I’m here to confess. With paint. With words. With words on paint.
I confess not because I’ve sinned. I do it because it’s good for the body. I do it because it’s a physical release. Something to see and touch.
Sharing experience transforms us. It connects us and lets us know we are not alone. We are not what we have done, or what has been done to us.
I’m offering you the dirt and grime.
I’m of the dirt.
Recently I heard someone speak about the elemental comfort of being of the earth and touching the ground as a reminder.
I take comfort in water.
In the body’s makeup. In the surrender of floating.
These stories are equal parts rust, blood, and cocaine. The images crawled through rubber and Roxy’s to find you.
Many of the materials I use were found in dumpsters or on the side of the road.
I like things that already exist. Have an unknown life-story. I like being curious. Investigation. Imagination. And. Not knowing.
There will be 50 personal confessions. As open as my diary and in the same visual style.
Then I close the door and do something different.
I’m reframing ugly, uncomfortable and violent and making it beautiful. I don’t believe anything is just one thing. Even trauma can be uplifting, bizarre or funny. Or just plain messy. Not everything needs to be understood. It’s our choice how we view things.
Every piss soaked horror story with barred teeth is being welcomed to bathe in luminous stillness and colorful paint. There may be a face slap or an airy moan.
Fire is welcome too. It all is.