The dictates of mediated culture, the dictates of self are so commingled they are indistinguishable—inseparable. Black and white cease in purity. Each becomes embedded with an otherness. The very thing I hate, the thing I swear I won’t do or say, that is exactly what I do.
I empty myself—forging a direct and raw connection with my work. It is my visceral response to the struggle with self, capital culture and the vast slippery feeling that something is terribly wrong within our mediated cosmos.
I am in the shadowlands. Not embracing, but in spite of, I find hope wrestled from these shadows—an emergent beauty, an odd sense of wholeness and redemption.0