​Eudaimonia 

The Aristotelian idea of "human flourishing" - a life in search of personal excellence (arete) and practical wisdom (phronesis) - lies at the heart of the little art projects we call our lives. Striving, striving.

 

The time passes, we worry, the points accumulate. 

 

Looking back, mundane routines stretch out across the years to cover entire eras of our being - the soundtracks of our minds are filled with listless actions, prosaic mantras, goals and admonitions, playing over and over again, in whatever key each setting demands. I see London, I see France - we scramble up ladders, flashing all we're worth. The muting of sensation makes tolerable a techno loop, as our bodies slowly slip away, heartbeat by heartbeat - Like the loud ticking of a clock that diminishes in volume with each hour spent in a room: our minds zero out the most persistent sounds and sensations, and we are most essentially defined by the things we learn to ignore, the things we become acclimated to. - The negative space 
imprinted over our complicit silence, cutaways and compensations, unnamed insecurities running furiously like wounded dogs in the backgrounds of our brains forever. 

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In ignorance, you are compelled to explain yourself, using exaggerated pronouncements of your most banal preferences, groping for individuality against a windmill of insignificance - all the while suppressing the uncomfortable feeling that the real choices are never made by you, and the real action is taking place somewhere else in the world, nowhere near you. You are part of the problem. And that is all you will always be. A toxin that weighs on the earth. Somewhere nowhere gone. Only the garbage remains forever. 

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How do you take responsibility for that? All the lonely people, ears pressed to the social media railroad, a humdum of mechanical fads, chugging anesthetically across the daytime visual feeds. Awaiting, distracting. The horror of culpability, insignificant.

If we are to die, in a quick blink of geologic time, let us make peace with the opening and closing of eyes. Make it sacred. 

For when alone and unplugged: by a half-opened window, with dirty laundry and dogeared books in neat piles on the floor, some terrible dissatisfaction presents itself. No longer playing along with the dishonesty. 

Simply stop striving amidst all the uncertainty. Strip naked on the windowsill, overlooking the winter streets. Reject all the 
glossy and authoritative answers in a world that murders, that silently screams in white-teethed smiles, productively, has no answers for you.

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Clashing against the necessary hypocrisy of our lives, beneath the disappointments, the bandages of sleep - down in that deep, dark night where only the apparitions of our alter-egos come out to play - That is the twilight sandbox, so often abandoned, left unexplored. Not the day's Sisyphian metrics, but the Lethe tides of dusk which carry lost fragments of old heart's longing. I want to salvage and savour that language with you.

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That is my sex, my work.

Taking no words or categories for granted, but creating space for a symbology of our own, atavistically drawn from our veins, the coded computations in each ephemeral cell. I invite you to submit to me your most intimate, and unique, tongue of dreams - and I shall weave for you a blanket of yourself, to embrace: a sudden hidden flourishing.
 

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Zen & Joy - About Me 

I think I am some kind of Buddhist, primarily interested in non-material pursuits of learning, flowing creativity, and kindness. Nomadically inclined, I avoid working solely for profit, and try to minimize efforts spent on accumulating worldy possessions and merits, so I can maximize the time for freely exploring, and creating moments with people I love. But this doesn't mean I don't work hard for the money. When it's time to make rain, I monsoon cats and dogs: fair and honest business, for the freedom it brings.

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My artistic practice abides by a philosophy of "Joy": playing with the space between human beings, the rules, the roles, the boundaries. Making visible the private symbols shared by two people with common memories. Presenting as art, the games we construct to romanticize the spaces between us, the vocabulary we build to show one another that something sacred has taken place in fleeting moments where minds and bodies have touched. The language of the sacred, so often exploited to incentivize obedience, manipulate sentiment, extract effort. Separating the sacred from its profane uses. Preserving the truth in fiction.

 

I am sensitive. I am driven to defy expectations. I cherish the authentic.