A Series of Unfortunate Dogma: 1 of 7

My memories of church are not explicit. I remember the musty smells of old hymn books and old people, a man in layered robes talking for 2 hours and my first sip of wine in Communion at 12. Other than that, I was tuned out. Once I left the parental harness of the Sunday requirement to go, I only stepped back into church for weddings or funerals. Then as I raised a child who started asking questions about this guy named Jesus, which his Grandmothers were getting him all jazzed about like Santa, I decided I should think deeper about what I really believe. I came to the realization that I have no fucking clue…. And that’s OK. Thankfully, I am living in an era where I can feel this openly and shamelessly. One of my first posts noted that I identify as Agnostic, even though Atheism is tantalizing, my instincts reel me back to the whole point of Agnosticism: I don’t know, none of us know and that’s the crazy, amazing, thrilling, terrifying mystery of life. Though I stand by a strict code of respecting other beliefs, I still have a nerve that flares up with over-zealous preaching. I feel settled and content with my soul and it’s future, thank you very much, so if you leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone.

Almost a year ago, a friend asked me to do a commission for her. Most requests are usually fairly tame and universal; flowers, landscapes, anything and everything non-offensive, which is fine, but it can be a little redundant at times. I was surprised when she told me that she was thinking about the subject of The Seven Deadly Sins, and my mind started rapidly creating a series of paintings to attach with my interpretation of the Dogma represented within these principles. Turns out, it has taken me months to even reach the point of painting. I sketched out ideas, then tossed them. Finally, before I text her and said - screw it, can I just paint you some roses?- I got it. As simple as it is, I realized that the commentary I was trying to reach was right there all along. My series has now become a narrative on how these 7 sins are disobeyed directly by the churches/faiths/religions, primarily Christian, that spout them as law.

The Sins originate, per the best of my Google knowledge, from a 4th century monk, who noticed the particular human tendencies and emotions that would be exacerbated during their time of deprivation and prayer. The 6th century Pope declared these the ‘7 Cardinal Sins’, proving their gravity against less serious wrongdoings, or as they called it, ‘Venial Sins’.  There is much, much more to their history, but let’s leave it simple: the Catholic church engraved these as the worst of the worst. Beyond just Catholicism, they are mirrored in all forms of Christianity and sub-religions, making it hard to ignore the average, daily emotions and practices all humans have been forbidden from according to this creed, but do anyway.

In this series, I wanted to explore the contradictions present in the Sins vs Religion. After putting pencil to paper though, I started feeling a bit uptight. I couldn’t explain it, but as I brainstormed, each image I developed was growing into a mass of malevolence. I love some good ol’ cynicism now and then, and I thought that would be all I needed to factory line these out. Apparently though, I have a heart and it started feeling heavy as I was illustrating my ideas. How could I add some positivity and hope to these ridiculous rules that we as humans have decided is law? I’ve always had a fascination with Buddhism, and if I were not such a selfish, foul-mouthed, wreck of a person, I’d be inclined to practice the lifestyle the Buddha taught. I can still understand these practices though, which I have read and studied for many years, and at least appreciate their value. This series is where they came to my rescue. How fitting, to paint the principles laid by the Catholic church, of actions that will damn us for eternity, in front of the beautiful rules to live by from The Buddha. The ‘Eight Auspicious Symbols’ are represented as the virtues Buddha gained after enlightenment. They are beautiful, positive, loving principles, very much paradoxical to the warnings of the Seven Deadly Sins.

In the next 6 posts, I will share the painting connected to each sin. I have too much to say about the hypocrisy of religion, especially those who demean and beat down others that do not follow the stringent path that is claimed in the Bible, therefore, I did not put all of them together into one post.

To draw back the curtain of this unholy series, I felt it appropriate to begin with the thorn in the shoe of all sins, the silent but dangerous practice that keeps our society shackled to the fantasy of a heavily re-translated, multi-authored, contradictory ancient book: Sloth. Interpreting sloth into religion came like a light bulb as I grasped what sloth means in terms of the Cardinal Sins. In much text around different corners of the internet, it became clear that sloth does not represent only laziness and apathy, but includes procrastination and excusing away expectations of God; those who do not take the time for prayer and worship, or even those unwilling to see the beauty in all of God’s creatures, are committing this sin. Above all else, resistance to reading and spreading the word of God, or to ignore the knowledge he gives us through the Bible is the epitome of Sloth.

I wrung my hands and had a discussion with myself; the sin of apathy, how can I spin it back around? What is synonymous today of God’s offense at his creation’s ignorance?.....Ignorance itself.

The issue I see continuing to gnaw at generations before and ahead of us is the crisis of pure Bible based callowness. Glean from scripture all you want, honk for Jesus, boycott Harry Potter, but pleeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaassssssssseeeeeeeeee stop telling your kids that God created Earth in a week, made woman the secondary gender from man’s rib and then, as the lesser of the sexes, she fell into Satan’s talking snake temptation of eating a magic apple, thus damning all humanity to pain and suffering…. Okay?

From my view outside of the religious circle, I see sloth in much of Christianity as stated above: taking the Bible as literal, factual guidelines for society without ever opening the mind beyond a small story, to the vastness of our existence without God. Believers content with far fetched stories of divine creation and ships that fit every animal on Earth times two. This is not just an issue of difference in opinion either. We see the Bible as the cornerstone of ethics in the Western world and deviant, warlords holding conservative political office depend on it’s principals as fact to keep their policies in place. If they didn’t have this damning relic, then homosexuals, non-whites and women would run rampant and their weaker minds would hurdle the economy and law into absolute chaos.

Christians in particular, who believe these Bible stories as truth, in an era when science has become almost impossible to ignore, are the reason society has become stagnant. Complacency is frustrating, but it turns frightening when examining the dangers of a ‘Christian built’ nation. If our great-great grandchildren are lucky enough to have a habitable planet left, I can only imagine their disbelief that people in the dawn of the internet and medical breakthroughs, didn’t have the precocity to believe scientists on climate change.  

Clearly, Eve, that reckless whore, is my focal point, placing her halfway up a tree, flirting with Satan and ready to defile that pure, immaculate fruit… while above this Biblical catastrophe is a colorful vase, one of the Buddha's symbolic principles. The treasure vase in Buddhism represents endless knowledge of life through Buddha's teachings. No matter how much is taken from the vase, it will never empty, but continue to replenish it’s bounty for all. Along with such a sensible meaning, the treasure vase also represents long life and prosperity, not unlike an educated mind, for the more we know, the more valuable our lives become.

If you or a loved one is struggling with the absurdity of the Bible, direct them to the Buddha's teachings; while there may not be a mystical Creator to pray to when our car keys are lost, there is a trove of love and contentment to be found within finding internal Enlightenment. Some will not budge against Genesis’ procession of events… but the more we recruit away from a fossilised story that plagues us, the closer to a true Eden we will be.

Anthony, I love you, but you're bringing me down

I have plenty of pet peeves. I’m slowly dwindling them down, since I’ve come to the point that if I don’t change my outlook, I won’t be able to go in public anymore. To the woman in the grocery store, wearing Spongebob pajama pants, with muddy hems, I forgive you. To the reporter on NPR with the nasty cotton mouth, I am moving on. Dogs in sweaters… it’s not your fault, but your owner is on my last nerve. There are only a couple “unforgivables” left on my list since this liberation, and one of them is celebrity gossip. If you are someone who enjoys tabloids and discussing the lives of strangers, then I internally hope that you will find yourself on the Gaza strip to see that there is real shit going on in the world beyond Taylor Swift’s cats. Yet, this is the odd headwaters of my post. As much as I despise celebrity worship, I have been downright grieving since the news of Anthony Bourdain’s suicide broke. As headlines plastered his M/O of “celebrity chef”, I felt so ridiculous choking up at the thought that he is gone. Here I am though, one of those first world idiots that I hate so much, combing through every article about him, hoping to find something new and enlightening to ease the shock of his death. I’m not going to talk about suicide here. It’s the only thing I hear while the news breaks-out; Bourdain family interviews and what to do if a loved one is struggling. It’s a horrible decision that everyone has the right to make. So let’s just leave it at that.

Parts Unknown is basically burned into the screen of my TV. I don’t often venture through new shows or sit with attention to the tube. If the TV is on, I’m usually painting, cleaning or cooking, and for the past few years, that meant Bourdain was narrating in the background of all of these activities. Naturally, his voice became comforting, like a lullaby for a newborn. Every time I’d replay an episode, even if it were the 4th time seeing it, there would always be a moment that I would stop what I was doing and look up to see the subject in his narrative, sucking me into the places and people he met, the food he experienced, the empathy and understanding he showed. Not only that, but his writing….. Uggggh his writing. His voice reading like a travel journal as the camera follows his shadow into the next scene. His dialect, while typically dripping with sarcasm or cynicism, also comes cloaked in humility, knowing when to make a crude joke and when to genuinely look another human in the eyes with understanding that we are all the same. When his voice chimes in as a shot of the sky scape or monument of the featured location clears to focus, it is impossible to not stand at attention and let him draw you into the magic that is the world.

I’ve recommended his show to everyone I know, referred to episodes in conversation for what I’d learned, and foolishly tried to replicate exotic meals he was filmed famously nodding in acceptance of, through the first bites. I actually understand why no one took my word for it when I begged them to watch him. I get it. Those keywords: ‘Celebrity Chef’ and ‘‘Travel Show’ sound like all the others. Gimmicky chef game shows, hosts babbling in stage kitchens and tours of the luxurious, wealthy Western-friendly hotels located just outside of hidden 3rd world poverty, are NOT what Bourdain did.  In fact, he seemed to be the antithesis of anything and everything flashy. Usually in his white linen button down, with rolled up sleeves and a confident, tall, don’t fuck with me stance- think Chewbacca- he was one part tattooed, silver fox, bad-ass and one part  soft spoken, eye locking, defender of humanity. His agenda for each episode was to show us knuckle-dragging Americans that every culture, has an identity; variables that make it unique, beautiful, worth a trip to. That may be what made me fall so deeply in love with Bourdain’s work: his determination to show America that we are no different, and definitely not better, than any other citizen of the world.

Iran is my favorite episode by far. The West has villainized this country as part of the ‘Axis of Evil’ which is heavily mentioned by Iranians in this episode in disbelief and in turn, Bourdain describes his visit like this:

"I am so confused. It wasn't supposed to be like this — of all the places, of all the countries, all the years of traveling, it's here, in Iran, that I am greeted most warmly by total strangers."

We cannot know what we have not experienced and Parts Unknown proves this. It is neither a food, nor a travel show. It is a robust documentary on culture and the modernization of society affecting some of these traditions, for better and worse. Some of the most satisfying moments of his experiences are when seated around a family table, dishing a plate of beautiful, colorful piles of steaming goodness. Every time, mentioning how lovely and delicious it looks, almost unnaturally polite for him. It reminds viewers that no matter where in the world you are, a home-cooked meal deserves an overabundance of respect and gratitude.

Of course, when I feel any emotion, bad or good, my thoughts wander to how I can paint it. I hunched over my watercolor pad, sketching this out, as Bourdain’s voice echoed on screen through episodes I can practically quote. I used his image from the “Borneo” episode as my tribute, or nerdy fan art, whatever interpretation works. There has always been something about that photo. Each time I scroll down the little Netflix thumbnails, that one always strikes me. Rain weighing him down as he docks during a storm, looking down-trodden but willing to take the power and might of other places to the end. The lotus flower was added to the bottom because of it’s representation in death: to carry on the wisdom of the Earth when we leave. Perhaps I am not surprised that he went out this way. His general open attitude toward depression was part of the refreshing reason I fell into his spell. His voice documenting his adventures not unlike that of my beloved Steve Zissou in his fictional hayday of success but with an underlying tone of self-hatred.

Anthony Bourdain is my hero. My ultimate dream of the way to live, but unfortunately, not the way to die. I hope anyone who decides to dangerously start Parts Unknown, post-Mortem, know that he will lock you in as a fan for life, but make your heart ache that his travels are tragically, permanently, felt by millions, over.

Is this America?

The feeling of seeing another headline about another student responsible for another shooting is getting so common that the lump in the throat, punch in the gut reaction we should have has been watered down to a sad sigh. Some things feel too midevil to still be happening and mass public murder is one of them. As an artist, my nature is to watch and observe, quietly. My opinion is usually reserved for canvas. Perhaps people like me should be getting louder.

Humans have always been violent creatures, continuously finding new ways of execution. Is this our instinctual gag tie against evolving into a brighter and further advanced species? Spending money on war and WMD’s before curing cancer or protecting the environment is definitely the norm, just like mass shootings have become in America.

The message Childish Gambino portrayed so poignantly in ‘This is America’ was clearly directed specifically toward the issue of police brutality/violence/incarceration of black America, but it is so telling of our society today, that it can be zoomed out of focus a bit to incorporate the general obsession with violence that we face here. The rise of distraction by our streaming, the standards of superficial white noise pushed higher by social media and the shamelessly obvious corruption of democracy has become our way of life and it’s getting more and more extreme. Why is America so damaged? Why are children killing other children and absolutely nothing changes? Why are guns a hot topic debate, when cigarettes are legal, but cannabis is not? The distraction is real, just like Gambino proves in his video. We are so focused on our devices and divisions that we forget we all live in the same place.

America, for her youth, can be summed up as a pageant queen, beautiful, rich, and powerful. It feels now though that our queen is slipping down a path of destruction, youth and beauty transforming into bitterness and greed. At the rate she’s going, she’ll soon be a bankrupt, desperate junkie giving cheap oral sex to get her fix.

It is true that the country has a rough past, just as that beauty queen would probably have been a true bitch in high school, making foes for life. The importance though, from some (certainly not all) of the injustices, is that laws have changed according to the public’s demands. Women marched for the right to vote, MLK risked everything to speak his message of civil rights. Do we have that anymore? Will there be a quake so strong that we all look up and agree it’s worthy to fight for?

For now, I just wanted to get my piece out, Gambino posing Jim Crow style from his video, using his 2nd Amendment right (eyeroll), pills, and lips rolling behind him slot machine style, how our minds read current events, one dizzying scroll to another, numbed by sex and prescriptions. The white poppies are becoming a theme in my work for their symbolization of peace and pacifism, dotted between the of lines of our problems. I completed this particular portrait last night. When I woke up this morning, the news showed the early reports of a school shooting, which made me feel even deeper for the cause of peace. Short and sweet is what I'm sticking to for this post. I'm lucky to live in this place that has the foundation for a beautiful melting pot of cultures, people and progression, but I have that lump in my throat that things will be getting worse, before they get better.

You think you're so clever and classless and free

Maybe it was because I had only eaten a granola bar for lunch,.....maybe it was a slight change in the weather that made my sinuses feel like a coal mine… maybe my sleep had been deprived the night before and my mind was on hiatus… it doesn’t really matter, all that matters was how I handled it, and under the circumstances, I think I nailed it.  

Let me back up, I have worked full time for over a decade. I’m not complaining, it’s just a fact. In that time I have learned reams of life experience, been able to move ahead, and eventually understand what is worth the precious time we have in life and what is not. Working to pay my electric bill? Sure, I like having hot water; working to pay down a card maxed out on an overpriced sofa that no one else’s ass has touched? Eh, not my thing. Perhaps that precarious staircase that led me down into my 30’s was not so scary after all. I think it’s opening up to a new scope, where I know what I want in life, what I am willing to work for, fight for, and most importantly, let go.

So, with a million other problems, knowing one more may push me to fly right over the cuckoo’s nest, I had a choice to defend what’s important, or play the passive role again.

During said mental status, leading up to a tawdry discussion with my boss, I took my emotions and herded them into a pen, making sure every last one was locked up, not allowing the assholes to leap out and trample a hard, negotiating dialogue. I stood like an oak, and didn’t get pushed into a canal full of yes-men as usual. The main argument brought to the ever-decreasing-in-perks table of my job, was my time…somehow, in some way, this gig that keeps my lights on, needed more time from me… time to be spent with my family, or painting, or picking at my split ends- which, somehow, I can do for hours.

I left feeling empowered, but also trapped. One victory means nothing if the fighting cause isn’t your first priority. The dismal gratification of speaking my mind and not taking any bullshit, quickly wore off and within a day, I was left with the rising feeling that this may have been one of many more fights to the death for my well-being in a work-life balance.

I did what I usually do, I let my emotions come bursting out of their pen to this exact place at my keyboard while I listened to a playlist that varied from angry to soothing, in order to keep pace with my thoughts.

When a forgotten but timeless ‘Working Class Hero’ popped up, I was clarified of the aim I should take my life to. The trade-off for having this shit I don’t need is senseless; the illusion of middle class, the cascades of bills on my kitchen table, the cars we convinced ourselves were fundamental to adulthood, the slow whirring drain of years slipping into a house that’s too damn big anyway.

It seems like our society has raised us to veneer our life stages with prediction. One step to another, and if it’s done out of order, or not to completion,.. you’re a failure.  As Lennon puts it:

“When they've tortured and scared you for twenty-odd years

Then they expect you to pick a career

When you can't really function you're so full of fear

A working class hero is something to be”

Precisely. Our whole childhood leads up to this moment of supreme decision making at 18 and we are shuffled into higher education, at a price that most retirees aren’t willing to spend on an empty nester condo. It’s either that prodigious investment, or you’re left behind, to squalor in the meek opportunities allowed for those unable to spend into the system. This is broken, yet I feel so many people I know actually believe it. Don’t get me wrong, higher education is a necessity for humans to evolve into a greater species, I would never rebuff the requisite for further learning, but the painful truth is that it comes at a price, especially if done at such a confusing time, before we are even allowed to vote. The rest of our paths are molded to complete the harmonious poise of a professional career, a legally binding union with the perfect partner, biological reproduction within a reasonable time and purchase of all the accessories that make America so damn great, right? After paying down student loans, weddings, pre and post-natal care, we still need that brand new car lease, that down payment for the walls around us, the new bed set, cookware, lawn furniture and quippy doormat. So when we have reached the peak of economic and social standards, we are then expected to play happy and keep those capitals  paid down, arrogant enough to think that nothing may trip-up those plans. Some succeed in this system, with, or without family support along the way. However, it’s still a gamble and what we end up with is a cold stack of account numbers and forcing a good attitude when picking up overtime to pay them off.

I am now standing at the eyeline of the limb that bifurcates left and right: to continue the path of full time employment, keep paying down credit, only to replace it for the next demand, or, begin the passage to freedom… start purging my life of possessions and begin the hunt for modest living, minimal materials and ultimately total privilege of time. I see nothing incorrect about living for your best life and if that includes employment and a mortgage, good for you. The beauty of our system is choice, the sordid reality is capacity to reach for those dreams.

We are taught to fear everything, from strangers in a van, to the lack of a steady paycheck. We fear what others think of us, whether we are accepted by co-workers, friends and family; if we have enough by our developed world archetype to prove to our parents that we made a better life than they had; to provide a legion of standards for our children to exceed, through stress and exhaustion, just to win the game of competition among their peers, setting off the same cycle. I’m ditching that ethos. Perhaps in a few years, you’ll find me living in a tent, washing my clothes in the river and making squirrel stew, maybe. If that is what it takes to give my whole self to my family, health and purpose to create, then throw a beanie on me and give me your empty soda cans.

Perhaps I am alone in this philosophy, but I doubt it. I see younger generations becoming more nomadic and enlightened, unwilling to be charmed by the empty promises of commercialism. I hope we can make it there and free ourselves of these manufactured designs of life.

I’ll end with the simple last verse of WCH, to which we all should step back and examine the honesty it still holds, almost 50 years after it was written:

“Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV

And you think you're so clever and classless and free

But you're still fucking peasants as far as I can see

A working class hero is something to be”

Stay true and stay unstuck.

To the Lords of Portland, With Love

There is no other Heaven on Earth for me than trippin’ at sunset in the Gorge Amphitheater, watching Dave Matthews Band expel pure musical magic. The only thing even close to the Holy DMB, is my beloved Portugal. The Man. I feel like if my twenties had a soundtrack, P.T.M would be the primary background music. As I navigated who I am and what my identity meant, they were there. They were giving me 'Holy Roller' & ‘Modern Jesus’, allowing me to have the courage to become an open non-believer. Hearing their first song (but like, 4th album on the radio over 8 years ago), I noted them in my head and had to go home and download their single onto my, now retro, Ipod. A few years later, my husband sat me down to listen to their most recent album- Evil Friends and I fell head over heels. We drove up to Marymoor Park near Seattle to see them in concert- their presence live is just as dynamic as headphones blaring their albums. Watching the front man, John Gourley’s unsettling and dark illustrations fade then return on the screen behind this strange new band, I was caught in a daze of absorption. I remember watching a couple of hippies dancing to ‘Creep in a T-shirt’, probably climaxing on their Molly, when I realized I would be a fan for life. Now, I am coming down from a near year-long high of their most recent album, Woodstock, which only deepened my affection for them and is now burned into my brain as the memorized lyrics bounce around my head daily.

As of last week, my favorite little secret, the band that I have protectively held in my pocket, the group with a thimble full of fans, music that most of these pseudo-hipster hacks hadn’t gotten their greasy hands on yet, finally, belatedly got a Grammy. I have been struggling with the fact that these guys are hitting the mainstream, it’s hard to see mommed-out moms quote ‘I’m a rebel just for kicks’ to caption another dreadful photo of their kids on Facebook. I have toiled hearing their hit single on the radio, overplayed and then the subsequent trial of a few of their other songs from Woodstock, none of them apparently sing-a-longable enough to be a hit.

If I know anything about Portugal. The Man though, it’s that they won’t change as they ride their wave of recognition. During their acceptance speech, bassist Zach Carothers shouted out to the indigenous people of Alaska, the founder’s home state, then mocked the previous category of Best Gospel Album, by ending with “Hail Satan” all while lead, John Gourley used their new trophy to imitate wiping his ass. My God-damned heroes.

Not only that, but I think serious music lovers (if they are anything like me, don’t give a shit about awards shows) can see beyond that candy-wrapped, pop category that they won for. In the pre-show interview, Carothers and Gourley stood in their Beat-Bohemian turtleneck/plaid suit and overwhelming fur coat, answering questions by reporters who were just trying to shuffle them through, clearly saving those hard-hitting interviews for the likes of Beyonce. When asked about their newfound success, they noted that they are kids from a small town in Alaska, (also with ties in Portland, hence Lords of Portland) who have been working on music in P.T.M for over a decade. Carothers brought up the simple, but painful truth of life as an artist: that they are just now seeing acclaim for their years of hard work.  

Needless to say, I love, love, love this band. They are real, honest, actual-factual rock. The rock of the 70’s that had a political message, or begged for social change along with a progressive use of instruments, making music that stands out but in a very subtle way, as though each song has a signature attached, allowing listeners to know immediately who it is. A lot like my all time favorite crew, Pink Floyd. P.T.M is open about Pink Floyd’s influence on their path. I can still remember the feeling when they began ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ at the Marymoor concert, and as a forever Floyd fan, they have earned the right to play that classic; if some other stadium-selling, sham of a band rolled out a Floyd song on their set list, I’d be protesting like a vegan at Fashion Week.

They are the modern Floyd, taking music to a different plane, experimenting with sound and scape, all the while, showing gratefulness to their roots. They also have lassoed the confidence to bring up the social unrest around us, to put it into words and provoke change from their activist-prone fans. If music can make an impact with those energizing change, similar to the era of Woodstock, then it has infinite power. Incidentally, their latest album was named after that very music-fueled protest of corrupt government and war, which I believe has a strikingly similar climate as today. As their popularity grows, their lifespan of lyrics makes it clear that they are no group of grown men simply singing about heartache. In 2014, P.T.M teamed up with Smithsonian’s National Zoo to create the ‘Endangered Song’. Only 400 vinyl records were made and distributed in a cry of attention that there were less than 400 Sumatran Tigers in existence, labeled as critically endangered and victims already to loss of habitat and poaching. These 400 vinyls would only be able to play their single a short number of times. The material of the records would begin to disintegrate after more than 1 play, to show how quickly precious parts of nature can disappear if we do not intervene. The only way to allow the song to be heard again was to digitally reproduce it, proving that this band is so much further beyond churning out hits, or doing world tours; they have opinions and real topics to tackle. Nothing proved that more than seeing their awkwardness at the Grammys; not taking the supposed gravity of this affair too seriously, if at all. They looked as surprised as any of their fans were upon hearing they’d be in the pool of nominees. This is what I see in my illustration I couldn’t help but do in their honor. They are becoming a beacon, with national attention, their message against conformity, the model of religion and overall nonsense that society pushes to keep it's rules in place. They are a strong rooted timber, holding their creative vision and honesty to the highest standard. This opposed to other so-called artists, who live beneath the surface of real music, who are lip-service, an army of breasts, sex, and numbing lyrics. P.T.M is powerful enough to shatter the ceiling of this superficial industry and potentially bring about true progression. As I have followed the band, Gourley and Carothers were the two solids that never seemed to change, even though O’Quin had a long stint, I only chose the 2 founders to include in this particular image. They are the roots, I imagine, as their branches blossom to life fresh talent on each album they create. Along with them, I added the ski-masked head from their Atomic Man video,because- I don’t know... I guess I just like that song, so fuck it.

The music industry is, and probably will always be, a consumptive factory, slowly dropping identical spawns of their production line into a vat that grinds out the same, slimy, fetid sausage links of chart toppers, not unlike the Wall’s depiction of school children in Another Brick.... Portugal. The Man is not on this conveyor belt. They have proven success in making something so ear pleasing, so undeniably catchy, that their award is more than deserved, but it is not their goal to be a puppy mill of hits. Does this make them finally successful in my opinion? Absolutely not. They have held the talent, the music, the proof in the pudding under their belts for over ten years. I certainly hope they do not get a Grammy nod after future albums, seeing as the game is being a summer hit and the judge is a panel of wealthy white people. I hope they continue to prove further that, as an artist, work is never done- you are never finished. You must continue to produce and push your material into the world as long as you’re breathing. They inspire me in so many ways, but if I had to summarize why, it would be just that, spending over a decade doing what you love before seeing any recognition is not a delayed reward or an undesired waiting game. It is a consequence of their unmitigated love of what they do. After all, there's madness in us all and who the hell wrote the rules?