It’s been more than a year since I received my MFA from RISD. It’s been more than a year since I made anything that I’d consider “art.” By “art,” I’m not talking about an elevate form of work, by no means with a capital A. I’m also not degrading the work that I have been making. Perhaps it was a wrong word choice after all. I guess what I meant to say was that I have removed my mind from making as a way of survival for more than a year - and maybe this is the meaning I have for the word.

Breathing the desire to make new art work, living that desire and allowing it to dictate my way of life was like walking on a conveyor belt at the airport. When it finally reached it the end, I almost tripped and fell. I felt disoriented and somewhat vacant for a while. Only until recently did I finally sink into the pacing that runs my current, working life.

However, despite this eventual acclimation, I still can’t help but to lazy and slow. I’ve known for a while that nothing can replace the fulfilling rewards of making my own work, but I’ve somehow allowed myself to glaze over its significance. The answer to all this is pretty obvious, but actually let it happen is another case. After all, how can I validate making semi-filmic installation about social space as a practical practice? I don’t want to place my work in a white box gallery, nor do I want it to exist in a movie theatre.

I will spend this summer making one thing for myself, I need some mental rejuvenation.