For me art is a life raft, it rescues me from the crippling minutia and boredom that is our everyday world and allows me to say something real.
I sit on the phone listening to an automated voice tree of countless pre recorded messages and press a number in response. I try to connect my cell phone to my computer so I can download pictures into the preset frames of some website that allows for small conversational transactions with friends I don’t see. It does not make me think I am less alone. This is us, after the turning point.
I make art to express the uncontrollable and wild, the irrational and beautiful. By resisting the forces that we build to tame and control ourselves we release our delicate madness.
I fill the rescue boats with candy, the sweetness that would save us until they sink. The only escape is lemony fresh, only its purity can save us from this efficient nightmare. I want to sink the tracts of Mcmansions waste deep in candy or flood them with medium priced champagne.
I make a chandelier that is beautiful enough for me, violent enough, silent in its rage, tearing itself apart. I blind my subjects with teacups and force the fullness of their running out the base of a vacuum cleaner.
I want some sliver of the world in my head to match the world I live in. Where memories transform into beautiful butterflies, they come in their pure emotional states and pull down the buildings they remember. People ask me all the time if I make money at this or how I support myself as an artist. I want to ask them how much their wife pays them to have sex. Or tell them how much money they would save if they started soaking old paper in ketchup and eating that along with vitamin supplements but the point is already lost. The question answers itself.
I do my taxes and refinance my loans; I cut a straight line across the rectangle in order to meet my deadlines. I keep my word because in the end it is what defines me.
I meditate, I focus, I relax, I organize, I exercise, I find some form of inner piece, and I drift into color. I look for that color and find vinyl siding the color of prosthetic limbs. I go to the ocean searching for sea creatures that can fly or that evolved from furniture.
Why can we clone our own wretched selves and cure every damn disease that touches us but not produce one decent fucking unicorn.