If you haven't yet experienced Z.E. Pangborn's work, your eyes are deprived. Get yourself straightened out and beat a hasty retreat over to his gallery. This artist draws like no other. He is able to impregnate (and I use this word most judiciously) sheets of paper with fantastical worlds of loving detail. And amidst this wealth of visual information, his work still maintains an animistic flow that startles. It is alive! It is Symbolist in the most magical sense of that term. But it refuses to be pinned down. The ambiguity, the sense of alien transmission, is palpable. Nothing here is expected, nothing here is like other things. At first I wonder if his influences might include Golden Age illustration master Arthur Rackham. But upon query he tells me that this artist was not known to him when he came into his style. And I feel strange when even calling his work a "style"; it is more like a direct transmission of a hypnagogic state, or a psilocybin vision. These worlds are other than what you know. Look closely, you will be rewarded by multiple viewings. Z.E. Pangborn's work pulses with a strange life. It is a landscape that is sexualised - in the sense that a flower is sexualised - but serene, and universal in its aim. It is alive with the strangest back stories that you have yet to imagine. In this I compare him to Sidney Sime, the great illustrator of Dunsany. Yet his works are, perhaps even more so than Sime's, an illustration of the strangeness and depth behind life. They may of course be viewed simply as gorgeously jewelled worlds, resembling Chinese landscapes in their structure and masterfully restrained use of color - but like the greatest Weird art, the sensibility is truly "outside". It comes from a true place, and takes us to a world of wonder that we never expected...

Go to his gallery now and don't be afraid to be amazed

General Info:

[link]

Watch it live here! The next tournament is July 13. The screen is a bit small but it's free to watch, and you can get a good idea of what it's all about:

[link]

On my way to China for the first time, I had a day layover in Japan's Narita airport. I was whisked away to the nearby town and placed in a room with full day Sumo coverage on TV. Beers and hours of viewing later (while still managing to stare at schoolgirl uniforms in the street below--it really is real!) I was a confirmed Sumo fan. I don't fully understand all the elaborate and visually stunning rituals, nor am I clear on all the rules, but there is something about the metaphysical aspect of the sport that is so fascinating. Like a true martial art, there is a whole mustering of invisible forces going on. Then it explodes into this pure physical attack, over in a matter of moments. It is almost as if there are dragons and tigers swirling in clouds above their heads, battling it out!

Put This In Your Pipe And Smoke It!

I hate to be quoting things at length, but I felt compelled to present this long passage from an 1891 essay on Symbolist art by the French critic and artist Albert Aurier (1865-1892):

"To sum up and conlcude, the work of art as I have evoked it logically, is

1. Ideist, since its unique ideal is the expression of the idea;
2. Symbolist, since it expresses the idea by means of forms;
3. Synthetic, since it writes out those forms, these signs, according to a mode susceptible to general comprehension;
4. Subjective, since the object depicted is not considered as an object, but as a sign of an idea perceived by the subject;
5. And (as a consequence) decorative--inasmuch as decorative painting, as the Egyptians understood it and very probably the Greeks and the primitives, is only a manifestation of an art that is at once subjective, synthetic, symbolist, and ideaist.

And decorative painting is, properly speaking, true painting. Painting can have been created only to decorate the bare walls of human edifices with thoughts, dreams, and ideas. Easel painting is an illogical refinement invented to satisfy the fantasy or the commercial spirit of decadent civilizations. In primitive societies the first attempts at picture making could only have been decorative.
This art that I have tried to legitimize and characterize, this art that may appear complicated and that some chroniclers would gladly call deliquescent, can therefore, in the last analysis, be reduced to the formula of simple, spontaneous, and primordial art. Such is the criterion of appropriateness in the aesthetic reasoning I present here. Ideist art, which had to be justified by abstract and complex arguments because it seems so paradoxical to our civilization, which happens to be both decadent and forgetful of any initial revelation, is therefore, irrefutably, the true and absolute art. Not only is it legitimate from the standpoint of theory, but it is also, in the last analysis, identical to primitive art, to art as it was intuited by the instinctive geniuses of the dawn of humanity."

I love this passage not only because it manages to use the word "deliquescent" but also for it's succinct and rapier sharp (leave it to the French!) stab at defining the true nature of "decorative" art. And I must relate a story from my past to illustrate why this makes me so happy:

From 1993-1998 I lived in San Francisco. During these years I was drawing on a kind of idle basis, only when the mood really struck me. Usually I would go to a cafe, take a shot of espresso, and just randomly blast out some ink drawing in a notebook, without trying to muddy up the inspiration with forethought. Some interesting things came out of this, but it was few and far between. I did, however, enjoy doing art very much, and did build up a stash of drawings that I was proud of in my naive way. Now there was a kind of gallery zone near where I used to be a barista, on Sutter Street, above downtown. I used to walk in this zone, looking at all the shitty art in the galleries and wondering what it would be like to show my drawings. As the galleries would trail off, there was this quiet area of random hotels, flats, and liquor stores, and the last gallery was a place that had prints from engravings in the window. The walls were lined with them as well, kind of Picasso derivative line style art, some actual cool stuff which if I remember right was minotaurs and weird doctors injecting people with giant syringes. My memory is shaky on the art, but I do remember thinking it was kind of cool, but also feeling that my shit was better. For a while I used to only stare at the yellowing prints in the window that seemed to never get sold. But one day, I don't know what kind of wild hair got me, maybe had an espresso too many, I decided to bring my notebook full of weird mythic demonic ink work and just show it to whoever was running this gallery. There was a hunched over dude in one of those crochet type woven sweaters, a white sweater, sitting on a wooden desk in an alcove in the corner, his hands pressed tight against the edge of the desk, arms locked out, head jerking a little bit, talking to the air in bursts. He was old, but his hair was a crazy bright orange red color. Not sure if he dyed it or what, but it seemed quite strange. I was the only one in the gallery, and I walked around staring at the Picasso type stuff on the walls, feeling my stomach jumping around. Finally I made my move, played the young artist kid, honestly asking him to just have a look at my art and tell me what he thought. He actually hesitated, and got this momentary tic of frustration in his withered face, as if there were a bunch of customers clamoring for his prints, instead of the empty nothing silence and just quiet breeze drifting in. Finally he decided to be generous and to look at my art. I spread it on the desk and he flipped through it. His mouth opened a bit to reveal his yellow old man teeth, he took in a breath, and managed to say, "oohhhh, decorative art", in this nasally voice, perhaps even attempting to make it sound kind. After that, I only remember some vague statements he might have made, like "keep working on it" or some such bullshit. Well, he didn't become the badass old mentor cool guy artist my mind had cooked up at first as the outcome to this encounter. I walked out of there with one resolve: old man, I am going to fucking destroy shit with my art, I am going to surpass your shit-stabbing Picasso imitation sad-man art, and come back here some day to urinate in your face in a triumphal arch of golden laughter!

Well, I didn't quite get to work on it too soon, and I certainly didn't get as deep into drawing as I am now with revenge in my heart. What got me into this is something he never could have taught me anyway.

I only recently remembered this whole event, and thought how it could have happened differently. He could have given me some choice words of inspiration, words to cherish for years to come. But he just didn't care. Strange that someone who had the power to offer something so simple on his part, yet so potentially helpful on mine, refused or was unable to do so. He was so caught up in (what I imagined to be) his festering little world, his worn out, tired take on "modernism" that he couldn't be bothered to consider the strange, mystical lines I was birthing from my subconscious, as art. Maybe he hated me just for being a kind of carefree young punk just striding in off the street.

It is interesting to me, the potential reasons for my continued resentment of him. for him. Mainly, it is the ignorance and bigotry he displayed in his slight on "decorative" art. How can a trained and experienced artist use the term "decorative" in that way, as a dismissive term? In fact, it is a staggering display of ingnorance of the origins of art itself. So I guess he never read Schuster (see my Patterns That Connect journal entry) or Gombrich for that matter. Is this a disease brought on by modern life itself, an aberration spread by industrialisation? The Symbolists tried to heal the situation, but they were swept away finally by the Great War, many forgotten, some co-opted into Surrealism and Expressionism.

The situation is improving, at least in art. It seems that Symbolism is having a major resurgence, due to the mass popularity of new underground movements, starting with grafitti and street art and blossoming in the "low-brow" world. Artists are not afraid to tap into ancient forms, to be unabashedly decorative, calligraphic, and to tell stories in their work. These graphics can give us strength, can be totems for life, and serve purposes that ancient art used to.

I wonder if that bitter man has passed on. Maybe next time I go back to California I will try to find that shop. It is almost certainly gone. But if not, if by some strange miracle that man is still there, I will have some interesting things to say to him...

resident clubs:


flora and fauna:


cabinet of curiosities:


watercolor wizard, golden age mastermind, kind human being, friend:


"...the labyrinth of invisible pathways which meander all over Australia...are known to Europeans as 'Dreaming-tracks' or 'Songlines'; [and] to the Aboriginals as the 'Footprints of the Ancestors' or the 'Way of the Law'.

--Bruce Chatwin

Found out about this rapidograph master Daniel Zeller in a Phaidon book entitled "Vitamin D: New Perspectives in Drawing". One of the phrases describing this wonderful artist says he is, "Unafraid to create beautiful, sinuous forms." Now this shows you how far modern art academia has come, in that one must be afraid to create anything that might be pleasing to the eye or well formed. Mr. Zeller appears to be the exception to this, which makes him an alien. On top of that, he uses a rapidograph, which doubles the pleasure as far as I'm concerned. Other fascinating art is highlighted in this book, prominent among it being the ink work of Ernesto Caivano, and a master of abstract ink, Roland Flexner. The book contains some great entoptic type work (Frances Richardson, James Siena, Richard Wright), which I see as a good sign for where art could go...deeper into the ancient mind. Actually, the deeper I look into this survey, the more I find that it is very useful to the artist interested in patternistic art. So try to get it from your local library, or ILL it.

Check out the vid of Zeller. I think he is using a Koh-i-Noor 0.18 nib. And does he know how to wield it! It is very relaxing to watch. Much to learn from how this guy does his thing, and the way he talks about doing detail art is intriguing:

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(be sure to select "pluto: daniel zeller studio visit")

Clubs where I reside:


Epic photos of flora and fauna:


Featured comrades in ink:


"...the labyrinth of invisible pathways which meander all over Australia...are known to Europeans as 'Dreaming-tracks' or 'Songlines'; [and] to the Aboriginals as the 'Footprints of the Ancestors' or the 'Way of the Law'.

--Bruce Chatwin

And if not, then how is all this life-changing, amazing art being created?

After a short hiatus, having run out of anime to watch, I find myself back in the zone, watching some really serious animated fury in the form of Initial D: Fourth Stage. It is a mystery to me how I got into this show, which is obsessively focused on street racing, of all things! I am an avid cyclist with no love for cars! But this show won me over with its deeper 'zen' aesthetic. It is not about the car, it is about the obsession with detail, the absolute tending toward perfection in your art, to the exclusion of all else. It is basically a kind of samurai warrior anime in the form of late night street racing.

But I have been obsessed with anime for five years now, ever since that day, riding my bike around the streets of San Franscisco, when I spied that most beautiful girl's face. I passed by, but couldn't get it out of my head...some kind of bizarre nostalgia had taken hold. I rode on for a few minutes, then went back. She was gone, but there was a movie theater there, and they were playing Cowboy Bebop. On a whim I went in and watched it. Forever changed after that moment. It took me away to another world, the nostalgia flowing like a waterfall over me (is it the colors, the themes, the rhythm of the light? the music? sound effects? the nostalgic sad glow? what is it!!??).

A year later, riding the crest of a massive nervous breakdown which exploded on me after 9 strange months in a northern megalopolis of the PRC, I washed up back in the States; Western Washington State, where my brother and a friend had just set up their prefab home in the woods outside Spokane. They were touring musicians, and after a few days of hanging out with them, wandering to the river, and trying not to reveal too much of my broken state of mind, they lit out on a tour. I was left in the middle of nowhere, alone, and I discovered Hastings, the all-purpose entertainment store; and they had tons of anime for rent.

In my hyper-paranoid, traumatized state, I could barely bring myself to get to the Hastings, but I forced myself, and I reached for the anime on instinct. GTO, Initial D, tons of other things that I only vaguely remember. It healed me, really, I am by no means being sarcastic or ironic. Watching these shows every morning with a cup of black coffee; and every night with a chilled bottle of sake to hand, was what brought me back from the dead. I was so stripped down--my personality, my mind and soul, had fled. I was a void at that time, just a disjointed cloud of scattered nothing, each part not communicating to the other, miles, lifetiems apart...

Those nostalgic colors brought me back...the funny cheesy emotions, the super excitability brought me back. Slowy, clawing moment by moment, hoarding those golden sensations of nostalgia. I would go out in the midday, right after the time when raging lightning and hail storms tear apart the sky, clearing to an apocalyptic smoulder in the West. I would go out in my sweats and pullover, in the running outfit I had never even used in Beijing, and run around crazily, forcing myself to laugh madly, to dive into a controlled freak out and revel in glorious senselessness.

Seeing a gang of deer standing in the road, staring at me, one day, I wept tears of joy. I could see their black eyes, their flanks steaming in the heat, and they were completely unafraid. I ran around the hill until coming to a small wooden plank bridge over a gurgling stream. I would stick my face down towards that stream, hands pressed to worn wood, and try to do push ups. Then head back to the house for shower, reading, eating ice (for some reason this also kept me sane) and watching for more storms. And then in the evening there was more anime. I tried to stretch out the favorite shows, to parse them out and make them last...Crying Freeman...Maison Ikkoku...Golden Boy...

In this way I became human again. And the love for anime has not left. I am watching it right now, and I can still feel that connection. So strange...

.....

And on the subject of Japan, check out this link to an excellent blog I found called Tokyo Damage Report. It deals with a lot of the underworld cultural side of Japan, very fascinating. This link will take you to a section with photos from an amazing art festival of underground art, with great photos and links. I think it is called Design Festa. Look at the insanely good art they have, and these appear to be just 'normal' Japanese artists! You will be blown away!:

[link]

Wonderful clubs where I reside:


Epic photos of flora and fauna:


"...the labyrinth of invisible pathways which meander all over Australia...are known to Europeans as 'Dreaming-tracks' or 'Songlines'; [and] to the Aboriginals as the 'Footprints of the Ancestors' or the 'Way of the Law'.

--Bruce Chatwin