My father once threw my diary into water until the ink bled out. That was a beautiful and terrorizing moment. There were three viewers and it showed in my parent’s bathtub for one week. It was my first installation. Or was it his? A collaborative effort, if non-consensual.

Beauty shines through form, not in it. It is its own value and does not depend on the gaze. Beauty happens, in relation. It is the encounter itself.

Those who can let it behold them do. Those who can’t weaponize it and intellectualize about aesthetics.

Except attractiveness exists without beauty. And art exists without aesthetics… as does most everything that has ever made meaning in our world since time immemorial. Through a phenomenological lens, the gallery is a lovely cemetery full of dead things.

I revere the dead. I love galleries, museums, libraries, cemeteries, decomposition. I’ve spent so much of my life wandering and wondering about them.

What does any of that have to do with art? By lighting or grace, art happens. We make, we gaze because we must. The objects remain, until they don’t.

My frames of reference span Cisneros to Cicadas, Hōsai to Nauman, Mexia to Stout, Schlovsky to Ubu, Tarocchi to Soft Machine, Tehching Hsieh, R. Mutt, Negativland, the Ant Farm Collective, Ants, Farms, Collectives, Bees, Honey, Mushrooms, Bears, Trees… your mother, and mine.

My work is play and rings around cutups, text as texture, schismogenesis abolition, cycles/systems, inter/intra-relating, and M.O.T.H. rights. I am a wave and a particle, sharing hearth with a growing catalyst, a dream weaver and a moon with 9 lives.

Sights, sounds, stories and stuff happen. Sometimes.

Other times kites get flown. because I believe the wind would like a word.

Let’s make art happen! dreamstrayly@tutamail.com