Java
the artist
Thee Artist, in this case, is a twenty three year old white male who
goes by the name of Java. his given name is Warren, but he drinks
more coffee than any Warren anyone has ever met. He is the Java
Jive personified. Java mainly works with collage, considers himself
to be a musician, which he is, as he plays the piano, the bass and
can be a wicked drummer if you get a couple of sticks in his hands
and a drumkit in front of him. He also works in found sculpture,
creating art out of what others call garbage. Not any garbage, mind
you,specific garbage. Mainly musical and technological garbage.
the art
Java, at the moment, is in the process of creating vinyl sculpture.
Utilizing the rapidly diminishing form of the record, in 7, 10, and
12 inch formats. Melting and shaping and adding wires from old
computers and circuits and strange metalLic parts from abandoned
television sets... light bulbs and funky sunglasses... keys from
keyboards and broken guitar strings... currently working on a
soundless sculpture entitled, in the cheeziest way possible, Sonic
Underground. Using sonic youth and velvet underground discs, he
is trying to metaphorically create an image of Kim Gordon melting
into Lou Reed. personally i think he needs to sit back, drink
another couple of pots of coffee, and think about this, but hell....
he's the artist, not I, and he's really into it.
the beret
Java does have a hat.... he loves his hat. He spent, as far as I
know, 8 years trying to find the perfect hat. It was difficult at
first, because when he started looking for this hat his head was
still kind of growing. Now, he's found one. and it fits. It's a
green hat. Greenlike velvet, and it sounds like a river out of
control. I felt his hat once,but it slipped through my fingers like
a waterfall of sand. It's a slow hat, that rides over his forehead.
It's a burroughsian brimmed grey black hat. grey that is green if
you look at it under certain lights with certain eyes. He uses his
hat to help hide from the world. he cut his hair, so he had to have
something. He walks the streets, eyes covered with the brim, stone
shadowed and cold against the insistence of light. This hat is his
shelter, his sanctuary. He takes it off sometimes and wrings it
against distant gasoline dreams. the last thing he said to me,
before he locked himself in his studio to work? the last thing he
said to me was this..... "keep yer eyes open, yer hat on tight, and
yer hands in yer pockets."
brought to you by:
marcel, drummer for Blaise Pascal, Self-Published Poet
interface designer, and member of Vancouver's Digital=Co-Op
Creator of New magazine.... CaffeineNation Quarterly
Submitted by Marcel Feldmar (marcelf@wimsey.bc.ca), on Thursday, May 19, 1994