My methods of aesthetic production fluctuate between the ultra-rational and the unconscionable. The result is a mix of austere minimalism and bizarre gestures, as my affinity for the order in things is tempered by my lifelong obsession with chaos and destruction.
Upon arrival at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, site of my graduate studies, I was consumed with a desire to produce an artifact that could forever stand beside the treasures of the adjoining museum. A quick bit of research revealed that the sun will be exploding in a few billion years and earth will be swallowed by fire. In the face of such a bleak future, I was forced to assess what lay before me. Without going into too much detail, this is why I took the paint off my car with an electric sander, made prints from the dust, re-painted the car with gray primer, and drove it to the Bonneville Salt Flats. This is why I made my band write and record ten songs in five hours.
You can think yourself into and out of anything.
We encounter so many givens on a daily basis. This is helpful — we needn’t re-learn how to operate an elevator every time we enter one — but it can lead to atrophy. We needn’t do much at all these days. Yet in this goal-driven capitalist society, doing something for the hell of it just doesn’t fly. Our culture lauds the rebels only after it’s processed and packaged their transgressions. Can I validate my irrational behavior with sensible marketing? I’m not much of a performer, but I am fascinated by how actions and events translate into objects. Documents. Our landfills will attest. But then the objects themselves are a sort of raw material, loaded with potential of their own.