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You know, I needed love wherever I could get it.

 

The wavering note above the small church choir, the stoplight hanging above a dun-colored valley of abandoned factories still blinking red for all eternity, the impossible staleness of the air drifting over miles of blacktop in all directions threatening to bleed your essence out into the vacuum of dusk, the golden arches miles away hanging like cartoon angels in the night, or the Arby’s hat, the Wendy’s girl, the paint can that covers the world – holy and bright and selling it hot and cheap. The baroque ruin of a yard covered in tires and scrap and unrepentant heaps of garbage beyond the flourish of a torn screen door. The dark laughter of bullet holes in every street sign for miles and fucking miles and fucking miles.

 

Is there something redemptive in the pang of heartache? Something cleansing about the implosion of guilt and agonized second-guessing teetering on top of second-guessing? Is there some sort of ladder out of chaos, is there some idea so shapely and perfectly formed that it will rebuild the depressing basement of your heart, rooting out the shapeless horrors that hide in every fold, is there a horror so enthusiastic that your soul meets you in the dark and you feel irrevocably connected to every other feeling entity, can you cry with relief one day in finally feeling a break so complete that your spirit leaks out and splatters all over the night sky? Is there a mechanism of understanding that can lead you back into yourself, beyond your stalwart insecurities and into your drippy, pathetic longing, your real self, your real idiotic superstitious vulnerable needy reaching self, is there an ocean of cringe you can walk into with your hands held straight out and finally feel alive?

 

In fact is there an ocean somewhere that does not loom with unspeakable mystery but just holds up a sign in comic sans that says: HERE YOU ARE YOU IDIOT, YOU ARE LIVING, YOU ARE ACHING, HERE IS YOUR PERMISSION SLIP, YOU CAN DISCARD YOUR CAREFULLY CRAFTED SELF-DEPRECATION AND JUST CRY OUT INTO THE ABYSS FOR SALVATION NOW, GET OVER IT, YOU’RE NEVER GETTING OVER IT.

 

BIOGRAPHY

Get over it, you’re never getting over it. Everyone hates Bushwick. Because everyone hates themselves. I make work that disregards materials in favor of ideas. I’m childishly infatuated with allegory and I am horribly, embarrassingly sincere. I was born in Youngstown, Ohio in 1987 – an American city like many others that suffered a catastrophic collapse in the last half of the twentieth century. I had the privilege of graduating from School of Visual Arts in New York City, from the Visual Critical Studies department. I work as an artist, a writer, a curator and a creative director.