ARTIST STATEMENT:
“A keyboard is not a good place for me to think. Some people think very well on a keyboard. I need a fidgeting of charcoal or scissors or tearing or something in my hands, as if there’s a different brain that is controlling how that works. There’s an imprecision so that what you do, when you look at it, is not to know something in advance which you are carrying out, but rather rely on recognizing something as it happens.”
- William Kentridge
In an English class, we typically hand in a rough draft that gets mauled by red pen, handed, back, and ultimately replaced by something more polished. The rough draft is never seen again. It is inferior. This is not the way the mind of a painter works. We think with our eyes. Our red pen is a paintbrush. Or whatever thing we can think of to get our hands on at that particular moment to make a mark on a surface. It is important to look at and be impacted by the work of other artists, and even more essential to examine the way an artist feels about the reason they make their work.
Surprisingly, this is sometimes where the dialogue between us stops. The writing of an artist is just as significant in understanding their images as the work itself. William Kentridge’s statements about his work truly struck a chord with me. His drawings are more representational than my work has become, but his mark-making is just as urgent and impulsive.
Fresh.
Artists often feel an urgent need to make things, and that need becomes very evident in the work itself. When this sense of urgency pervades the piece and connects with the viewer, the dialogue can be ongoing. It can inspire.
Cleanliness represents sterility. Doctor’s offices and waiting rooms are sterile, and they are the most boring places in the world to me. The real stories are in the people; the crippling anguish they may be grappling with or joy in the victories and milestones that are being celebrated. In the studio I can be myself (a complete, utter, world-rocking mess) and it is perfectly acceptable. I connect with things by touching them and altering them, and letting them alter me. My work is in a state of constant change. I go through phases as an artist and this phase that I am returning to is probably the most exciting one I have ever been in. My current body of work is, and forever will be, incomplete.
I previously wrote about my work (wistful, knowing that I would have to say goodbye to that chapter of my life for some time) that I would like to think that I can come back to this place and visit, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome.
After a decade and a half, I have returned to the studio to write the next chapter. And I don’t possibly think I can overstay.