EMERGENCY ENTERTAINMENT!

Rubenstein Arts Center Painting Studio
On View: March 22 – April 14

I don’t know why I make art, or whether what I do even qualifies as art. Trying to figure out or articulate an intention gets in the way of living life. I’m suspicious of the notion that I can be consciously aware of what drives my actions. It seems to me that human behavior is predominantly driven by unconscious impulses arising from genetics, sense impressions, and memory. The purpose of my activities is beyond my understanding as a mortal, and any narratives I invent to make sense of my endeavors are speculative interpretations based on what seems significant to me under various circumstances. Such a protean attitude is beyond the range of observability and control unless omniscience and omnipotence are attained. I could concoct a number of contradictory stories about the role I envision my art playing in society, some of which strongly resonate with me at times, but I cannot offer one that’s definitive. Every passing fraction of a second has the potential for an event to induce electrochemical changes in my brain and nervous system that open new ways I could relate to my work, my identity, and the world. Life seems like an absurd string of events that are only connected as much as I retrospectively imagine them to be. Asking me about my art is like asking a grape about its wine.