I have a constant high pitched ringing in my head, well not really a ringing, more of a buzzing - like a badly tuned radio. It is always there, never varying in tone or intensity - impossible to ignore. At the other extremity, I have haemorrhoids, a dull constant ache in the bottom of my being. It is always there, never varying in tone or intensity - impossible to ignore.
Somewhere in the middle is a kind of filter, or valve that separates the physical from the spiritual and the spiritual from the emotional. Although I have no hard evidence, I believe that mine is stuck or perhaps altogether missing. The result is that my emotions flow directly (from either extremity) to the physical - in this case my drawing hand.
Without any greater purpose or meaning, I have utilized a great portion of my time pondering the meaningless nature of the human/being. I understand this pursuit has no value, other than that of a distraction. To a certain extent it does give one a unique (but unqualified) perspective on the state of humanity, a sort of illusional ‘raison d’être’?
My musing often results in an elaborately constructed opinion, but because I firmly believe that opinions exist to be debated and in many cases discarded, I use my few preciously preserved opinions as starting points for new perspectives. This sometimes makes me go round in circles (which could explain the ringing in my head).
When I am not going round in circles I try to build on a lifelong endeavour to nurture some sort of radical individualism. No easy task in this structured, regulated bureaucratic world, dominated by prefabricated mentor’s hell bent on subjugating everyone and everything in their desperate bid to create docile followers of the mighty dollar.
I seem to have, over the years, developed a sort of addiction to self-torment and auto-destruction. I have known much pain and suffering - I suspect that my efforts at radical individualism may have been a significant contributing factor (which could explain the haemorrhoids).
My art is a visceralo-cerebral reaction to my own life experiences; it is an attempt to accentuate the isolation and frustration of an individual in a hostile and indifferent society. However, to do battle, unarmed and alone, with a world conscientiously oblivious to the cry of the vulnerable, is a sort of recklessness that inevitably culminates in reciprocal abandonment.
My colours run dry.
My frustration increases, proportionately to my desperation. I have become an artist, devoid of expectation - a cynical and impotent observer sitting in judgment of an absurd world to which I feel no emotional connection.