and i am not magic yet.

a note on emotion, progression, and father time:

I have recently come back into into contact with a certain unnamed individual who was once very influential in my work. She was the largest contributor in my interest in the body, my reason to make work about it. This is not to say she was my muse: on the contrary, she was far from it. My obsession with the body was rooted deeply in her own decaying condition, struck by disease and depression. I felt myself flicker between outsider and insider positions during her body's dangerous journey, both witnessing her decline and internalizing it as my own. The resulting art was nothing short of cathartic, a response to my slow coming-to-terms with the cruelty of mortality.

This is all ancient history now though, buried by the hands of time and change. I found a focus for my work, personal connection, and good direction. Until recently, the specifics of origins concerning who or what or why have since gotten lost. The reemergence of said figure, however, has dug up these experiences and force me to reevaluate them in regards to my current work, their bastard lovechild, so to speak.

Distancing myself from direct, daily interaction with illness and internal suffering has in some ways intensified my relationship with them. It was all too close for comfort before: I needed artist activity, I needed to create, to do something with my restless self. Now the body is not just something with which I had to learn to cope. It once was sink or swim, but now it's all smooth sailing, baby.

I guess what I'm saying is that I think I've found a system that keeps my work just as relevant, immediate, and focused as before while making it less personal. In that way, I am able to [hopefully] make work that speaks to the general public. My work no longer chronicles my own bodily discomforts so much as a generalized experience. Maybe this too is a type of catharsis -- not for me, but for a public. My work now reflects something between homage to the body and fear of it.

Here's what I have to say about it all: it's funny how things change over time. It's funny how I feel little relation to the girl that helped spark it all. My memory of her has been reduced to a had-been burden. Maybe this is evolution. Maybe this is me growing up. I'm not sure, but it seems productive.