2024
I keep my eye on the sparrow, instead of the distant horizon. It’s a part of me—small, hopeful, and searching—yet obliged to pause, to take notice, even to acknowledge the effort it takes just to keep moving. In those rare moments when it stops, it sees me, ‘I know what you seek.’ And so, I follow, finding a deeper purpose not in the endless chase, but in the quiet gift of being recognized by the journey itself.
‘You’ve become my shadow—steadfast and eagerly underfoot, finding conviction in exciting misdirection. More interested in leading me astray, if only for a moment, to add intrigue to your aimless discovery. You pull me headlong into the depths, as far as I’ll permit, questing to know more than before yet content to know little at all. My shadow, loved and cared for, keeps me honest. The sparrow travels on, correcting your gaze and reminding you that this journey belongs to us both.’
The sparrow’s wayfaring leaves me yearning for something addictive—a low that I’ve never truly known, yet miss all the same. An unnatural deterrent to progress or a chemical distraction from self-betterment. It’s not that we crave demise, but we long for the thrill of justified missteps. My words misrepresent the sparrow and betray my own heart. Here I am, longing aloud for times I regret. The sparrow has found a worthy compatriot in me—a companion in my shadow.
2024
“Don’t let them know you’re coming,” they bellowed, their voice cutting through the heavy, humid air. Their tranquil authority took command in the steamy, subterranean boiler room, humming with generations-old equipment monitoring the city’s sewage flow—a hum signaling “all clear” for the city above, as long as it held.
“What do I lose if they catch on? We have the means to tear them asunder regardless,” they said, their words laced with mock bravado, peering through the haze. They could barely make out their surroundings, but no matter; confidence alone might anchor them.
“Besides, what could they possibly do about our ascent now?”
“You grow foolish in exile,” the voice returned, rolling in from every part of the mist, obliterating any sense of distance. It was as if the voice wasn’t a voice at all but the steam itself. “It’s our calculated tone that grants us the edge. Do not lose ground to hubris. Recognize that you serve a higher call and respect a greater plan. Yield to the rhythm we command; ascend only when it is time.”
2024
I'm often confronted with the concept of abstract art. Its success, rooted in free-form interpretation, confounds me. While I understand its application, the ability of abstract art to captivate, despite straying from artistic conventions and principles, leaves me questioning my art education—and, more so, the need for convention in artistic comprehension.
Does abstract art truly hold universal intrigue, or is it simply a low-stakes investment aligned with the times? Art is subjective, so who’s to say what’s worth one’s time? Yet, I find myself both fascinated and fatigued by thoughts of my success—or lack thereof—with and without abstraction. As an artist who cut their teeth on realism and surrealism, the leap to abstraction isn’t foreign. Still, my ventures into this space feel inauthentic.
Freely creating from feeling—memories of objects in the real world, interpreted through a mosaic of colors and shapes—feels like drifting far from what I once recognized as my artistic self. It’s like being set adrift in unfamiliar waters, lured by the prospect of new opportunities.
2024
When you’re on the wrong end of the universe’s wrath, days stop being days. They blend into a mess of hours, interchanging between awake and sleep, a steady loop where you try to build something meaningful while grieving what you’ve lost. Potential slips away, held back by whatever dread seems to fill you.
Dread isn’t constant, but it lingers. As time hoards your memories, dread connects the fragments with an existential glue—a substance that drains meaning, even from the best moments, rendering them hollow. The routine becomes stale, a wad of chewed-up gum, and its toughening isn’t just laborious; it’s numbing.
“You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to keep going,” my father sighs.
The living room is dark, thick with life lived to its fullest—and then some. It feels like a cave, a hovel for a beast who never leaves. To emerge would break the routine, an upheaval too radical for the life he’s settled into.
“In being a cult of personality, you’ve got big shoes to fill. ‘Possess’ is the right word for how your energy fills a room,” I say, hunched over the kitchen nook, nursing a cigarette and thinking too deeply about the damage I’m doing to my insides.
2024
An artist’s statement is as much a work of art as the portfolio that inspires it. It’s a labor of love, deserving regular attention and equal parts self-examination and reflection. As artists, we evolve—discovering and redefining our stroke. Each experience informs a new facet of our understanding, illuminating fresh halls of discovery for exploration. We climb to new heights, finding depth in our work as our instruments call us to fulfill our passion and contribute to our life’s purpose.
This growth sharpens the artist’s understanding and strengthens the connections necessary to create impact or find meaning. In moments of artist block, the artist’s statement becomes our greatest tool. It reminds us of why we create and redirects us when we find ourselves questioning our aims. It answers the uncertainty of “what for?” and re-centers us in the “for who?”—one of the most vital realizations for a creative. In this way, the artist’s statement becomes a compass, helping us navigate moments when we feel adrift.
On the path of discovery, being astray—open to new possibilities—is invaluable. It leads us to new mediums, genres, and expressions. But to remain lost, untethered by guiding principles, can hinder progress and block success. In a world of endless possibilities, an artist’s statement offers the tenets necessary to practice with intention. It recollects your reason, bringing structure to your expression.