It's strange what a perceived deadline and an invisible audience will do to me. I'm making work that I haven't the foggiest idea how it came to be mine. I'm not complaining - I like the work I'm making. It just doesn't feel like me. You know when you're fourteen years old, the phases that you find interesting only last six months or so because you're still figuring out who you are? That's what this is like- only with art and not personalites. These forms are the equivalent of the 15-year-old-me standing in the mirror, looking at my newly dyed-black pageboy haircut after having ass-long brown hair for the previous 10 years. "I know you are me, but where did you come from?"
I keep wanting to change my mind. My mind is being weasely and wants to attack everything that isn't hers. I saw a boy today arranging ping pong balls on top of a wooden box I wanted to try it. I saw a girl today running marbles through paint and I wanted to try it. I want to siphon ideas that aren't mine, in hopes that they will start to become me more than my own. This is new to me. I've never wanted more ideas than what I have.
I was just in my studio, staring at some nylon shapes hanging from a wire line. I don't think that I can make them be anything that they are- sad droops. I can't repurpose them to be "flourishing parasites" or what-have-you. However, I can see where they may occupy a lonely space, ie. the abandoned houses that I've been photographing. I think that they are still forms that long for solitude, that gain solace from solitude. That, my friends, IS my thesis.