October, 2019
New Haven, CT.
Somewhere in the mountains north of the desert outside of Madrid, the world is ending for no reason in particular. The air is littered with remnants of life ripped from our homes and our bodies, thrown to the streets in waves and gusts and blasts.
In my dreams, everything is silent. Silent, but not unfamiliar. My dreams reflect on ocean-side restaurants, fruit and vegetable markets, industrial zones, public schools and their stairwells, trams across mountains, skate parks and skate shops, weekend homes, and communal kitchens. In waking, I am filled with a longing for these surreal, visceral, yet rational images. I don’t care if I cannot capture them, for seeing is the most thrilling act.
In my dreams, I’m not myself but a reflection of my experiences aggregated into a relational being. I’m not myself but a copy who rationally believes that he knows where he is, who he is. He is washed ashore to worlds navigable through intuition—a feeling rooted in memories of a place quite like this one, desire for a feeling quite like this one.
This is the world of the uncanny, where the familiar is the terrifying. I want to live forever in this world—a world where I do not need to capture images because it is enough to feel them. Here, I understand my dreams and images in the same manner: they are two halves of the ‘double’; they are visions of terror.
I see image-making as a process of dematerialization: each time we consume an image, the imaged becomes more artificial—more imagined. I make images of streets, of homes, of intimacy within the urban environment. I create with ink, wood, digital images, fabric, and found materials. I dematerialize these things out of a desire for familiarity—and I understand this desire as a state of being.
Similarly, I understand ‘fear’ as a place, ‘memory’ as an object, and ‘home’ as a verb which oscillates between fear of change and a lurking possibility that life is not static, that one day things will have to change. The synthesis of these ideas is ‘possibility.’
As such, I understand these imagined places as being bordered by fear yet constructed through love (for I am always home). In my dreams, it is me against the world, up against the world like face-to-face. My art examines this confusion of place, of belonging, and reflects on intimacy with(in) place. My images, then, attempt to understand these comfortable and rational—yet relational and removed—projections of longing for a more dimensional existence.
Maybe I’ve never been to Madrid; maybe I’ll never visit. If I only ever see those mountains in my dreams, well, I’ll always have a feeling upon return—a feeling that I’ve been there, one way or the other. Somewhere—somewhere in the mountains north of the desert outside of Madrid—the sun is rising. And then...