aeonlogic gallery and my first show in nyc!

here is a piece that i wrote for another blog that i contribute to:

a new contributor with a new outlook
i got an invititation from shadna to contribute to this blog. i suppose he is looking for some new perspectives and some insight into the minds of the artists he and his galleries represent. but for me, this was an incredibly difficult exercise to wrap my head around. i used to say that if i could use words as an effective means of communication, i wouldn't need to make the pictures i make. but that's sort of a cop-out. now, i'm not going to give you a step-by-step process, pointing out each nuance of thought because that would rob you of some of the magic. you don't really WANT to know how a magician pulls off that perfect trick, do you? i didn't think so. but, it might be good to know just enough to make yourself even more curious.so, when i was accepted to the inaugural show of a gallery to debut in brooklyn this weekend, i decided to take the opportunity to give both you and me a better understanding of what goes on in this more than slightly disturbed brain. aeonlogic gallery will be opening tomorrow at 4 malcolm x blvd in brooklyn, and feature not only work by artists, but also a statement of motivation to make the art. it's a bit of a rejection of photos of poop that seem to be altogether a bit too prevalent in the art world these days, and an attempt at a return to a more human approach to storytelling. i am not an expert in all things art-worldly by any means, and so if i am missing the point of poop photography, i apologize. but i do like what this gallery is trying to do. so when i was invited to participate, i accepted happily despite the fact that i would have to stretch beyond my comfort zone and try to make sense of my work for the benefit of the audience, if not for my own. below is an excerpt from my attempt at the logic behind my work. i hope i didn't give away too much of myself. i like to be a little mysterious...


I wish I were a storyteller. I wish I were articulate enough to bend the ears and capture the imaginations of those around me with my tales of life and love and legacy, to have my words flow from my lips like a mountain stream trickling around rocks and roots, collecting into a crystal clear mirrored pool in the valley.I am not. There is this disconnect between my brain and my heart, between my brain and my soul. I have tremendous difficulty deciphering my own hopes and dreams, let alone spinning a yarn that will hold captive the minds of others.But sometimes, things click. The pawls align, the gears engage, and an image flows from my hand like that stream from the mountaintop. Collecting its tributaries one after the other, building in volume and strength, becoming a powerful river until it pours onto paper like so much water into that lake in the valley. Often, I have to keep these images close by, constantly looking for that place in my mind or my heart or my soul where they might have come from. But they don’t seem to fit anywhere very neatly. They do, however fit in between. Between my heart and soul, between my heart and mind, between waking and dreams, between disappointment and regret, between life and death, between sin and redemption.They narrate for me what my words could not; what my mind or heart or soul could not have done alone. They pull from all sources the shattered pieces and make them whole, to make available to the viewer that which sloshes around inside me like a whirlpool. When asked what my work is about, I used to say that if I had the words to describe it, I wouldn’t need to make the pictures to begin with. But that is a cheap cop out. It isn’t true. My work is about where people live. Not on the mountaintop, or the pool in the valley, but on the slopes. In between.Maybe I am a storyteller…