I have a collection of memories that are more less words and images compiled into one cloud. They jostle around, competing for my attention amongst other mental notes. Some of these memories are not of events long passed. They are of recent experiences, words, smells, feelings, and images.
My memories don’t spur me on to the future. My personality and character reach for things in the past. I try, despite myself, on a daily basis to reconstruct things that are long gone.
I could talk about my work through metaphors. I could throw around concepts, themes, double entendres or bigger, more intimidating words, but the truth is that I’m at a place where all that art speak is tiresome. My intention for my work is to preserve those memories that I am afraid of forgetting.
place that is both definite and indefinite
a static, single occurance
a processional series of happenings
punctuation . … , ; !
To comprehend our mortality, I think in Layman’s terms. Death is an order of operations hailing from a set of blueprints we received at birth. It punctuates.
I want to explore the difficulty of decay.
I want to relay the strain our bodies face through life.
I want to understand what death means.
I want to know why relationships change in the face of death.
I want to accept the diagnosis.
I want things to remain the same.
I don’t want to accept the truth.
I want to know how life is supposed to be lived.
I want to know what we are to gain when everything is to be lost in the end?
I want, I want, I want.
A child wants what he only knows. Love, happiness, the sameness.
We know we will one day die, is it what we want?
One day I’m sure death is what we will wish for.
What is it about our need for communication? We speak openly, we ask for feedback, we digest it. I find myself catching note of a string of words that fly into my consciousness. Before the thread completely disappears, I grab onto it. What is it about those few words that make me mull them over? Does this alleviate an anxiety centered around not being able to properly describe an event, person, situation, memory, etcetera?
Those threads of words seem to be something from my subconscious. I am often self-conscious about how much I talk. I’m afraid of talking too much, about talking about things of little to no importance, afraid of not making sense, afraid of not being able to properly communicate. I shut myself up. I prescribe silence for my self-diagnosed psycho babble.
The line separating childhood memory from adult reality is jagged. It lacks differentiation and a clear break. There are moments and events that forcibly induce the reality of adulthood on a child. Conversely, the grown can be reduced to childlike behaviors.
My interest in conflict, trauma, and stability, in addition to my own memories, lead me to combine materials. I explore complex relationships between that which binds, breaks, dissolves, and builds upon that which came before.
We were all children once. Sometimes I still feel that inquisitive, curious and innocent soul tapping from within my skin. That child never really left any of us. I like to think I remember what it was like to be a child. I also know that those memories of childhood are vague representations of what they really once were: shivering and out-of-focus, shrouded by the subtle white noise of misremembered details. Those memories leach through the striations of adult sediment; they reach the surface compromised.
I’m finally zeroing in on the progression of my work.
I’m going to break the vague.
I want to explore my interests in the hard parts of life by shifting my gaze to the relationships between childhood memories and adult realities. That transition can be violent, unsettling, difficult to understand, and unexpected. What moments cause someone to mature more quickly? What moments are captured forevermore in our minds? Why do they stick out?
I’m looking at infusing the child-friendly playful nature of rhymes with the jarring realities life throws at us each day. I want to look and listen to things that are unsettling. I want to express a disconnect between the way we act and the way things really are.
Work still in progress…more of a test really- to get back into things.
A few verses:
The birds and the bees
They sing in the trees
The sun shining bright
Makes everything right
My grandmothers losing her hair.
My grandfather died
And everyone cried
He couldn’t recall
What my name was at all
I could go for a strong cup of coffee.