Unsolicited Blogger Portraits: The Soto

New feature!

Another one?

Yeah, since I feel I've been neglecting my artistic streak for awhile (what with "Adventures of BGR" on the back burner for now...), I thought I'd tap into that reserve and do some PC portraits of some of my fellow bloggers as a way of saying, "Hey, look at these characters!!" - and no better character to start with than The Soto.

Yes, the savvy amongst you will recognize from the mug alone that this is an artistic representation of Jason Soto, award-winning blogger and owner/CEO/creator of Invasion of The B-Movies.  So, why make him look like The Punisher, you ask?  Simple; these are representations, mind you, so my mind's eye sees The Soto as this bruiser who goes up against such slogs as Ax 'Em and Cabin Fever 2, slug it out with them and, save for a few cuts and bruises (physical AND psychological) wins out.

See the look in The Soto's eye?  That's the look of a man who has seen the worst of the worse, laid waste to them and is staring you dead in the eye, daring you.  Bring it on, says The Soto...I'm waitin'.

There you go; now someone go tell Jason Soto about this; he'll probably want a word with me or two.  Meantime, I have more bloggers out there to represent in pixel form.

Dope out.

- TGWD

My Own Personal Artwork: The Samara

Having dug back in the box of stuff I have under my bed, you remember I came across one of the first of many discarded pencil works I did back in the day when I was young, foolish, bored and doodling almost constantly.

This is another product of an occupied mind.

Ahem:

[ART CLASS TEACHER] Here we have "The Samara", circa 2007. Black pencil media, 3x5 card canvas.

Her surroundings are gray and black, with only a hint of white in varying spots. This is a barren landscape for our subject to wander through, perhaps attesting to either Samara's hopeless soul wandering in search for meaning as to her present situation or maybe something as basic as the artist's mirror reflection into his own soul at the time pencil touched paper.

Samara, trudging lifelessly towards the viewer, suggests the lowest point of the Id: a lone soul's journey through a world which they will never understand, dotted only with scraps of rock and greenery, which represents stray points of thought and add nothing to the travel in part or in whole. And yet even the greenery is dark and black in Samara's world; one would venture a guess that there is indeed no color in her mind's eye, seeing that her existence is solely to bring death and despair to others by her mere appearance within seven days time.

Note the well in the distance. Setting off-center and alone, one would ascertain the well is Samara's descent into her own black, despairing night, one to which she must eventually return with trudging steps and lifeless dejection.

Is there any white at all in the world-view of Samara? At a glance one would think so, but is it really; to Samara the white would be momentary. There is only black, gray, charcoal and varying shadows and shadings here; the white is only a momentary surface onto which the darkness will shade over. It's only a matter of time.

However, never seeing Samara's face because of the long funeral shroud of hair that drapes down over her head, we only assume that her life is one of despair. She may very well have chosen this life for herself and hides her face lest anyone see her smile. In relief? Perhaps, because no one will ever assume her life to be a happy one. In resignation? Even more likely, especially since her every moment would be solitary and quiet. No better an atmosphere in which to grapple against her personal demons.

The dirt staining her feet and fingers, while ostensibly a result of her eternal climb up from and down into her dark, overpowering soul (as represented by the well), may also be stained with the blood from her soul, her very life she had sacrificed and spent so callously in order to attain this station in life - if all this is indeed not an after-life - like a Lady Macbeth refusing even now to wipe the blood from her hands that incriminate herself in her own soul's murder. [/ART CLASS TEACHER]

I think I may have some more stuff to share. Who knows; maybe I can put these on a t-shirt and sell 'em for $15 a pop.

Until next time, the gallery is closed.

Dope out.

- TGWD

My Own Personal Artwork: The Jason

Didn't know I was an arr-teeste, didja?

Oh yeah, I dabble in penciled works....

This is something I did a few years ago and just found in a passel of junk I was about to toss, so I thought I should share with the class.

Ahem:

[ART CLASS TEACHER] Here we have "The Jason", circa 2007. Black pencil media, 3x5 card canvas.

Stark, hard lines and deep shadows highlight the piece as we are shown what may well have been a snapshot from the mind's eye of a terrified camp counselor as they stare into the face of what may well spell out their doom.

The first thing the viewer is drawn to is the single, mournful eye gazing with forlorn sadness from behind a worn, haggard hockey mask, itself a trophy from many horrific slaughters.

Handling the blade of his machete so gingerly as he gazes at the viewer, one can only guess as to what Jason is thinking as he stands in the fore of a conspicuously barren Camp Crystal Lake, late in the evening. Or perhaps it is a very hazy afternoon. In the world of Jason, night would appear as blank and unforgiving as the day.

Without a mother to guide him, without a sense of direction in life other than to kill, his demeanor would be oft thought as one of non-stop carnage. Revenge. Kill those who brought about the death of my mother, whose only thought was to avenge me.

Perhaps we are looking into a brief reflective period in his life as stands silently, thinking of what he has done, where his life has led him, what would happen if he dared stop the madness of his life, set aside his weapon of destruction and walked away from the very place which has brought him nothing but tortured thoughts, searing memories, the very definition of an Oedipal id; avenge the memory of the very mother who had sacrificed so much for you.

Perhaps the road behind him represents the road which he himself must travel in order to bring about the change in himself he contemplates even now.

The dark, lightless cabins in the rear of this work suggest the unlit recesses of Jason's mind, a mind in which all of his thoughts are likewise dark, cold, brooding and relentlessly devoid of anything but the most horrific visions of a killer.

All the more reason then to render this work in black and white; no color, no vibrancy, not even the bright red splashes of blood that so often permeate the life of this poor pitiful man-child creature. [/ART CLASS TEACHER]

If I come across anything else of mine, I'll post it and allow you artisans and patrons to critique.

Until then, the gallery is closed.

Dope out.

- TGWD