This is the way the world ends, 2018, graphite on vellum, latex house paint on MDF, dimensions variable
I’ve been having emotional affairs with some of the objects in my life. It’s not that I love them – it’s more that we’ve got history. These things are porous and they suck in the events that happen around them. Like a well-used sponge, they start reeking of what they have absorbed and the reek is so rancid it smells sweet.
Mundanities add up: the smell of caramelizing onions reminds me of October, I can sit on a stool by myself and feel the absence of the body that belongs on its twin, I remember painting the walls and the act of remembering gives me a headache, intimacy is associated with the drawing of curtains.
When you pay attention to small moments, you fill them with importance. Becoming aware of routine and dwelling on it transcends it to ritual. I do not want to leave my daily life in search for experiences worthy of making art about. It seems more honest to commit time becoming familiar with the minute moments between monumental events.
The things we hold on to – old furniture, recipes, love notes – after we finally let everything else go mean something and I want to share them.