i love these times. I think that occurences that are expected to be brilliantly happy result in some shit storm that swallowed you up and spit you back out only to leave you nude on some concrete floor. And all you can do is get up and look at your reflection in some oil puddle, reminding you of what a fuck up you are. I love this sunday because i have been reminded every fucking minute of what a bad person i am. Except this time its not by me but my everything and everyone else. I mean i live my every day telling myself "i hate you," "I hate you," i hate me." Everyday. But i love so many people. So i refuse to conform to the notion that i cannot love if i cannot love myself. Its simply not true. 

Anyway i love this sunday because i have been confronted head on my others of what a bad person i am. So when im just doing my rituals of reciting my "i hate you's" to my self, i will feel confident that i am not alone on felling what i do. 

Today my other told me that i am a bad son and that any day now she will abondon me. She gave me specific instructions as to what to do when this said abondoment is set to take place. She compared my to my brother whom i believe truly has not respect for my mother. That kinda hurt i guess because i pride myself on being incredibly cognizant of my intentions. Whatever. 

My sister reminded my of what a fuck up i am by telling me i cannot be help with my descions on the future. In other words there is no future for me. I have literally regressed back to stage one. I have made nothing of the progress i thought i was making personally and academically. I might aswell be a 7th grader. Its okay though because i've always been suicidal except for i have no balls so, suicide would never be an option. Also my problem is, is that im 

what a day it had been. I how do i feel about my day, past present and future? Do tell. I shall.

I woke up late for about the 5th time this year. Sad, I'm officially a robot.

School was fun. I did crafty shit in art for peer tutoring tommorow. I realized my new art piece "Twilght" depicts a girl intended to look like a hippie but now looks like a flapper because of her wavy bob and purple hair. Regardless i love it. Yes I am an artist who loves his art. Hmm. I'm always braking conventional norms. Also I sketched designs for my friend. I was like "do i look like katvond" when she asked me.Whatever the sketches look cool.

Homecomming nominations were today and i told my friend i wouldn't be voting for her because i'm not going to homecomming. She got upset and so i just voted for it. Wow thats all really irrelevant information. 

The real reason I'm blogging is because this past sunday i 

A weekend that makes the others weep beneath their ignorance. This weekend changed my life. Before this weekend I was one person and now I am awake.  

It began the previous Friday the 12th i think. I met my grandfather and my mothers half siblings for the first time in my 17 years. I never felt the broken desire to see them. But when meeting them i saw the beauty and understood the beauty of family. I crumbled under my fail to awknowedge these people who were and have always been family. 

I was there in a reunion for the sudden death of their mother, my  granpapa's wife, my mother's step mother, the other woman according to my Grandmother. I didn't know this woman but I owe her so much. If it was not for her i fear i would have never met my beautifful family. I thank her in what can only be called an ironic fashion. How is is that at the end of her days I am thanking a woman who tried so hard to keep my family and "hers" apart, for bringing us together. Well, perhaps that question of destiny can ever be answered with logic but my heart reveals a whimisical truth beneath the reality. 

When I saw these people in the home my grandfather shared with the source of this grand happening I felt like i unlocked a dusty time capsele thar


OMG AT THE TYPOS AND INCOMPLETION will finish laterz

Today i found out my friend, Ingrid, you know the one i made cry, is out of my government class. She really did keep me sane there. I quite literally feel alone there. I'm so codependent. Whatever. Kill my trance.  

I began the week elated because I had so much going on.  There was energy and positive anticipation. Of course it didn't end that way. Let’s deliver the good news first. Good news was that it did begin positively. On Monday I was elected publicist of the Hispanic Leadership Club at school. I was glad I got it because it gives me the opportunity to explore ways in which I can develop advertising. My duties as a publicist includes making announcements through flyers and school news ads also I'm in charge of the website. Anything that lets me make art for my job wins. After the meeting in which I was elected in officer of HLC my brother and his co worker picked me up and we went to see Pineapple Express. I was so funny, not typically my kind of humor but... I find myself saying "that’s not my kind of humor" quite a lot. Which makes me think what the fuck is my kind of humor. The only guaranteed funny for me is MXC. Hilarity is a sure thing on that show. Anyway. I loved the movie it was connotatively speaking sweeter than Super bad. Still it was about friendship but I guess when you replace sex with violence and booze for weed you have a completely different story. Regardless both were funny.

On Tuesday I had a busy day. But I made it through. I went home after school and knocked out! A strictly forbidden habit in my house. At least when it comes to me. Anyway I woke up before my mother came home, thank god and did some home homework, "Some" being the operative word. I didn't do much; let’s just say my ass was up at mid night trying to finish something that wasn't even due the next day. After my mother's arrival we got ready to go to the Kennedy Center to see Julieta Venegas...for free! We got there fine. I love D.C. but couldn't imagine myself as a resident of the district. I'm always inspired where ever I am in D.C. but I could never drive or be a pedestrian there. The roads are like wtf. Anyway I was dropped off and I waited in line which I’m so glad I did because it was fillin up quick. I took a look around and I saw a whole new kind of Latino crowd drawn in. Instead of your typical metropolitan call for all Latinos, this crowd was indeed not so chent. It was a bunch of gringofied spics. JUST KIDDING. But youse was thinking it you were thinking it...don’t lie. lol. No there just seemed to be a lot of "earthy" girls and business men. I felt like I was gonna see someone I knew and before I knew it I saw the director of the Lideres group thing of NCLR. It was a surprise, I felt like saying I to her but she was moving quick and she probably wouldn't remember me. She is based in DC so can't be too much of a surprise.

So the concert was amazing. I had no idea how talented and young Julieta was. She was so brilliant in everything she did. Her dancing was so sweet. Arms flailing everywhere. She is truly her own person. Not to mention she knows how to use every fucking instrument invented. I must say her voice is great but she ain't no Whitney Huston. She's an artist and an honest one at that. She just seems like she loves her craft. I saw her as a person who was just trying to be hard to be indie. But that might not necessarily be her fault. If you just listen to what she has to say and how she says it, inspiration is inevitable. In other words it was awesome.

Also I was on some website. There was a picture of me waiting in line by myself with only the limestone bricks of the JFK center in the background. My smile was off but not as much as my hair. My clothing was all over. My belly protruding. I'm gonna just commout and say it. I looked like a pedophile but the ones that do it with baby animals.

Gross.

Anyway Tuesday was great in other words. And Wednesday was cool, due to the fact that Project Runway was cool. And Thursday was when the denouement of a fantastic week commenced. I had Physics and it was official I'm a dumbass. I have no retention ability of any kind of science and math. I get so pissed about my lack to understand shit. I don't feel like freaking out and typing. Solo. You get the idea. I had my senior pictures at 8.30 and I looked like shit. And so did the photos. So threes that. Later I had an anthropology project that went as not planned. I wanted to blow everyone out of the water. I guess that’s a result not having friends in there. "Oh but you'll make friends" I don't got time for dat shit this year. Whatever just some other perks of being a codependent of everything. Thursday sucked but Friday realllllllly sucked. I was still sick and had gotten 4 hours of sleep. Art was fun and so was the class meeting. But then Government rolled around and I went to lunch with my best friend Ingrid. Let’s just day I ended up making her cry. WTF. I was such an ASSHOLE. I made fun of her dead dog. What the fuck was I thinking? Ugh. I hate myself on a daily basis but now I fucking despise who I am. I apologized a million time. Yes a million. And could not relieve the guilt.

Now, I don’t know if it was karma for what I did or that I couldn't live with what I did and own up, but my ass got kicked by karma hard. I was so guilt ridden in Math and felt fucking stupid as soon as he started the lesson. I hate being stupid. So later I put my headphones on and he notices. No iPod just headphones. And he asks me to bring them up. I must have subconsciously triggered some feeling from 9th grade when this same teacher humiliated me in class for not pledging to the flag. I go up with an attitude and had him the headphones, he asks for an iPod. I tell him that’s all I had. And all the fucking junior eyes stared at me. BLACH! So now I’m the stupid kid and the degenerate. Fuck. I ask for them at the end of class but he denies my request. He starts on this schpeal about how I suck as a person and I cut him off and say " you could've just said no" as I walked out. I was on the verge of tears I hated myself so much. So my actions were all I thought I could do. I walk home feeling the need to cry or yell or something but my body couldn’t generate it. So I walked home silent. Once I got home I broke down hard. I spent the next hour and a half sobbing and moping. Whatever I have not the fighter will. I suck.

Moral: Every morning I wake up and the beasties in my head are working hard to make me look and feel appropriate enough to try and be a conformed member of society. This discourse between human nature and conformity causes my confidence to transform itself as a figure skater, sliding on thin fucking ice. Any judgment will break it and I will curl up in my fatness and hoodie and die a little inside.


Now you know me.

 

........................................................................................................................................

I truly believe that my art is not a result of some god given talent but rather a fundamental desire to make my ideas beautiful. When I arrive at those trivial moments in my life when I am unable express my ideas into words, my native reaction is to wrap my fingertips around a brush and paint my statement or sentiment. To say it simply; I make art because it is the most practical means of portraying expression for me. I create art because I am a human and humans are naturally expressive creatures. I am only taking advantage of the intrinsic expression I am capable of. Some choose to make music as their form of expression, others preach, some may write and some may kill but I paint.

Before any creation takes places I develop an idea. As a human I have either witness or lived through the spectrum of situations we have all endured whether happy or not. This is how I am able to discover and collect a plethora of ideas. Those ideas all stem from a singular vision which is that through my art I can prove my empathy for the tragic and beautiful. In the end I am inspired by us and the lives we share with each other, nature, and our imaginations.

Because the origin of most of my art is factual or based on reality itself, it would be far too easy for me to illustrate my poignant statement through a literal depiction because the foundation is already literal. Instead I want to portray that reality through a conceptual lens that strips any real depictions away and introduces symbolic colors and shapes that represent each component of the story being told. This technique is what leads my art to be considered conceptual. Furthermore I love making beautiful things and I have always been adamant in making my art aesthetically pleasing to the eye (even if the aesthetic is unconventional). The correlation between conceptuality and beauty is a combination of my desire to make attractive pieces and my need for those pieces to get attention. For instance a piece that is flooded with peculiar geometry or eccentric colors is far more likely to mesmerize a person, than a painting of simple nature scenery. (Not to discredit the talent of artists who make literal art.)  In this way “mesmerization,” “conceptuality,” and “beauty” all become synonymous of each other thus making a viewer see the statement in a whole new way and begin to think of my message in a whole new way and hopefully walk away inspired.

The process in making my art fascinates me. I begin with a random observation or contemplation. As soon as an opinion, quandary or emotion generates within me because of that certain observation, I collect ideas on how to creatively manipulate my inspiration into visual art. I must say that my love for transforming ideas into words and words into colors, shapes, and brushstrokes is a vital component for the love that fuels my passion for art. Although the creative thought process of an art piece is riveting and enjoyable nothing beats the feeling of actually creating the art piece. I always begin with my general brainstorming in mind but whilst I’m caught in the chaos that is painting most of that structured thinking is defenestrated.  I mostly maintain a basic illustration of my original thoughts only adjusting the placement of certain components. A lot of the adjustments I make are a result of the conditions under which I make my art. I face these adjustments rather constantly because I am not a traditionally trained artist. It is those types of challenges that make my art all the more special. For example if I happen to drip paint on to the canvas accidently, I appreciate it and utilize that accident as though it were fate. This discourse between structured planning and impulsive painting allows me to always remain conceptual.

All things considered when all inspiration has taken place and creativity has developed a living art piece representing a now tangible statement; my job is to have conveyed some sort of message. My message is hope. Almost every painting I make has a message of hope, sometimes done intentionally other times not. I portray a sad reality and I want to convey the message of hope in order to tell my audience that life is beyond sadness. I have made paintings from everything from abortion to genocide, from racism to prostitution. I want to say to the world we can move pass the judgment, the hatred and violence and experience the beauty of our bodies, minds and universe. That transcendence is my message of hope.

If at the end of my days there is nothing left of me, one thing will remain certain about me and that is my innate love for art. Art has proved to be my past as established by my ability to work with my hands a quality I believe I have bequeathed from my mother and her mother who both are artisans. Art has proved to be my present as established by my constant need to translate inspiration into visual art or written art. Art has proven to be my future because I couldn’t imagine a day when the feeling of paint dripping upon that white canvas for the first time is not a satisfying feeling for me. Art is my source of nostalgia and encouragement. Art allows me to evoke expressions freely without demanding constraints. Art makes my statement beautiful, original and brilliant. I am René Medrano; an artist.