matthew Lewis,
Last night was brilliant. David le Dandy brought over a bottle of Bordeaux; La bas by Huysmans; some A2 paper and his compressed charcoal kit. I brought some sugar paper from Poundland and a pastels kit from Spectrum, that witches lair in the dork (sic). For two hours or so we drew each other in preparation for a performance we may be doing later in the year. David was weeping with laughter at his own creations which may give you an idea of how great they were. I laughed til the tears rolled down my cheeks. Both from my own drawings and David's. Truly I felt more confident and at ease with my art than I have been in four years. We must learn to let go. It is the works that somehow exist on the periphery of praxis that become the real deal. I have been so blindly pompous and conceited all this time. Since I was nineteen, maybe before then. Of all the people we lie to - it's ourselves we lie to the most. So...why this love of crudity and disproportion? Why so stubborn all this time? It's what defines me and makes me stand apart, blowing raspberries at art destiny and history - why worry if it's just a posture? Others have thrived on much less, much more trivial concerns. Jorg, that bastard! He said my ideas could be torn apart and scattered at a moments notice. But he forgot he could just as easily be taken apart piecemeal by someone above him. Stop playing God. Wake up and enjoy yourself. I have a brilliant drawing of me looking like I have crept from Primordial ooze and shook the silt from my scales. It's stuck on my slanted ceiling. The idea is I'll wake up and immediately laugh. Victorious in something I can't pinpoint, even before the day proper has begun. My room is slowly coming to life: anyone who traversed the cabin will remember my wonky magic. And so, it's getting better, and I'm ready to pursue again. Poised.

LOVE Sean Beaningsten Creator , E

Wonderment

Men count up the faults of those who keep them waiting. This seems to me a perfect appendage to today's chapter. I feel strange and distant, caught inbetween small trappings of anger and worry and yet a blissful assurance; so rare these days; in my own abilities. Just to sit down and paint for a few hours - stopping only because I felt sick from the turps I was inhaling, then folding out the colours from the brushes on an old work shirt. It is a small satisfaction to do this. To use something functionally, that I would otherwise throw away or in a less likely mood, burn in a hole puckered oil can with four imaginary hobos / oracles. 

I guess I feel like a bit of an outsider still, but I must relish this time, I know from experience it won't last. Better to be aware than indifferent. Ultimately anything that brings me a crumb of what I want will keep me going, albeit with mighty hungers. To look at me you wouldn't immediately think I was a devourer; then again I think we all have the capacity to surprise ourselves. How many more surprises for me then, outside of my sky room, sour mouths? Right eye sore. Right hunger. Wrong way to keep me interested.