W

hat I've meant to say about sculpture as media (and media as sculpture in some cases) over the past 15 or so years—I don't know if I've said it well. I tried and tried again. There’s just so much stuff in the world and such limited means. I’m ever prey of what I didn’t manage to think up/through better—the author’s laughable lament.

People often ask me what my medium is. I usually fumble for words. I suppose the most honest thing to say would be: I pursue [A]rt sans/trans medium. Or frequently I’m looking to the material of the everyday (the so-called real world (which happens to include other people’s authored things (including authored art not (yet) my own))) for epiphany and “theophany”—the only divinity I recognize is art, however uncertain that term is. Or when I’ve experienced such, I’m abandoned to the endless complexities of language and time—the prosaic, as it’s called. Aura hunter and reproduction (itself an aura hunter) fanatic—I could just be a consumerist stooge/dupe. Or maybe my aptitudes for the bizarre and nonsensical provide just enough to tend my psyche’s flame. Also there’s that too-seldom named divinity one might call Fun.

People much less frequently ask me if I think my work will age well. I doubt it will[, I say]. I repeatedly feel I’m a contemporary artist in quite the literal sense of that couplet—nothing impressive in that. In my very own post-medium/post-studio (neither term very appealing) case: anxious and self-harried monomaniac, (pathetic) purist,

feckless Romantic. I’m drawn between various values too antique to truly be my own and the constant allures of information too vast and specious to be anything more than fads (which may well be [bourgeois] art’s proper successor). I fear oblivion as much as many must. I partake in formalities—formalism they could be called. How to package thought? Many times poorly. Endless ways to unwittingly omit. Endless ways to find/force false sufficience [sic].

“Value” (in fair part apart from its common plural) is a very generous, even tender, word. “Art” is no less pliant, though dutifully more abstruse (sometimes more fluently spoken in “art materials”). Warp and weft; whole and cleft; part-cathectic dialectic, appositely unapodictic. Authentic or not, truth be told, all supposed need relieves.

Some of the works in this exhibition were once conceived as comedy; they've perhaps taken on other qualities. And those which weren't meant to inspire humor—maybe they now do. I'm endlessly fascinated by this tireless shift; to be as earnest as I find myself must require something all too hilarious. Comic coda for what I(‘ve) know(n) to have been, what may now become a once was, what yet may speak for a now, and for a what may (be)come.

Up from the ground and down from the cloud.
The human mind plans great vacations.
One of them is the end.

What I've meant to say about sculpture as media (and media as sculpture in some cases) over the past 15 or so years—I don't know if I've said it well. I tried and tried again. There’s just so much stuff in the world and such limited means. I’m ever prey of what I didn’t manage to think up/through better—the author’s laughable lament.

People often ask me what my medium is. I usually fumble for words. I suppose the most honest thing to say would be: I pursue [A]rt sans/trans medium. Or frequently I’m looking to the material of the everyday (the so-called real world (which happens to include other people’s authored things (including authored art not (yet) my own))) for epiphany and “theophany”—the only divinity I recognize is art, however uncertain that term is. Or when I’ve experienced such, I’m abandoned to the endless complexities of language and time—the prosaic, as it’s called. Aura hunter and reproduction (itself an aura hunter) fanatic—I could just be a consumerist stooge/dupe. Or maybe my aptitudes for the bizarre and nonsensical provide just enough to tend my psyche’s flame. Also there’s that too-seldom named divinity one might call Fun.

People much less frequently ask me if I think my work will age well. I doubt it will[, I say]. I repeatedly feel I’m a contemporary artist in quite the literal sense of that couplet—nothing impressive in that. In my very own post-medium/post-studio (neither term very appealing) case: anxious and self-harried monomaniac, (pathetic) purist, feckless Romantic. I’m drawn between various values too antique to truly be my own and the constant allures of information too vast and specious to be anything more than fads (which may well be [bourgeois] art’s proper successor). I fear oblivion as much as many must. I partake in formalities—formalism they could be called. How to package thought? Many times poorly. Endless ways to unwittingly omit. Endless ways to find/force false sufficience [sic].

“Value” (in fair part apart from its common plural) is a very generous, even tender, word. “Art” is no less pliant, though dutifully more abstruse (sometimes more fluently spoken in “art materials”). Warp and weft; whole and cleft; part-cathectic dialectic, appositely unapodictic. Authentic or not, truth be told, all supposed need relieves.

Some of the works in this exhibition were once conceived as comedy; they've perhaps taken on other qualities. And those which weren't meant to inspire humor—maybe they now do. I'm endlessly fascinated by this tireless shift; to be as earnest as I find myself must require something all too hilarious. Comic coda for what I(‘ve) know(n) to have been, what may now become a once was, what yet may speak for a now, and for a what may (be)come.

Up from the ground and down from the cloud.
The human mind plans great vacations.
One of them is the end.