Hating the gift

Lisa met Johny in a comment section for a post about a new pair of shoes that, for a couple of days, everyone seemed to talk about. 

They discussed and bonded over their shared hatred for the original poster -- who, in their opinion, wasn't cultured enough to voice their opinions.

They quickly started talking more and developed a close relationship rooted in complaining about pop culture; they fancied themselves unique.

However close they might have been, their physical distance did not help to resolve their otherwise lonely and empty existence.

Generally, most distances are reachable. Unfortunately for them, a human could not travel this route. It just was not possible.

But when Johny went to the post office to send back a recently no longer trendy sweater (he had ordered it when it was still stylish, it arrived late and now clearly wasn't,) he noticed that he could fit into the grandest allowed box.

So he shipped himself to Lisa, but the moment their eyes met, they found another shared thing they could hate -- each other.

Long legged monster

If you don't know, you may be one of them, but in this world, there are a lot of monsters. There isn't much of a problem being a monster, and if you want to be friendly, you might choose not to call them that -- what is a 'monster' anyway? But there is no need to be friendly around these parts. 

I played, learned, and grew like anyone else, with similar friends, so you might've called me normal, that's at least how we viewed each other.

Only many years into high school did we learn that not everyone has such long legs. We called the others 'monsters' back then, thinking: "What a weird existence must it be; how could they reach the tree tops or climb steep hills?"

When I turned 20 and felt like most at that age that I knew & had seen it all, I decided I wanted to explore the world that allegedly was full of weird monsters, including ones with short legs.

Then I started to learn that in those other parts, I was the monster. Even though the short-legged weirdos could use my help with many tasks otherwise performed with uncomfortable or expensive tools, they all ran away.

Due to that ostracization, what used to be my benefits became my shame, and slowly, every day, I became a little bit more like the monster I appeared as. 

Finally, only an unreachable moon accompanied my heroic journey of leisure.

Slave to impulses

Whenever I've got any semblance of a good idea, which often is just something to complain about, I've got a tendency to express it multiple times in a short period. 

So, this is just another piece complaining about being hungry but then disguised by something more abstract to not bore you or me with a stale story (and to appear more intelligent).

Impulses drive everything you've ever done and ever will do. Which I don't think is much of a problem most of the time, but some of those impulses will be for things you know you shouldn't do. 

You may give in, suffering the consequences you knew would exist, then later complain about those, or you can, and will often, not.

Maybe you'll try very hard never to submit, you'll get none of the drawbacks and none of the dopamine, and now you're bored; is this even a life worth living?

And once again, you'll go back to a hedonistic lifestyle that'll at least keep you entertained while you're capable of it: this is happiness.

Locked out

Then I arrived "home" without even a keyfob in my possession. They took that away from me, too. I should've just rang the doorbell of one of my neighbors.

It took about an hour for another resident to walk by, and from the moment I noticed them, I somehow sensed they would be using a different door. Instead of following them, I decided I'd rather wait some more.

Only thirty minutes later, someone from the correct door arrived. I mustered up the courage to follow them, and when they were about to open the door, their keyfob didn't work -- the door, not my keyfob, was broken this whole time. 

We exchanged some quick words, but I couldn't handle the internal awkwardness and decided to move to the other door.

Nobody else would arrive for two hours, so I finally rang a doorbell. When I pulled the front door, I noticed that someone had put a screw in the door so anyone could open it. Who knows for how long this had been the case?

Of course, I learned a lot from the situation -- mainly that I should buy a ladder so I could climb onto the first floor when necessary.

Happily walking my life away

There are many ways you can travel to most locations you need to go, and there's only one almost universal: walking.

Even though that's an intriguing idea, it doesn't influence my love for the transportation method much.

Frankly, I struggle to understand why I love it so much -- I'm Dutch, so maybe it's because biking is just too prevalent, making walking another way to feel unique. 

My parents think I'm crazy. They also think it's weird that I don't repair my bike or get a driver's license. But I'm content with walking -- toward public transit if necessary.

Walking seems to suit me. I don't move or go outside enough, or rather, I wouldn't if it weren't for walking. There's also so much time in our lives, and a lot of it we waste on dopamine machines; walking is an alright alternative to that.

And finally (and this is a secret), it's how I find all the ideas for my art. I'm not sure who leaves them there, but throughout the city (and surrounding area), someone ditches all these great, free ideas I pick up, which nobody else ever seems to. Maybe they're all too busy to look around.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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."

Beautiful Boring LIfe

Like everyone, I'm addicted to keeping myself entertained, meaning I almost always have some video and music playing. Even that often isn't enough, so I also frequently find myself scrolling through social media. 

I like walking, it's another good way to keep myself busy, though even while walking I'm always listening to something. Sometimes, often but not always, while sitting on a bench or during a walk, I remove my headphones, and I sit, look, and listen.

And it makes me feel some weird way that I don't know how to explain, but the best I can do is to call it the beauty of our boring lives.

Tree In Field

While sitting on one of the great benches of Den Bosch, reality hit me; I was out of ideas for things to paint, which often happens as I paint a lot. 

Actually, honestly, I had already realized this at home, which was the cause of this particular walk. It took this bench to inspire ideas, so I wanted to give it more credit.

Nonetheless, after some time walking, I found a bench worthy of sitting and sat down. I documented six ideas over fifteen minutes of concentrated sitting. The two previous paintings were conceived here, and the next three ones will be, and obviously, this one was also.

This idea was about my surroundings at the time. I looked forward and noticed a lonely tree in this intensely large field. It wasn't a great or meaningful idea, but a good enough excuse to paint anyway, so I wrote it down. 

That's the 'meaning' of this piece: a beautiful tree in a massive field from a fascinating perspective that hopefully makes you feel some way.

Zen Dageraad captures the essence of an early 20s song with a vibrant depiction of solitude, inspired by Vincent van Gogh's bedroom painting.

Empty Bed Blues

Drawing inspiration from the melancholic notes of the early 20s song, 'empty bed blues', Zen Dageraad embarked on a journey to capture its essence on canvas. The rhythm of the tune awakened memories of Vincent van Gogh's iconic bedroom painting, which Zen Dageraad channeled into his artwork. Presented is a room bathed in intriguing hues: a stark blue bed and an equally desolate chair take center stage, surrounded by verdant green walls. These walls come alive with splashes of pink artwork, while a solitary yellow window stands as a beacon of hope or perhaps solitude. Adding depth and dimension, the vibrant orange floor is meticulously divided into myriad shapes, each varying in shade, creating a rich tapestry of color and emotion. It's a visual ode to loneliness and contemplation, resonating with the soulful tunes of its musical muse.

Zen Dageraad's artwork pays tribute to cherished friendships of the past, depicting vibrant figures on purple with a warm red backdrop.

Friends From The Past

Zen Dageraad's evocative art piece captures the essence of timeless friendships and the inevitable drift that life can sometimes impose. From a young age of 12, Zen has been deeply contemplative about the transient nature of relationships. This artwork serves as an homage to those cherished friends left behind over time, a silent wish for their well-being and prosperity. Two vibrant green-blue figures, symbolizing these cherished bonds, stand poised on purple platforms, indicating the pedestals on which these memories are placed. Contrasting this, the dual shades of red in the background evoke a mix of warmth and melancholy, representing the emotions tied to such reflections. Through color and composition, Zen skillfully conveys the poignant message of longing and remembrance.

Experience the cold embrace of the pines in Zen Dageraad's painting inspired by Smog's song, enriched with whimsical colors and a nostalgic musical narrative.

In The Pines

Drawing inspiration from the musically rich soundscape of Smog's "In the Pines", artist Zen Dageraad ventures into a cold, mystical realm in his work. Although the exact narrative of the song remains a mystery to Zen Dageraad, its essence evoking images of a pine-laden escape, carries through in his artistry. The artist first crossed paths with the tune through a heartrending cover by Nirvana, "Where Did You Sleep Last Night", adding layers of historical and emotional context to this painting.

Amidst the soft, light blue backdrop, Zen Dageraad plants a thicket of pines with contrasting orange trunks and verdant leaves, symbolizing both tranquility and stark reality. A pink railroad whimsically cuts through, bearing a purple train with bright yellow wheels, a literal and figurative vehicle transporting viewers into the chilliness of the pines evoked in the song. The fusion of colors not only accentuates the cold but brings a surreal warmth, an homage to the tune's ambivalence.

Zen Dageraad's artwork captures Den Bosch's railway essence. Vivid red tracks, yellow beams & blue ground shapes accompany a poignant poem on wanderlust.

Railway

In the vibrant city of Den Bosch, an art piece captures the essence of movement and stillness, intertwined with the soul's yearning for adventure. Zen Dageraad, drawing from the hum of daily life, has crafted an image that resonates deeply with the wanderer in all of us. His piece portrays a striking red railway, each section painted with varying intensities, standing bold against yellow beams of light. This scene is further contrasted by a blue ground, meticulously divided into unique shapes, each filled with its own shade of blue. As one gazes upon this vivid depiction, the words come to mind: "watching the tracks, journeys flowing away. Yearning to go, yet anchored still in Den Bosch." This is not just art; it's an emotion, a call to the wanderlust that lies dormant within us.

Chopin

An emotive art piece that plunges into the psyche of the renowned composer, Frédéric Chopin. Through a stunning blend of colors and elements, this piece visually represents how Chopin, known for his introverted nature, would seek solace in his piano, particularly his emotionally-laden preludes. The artwork’s focal point is a tear, meticulously constructed using a triad of colors, symbolizing the depth of emotions flowing through Chopin. Additionally, the face, depicted in a singular hue, portrays a sense of detachment with the nose turned away from the piano, while the eye engages the viewer, seeking understanding and connection.

The background’s amalgamation of three colors sets a poignant tone, harmonizing with the piece's central theme. Accompanying the art piece is a contemporary poem, which converses with ‘Freddy’ (Chopin), appreciating the enchanting yet painful world he shared through his music. #507 Chopin is an eloquent tribute, thanking the maestro for the timeless gift of his music.