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.
Got a real job.
Like…a job NOT in a coffee shop or restaurant…
I’m going to be a Ceramics Technician!
Well… I’ve been gone a while. Took a bit of time away from the studio and began to feel incredibly lazy. That’s about when my world stopped spinning for about thirty minutes.
I got a phone call three or so days ago that I decided to ignore because I didn’t know who it was and I wanted to ‘be wary of spamicists.’ I decided to google the area code and discovered it was from Chicago- a little closer to home than expected.
The next day my phone rang again- a call from the same number. I literally stared at the phone in my hand and felt as though I should answer it. Throwing caution to the wayside, I answered and was then punched in the face by a phone interview with a woman from Lillstreet about my application for the artist in residency program. At this point, I couldn’t remember how to breathe.
So until the chosen one is revealed on Friday, I will lay awake every night replaying the interview over and over and over and over in my head and how (at least to me) I sounded like I was hiking up Mt. Everest.
No one could have prepared me for the shit my nerves took all over the apartment through my pacing and animated hand waving while frantically searching for the right words.