There has always been something very anti-climactic to me about the opening of a new exhibition. The days leading up to the installation of the show are full of stress and pressure. At this point I usually freak out and withdraw myself from human interaction as much as possible and eventually my mind produces something new, usually at the 11th hour.
Yet this release of creative pressure leaves me not with the afterglow one would expect from such aesthetic eruptions but with the feeling of emptiness. As if somehow by releasing these things into the world I am slowly carving off bits of myself and setting them free.
For a long time my work has been about the freedom of expression that exists between the viewer and the art itself. About the relationship that grows between the object (both the container and the content) and the participant (the viewer, casually or actively). But in reality the content I am creating is a personal struggle with the feeling of entrapment I have for the confines of the human form.
By tethering myself to the idea of an exhibition I am forced, like the animal in the trap, to sacrifice some part of myself in order to once again be free to explore the world. I merely sever the ties between the object and myself so that I can move on and live once more.