Carlsbad Art and Culture

A weed thrives on the ability to grow without restrictions. A manicured garden has limits and boundaries and is “weeded” to eliminate wild growth. An unmanicured garden, much like a forest, grows freely, wrapping around nearby trees and hanging off tall branches. Each individual plant interacts with its neighbors, ultimately creating a single entity of unrestricted growth.

Artistic ideas also thrive when allowed to grow freely. An idea becomes planted during the early stages of brainstorming. The “seed” of an idea slowly develops within the mind of an artist much like a seed germinates under rich soil. When ready, an idea sprouts and is shared for all to see, interact with and analyze.

The second batch of carlsbadcrawl t shirts has been finished. Along with a variety of men’s and women’s sizes, color and styles, we have include baby onesies and some “weed garden” special editions.

Email theartist@carlsbadcrawl.com or visit Snyder Art (MAP) to get your homemade carlsbadcrawl.com t shirt.

Free for all…Join the community!

Once upon a time there was a trashcan who despised categories, stereotypes and trash. Each day began with a steamy insult and ended with a swift cleansing by a gloved city worker. The early morning supplied promise, but was always thwarted by a hurried passer and his misinformed characterizations. His passion and love for the arts was hidden in his dull and misguiding stature. His mind, which ran wild, kept hidden in the shelves of blandness. He desired the opportunity to inspire, but remained stagnant and dull.  The trashcan grimaced as his frame filled with soggy newspaper, soiled diapers and sticky sweets. His inaudible cries tumbled down the street like a sheetless ghost. He was never acknowledged by anything more than a receptacle for trash, though he felt he had so much more to offer.

One day as the sun stretched and the ocean still sat calm, the trashcan was awoken by the crashing jolt of a paint bucket bouncing within his barrel. He opened his sleepy eyes to the screeching of tires. Down the road he saw the bumper of a weathered truck, laden with buckets and ladders, disappear into the gloomy distance. The trashcan immediately grabbed his belly like the ill on the verge of a stomach disease. His eyes swelled and his palms began to sweat as he cursed the truck whom emptied its unwanted garbage. His teeth began to chatter and his cheeks went gray. He grabbed his face and punched his stomach in a poor attempt to misdirect his pain. He yelled at the sky as his eyes went empty and his muscles sagged limp.

The trashcan cried in agony and humiliation as he sat on the curb. His energy was depleted by the onslaught of pain. A bacteria as spiteful as a drunk clown bored deep into his gut. It boiled to a lively bubble like a volcano at its threshold. With uncompromising timing, it erupted and shot up the trashcan’s throat and out his mouth in an explosion of splattering bright colors. The trashcan moaned, but soon dismissed his misfortune with the acknowledgment of his new attire. His once dull outfit now danced with the hues of a rainbow. Paint dripped down his body in beautiful streaks of interlocking color. He stood to his feet and introduced his new look.

The fallowing days brought a whole new set of visitors. Instead of garbage and other unwanted discharge, he was awakened by the wide eyed and inspired. Strangers posed by his dripping colors and cameras flashed like lightening in the dark sky. He was given names like muse, beauty and masterpiece. His barrel remained empty as trash no longer sought his direction. Instead, he was given praise and applause. He no longer sat alone. He no longer smelled of the unwanted. He flaunted his colors as he was no longer a trashcan, but a barrel of expression, a container of creativity; he was now the local art can.

Can you find the local art can?

The sun peaks through the fading clouds and begins to intensify as I prepare my project. Sweat builds under my hat and I squint skyward. The sun hisses and I wince. My ankles ache and I grind my teeth. Sunblock begins to melt off my face like a the organic drips of a dwindling candle. I watch sweat run down my nose, cling, then splatter onto the burning concrete. The steep embankment, saturated with years of doodles, ignores the thread of my shoes. I lose grip and release my squat into one of my many downward sprints ending with a long and grimacing slide. Glass, rock and debris sprays from under my shoes as a small cloud of smoke lifts into the breeze. I curse the sun and glare at the bank. I put my head down and climb back into position.

Only a small percent of people find their true passion. What is yours? You may be like those whom are in search, but hindered by uncertainty and fear. Who are you and what makes you that person? Start with your interests, hobbies and goals. Find similarities amongst them. Narrow them down and ask yourself, would I dedicate myself to this passion without praise, wealth and stability? Would I strain my body and torment my mind to remain loyal to my passion? When you define yourself through your goals, actions and passions…you have found your true labor of love!

More often than not, the pursuit of a passion is exhausting, wearisome and difficult, but always rewarding when your work is your labor of love.

Against unfavorable odds, what do you thrive to accomplish?

Worked in paint, but with a brush that never touches the canvas. Though abstract and spontaneous, they are built up into very recognizable and detailed icons. A body of work that lacks a theme in terms of subject, but finds harmony in technique. They are gestural but restricted… spontaneous but premeditated…this is my current work…

Click HERE for photos and the interview!