My art has way less in lieu of product than it does to do with the process.  A way of meddling in consciousness, testing mettle, and catharsis.  So from the start, it’s intensely personal.  In the middle, it’s a hot mess.  When it’s finished it’s where I can publicly, but comfortably, be undressed.

 

It was an exercise my mother taught when we were just kids.   Before fine motor found a way to skill its way up my wrist.  I had a box of 64 that was just broken to bits.  And I still applied the wax with it gripped in my fist.   From the restricted shape, color, or scribbles of line, I let my hands depict the imagery that dribbles from the mind.   It was this repeated practice where the gist was defined.   Kind of like a ripple from a simpler time.

 

I  start with a blank slate and a blob of fabricated space.   Then see what kind of story that, that blob can create.  So I don’t want anyone to make the mistake of thinking there’s intrepid message of innate being to view.  That’s not to say it couldn’t relay a spate of meaning to you. It’s all just perception, experience, and how we relate.   And most of me thinks that’s great.

 

Because  “we”… like, me and you… we’re a couple of misfits.  And when life hits we might get lonely and listless. Only if the phoniness spins us too thin. Ask, “What’s the matter with misfits?”  That’s just where we fit in.  For what it’s worth it’s silly to propose purpose and I’ve realized it’s really worthless to suppose all that resides beneath the surface.  So I won’t. I’m thankful for the hand I’ve been dealt. Plus I dare not psycho-analyze myself.

 

So what I see is:

 

Stuff mashed together humorous, witty, and dark.  A graveyard and birthplace of lots of massive moving parts.  Tubes. Vents. Appliances.  Crude, bent piles, and bits.  Foods I like. Bolts and spikes. giant mechs and vibrant kids.  Everything in sightly clutter.  Unlikely sparks of a scrapped sphere engine.  A mapped out psyche with no clear “You Are Here” legend.  Animals and beasts unclassified, and sometimes out of place, but still pass the time adapting to the habitats I make.

 

Maybe time-worn battlefields turned eclectic salvage place.  Maybe asymmetric, panoramic, spastic trash-scapes.  Maybe a matinée feature of mythical creatures and grubs.  Maybe space born bursts of the suburb.  Maybe none of the above.

 

I don’t claim to understand sub-conscious pouring essence in runs.  It’s kind of like this artist note, both pretentious and fun.    All I know is it keeps me from becoming mentally numb.  My only hope is it’s not boring.  I’m ostensibly done.

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