My artist statement is being reconsidered, as at the start of the academic year I had a sudden greater awareness about what I was doing and where I was coming from, and how much survival and energy happened to be built in, but an earlier incarnation read:
My work considers the dichotomy between the constant movement of our molecules and our absolute need to make contact and comes solely from my own desire to know and be known. I make work about the impossibility of true connection but the beauty of the attempt despite this impossibility, and the humor within the sadness, and the ridiculousness of the mundane, and the mundane as a tool of communication itself. Everything ordinary is precious because it’s the language I have to know you by. I’m not sure I’ve reached you yet but I’m working on it. There is a tenderness and trauma and muchness to being a person in a body and trying to touch or connect with another, and I feel this especially, and find it particularly mistranslated, as a queer person in an assigned female body where what it means to connect and to understand might shift within the greater population.
I have been thinking a lot about the effort required to attain or strive for rest. I have been thinking about this as someone in an art school, which is a capitalist institution built around what could be considered an inherently socialist activity. I have been thinking about the work it takes to find balance, to go to sleep, to get to a point where you can stop working, to get to a moment of comfort. The constant influx of information that comes with connectivity twinned with consumerism. As a part of a generation accustomed to the word “hustle” as a life/work descriptor. As someone exhausted by the feeling of extraction I’ve been getting from so much of my practice – in film/video form (the eye that captures), and in usage of art materials (the destruction necessary for my own creation/artmaking), and in what it means for what’s around me (leaving behind detritus for someone to clean out of my attic when I’m dead, leaving behind stuff for the world to try to digest when it stops mattering to anyone, what it means to exist in an environment, to have contact with others). I’m interested in honoring the object, and in trust, and in trying to give as much as take.