I am my art.
An unexplored canvas. A potential for expression that needs to be fulfilled. Every thread of fabric, something to be molded. Shapeless until an act is undertaken to shape it. Thoughts drifting in my head as reactions to my reality that I sometimes only barely understand.
Life is suffering and I can’t express it. I need to lay these things bare or I would feel blocked. Unable to act, unable to move. I need to find meaning in the things I experience. These nebulous thoughts that only gain true form once I try to put them out there for everyone to see. To find coherence, to find a purpose. To understand this suffering of life. Without it, there is no way to exist other than as an empty canvas. An object devoid of any apparent purpose. An unrealized potential. A man at odds with the truth of his reality. My works are the only way to define me. I create them, but far more importantly;
The art creates me.