And so

January, February, March, April, and most of May. Since the post about The elephant man and my first then-imminent exhibition, my way of making art has evolved profoundly.

I’ve learned that in contemporary art the focus lies in the message, not in the work itself—something I, as a former graphic designer, had always prioritized. I still carry the nagging sense that a piece that is aesthetically beautiful is somehow penalized in this context. But it’s too soon to say; I still have much to learn.

I’ve also come to understand the importance of telling the story behind my work—the reasons, the intentions—regardless of the imponderable ones. Those moments when I become nothing more than a conduit for an energy flowing through me, unstoppable. And it’s better to let it flow if I want to survive. I even rewrote my artist statement. Once it declared that a life worthy of its name cannot exist if you live in constant fear, if you’re unwilling to risk everything you have and everything you are. Now, more deeply, it speaks of memory and identity.

In a historical moment where we’re bombarded with threats of every kind, where the how has died and been replaced by a ruthless what, the courage to live is a rare and controversial thing— and it can make you feel very alone. I believe it’s in our historical memory that we can rediscover these values, and in the relief that comes when we learn to ignore the mind and draw instead from our true essence: animal and intuitive, free, invincible and indestructible, eternal.

Now each of my works carries its own synopsis, the imperfect transcription of the need that gave birth to it. That message I spoke of earlier — shaped by and adaptable to the personal feeling of each individual. So what, then, is not art? Anything that leaves us indifferent, that awakens no emotion at all.

And this is where I begin again.