I can’t tell you how much I hate talking about my art. The thing I dread most about residency experiences or just conversations with interested parties is inevitably having to talk about my art: Regurgitating the contents of my indigestible artist’s statement all over some unwitting victim who was just trying to make small talk. I’ve read the advice countless times – keep your statement simple, direct, accessible. That’s my chagrin, really – that because my statement has lots of big words with esoteric definitions, I must be being, albeit unwittingly, pretentious.
The problem is, what my art is about is almost impossible to explain, particularly using words. My art is a constant rendition of a world into which I am locked, that is inherently different to your world. It is not merely an exercise in personal catharsis (although I am compelled to formulate these expressions in order to feel that I do, in fact, exist, albeit in an unseen, unshared place). I try to reflect something about the world from a truly outside perspective, to allow people to see something about their world to which they are otherwise blind.
I make art almost precisely because the last thing I’m able to do, with my locked-in mis-wired fucked-up brain, is pin words on this. And now they want me to write about it: if it wasn’t so fucking tragic, it’d be a hilarious irony.
The world… The powers that be… think that reality swerving about can only be a manifestation of a sort of mental illness. I think I am privileged to see with immediacy a property of reality that is concealed from other people. A few thinkers can see it in abstract – philosophers who’ve furnished it with wanky nomenclature that I fall over myself in relief to borrow for the aforementioned artist’s statement. But I live it. I inhabit in actuality a space that is, at best, theoretical for a select few. It should be a privilege. It is, of course, a curse. An enlightenment unshared is an unparalleled burden – a terrible sentence of isolation. And the nature of my unsharable world is, well, virtually uninhabitable. One needs a reality that is reasonably consistent in order to function. I think human brains evolved to make the world still. To process the incoming information so that the world is rendered stationary and consistent and organized. That is sanity. That is normal. But I live in the real world. The shifting formless chaotic real world uncontained by cognitive fences. I am mad. That is my art.
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