Some fragments of some statements I might make someday
I had, for quite a while, tried to be an artist, but, after repeated striving and failing, became fatigued. For too long, I sought success, by being, alternately, too sincere and too insincere. I disclosed too much or became obscure, even to myself. I gave up and stopped my artistic practice.
That was maybe two years ago. I recently began making things again. For myself. To furnish my walls. To realize something I had imagined years before, but had no reason to make at the time and, for that reason, had all the reason in the world to create now.
Freed from the constraints of the serious work of making art, I set to making works that I would have collected, had they been available to me if I was in the right place, at the right time and of the appropriate means.
"Of all the ways of acquiring books, writing them oneself is regarded as the most praiseworthy. At this point many of you will remember with pleasure the large library which Jean Paul's poor schoolmaster Wutz gradually acquired by writing, himself, all the works whose titles interested him in bookfair catalogues; after all he could not afford to buy them." - Walter Benjamin, Unpacking My Library.
I think, fairly often, of the work of an Italian sculptor whose work I had seen in "Italics. Italian Art Between Tradition and Revolution. 1968 - 2008." After a time he tried to erase all traces of his artistic presence by re-acquiring and destroying all of his extant works. Clearly he was unsuccessful, but I can no longer remember his name, nor find it.
Recently, I have become aware of how revealing, either by describing or showing, what one is working on, is an invitation, in a way, for others to own a little piece of it, too. This poses, for me at least, a problem...
I intend to make things in the space of the work-like, rather than work.