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This is the design for Leyroy. One of the main characters in the four page story I’m currently working on. He’s probably dodged the draft. He’s probably married but doesn’t know where his wife is. He has a lot of outstanding debts hanging over his head. Not that he cares. He’s loaded. He’s broke. Hotels and racetracks. Laundromats and caravan parks. Leyroy has a bit of style to him. He’s not out steeling push bikes and picking up cigarettes off the street but I wouldn’t say he’s never done it. Serengeti sunglasses and akubra style masters. Leyroy doesn’t drive himself but he’s getting driven around in a Lincoln continental.
A white line of immaculate silence. A broken feeling of freedom. A collective dream that strikes on a raining night. It passes because people all forget. The streets are flooded and the floorboards are rotting away. The satellites scan the underpass for intruders. The earth shakes. I took six months off work and lived off of my savings to construct pages. Breaking my life up into an hour on and a half an hour out. Smoke a coffee, drink a cigarette. The rebellion rages outside the plastic window. The ash cloud covers the mountains and the book inside is full of lies. An isolated work of art. To say something. To say anything at all. Of memories well forgot and shaped by shifting signs. It all seems so dark and heavy. I still remember drawing on teletype paper and on the back of old work forms that my mother brought home. I’ve had time to build a mental bomb but I must drop ink on everything. For what can be seen as a disposable medium I hold close to my eye like a pearl. Sprawled across walls I can see where my mind has been because for too long it has been hidden in a box. I’m teaching myself, not others. I’m learning what I need to know. I won’t leave my chair. I won’t leave this room. I never could, transfixed with a vendetta to create. When I was seven I took a drawing my older brother had thrown in the bin and finished it off, took it to school and passed it off as entirely my own work. The teacher had her daughter come to the school to see my drawing. Her daughter who was and still is a well known conceptual artist. I can never know what it must have looked like but then and there I began my first art crime and as I remember it…It was a perfect crime. I’ve worked mostly on structure and line. A direction to construct. I can hash out an idea in dot points or expound upon a thumbnail. I photocopy down drawings and juxtapose ideas condensing a coded manifesto into a page. Ideas that sing and harmonise with each other. Lets drink in old ideas and open our eyes to a vision that will silence. A total reinvention of madness and crime. The way we take the world in and the way in which we challenge it. The sound of static and the smell of mould. Typewriters and teak drawing boards. Scalpels and steel rulers. I once threw my pens away.. on the street.. hours later I went back to find them still there on the street…but broken. This is not pain.. It’s vision.