I had a dream about this once. I couldn’t find my way home… …and then I realised I was dead.

Bastards! That what the followers of the White Christ are! Bastards! They eat their own God- eat his flesh and drink his blood! Abominable! They hate us and want us dead. Pray to the Gods to protect you- We have many Gods; they have only one.

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Panorama.

A few months ago I got commissioned by Dumbsaint an instrumental metal band based in Sydney, Australia; to illustrate and design there new upcoming album for vinyl. We’ve been friends for a while via Instagram and still maintain contact. However, due to reasons beyond my control and time constraints on their end, the illustrations fell thru. Eh, it happens!

The idea, whilst not initially explained to the band, was taken from an earlier sketch of a man in-front of a void. I manipulated that, blew it up and made him stand profile view in front of a pupil that was just about to grow larger from the contraction of darkness.That darkness can then be seen on the right side of the frame as psychotic transformation if you will. I must make point, this illustration was meant to be continuous, yes the right side connects with the left side creating one perfect eyeball.

The music is super heavy, like a mish-mash between This Will Destroy you and Sleepmakeswaves. While I’m not a massive fan of the post-instrumental drone genre, Dumbsaint are definitely one of a kind. Their music is not the integral part of the process. Indeed for every EP and album they have released a film is accompanied. Neat hey!

This new album, which can be found here: https://dumbsaint.bandcamp.com/
My favourite tracks are definitely 3 and 4.

My illustrations for the record and just in general can be found here:
http://instagram.com/dusoodoo

Now while the illustrations weren’t used, I am prioritizing the gatefold interiors, covers and sleeves I specifically drew for other means. Hopefully with the help of this blog over time I’ll be able to transpire into further specifics.

But just to stir yo noodle. Here was what was going to be the interior.

Works done on Stonehenge paper using Copic and Micron markers 0.05,0.1,0.03, 0.2, 0.5 and 0.8

The Eye of The World.

Rand turned about in one spot, staring. Staring at his own image thrown back at him a thousandfold. Ten thousandfold. Above was blackness, and blackness below, but all around him stood mirrors, mirrors set at every angle, mirrors as far as he could see, all showing him, crouched and turning, staring wide-eyed and frightened.

A red blur drifted across the mirrors. He spun, trying to catch it, but in every mirror it drifted behind his own image and vanished. Then it was back again, but not as a blur. Ba’alzamon strode across the mirrors, ten thousand Ba’alzamons, searching, crossing and re-crossing the silvery mirrors.

He found himself staring at the reflection of his own face, pale and shivering in the knife-edge cold. Ba’alzamon’s image grew behind his, staring at him; not seeing, but staring still. In every mirror, the flames of Ba’alzamon’s face raged behind him, enveloping, consuming, merging. He wanted to scream, but his throat was frozen. There was only one face in those endless mirrors. His own face. Ba’alzamon’s face. One face.

Palace of Tears.

“We achieved power, held onto it, and enjoyed it ruthlessly to the fullest. We made wars, suppressed or exterminated peoples, and always imposed our will without mercy. There was no one who could stand up to us. We committed atrocities that make all history sound like children’s tales, atrocities for which language has no words and which no mind can imagine. And nobody ordered us to stop. We waded through blood up to our hips, and no bolt of lightning struck us down. We stacked up skulls into heaps, and no higher power intervened. So we concluded that we ourselves were gods.” (pp. 195, Andreas Eschbach)

Chet.

Amidst the pall of the contemporary art scene there is and has been a line of art that disturbs and mutilates the viewer. If you’re familiar with guttural tones and weird schisms from the void subconscious. Fascinated with Grimace from Maccas and ever wondered what it would be like to dip your finger into an exit wound.

Oil realist, Monster auteur;

Chet Zar is definitely your man:
https://instagram.com/chetzar/
http://iliketopaintmonsters.com/

Willy Bee.

Mr W. Burroughs:

Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig farting out the words. It was unlike anything I had ever heard. This asshole talk had sort of a gut frequency. It hit you right down there like you gotta go. You know when the old colon gives you the elbow and it feels sorta cold inside, and you know all you have to do is turn loose? Well this talking hit you right down there, a bubbly, thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell. This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriliquist act. Real funny, too, at first. He had a number he called The Better Ole that was a scream, I tell you. I forget most of it but it was clever. Like, “Oh I say, are you still down there, old thing?” “Nah I had to go relieve myself.” After a while the asshole started talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his asshole would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time. Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in-curving hooks and start eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody loved it and it wanted to be kissed same as any other mouth. Finally it talked all the time day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles up it, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him, “It is you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we dont need you around here any more. I can talk and eat AND shit.” After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpoles tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T., Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have have amputated spontaneous – except for the EYES you dig. Thats one thing the asshole COULDN’T do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldnt give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes WENT OUT, and there was no more feeling in them than a crabs eyes on the end of a stalk.

OH PETE!

It is a strange and lucrative business impeaching upon others with no set understanding or direction.

I am an illustrator and lover of all things literary based and beyond. Here splayed on these walls you will find rattlings from my many of my own drawing journals; inspirations from the void prospect and a collection of meandering thoughts or quotes from distant novels/novellas/poems/speeches and other such nonsense.