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updated statement

Added on by Jourdan.
Evocations of the flesh - in material, form, and manner - signify a meeting point for dualisms of all sorts. My studio practice is rooted in the notion that a richness can be found in the blurry space between alternatives: what is there formed by what is not, and what is not there formed by what is. I like to invert and/or blur the boundaries between these two states in attempts to evoke feelings of familiar ambiguity, comfortable tension, and reluctant desire.

Skin is a barrier, a wall, denoting interior from exterior (subject from object), yet it’s full of its own physical intricacies, hollows and bumps that muddle those very distinctions. Just as the material of our bodies is made up of many layers, so too are the flesh's various associations. A subtle surreality is evoked, whereby the flesh functions simultaneously on physical, psychological, metaphorical, and metaphysical levels.

My work is influenced by an existential understanding of holes, which is rooted in an ontological (and thus pre-sexual) desire to fill voids. While the Freudian model speaks of an “original” hole that renders subsequent holes only metaphors, the existentialists suggest that, in a sense, all holes plead obscurely to be filled. They are appeals to the triumph of the full over the empty, of existence over nothingness. 

Thus the physical finds its parallel in the spiritual: the body functions as a microcosm, continually giving glimpses into the beyond. Flesh acts as a tangible metaphor - at once a barrier and a carrier of matter and meaning.


Added on by Jourdan.
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of the flesh: gestation station

Added on by Jourdan.

An odd pre-existing fascination with all things flesh magnetically drew me to the dolls. Their naked pinkness piled high in the Toynado detritus just begging to be touched, but in the subtlest and most pitiful of ways. Dolls are meant to be played with. They are mini fake humans designed for imaginative interactions. But the dolls I discovered had been hidden away from sight for quite some time. Their dismembered limbs gathering dust in the corner – a morbid mass grave for playthings of the past.

In such a place as Elsewhere, a living museum, a breathing organ of objects always in flux, nothing, no matter how beaten and broken, deserves to be hidden away. My project has been a joint attempt to enliven both the dolls and the place in which I’ve chosen to install them – formerly known as the hotel lobby – an underutilized light-filled area on the 2nd floor at the front of the building. This space will now function as both lounge and creative work area, a space for gestation and growth of all kinds.

One of the many reasons I am so drawn to the flesh as both material and metaphor in my work is because of its regenerative qualities and capabilities. It serves as protector and barrier from outside dangers, as well as our primary sense organ, allowing us to feel and respond to the world around us. In this project, I have endeavored to work and play with the doll parts, the imitation flesh, to enliven it so that it may mimic human flesh not only in form, but also in manner, fostering growth of new projects and ideas.

The dolls have said goodbye to their old lives as objects and playthings. Their individual identities have been dissolved in attempt to further a collective consciousness, a collaborative ascension that is equally weird, hopeful, playful, and macabre. As their parts rearrange and flow in unexpected formations, viewers are encouraged to explore with child-like curiosity and discovery.

statement of sorts

Added on by Jourdan.
 inside-out & outside-in
flip, invert, convert, converge

I work in the realm of or, a liminal space, an in-between. A blurry place where distinctions collide and coalesce. Where things are almost, but not quite. Perhaps, but not really.

this or that
here or there
him or her
in or out
come or go

organ. origin. orifice.  

Or is a place of comfortable tension, familiar ambiguity, and reluctant desire.

Flesh as metaphor, but tangible still
     a barrier
     a carrier

claus oldenburg says...

Added on by Jourdan.
I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.
I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance of having a starting point of zero.
I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes out on top. 
I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary.
I am for an art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.
I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting signs or hallways.
I am for art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky.
I am for art that spills out of an old man's purse when he is bounced off a passing fender. 
I am for the art out of a doggy's mouth, falling five stories from the roof.
I am for the art that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper. 
I am for an art that joggles like everyones knees, when the bus traverses an excavation.
I am for art that is smoked, like a cigarette, smells, like a pair of shoes.
I am for art that flaps like a flag, or helps blow noses, like a handkerchief.
I am for art that is put on and taken oft, like pants, which develops holes, like socks, which is eaten, like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great contempt, like a piece of shit.
I am for art covered with bandages.
I am for art that limps and rolls and runs and jumps.
I am for art that comes in a can or washes up on the shore.
I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler.
I am for art that sheds hair.
I am for art you can sit on.
I am for art you can pick your nose with or stub your toes on.
I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist.
I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches.
I am for the art of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind man's metal stick.
I am for the art that grows in a pot, that comes down out of the skies at night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls.
I am for art that is flipped on and off with a switch.
I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweetys arm, or kiss, like a pet dog, which expands and squeaks, like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on, like an old tablecloth.
I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste with, file with.
I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a street is.
I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.
I am for the art of the washing machine.
I am for the art of a government check.
I am for the art of last wars raincoat.
I am for the art that comes up in fogs from sewer-holes in winter.
I am for the art that splits when you step on a frozen puddle.
I am for the worms art inside the apple.
I am for the art of sweat that develops between crossed legs.
I am for the art of neck-hair and caked tea-cups, for the art between the tines of restaurant forks, for the odor of boiling dishwater.
I am for the art of sailing on Sundae, and the art of red and white gasoline pumps.
I am for the art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit signs.
I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel.
I am for the art of worn marble and smashed slate.
I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and sliding sand.
I am for the art of slag and black coal.
I am for the art of dead birds.
I am for the art of scratchings in the asphalt, daubing at the walls.
I am for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at things to make them fall down.
I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. 
I am for the art of kids' smells. 
I am for the art of mama-babble.
I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beerdrinking, egg-salting, in-salting.
I am for the art of falling off a barstool.
I am for the art of underwear and the art of taxicabs.
I am for the art of ice-cream cones dropped on concrete.
I am for the majestic art of dog-turds, rising like cathedrals.
I am for the blinking arts, lighting up the night.
I am for art falling, splashing, wiggling, jumping, going on and off.
I am for the art of fat truck-tires and black eyes.
I am for Kool-art, 7-UP art, Pepsi-art, Sunshine art, 39 cents art, 15 cents art, Vatronol art, Dro-bomb art, Vam art, Menthol art, 1. & M art, Ex- lax art, Venida art, Heaven Hill art, Pamrvl art, San-o-med art, Rx art, 9.99 art, Now art, New art, How art, Fire sale art, Last Chance art, Only art, Diamond art, Tomorrow art, Franks art, Ducks art, Meat-o-rama art.
I am for the art of bread wet by rain.
I am for the rat's dance between floors.
I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light.
I am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots.
I am for the art of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go.
I am for the brown sad art of rotting apples.
I am for the art of meowls and clatter of cats and for the art of their dumb electric eyes.
I am for the white art of refrigerators and their muscular openings and closings.
I am for the art of rust and mold.
I am for the art of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat.
I am for the art of worn meathooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue and yellow meat.
I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school.
I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of rectangles and squares.
I am for the art of crayons and weak grey pencil- lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of windshield wipers and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusts steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub.
I am for the art of teddy-bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, exploded umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones and boxes with men sleeping in them.
I am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums & tambourines, and plastic phonographs.
I am for the art of abandoned boxes, tied like pharaohs.
I am for an art of watertanks and speeding clouds and flapping shades.
I am for U.S. Government Inspected Art, Grade A art, Regular Price art, Yellow Ripe art, Extra Fancy art, Ready-to-eat art, Best-for-less art, Ready-to-cook art, Fully cleaned art, Spend Less art, Eat Better art, Ham art, pork art, chicken art, tomato art, banana art, apple art, turkey art, cake art, cookie art.
I am for an art that is combed down, that is hung from each ear, that is laid on the lips and under the eves, that is shaved from the legs, that is brushed on the teeth, that is fixed on the thighs, that is slipped on the foot.
square which becomes blobby

From Documents from The Store (1961)


Added on by Jourdan.
A work in itself... and very much a work in progress. It's hard to write an artist's statement when you're in denial about being an artist. But it's been an extremely beneficial exercise. Makes me wish I was required to write about my work more often. Perhaps it's too playful, not serious enough... but I think it rightly represents how I feel about the things I make and about what art is to me, at least at this point in my life.

December 2009
I like amusement parks almost as much as I like to make things. The creative process is such a roller coaster. After experiencing all the ups and downs and twists and curves of all that goes into creating a finished piece, I often stumble off the so-called ‘ride’ slightly disoriented. Once I recover my equilibrium, I feel that childish urge to squeal, “let’s do it again!” And that’s exactly how I want others to feel after encountering my work. It’s about experience. I like to think that the things I create, especially my architectonic sculptures and installations, will cultivate a child-like enthusiasm in even the grouchiest of folks.

I am so impressed by, and will admit, my work is very much inspired by, children. They embody a sense of wonder and have a compulsive playfulness that is nowhere to be found among the bulk of grown people. At what point did we all become so uptight? Art, for me, is the force that yanks me from my comfortable routine, jerks me around, makes me nauseous, and yet keeps me begging for more. Thus the things I create are an invitation for you, if only for a moment, to loosen up, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.