Cubism

Nails Keep Growing

For a human, many annoying things are certain. Among those, the obvious are breathing, hunger, thirst, tiredness, labor, rent, taxes, buying anything, and death.

Anyone who does not experience all of those might be inside of a human body, but they're not human. In the same way, a church without God is only a building, and a forest without trees is simply a bare plane.

But the worst of the unavoidables is the growing of my nails.

Much too often, there comes a point where I realize they've grown much too long, a point where I have to get a nail cutter and always end up cutting them way too far.

Pablo Picasso

Fruit

The family of my half-sister, Americans, had never eaten any vegetables or fruit in their lives. Instead, they opted for poor, sugary imitations.

To one of my ancestors, and you don't have to go that far back, our everyday fruit might seem like imitations of theirs. 

But our selectively bred, more extensive, more consistent, more colorful, and less seedy fruit is a sign of the inventiveness of humans and how we can use nature for our benefit.

Although genius, the processed food my sister's family ate is just not as great, as they rely much less on enhancing natural flavors and more on optimizing addictive food. 

That's just personal taste, though. What is objective is that fruit is more beautiful and fun to portray. 

The Bowl

A while before I work on the ideas I develop into art pieces, I send them to myself using WhatsApp. I can only presume that this idea came while making breakfast using a bowl.

I suppose I must've thought about how practical, and maybe even beautiful, the bowl was. And about how universal the tool is to humans and has been for centuries. 

Or, more likely, I was just in the mood for coming up with ideas. 

Sometimes, but rarely, I've got great ideas that, on merit alone, make for great art. If I only were to develop those great ideas, I wouldn't make much art at all. 

And because I don't know any rules about making art, I need to make a lot of (less outstanding) art to improve. 

So, most of the time, I work on ideas that are merely an excuse to work on more art. But don't get it twisted. These ideas are way more important than the great ones: 

The great ideas make a fantastic piece by themselves. But to develop anything good with worse ideas requires putting a special kind of thought into it, which, with time, will make all my art better.

Vincent van Gogh

Are They Looking At You?

It's not paranoia, but whenever I'm out for a walk, it always feels like everyone is looking at me. 

I'm not the most normal-looking person, but I'm sure I'm not that special either. 

Then I start debating myself about whether what I'm feeling is normal. I can't be the only one who feels like people are watching, but that reality wouldn't be acceptable. 

Because it makes me feel so uncomfortable, maybe anxious, even, and if this is normal, well, it couldn't be helped. If it's not, there might be something I can do to prevent it.

Parents In Mirror

The older I get, the more I start recognizing my parents in myself. I'm not even that old yet, so I fear the similarities will only get more apparent with time.

Even though she might not like or admit it, the same is true for my sister. 

I'm sure there are many more positive similarities than negative, but my sister and I love complaining about our parents, and nobody likes being a hypocrite. 

I guess it's a small cost for something as fun as complaining.

Then there's my art. As an artist, it's horrible to be stale. My art isn't like anything my parents have ever done. And when I'm delusional enough, I hope that my art isn't like anything anyone has ever done. 

But it's hard not to compare my parents' work with many of the characteristics that, I think, are important for making good art.

Finally alone

Being alone is fantastic. Or so I tell myself. 

I'm conflicted, as I refuse to engage in behavior that would result in me not being alone (because I don't want to do those things), but sometimes I get the urge to connect to others.

Even then, it's challenging to be completely alone. In my apartment, where I live alone, my many neighbors, make noise sometimes . And otherwise, the cars driving by would.

If all of those are somehow quiet, there's also still this device that puts sounds in my ears, which I could remove, but what's the point?

One of the ways to fully be alone is to go for a walk in a more secluded area. This painting is inspired by walking past the Bosche Broek. It was cold and dark, and within, I saw a tiny figure who seemed all alone. I was, and still am, jealous.

High Water In Den Bosch

I don't know much about many things (like most people). How and why the water inside of Den Bosch goes up or down is one of those things.

Recently, it rained a lot, maybe that's why? But it often rains, and the water rarely consumes the city.

Anyway, so there was high water in Den Bosch, which I walk through frequently, and it was a pleasant sight. 

Some benches I sometimes sit on are now inaccessible because of it. And boats that typically relax on the water are now swallowed up by it.

Sometimes I think about if the rising sea level will inevitably result in much worse consequences for Den Bosch (I guess the Netherlands in general, but who cares about places you never or rarely visit).

There's nothing I can do to help that. So I won't worry about it either. Hopefully, if the water does end up swallowing us all, it'll at least be beautiful.

Haven't Seen The Sun In A While

It's not like I haven't been trying. (Almost) every day, she knocks on my windows, but when I go outside, all I can find are clouds and their tears.

Maybe she's upset. In the summer, she worked long hours, seven days a week, but couldn't find me -- I was inside then. 

She gets too hot sometimes.

And also, my brain made me feel like I was about to explode. I decided that if an explosion were my fate, I'd rather have it be inside.

But now I ache for her warmth. Looking at trees, grassfields, and bodies of water without her around somehow always feels less beautiful. 

When the summer is back, I'll miss the gloomy days of the winter. Yet again, what makes me happy is complaining about what I can't have.

Until the sun returns, I'll hallucinate lush trees, free-flowing water, and green grass fields.

Another Lonely New Year

It's almost 12. I look outside and see groups of people coming from their apartments. Out of nowhere, I feel lonely. 

The feeling wasn't wrong; I had been alone all day, if not all week, but I usually don't feel like it.

Seeing those people reminded me of the parties I had been to in the past -- which I mostly hated going to. I didn't go to many.

People who like parties are faking it. At least, I can't understand it, other than it being an excuse for getting high (which, when I still got high, I had no trouble doing on my own).

I think I feel lonely, not because I'm not around people, but because I don't want to be.

Another Bird Over Water

Don't remember or care where, but I noticed a bird flying over water. What a free creature. Do you think it understands the depths it's flying over with such ease? Few do. 

It reminded me of another time (the 16th of September, 2022) when I saw a similar bird flying over similar water, and I decided to draw it (#386).

So now, because of that loser, I have to feel unoriginal about an idea I feel strongly about. But the joke's on that guy, I never was original. Only the insane ever do anything new, and I haven't lost it yet.

And that's the key: accepting there are probably four billion other people who have had the exact idea you feel so passionate about. 

If you're lucky, you'll convince some that you thought it better.

Even Sober Months Disappear

I'm sure that humans invented language in part so that they could better complain about time going fast. 

So here's the obvious: somehow, it feels like, at least when looking back, every couple of seconds, a day passes. 

Habits are something my brain likes. When I was using drugs, this also quickly became a habit. While it was, time evaporated, and I spent much of it on useless dopamine machines.

In hopes of slowing down time, in part by spending it better, I decided to get sober. 

And now, even sober, spending my time better, months are disappearing.

Bad Year Can't Complain

Comparing your state of mind from year to year seems nearly impossible. 

Last year might've been the worst year of my life (so far) because of some anxiety problems that now constantly seem present. 

It wouldn't surprise me if it were, but I'm uncertain how I could compare how I felt like as a 4, or 12-year-old. 

So, I'll settle for calling it just a bad year.

Maybe one of the worst things about it is that I've got it good in many ways; I work on so much satisfying art, live comfortably, and have little stress in my daily life. 

That may not sound bad to you, but it is -- now I feel like a loser when complaining. 

And complaining is one of the most fun things you can do.

Need To Create Something Good

Inside of everyone, presumably, is an urge to do something meaningful.

But instead, because I don't believe in meaning, I'm trying to make good art -- which, somehow, I've convinced myself is purpose.

And I satisfy this urge probably any time I finish a piece, or at least in the following days while staring at it.

If I stare at it long enough, some hate also arises, which drives me to make more art. 

That hatred never goes too deep: I appreciate what I learned and being able to see the ideas I sat on for, most likely, a couple of weeks.

I keep bouncing between loving and hating a piece until it has been on my wall long enough. Then it feels like it always was. Like it being there is a fact of the universe. 

At that point, I lose the ability to love or hate it.

Hopefully, I never make anything too good. I wouldn't know what to do with myself. 

There's no reason to repeat yourself over and over if what you've already done is as good as it gets -- which would leave nothing else to do.

Most Details Are Redundant

Most details in art (and life) are redundant. I probably only believe this because my work isn't that exact.

Of course, my art does contain detail -- it's impossible not to have detail if you're portraying anything, especially if you've been doing it for a while. 

But when I think about 'detailed' work, I think about purposefully capturing small elements relating to the idea of the art piece. 

Instead, I focus only on what makes the idea engaging. And then, I use details solely to make those few elements more intriguing.

However, someone might call my art redundantly detailed, and I might prefer a needlessly detailed piece over one with few. 

So it's all just arbitrary gatekeeping in the end.

Only occasionally I desire social attention


It's not that they're inadequate -- I couldn't know


For something I likely wouldn't want anyway

Desiring Something You Don't Want

It's so easy, maybe too easy, to talk when I'm not thinking about it; words, sentences, and stories quickly and without restraint come out of me.

Sometimes, I have to think about what to say. Then, I understand how the Buddhist monks do it -- because, it feels like, not even a letter or number comes to mind.

There seems to be nothing more difficult in this world than having to think about conversation.

I can only assume that people desire to be among others much, seeing all the boring high-effort things they don't care about, they do to achieve it. 

Perhaps it's easier for them. Or maybe they don't know how to entertain themselves.

Occasionally, I also have a desire for social attention. When that happens, I might do something tiresome I don't care about, talking to strangers.

And when that's easy, it can be fun, but it quickly reminds me of why I spend so much time alone. It's not that the people are inadequate -- maybe they are, but it's hard to get to know them. 

No, I'm alone because it costs so much effort to do a tedious task for something I probably wouldn't want anyway.

Sober In A Smoke Filled Room

An ex-colleague came to the Netherlands for a concert, and we met for a few hours. He's a nice guy, except for his nasty habit of always having an excuse for not making art, which drives me crazy. 

Even though it frustrates me, I do get it. To get anything done, I have to be slightly obsessed. Similarly, for me, it's impossible to use drugs only once in a while.

My friend wanted to smoke weed, which you can do at a coffeeshop in the Netherlands. Weed used to be a daily habit of mine, which I had wanted to quit probably as soon as it became one. 

So I was reluctant as I hadn't been to a coffeeshop since getting sober. And I knew I wasn't ready to smoke without likely quickly falling back into a habit. 

But I believed I was ready not to get tempted (and I begged my friend to give me nothing if I asked). Honestly, due to recent anxiety, even thinking of smoking makes me nervous, so it wasn't difficult.

That's what this painting captures: anxiously, though unrelated to the setting, sitting in a coffeeshop for the first time since becoming sober, next to my friend who's probably explaining for the fifth time why he can't just paint.

Edvard Munch

Dying Alone

"Sometimes, I feel like I only make art to upset my mom. Probably because she's one of the only people I talk to about my art. 

And honestly, I love seeing her get sad because of my art; the whole point is to provoke emotions. But I also hate knowing my art hurt her. I know she's hurt because of the reality of what I've decided to portray, not because of me, but still, I'd rather see her happy.

Regardless, a family member recently became terminally ill, which inspired this piece. We're no longer in contact, so I'll probably never see them again.

They seemed to have become quite delusional the last time I saw them, and I didn't have much of a relationship anyway, so their passing doesn't hurt. 

Frankly, they're not important enough for a painting dedicated to their passing. But it made me think about myself.

Making friends is easy, but I never want to do anything with those friends. After a while, they all learn not to invite me, as I won't attend anyway. It's not that I don't like them. Some of them are very cool people. The others are nice enough. But for some reason, I prefer to be alone. 

However, I can't help but be afraid of the future. There's a good chance that I will die alone, and I'm not sure if I'm going to regret those decisions. 

So sorry, Mom. I know it's not too late to change, but I'd rather be alone."

Hospital At Night

On the outskirts of Den Bosch, close to where I live, there's a great hospital called the 'Jeroen Bosch Hospital' named after the famous painter. It's hard to miss the building when I go for a stroll.

I have no emotional attachment to the hospital as I'm just not that kind of person, but I've got some memories there;

It's the place where I first saw my nephew, Valentijn, after he was just born, the place where I delivered my excrement twice, and where they stole my blood once.

And where, while doing psychedelic truffles with my friend, we got stranded on a bench because my friend was losing his mind. His father called an ambulance (even though we could've just walked). While waiting, I stared at the hospital, trying to stay sane.

I could lie and tell you this painting is about my memories. But it's not.

The extraordinary hospital, when it gets dark, shines beautifully. And that's the only reason why I decided to paint it.

If it reminds me of anything, it's all the sick people in there, some of them barely surviving or coming to the end of their lives as you're reading this. 

You might be able to make a parallel to some of Jeroen Bosch his paintings if you'd like, but instead, I let the building itself entertain me.

Mushrooms

Mushrooms are, and have always been, something I enjoy finding whenever I do. They seemingly seem to hide for the better part of the year until someday you go outside, and for some reason, anywhere you look, there they are.

They're frankly fascinating organisms. I don't know much about them and don't care to learn more. But from the little I understand, and simply their appearances, they stand out from other organisms, seemingly all being weird alien creatures.

However, if you think hard enough, anything becomes bizarre because it is. So that doesn't mean much anyway.

Stressful dreams

Anxiety is my only friend that follows me anywhere I go. Whenever I have to do something social that I haven't done before (or just not in a while), like the heroic task of going to an unfamiliar store or calling someone I don't know, there's this familiar but forever unpleasant, anxious feeling.

But recently, for seemingly no reason, this anxious feeling is constantly present. Any stress is more stressful, and any otherwise relaxing moments, I'm still on edge, feeling like I forgot something crucial.

When it started, every time I went to bed, I hoped I would wake up the next day feeling normal again.

However, in recent nights, there hasn't been much hope, just fighting my brain to get to sleep. When I finally win the debate and doze off, the anxiety follows me, even in my dreams.

Clocks

During the workweek, I work a couple of very long days so that my weekends last longer. Any hour I spend making art, I need to waste at least 30 minutes, so having a lengthier weekend makes it easier to get art done. 

Now, for some reason, when I finally make it to the end of the week, I mostly spend it doing nothing satisfying: playing games or watching videos. Don't get me wrong, I get some art done, but I could accomplish much more.

I might as well merely sit in a chair, looking at a wall of clocks, where anytime I look at a different one, hours zoom by, wasted doing nothing but thinking: ""I should stop wasting my time."" Knowing I won't.

Cold White Guy

I'm a Dutch guy, so Dutch that if they analyzed my heritage, they would have to invent new terminology to define my Dutchness. If you didn't know, we Dutch people are generally very white, which is also true for me.

Walking is a big part of my life. I couldn't live like this at all in a lot of other (flawed) cities, but here in the great Den Bosch, I generally get by.

It's been pretty cold, not historically, but relative to the rest of the year. I maybe prefer the cold, as now, I never really get hot and sweaty during my walks, but it does mean I get cold.

Recently, during a walk, I looked down at my hands and noticed they were very pink, obviously from the cold, which I've witnessed maybe a couple hundred times in my lifetime. 

And I never really thought much about it. So I must've been desperate for art ideas, seeing as I wrote this one down. But it's an interesting idea and had me wondering what similar experiences others have that I won't ever share.

Kees van Dongen

Only Light In Window

This time of year is so dark here. I thought the shortest day of the year was a month before it was. I made the same mistake last year. And again, when I realized we would have another month of ever shorter days, it made me incredibly sad.

Regardless, something I now realize I've missed in the summer months is that in the dark world, the lightest parts are the insides of houses.

I might have missed this because I don't go outside that much when it's late, so I don't see the darkness in the summer, or because during the summer, people have a lot of time to realize it's getting dark, so they often close their blinds, and somehow they forget to do it when it's dark earlier.

The result is that now, during my walks, I get to look around and see all the fascinating rooms inside all the buildings. 

Bird On Ledge

I don't remember when, but at some point, during some walk, I must've seen some birds on a ledge and thought: 'Now that's a sight I must replicate in my art.'

My sister swears that it was during a walk we went on together. To make her feel special, I told her it was true. Frankly, I don't remember, and often, I need to be alone to get any ideas, so I doubt it.

It's not like my ideas are that deep. They're mainly just ordinary things. But when I put myself in a specific mindset, these typical things make me feel something, so I write them down to work on later. 

And when I start working on those ideas, I regularly forget why I wanted to draw them and how it made me feel. That's fine because I wrote it down, which means that it must be an idea worth developing.

This piece is about a bird on a ledge, looking over a larger landscape. I would love to join the bird and experience the sight.

Easter Island

Stoned Party

I used to get stoned a lot. Nowadays, I'm sober, but I doubt I'm completely over it yet. Regardless, I don't go to many parties, and the ones I did go to, naturally, I would get stoned at. 

Parties are just an excuse for people to get high on whatever substances,  feeling like they're not addicted because they only do so when at parties.

Part of the reason I don't see a reason to go to parties is that I'm not sure if there's any benefit to getting high with people around you over getting high alone.

So, I would choose to get high on my own. I can only imagine that other people get something from the social interactions that I don't. Or maybe it exclusively is that they don't want to feel bad about their drug habits.

But this painting isn't about any of that at all. It's just that Moai reminded me of being at some of those parties. Man, I love Moai. They convey such emotion I can look at them for ages.

The Addict

Being addicted is nice. I like being addicted. It makes life easier. Instead of constantly working to do something meaningful, I can relax and waste my time.

At the end of the day or week, I think about where all my time went. I'll realize that I wasted so much time again and think: "I should spend less time doing these useless things. So I can focus on what makes me happy".

Then, the next time I can spend my time better, I'll choose not to because I prefer not to work to do something significant. No, what makes me happy is to waste my time.

Henri Matisse

The GP

People who accurately understand how they're feeling are geniuses. I'm never sure how I feel, and often, I'm sure I don't know, which drives me crazy. 

One day, I woke up, and I just felt weird. Generally, I hate dealing with people and being in situations that I'm not familiar with, so it took me two weeks to call and go to the GP. 

Unfortunately, at first, I assumed that it was some stomach problem, maybe that I had poisoned myself, as I still relatively recently went to live on my own and, admittedly, some of my health habits were awful.

For two and a half months, the GP and I explored and did tests to understand what it could be. We concluded that it might be something mental.

And I appreciate the GP. When talking to her, I very much felt listened to, although sometimes I'm not sure if she fully got what I said. 

But now, and this will probably take years to understand, I don't know whether to be thankful for her help or upset about how long it took to come to such an obvious conclusion.

End Of The City

"Everything ends, though hard to identify, even cities do, but it's easy to tell that one of my favorite walking spots is on the edge. 

It's not the most peaceful spot in the surrounding area, but probably the quietest while still, maybe technically so, inside of the city. 

There's this great perspective on the beautiful city of Den Bosch, with just before it a highway bringing many people anywhere they need to go. At the same time, if you turn your head, you see this endless sight of birds and green. Which likely isn't inside the city anymore. Who cares about borders anyway? To me, it's the most meaningful part of the city.

And then I get bored and go to the ugly but functioning neighborhood not too far away, happy to be back and to see the many ugly and angry faces."

Balloon In Tree

"Another cold day. It's not even that late, and the sun is gone already. The sun hides away before the day even starts this time of year. It's pretty peaceful out here. 

It was a Thursday, so I ate with my parents. My baby nephew, who they care for, was as loud as always. I taught him some guitar today, but I don't think he gets it yet. 

Finding what to say to my parents when I'm there is always hard. Seeing them makes me happy anyway, but sometimes it's easier to talk about nothing to strangers than to my parents. Maybe it's because I don't want to waste time on stupid topics with my parents, which doesn't leave much else.

Walking is great. Wherever I go, as long as it's reasonable, I walk. My bike also doesn't work, and public transport isn't for me, so I don't have a choice but to love it either.

So, with everything on my mind, I walked back home in the peaceful, cold, sunless world. I was almost home and pretty tired when I decided to look up, where I noticed two balloons in a tree. 

Can you imagine being one of those balloons? All you want to do is go up and travel great distances, but there you are, stuck, until maybe the wind helps you out, too far up for anyone else to reasonably get you out."

Coach's Garbage Containers

"When I quit playing basketball, I had played half my life. One afternoon, I realized that the sport cost more effort than I could care to put in. And as I do when I conclude somewhere or with something, I left the game behind: I haven't touched a basketball since or talked to anyone I used to play with. 

A couple of coaches trained me over the years, and honestly, I mostly don't remember them or what they taught me. Whatever it was, it certainly isn't that helpful anymore. 

But, probably my favorite coach, maybe the best, is whose garbage containers this painting is about.

It's pretty interesting, though also very obvious and predictable, how you can meet people you've known in the past in unexpected ways. I hadn't thought about him in years and certainly didn't expect to meet him again.

So apparently, my old coach is an artist who painted these garbage containers, which happened to be on this street I travel past quite often. 

And now, every time I walk by, I take a good look and think about my old coach and basketball, all the people I played with, and how one day, like the sport, I might drop any art I do as well.

The art has meaning, which I connect with, but the context about who created it and how it relates to me inspired me to make something of my own."

Fighting Sleep (Like Valentijn)

My baby nephew Valentijn, like everyone else, gets tired sometimes. And when he does, his grandparents will prepare him for bed. 

When they do, he's always fighting them, which is ridiculous. His tiredness is unmistakable, and when he finally gets put to bed, he falls asleep instantly.

More ridiculous than that are the adults who, when they get tired, know they should get sleep but stay awake.

I'm a very responsible adult, so for me, this isn't an issue at all. I've got a job, meaning I need to wake up in time, so I'll get in bed early enough to get some good sleep.

But when I don't have my job the next day, I act just like my nephew, but unlike him, there's nobody to put me to bed except myself, so I stay awake, wasting so much of my precious free time for no good reason.

#616 Fighting Sleep (Like Valentijn)

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