How to Kill Your Guardian of Grammar
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When I went to church with my family my mother would sit me down on the floor and I could look underneath the long row of pews and see all the peoples legs. My friends and I had different rules down there. We could draw and tell jokes and poke at the years of hardened gum stuck on the belly of the dry old wood. Occasionally one of us would feel daring enough to carefully untie a man's shoelaces, or, if we were lucky, one of our mom's might leave her purse open and we could pillage through it. Down there we could ignore the moral lessons being argued and the laborious analysis of sin our parents were so carefully engaged in. I sometimes think my art practice is an excuse to crawl back underneath the pews and play with the gum, lust over the panty hose lined legs, and rifle through a stranger's purse. Although, I make lots of different things including music, stop motion animations, and sometimes theatrical performances, drawing is still central to my practice. I like to make things with my hands. I try to have all my cylinders firing at the same time, my capacity as a writer and storyteller, my ability as a crafter of images and colors, my sensitivity to materials and ideas. Recently the moment of a car wreck has become emblematic of the narratives I'm interested in telling. A moment that is destructive and liberating, celebratory and bleak.