I remember it well: I was a child, riding down the highway with my father. I asked him if there was more concrete in the world than grass.
He laughed.
I have no world but this one.
I have the eyes of that highway child. With irrational rationale I see this world: I have my experience, my knowledge, and nothing else. I see loneliness and know of nothing else. I see absurdity and know of nothing else. I see concrete and know of nothing else.
I have no world but this concrete one.
It is with naive, childlike determination that I smash together the elements of my world. I match-make with the frustrated intensity of a girl, a doll in each fist, forcing them together with a plastic clamber of frenetic kissing and awkward caress.
I make up simple solutions for enormous problems, sensibly misguided but solutions none-the-less. I bring my "what-ifs" into fruition and paste together scraps of reality in an attempt to contend with it.
I optimistically create a website to try to reunite hundreds of lost gloves with their owners. I introduce myself to a new city by sitting on its sidewalks, offering to hold people's hands. I sit in the gallery with my laptop, fantasizing about gallery visitors and projecting on the wall personal ads as I type them. Text messages, key chains, note passing, ice glasses: these small things become the stuff of existence - metaphors for relationships, confession, rejection, vulnerability and detachment.
Underneath the veneer of wry simplicity, my work seeks to reckon with absurdity.
I have no world but this one.