Nachos of the Living Dead

From the depths of the guacamole dip they rise and they have one thing on their worm filled dead minds:

Your brainzzzzz!

No! This blog post is not sponsored by Doritos ;-})

Consider this an absurdist blog post in an ever increasing absurd world.

Thank you for following and reading my blog  :-})

Mike V. Derderian,
A Homo sapien, a writer, a comic artist and a fierce windmill slayer trying to get a hold of a banana in a world governed by apes ..
Also known as Sardine

Illustration by Sardine

The Illuminations of Hammoud Chantout: A State of Love

By Mike V. Derderian

A passionate embrace is flooded by streams of light. Gold yellow waves interspersed with darker shades the color of violet, red, orange and white engulf a man and a woman in a state of love.

Stand still, keep quite and watch the enamored couple; the only two who managed to find each other unlike the other men and women who roam the dream-like illuminated pieces of Hammoud Chantout, that are now hanging at Dar Al-Anda Art Gallery in Lweibdeh.

State of Life, that measures 145 x 120 cm, is but one of the many impressive canvases that Chantout’s hands created. It  conjures up Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss. Chantout’s two lovers are caught in a vortex of colors that embody the enlightenment that their love brought fourth.

Unlike the two in State of Life, a title that Chantout used with other pieces, the others appear to be aloof and detached. Viewers will find them standing next to objects that Chantout’s brush brilliantly produced.

Why is that male artist standing a few meters away from a red chair, while another, a female artist, is leaning on a rail amidst a haze of earthly tones?

Some of Chantout’s colorful personages, and I say colorful because uneven patches of color formulate their construct, are standing next to bright colored pieces of furniture while others are standing under trees that give away echoes of Africa.

Viewers crossing the entrance hall will find a set of six exquisite miniature tableaux to their right. Chantout cleverly created a landscape broken down to six pieces. Each pieces tells part of a story that could have happened anywhere around the world. The architectural edifices that Chantout relies on to create his sceneries give out the feel of Syrian rural mud houses.

Born in 1956 Chantout graduated from the Suhail Al-Ahdab Art Center in Hama, Syria in 1975. In 1976 he was admitted to the Faculty of Fine Art with a 1st rank. He has been holding solo and collective exhibitions in Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Kuwait, Canada, and Turkey since 1972.

At Dar Al-Anda one will also come across a book entitled Chantout and that allows viewers to take a glance at his impressive volume of  work.

Copies of this book that holds haunting images that found their way out of Chantout’s beautiful mind are most probably on sale.

The female figure dominates a lot of Chantout’s pieces.

The Bride with the White Mask (70 x 100 cm), Paradise (70 x 100 cm), Hope (80 x 100 cm), Angel (60 x 70 cm) and A Princess from One Thousand Nights (60 x 70 cm) are a celebration of the femme and her role in the building of humanity and the birth of mythology’; a legacy that some are trying to bury.

Thanks to such poignant pieces by Chantout the celebration continues, and another memory is added to humanity’s collective memory, to remind us of the  femme that haunted the minds of artists throughout the ages.

With Adam’s Apple (60 x 70 cm), and that Dar Al Anda used for the cover of their beautifully designed brochure, a must have, Chantout offers us an interpretation of the ultimate illumination: Knowledge.

Illumination springs from darkness and as one goes through the details of Chantout’s pieces a balance is found. Where there is darkness there are also corners that are illuminated; corners where artists like Chantout, and the likes of him over the centuries, have found themselves standing to illuminate the path for the rest of us.

Don’t search for clear answers in a painting, enjoy the emotions it yields within you. The above piece Oriental Princess (122 x 100 cm) is but one of many of Chantout’s pieces that will generate discourse in the minds of viewers.

Anyone entering Dar Al Anda, before Chantout’s Illuminations exhibition wraps on April 25, will come across a torrent of colors and lines that carry within their folds a lot of passion and interpretations that will stir ones’ imagination.

For more information about Dar Al-Anda go to http://www.daralanda.com

A footnote:

1 … 2 …  3 … 4 …

The text pointer flashed a couple of times before he started typing.

Two years passed since he last wrote a professional art review, a review that used to be published in The Star on a weekly basis; a review that used to be edited. He was edited by three individuals. The one he loved most passed away a few months ago. Rest in peace Abu Hassan.

In 2003 I joined The Star weekly as an intern. My dear father went with me. I managed to get a shot at writing an art review of a botanical exhibition at The Instituto Cervantes in Amman. It was a successful piece even though the exhibition and the description of the pieces were in Spanish. They were impressed and I started getting paid on a freelance basis. After a few weeks I managed to convince the editor that I would be able to write cinema reviews. I was given a column and was asked to come up with a name. Cinerama was born. After a year I got the job and I was a staff writer. Why a year? That’s another story for another blog post.

The above few lines demonstrate how I felt as I wrote this review after three years of not writing any. It only took me a moment to decide. I was outside Dar Al-Anda running an errand.

“It has been so long. Don’t you miss immersing yourself  in art? Go in!” I thought to myself. It was quite an emotional experience that reminded me of the eight years I’ve spent visiting art galleries in my Amman part of my work as a journalist; an experience I loved.

Hopefully I will get back to doing this more often ;-})

 

Science Fictitious: Cosmonauta vs. Anna Karenina & Solaris

Cosmonauta by Sardine – Mike V. Derderian

This is in a way a twisted Valentine greeting with Cosmonauta 13.

I know I haven’t been blogging much, and I apologize for that, but I’ve been posting a lot of pieces, writings and illustrations, on Facebook as the interaction there is more direct and instantaneous.

I promise you that I will resume my blogging consistency as soon as possible with a couple of fiction pieces, a critique of a blog post about Rainbow Street, work-and-life-related updates, and a couple of other issues that are of importance to this Homo sapien.

The below piece is what inspired the word bubble for this Cosmonauta illustration.

By the way Cosmonauta 13 will be the heroine of a small tribute piece I wrote; a tribute to Anna Karenina and Solaris.

You can now suspend your imagination ;-})

Word bubble:

“Vronsky my love where are you?”

The chambers were flooded. Air was scarce. Electric signals were incessantly flashing with broken and unconnected thoughts rushing. The pressure was mounting.

Submerged!

It wasn’t water in which he drowned; yet the undercurrent was strong. Emotions flowed. His muscles ached. His mind was confused.

Yuri Vronsky was still alive in the safety of his bed when the sun gave warmth to his chafed cheeks. His space suit was floating next to the aluminum bed stand that was fixed to the metallic floor.

“I shouldn’t have finished reading the book. Anna would still be alive and with me through out this endless mission!” rubbing his eyes he said to himself.

“Karenina! Activate the gravity simulator …”

February 2, 2013
P.S: Cosmonauta 13 is from my series Cosmonauta,  high quality limited edition prints, that are available at the Mlabbas Store at 28 Rainbow Street. This is the link to how some of the posters look like: http://on.fb.me/11voLWZ
I hope you like them!

The Father and the Son Who They Weren’t Able to Silence

Palestinian Cartoonist Naji Al Ali was gunned down by the silencer gun of an unknown assailant. The finger that pulled the trigger was unable to silence the voice that lived on in his images and his most famous creation: Hanthala.

He was the father and Hanthala was the son. The strength of his words and lines were the holy ghost with which many people and comic artists lived by finding hope and solace in his black and white lines.

Al Ali died for many reasons. The one that resonates loud at this time and age since his untimely departure is the power of the word, the line and that of comics. Whoever killed him feared his words and his images.

Ali’s death like the death of Argentinian journalist and comic auteur Héctor Germán Oesterheld, who disappeared in 1977,  fueled the fire that was brewing within political cartoonists and comic artists around the world. It is 2012 and the art of cartooning and comics is as strong as ever and feared by corrupt politicians and leaders.

Sadly in this part of the world, the Middle East, comics and comic artists are still looked upon as a threat. Look what happend to Syrian comic artist Ali Farzat, who dared and drew Bashar Al Assad in an unflattering way. He was abducted, beaten to a pulp and his arms were broken. That’s another blog post by the way!

Forgive me if I don’t cover the entire history of this amazing art medium in tonight’s post. I will but in another post in which I will revisit with you the human casualties of this art form that was always and will be associated with the freedom of speech. Let us say for now, if it weren’t for artists and writer like Al Ali and Oesterheld the comics of today would live in fear. They not only gave their lives to their way of life but to the way of life of others like myself who believe in the power of the word and the line that interconnects to create a drawing.

Three days ago in 1987 Al Ali died but his work hasn’t. Hanthala is as alive as ever. The above poster is a tribute to a small part of me that is Palestinian. I am someone who loved Ali’s drawings but did not know much about him.

No one drew Palestine the way he did. The man’s work is like a fragmented eternal love poem of pain, death, angst, pride and dedication to his tormented mistress Palestine.

It is time for me to stop writing so you can Google this amazing artist. If you happen to be in Down Town Amman make sure you get a copy of his works from Abu Ali’s Kiosk and Al Jaheth Kiosk. Just ask about Naji Al Ali. Tell them he is an old friend and you miss seeing his poignant drawings.

“Drawing to me is a profession, a job and a hobby. Even though I’ve been working as a caricaturist for over 20 years now, I’ve never felt satisfied with my work. Sometimes I feel helpless in my inability to employ this expressive language in conveying my angst as it is quite immense. Still, drawing gives me an inner balance; it consoles me and at the same time tortures me. I often say that the caricatures I draw make me a fortunate man, and luckier from others, as it allows me to vent out my anxieties; others may die of the anguish that burdens their hearts and injects its daily dose of venom in their blood system. Seeing these people makes me realize that drawing consoles me,” Al Ali says.

Naji Al Ali quote translation by Sardine

Poster by Sardine

Immortalis

Immortalis

Far ahead into the mist shined an armor.
Terror prevailed for it was the Immortal.
Soldered by Volcan’s burning hammer.
Achilles wore his gift festooned with laurel.

With poor Patroclus being cast into Hades.
Not withstanding a waste of so gentle a youth,
Thetis in fear that Styx would fail her schemes,
A shield so strong for her son she ordered in ruth.

Alas, all men alike have flaws, mortals or gods,
Veiled with a shield or bare, the weakness surpass.
No longer wanton of war or shedding Trojan bloods,
Taken by Polyxena’s beauty a truce was no longer impasse.

Too late, for Paris’ venomous arrow was flung,
Avenging a city and a brother; treachery may it be.
Into the un-immaculate heel of our hero fixt it hung,
And fate’s emissary arrived from afar with all but glee.

 

Blog art Nahar (Daylight) by Mike V. Derderian (me) from the Arabic Sci Fi (ساي فاي بالعربي) collection

Word Bubble:  Daybreak has arrived casting shadows on the land. Taih monsters are lying between the rocks. Yesterday’s victory is with us Mecha-Falcon but we have to search for the victory of today, tomorrow and the day after … so let us move …

For visual vomit check out my Behance account: http://www.behance.net/mikevderderian

Her Face Had a Hole in It

No!

She wasn’t beaten up by a coward of a brother,

Still her face had a hole in it.

She wasn’t an abused wife and mother,

Still her face had a hole in it.

Disheveled hair covered her empty stare,

Lifelike yet lifeless she stood there.

No!

She wasn’t a daughter slaughtered by a bastard of a father,

Her face had a large hole in it.

A modern day Pygmalion would have wept her disfigured visage,

But a warm embrace would have been quite the scandalous vestige,

A man loving a mannequin!

There she stands,

Behind a crystal sheet, naked, forlorn and made out of plastic;

With a hole in her face.

Unattended and abused like many a real women in this world …

P.S: I felt the photograph that I Photoshoped from the original looked silly so I decided to use the original.

Photograph by Mike V. Derderian – Taken with a Sonny Ericsson W880i

The Diarrhia of a Midnight Crawler: Rum, Ernest and I

– Usually not suitable for the faint of heart but this post is okay –

The fiery flow in the unfathomed depths is rising. The acidic vomit has reached the esophagus. Weighed down by the bills of reality he is unable to move freely in the imaginary world.

Tired the writer decides to drink rum with his favorite author and journalist. He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a  water pistol that he safely tacks in his overcoat’s right pocket.

“You never know what might show up in those dark cerebral alleys!” he says to himself. Locking the doors he presses the lift’s button. Nothing! The elevator’s prehistoric engine doesn’t whir its usual symphony compliments of screechy cogs and oiled leather belts.

“Stuck again! Damn!”

With steps that are more like leaps he reaches the entrance of the old building that resembles the facade of a run down theatre in Al Balad (Down Town).

Spitting the gum, that lost its taste, the same way the memory of a teenage summer camp love affair fades in time, out of his mouth into the rat and cockroach infested drain he heads out to a pub not far away in his mind. After few minutes walk he finds himself in front of a shady establishment in Havana, Cuba.

The street sign reads, El Gato Loco. The moment he pulls the entrance handle fog-like smoke streams out the door.

There he is. His friend. Sitting with all the worries of the world buried deep in a young mind trapped in an old man’s body. He doesn’t show it. He will go out to the sea in about an hour or two.

His right muscled and hairy forearm is laid on the old wooden edge of the bar, inviting strangers to a manly game of arm wrestling, while his left arm is wrapped around the waist of a beautiful mulata.

He hasn’t shaven for a while. He is grumpy yet of jolly disposition that is obvious to everyone present. If life’s force was visible one would have been able to see it coming out of his pores and dripping from his furrowed brow.

He was talking out loud.

“Your sensibilities do not concern me. True one has to write for the ordinary reader but one must not relinquish his/her self while doing so. Writing is art reflective of one’s soul. You not only put your words on that piece of paper; you put yourself. You don’t see people complaining about paintings they do not understand. They simply refuse to talk about such paintings because they are afraid of being mistaken for idiots. Anyone can write and paint simple and that’s what gets them excited; a language they understand and that will move their swollen lips. Well, maybe they are idiots for not wanting to understand … a man’s effort, work, life … etc …etc … bullshit!” Hemingway barks.

His heartily laugh echoes across the stuffy room that smells of burnt out cigars, alcohol, cheap aftershave and delicious perfume.

“Welcome Mike! What brings you to Havana tonight? Have you seen Nick on the way here? You look thirsty dear boy. How about a drink of rum?”

I smile, take up the glass from his shaky hand, down its contents and go back to work. On the way back to my office I think to myself, “ADD is a bitch especially when you end up writing pieces of fragmented fiction instead of work! “

To be continued or not …

Blog art:

L’assassin  (Ink on A4 paper, canon scanner and Photoshop CS3) by SARDINE (Mike V. Derderian)

F**king Up Real Life

Lately my dependency on the Social Network has been turning into guilt-filled-angst that is spread thick on spent hours. Another strong reason behind my writing and designing the above visual statement is because Facebook is becoming my work after work.

For a husband and a father of a lovely little girl, and, pretty soon, the father of another child, this dependency is really irritating the existential Homo sapien within me.

I’ve contemplated deactivating my account so many times, however, every time a strong argument that goes in my head prevents me from doing so:

I now have so many acquaintances, from the region and the world, who I really enjoy conversing and interacting with; some are now even amazing friends that I care for!

Facebook has also become my personal PR headquarters, where I post my work through pages that reflect my passions. It helps me connect with creatives, be they writers or artists, or just plain normal folk like you and I, whose work and thoughts I respect. Of course I regard myself more of a writer and an aspiring comic artist than an artist-artist.

Plus disconnecting in this time and age would be PR suicide and it will turn you into a castaway much like Robinson Crusoe, who is constantly searching for his Man Friday!

So the above poster is to remind me – I am sure you don’t need my advice on anything, especially the time you spend on Facebook – that there is a real life beyond the  few centimeters that make up a computer screen within which I am leading a cyber existence.

Mr. Middle Finger

Some people deny it exists but it is there in their own hands: The middle finger that some of us often use when encountering idiots, especially Ammani drivers, who probably got their driving licenses through fuckin’ WASTA [nepotism, favoritism and tribalism all in one].

A new study [DON’T YOU BELIEVE IT] revealed that using the middle finger when dealing with idiotic lifeforms helps reduce heart attacks and manic depression.

Don’t deny it! Embrace it and most of all use it!

فتى الجحيم والبرلمان الأردني

I used to think I was a Batman junkie until I met Mike Mignola’s Hellboy …

Word bubble: 

Not everyone should be in parliament. Vote for the right candidates people! Demons, like this cute fella, are everywhere.