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Iliya
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Name: Iliya.
Location: Ukraine
Birthday: 1/27/1988
Gender: Male
Interests: not art, getting girls.
Expertise: art, not getting girls.
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Art
Message: message me
Member Since:
10/19/2003
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| yes yes, i thought i wouldnt update, but i found a cool quote, that explained very much something interesting, possibly because of the person who said it.
The object of art is not to reproduce reality, but to create a reality of the same intensity.
- Alberto Giacometti | | |
| An amusing quote:
"When I open my eyes, I can only sigh, for what I see is contrary to my creed: and I must despise the world for not perceiving that music is a higher revelation than any wisdom or philosophy. It is the wine that inspires new creations, and I am the Bacchus, who presses out this wine for men, and makes them spiritually drunk; when they are sober they bring to shore all kinds of things which they have caught. God is nearer to me than to others. I approach him without fear, I have always known him. Neither am I anxious about my music, which no adverse fate can overtake, and which will free him who understands it from the misery which afflicts others."
LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN | | |
| hello everyone, and by everyone i mean a specific few. Tomorrow at 8pm i am leaving to St. Petersburg, Russia in order to spend a month taking classes at numerous art academies. I dont want to leave, i do not wish to go despite the apparent will to draw and paint. I am typing this worthless plea, with a nautious feeling, possibly due to the lack of will to go and alcohol withrawl of which i had more than i should have had yesterday, enough to cause a huge 3 hour gap in my memory that in which i cannot recall what happened, except the images of a bathroom, a toilet, Zakhars face, the sound of the constantly repeated words of "are you okay, man" and the taste of pizza and cognac in one. I also have a chipped front tooth that i dont know how appeared and this morning, a huge peice of glass ripped an equally huge piece of flesh from my thumb. But that is all unimportant, what is important is that i will miss people here, people with whom i could spend time with happily, peacfully, and enjoyably. People who mean an immense deal to me and who overpower my will to draw almost or maybe they only overpower my will to travel a shitload of miles across the fucking ocean and europe and land in a fucking crazy estranged place. and live there without any company for a month save the last 6 days or so. i wish i had already left so i that i didnt have to dread these two last days. See you all in a month. | | |
| I have recently been engaged in the reading of poetry, I prefer russian poetry to english and american and so i have been reading great quantities of Pushkin, Yesenin, and Lermontov. All magnificent poets.
Here is a poem:
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Sing then, sing. On damnèd guitar
Fingers dance semi-circles together.
Perhaps to inhale this sickening tar,
My only friend from the nether.
Look never upon her brilliance
And the flowing silk from her shoulders.
I in her tried finding existence,
Instead found crevice and boulders.
I knew not of love- a virus
I knew not of love- a blight.
She approached with piercing iris
A diligent made she lose sight.
Sing, my friend. Again wring upon me
Our dawn that upon us would lash.
Let her kiss another in front o’me
That young and beautiful trash.
Halt thither, I do not blame her
Halt thither, I bow not to her,
Under laying and twittering bass knot
Let sing me about me as were.
The cupola of days lays impressed.
In golden pouches, the hearts of dreams.
Many girls have I felt stressed,
Many women in corners I’ve pressed.
Yes! Truth exists, yet bitter it be.
Sneaked a look, I, with eye infantile:
Dogs lying and licking sans plea
Bitches’ juices soaking a while.
So why should I be jealous.
So why should I rival another.
Our life- bed and sheets that lie zealous.
Our life- a kiss that behaves like a smother.
Sing then, sing! In fatal repel
Of these hands in fatal doom.
But you know, let them all go to…
My friend, ne’er shall I to go to the tomb.
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| hello. The greater the similarity between myself and another individual, the more indifferent do i become towards them. Today i went with my scuplture class to PepsiCo, somewhere upstate, quite close to new york, quite close to SUNY purchase. *During this entry i will say whatever i feel should come to my mind, and in this exact order, and i beg all of you to not waste your time looking for flaws with my concepts, my speech, my ideas, and more specifically my morals and principles, including this statement itself, but rather feeling them; read into Kafka, not into my entry, it is not worth your time. Did i lose you dear reader? I hope not, i shall continue. So, today i did not go to school, my sculpture class and i traversed what is called a sculpture garden, filled with a great many modern works by fairly famous sculptors. I did not like that many of them, and of them that i did, it was not wholly, but then again who am i to say, i have no preferences and in truth am indifferent to practically all around me except certain beauty and that i find everywhere, and nowhere, and thus am left without preference. In french, we are watching "the 400 blows" a movie. a good one, with a good acting, a good idea, and a great theme(both the little tune and the moral one). Izzy has or perhaps had or perhaps has gotten used and ignores an observation of the clock when it specifically falls on a given hour and then at the 11th mintute. resulting in anyone of these combinations: 1:11, 2:11, 3:11, 4:11, 5:11, 6:11, 7:11, 8:11, 9:11, 10:11, 11:11, 12:11. One might consider something slightly not normal about this and in an instance a peculiarly personal matter, but one would think otherwise when noticing that iliya himself over the past 3 or so days has not looked at a watch or a clock when it was not on the 11th mintute of a specific hour. An interesting contagion. One might say that this is simply the case as when one learns a new word, one sees it in text everywhere when he never has seen it before. This weather is unpleasant, walking through a huge field with gigantic phallic and other sexually related sculptures could have been made more enjoyable if the weather was better. To bring up a point. Yesterday was the college fair for art schools and conservatories. I was left rather crushed, and this possibly resulted in me sleeping rather poorly. Upon showing my work, which for the past years i have strictly worked only on technique due to my beleif that i have a lack of it, i was told that my technique exceeds that of the students that already attend these colleges. Artistic technique i mean. However, due to the fact that i wished to continue in this fashion and training they all gave me depressed looks at the notion that their school was not the right one for me and that i, in essence, was wasting their time when they could be explaining themselves to students who they think might actually select their school. I diverge into a slight discussion. Jack put it well, it is either money or the thing i love, and in america money must win. The man from cambridge at the fair, the only normal person, there, and likewise the only european, told me that painters dont exist and that i have to pay my bills somehow and most likely will not be doing it by painting, so i should go into illustration, theatre, and what not. I agree with him. But on the contrary to the others he did not try to fuck me with notions of conceptual thinking and giving up my technique, he told me my career, and for me to look into it. The others laughed at me for other reasons. They told me i needed intellectual development, and when one of them asked me why i painted my response was that it was because i have to. He laughed it off and i do admit it might have sounded a bit pretentious. Sam brings up the case that my work is so realistic that i put nothing of myself into it, it is soley a representation of life. Compare a portrait by Serov, no take someone that you know. Rembrandt, with that of Delacroix. They are portraits are they not, they are realistic, but if one dares say that they are too academic, that they are souless, that they do not carry their own weight simply because of the fact that they are realistic, than why are they different. Because their hands and eyes were different, because their ideas were different, and because they had these ideas, they were able to put them into a portrait, put life into it, because they had technique. Now, this is considered amateurish, and what one wants now is the demonstration of their own orignal concepts by placing a mother fucking peice of shit 40 foot phallus on a fucking lawn and calling it something in the likes of: contemporary blank edifice #3. The allegory behind it obviously war and everyone understands it, how could they not, human intelligence is increasing with the years, is it not? I will indeed add the things that i neglected to add to my portfolio, i will have illustrations and theatre designs, that i already have in sketches, countless amounts of them, ill just make them into finished drawings. That i agree, will be putting myself into work, creating something, but i will not sell myself like god damn whore because in the words of John Proctor from the Crucible " I have given you my soul; leave me my name!" I will retain dignity even if it costs me my food. Who the fuck do you think i am? an eastern european president? But what angers me most is what i said before, that if one lacks the understanding that there is soul and individuality in the most realistic artistic works, that only because of their realism can one tell the presence of that very soul, that in order to break rules one must first learn them, than all art is dead.
This is quite a long entry and if you got this far, i most defintely love you, for i am only returning this love because if one can stand this much bullshit from me than they definetely love me. Due to this school system thing, i slept poorly, i have mentioned already. Now, i am one who always dislikes very much a dependance on people and yet today, though not alone, i felt lonely. Now i know how my art teacher feels, for he has a wife and kids but looks the lonliest person ever. However unlike me he seems used to it and does not break into lamentation, rage, and melancholy and does not go home and write an excessively long xanga entry, he just trots slowly, with his shaking hands, and heavy limp, up the ramp to the dirty municipal parking garage across from the art school. | | |
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