Cubism

Endless hair

If you're struggling with your hair, I've got some tips. I'm qualified because I've got the longest and most beautiful hair in my city (being selectively blind.)

My hair is actually endlessly long. 

It started because whenever I came back from the barber, I wasn't happier with how I looked, so I stopped having it get cut --  and it grew.

I wasn't concerned with how long it got until one weekend someone pulled on the end of my hair, and when I turned around, I couldn't see them, so I spent the rest of the weekend trying to find the person, but I could not, because I could not find the end of my hair, as it doesn't exist. 

I guess that upset me enough that I forgot all about the tips I had. But here's one that is helpful: don't let it get this far.

Helping start a car

Imagine all the people you walk past you don't hear because of your headphones, a task only challenging for those who don't use them (much), but please try.

For me, they're not a tool for isolation, however, it's a nice additional perk. Still, when I hear a stranger asking for attention, I anxiously give it to them.

This one time, a guy in his 'parked' car at the side of a street in Den Bosch told me that because the car hadn't moved in months, the battery died, and he asked me if I could help push start it.

I didn't have anything better to do, so skeptically, I helped him. Together, we revived the car, and while honking, he drove away.

Another person that I'll likely never come across, and even if I did, I wouldn't hear or see.

On being Zen

Depending on who reads this, you may not know I'm Zen. I've always been and will be for the rest of (my) time. That isn't a comment on my state of mind, which often is either quite Zen or the exact opposite; 

It's part of the first names my parents gave me.

I'm not sure if I've ever hated it, but I've grown to like it a lot. Who doesn't like being unique in something? Even though it's not something I've had to put any effort into, it still feels good.

It's not always clear to me what it means to be Zen. Actually, it's only rare that it's not, but even then, I'm always sure I'm more authentically Zen than most gurus who might claim they are. 

Not that it matters.

Art my parents hate

The title of this art piece is a lie, but it's more accurate than most real stories you love, which are either filled with falsities or cherry-picked -- this is what you want.

So, the title of this art piece is the truth.

My mom (in friendly words) keeps telling me about how she doesn't like my recent poems. What she means, and where she is correct, is that they are not great at communicating my ideas. 

It's the same reason I struggle to read poetry; it just doesn't resonate. But still, I'll keep creating poems that I likely wouldn't enjoy had I not made them.

Until I find a way to change them, and by then, she'll have forgotten that she was a big reason behind the change. 

My dad doesn't even hate my poems; he doesn't care for them at all. They mean nothing to him.

Success wouldn't mean making my mom, who studied the English language at some university, like my poems. I'm sure I could make her care. 

No, real success means making even my father, who surely influenced my indifference to language, care.

Innate hero complex

I'm talking to an art collector and explaining my art in a museum. I keep saying these cool-sounding, fascinating sentences. Any question they ask me, I somehow know the perfect response to -- they're amazed by my cleverness.

I turn the corner, and an ordinary (for Den bosch) yet beautiful building that I've looked at a thousand times before but for the first time see appears and slips me out of any other thought I might've had, in this case, what I think is a daydream.

I don't KNOW if it's a daydream, but unlike other thoughts, in all of them, I'm in scenarios where I'm a hero of some kind. It's hard to talk about because it's embarrassing and not something you remember. 

So I'll let your imagination fill in the blanks; it's either grandiose fantasies, what I should say to my colleagues or family when I see them again, or what I should've said in the past.

Seeing yourself waiting

The topic of this art piece is a boring situation. Few people get excited by having to wait. I certainly don't care much for it, but I'll try to convince you why you should.

If you're waiting and look around, you will notice something interesting, at least if you allow yourself to be entertained by the otherwise unremarkable.

This piece specifically was about waiting for the train. Nowadays, I don't take the train often, but I recently wanted to go to the office, so I had to. 

Next to the countless people, which already makes paid attention worth it (nothing else to spend it on either), I also noticed an old lady carrying four bikes, the bluest tomatoes, rain without clouds, a dog walking his human, and a flying train, all just within the one trip.

But the most intriguing thing I've ever noticed was myself on a different platform. As you may expect, I was waiting, and to my concern, I looked bored, like I wished I would be anywhere else (but I couldn't). Seeing myself in that state made me incredibly disappointed.

Boy in skirt

Vaguely, I remember a boy in a skirt at one point, lying on a couch, sleeping, sucking his thumb. I don't and can't know if it's true, but lying there, he looks so unbothered by it all, just living his life exactly how he wants, at least as far as a child can do whatever he wants.

My parents try to make me believe that I used to be that boy, but I know that can't be true. I've never been so chill, not even while I'm sleeping, or at least it's hard to imagine.

I also couldn't imagine wanting to wear a skirt, but my parents tell me it's true. There's really no issue here. I don't want to wear skirts anymore, if I did, I would. 

Except that I'm scared that they took that decision from me and that I wouldn't want to, even if I tried, and if I did want to, I wouldn't do it.

But it's easier to not think about it and to do what I enjoy. It's not like I'm that normal anyway.

Looking All Ways With My Headphones On

When I'm about to walk homeward from my weekly visit, my mom, after I've just declined her offer to drive me back, says:  ""Be careful, especially with those headphones on.""

If I wanted to die, I wouldn't do it by walking off into traffic, so, of course, I'll make sure to be careful -- looking every way imaginable multiple times. 

Honestly, and please don't tell her this, it's not the headphones that are dangerous; I can hear the cars. It's the hair that, more than my glasses, makes me practically blind.

Sometimes, I make a weird turn, and all roads start going in different directions and dimensions. I still look all ways, but it's quiet, like cars never existed, for the whole 50-minute walk.

Then, the insanity inflicted on me is more dangerous than traffic could ever be. Luckily, when I'm back home, working on my art, I'll forget all about it, and my parents, and the need to look all ways.

Staring At My Incomplete Work

If you ever caught me like this, which you never could, it would be easy to assume that despair is tormenting me.

Yes, I might be frustrated, but somehow, this is the most satisfying and worthwhile activity to pursue.

Often, I complain about not having enough time (to work on my art). And this takes many minutes, multiple times a day when I would otherwise be busy painting. 

While torture wouldn't be able to uncover what I'm thinking while sitting there, I've never wasted a minute staring at my incomplete work.

Then, when a piece is complete, I never look at it with the same passion. I still love (and hate) it, but there's so much less to see when you've already made all the decisions.

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.

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.

An introspective and captivating self-portrait by Zen Dageraad Visser. A symphony of symbolism and self-reflection, this piece embarks on a journey into the artist's inner world. The canvas is adorned with sweeping locks of hair, representing not only a physical attribute but also an allegory for how the artist’s tresses often cloud his own vision. Adding a dash of humor and desire, a pronounced moustache takes center stage, underlining Zen's personal aspirations.

Additionally, the artist's eyes are veiled behind glasses, which may signify a protective barrier due to his introverted nature or a simple divergence from his usual 'Kees van Dongen' style eyes. The background intermingles three harmonious colors, subtly whispering of complexity and unity.

Accompanying the artwork is a whimsical poem, which reinforces the elements and adds depth to the narrative. Through light-hearted verse, it invites viewers to experience the essence of Zen, who symbolically dawns as a reflection of everyman. In #508 Zen, Dageraad Visser brilliantly intertwines raw self-portrayal with evocative symbolism.