The delineation between art and life can often get foggy and blurry. This becomes even more true when discussing my work. I am an interdisciplinary artist. And as such, my work spans between the languages of painting, sculpture, and performance, in a poetry that has been seen as a diary written with the notes of experience.
Life is a story of love and tragedy. We aspire to greatness and yet all of us are subject to our own mortality. We make art to scream our names into the void over the blaring banging breaking crowd, in a tear-filled cry to have strangers recognize our own existential identity. We place our palm prints upon the dripping cave wall, in the hopes that another will position theirs next to ours in a time beyond.
Death, love, anxieties, and aspirations are all permissible. And as I reflect on who I am in my identity, the scars on my flesh prison, the dimples on my cheeks, I pour my blood and heart into my art both figurative and in many cases literally. What is harmony without discord? What is tomorrow without yesterday?
Spend an hour every day laughing; spend an hour every night crying.
Because the human experience is about these dichotomies. Hot and cold. And as I spin dizzy between experiences, I document my life into my work.
Art is about communication and preservation, especially amongst those that are ephemeral. We may all eventually embrace the marching skeletons, but it’s our personal diaries that let time know of our names.