Rising. Higher. 

Reaching Further.

Attaining.

Losing.

Falling.

Dying.

Again. 

Diving into the depths of my being I see sadness. The somber yet depressing sounds of my past ring in my ears like the cries of dying brain cells. Ringing. Ringing. Constantly ringing. The vibrations from the sound reverberates through the cob webs that have grown within my sentiment breaking their unbreakable hold. As they fall softly, but ever so quickly, the strength I have falls with them. "Stay", it begs. "Stay on the walls, for then I know that what is done is done. Don't allow yourself to be pulled away." But to no avail. The cob webs, beautifully made by the keepers of my depths, plummet to the bottom of my crevasse. Will the craftsmen of these unique works of art try again? Will their shelter be undisturbed for a while giving them time to work? Or will there be a jostling of sorts elevating my depths to the sun where it can attempt again? Will Hades rise from his river of death to over take his brother, ruling the land claimed by him?

Walls cave in! Walls break! The spirit of my past is making its way to you now. Drop heavy rocks on its head breaking open its skull. When the source of its strength and consciousness stares at you, pour hot lava onto it. Enkindle a flame so great not even Hades himself can take refuge in it. Sear its finger tips so that it cannot grip the rigid corners of my defenses. And when it slows down, combust! Spit fiery embers into the air and quake until it falls. Watch it and make sure it is dead. For if it regains the strength to over come you, it will be your undoing.  

Fractured Innocence

Even though my innocence was once fractured working out the kinks for a bette future is my goal. I apsire greatness. I attain greatness. One day at a time.

Glamazon

The Offering

There is obviously a lot going on here. There is a lot of meaning in it but I haven't really completed my understanding of it.

Any thoughts?

Half empty

Death. A blessing. 

Pain. ever-ending. 

Life. A curse. 

A gift. Hearse mending.   

Why when the sun shines, do my sun glasses hide me? How come when joy rains, my umbrella protects me? Is there an end to this pain that I’m feeling. Or is this the destiny chosen for me instead for others surrounding me. I want it to end; the darkness to take me, for then I know that to your hands I’ll be. To finally close my eyes, eye lashes connecting, braiding together to lock the doors shielding. Why is darkness so much more than light? Why is death salvation, and life persecution? The answer lies within. Within your heart. For when we are apart from our bodies we are eternally within yours. 

Running up my veins. Poison

Spilling into my mind. Chosen

To suffer this life. Broken

To die and rise again. Unfrozen

“We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord.” 2 Corinthians 5:8

Awaken sleeper for your destiny awaits

I've been in Spain for 12 days 2 hours and 10 minutes and ever since the plane touched down I have been experiencing an abundance of emotions all reaching the tops of my peaks and falling as low as the troughs of my sentiment. Normally these variances in the waves of my being come from the responses I have received indirectly from those that surround me in reference to my appearance. But is that it? Where does all of this emotion come from? Where does the lack of confidence get its rise? Where does this temporary sense of confidence originate, and why does it fade so readily, abandoning me to the depths of my soul, which has been painted black by the abounding darkness of my past?
Where does the confidence that has been so characteristic of my life gone? I'll tell you this, it has never been there. Observing the short story of my life I've noticed that instead of my disposition being decided by my actions, it has been decided by the reaction of those around me to my actions. Inside, I have been empty--lacking any real definition. Constantly metamorphosing to fit the cast the world has set. The bright white walls of my soul remaining white, untouched by a single wet paint brush.
During this life, instead of defining who I was by carefully choosing the color and layout of my mind, I have always just left it blank. Instead of adding any real definition and depth to it I, like a chameleon, have simply changed what was on the outside to fit the environment that I was in.
There. There I find refuge. Amongst the formless and shallow enigmas I am king. In a world of constant change I am the king of vacillation. Proud of it? NO! NEVER!
I have always been defined by those around me--down to the very clothes that I wear. Every moment has been carefully planed, organized, retouched, produced, reedited, and reproduced again, around the view of those who like fly fishermen, cast judgement. Once hooked I begin to observe what is acceptable--the hook in mouth ripping and tearing me along. Walk this way. Smile this way. Talk this way. Dress this way. Like a skilled craftsman I carefully chisel away any imperfection. I, like a painter, splash a bit of color to my skin. When it's served its purpose I do away with it. Erase the color, and destroy the finished sculpture.
Something that I at times forget is, every time I destroy the hard work I harm the true essence of who I really am. Every time a characteristic has become obsolete and then destroyed a bit of me goes with it. How far will I allow myself to go? 
If I am supposed to be a Christian, I'm supposed to have my confidence securely attached to God. But instead of clinging to something everlasting, I decide to gravitate towards the temporal. Why has the confidence that has been the source of my reality only been defined by those around me who lack the spiritual connection to my father, God?

It is time.

It is time for me to break the bonds that have been vicariously placed upon me by my enemy through those around me. I am powerful. I am revolutionary. I am intelligent. I am free from the dictation of my peers, and beyond the control of the darkness that so easily takes its place on the throne of my mind. As I inhale I take in God. And as I exhale I pour onto the world the wisdom he has given me. Break free o sleeper from your trance. Realize your destiny and take hold of it. For once it is passed, it is passed.

Progression of Modernity in Art

During the times of the 17^th century, classic art was at its high—Classic art utilizing heavily engrained technique and perspective.  Art was something that was so highly regarded and valued that it not only was a venue where the brief story of politics could be found, it was also something that was highly regarded for its level of aesthetics. Being that art wasn’t just art for the people of the time it was an important piece of culture for the people, much attention was given to it—a fact that directly juxtaposes the value of art today. The governing body of the art of the time was the Academy. The Academy a collection of eighty members that were highly decorated artists, and highly esteemed critics of what was considered aesthetically correct. The academy was essentially the gate keepers and protectors of the standards of the day. Up until this time the standard was a Classical take on art, utilizing the technique taught from a young age and Historical painting: painting that dealt with less abstract ideas but instead focused on reality and its formation. Up until this point Classics painters never experienced real scrutiny for their art but instead were respected.

While the Classics continued to rule the art world as the only genre a political revolution was ensuing. A revolution that would change the way the world looks at art. Due to the political revolution of the time—a shift to Republicanism—a revolution of what was considered good art was beginning. It wasn’t until Delacroix, one of the groundbreaking modernists, showed his piece, The Massacre of Chios at the Salon of 1824. His piece, a very skilled painting, stood in stark juxtaposition to Ingres’s Vow of Louis XIII. Shortly after the Salon a number of other artists showed up on the map of modernity showing pieces we now characterize as Naturalistic, Romantic, and Realistic. While these artists experienced a lack of support from the art community at large and the powers that be, the bricks and mortar were being laid for the future of artists to push the envelope and break free from the rigid structure of the Classics.

One artist that was up and coming in the modern art world of the time was Manet. The appeal to his art was because of his political, emotional, and moral neutrality. But it wasn’t until the International Art Exhibition that he and a number of other artists received the opportunity they needed to change the world. In the preparation and organization of the event Napoleon III was burdened with the responsibility of giving a good show and allowing the world to see and further their understanding that France still was a competitive entity that deserved respect. It was decided that at the exhibition, there to appease everyone involved representatives of every major genre would show their work. The showings would be organized to provide for a retrospective experience for the viewers—essentially giving them and understanding of the artist’s progress.

Connoisseurs and respected critics loved the idea that they could witness the birth and growth of an artist’s particular style. The general public was not much of a fan of the idea. What cemented the presence of Modernism during these times of rebirth and revolution was the recognition (Medal of Honor) given to nine of the artists that showed at the exhibition. It may not have been evident to the artists themselves but supporters of the classics realized that this gesture of awarding the Medal of Honor to these artists would serve to be what ultimately destroyed the hierarchical position of the Classics. At that point instead of their being Classics then Modern pieces, the two were seen as equals, both existing cohesively in the same environment.  The only thing that would put any piece above another was individual preference and taste.

It was artists like Manet, Delacroix, and Courbet that pushed the envelope of conservatism. They decided to instead of allow what was considered acceptable, hide the truth of the political reality, play with the various aspects of revolution and its applicability to the advancement of modern life.

Personally I think that this was an amazing thing for our world to experience. I think it is extremely important to make art accessible to not only the wealthy but to the general public. Art to me is an expressive piece used to convey an idea or even a beautiful image to the world. Being that the elite are not the only people in the world that have something to say, I think it was very important to extend this opportunity to others. The way that we live our lives has everything to do with what happened more than a century ago in 1855. Every artificial aspect of our physical world—whether the design of a laptop or the architecture of a building, is the way it is currently because of that event. I’m glad it happened.

TOLEDO!

Today we went to Toledo, Spain. This place is literally ridiculous! Cant believe how amazing it was.

The weather was perfect. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky.  Surprisingly all of these pics were taken with an iphone4...

Anyway...enjoy

Still loving every moment here I'd say the ones that I enjoyed shooting the most were the people of the city. And the Catedral. Fue muy bonito!

When you are gone darkness finds me

When I am without you darkness finds me. It digs its nails deep into my back and its teeth into my neck. When I am away from you clouds of contempt fill my skies and once saturated pours on me memories of ugliness anorexia bulimia and pain. The body given is defiled. The life once touched is spat on. Where will the light be once my eyes reflect nothing but darkness? Where will your rays of life be hidden when they are closed and the key used to sustain their bondage is lost? Rip into my sky and push back the clouds, eat them alive, and brighten my world. Find the key used to constrict me. If it be lost forever free me from the depths of my mind. Tear off my lids and throw them away, for what lies behind them could destroy me. Do not drip. Do not shower. Do not sprinkle. But POUR! Pour into the doors of my soul like water behind the broken dam. Fill my body with the sweet nectar that gives life. Fill me until every crevasse is submerged. Take note of your child Katrina and how she destroyed the darkness of your prodigal, Louis. But after you ravage the disposition of my spirit, rebuild my walls. Use crushed coral mixed with water. Lay beautiful silver and black granite bricks infused with your spirit. Fill my fields with beautiful flowers so that I can run through them, and tall shade trees for me to sleep under. Once my land is restored burry your body in the middle of it, so that my world will be sustained. Stay there and never leave. For if you do the black hole which has claimed so many worlds will swallow me.

Searching for a place called different

Being here is simply amazing. Aside from the food and the culture, Madrid offers a plethora of experiences. But something I find myself thinking about more than anything is how people regard race, ethnicity, and socioeconomic levels. Coming from the United States where the "minor" ethnicities exist in the shadow of their more fare skinned cohabitants predisposed me to feeling lower than those around me. But in a place where the lines of major and minor are blurred, one is given the opportunity to experience an existence of equality— one in which being bound by long standing and en-rooted stereotypes is unheard of, at least on the basis of skin color.
Today I decided to go Sol the central part of Madrid. After breakfast I left my flat and made my way to the Lacoma Metro Station. As I walked up the street I inattentively scan the area, my subconscious taking notice of all the faces crossing my path. Routinely, sometimes without knowing, I read peoples body language and facial expressions to decide exactly how they would respond to me, being black. When you’re a minority patterns like this are quite common. In certain environments minorities sometimes feel the pressure to ensure they are read the right way. I, for example, resent when my intelligence isn't recognized or when my "viewer" looks only at my skin color to make a judgement or conclusion. A person of a less common skin color like myself may at times feel the eyes of those around them attempting to denude their bodies—stripping their epidermis of the “impurity” found within their melanin levels. A person like myself may even feel as if their increased pigmentation gives rise to stereotypes attached to their physical appearance. Whether this is simply a perspective created out of paranoia or a perspective acknowledging the truth, the fact is it still happens.
I enter the metro station scan my ticket and proceed to the lower level. Reaching the end of the stairwell I quickly scan the area for the closest bench for me to sit on. Choosing a bench immediately to my right I center myself on it and sit. One subway comes and goes on the other side of the tracks. The tailwind, saturated with the smell of industry gently kisses my cheeks while the faint smell of perfume tickles the hairs in my nose. My mind is left lackadaisically fishing for a fleeting thought.

Mind: blank. Spirit: at peace. I continue to sit uninterrupted by the sounds of my surroundings. A Spanish woman with fare skin strolls down the stairs and looks to her right. She sees me and the bench I'm sitting on.

Without time to think… 

Auto-pilot. I, startled, jump slightly then freeze staring at the woman assuming that my skin color would either scare her away or cause her to, under the influence of preconceived notions, move to the next bench. As she approaches, I, unsure of what to do, look down at the floor and then back at the woman nervously. Without thinking she sits about 6 inches from me and carelessly drapes her purse over her lap.
Wait! Why did this happen? Why didn’t she nervously run to the next empty bench, squeezing her purse under her arm? How come she didn't look down on me and then rudely tell me to scoot over? In America all of those things would have happened. And I, a product of my environment wouldn’t even notice, because this reaction is more common than you think. After years, decades, or even centuries of this seemingly harmless and unconscious decision to unknowingly reinforce a stereotype and distance between two ethnicities, everyone just        mindlessly         acts.
In a world where your status as the "minority" is extinguished, your opinions of how you should perform are challenged.
The United States is a country dominated my fare skinned people, not necessarily in number but in power and influence. And I don't fault them for that fact. I also don't fault them for seeming to have an standoffish air about them. An air that propels them through their environment guarded and almost afraid of anyone who directly contradicts what is considered normal for them. I notice that nether side of the line is perfectly right. Perhaps both sides share in the constant degradation of the pride in being who you are. But regardless, being in a place where for once I’m not considered less than the person next to me simply on the basis of my skin color is refreshing.