Artist Journal #39


They are like garments.

They are like ghosts.

They are like figures.

They hang; they pull.

They inform. They skew.


Repetition is the monster. Style is the box. Series is the limitation – the boundaries – the empty hole cascading into nothing. Titling is the definition. Completion is the destination. No destinations – only creation.

We only have now. We only have this moment. What if there were no moments? What if this was the only one? What if nothing existed after this? What if we die in obscurity. Most die in obscurity. I’ll be damned if I do.


I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m diminishing everyday. I don’t know what I want. But I can’t say I ever have. I’m so angry all the time and I don’t know why.

Graveyard. Grave. Plot. Dead fish can’t swim.


Hidden beneath the surface. On the surface there is attempted perfection, masking curating. Beneath the surface are specks of rascality, hidden only just by pure will power and forced intent. It’s in those tears in the facade that we see the reality of other and of ourselves. It is those peaks at the gritty, the real, beyond the pleasantness, beyond the mask. Revealed only just are the truths. Try as they may to stay hidden behind the curtain, at some point they will be shown. Will power can only last so long – familiarity breeds contempt.

Contempt is a state of raw truth and of stagnation. We cannot reach our true potential without staring down the barrel of that gun and seeing the reality of who we are hind the lens of our intended image to the world. We are but masses of flesh and emotion cascading through space; held together atoms afloat, tugged toward the ground only by gravity. Held moment by moment by our consciousness. With a flicker of life we storm through the nothingness with driven purpose that is merely imagined.


They’re all parts of you. All different parts of the same person. And I love that person.

You can never not be who you are. But who you are changes, grows, learns, evolved. When something happened that changes you, you can not undue that change. You are forever a different part of you. A new part of the same person. And I love that person.

When you change, you are just another part of you. A new part of the same person. And I love that person.


By klcloonan

Los Angeles Interdisciplinary Artist

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