Memory is a subjective thing, it mutates form overtime not keeping true to its original representation. I feel that all the things that make me who I am I could touch but not really capture, the only time where life is real is in the moment then it becomes fiction living on in a unknowable space. I express myself sometimes in art to reappropriate it so that perhaps it becomes more tangible, the romanticized recounting, putting in the abstract could…
This is literally just me standing in my room changing voices, making weird noises and then somehow someway nothing is ever the same, my life changes in an instant. You have the ability to become a big carnivorous bird and save the day, be like Henry Sugar, be like Peter Watson or you can just be like Rupert Friend who gives the greatest performance of all time in a matter of seventeen minutes
I have to admit I've had a habit of smiting old Johnny boy, for every time he's baffled and confused me there's something repugnantly alluring about his plight. Traces seen in previous entries reveals and confesses, there is a root of the problem, a man cheated by a dubious system, a conviction regularly distorted by his buffoonery enters a transparency I never thought I'd really see. And the more I think about it the more it makes sense in the…
I like how when the minute George leaves the whole studio descends into chaos, Yoko, Paul, Ringo and John just start playing this avant-garde freak out, Paul's swinging on the metal bars, waltz dancing, everyone turns into a yelling banshee, absolute insanity. Quite spellbinding, emotional and confounding as a piece of documentary narrative art. Really nails home the stress and uneasiness that can come from creation, proves that real life can have as much tapestry as a great work of…
