Like an only child sitting in the birthday seat amongst freshly unwrapped gifts, I don't share well. My ToriAmosPortishead-soundtracked, Art Nouveau world laden with rogue ivy curling around enchanted crystals that rest on oatmeal colored antique lace, is my own vegan slice of the quantum mechanical pie. Yet I've come realize that it's lavishly liberating to be raw and exposed... That it’s empowering to be naked. And the more I unveil, the more my world expands.
We all have our space.
Artists have the means by which to share it.
In this molded and rigid land of self-imposed limits, we strive to find ways to expand our illusion while our egos fight to preserve our delusion. In that sacred sliver between where our internal macrocosm meets the glorious wasteland of where Mara plays roulette with our ‘reality’, the artist exists. Caught like a fly between two panes of glass, ricocheting relentlessly while painting the edges of both worlds with blood... those crimson streaks of passion, suffering, and rapture become their art.
Come play with me.