OTHER THOUGHTS

I spent a godawful amount of self-reflection and effort writing a psychologically sound and descript statement only to realize that, in the process, I had tainted my art. To myself. In my eyes. My pieces of work are now objects rather than beings. The process may have been a useful therapeutic tool, but that is where it ends. 

I firmly believe that many complex or intricately nuanced cognitive notions are neither effectively nor meant to be transferable to language and lose their value in the attempt to do so—I feel this way regarding philosophy and religion, as well. Strange to hear this coming from a clinical psychologist, but it is how my mind works. 

Knowing what my art means to me is irrelevant. Even invasive. Telling me what it means is far worse. However, contemplating what, if anything, it stirs up in a viewer is what I find appreciable. On a side note, this was the exact topic of my university entrance exam essay in 1998. I held the same opinion as a teenager as I do now in my forties. The difference is that my even more amateur stance has been viscerally solidified over years of producing work.

One of my worst nightmares, which I realize is absurd, is to become well-known, die, and get stuck in a biopic. Who would the actor be? How would my thoughts and emotions, which I cannot precisely articulate, be expressed and interpreted? Such a film could and would never begin to portray reality. One might say that would be my fault for not explaining it here in detail, so here it is in a roundabout way: statement. However, I would like for my art to be spoken of in silence. 

Art is art. Let it be.