13.8.09
i'm pulling a temps.
all aboard.

here's my IDEAL studio, collective.
it is a mobile (and fittingly multilocal) studio carried on a rickshaw. important features are open-air studios, easy-loading dock and latticework for plants.
Continue
12.8.09
A Northwest Av.Diagonal Gem.

11.8.09
german haus
10.8.09
out for a bit
IN OTHER NEWS: Kaitlyn got a short film gig, Dylan is moving to his new Local, Kels is back in the EU, and scrap's september issue is on schedule. Dont' forget to send your mailing info to andrew@supermanicecreamcollective.com. Ciao.
Continue
8.8.09
5.8.09
hallo.aufwiedersehen
now you all know about as much german as i do.
tomorrow i journey to charlotte.new york.stockholm.hanover.hildesheim
here goes nothing...
Continue
3.8.09
Jane Goes to the Beach




2.8.09
let's recap.
multi-your passions, inspirations, traits, obsessions, work, skills, fields, etc...
Continue
1.8.09
Magic Jars
Magic Jars - n. jars with stuff in them. These jars become magic when you fill them with (insert desire here).
What makes your jars magic? Submit now...illustrated project to come.
Continue30.7.09
mother mother mother

Continue
29.7.09
Jane is a hot mess.

28.7.09
TAGWALL construction, deconstruction
finally, all the timelapses compiled from the TAGWALL project by Virginia and Dylan (with obvious help from numerous collective and noncollective members). the project was an interactive architecture + art project that took place as part of a day-long music festival. a video with updated credits coming soon.
song: Badonkadonkey by Born Ruffians on Warp Records.
Continue
Join the COLLECTIVE's Mailing List
Continue
an early poem.

FUNDACIO JOAN MIRO, MONT JUIC
Painting and poetry are done in the same way you make love; its an exchange of blood, a total embrace—without caution, without any thought of protecting yourself.” – Joan Miro
A homeless man pinched my nipple once on Nou de la Rambla
in front of the supermercat on my way to class, the same store
that the screaming lady with a splinted arm tries to steal candy bars
from everyday, a Voll Damm beer in her good hand, a glassed look
in her black eyes. I didn’t know what to say to the homeless man
and his dirty fingernails coming at me or the woman and her beer
but I wanted to speak in my broken Spanish, if only to say your welcome
for the feel and stop screaming, I’m trying to sleep. He probably would have
turned around and smacked me on the ass, and she’d have sat me down
with a yell and tried to warn me of the next inquisition, braced arm waving defiantly over her head. Dylan and I could hear her now as we made our way
toward Mont Juic to the Miro museum. We knew we’d miss her, her screams a lullaby we’d come to expect from El Raval, along with
the doner kebabs, the street we coined Tranny Alley with corners full of big,
beautiful men and women strutting their oiled limbs, locking arms with
young Americans stumbling home at 4 a.m. until they are pushed off the streets by the trucks with the long thick hoses, spraying water every few
hours, circulating, cleaning the city. From Mont Juic on this particular day
the shanties had a silver lining. Sagrada and the Torre Agbar stood erect, pointing skyward, symbols of God and water.
The kelp of the city will reach their fingers out and touch,
without caution, total embrace hands to our nipples, our heads, our knees,
as if to say go forward in one breath and you are never free
from me in the other. This is the exchange of blood, this touching, this hurt, this pulse
of the city, the falling down from 12 inch sidewalks into gutters, climbing to the top of art museums to see the shanty rooftops stacked, some
white, some green, some falling inward. One day in mid October
stopped in the center of the playground and pricked our fingers with found razor blades.
We pressed them together. I feared nothing but separation. Living is like
making love, all that blood, embrace. We try to protect ourselves,
but how could we ever, with all those beautiful bodies running around us, their dirty hands, splinted arms, oiled limbs, thick hoses. The lark's wing ringed in the blue of gold meets the heart of the poppy asleep on the field studded with diamonds, 1967.
A black line divides us. I am black and blue. I am already lonely.
My bloody thumbprint, your diamond field.
27.7.09
scrap. a monthly fiercelette.
the collective writes a manifesto

just in case anyone out there needs some rules to follow...
the blog is the studio. if the blog dies, studio does, too.
Continue
transit-based musings [pt 1]
where: the L1, direcció hospital de bellvitge.
15 minutes of pietras

Kaitlyn and her garbage scoop are the current 15 Minutes of Fame iqonian on iqons.com. check her out. Hope those boxes are unpacked!
Continue
26.7.09
25.7.09
website preview what what!

you'll be able to click on different ink blocks to find out info about the collective's projects, members, and current interests/infatuations. info will appear in the outlines derived from the polygonal lasso tool in photoshop that we used to clean up the drawing. (the drawing was done by temples' two year old niece.) Continue
24.7.09
22.7.09
Party Like It's 1811

You'd think that interpreting Victorian scroll work for a wedding invitation and branding would be fun. Actually, I'd hope you wouldn't. Given that the event's theme is inspired by Jane Austen's work (printed and set in the early 18oo's) and the scroll work is from a much later Victorian edition, this could only be fun if I were prophetically jacking the above late edition illustration of Sense and Sensibility to make the 1811 first edition cover. In that case I'm there, because clearly some reverse Ghost/Whoopi Goldberg stuff would be going on. Continue
19.7.09
I'm a Card Memba
DVF dishes out essential business advice in the nytimes. A must read!






