I situate myself within a sea of things…. my eyes bleeding into themselves, making bleary, poisonous solutions. It’s like my brain is mushing things together into one conglomerate mass of MESS. I’ve begged to know the point. Just kinda stuck in a version of confusion that has no solvable arithmetic.
Whenever I am in my studio, I play this game where I think about what I would put in a white room, one with nothing but walls, and call it art.
Here is the list that I have come up with, to date:
dust bunnies (a colony, with their own politics),
cigarette butts soaked in camomile tea,
watermelon five gum wrappers,
flower vases with flower patterns,
a yellow rocking chair,
dead grass (with the smell),
artificial fruit,
ribbon,
the drape,
fake fur,
motorcycle chains dripping with oil,
freshly filled spoonfuls of pesto bismol,
arrowroot baby cookies,
a robot with huge tits,
sewing pins (the ones with the fake pearl tops),
stars,
gumballs,
And porn.
Lots and lots of porn.
Also, maybe a flower crown. And a paper one too. And a bloody nose.
Basically, put simply: I have an obsession with the dis-genuine. Those bits of the world that are fake, fabricated, and absurd. A bit shameful, yeah. I wish sometimes that I could look in the mirror and see a pair of huge plastic tits pushed harshly upwards, a smoke dangling out of cherry-red-advil-coating coloured lips, coffee brown stained veneers reflecting what little light there is falling through the window, with gummy-bear-transparent fake nails, and hair curlers round so tight around barley blonde hair that scalp hurts.
eating boxed macaroni and cheese for dinner every-night.
drip peach juice down chest and think about taking a bath with water so salty skin begs for air.
to own a shotgun.
to tie that shotgun above my mantle with a piece of my hair and call it research.
to own a diamond just to crush it with the toe of a ballet flat.
In regards to my work. It’s beautiful with edges. Seducing, then ripping meat off of a bone. And, like I said before, it’s all about the mess. It’s about the legs that split open after a night of beer. Staggering, slurring, wanting, wishing upon a glow-in-the-dark plastic star. It's about A megaphone with a label that reads soul scream through me.
And it loves you. It will always be loving, if it isn’t anything else.