(artist) screaming into void

The biggest problem with cliches is how good they are, yet how unoriginal it feels to use them.

Maybe being unoriginal shouldn't matter much -- maybe most cliches were created as other cliches dressed up in a fancy enough coat to make everyone forget their nature.

Even what I wrote before seems cliche, but hopefully, my dressing will be tasty enough for you to be saturated. If not, well, I'm not sorry. You've got enough time to waste a minute on something I wrote.

Anyway, I'll keep this one short so that you won't have to feel bad if my pretentiousness isn't able to impress.

The working title of this painting was 'A real artist happily screams into the void,' but I didn't feel like writing such a long title, so I shortened it, perhaps a little too much. 

A real artist doesn't and can't ever exist, but if there was one, I imagine they would have to be able to make art because they want to make art and be happy doing so, even if nobody else notices or cares.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

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.

Date in the wrong city

Do you ever run out of your house in a frenzy, almost late, after checking you've got everything you need, only to remember you forgot something when you're just too far not to want to go back again?

I don't date much, but I'm trying to see what more than art (& family) I can appreciate in life. Anyway, I had a date, we were supposed to meet at the train station, and when I was halfway there, I realized I had forgotten my shoes and socks.

When I arrived at the train station, I felt a million eyes on my feet (there were probably none, if not only a few.) I was on time, and when I looked at my phone, I noticed a message from my date; they had arrived and asked where to go.

In this case, straight ahead of oneself, does, in fact, take one very far, or at least far enough to where they needed to go. 

So, their question confused me. They told me we should meet at the cafe, but when I arrived it was closed, they confusedly told me it really wasn't.

As my anxiety was peaking higher than ever thought possible, I felt the world slipping, looked around for cameras to make sure I wasn't in a prank show of some kind, then got a message from my date; they had mistyped the name of Den Bosch and had accidentally gone to Den Haag instead.

So all by myself, I walked through Den Bosch on now cold feet, carrying me to the beautiful places I had seen a thousand times, thinking: maybe there is no need to explore any further than this.

Ruined food

If you've ever wanted to do anything exemplary, you'll know that that journey is filled primarily with failures. 

Those who end up with anything worthwhile may start seeing them as successes; you overcame them after all, didn't you? That's a success, right? 

Maybe so, but that's a little optimistic for my blood. So, I'll call it what you did at the time -- failures. 

There's a discomfort I get from that struggle that I hate to feel as much, if not more, than how much I love the satisfaction of success. 

And here's an observation: that struggle isn't very similar to hunger, except that they're both undesirable yet inevitable. And cooking food, which you may have to do if you get hungry enough, is one of those things you can fail at. 

Let's say you decide to experiment with your food. But while cooking, that oh-so-common uncomfortable feeling starts spreading through your veins while a worry pops up in your brain: "What if I ruin this food?"

Your hungry state of mind isn't helping to calm you down, and after cooking, you prepare yourself to eat -- it smells alright, but for some reason, you fear the worst.

You take a bite, and it's terrible. You would have almost preferably gone hungry for the rest of your life than taste that, but here you are.

While holding back the tears, you walk to your window, where you hungrily stare at the buildings. Even in all their beauty, they can't solve your hunger-filled disappointment, but you have to work your way through it, at least that is, if you still want to continue learning.

Anxious dissociation

We all know that the universe, and life in general, is bizarre. There's no way to talk about it without repeating what billions of others have thought and without sounding pretentious.

And worst of all, it doesn't seem like anything meaningful is ever actually discussed when talking about it. So I won't bother.

Anyway, so one day, while I was walking through Den Bosch, or perhaps while I was sitting at home, it doesn't matter. I was lost in thought, thinking very deeply about something simple.

But I could not wrap my mind around it, which scared me. How could something so straightforward be incomprehensible?

I felt like if even something like that didn't make sense anymore, how could anything else? I'm not sure how long I felt like this, but at some point, I continued walking through the beautiful city while sitting in my apartment, accepting that the most bizarre thing seems true -- it's all just real & normal.

Caffeine High

There you are, after your fifth black coffee, feeling high & well, seriously on edge, exactly how you like it, looking at another cup standing on the coffee table in your room.

You're unsure what you're thinking about when you snap out of it and realize you don't own a coffee table. You like to live that way, lean, nothing that isn't strictly necessary.

Afraid that this is it -- you're finally losing your mind, you look outside the window and notice another room, which is mostly empty, with only a lamp, a carpet, and, of course, another window.

Nice, minimal, exactly how you like it, which calms you down enough to look back. When you do, you notice a door, which you decide to inch towards to try and reach the tableless room, but the door doesn't feel like opening right now. 

So with nothing else to do, you continue losing your mind, going in loops in your mind, again and again about how you're losing it, until finally:

You stand up from the couch in a tableless room, exclaiming: 'And that's why I stopped drinking coffee,' which you did after just starting again four weeks ago.

It seems like the whole thing was just in your mind; perhaps it was a daydream, whatever that means. For some reason, you're scared that if you had continued drinking too much coffee, you'd lose your mind, which is ridiculous, primarily because -- I think you already have.

Grandma's ring

Some memories are questionable: is it something you honestly remember, or is it a story told to you so frequently that it starts to feel like you do?

But this story is about memories that are as authentic as any other.

I remember standing in this large room with tall ceilings, a friendly home, in front of a closet. 
I wanted something from that closet, but this large, aged woman would not allow me to get it until I did something that scared me -- ask for it.
When my desire for sweets overcame that anxiety, I finally asked for and received my candy.

Recently, that memory changed a bit, but I'm still sure it's authentic.

So, instead of a closet full of candy, my grandma is handing over a ring with a red gemstone. She tells me I'll have to grow to fit into the ring as it's too large for my tiny fingers.

Even now, 19 years later, that ring is still too large, and it's unlikely for my fingers to grow. Perhaps she meant that for me to grow would mean overwinning the anxiety of having the ring be made smaller.

But she probably didn't, as I assume she was only human.

We'll never know, as not long after the memory, she died. Any day now, I'll have known the ring she gave me longer than I ever knew her.

I wore that too-large ring anyway and broke it before ever really using it, and now, in my memories, there's no candy, and she's handing over a broken ring, as it always seemed to have been.

Shadow Master

When I stand up from lying on the floor, I may engage in what was once one of my favorite activities, which has now become a challenge to entertain: going on a walk.

And if I'm lucky, the sun will shine, and I quickly may again learn why I once fell in love. Looking around will expose too many perspectives worthy of being painted than I have time to paint.

I'll walk a similar enough route to allow me to fall in love with the surroundings, yet different enough to keep me from getting bored.

One time, while standing in front of these beautifully boring buildings, I did something absurd. I'm still not sure what got into me, but while standing in the hot sun, I looked down, and you'll never believe me when I tell you what I saw -- my shadow. 

But it wasn't just my shadow. Instead of the shadow following me, I felt like I was following my shadow. Devastated by this realization, but knowing I had no choice, I walked the route I was supposed to walk, getting inspired by the perspectives that were supposed to inspire me while thinking about who was leading who.

Lazybones

Looking up from the floor is a mesmerizing perspective. You get to witness this part of the room that you frequently see but rarely pay attention to.

The otherwise unappealing sight has recently become a big part of my entertainment. Once in a while, I lay there for half an hour or so, often at least once a day.

And I could not tell you what I did while laying there -- though, of course, I know because there isn't anything to do.

I've become the laziest person on earth, hopefully having my recent medication to blame. Because the alternative is something I don't think I can accept currently.

Even making my art is something I have to force myself to do, but maybe this has always been more true than I'd like to think now.

At least I'm a little less anxious, and social interactions are less dreadful.

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.