Artist Statement and Writing
Artist Statement
My paintings are modest in size and rectilinear in shape. Sometimes they hang next to each other forming diptychs and triptychs, and sometimes they stand alone. Each piece articulates variations of representational imagery, geometry, gestural marks, and the relationship of a form to its surroundings.
At times line and form become significant line and form, and in other instances the components merely jostle incongruently. The paintings describe the processes of thinking and feeling, but not a thought or emotion itself. The viewer is invited to participate with the paintings while deciphering the point where gesture becomes mark and where mark becomes sign or symbol. But these works are not semiotic. The underlying logic is not the symbols but rather the experiments to find symbols. Here, the meaning of the piece is created from the attempts at making relationships. The work asks, what does it look like to decipher? What is the sensation of looking? My paintings are expressive representations of mental conditions.
Irreconcilables
It’s my turn to get up, even though I have no place to be. The first alarm sounded at 5am for Adelaide, who now sits at the desk beside the bed. She is already dressed in sea-foam colored scrubs and is reviewing patient histories before morning rounds at the hospital. If I am honest, I didn’t need the second 7am alarm, I’ve been up most of the night.
“Morning Boo,” Adelaide says, smiling and turning towards me filled with energy from two cups of coffee and a stable childhood.
“Morning Baby,” I murmur through tight lips, conscious of my bad breath.
After quickly packing her things Adelaide rubs my back. “I’ll be back around six and we can walk to St. Charles for the parade.”
In four days, a priest will thumb ash onto my forehead to mark the beginning of lent. At this point the only thing I might sacrifice is my faith. Spending today alone in New Orleans is probably a bad idea. I wish Adelaide would call in sick. Maybe I’ll read the newspaper; that should make me feel better.
It’s sometime later, but I am not sure exactly the hour because I have fully dissociated. Semi-conscious, I push through the crowds of drunken Mardi Gras enthusiasts lining the street between Magazine and St Charles. I grab for beaded necklaces that have been tossed arrantly onto trees, light posts, and fences. I want to arrive at this parade appearing to be a full participant in the spectacle. Placing 10 or 12 brightly-colored plastic necklaces over my head, I adorn myself with silver, gold, violet, magenta, and cerulean. The layers of garish plastic feel heavy on my neck and chest and I feel primed for mischief.
What if these were rosaries? Maybe they should be. I could use some prayers. How many Hail Mary’s would bring me back? Maybe I should give my mother a call. No. She would ask if I’d been to church and I’d have to explain that I skipped out because I rather have a bottle of whiskey than a sip of wine.
Fueled by insecurity and stupidity I feel viscous so I rub a plastic green bead made in china and ask for God’s favor.
Turning the corner onto St Charles, the sidewalk is jammed. Small children sit on their father’s shoulders who in turn sit on the top of ladders all so they can see the floats of Mardi Gras Krews. Community, culture, and family all gather together to celebrate a derivative of the sacred. Two-thousand years ago Jesus heard God’s call leading to today’s drinking, celebration, and madness. It makes sense to me.
Adelaide screams “Hey Boo,” to get my attention. She stands about twenty yards away with a beer already in her hand, still wearing the sea-foam scrubs, and looking a little trashy.
“How was your day?” she asks. I squeeze her hard knowing she is the answer to most of my prayers.
My flight back to Baltimore leaves at 10am tomorrow.