Bodies are ephemeral and the self is imagined. Where do you start and where do I end - are these bodies mine? Is this body yours? I believe life and death both are sensual and repulsive. An embodiment of the two adjectives themselves, they see them as inexplicably intertwined at every crossing - inseparable, desirable, disgusting. Absurd. Confused. My photographs poke and prod at the idea of artistry’s vulturous hunger for the exploitation of suffering in exchange for cultural relevance while simultaneously feeding into and taking part in this venal communion. As my adolescence was steeped in religious trauma, I draw inspiration from the aesthetics of Catholicism while exploring themes of trauma, death, grief, identity, and chronic suicidality.
Why am I doing this? What is the point of it all? Questions like this drive me to dig deeper into not only what it means to be an artist, but what it means to be a person who makes art. The more extreme expressions of self widdle away the joy of the medium, but what is left to do but exploit yourself wholly and completely. Isn’t that the letter of intent of an artist?