Note: This essay accompanies my ‘Identity Art Series’.

We reduce, delete, generalise, filter and simplify the outside world to such a degree that our reality is nothing more than a guesswork lattice, mapping fragments of the vista of experience. Information is everywhere, literally. We move through the world unaware of most of the information, perceiving [...]]]> Note: This essay accompanies my ‘Identity Art Series’.

We reduce, delete, generalise, filter and simplify the outside world to such a degree that our reality is nothing more than a guesswork lattice, mapping fragments of the vista of experience. Information is everywhere, literally. We move through the world unaware of most of the information, perceiving and judging the steady stream that does make its way into our minds. Of course our consciousness couldn’t cope with much more than we currently accept, not without sacrificing some element here or there. We are indeed deletion creatures, and that brings us to the post-it note.

It has been said that the understanding can be found in the smallest grain of sand, we needn’t look out to the oceans for the understanding we have inside of us already. I write my sentence. The post-it note is a tangible indicator of our dealing with reality, we think of events in detail, filter down to key components and summarise this in writing to ourselves at a later point in time. Whenever we again look at the post-it note, we must go through that same process in reverse make meaning out of the fragmented clues we left ourselves.

What if we used the post-it note to explore our own identity, if we shattered the mirrors that look back in despair, and instead trusted in 76mm2 coloured sheets of partially adhered paper? What if that 76mm2 space became the equivalent of the entire world, what if we got lost beyond comprehension only to find our salvation in our own marks?

We once discovered the truest meaning of humanity, but forgot what it was. For years we searched and searched, but found only contempt. What if we remembered who we were, who we are and who we are going to be? What if we are already all of those things?

(2006)

As I press keys on my keyboard, words appear, spelling out my insecurities like a Polaroid from years gone by. I painted a picture the other day, it’s facing me now, as if it had it’s own thoughts and preoccupations. I stare blankly back, looking past the layers of oil to the bareness of canvas [...]]]> As I press keys on my keyboard, words appear, spelling out my insecurities like a Polaroid from years gone by. I painted a picture the other day, it’s facing me now, as if it had it’s own thoughts and preoccupations. I stare blankly back, looking past the layers of oil to the bareness of canvas which holds the image together. The more I look, the more I feel myself falling into the captivating emptiness that peers so painfully out into my soul. This subtle yet immensely powerful communication offers me understanding, a fragment of comprehension about the nature of my life. To me being an artist isn’t about art, it’s about being. This moment, this feeling, this is my art.

(April 2004)

Something seemed very different about that day. Perhaps it was in the waves that crashed so solemnly against the shore, or in the sky stained a soft translucent red. My mind seemed occupied with uncertainties, as I sat silently gazing out a million mistakes, rearranging fragments of a past like a jigsaw with one missing [...]]]> Something seemed very different about that day. Perhaps it was in the waves that crashed so solemnly against the shore, or in the sky stained a soft translucent red. My mind seemed occupied with uncertainties, as I sat silently gazing out a million mistakes, rearranging fragments of a past like a jigsaw with one missing piece. I couldn’t describe the pain that I felt that day, cold and alone, hoping for salvation from the tears that fell from unfocused green accented eyes. I stared outwardly, looking for something, anything, anything at all that I could relate to, a fleeting moment of desperation laced with a incomprehensible necessity for love. That day was different in a way that will never arrange itself into words. I stop writing my sentence, yet the feelings replay themselves over and over again.

(September 2004)