Finding the true personality for the as-yet-to-be-determined life.
Imagine a fusion-powered blender that drags its bulk across a steaming garbage pile of discarded appliances, my bland visage, your garish baloney face, everyone’s preposterous fashion, distended flesh, and so many pointless trends . The purpose is not to devour, but to convert, to help culture to decompose, so it can feed new lifeforms. Every excretion glistens in the sunlight, as neon tendrils of fungus penetrate the forest, connecting every living and dying thing.
That’s me. I am the cluster of spores in the trash can, creating that swampy sweet atmosphere, while i stretch my terrifying skin of bluish-gray fur over the putrid mass. I live to create…. because it’s a natural impulse, like sneezing, screaming or stepping on cockroaches.
I go, and go, and go. The answering of the great questions, and their role in contemporary art, I leave to the academics. All this descriptive prose is a hastily-assembled lean-to in a hurricane. I could be tucking my knees to my chest, watching the wind fling the structure into the sky, leaving me exposed, all the while, wondering why I didn’t spend my remaining hours gathering images, parsing data, isolating elements, and building a gleaming junk dome to shame the universe.
My urges are all that I contain. One day, they’ll be all used up, so I must act now. I only exist inside my various desktops, on stages, but behind curtains. Identity: my presence in the work, is obscured by layers of nonsense, clashing patterns, angry colors and filagree. I’m a reclusive figure, occupying the negative space between pink and yellow panels. Every time I assume the position: cross-legged in a task chair, drawn into the churning toilet waters of my search results, I see the potential. Who doesn’t see the potential? The successful composite, to me, is the manna, sequential composites: so much more. I trip over the narrative in the dark, stepping into an open can of concept, and there it is.