As an artist, I pay attention to the thoughts many people might ignore. The thoughts some may consider unworthy. I work to increase awarenesses and make something of these awarenesseses-the make these quickly discarded ideas or fears present and worthy of paying attention to.
For example, the utterance: paying attention.
What value is ascribed to the act of witnessing. That which we put our attention on, receives some kind of exchange with our bodies. For the things which we are not paying attention to, may or may not be noticed by someone else. This act of witnessing as described as paying attention, what is the currency? Our time. What is the value of our time?
More of the time we live we are tasked with the ideal of freedom from the palm held devices. These devices enable a different use of time.
What a hard question. What is the value of our time?
The questions which seem unanswerable are most fruitful. A friend whispered this to me over and over-Stephanie is her name. She knew secrets of life which I failed to grasp and instead decided to clamor a route which produced all kinds of suffering and exhaustion. I do not wish to overly romanticise her existence for she lives with her own distinct set of suffering. But as those I have found with difficult physical conditions quite often know secrets about life I have wanted to share with the public at large.
And in the paying attention to these thoughts and secrets, brining them into life in artwork and to view in the public. I feel as a medium, enacting my will to exercise the act of creating to share the secret stories that are whispered to me through witnessing the life of my dear loves, family and friends.
For I find, the very act of being alive, I am taking in so much beauty and life. Able to see this melody playing through their expression and soul. And when it is absorbed into my senses, it turns into thoughts, and these thoughts I ask questions, I pay deliberate attention, and make things from this. And so this process, over and over and over. For as long as my body will work.
Work, or perhaps a word more apt-labor, are from love. I cannot imagine anything else truly animating my body besides my heart and my breath. There is food, yes, but these basic essences of blood and air are so truly full in their processes. Over and over these labors creating life. The more attended to these subtleties I grow, the closer to these wisdoms from witnessing life I become. And I share these things…because I am compelled. I embrace the full spectrum of doubt-whether someone finds these labors of value or interest at all. I can only seem to explain why, because if I keep them to myself I suffer-feel quite stuffed. So I turn these things into words, to artworks, to words to speak or share. That is what feels the most in tune with nature to do.