Man, Rooster
This is the one! It is the last in the series on found wood, and it went off with a bang. This final piece brought together everything from the previous four. The beauty of the textured background, the imagery of 'man, animal,' the color of 'Lady, Goldfish' and the skill of the brushwork. Along with it comes the added bonus of some conceptual compositing. The idea at play is about the man positioned as if attempting to fly and the rooster laying on the grass with no obvious intention to move. The man is overweight, and most definitely will not be flying of his own accord and the rooster, which rarely flies anyway, is simply laying on the ground in apathy. There is a discord between the reality of each character, and the intentions of each.
Boy, Wolf Girl, Pterodactyl Baby, Brontosaurus Lady, Goldfish
Lady, Goldfish
This old lady was like a breath of fresh air for me. If you know my work, then you know that I use very little color. Most of the work is earth tones and greys, but this lady pushed me into a brand spankin' new color zone! Thank goodness too.She is lacking some technique with the brushwork, but she is beautiful to me.
Baby, Brontosaurus
This one is actually a disgrace! The painting lacks color and form and unity. It's all part of the process though. Sometimes you get a good one, sometimes you don't. Really I want to throw this small (scary looking) child off a bridge, but that's not safe...
Girl, Pterodactyl
Girl, Pterodactyl is the second in the 'man, animal' series. She is a direct result of the previous work, 'boy, wolf.' This, and the previous work were accomplished in a time frame of a 3 to 4 hours.
Burning Bridges...
Burning Bridges is an opportunity to join in the conversation about relationships. Why do we break them? Why do we ruin them? Is it the fault of one person? or is it a collaboration of failures? One person can appear to be offensive and angry, while the reasons behind the fiery anger may be subtle. Perhaps the anger is justified. Perhaps the hurt is the fault of the one who is breaking the relationship.
It is supposed to be a part of a conversation. Do you have anything to add?
This is also part of a school project. We had to follow the C.F. Payne technique. It involves many steps, and many media. I must have done something wrong, because I am not a fan of the technique, although it did produce some interesting results. It involves colored pencil, acrylics, watercolors, india ink, and oils.
Maybe I'm too immature to appreciate the nuances in the process... hopefully one day I can understand...
Rob Bell...the Heretic
Love Wins. That's what they say, and that's what they hate.I haven't actually read the book, yet. Though, I had attended Mars Hill for nearly a year when I lived in the great state of Michigan.
I hated Mars, and I loved Mars. I was challenged, and I grew. I was offended, and I found truth.
This is my response to the 'controversy' surrounding Rob Bell, especially with the advent of his new book "Love Wins."
Playing on the great iconography of older traditions of christianity, I have begun a new iconography. Hopefully this will be read as a play on the tradition, and a play on the controversy.' Rob Bell as saint, and his objectors as saints.
I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that Rob Bell hasn't performed any miracles, that he has his short-comings, and that he even makes mistakes. But dang it, what makes him worthy of being hated so much?
Anyway... the fire represents condemnation, not of God, but of man. The Gold Leaf represents holiness- not of righteousness, but of the Love of God. The halos are the sanctification of man through the nature of the Love of the Creator. The blue skies are the 'gateway' to heaven. It is narrow, but as God's love is infinite, the gateway to heaven is certainly large enough to accept the whole of humanity. The earth, as seen in the imagery, is of a size that fits through the gates of heaven. The Love of God is big enough for the world, the world just has to accept it.
Robot Soul...Finished
Here, it is finally finished. Well, in fact, it was finished a while back (I still need to apply the finishing varnish).Painting with oils is turning out to be a joy, though the pains of oils are evident. There is just so much that goes with it!! Turp, mediums, poison! Anyway, it has its advantages, such as ease of blending and color mixing. The final product turned out to be a fantastic vision come to life.
For information on prints visit my facebook page The grisaille can be found here.
Robot Soul...
What is a soul? Who has a soul? What in a life is a reflection of the soul? Another question, could a robot have a soul?
If Artificial Intelligence brings about self-aware robots, then do those robots have souls? If a robot can begin to contemplate her own life and the life of those around her, then what does that mean for man?
Above is the grisaille of a 'self-aware-praying-robot.' The acrylic 16"x20" painting is on hard-wood.
It will be finished with glazes of oil colors.
I began with a base coat acrylic mixture of red, blue, and yellow, then filled in the values with ivory black.
Below are the references...
Gungor...
Below is school art, and in some fashion that makes me cringe at its qualification as 'good art.' While this is school art, it is art that is inspired and joyful. The assignment was to create a Rolling Stones Review Page illustration. Any artist was up for grabs. Almost immediately I envisioned a painting of the band Gungor. I had been turned on to their new album Beautiful Things by my roommate Andrew. The music carries with it the breath of New Life in the midst of Death and Confusion. Gut wrenching honesty and Passionate lyrics along with fresh, Beautiful music are the art of Beautiful Things.
Michael Gungor is the lead singer and artist of the band Gungor, formerly known as the Michael Gungor band.
The original concepts were of Michael and his wife Lisa. Unfortunately the compositions were too complicated for the time. In the end the simplicity created a beautiful image.
The Graduation
The Graduation is the assimilation of octopuses into human culture. Well, actually it is my solution to a class project. The assignment was to incorporate an octopus into an illustration. The parameters were vast- simply place and octopus in the image.
After researching octopuses for a while there was a constant theme. Octopuses are smart- opening jar, carrying coconut.
I went the easy route in conveying this. An octopus is graduating Harvard.
Kadamaian Stream Toad
This is a rendering of the 'Near Threatened' Kadamaian Stream Toad.The resource was taken from ARKive.
This is another project from school. The parameters were as follows: On illustration board Use Watercolor Use Colored Pencil Blend the colored pencil over the watercolor with some sort of solvent. Render with perfect precision without success (this part I made up for effect)
I like how it turned out mostly. For the duration of the project I was freaking out about how bad it was, which it still is, but there was no need to fret as I did. I overreact very well. The toad himself is absolutely dashing- a specimen of pure delight. The leaves on the other hand are almost as if someone took a crayon to the board.
Also, I should mention, the composition is a bust, which no one-not even my professor- had mentioned to me before hand. Jay loves to critique, but the most I get out of him is, 'Yeah, sounds good, just work on it and it should be fine.' That's what he says, then my grade comes around, and that's a story in and of itself. There is also a component of my openness to critique. This goes back to a revelation I had in grade school.
I had very few friends before my junior and senior years, and I always wondered what it was about me that was so different. Without too much consideration I could name many several things that set me apart from my peers. Still, my wonder lingered, until it hit me. After I realized that there were people who were willing to be my friends, and that they truly did accept me as a person, my stand-off-ishness was queerly apparent.
Teasing was never a part of my daily experience, but neither was friendship, and that confused me to no end. Finally it had come to me, the reason wasn't my difference, it was my seeming arrogance. I didn't talk to people, so they didn't know how to talk to me- part of that is an awful social awkwardness that has slowly been dying.
So here is to the Kadamaian Stream Toad- the metaphor to my 'near threatened' social awkwardness. Hopefully, the soon extinct social awkwardness, but perhaps it would be best to have a resurrection of the Toad, and to see the beauty in what it is.
Sin and Sanctification
Did the sketch at church today then finished it while porch sittin in this outrageously beautiful Georgia weather.
Its about the nature of 'sin' and sanctification. Unfortunately the face too closely resembles that of the iconic and irritating image of Jesus.
My Poker Face...
Here is the first real art piece of my SCAD career, if school could be considered a career. Unfortunately my grade on this project was a lousy B. I think that is due to the pen illustration not having a full range of blacks and whites. Jay, my professor, is a great guy but sometimes he doesn't really let you know what he wants from an assignment unless you have a deep discussion with him about every move you make. That being said, I had to miss a couple classes due to unfortunate things, and was unable to speak with him about the whole process.
Though the grade is unfortunate, the artwork is awesome.
Click on the images to enjoy even more...I guess.
Poker Face 1- Prisma Color Black and White, Verithin Black and White. 8"x6"
Poker Face 2- Micron Pen, Old Old India Ink. 8"x6"
A Visual Commentary...
I sat down in church today, not in a seat but, on the floor. There was an obtuse corner that begged for my attention. The light shining from the tall window was directly on my lap, in a fashion that yearned for creation. Ruth and I have been creating a booklet throughout this quarter, and I hadn't constructed a page all week. Last week I did my page while running slides for the service, and it seemed fitting for me to create again this day.
I sat on the floor in the wide corner and set my things all around me. The worship music began, and my worship painting followed. My worship this morning was more of a confession, a pouring out of my heart to God.
Below is my attempt at concept...tell me what you think.
Here we have the visual and the editorial. Yes! I do believe that I am a fan of this work after all. John Hendrix, SooJin Buzelli, and Chris Buzelli were special guests at the Atlanta campus of Savannah College of Art and Design, and they all did their part in inspiring me.
Chris said that 'Concept is King,' which is a phrase that is now covering my sketch-book. They sunk in because I am somewhat of a literal thinker. I draw what I see and hear. Little for me is conceptual.
A Dreadful Thing...
My chronicle of the night I lost a brother.In descriptive essay form...
A Dreadful Thing
I was at work, starving for water- the saliva in my mouth was like mush. It could have been that I hadn’t eaten anything all day. The only thing that satisfied was a fervent surrender to the needs of my thirst. I pursed my lips to the straw and sucked and gulped and nearly drown myself.
Work was work in spite of my thirst, and this night I cared little about the amount of time I spent spraying the remnants of dinner off every plate, or the fighting of stubborn crumbs from bowls and saucers. This was just another night.
It ended and I looked at my phone. It is a rare night for me to check calls or texts during work (unless I feel particularly daring), and there I saw two missed calls and a new voicemail.
It was my roommate Andrew’s number and I snickered to myself, with a twinge of annoyance, ‘Oh Andrew, what does he want now?’
So I dialed my voicemail, in the slothful pattern of the night, utilizing a systematic listening-to and deleting-of previous voicemails that had yet to be attended. After several minutes of reviewing the fascinating, and even entertaining recordings, I came upon the newest one, presumably from Andrew. The moment was confusing when the voice I heard belonged to Melanie, Andrew’s fiancé, which quickly shifted to disturbing when her voice was trembling in fear.
“Matt,” she quivered, “I need you to come quickly, Andrew fainted and we are headed to the hospital.” That was more than 2 hours earlier.
After speaking with Mel by phone I wandered to the emergency room that sat right behind my and Andrew’s apartment. The night still dragged on, more in agony now than the earlier lethargy of work.
There were several people in front of me who were speaking with the attendant at the desk. One lady sat plump in her wheel chair with a bag of ice over her eye. She stated that she was there for a migraine. Within me welled a spurt of laughter, ‘A migraine!’ Of course that thought stayed in my head. Another man, in my cynical view, was taking advantage of the services of the emergency room. He purported to have ‘fallen’ in the parking lot and hurt his leg- his street-worn clothes grew the bias in my mind.
At long last the lady at the desk asked me, and the gentleman next to me, why we had made the trek to the emergency room? I informed the small and soft-spoken woman that I was there to see my friend, Andrew Millette.
A different lady, younger yet similar in height and similar in tone of voice, showed me to a room just around the corner. Her words expounded on the mounting confusion, “Right over here is for the friends and family.” The door was opened enough for me to peer in the quaint room before entering. Inside I found a slouched and distraught Melanie. She was sitting on a couch to the right, and a large, strange man was holding her hand. Why is there a room for friends and family? Where was Andrew? Who is this guy? These were the thoughts that clouded my mind in the few precious seconds before Melanie informed me, through the whimpering and crying, that Andrew had passed on.
Immediately, as an instinct to the moment, I placed myself beside Mel and threw my arms around her. She kept sobbing that she was sorry. If I had had any semblance of sympathy I would have made known that I was sorry, that she hadn’t need to apologize. As it was, though, I was speechless. My words were stolen from my tongue. My throat knew nothing of speech, only silence, and that was the tune I played the entire night.
The man across from Melanie was the hospital chaplain. I am unaware how long he had been comforting Melanie. Barbara, Andrew’s aunt appeared in the room after a while, she had already begun the general’s task of arranging and organizing the details of the night as Mel and Andrew’s parents’ were flying in from out of state. After some time had passed Leah, Andrew’s cousin and Barbara’s daughter, arrived. She, like me, was unaware of what had happened until she arrived. There was no holding the reins on her sorrow.
Several hospital employees had filtered in and out through the night- one had blue scrubs on, another wore a nice picot and slacks. The man with the picot serenely introduced us to a tray of assorted drinks, mostly water. It is a funny thing that I was no longer in need of water. My mouth wasn’t mush anymore. Once they informed us that we had a short stint of time in which to view Andrew’s body, if we so desired. None of us went to see him. I wanted to.
I did cry some, mostly when Mel had been wailing. My heart was grieving in unison with Melanie. Her pain was bare and naked. It was honest and raw, and I couldn’t be witness to it without being affected as well. The next couple days were less riveting. I did not stop and cry with the force of a hurricane, or get lost in memories. I simply lived life as normal, even sitting in the lonely apartment felt normal, mostly.
I did not know the pain of loss before that night, and I am still attempting to understand it now, only days after my dear brother’s death. Death is a dreadful thing postponed. It is final, but it keeps me waiting for the moment when I realize my heart has been rend from my chest and filled with the hollows of lost time. It has already flooded my mind and pounded my heart, but is waiting for my eyes to collapse like levies that are ill prepared for the torrents of the storm.
Maybe if I had gone to see his cold body I wouldn’t have this postponed pain. I wonder if it would have stopped my imagination from creating illusions of him. Then again, maybe it is better this way.
I’m reminded of the time when my van was stolen. Andrew didn’t speak he simply moved toward me and hugged me. At the time the hug wasn’t warm and welcome, it was cold and awkward and I did not understand, but now I know. He was looking beyond life and death, into eternity, and saw that I needed a hug.
Andrew Millette...
Click here, or on this picture to view Andrew's obituary and guestbook where you can share experiences and condolences.
Andrew Millette was my roommate, my friend, and my brother. When I moved to Atlanta in January of 2010 he took me in. I was living in a house in home park with four other guys, but Andrew gave me a place with heating and an adequate bathroom.
We spent most of the first few months plunking on the ground with our ice-cream filled bowls, and marathoning MASH.
We talked about church, and community, and girls, and failures, and love, and wisdom, and relativism, and soccer, and politics, and we prayed.
He is still my example of how to live in the world, to love people, to give humbly and graciously, and to love life.
Death is a dreadful thing postponed. It is final, but it keeps me waiting for the moment when I realize my heart has been rend from my chest and filled with the hollows of lost time. It has already flooded my mind and pounded my heart, but is waiting for my eyes to succumb to the torrents of the storm.
A dear brother is gone, and missed. I love you Andrew.
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I’m reminded of the time when my van was stolen. Andrew didn’t speak he simply moved toward me and hugged me. At the time the hug wasn’t warm and welcome, it was cold and awkward and I didn't understand, but now I know. He was looking beyond life and death, into eternity, and saw that I needed a hug.
Also, he ate really really loudly, and I never told him how much that made me want to put a stake through my skull, and I'm glad I didn't.
I'm not just Me- I'm You
I am an Individual.I am Matt. I am Matthew [Adam] Miller.
I dress a peculiar way-
My personality is my own (full of awkward anticipation)-
and my hair is me.
But I resign my individuality. I am a collaborator. I am a part of a community. I have a purpose, but it is not simply my own.
To dream my own dreams is to live in my own lonely world. To dream with people is to participate in the restoration of the world- corporeally and incorporeally.
I am not just me...I am you.