If I were to define my art in a single sentence, it would be this: I know nothing about anyone.
If I were to expound, I would explain that I have a notion about the way we see things. That I know myself—my wants, my ephemeral loves, my sooty secrets, my history. That I know myself as a whole, fluid system, filled to the brim with human thoughts about human things, and thus I know myself to be human. In contrast, I would explain that I do not know you. That I do not know the things that make you cry, or laugh, or turn inward with your palms pressed together and your cheeks crimson-flushed. That I can only see you in relation to what I know, and in that way I can only understand a sliver of your full person. I do not know what makes you human.
If I were to employ metaphor, I would be a deep-sea diver, and you the cloud of floating-by sea anemones. I would be an astronomer, and you the millions of entropic stars. I would be the sun-glazed African savanna explorer, and you would be the shadowy things scurrying in the undergrowth.
Masks are a way of revealing as well as hiding.
And so my art (and I reckon that all art) is created through a desire to bridge the gap between the known and the unknown. It is a yelp; it is an outstretched hand. It is an attempt to make some sense of the vast, spidering web of our universe in order to form a visceral connection with something else. In that way, it is a little like love.
