My creative juices have been flowing lately. My dreams. Dude. Not cool! I had another zombie dream. Usually I'm in some sort of power plant or something. This time I was in school and hiding in a computer lab with people who had no business being in my dream. So. My bestie was in this one. In a weird Zombie meets Invasion of the Body Snatchers twist, he is like one of "Them", sees me and doesn't gobble me up--or whatever those anomalies would do. I woke up like "wth?" Out came my sketch pad.

Lately, my dreams have been slightly morbid. I think it's because of the stress of mid-terms mixed with all the German Expressionism and German Dadaism we have been studying. If I had to base the attitude of a people on those two movements, I would say the Germans are quite morbid and quite political. Good Gracious!

Speaking of Dadaism.

I got a story to tell!
There once was an "anti-artist" by the name of Marcel Duchamp. He is credited as the "father of Dadaism"--even though, he didn't really start it. It actually was the result of a play and a performance done right smack dab in the middle, but that's a whole new story. Anywho. Duchamp had one of his pieces, "The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors Even" transported by hand to a show by a friend. Somehow in transit, the panes of glass got cracked. I imagine the conversation went something like this:

The Gallery Director (afraid for her job): "Oh, shit. Someone should call this man (who likes to dress in drag on occasion [true story]) and let him know we royally fucked up his piece."
Friend: "I'll do it!" *dialing the phone* "Oh, Marcel! You should get over here right now! Your piece is--is--RUINED!!!"
Now pay attention, because this part is actually true verbatim.
Duchamp: *arrives. smiles, and says* "Perfect"

I believe that was the last piece he ever did. You, see...Dadaism was supposed to self-destruct. Dadaist blamed the bourgeois for the war and "decay of society" if you will. After a few years of creating art, Marcel Duchamp never did art again. Ironic how the anti art is considered "art". The act of not doing art for his art--is actually art. I look back on all my notes and little pieces of paper I have doodled on throughout the day. I don't think I could ever give up art like that for any cause. Life would lose all meaning to me. I would be like that miserable little man-teacher from "Never a Lender Be"--wondering aimlessly, trying to get my thrills where I can. Then what would be the point of living?