What do you create when you’re not making mean art for Flashers?
Usually scratching up characters from stories I’ve made up in my head, I’m considering on going back to my sculpture roots and making these characters in 3D.
What are your earliest memories of scribbling?
My earliest memory would have to be probably when I was around five or six. I used to draw up these elaborate underground military bases, and I looked at one recently which had a underground lake just with enough room to hold a aircraft carrier and piranhas.
How do you draw inspiration for each Flasher image?
If I get inspirationally clogged I tend to rapidly flick through images until something catches my eye and gets me going.
Which artist or artistic movement should we be checking out right now?
I don’t really have an answer since I’m so far out of the loop, but I’ll give you some truths from George Lois: 'That’s what trends are – a search for something safe – and why a reliance on them leads to oblivion'.
I arrive at work still half asleep but the sight of the thick and brightly orange cheese puffs scattered on the floor awakens me.
I am falling, slowly falling, into stars. Spiralling into a tide of darkness sprinkled in light. The swell catches and envelops me. My head is tossed with foam. The water cradles my face, strokes my hair, and still I fall.
Here comes the Armaguard truck . It comes every Tuesday with change for the tills, but it also carries a more precious cargo – the sweaty-fingered thrill of a secret love. Me and Matt sit on milk crates in the loading dock. I unwrap my sandwich: peanut butter. Matt’s eating salami today.
The creature never introduced itself.
It walked through the front door one evening, sat down in the lounge room and started laying out its things. We were all too polite to ask its name, or where it was from, or why, indeed, it had visited us. So, we just... never spoke about it.
I realised today that I miss you. It has been so very long, and I was cruel. I dropped you like a hot potato when something better came along; I get that now. Well that something better was an illusion, a brief distraction as it turns out. It certainly was not fulfilling.
The one thing I have not been able to talk about is how we ate dinner the night she told me it was over. After we’d gone through the worst of it, somehow she managed to cook us porterhouse steak.
James only had half an hour before he could finally clock off for the night. His girlfriend was waiting for him; he’d probably get laid tonight. He smiled. At that moment a man walked in, his brow creased, a tattoo laced down his arm, ending at the knuckle of his index finger, which circled the trigger of a gun.
1. There is a worm in my kale.
1.1. It is reasonably big, predominantly white – curled, as though writhing in pain.
1.1.1. Do worms even feel pain?
1.1.2. I mean: do they really?