I am filled with nostalgia and melancholy, and I find that as I grow older what I was seems to glow more in my mind’s eye. Just parts though, not all. That nostalgia, at least to me, leaks into what I draw and how I draw. And how is it that I draw? At a time I tried to copy what was the style that seemed in so that I would be taken notice of. At another time I tried to look back at what was so as to escape appearing the same as everyone else, but then that became what was the in. So again I tried to change my style and began tried draw without any influence, without seeing what styles were flourishing, without knowing if what I draw is actually decent or not. I remember a time when I felt sick of Art, sick of what people were doing, and I rejected all of the meandering people did with words and interests and put nothing behind my Art. My Art was only what it was and did not need a statement. If none understood what I had envisioned when I drew what I had, oh well. Their understanding was just as valid as mine. What I drew was theirs, and had they wanted to take it I would not have minded in the least. But then a professor of mine told me that I reminded him of Fluxus, and asked if I had read anything about Dadaism or Futurism, l’art pour l’art,
And now? Well, I suppose I still feel the same, but perhaps I still want my mind to be understood, I want my drawings to convey a bit of my nostalgia, a bit of that melancholy that fills me. I hope for my drawings to still stand without me, but not only as objects for others to claim as their own, but as objects that leave an impression of me on another.