It feels like all I think about is time, the next thing, waiting for the next thing, the eight steps I must take to get to the next thing, the things I’ve forgotten about while doing the next, next thing, what time is taking from me in the background while I focus on getting to the next thing, waiting for the next thing, the evidence that time has passed while the next things were happening, the evidence compiling and sometimes disappearing, the evidence staining my clothes and the skin around my eyes, the skin around my parents, the evidence coming out in the wash and I don’t know how I did it, waiting, the skin around waiting, the next thing, waiting, the next thing...
I tend to regard time as an elusive adversary, a mysterious force I must pummel into submission to sustain the parts of my life that make it worth living. This daily fight is undefinable and slippery, causing an artificiality to my sense of felt time. I try to trap the fluttering bodies of my days, minutes, hours and weeks onto fly paper to forge some sort of connective continuum that will re-instill a feeling of life as a narrative rather than isolated, sequential events. Inevitably though, each completed task falls away, covered in the sticky residue of my restlessness.
With this body of work, I’m trying to linger on the clock to find meaning in my constant and deliberate navigation of time. Through repetitive drawings and sculptures of round and segmented forms, I want to befriend the clock to stretch or pause time, whichever comes first. Or maybe if I linger long enough ordering will become irrelevant. I think it’s kind of like watching water boil, or not boil, in the case of watching water boil. I suppose then I want to contemplate the surface of the water not boiling, as opposed to the learned urgency of my hunger. I want to feel the gentle rolling of time’s cyclical movements, the driving force of an operating system that includes me, but just barely.
in progress
