I’ve been MIA - and in more ways than one.
I’ve also been keeping myself busy by feeling guilty. For what? - I couldn’t pinpoint it exactly - but for one: I haven’t pursued anything artistically and that in itself, is enough.
That being said, a lot has happened in the past year and many things have come to light that have made me think about who I am. I still don’t completely know who I am, but I’m going to decide to be okay with that.
I started thinking about this project I did when I was in Ceramics III. If I remember correctly, the only requirement was that we study the bowl form. There were only two of us enrolled in the class so we had free reign to do whatever it is we wanted. I dedicated myself to pursuing modified pinch pots; around 250 of them. I trimmed the insides of them so their inner surface was clean and stenciled words and lettering on their inner floors. I chose words that associated with the bowl’s function; words that we all learned as children.
That was the only project I ever felt like I conquered during my schooling. I understood what I wanted to say and I knew how to say it through the work. It stuck with me.
I’ve started revisiting this project conceptually. As a child, I assigned words and meanings to objects, but what about experiences, feelings and time? Where do I assign these intangibles?
I’m still working that out.
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.