Happy birthday, Michelangelo!

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni (b Caprese, 6 March 1475; d Rome, 18 Feb 1564).

Italian sculptor, painter, draughtsman and architect. The elaborate exequies held in Florence after Michelangelo’s death celebrated him as the greatest practitioner of the three visual arts of sculpture, painting and architecture and as a respected poet. He is a central figure in the history of art: one of the chief creators of the Roman High Renaissance, and the supreme representative of the Florentine valuation of disegno. As a poet and a student of anatomy, he is often cited as an example of the ‘universal genius’ supposedly typical of the period. (via Grove Art Online.)

Image: Creation of Adam. Michelangelo Buonarroti. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons.


HERE IT IS! Check out what I think is our best video yet, the making of the 16” Jimi Hendrix drumhead commission, AND a look at the finished full color print now available at the OOSA store! tiny.cc/hip7tx

Hope you enjoy, and big thanks to Tyler Q Tucker for making these videos possible!

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do you ever see a picture of an artist you’ve heard but never seen before and you just do a double take like, “wait, wait. how does YOUR face make THIS noise.” *plays song* *looks at picture* “my brain no comprehendo.” and it takes a while for everything to be okay again because this is really weird.

I started trying to write a novel, to capture a story longer than a couple of mismatched, chaotic stanzas, 
but God, I’ve been having too hard a time making it permanent, making character’s that I do not want to run from, or give up on, or get so attached to that I can no longer handle any association. 
I guess that captures it,

captures that I am flighty
chronically fidgeting and keeping suit cases packed,

terrified of commitment, of both giving and receiving it.

afraid that by staying in one place, or on one topic, or with one person for too long, I will leave a small piece of myself there,
and maybe they will keep it, or maybe they will toss it aside,
just as I have with the plot developments that made my stories seem too real, too plausible, too mirrored by my own disheveled reflection.

either way,
I cannot keep moving ahead, refusing to turn back and collect the shards of glass that I never mean to give,
there is simply not enough left me of anymore.

Maybe it is time,
time to settle down, 
stop writing stanzas and start writing paragraphs,
leave a mark much larger than four oceans of words no longer than my chin length hair and much less memorable, 
so many have been left on me,
so many I could leave on those I allow close enough.

I think that I should be a blank slate, instead

—  do not let me leave a mark on you, for I refuse to accept one in return— f.g.a