When I was a child I enjoyed sneaking off to Grandfather’s workshop when no one was around. I remembered looking at all of the tools he had. How silently they sat with potential. I would run my hands over the workbench, such defined texture. Oil and rust, screws and bolts. Splatters of paint; The cuts and grooves made by countless projects.I used to look at the workbench and wonder what happened in every story.
Workshops showed me the processes of life. Hard work, commitment, mistakes, beauty, anger, creative, love. I didn’t understand why I was so drawn to the chaotic mess at the time. To me, it was beautiful. The layers of life. A condensed timeline like the rings of a tree; Always growing. This fascinating array of textures and colors was, and will always be my grandfather. His subconscious movements leaving behind a curious window of mystery.
Where does the mind wander when we daydream. A limbo of conscious and unconscious. Some daydream thought of abstraction. Knowing that deep down everyone and everything carries a presence. Compressed energy, more than we can understand in this three dimensional world we live in. For art is about the movement one makes in life. Defined souls leave behind the most unique footprints but rarely follow the heavily tread path.
In life we tend to cover up our weaknesses. We jump to conclusions based on what we see. We make mistakes. We act human. I always enjoyed watching this trial and error process in us. Over and over sometimes, in the reverie of life. Some drifting deeper into an unconscious trance. Always being told and sold the “next big thing”. My art is a rebellious attempt to combat the “idea” of beauty. A place to seek deeper meaning in mystery. You’ve been waiting to feel something.