A History Of Image Making
When finally finding that moment to lie down and take the weight off with a remote but sympathetic ear at the ready I immediately admit my core issue: I have a history of image making. “Let’s take a look at that.” I’m willing. I’d like to get to the bottom of this. The effort will be somewhat futile. This is a given but the trying is the thing. The result will remain ever beyond reach. We begin.
“Wherever, whenever, I leave a slime trail in my wake, connected sequentially, materially, I find myself vaguely disorientated. The source is constant as is the mouth of a river or the yawning darkness of a tunnel. I see behind me bumps of matter, glistening threads of color knitted and knotted together. Only when I stand back do I wonder who plowed up the verge? Why such recklessness? Why would anyone want to churn up the tarmac like that? Others now will have to take a different path. I see some elegance in the wake of the storm, my storm, though to lay claim to this has always been questionable. Neither do I relish the idea that I am just a conduit—the voice but not the words, the duct out of which this all gushes. I call that the Medium Excuse. Why can’t those who speak in tongues come clean and except responsibility for their own imaginings?
One thing I will not do is blame or point fingers. I am the source, the gut, the voice, the perpetrator, the body of evidence that stands before Congress silent, accused by my product and denying nothing.
Session ends: 9:20AM, 8.27.11