the art object, so what! the artifact itself simply residue of its making like the sound of a word hovering in space as it slowly dissapates after the conversation wans. my walls stand bare of artifacts and trinkification housing only structural breaches to allow in the light. once they bore flattened memories of people compressed there but now those same frames stacked attic bound are vacant of a twenty three year gap of content. but that is another subject. art as object, art as occupier of space, art as aesthetic eye or brain candy, or even tactile sensual pleasure are largely meaningless impotent artifacts and acts. the act of making, of production, is perhaps a method of articulation, of forming and interpreting thoughts and experiences. this method bent dumps me in the category of process artists, yet that doesn't quite fit, is not quite right. the processes and materiality are more about a hunting, a snapping into focus the ideations and processed memories that lay just out of cognitive reach. through the intuitive collection and manipulation of materials within real space, i access what is elusive. yes. it creates an odd portal to my self and opens a lens to the web that connects me to the outer world, that incessant pulsing of the living. making thus functions as an impotus that bumps me over the threshold of a kind of knowing into a space of articulation that i can then perceive. So it is not about voice, but my access and understanding to and of life content. It is not even a how I say, not voice, but what is it i say, not necessarily a talking to other but an unpacking of story, of concept, of processed memory, of feelings, of knowledge for my own use--a use of navigation through and around my histories, a guidance in interpreting the day, and a direction into the passages that splinter at the horizon of my tomorrow.
The art object and its making are irrelevant if it does not lead me into life, into this moment, into connection. (8/12)