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tinyrainbootego death through network spirituality
and some baudrillard, because i can't help it
tinyrainbootspiraling upwards
my experience as an artist in the infinite garden
tinyrainbootmaking things that "feel real"
hi! it's been a minute since I've written here -- a lot has been going on. I just left sozu haus, a week-long builder residency. it was my first time joining such a program, and I'm absolutely fired up to do it again soon. (it really is all about the friends we make along the way.) since april, and following the super positive feedback I received from people for the collector's gifts (IRL sword pendants) I created following even the devil once had wings, I've been itching to spend a bit more ...
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tinyrainbootego death through network spirituality
and some baudrillard, because i can't help it
tinyrainbootspiraling upwards
my experience as an artist in the infinite garden
tinyrainbootmaking things that "feel real"
hi! it's been a minute since I've written here -- a lot has been going on. I just left sozu haus, a week-long builder residency. it was my first time joining such a program, and I'm absolutely fired up to do it again soon. (it really is all about the friends we make along the way.) since april, and following the super positive feedback I received from people for the collector's gifts (IRL sword pendants) I created following even the devil once had wings, I've been itching to spend a bit more ...
Share Dialog
Share Dialog
you’ve got to say something. you’ve got to say something real, and you’ve got to mean it. there was a poet, once, who said, “make something beautiful before you are dead.” we don’t speak of him anymore. when do we separate the art from the artist? where does the scale tip, and how much does it weigh? the lines have become so blurry, the lines between everything. i am not just a performance, i am a metric. which of my limbs are good, and which are rotten, and who decides all of it?
you’ve got to say something. you’ve got to say something real, and you’ve got to mean it. there was a poet, once, who said, “make something beautiful before you are dead.” we don’t speak of him anymore. when do we separate the art from the artist? where does the scale tip, and how much does it weigh? the lines have become so blurry, the lines between everything. i am not just a performance, i am a metric. which of my limbs are good, and which are rotten, and who decides all of it?
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