Arteest is a fusion of art, design, fashion and music.*

Arteest expresses himself in many different ways, often using found objects and materials to draw, spray or paint onto. His artworks are just as likely to be found in the streets to collect or hanging on a gallery wall to observe. The world of Arteest is fed by his everyday experiences in the urban centres he explores across the world.

A central element to the world of Arteest are the family of characters he uses as a means of communicating feelings and thoughts on local and global issues. These characters are considered artworks in their own right, but will often creep into other works. To date there are: The Art Goblins - a satirical slant on the modern day fine art critic. Mr.Smileyman - an undercover agent employed by Arteest to seek and encourage smiles around the world. Mr.Armyman - Smileyman's American twin, also on a mission - to harmonizee the world and create so called ‘peace’ just like a true American soldier should do. And The Finger People - a misunderstood group of mixed urban beings, a reflection on our society and the ideals of a utopian world.

Thanks for listening, The Art Goblins.

*Arteest is infact the ulterior mindset of Mark Warner. A trained graphic designer who took a shine to urban artforms and decided to apply his design skills to artworks and allow the wider world to enjoy them.


www.arteest.co.uk
www.kitch-en.co.uk/gallery/arteest

 

 

 

 
 

An Artists life.

In unnatural spirals my suns did turn,
Through search and dwell of puzzled gyres.
Til tiring art’s compass drew me from its light
And cast my point toward the night’s stern.

For I to forsake the well-trodden path
For quest of what?
That rhyme? That stroke – that sharp or flat?
Tis still not there!

For I and others are minded like,
To sail un-charts, past day and night.
To un-speak the truth!
To call from branch forbidden fruit!

“ Meaning!” Where meaning is not.
In the ear and eye of the other.
Not word, nor note, nor colour nor suit
Will cover our mortal canvas, (twice measured) in truth.

But for I
And all those, who risk, and who dare,
To muse beyond precedence
And cut the thread of truth’s Minervean Labyrinth.

Paul Nicholl

pawnicholl@aol.com

The Continuous Free Verse of Space, Exile, Home, Utopia, Etc…


Dialogue with Space-
How do I begin to write this piece? Everyone is writing prose about physical space and physical exile and I need to go in the opposite direction and really I have no clue as to how…

It shouldn’t be that hard. It’s just journal entries and what not right? Start with a dialogue. You may find home, some space in a dialogue, you never know.

Ah yes.

Sun-
How do I keep out the rain dropping onto the world? I am far from water proof. There is my roof to protect me, an infinite multitude of tile keeping out the heat and pressure. In that there is a home, a shelter. My girl, her skin, tarmac heated by the world and placed down to keep out leaks, a fortress, a second layer, it becomes my four walls. In her I live and in there it is home, there in the second skin.

Space-
Dark matter continues to cloud the imagination.
 

In bed there is space to move in the morning-
I left the house the other day in a rare occurrence for someone as cowardly as myself. To what am I afraid? Am I afraid of tragedy or of the world being happier than I expected it to be? Afraid that my morose bubble may be burst? My space is the confines of my flat. Digression be damned I did it none the less. I was on the bus, up top, a double-decker, looking down below at peoples walking, wondering where they were going in such a determined fury. Not home surely; it is merely the morning. No one is home in the morning except for the man who is at home in bed. Everyone is wishing for a place to reside that doesn’t exist in this city. Some enlightened souls believe themselves to be in a home already. Thank the roaring heavens for my home exists somewhere other than merely a city, some location, one piece of land. My home reads books and roams the city as I do, searches for knowledge and expression, and does not find peace in a place but in me. In that I become a roaming fortress. We are the bricks that fit together to create a wall.

 

God with varnish –
One bed ridden morning I awoke from a dream in which I was immersed in water. This is no surprise really; often times my dreams/nightmares consist of water, drowning in water, or trying to escape this water. I rarely find an ark. In this particular dream I was on a dark, sandy island. This island was so feeble that my feet barely stood within its radius. My toes hang over the edge, as if ready to leap into the deep. My balance wavered and I had the overwhelming sensation that I had escaped some grave terror in the water only to land in an even tighter fix on sand. I wasn’t happy. I bellowed deep and throaty but no one came to save me. At the darkest hour of scarlet night an illuminated hand with pearly long nails came from the moon-lit clouds and pulled me free. I kissed its white knuckles and cried into its scars. I found it resting on my face as I rose from the land of sleep. There was space to move…

Of marriage and ownership-
A house is a possession. In theory a home is nothing more than possession of a place, or a place or thing in which you may feel ownership. How different is a mate then? Is there not a certain amount of possession in a person as to satisfy the hunger for home? Here is where I draw my love, onto a paper which deeds me happiness. I, in some sense, own my love in the same way that she owns me. In that we have a home, a space to go and feel the comfort of belonging.

 

Glass is thicker than one would expect-
People tell me often that the world is brave and sober yet blacker than ever, like some rotted lung. I’m expected to believe this. I usually get a whisper in my ear to close the window and drown out the smoke.

Home-
Home is where the heart is. Is that not what the old adage tells us? In actuality home is a space inside the heart, a love and a comfort. ‘ What does a person want more than comfort?’ One may ask. ‘ Utopia’ is the answer, ‘and where else is utopia than a space in the heart for comfort to reside.’

Eden-
In Eden we were told that this garden was our home. The garden was the world lay at our feet. It was ample, grandiose, the true Utopia, yet it wasn’t complete. Man and woman was what made the myth intact. The wisdom of ages past never lies.

Our current relations-
In our futile search for the correct path in a deep forest to return us to Eden, we’ve created a man built jungle in which we maintain some idealistic semblance of control. In Utopia we hope to reside, but Utopia is nothing but an iamb on a poet’s page. In this inane dash along the road to an ideal, we have given up the one place in which we know to have no control; relations with others. We have given up home!
 

On Utopia-
One can dream, but dreams rarely manifest like a hand resting across the brow.

A final quote-
On the author Choderlos De Laclos, the Frenchmen who penned Les Liaisons Dangereuses, a Marquise De Coigny was quoted as saying:
‘ You know the tall, thin, sallow gentleman in a black suit who often comes to see me. I am no longer at home to him. If we were left alone together I should be terrified.’


Home is about comfort.

 

daniel.cecil.writing@gmail.com