Two inclinations compete on a regular basis in my mind. One is to stop the information flow, stop the inundation of images and thoughts and sounds and words. The other is to make images, a compulsion to add my two cents to the pile.
My aunt’s house burned down a few months ago in the mountains near Boulder, CO. At the time I thought, what a simple way to purge. How much can we retain, collect, accumulate? And to what end? At Crozier, thousands upon thousands of precious works of art are stored in temperature-controlled rooms. On my bookshelf there are more books I haven’t read than books I have read. At times this overwhelming quantity of information and objects feels physically heavy, a pressure on my chest.
And yet, I am still compelled to create my own images. It is a means through which I process all the information I receive, and more particularly, my experiences. I make images to catalogue. I am the indexer of my life, and I index through images. In this sense, making pictures can be a highly private endeavor for me. At the same time, I also make images to communicate, as a way to enter existing dialogues or start my own. I’ve never been a particularly strong writer, though I love to read, and so I see images as a viable means of expressing myself. For me, this form of communicating through images is vastly more interesting than anything I could compose using words.
In a way, I am in conversation with anyone who sees my work. I am saying this and that, through my images, and they are responding that and this. Yet, I do not need my dialogue partner (the viewer) to necessarily be talking about exactly the same thing that I am. Meaning that I hope that my work can touch upon identifiable ideas, but also that it can function more as a catalyst for further conversation than as an endpoint. I make work to process my thoughts and, at the same time, ideally to create diving boards, places from which one can leap into different conversations and make new connections. Openings.