Why should one thing be chosen over another? What insight can my point of view bring? Are my attempts at beauty — in character, narrative, or form — universal or 'fair' in any respect, and in what ways are they reflective of bias? Is drawing from the real world a kind of aesthetic imperialism?
I draw what I see: but who am I? Who am I to draw? Who am I to see? And what do I see? For many years now I've lived with the understanding that the things that we draw and the way that we draw them are reflective of our inner selves: our preferences, in sensual and social terms, and in sensibility. It is no revelation to say that there is a politics of representation, but the responsibility of this feels, to me, to be too much to bear at times.
When I look back at my body of work, I see happy but wistful faces, lone individuals looking to believe that everything will be okay; a feeling of temporality enmeshed with pat resignation — wistful, but not sentimental; light, ephemeral. I see a lot of whiteness.
There are happy dogs, and children in quiet moments; lanky women, pleasantly occupied, and dense and desolate urban spaces. This is a world of quiet, overwhelming melancholic; one of gentle isolation; soft summer light, afternoon light. A lot of being quietly in the moment; of wide eyed not knowing. Life passing.
Reading these as if a confession, I gather some sense of myself: a flat but optimistic outlook, skeptical but bright, staid but fragile. This is not a world in which one becomes alarmed — rather, one moves through it, slowly and lightly.