The last time I had a show I got a tattoo to go along with it: a short, hesitant line on my left arm. Volcanic ash had travelled high into the atmosphere, leading to cancelled flights. I could not return. I was to stay with the work and change it. See it come down. That unplanned, destined non-time was worth commemorating. This show is marked by a cigarette burn. It's healing fast. You won't notice. You'll see me at the opening, nervous and deflated. I'll be checking my phone, carrying something. Moving quickly from one room to the other. This time home is within walking distance.
I read into things: haircuts as language, gestures and objects as language. Language as language, too. I'm interested in social dynamics. Subtle changes in room-size atmospheres.
What can I say? I want my life to have purpose and I'm subjecting you to the search of said purpose.
Possible artist's statements:
a) I'm ashamed of these attempts at looking presentable.
b) Nothing unknown is knowable.