Not exactly what I expected, but there's a few good things in there.
This piece above is titled something along the lines of "Angels and Demons," a depiction of the battlefield between Heaven's guardians and the infantry from Hell. Interesting idea, and I like the caricature style, as well as the colour palette, but unfortunately couldn't exactly convey that here. What was odd to me, though, is the fact that the angels are fighting...not so fiendish-looking devils. So I might have the title mixed up on that one.


I love the facial expressions in this piece, especially in the center portion that I've posted above. The devilish face of anticipation of the greedy, fat monk (stab at the Catholic regime, possibly) compares nicely to the grotesque face of the guard to the right of him, who looks kinda like Disney's Goofy. Sounds like a pretty good art project. To get disney characters to look like real people, whether it be because of physical deformation or plastic surgery. Donald Duck should be intesting. Wow so on that topic it could be a book cover for "The Island of Dr. Monreau" (took me a while to search for the title of this book that I read in 7th grade, only armed with the keywords "animal, ""people," "surgery", and "doctor")

aparently this was in my neighborhood this week. words fail me.

Not much to say, so I'll include an entry from October, one of my first few nights out in the area:

Saw a bunch of Yellow-Jacketed Ambulance workers and Policemen surrounding a body in the middle of the road on my bike ride home from Brick Lane. As I slowed by, the paramedics were zipping up a bag over his chest; no car, no bike; looks like a drunken pedestrian struck by a hit-and-run. Before I could catch a glimpse of his face, I heard screaming and saw a group of 7-8 kids running on the opposite end of the sidewalk, mostly african-english, sprinting down away from me, turning into the street right before my flat, in front of the police station. The pack of kids were being chased by a guy in his late-20s, lugging his coat and office bag, screaming that he's been robbed and pleading for someone to call the police, running but stumbling behind the youngsters. It was daylight savings by the time I got home - receiving a gift of an hour at 2:00am.

Walking around Brick Lane around 2am, most bars and venues of inebriation are shutting down, early -- but supposedly typical of the city. Drunken trios, double-dates and dude-couples are staggering through the streets, announcing their presence with two noticeable medical symptoms: lack of voice control or alcoholic voice amplification syndrome, and Tourettes, given the slurring and swearing. You can hear the soft echoes of the clumsy tapping of impaired footsteps down the Lane's recently rained stone-mosaic sidewalks, neon-lit by Mediterranean restaurant signs.

About two blocks from the designated terminating-end of this alley of carelessness and enjoyment, I almost run into someone turning onto Brick Lane at the streetcorner. If it was an aggressive bum or a mugger, I would have surely been in a less than opportune position. But the stranger isn't intimidating, it's not even at shoulder-height: it’s a child. A young girl, no more than 14 years old, her round head draped in a pink hibjab, eyeballs tethered to the kaleidoscopic screen of her Gameboy DS. She's completely shut off from the world about her, a manifestation of purity and innocence in this dark, dirty, drunken landscape lurking with jolly drunks as well as typical sketchy night owls.

While she's got digital blinders on, she's not oblivious, as she turned around the street corner, she was able to navigate and whizzed around me without moving her head or eyeballs; maybe she gets her autopilot sense from a cab-driving father. I wanted to somehow tell her to go home, or ask her where her parents were, but she was walking quite fast for someone with short strides, and was the size of a pink gummi bear while I was still thinking what I should do, or say. I'm still wrapping my head around the fact that theres CHILDREN on this block, at this time, while she marches with her slouched head and slumped shoulders drawn into the light glowing from her Gameboy, her beacon to the end of the tunnel of sin and darkness.

There's a large Muslim population in the area, evident in the apartment complexes as well as the restaurants, fast-food kebab joints, and the late-night hosts grabbing liquor behind off-license counters. But I still wonder what she was doing out so late, by herself, and how common it might be to see kids that young running about at night in the city. And I wonder if its more of a subconscious defense for her to be completely mesmerized by her DS, to block out the sin about her, masking her eyes with the colorful popping graphics by Nintendo programmers.

The stage: completely unlit, except for one halogen spotlight behind the drummer's kickdrum. No talking, no intros, no chatter, no communication between or among the band. Complete vocal silence. No eye contact, gestures or interaction with the audience except at the end. Minimalism at its most, and best. The way my concerts should be. Kinda not in tune with metal-punk inspired post-rock, however was the deep-cut v-neck with burly chest hair on the bassist, and indie-tight red pants and orange tee on the guitarist. The drummer, as usual, dresses really conservatively and looks like you could find a snapshot of him somewhere in Esquire.

Saw them in LA when they were supporting Minus the Bear, and according to their new album, which has the FIRST track that sounds almost OPTIMISTIC, I'd say Russian Circles got some cues from their time with the band. The band's skill is amazing individually, able to pull off such complexity without opening anyone's mouth. The bassist does some mad riffs, however, and the drummer is a sight to see.