I love analogies, and the analogies I use in conversation border on the ridiculous most of the time. If I say “That’s like…” one more time my wife says she’s going to stick a fork in my eye.
Still, one of the images that might best describe my work comes from a snapshot often seen in the middle of traffic, so I will indulge you with yet another comparison.
I have noticed out in the middle of busy intersections, there is usually a small area that is untouched by advancing cars and trucks, either those going straight or ones turning. In that small zone one can find all kinds of metal fragments, bolts, plastic from headlights, parts of bumpers that have been cast off when the physical forces of acceleration or inertia left them behind. This residue creates a kind of automotive collage, orphaned car pieces that could not hold on any longer.
These accumulated piles can be found in busy crossing in the city, and when I see them, I like to think they are lost colonies of Undercarriage People, cast offs from a society that no longer needs them along for the ride. They had tried to hang onto their situation but were not cared for properly. They were ignored living in their private hell on wheels. Where they once held everything together, they have felt their grip on reality slowly loosening, slipping away. For them, there was no looking back, no turning around, and they had nothing to lose. They were the migrant bearings, the driftless tailpipes, the down-and-out gas caps who were willing to take a risk, to make a break and give the world the slip. So, whatever happens when they make a jump for it, casting themselves out into the middle of the intersection, it will be for the hope of a better life away from the clamor of rush hour noise and exhaust. During a moment of sheer willpower, they trusted in something beyond the gray pavement passing underneath them and wretched themselves loose, flinging themselves to the freedom that awaited them, into the No-Man’s-Land of vagrant car parts.
This is an example of the kind of image I see when I think of my own art. I see snippets of life floating by, collages really, that bespeak a narrative where spontaneity, improvisation, and chance are the main characters and take precedent over intellect, materials, or my technical ability. They become part of the visual diary I keep of found objects, rejected scraps, and abstract marks. They are all in relationship to one another, analogies, trying to get along with one another without getting a fork stuck in their eye. My process is one of constant comparison, and in that sense, each final piece tells its own story separate from any other piece I make.
From an unknown author I glean this passage: “We become who we are through the conflicts and disadvantages we prefer rather that the more comfortable alternatives.”
I could choose a more comfortable alternative to my process, one that would involve easier conflicts or disadvantages, one that is immediately pleasing to the eye and one that requires little effort from the viewer. It would also be a process that would make for easier artistic decisions. I prefer the less comfortable alternatives (child-like scribbles, odd objects, blemishes, and the like) because they give credence to the small, seemingly insignificant pileups, the still moments available in the middle of life’s delightful but swarming intersections.