I use the home as a metaphor for my own bodily and psychological experience. Walls are a skin that protects but isolates; they form a container, decorated with private representation of hope and despair. Windows are lenses that mediate constructions of how I view the world. Electricity comprises a nervous system that powers central air and heat – the life-force, pneuma, wind, or spirit. The foundation is a declaration of value; its ultimate expression, activated simply by my presence upon it, is optimism for the future.
Still, definition is hard to pin down. Is home a place I belong to or that belongs to me? Is it a site I where store my belongings and sleep in or is it immaterial – something I carry with me that inspires dreams? It is a complex space, fraught with paradox and historical tension, built to contain vast ideas such as family, mythology, and early constructions of identity.
My inquiry is prompted by my ongoing negotiations of what materials and ideas my home contains. It takes the form of sculpture; fragments, made up my actual house’s material: painted walls, rugs, dimensional lumber and sheetrock ripped from previous additions. I consider my artwork to be remodeling. I begin with the deconstruction of previous work and end with the integration of something new. Additional materials are sourced from contractor waste at local recycling plants, the free section of Craigslist, and sidewalk corners. I rely heavily on the transience of urban life for my own subsistence. In doing so, I’ve broadened my own conceptions of home to include a greater community and conceded that while within my influence, home is far from my control.