Traces From The Years of Restlessness

Traces From The Years of Restlessness
These are images of us, wounded and lost, viewing the world in cynical fear, wondering in disappointment “was that all?” Or perhaps it’s just me, looking around from within asking “was that all?” A question over and over again. A person, constantly breaking and, remaking herself, only to face the same question; deconstruction and reconstruction in mind and in form.   
The mystery here lies in the process, in the formation of the artist-subject dialectic to which the piece itself is added with the first stroke. Form is shattered creating new forms and interpretation. This new creature, liberated, and raw, lends itself to the viewers, inviting them to join in, to remake yet another image in their own minds.
Here the artist is merely the spectator of the classical incompleteness of images to be completed which have instead found this unfinished end.
 
 
These are images of us, wounded and lost, viewing the world in cynical fear, wondering in disappointment “was that all?” Or perhaps it’s just me, looking around from within asking “was that all?” A question over and over again. A person, constantly breaking and, remaking herself, only to face the same question; deconstruction and reconstruction in mind and in form.   
The mystery here lies in the process, in the formation of the artist-subject dialectic to which the piece itself is added with the first stroke. Form is shattered creating new forms and interpretation. This new creature, liberated, and raw, lends itself to the viewers, inviting them to join in, to remake yet another image in their own minds.
Here the artist is merely the spectator of the classical incompleteness of images to be completed which have instead found this unfinished end.