If asked about myself, i don’t know where to begin. I’m stalled in front of a million different entrances. Each one sending the conversation on a different course that is just as true as it is different from the next. But, regardless, none of them are suitable for the instantaneous digestion of our modern metabolism.
In short, I have no elevator pitch. And, more importantly, I don’t believe in one.
Life is constantly changing around us and the “here I stand” moments are few and far between. How then can one speak about themselves during those moments when asked to define who were are and why we do what we do. My work is entombed in this condition. This silence and uncertainty. I can only recall moments in my life and assert that these happened in the manner in which they are represented. Details may be lost but were they important? I only try to prevent these moments from being lost to eternity.
My grandfather played a pivotal role in my life but I can no longer remember his voice and yet I can remember his face the moment after his death. Motionless and pale, the stories were finished but many live on in the depths only to return at odd moments: while you’re stuck in traffic or if you’re hit with a certain fragrance while walking in the city–they return.
A child trying to get into his mother’s arms returns me to the hospital and a frantic call for the pastor. My son is in trouble, please come. And I remember everything, in that instant, as it happened.
So, perhaps, after all this talk my goal is to simply mark the world with moments that reveal themselves to me. Offering no explanation for their importance or their existence. That they existed at all is important enough. This is my work.