I make art as a means of making the mess of myself meaningful.
When I started working on this, it came from a place of sheer creative desperation to find something, to make something. I’ve said more than once that the muses are capricious. The night I was making this, they were exponentially so. I had first attempted to record a podcast, a …
Maybe art is an attempt to touch our deepest secrets, buried so deeply that we don’t know that they’re there.
We crave security and we find that security in being confined, but “To go beyond confinement is to rediscover yourself.”
These are the books I read this year. Each one imparted something, and for that I’m garteful.
The risk of experimentation isn’t prompted by success but by the desires for discovery.
Some days are like this. It’s strenuous to scribble words into sentences. We write them anyway.
In the process of searching for the words, and guiding them from my head to the page, the pictures arrive.
Maybe art is an external attempt to touch our deepest secrets, the secrets that we don’t even know are there.
Unhealthy render us unappreciative of our living particularities. Gratitude is a protest against the autocracy of comparison.