For Self, For Misery, For no other Purpose then itself

Whenever the subject of an artist statement comes up, I’m always at a loss of words as to what to write and how, especially when someone is expecting something profound. What’s even more infuriating is that I have seen what other artists—not necessarily my peers, I like what they say— write about this same subject and it is some of the most masturbatory writing that I have ever read; its borderline pornographic. I have no philosophy about art, nothing as blatant as ideas on “identity” or “spirituality”, it is made for no one other then myself and my given human desire to create. Heck, I’d go so far as to propose that artists that create work solely focused on a handful of ideas behind their work are limited not only as an artist but as a human being. How boring can one person’s life be that it must be defined by works exploring a few topics you think about, or a few words or concepts you really like to think about, or your “identity” that is stated in a sentence. I am asked ,”Why do you make art the way you do?” and I respond, ”Why must I be analyzed, embalmed, and poised like a bobcat in a glass display?”

Why limit the bounds of my human limited experience? What comfort does a handful of words and ideas provide me? Do you think I am happy behind the walls these self-supporting tentpole ideas are supposed to be? These concrete walls are not a home for me, it is a tomb. A miserable tomb of comfort and satisfaction built overhead as a shelter from exploration, from asking questions, from experiencing life; and all the woes and wonders those risks provide. If my art is a reflection of my life, then by all powers willing, let it be a reflection of a life of struggle, all in the aims to become something greater then what I already am. Let it be an exploration of the world and all the states of being I can experience first hand or tangentially. Let my life and my art be as a nomad: never sedentary, never comfortable, and never satisfied. Let it be constantly spent chasing and sprinting to those ideals that wait for me on the horizon, then accepting the boons on the road. Satisfaction and comfortability are beautiful ideas in theory, but in practice I cannot see them as anything else but a passive death. I will not be pacified, I will not be satisfied, and I will never be comfortable. I will be a miserable, complacent, loud, and irritable lout of a man until my dying day, and using every ounce of my artistic skill to express that to the world. Because I refuse to accept anything as perfect, I will never accept that it is time to stop growing, learning, questioning, and trying. Because I refuse to surround myself in those comfortable warm walls, lay down, and stop.

I have no deeper poeticism or philosophy for my works, I have no guiding light, I have no compass, I have no guide. I do not need one, and I do not want one. Never in my life do I wish to be shackled and bound to ideas that I cannot challenge or walk away from. More then that is the assumption that being without purpose is to be Dadaist, as if someone could look at an idle sketchbook doodle and say ,” Since there was no idea in its creation, then it must be Dadaist!”. It was made because I wanted to make it, it has no purpose greater then “I wanted to make it”. More then that I had a thought in my head, and said to myself “Huh, that’s pretty neat,” and instead of letting it escape my grasps I opened a sketchbook, a canvas, a tablet, a something and made it real before it could escape and die in the void that exists at the back of my mind. I made it real. I made itself, for no purpose greater then itself. I make things not by some philosophy but by the fact that this is my very human nature. I am very much a human being, I would rather say I am far too human both in mind and weight, if the scale is anything to go by. Creation is the very center of the human experience, its the core of what can be defined as the human spirit so why not make something. Why not make art, not just so I might express an idea or tell a story, but so it can exist. Why does it need a greater reason to exist? Why do we need a greater reason to exist? Why not just be because it is a wonderful thing to be, and create art because it is a wonderful thing to do? Why ask why? Why not be alive in the moment, and be grateful you can.

My art exists not to answer a question, raise a point, or make an impact. My art exists to exist; because I liked an idea and I wanted to see it real instead of letting it fall away. To challenge myself to be and do greater. To be completely and utterly human, without question. Without introspection.