Tag Archives: Love

Geminelle: Radiant, Raw, a Woman Rediscovering Herself

Without the story, there is no artist. Without the struggle, there is no sound. Without the journey, there is no soul. With introspection and experience, the path to one’s truth is uncovered in its deep and ever-changing form. Morphing always, the product is not as much a set identity as it is an energy, a humble knowing.

So-Cal bred, Brooklyn based singer-songwriter Geminelle speaks this universal language of self-discovery that embraces audiences with something both resonating and relatable. Sharing her journey through her sound, Geminelle sings not just with candor but a radiance that embraces and invites. A captivating appeal, though, only begins to describe what makes this songstress such a rarity. Entwining glowing vocals with grounded lyrics, Geminelle talks about what it means to be human, to be perfect in one’s imperfection, and to walk through clarity and confusion with spirit and sense.

“I believe that music has the power to heal,” she says in our recent interview. “It’s a beautiful chance to share my story, to share my experiences, my journey, my testimony,” she adds. With roots in San Diego, Geminelle’s aqueous influence is illuminated in her philosophy and entrenched in her music. Growing up by the sea and amidst the mountains fostered an adventurous nature that later found her performing on city streets from Austin and New Orleans to Chicago. Her transition to New York, however, was about being “humbled”, a career move in which she “[learned] how to be a big fish in a gigantic lake, an ocean even.”

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No matter the city, Geminelle maintains a connection and drive that keeps her moving forward personally and artistically. “Every day, I’m trying to figure out myself a little bit more,” she says. “I write from a really real place…and a lot of that is just self reflection and self love and learning self love,” she continues. “All I really want to do is inspire people to be greater.”

With a summer album release ahead, Geminelle’s Audiobook will talk about self-confrontation, self-destruction, and a time in which she was forced to look inside. “It’s my literal journey, for a span of a year and a half,” she says. “I think you can expect from Audiobook this journey of a woman who is rediscovering herself…aside from societal influences, aside from damage and self hate.”

A self-named “writer, artist, counselor,” and “healer”, Geminelle uses her honey-like vocals to grow closer to herself while doing the same with her audience. A woman of many titles, she emanates that which brought her here today. Many roles, cities, and songs later, Geminelle warrants a pensive listen and soothing effect that binds growth with veracity. Like the sea that touches a melding, setting sun, Geminelle abides less by the beginning of one chapter and end of another and more by the remarkable amalgamation of where and how each moment has rippled into the next.

Check out Geminelle’s music here.

Falling Out Of Love With New York City: The Truth About Our Messy Breakup

I just want to start out by saying that New York City and I have been in love for the majority of my life.

We have shared laughs, long nights of tears, drunken escapades, a mutual distaste for tourists and arrogant assholes from Staten Island alike, and we have both been there for each other during the darkest of times. In what some would call a fantasy world, the city and I have been in love for a very long time. But, like any relationship, bumps in the road come along and sometimes the bumps are strong enough to break a union apart. Such is the case for NYC and me.

When a relationship begins, everything is shiny and new. From the lights that are bright enough to make your eyes tear up, to the noises that are loud enough to accelerate your adrenaline, everything is so much more. When New York City and I fell in love, everything was absolutely breathtaking to me; even the pigeon shit on my windowsill seemed to sparkle like diamonds. However, as time began moving faster and my mind began to open, I realized that the love that I once shared with the “city of dreams” was a façade – a long-winded romance gone awry. Bills began to stack, my budget scaled the size of my apartment down to a measly 400 square feet, and my big dreams were quickly deteriorated by the dreams of everyone around me. What kind of fool thinks that they can become the next J.K. Rowling in a city where fifty thousand others want to obtain the same goal?

Year after year, I always found myself contemplating the worth that I held in my relationship with New York City. Do I matter here? As the love faded, so did my aspirations and hopes. I found myself working dead-end jobs just to pay rent for an apartment that I was never in. That was my first qualm with NYC – our first big fight: the fact that no matter how hard I tried, or how many times I applied, no job seemed to want me. Could it be that my work isn’t good enough? No. My work is just fine, friends assured me. But, compared to the work of thousands of others my age with a degree from Yale or Harvard, my work became overshadowed. The fight about this raged on into the morning hours for weeks on end. Eventually, New York City and I decided to take a break – we took a year apart and I moved half way across the country to clear my mind.


“Like any breakup, you lose things during the separation period.”


When you leave something or someone that you love for an extended amount of time, the saying “distance makes the heart grow fonder” becomes a valued thought. Every day that passed just confirmed that my love reigned strong for my city, and going back was something that I needed to do in order to feel whole again. I packed my bags, hopped on a flight, and landed right back into the arms of my one true love. I thought that time apart is what we needed to find common ground – maybe the distance helped in patching up old wounds…

The smell of my city is something that I have always found comfort in; kind of like laying down on freshly washed bed sheets. Stepping out of Grand Central and taking a deep breath in was assurance that my relationship still held a glimmer of hope as the comfort washed over me. Although my budget had grown, the city had grown as well – landing me in yet another 400 square foot block of space in Chinatown. It’s okay, old habits die hard. The love affair that once consumed me whole was back in full swing and, despite the time we spent apart, nothing had changed.

New York City and I have been tolerating each other in a loveless relationship ever since my return over a year ago. The nights that were once filled with joyful memories have turned dark and lonely, the drunken escapades have turned to drinking wine alone on my couch, and the rush of energy from the lights and noise have turned to a bitter taste in my mouth. The city took my heart, toyed with it, and then gave it back to me in pieces. As I think back to our blissful beginning, I need to remind myself that relationships come and go. No matter what lies ahead, you can always thank the past for where you are now.

Even though our relationship is destined to end soon, New York will always remain my first love. Like any breakup, you lose things during the separation period. Things that I’ll never get back, like massive debt and flashes of my youth, will keep me up at night for a while, but will give me hope that I will one day fall in love with another city that won’t charge $4 for a can of tuna fish.

Kosher Condition



Falsely Anticipated



Pretense unpolished the perfected

Beneath painted toes

Bleeding the hue that truth came to know

Delicate like a dandelion

Bold like a rose

When the first door opened

The last had to close

Like the pupils in her eyes

Like the skin on his nose

The petals only fall from the stem that grows.

The Truth.


We all have an inner knowing, but how often do we trust it? How often do we follow its lead? We share this birth ridden right, but differ only in how close we are to the source or contrarily how far from it we have managed to run.


How tapped in are we to our own truth? Have we veered off of its path? Within us all, this force is the core of our being. It is not what dictates our lives but rather an individualized essence that we were, by some greater force, intended to carry throughout this lifetime.


That being the case, however, does not mean that we are in tune with it. In fact, we oftentimes act as opposing forces. We struggle with disregarding the knowing within and confusing it with the world outside.


Therefore, this methodology becomes our practice, our way of living; eventually, the external seeps into the internal and programs our systems to consider it our so-called identity. No wonder there seem to be so much conflict in our own worlds – outer, inner, and too in the in-between realm.


The result? We are left consumed with material pursuits, mindless mumble, and an incessant chaos that holds us back from listening to the vast skies and the flow of the seas.


The greatest war in existence today is the one we have with ourselves. When the mind ceases its chatter and melds into the truth of its form, of its body, it will find peace. It will think of itself no longer as an exclusive entity but instead an inclusive gift to the greater whole – the universe.


Our society today is awakening. We are making monumental shifts within our consciousness. Yet, it will take great rewiring for mankind to return to the source. This is a practice, a journey. With the right frequency and state of mind, our universe, our soul, and our being may one day reunite. We can return to the greatest power and simplest truth of all: Love.

Shane’s Serendipitous Stories Vol.1: Goodbye old life

There were once 5,430,829 girls born in the United States in 1992.This story however, is only about one of them. In fact this story is about one, specific girl of the five million born in 1992, who met a specific boy in December of 2012.


The girl was twenty, exceptionally gifted, while also being conventionally beautiful, and on her way to a college degree a year and a half early.  She loved long walks in the park, but often made them on her own. Her life was filled with so much promise, but ironically so empty, and so absent of love . . .

The boy was nineteen, boyishly handsome, and secretly smart. However, the secret was extremely well kept, being that he had nothing to show for it, but a high school G.E.D. and a lengthy rap sheet. He had a pending court case, and the odds were not in his favor. However he had loved every year of the nineteen he lived, and was not only content, but also somewhere deep down . . . He was still happy.


So, maybe on that cool, December night, the girl lays awake in her dorm room studying. Until she gets to a point where her mind isn’t taking in the words on the book in front of her, but drifting to memories she’d like nothing more than to forget. Just maybe, she decides it’s best to close the book, throw a heavy sweater on, and let the breeze act as Alzheimer’s, if only for an hour, from a campus bench.

Maybe the boy lays awake in bed counting down the days until his impending doomsday. He walks down to a kitchen barstool, and stares at the bare refrigerator door. He tries to remember when he stopped getting A’s to decorate it, and when his mom had chalked his genius to a phase of the past, and removed the one’s he had gotten altogether. He can’t. He cries. Just maybe with sore eyes and a heavy heart, he decides to take a drive to the local campus to see what he truly could have been.  Perhaps he stands on the campus’s pitcher’s mound. He throws an imaginary curve ball.


“Strike one!” He yells

He throws again.

“Strike two!”

And again.

“Strike three, and you’re out!” He jumps up and down, excited with his imaginary victory. His smile touches everything but his eyes.

He wanders around for about an hour more, continuing in his reenactment of all the things he could, and should have been. Finally his reenactment leads him to the campus bench. To her.


“Hey.” He says.

“Good God!” She’s startled.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I meant . . . I mean you no harm. I swear.” He offers.

“It’s fine, I just didn’t hear you approach. I was just leaving anyway. I have lots of um studying and reading to do.” She says with regained composure.


She gets up to leave, but something tells the boy to grab her hand, perhaps maybe the same something that led the boy to campus.


“Please, don’t go on my account. We don’t even have to talk, it’d just be nice sitting on a bench next to a beautiful stranger sharing nothing, but the silence and the breeze.” He says to her. “I imagine I would have done that a lot.” He whispers to himself.


The girl looks down at his hand holding hers, she’s in shock. She wants to scream. She wants pull away, and head back to her dorm. She wants to not trust the boy, but something in her won’t allow it, perhaps the same something that led her to the campus bench.


“Okay.” She says, and sit’s back down.

The silence lasted all but thirty seconds.

“You’re most beautiful when no one’s looking.” The boy speaks into the wind.

“Excuse me?” She fire’s back.

He smiles. “My mom used to always say that a woman is most beautiful when she’s sure no one’s looking, and that it was a crying shame at that.” He smiles at the memory. “And just now when I was walking up it amazed me how effortlessly your hair was blowing in the wind, and how perfectly loose your sweater fit you. And now as I sit some five inches away from you, I can see how naturally beautiful you are. And no offence, but you were probably sure no one else would be out here tonight.”


She flashes an awkward smile.

“It’s a compliment I swear.”  He laughs.

“Well thank you. You’re sweet.”  She genuinely smiles.


That moment of sincerity was all the boy needed, and the moment of sweetness was all she needed. They began probing each other’s deepest thoughts for hours. She told him things she’d only tell paper like “I’ve never kissed someone who wasn’t drunk, and I think that means something. I just don’t know what.” and he told her things he’d only tell god like “I think I was meant to have some affect on people’s lives, but now I fear it’s to late. That I’ve missed all the buses that have come my way, heading for my destiny.”


The sun begins to ascend in the horizon.

“Absolutely beautiful.” The boy says.

“Isn’t it, I’ve always loved sun rise.” She responds, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“That’s not what I meant.”  He commands.

She turns to face him, he’s still staring off into the horizon.

He continues. “This night was absolutely beautiful, you are absolutely beautiful. To me, this sun rise is only a painful reminder that it’s coming to an end.”

She grabs his hand, and he turns to face her. She smiles. “Amazing, how two people can stare at the same thing, yet feel two completely different things.”

“Indeed.” He smiles back.

“Do you ever—“ She’s cut off.

He’s kissed her.  She kisses back.

“It does mean something.” He says when they break apart. She’s a mixture of smiles, and different shades of red.  “No one deserves to not know what it is like to be truly wanted. To be truly loved . . . touched . . . kissed.  Let my lips wash away the stain of a drunken uncle at every family dinner, or the quarterback in the bathroom of your first high school party, and the second basemen in the basement of you’re first college party. You’ve deserved better. You’ll always deserve better than any one this world has to offer you.”


She begins to cry.


“There’s no tang of alcohol, no stench of regret. No ironic feeling that I somehow was taking advantage of them” She says as she cries harder.

He comforts her for a while.

“I need to tell you something.” She finally announces through now soft sobs.

“What is it?”

“You were wrong. It’s not to late. You’ve caught your bus. You’ve changed my life forever here on this bench. The world may not know, nor the thousands of people who will sit on this bench later on today, but I will. I hope that means something to you. You’re serendipity at it’s finest.”

“It means everything.” The boy admits

They share sympathetic smiles, nods, and kisses. That’s all they exchange. No numbers, no emails, no social media information. They take with them something much more infinite, and meaningful.

They go their separate ways.

“Goodbye old life.” They both whisper into the wind.


San Francisco: The Way I See It

I am definitely a romantic when it comes to traveling or immersing myself in any city, or any culture for that matter. I always find something to rave about, something that personifies that place and the people within that simply can not be found elsewhere. Maybe it’s the writer in me. Maybe it’s the romantic. I just can’t help it, and personally, the constant infliction of influence seems to make the experience more enjoyable anyways.

These days, my inner gypsy appears so very eager to explore the California coast that I’ve newly dubbed home. I’ve trekked my way up and down and all around, growing more conscious yet all the more curious about this all-encompassing state. Shaking hands with new faces and stepping forth unto new places, each day becomes a new and glorious reminder of why I love living here.

Come this past weekend, I made my way up to the California city I am and always have been the most fond of: San Francisco. My intent was to tour a few art schools and spend the rest of my time a transparent eyeball, so to speak. As far as I’m concerned, vacations should have no agenda. So me, my sans schedule self, and I followed the weekend breeze and trusted its lead.

Expecting the weather to be situated in its usual fall gloom, an overcast haze that sits atop the city and catalyst of the breeze-laden chill, I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted with clear blue skies. During my four day stay, my camera played my wingman and my feet, the compass.

One thing that is crucial of any city is the way it speaks to its residents. Los Angeles, for instance, makes sure to string an obnoxious plethora of billboards across cluttered roads and junctions, just close enough so that the faces of radio personalities, city lawyers, and celebrity acts are literally hovering over your immobile car. New York City, on the other hand, positions its theatrical billboards high and mighty, flashy and bright, to complement both the opulence and impatience of its scurrying inhabitants. San Francisco, as I have learned over my years of visiting, takes on a different method of communication.

As opulent and scurrying and magnificent as it too may be, San Francisco almost strokes your hair back and whispers in your ear. It wants to inform you. It wants to be discreet. But it needs you to be a part of it. This city speaks for itself. As graffiti art stands bold on many of its walls, grand pieces tell of the personality and story responsible. The aromas of Chinatown’s restaurants and corner eateries’ coffee nearly seduce you upon passing by. The people of the city, with such a knack for organic aesthetic, don’tprove but rather, convey themselves. They don’t identify with their checklist of accomplishments, but instead the intent behind it. As the same can be applied to the art, history, museums, etc., not a trace is left concealed. What you see is what you get.

Of course, I am speaking generally. Through my personal experience, though, such has proven to be true. Having seen the city during the Gay Pride Parade this past summer, spent many sunny Sundays in the crowded and captivating Dolores Park and many mornings running through the Castro District, having worked in coffee shops and raided the vintage stores of Valencia Street..having rode the ferry out to Alcatraz on an ice cold day.. having stayed many-a-time in the Mission District, taking the BART into the city and MUNI over to Haight St., etcetera etcetera, the list goes on.. My point is this: I’d like to think I have a good grasp on the city of which I speak. The city which I hold to the highest regard.

Yes, I may be a romantic. Yes, I am aware that the good and the bad exist, as in any place. But to me, these aspects – good, bad, ugly, and all laced amongst – define San Francisco such a unique place. Visiting this past weekend brought back to that unparalleled feeling I get when I am there. It’s easy to get lost in the embrace.

I Can’t Love You, I’m Too Busy Making Art

   what happens when “its not me its you” applies to everyone?

The writer Anaïs Nin once said, “I am lonely, yet not everybody will do. I don’t know why, some people fill the gaps and others emphasize my loneliness. In reality those who satisfy me are those who simply allow me to live with my idea of them.” How many times do we meet some extraordinary being, the ones who make us question if life prior to meeting them even qualified as living, only to find ourselves falling into the stereotype of the cursed artist who possesses so much unbounded love and passion, yet unable to apply these to anything and anyone other than our work. Why does the thought of healthy, sustainable relationships put the stamp of death on our artistic integrity?
Maybe love is best summed up by the Romantic period: inspiration from nature, solitude and unrequited love. Yeah, that’s it, we seem to love most the things that we don’t understand and cannot have. We’re always trying to discover the new, tap into the unknown, turn nothings into somethings, generally looking at life as an endless experiment of fucking things up and seeing what happens. As we wade through our existence shackled by adventurous truth seeking terms, how can we free our partners from our own nihilistic rules and produce a tangible and substantial relationship? Why can’t we see humans as they are, instead of dragging them along as vessels in our personal life experiment?

As Bill Withers once said, “we all need somebody to lean on.” Of course we do Bill, but at what point does this “someone” become more than a walking, breathing post to cry on? Can that special someone ever be more valuable than the object we scream our “its complicated” rants at, and evolve from the default muse we turn to when inspiration stops coming from everywhere else? Everyday I wake up plagued by this, wondering will I ever have enough time and patience to devote to a lasting relationship without compromising the energy I put into my writing?

My own relationships always end because right as honest feelings blossom, you know the ones that demand staying up all night to talk them over together, I suddenly remember that tending to the wild contradiction of fire I call my soul is more crucial than making effortless attempts at trying to understand someone else. I’ve realized this discovery and mastering of self can only come about through experiences induced by everyday interactions with the hordes of people that encompass this earth, a category into which relationships rightfully fall under. See, this unraveling of society and piecing it back together is all a process, and artists have to keep moving with the momentum of it all or get left behind boasting about our greatness with nothing to show for it. There’s no time to complain that life isn’t like the old fleeting days of youth when the only things to worry about were what magnitude of peanut butter chunkiness satisfied our deepest desires or what outfit most effectively displayed our heart’s temperament. There is no spare time for the pleasures of falling in and out of relationships, and having to listen to someone complain that they’re not the most important thing to us anymore, because we’re spending too much time with ourselves creating “art,” or whatever it is we do all day.

Unearthing the holy high that the production of art evokes unfortunately is not easily replaced, however good the stand-in may seem. Yeah, it is comforting to take someone along for the ride, but they have to be down for the times when we aren’t speaking to the world for extended periods of time. They have to be down for us not always being available, because we’re down in the (insert ill-suited cliché that describes your sacred place here). Does that make us selfish, cynical and disillusioned? Maybe. Effective relationships aren’t about compromising one’s artistic values to submit to another persons needs, they’re about hinging flaws together in way that allows both people to continue their lives as effectively, if not better, than they would alone. If that isn’t happening in a relationship, well, my good friend Jack Kerouac seems to have a logical solution, “therefore I dedicate myself to myself, to my art, to my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my sufferance, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger – because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.”

OK wait, before surrendering to a life of solitude, what about Picasso and Maar, Khalo and Rivera, Lennon and Ono, Ike and Tina, Cobain and Love? Their relationships all seemed productive, actually they were more of a self serving effort at combating craziness by getting with another crazy person. Are relationships different when the involved parties are artists who understand the debilitating and never-ending process of having to understand the world in its entirety because its the only way we can make sense of anything? Is it easier to be with someone who is as muddled as us, who realizes the alienating difficulty of constantly debating the importance our own lives, let alone attempting to care about another’s? Its no wonder the only couples that make international headlines and set pop royalty standards are of the notorious artist-famous person combo. No one bothers to pay attention when an artist has a relationship with a “regular” person because deep down there’s the sense that the facade of a relationship is doomed to fail because artists only understand each other, which really isn’t true anyways because no one really understands artists, do they?

#WatchThisSpace Find this piece and much more in Art Nouveau’s 9th issue entitled SKIN. Click here to get your copy!

Time Is Of The Essence


The once enthralling couple had been arguing out loud for weeks, and mentally for the past year.  Their time was coming to an end, and they knew it. In a bedside drawer were the matching watches they had gotten many years earlier for their two-year anniversary, and they sensed it as well.


“Hey,” the first watch said shakily to the other.

The other watch remained silent.

The first watch spoke again. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

The other watch still remained silent.

“Speak to me, tell me something, tell me you still love me, tell me your scared, tell me its okay,” Said the first watch again more urgently, more shakily.

“I’m scared” the Second watch finally whispered.  “I still love you of course, but it would be lying to ourselves, if we didn’t say we felt our time together was running out.”


They sat in silence for a while.


“We can’t.” The first watch finally said.

“Can’t what?”

“We can’t run out of time.. It’s impossible, and I won’t let it. We are watches remember.”

“Yes honey, why of course I remember we are watches, but even if we were humans we would still run out of time together at some point don’t you see?  Time itself, never runs out. It is immortal; it is beyond any thought, or substance in this universe. Time shared between two things however, always comes to and end at some point in life, this principal holds no exceptions for no person nor objects. ” The second watch replied calmly and carefully.


“Is there no way to fight it?” The first watch whimpered.

“Fight it? No. I’m sure we could prolong it to some extinct, but why go against nature.  I have always been 12 seconds ahead of you sweetheart, I have always known these things, and though it has brought me sorrow it has offered me the ability to appreciate moments we have shared even more.”


“12 seconds behind or not, I know one thing, there is no watch whom I have rather spent my time went, ill love you forever, time cant separate that, This I know.” The first watch said confidently.


“Yes baby, you are right. I’ll love you forever as well.”


They fell in silence again. Days passed.


“Is that everything?”  Said a voice.

“Almost I just need to find one more thing.” Said the familiar voice of the male from the couple.

“What is it?” The voice said aggravated.

He didn’t answer.

He walked over to the bedside drawer where the two watches remained. Before he knew it an ocean of memories flooded his brain, and an ocean of tears his face.  He remembered the look on her face when she gave it to him, in her dorm room those many years ago. He remembered the card she had written him along with it, and the look on her face when she had received the watch he brought her. He remembered how much he loved his now wife back then.  As he took this trip down memory lane the watches whispered.


“The time has come.” Said the second watch softly.

The first watch remained silent.

The second watch continued uncharacteristically shakily “ I won’t ever forget the day we met, the love in our owners eyes, the love between us. It is something I will forever cherish.”

“Will you think of me?” the first watch finally asked

“Every second of the day.” The second watch replied.


Before the first watch can speak again he was embraced by the familiar hand of his owner, and removed from the drawer.


Their time was up.

Illustration by Dani Bravo

Do Artists Have Time For Love? #questionsthatneedanswers

I’m going to start this piece by changing the subject… Am I throwing you off yet? I want to take this back to square one, wherein lies our original question, “Do artists have time for love?” The query is a valid one, but irrelevant nonetheless. Consider the subject, the artist. For him, time feels time too trivial a constraint. Therefore, what becomes the more relevant question is whether or not the artist is ever able to define and interpret love within the limitations of a lifetime. The common misconception is embedded in the belief that artists know love best because they are the most passionate. The latter statement is true, yes (personal bias), but reality couldn’t be farther from the former. An “artist,” aside from being a slightly (ok, majorly) ambiguous title, is really an embodiment of obscurity. If existent in his purest form, he is a passionate, open-minded force. The root of his creation, his being, his everything, is L-O-V-E, Love.

Yet, in the artist’s eyes, love is not simply a notion between two. He sees that love is expressed throughout, that it breathes through hatred and pain just as much as it does sex and euphoria. So, from it he creates what he deems a possession of his own, an inanimate manifestation of which he takes full control. Whatever it may be – a painting, a photograph, a song – he may do to it what he pleases, when he pleases. And love in this context may seem a definite, advantageous thing for the solitary creator. Why? Because he is a romantic.

Despite that, for every good there is a bad; for every high there is a low. No matter how romantic the person, love befriends just as much as it tortures. Like an untamed creature, it breeds fear in those within its domain. Moreover, Love reigns even more frightening, for it is abstract – always was, is, and will be. But, “Why”, the artist asks, “does it make one do the things he does and feel the way he feels?” Oftentimes, he seeks this question through the affection of another. This time, another who is not-so-inanimate and fully capable of loving in a fashion of his own. He envelops this person into his or her world. Unlike an art piece, a partner is not a boasted wall ornamentation; they too have emotions. Alas, they are selectively subject to the progressive interpretation. Many a time, it is lust that manipulates and masks the face of love, playing the lover a fool. For the artist, the romantic, he falls every time because he is open to the game. As love plays the vital organ of his career, his sole constant, it also leaves multifariousness in characters a dominant influence.

While every artist is different, some patterns remain a thread amongst. The concept of outsmarting love or of settling for its subservient brother are nonexistent in this realm. I don’t remember the last time I shared a true love with someone, but as an artist I can tell you this much: We don’t love because we know; we love because we lust what it feels like. Regardless of whether or not time allows, our lifetimes tend to be a series of fondness and follies, interpreting and misinterpreting this L-O-V-E, Love thing along the way. As each entering and exiting character and concept comes, we create; for, time is precious and creating from such is what we have come to love.

Art and Aesthetic Aces: David Bru Loathes Reality, Embraces “Disreality”

Hispanic artist David Bru knows a thing or two about long distance relationships. A continuous change of place, a feeling of strangeness along with nostalgia that comes with a long-distance love, injects a kind of rareness into the ordinary. Everyday things, usually perceived as familiar by the couple, suddenly become unsettling. These images from David’s series Disreality illustrates a different range of moods, the majority about fear and a melancholic perception of my surroundings.

“A sentiment of absence and withdrawal of reality experienced by the amorous subject, confronting the world.” – Barthes


The title makes reference to the concept disreality, as mentioned by Barthes, when two lovers are apart: “a sentiment of absence and withdrawal of reality experienced by the amorous subject, confronting the world.” Take a closer look at more work below.

When the pawn hits the conflicts he thinks like a king

Picture me in middle-school, knowing so little about life, let alone love, madness, life, or the madness in love and life. Again, picture this; me in my adolescence listening to Fiona Apple and knowing almost nothing about the lyrical content, but still feeling it. I felt the frustration, the longing, the edge; I felt the encompassing confusion that Fiona Apple and Jon Brion embodied perfectly. “I’m gonna fuck it up again, gonna do another detour…” Fiona Apple sings on “A Mistake.” It doesn’t surprise me in retrospect that her sheer defiance would appeal to a teenage rebel with no cause like me. The most impressive thing about the album is that through my maturity and my learning about love and life, When the Pawn… still applies.

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