THE PROFESSIONAL STATEMENT WITHOUT COMMITTMENT:
The one constant in my life has been the intimacy with expression. Everything else has been volatile. There is a reliability in that I will externalize a reaction. Each moment is an interaction. I try to be aware during every interaction and be prepared to react with expression at all times. I am always on, absorbing or reacting. My reflex to those interactions, including the process, is my art.
My work is concept driven and all of my successful concepts have started with the same process: an awkward, frustrating, suffering start. What you see in the end is not predictable because the variables are infinite.
I use whatever method and medium I deem necessary to convey the concept. I stand behind my interdisciplinary practices. This way there is no limit to my language of expression, save of course my lack of knowledge.
Once I have realized the concept successfully or pushed the method and medium to its limit; I move on. It may come back morphed, or it may disappear entirely.
THE CONFESSIONAL STATEMENT:
we try to be raw father feels like he failed us this isn't a padded page. if it makes you feel awkward maybe you should take away the hierarchy held upon major life events that is so prolific in our day and amplify our vulnerabilities instead. we should talk more about our flaws, to take away the power they have over us. we don't relate to many people well because we are serious. funny things only happen in whispers before sleep. we are true to our natural reactions for the most part. we believe more oft than not that nice people are liars. we are constantly in criticism of our environment (including relations). this doesn't, by any means, insinuate that we are unhappy with our environment, it just means that we like to grow and it makes each moment slip to the next with as much ease as possible. we are self-absorbed. we think of us first. we have always lived in the castle. the townspeople taunted and never really knew compassion so why would we think of them first when they made our house haunted? it is defense, really, but we have always lived in the castle. we find symbolism sometimes. some people call it delusion. we call it choosing a romantic frame. we are that tree because everything is the same. call it whatever, same energy, fate inclined dna, chemical makeup, one organism feeding and fueling and pushing and pulling to make itself spin and go and go and go and go. but thanks to roo, we are not only that tree, but we are the bright orange airport seat too, and thanks to mark doty we are the discarded pink egg carton that will never decay. speaking of frames. another reason we are often detached and keep few around is that we have good frames. in those frames are good rounded doors and bad willow trees. both things have ended. all things ended. the suffering frames are good frames too. the suffering frames are the active frames. the comfortable frames are resting poses. we don't want your god. we don't need your tinsel gospels that are passed around so many times that it loses its meaning. tinselated words don't affect us. we want to buy the billboards back and use them for transparent and selfish reactions. the savior is not in the sale. we are sensitive and paranoid. most people are not okay, but in our lovers we find a home. they are overwhelmed with the vast amount of positions they hold. our idea of good isn't defined by standard morals. our concept of good is something that was successfully absorbed and was intense enough to make us react. most people aren't intense enough, so we make you go away with induced awkward interactions so out of your range of normalcy that you would like to change your number. we never want to be ignored. we are always ready to confess our flaws, vulnerabilities and yours. we've said them out loud, loudly in fact, at social gatherings. people like us less for it. people like us more for it. we find ourselves in deep meditative states when the cats are cleaning themselves. there are no lines, no boundaries. we will kick shins and wear wire halos to think it will make us better and less cynical. we will throw tokens in the rivers and hope it all comes true. we will argue against you for the sake of making the conversation less mediocre. we will argue with you and make an awkward sensation of "us versus them". we are confident in our marks. marks as in potential people of persuasion and marks as in what is put on. we are aware. most people are more concerned with then(past) or then(future). we are here, now with our feet rooting in control of our breaths. if you seek pity we will humble you. 'he pushed me off my bike and broke my foot', 'yeah, well people are sitting on roofs gilled with water lost more than some pieces of bone and a good fuck'. humbled looking lotus motherfuckers. we will push you too far away and pull you too close. everyone in our lives since birth chose someone over us, including us. so, we are scared.o ur defense is an imbalance of keeping loved ones at the 'perfect' distance. we find that cats are much more tolerant of our imperfections. we find that most of the "then (past)" friends are reminders of how ignorant we were. we believe in ghosts. they are the people who went away. not just anyone can be a ghost. we validate you before you become one graded by how many real exchanges we have had. you see, because we are picky with those exchanges. it means more to us than you, obviously since you are usually the ones that aren't picking up the phone because it is us calling. we lost your little hearts in the back of our eyelids. there isn't a day we don't think of how we fucked it up and let you die. there are more but those are the ones that bite us on the long commutes. consume our thoughts and sew layers of skinned guilt on our feet making our already heavy footed walk, well you know. we miss you, dearly. we hate consumerism, capitalism, the exchange has ruined many. we think that it is the driving force for the fact that if you give a man enough rope he will hang himself. (we are a's, and ghosts, and owls, and scared wide eyed mice in galleries in towns where everyone is napping and we are about with our anxious selves confident that the art is somewhere. fuck. where is the fucking art, here?