Opportunism blossoms in this age of excitement and excess. I fondle my soft,
translucent shell as one would stroke a cat as I penetrate, nay violate, the world of mass this, mass that. Why should I care if my action are full of contradictions and about-faces ?
The goal is to cover the ground in the shortest time possible. The light rays graze my cheek, shedding the skin and turning my wake into a river of red. Stammering and gasping,
I grasp the crystal in my hand so tightly that it almost touches the bone. My lips part to reveal fangs.
My pupils dilate. A despair that transcends anger overflows my being. I look up to see two suns illuminating every corner of my surroundings.
Passing through this world straightforwardly filling every minute of existence with deep cognition and self-reference is not my thing. I would rather cut through at an angle-though not necessarily accelerated to meteor-like swiftness. I would rather take my time meandering through the interstices of time and space,gazing about, making mistakes, and keeping dissociated. My path should be one of contradiction and beauty, the distillation of my entire existence.
Art does not belong to the artist. A work can be an obscene gesture, a painfully earnest attempt to communicate, a confession, or a combination of all three. Once it starts to merge with its surroundings, the artist loses control, and metamorphosis begins. A true artist aspires to greatness, yet does not give a damn. Individual attitudes and the structure of the system are not issues. Ideas springing from the gap between the two are.
Shifting my gaze from the heavens to the Earth, I feel the weight of time written in the seemingly random structure of the soil and mineral layers beneath it. Many times I have driven out to read the movements of the earth's crust from such exposed layer and used the impressions that flood in as my conceptual guidelines. In my studio, I illuminate the samples that I have brought back with me so that light reflrects off them to fill the room with the stories that they have to tell. I back in their rays as they speak to me.
Reality is complex. The standard sensibilities of our times are such imperfect tools for appreciating reality that the process of combining them soon degenerates into an end in itself. What should be simple and clear balloons into the complicated and impenetrable, the victim of worrisome, pitiable passion. I smile ruefully at my simplistic longing to react frankly to events as I randomly straighten up my studio.
Passing through this world straightforwardly filling every minute of existence with deep cognition and self-reference is not my thing. I would rather cut through at an angle-though not necessarily accelerated to meteor-like swiftness. I would rather take my time meandering through the interstices of time and space,gazing about, making mistakes, and keeping dissociated. My path should be one of contradiction and beauty, the distillation of my entire existence.
Art does not belong to the artist. A work can be an obscene gesture, a painfully earnest attempt to communicate, a confession, or a combination of all three. Once it starts to merge with its surroundings, the artist loses control, and metamorphosis begins. A true artist aspires to greatness, yet does not give a damn. Individual attitudes and the structure of the system are not issues. Ideas springing from the gap between the two are.
Shifting my gaze from the heavens to the Earth, I feel the weight of time written in the seemingly random structure of the soil and mineral layers beneath it. Many times I have driven out to read the movements of the earth's crust from such exposed layer and used the impressions that flood in as my conceptual guidelines. In my studio, I illuminate the samples that I have brought back with me so that light reflrects off them to fill the room with the stories that they have to tell. I back in their rays as they speak to me.
Reality is complex. The standard sensibilities of our times are such imperfect tools for appreciating reality that the process of combining them soon degenerates into an end in itself. What should be simple and clear balloons into the complicated and impenetrable, the victim of worrisome, pitiable passion. I smile ruefully at my simplistic longing to react frankly to events as I randomly straighten up my studio.
