Second Hand

I'm sitting there, still groggy, my morning coffee hadn't kicked in yet, and it was early. He approaches me and bends over so that he could look up at my face.

"Good morning"

"Oh hey, good morning" I force a smirk.

"I said, good morning." He emphasizes the 'morning'

"Good Morning." I full on smile. He half laughs and walks away. He always brought the energy, the kind of guy you look forward to seeing everyday.

We set up the scaffolding, pulling out the brushes and paints,  and start on the wall just like we did everyday. It was almost 9.

About an hour and half into full on painting there was a loud noise, almost like a crash, unidentified, in the moment it was hard to process against similar noises in my memory bank. I was preoccupied painting, zoned in my own world when the blare startled me out of it. I first thought the scaffold had fallen or someone fell from it, but I looked over and the scaffolds were all upright.

Then I hear "He shot me!" from the far end.

Almost like an echo another person yells over and over again "He shot him! He shot him!"

I instinctively run over as fast as I could, I was the furthest away, painting on the opposite end of the wall about 150 feet away, but some how I was the first upon him. I look up for a moment and notice a figure walking away, his back towards me, crossing the street, confident strides, no hurry.

I found him on the ground fully aware, talking. But going in and out of consciousness.

"He shot me."

I quickly scan for a wound I don't see anything but as I simultaneously feel under his shirt I feel it in his lower left abdomen - moist and irregular. Quickly I put my hand over it and apply pressure, that's the only thing I can think to do. I reach behind him but I couldn't find an exit wound, there isn't one. I know from watching movies that blood loss is the biggest concern so I try to prevent that.

There was one other guy who was painting further than me and he comes up red faced. Feels like moments later.

"What happened?!!"

"He was shot."

He hands me his phone for some reason. No one's thinking straight. I know instinctively what to do. I dial 9-1-1

"Hi, my friend was shot, we're at 35th St and West, the freeway underpass, send someone right away!!"

"Sorry, could you please repeat that?"

"I said my friend was shot, we need someone here right away!!"

"This is the highway patrol, I'll need to connect you to local law enforcement."

"Ok, whatever! Do it!"

Riiiiing riiiiing riiiiing riiiing

"What the fuck...!!"

In frustration I forceably throw the phone back into the other painter's hands.

I look back towards the ground, he says.

"How come no one is doing anything? Do something!" Angrily

I try to calm him and reassure him.

"We are, we called 9-1-1, the ambulance is coming and I'm here."

Then he seems to be losing consciousness. I thought we were going to lose him right then. I lightly slap his face. He comes back immediately.

"How come no one is doing anything? He shot me."

Then his consciousness wanes. I again slap his face to keep him awake.

"You gotta say with me. You gotta stay awake. Don't go to sleep."

He goes in and out of consciousness, we repeat this game over again.

"How come you're sitting on my stomach?"

"I'm not, it's just my hand, I'm putting pressure on the wound."

It seems like so much time had passed at this point. I don't really recall anyone else. I do remember another painter pacing back and forth in anger, almost yelling "He shot him, he shot him."

And I see someone crying nearby. Another was just standing staring. One was panicking but she was there helping me. There were others but I don't know where they were or what they were doing.

"It's been so long, where the hell is everybody!! Why isn't the ambulance here!? We need to get him to a hospital.

He starts foaming from the mouth.

Some black girls nearby almost taunt us.

"This is West Oakland, no police is gonna come. " In that moment for some reason that felt true. We had to act. We couldn't wait for the police that might not come.

"Let's move him to the back of the truck! We gotta take him to the hospital now!"

So we pick him up, I brace the back of his neck and we carrying him to the back of the truck.
He want's to puke so we turn him to his side. He pukes.

I recheck the wound there's surprisingly no blood. And still no exit wound, which I know means he's a mess inside. The urgency suddenly hits me.

"We gotta take him now!!!"

The same girls try to be helpful...

"There's a hospital like 6 blocks in that direction, it's really close."

"Are you sure!? Where exactly? What's it called?"

The last thing I want to do is to be driving around lost looking for a hospital while he's dying in the back of the truck. I was strangely calm until then, my mind started to race and I couldn't decide what to do. This decision could save or kill a life...

We're all in the truck, ready to go when multiple police cars pull up and almost surround us, blocking the vehicle from moving.

One of us goes up and yells at them, urging them to move so we can go. There's still no ambulance in sight.

"Get the fuck out of the way so we can go!"

It takes them it feels like 10s of minutes until finally the paramedics emerge from the around the corner. Time always slows during times of urgency. It only dawns on me later that they were there the entire time just waiting for the all clear from the police. They approach him and cut off all his clothes, except for his boxers. Then they lift him onto the stretcher and put the clear plastic oxygen mask over his face. The oxygen alone seems like it would save him. There was something about it that gave me some semblance of relief. During the commotion his boxers pulled down a few times, exposing him. He sensed this somehow and seemed to want to try and pull them up but his arms were twitching and folded in unnatural ways. Wrist bent. The way people used to do when they made fun of retarded people. So I went up and covered him with a blanket. He seemed to acknowledge that. I continued walking with him holding his hand and head to the ambulance.

"Can I let go now?" I ask the paramedics as they are about to load him in, as if I was doing something important and needed official relief.

"Yeah, you can let go."

"Can I come with you guys?"

"No, sorry, we can't have anyone inside."

"Ok, they're going to take you now." I said as I looked into his eyes.

That was the last thing I said to him. It didn't occur to me I'd never see him again. No words of comfort or inspiration. Just 'Ok, they're going to take you now" Not that words have power but they do and maybe the right ones would've kept his will going stronger, inspire a fight, provide the tiny bit needed that would mean the difference between life and death. Maybe. I can't even think of what I would've wanted to say - even now.

We got updates, he made it to surgery. The oxygen mask, then the ambulance each seemed like steps towards life. He was going to make it.

I hugged another artist and when I walked away I saw the tiny spot of blood I'd inadvertently left on the back of his shirt. That's when I look down at my palm and see a burgundy, dime sized circle.

I wanted to tell him about the spot on his back but never did.

On Why the World Felt Heavy Today

The morning started with a conversation soon turned heated debate with my sister. My moms calls me last night and she's left the house again to get away from my sister. This is nothing new, it's a cycle that occurs every month or so, I don't need to listen I already know, it's like Ground Hog Day - the actions are repeated exactly with only the trigger being different each time. I'll get a call usually from my mom first then my sister, quietly hearing both sides of the story, just listening and saying not much because from past experience I know any advice would fall on deaf ears and defensive anger. But this time my sister called the next morning instead of that night. We talked, I got impatient and went right into what I thought the solutions were and the conversation turned heated, ending with my sister hanging up on me. I could've been more sympathetic but to me it's the same thing every time. Change is an absolute must but it doesn't seem to happen. The other thing about this is I see myself in my sister, shaped by the same forces, and for some reason that brings me down. I think because I feel I could easily be her and she could easily be me.

 I'm having a sort of art crisis. I've had a busy summer and finally have a chance to get in the studio and make yet I'm stuck and I don't know how I want to paint, what I want to paint. I sit there and flip through instagram, looking at all the art on there searching for something, anything that could help me figure it out, but it's useless, I either hate or like everything which isn't helpful and just adds more to my personal confusion. And not to mention all the wasted hours, it really is crack and sex sells. And as a side effect I get my face rubbed into every other successful (or seemingly successful) career or adventure and look at my own lack of. I'm not saying I'm not successful, I bet by some standards I've gained relative success but I'm not where I'd like to be which is also unclear as to what that would look like, I guess I'd know when I get there. But the success thing also adds to the heaviness.

 In a few weeks I'll be flown out to NYC, picked up via private transport, put up in a hotel, paid handsomely to paint the offices of a "INC 500 Fastest Growing Companies" company, like a king. And I could paint whatever the hell I want - any artists dream - but given my current existential crisis it terrifies me. I have no idea what I'd do and I have doubts about my ability, even though I always pull it off, and the platinum treatment makes it so much more worse, so much pressure.

 Then because I sit there in the studio filled with anxiety I procrastinate, and because the current events in the middle east fascinate me I tend towards that. I watched the feature length film put out by ISIS "Flames of War", an incredibly well edited, well shot propaganda film about the history of ISIS. In it they are all about Allah, truly passionate, true believers, truly faithful, in some scenes crying in gratitude towards Him after a victory. I believe this faith is what make them such fierce fighters, because life is inextricably connected to this greater power beyond this world. But it's profoundly disturbing to me, this amount of fervor and the piles of bodies, so much blood, death and bodiless heads in relation to this God. There's either some amount of twisted deception or everything I believe true power is supposed to be is wrong. At the end of the movie they talk to captured soldiers digging their own graves and interview them about this, sadistic, while another group of soldiers sit in a line on their knees with pistols pointed at the back of their heads awaiting their fate. It's crazy to see people alive that are going to be dead in a moment. It reminds me of a ball I was once invited to for a girl with terminal cancer, I didn't go, the invite itself was too much. I wonder why the digger armed with shovels don't make a last ditch attempt to knock out a guy and take one gun, mow down the rest, I've seen it done 100 times in movies. But maybe there's something better about dying with resigned dignity? And then I watch them fall forward as the smoke exits the barrels of the respective guns pointed inches from their heads. And then I wonder about the cases of PTSD in America, few but each so horrifying, and then think about entire peoples with the same thing, what does that do?

 As these things go, at the end of "Flames of War" there's a compelling image or text for the next thing, and because I'm addicted now I click. Nigerian Beheaded by Boka Haram. I watch as a captured Nigerian Air Force pilot tries desperately to talk his way out of his fate, pretty sure but hopeful of his fate, as he gets interrogated. Then the captors start singing/chanting about his fate and he knows and it happens.

 And on to the West African doctor who volunteered for Doctors Without Borders to fight Ebola, contracted it but survived, while his wife didn't believe the disease even existed and died from it with her daughter. Even more than the disease itself this unbelief bothers me. The stories of quarantine tents getting raided and volunteers who are trying to inform people of Ebola being slaughtered. I'm sure it has layers of complexity and history that I will never understand.

 She Tweeted Against the Mexican Cartel. They Tweeted Her Murder. Unable to resist I again *click. In the Mexican state of Tamaulipas cartels have taken over and declared a media blackout so local citizens took matters into their own hands and used social media as a means to report on the daily events. Felina was the bravest and most ardent fighter for this freedom of expression. She remained anonymous but they found her accidentally, kidnapped her because something else and looked on her phone. Using her Twitter account they posted a live picture of her and then another one of her on the floor, shot dead. Evil persists.

At the end of the night, after Elaine got home from work we head over to Highland General Hospital to visit our friend Akim. Akim was homeless, stayed with us for a short time, and about 2 weeks ago had to go in for emergency brain surgery to remove a tumor. He was sleeping this time, very peaceful looking, half of his body covered in white tape and bandages attached to 10,000 tubes, only small squares of his dark skin visible. But the visual of his lifeless body plus the last thing the nurse said "his condition is going down when we need it to go up" made me think of his life and very possibly his death.

 So we go out and for once I know exactly what I want to eat - pasta. I get straight up spaghetti with meatballs topped with meat sauce and drown the heaviness I feel on the entire dish that could probably easily feed two. And now I feel mentally burdened but physically heavy too.

Show in Oakland

Here's a preview of some of the work I'm doing for the show on March 2nd.
It's a small space so I'm doing a truck load of small paintings to fill the space. Just bought 20 more canvi today to rock, painting like a mad man no time to spare - right now I'm painting with my left hand as I type this with my right.

Halmoni Vintage - run by a dope Korean. March 2nd.
See you there!

A Show in Oakland - March 2nd

Got my first solo gig coming up on March 2nd.

Friday, March 2, 2012 7:30 - 10pm

Dave Young Kim - Don't Take It Personally

Halmoni Vintage
1601 2nd Ave
Oakland, CA 94606
510-788-0296
http://www.halmoni.net/

"Stepping into Dave Young Kim's studio, you might see him studying an image
– or see him recalling an image or an instantaneous gesture seen prior.
Activity replays as if he's able to mentally scrub through a video timeline,
and the lit nuances are grasped, bringing to mind da Vinci 's definition of
mastery and usage of light and tension. It's as if from a still image Dave
Young Kim is able to intuitively orbit around the object to study the "flat"
image from multiple points of view in synthetic perspective. I am no more
impressed watching him work as I am seeing him study. Dedication drives the
moments, thus momentum results from a series of meaningful encounters,
whether they are imagined or actual. He may speak comfortably, or may be
silent, and whether focused or entirely at ease, David Kim is working...
he's on it... thriving in the creative domain... integrating experience as
if amassing kinetic energy to release as kinetic power in the form of art.
His paintings and works are a rich addition to almost any contemporary
collection.

What matters most as we live out our lives? What drives us and compels us
toward timeless qualities? What inspires us to connect with others? How can
raw gesture compel tears? Spend time with the art of Dave Young Kim and be
uplifted."

- Christian Karl Janssen

Skulls

One day Nate and I got in an argument.

I was pissed.

I said out of anger:

"What?!  You're dead! No, really I hope you're constantly running for dear life, always being chased by death!"

Then I took a spray can and did this on his car while he was sleeping.

Fluorescent Dreams

How a complicated idea becomes something simple - inspired by signage and weird shapes on a billboard:

Oil and house paint on canvas

Lighters

I was driving to the studio this morning and this song came up on the radio and I was thinking how it was catchy and nice to listen to, a pleasant melodic background at best if I didn't really listen to the lyrics. But then if I start to pay attention to the words a little bit,  it initially seems unrelatable, I don't care that you love Eminem like Dre I'm just listening because the music is pleasing to the ear  - I don't care about your personal problems, nothing to do with me. But as I really start to pay attention - it's the dudes story and it makes sense because at some level it's my story. I get it. It suddenly becomes profound, develops meaning and it sounds nice too. Maybe that's what art's about: first you're drawn to it, you like it, want it because it looks pretty and then you stop and look at it at first and think ah he's talking about some funk he's gone through, but then you sit and stare and you realize it reminds you of this or that or the fact that he's going back into his story makes you want to go back into yours. And then who knows where it could go from there. .

A profound morning thought thanks to Eminem, Bruno, and Royce Da 5'9"


You and I know what it's like to be kicked down
Forced to fight
But tonight we're alright
So hold up your light
Let it shine
'Cause this one's for you and me, living out our dreams
We're all right where we should be
Lift my arms out wide I open my eyes
And now all I wanna see
Is a sky full of lighters
A sky full of lighters

Harmony vs. Daybit Kim (b/c I'm no longer Unco Daybit but am sometimes Monkey Butt)

A collaboration between me and Harmony. She had dope styles I'm gonna steal from, seriously, I even borrowed 2 of her brushes.

Note: Harmony wants to be doctor and then a train in that order, which actually works because it'd be really hard to be a doctor as a train.

Lion

Botta's Pocket Gopher

Beaver

Kangaroo Rat

Done with these hands.

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I did these with the leftover paint:

L.A. Blog becomes Art Blog

Took a trip down to L.A. no really Long Beach because that's where I flew in to which is in L.A. county but my house, or my parents house is in Torrance, which is still in L.A. county.

Home is a strange place, always. I'm somewhat paralyzed each time I go there. Torn between the sense of responsibility and personal ambition. I guess I could find balance, which is what I did. Sense of responsibility = being family, hanging out with my sister and the baby, checking in on cousins. Personal ambition = I'm trying to art here, so in simplest terms that entails 2 things: 1)being in the cave (studio) getting down and 2)getting out there seeing things, meeting people, networking, collecting a million facebook friends.

The way I see it in this day and age, anybody could be "famous". Everybody has the ability to create a network around them of say (random number) 1,000 people who likes their work and supports it by buying, promoting, seeing it. There's making it big in the world and then there's making your own world to be big in.

So in end it comes down to ambition. How ambitious am I, are you? Ambition to work like a mother and ambition to go out there and work like a mother building your world.

I always thought it was vanity to be ambitious in that way but if the work is good and it's got to be good, something that is compelling, and it brings value to their life then why not buy it, and why can't I ask you to buy it. In the end you, they can always say no. So ask.

Crap this was supposed to be about L.A.. got carried away Ok next one. But anyhow. I'm supposed to be writing daily blogs on my process in the studio. Stay tuned..

If you see this guy around, call the cops, he's a hooligan...

Back in Street Spirit

Got a phone call from Desi telling me I was in Street Spirit again.
Did this painting live last year for a memorial event at St. Mary's Center, a service provider for low income folk.

Apparently it will be the image for their holiday cards this year.

Buy your copy of Street Spirit today, support the less privileged!

Could I put this on my CV?
http://www.thestreetspirit.org/international-day-for-the-eradication-of-poverty/

Around Town

West Oakland:

Jack London:

Break Through!

I had a breakthrough in terms of my art yesterday.
I'll tell you all about it soon.
Bookmarked.

SouthWest Sketches

The only artwork produced during my journey through the SouthWest...