Through my work I contemplate the idea of discomfort with an aesthetic eye and, in so doing, reality reconfigures itself. And so does the discomfort. As if I had any status about it that would allow me to understand and restrain it. As if I weave it my way, with all the peace of the quiet mornings that are foreign to me.
I contemplate the dyed skin of our identity: the memory and the time behind it. The Reality, the fictions, and the impenetrable gap that rips between the two and where all the understanding that escapes us before the mirror, sinks. The multiphrenia of the self, the masks. The real and built identities, the cocoons that protect us from the Other and the walls that hide us from ourselves. The intimate noise that lulls and awakens us. The fleeting reflection of our understanding and the weight of a world to which we are foreigners. The fog that dampens the past and the pitch-black that rests on the days yet to come.
And us. In the middle of everything. Lucid and blind. Lost, proud and naked. Trying, wonderfully, to understand.
I contemplate the discomfort and make it an aesthetic object, so it may be contemplated as well: as form, as thought, as wonder.