Artist’s Statement (4/25/12)
For me, my art (what I do, how I go about doing it, and what it results in) is therapy. Meditation. I have trouble dealing with the world around me, so I find a certain solace in repeated, mantra-like activities, however menial and redundant they may seem to the observer. Whether it’s 500 onions, or 100 moths, my work has taken on the form of swarms of little things, that when added together in a large enough amount, yield a greater overall mass to be taken in at once by the viewer. The process for each separate one was the same, practiced motion of bending wire, ripping and wrapping tape, tying knots, forming blisters on my hands until they hardened and callused—but it was all a beautiful meditation for me, and gave birth to 100 unique little creatures.
How I arrive at these meditative processes is simple: my childhood informs my decisions, content, narratives, and even materials. I fool around in the studio, in class, or at home making things, and once I come to one thing in particular that stands out, I try to duplicate it ad infinitum, ad nauseam, until I lose temporal perception and the action itself makes the world around me dissolve, then I become one with nothingness (or as close to it as I can get). I have always been searching for nothingness, the same way moths are searching for and are drawn to light. After all, isn’t light simply waves? invisible little forces flitting about in the universe? a certain nothingness?—that is, the concept of nothing exists, because it’s a word, but nothing itself is not something. And yet these waves of energy are still perceived. So too, sound is but invisible waves. And as one will observe, these waves can move things. Just as light waves move moths, so too do sound waves.