We glister heavy gold but float. Wandering Styrofoam.
There is a sharp incongruity between the values that we profess, the great potential of humanity, and the efforts that we make to realize it for the collective. This contradiction chafes against me as I consider the trajectory of civilization. It itches everywhere but lives so unplaced as to deny the satisfaction of scratch. We operate in absurdity.
I want to examine this absurdity. To translate and abridge it into Truth. I ask: What are the outcomes of shortsightedness, of a quick-fix band aid or false flattery mirror? For ourselves, for those who come after and after that? What is the consequence of mediated connection that leaves us adrift and alone? Who bears responsibility for systems that privilege the few over the many, tricked into complacency?
This line of questioning drives my practice.
I work to make the abstract familiar and familiar novel, using material phenomena and semiotic framing as a platform for contemplation. The prick of pins painstakingly picked resists empty corporate exaltations. The cold and lonesome dark of a cave with no mouth speaks isolation of mediated communion. Over salted tongues wring reality from twisted narratives. I want to render our miscalculations into metaphor and archive them in material memory. Casting rocks into the river.