You’ll never amount to anything, you have no passion behind the work you make, and there is no such thing as fairies. Your work is fabricated and jumbled. You should be embarrassed. You don’t want to solve your own problems or find your own voice. It is sculptural 2D media and should not exist. Conflict is interesting, and the only way to resist developing a consistent style. You are a fabricated collage, looped and layered until the tangibility of the alphabet is redefined completely. No one wants to read your self-aware scrawlings. This is just your feeble attempt at resisting complacency by spouting your stream of consciousness. It’s like your dreams- no one really wants to hear about them, so just shut up, please.

 

This is the loudest of my inner thoughts, Written Word, talking. It contaminates my brain and work, both complimenting and contradicting the other voice, Latent Impulse.

I want to build puzzles for people to unpack, where the layers reveal hidden clues. I want to help people by expressing my thoughts honestly and seeing if they feel the same way. Lure them in with unpredictable ephemera and nostalgia because the viewer is the creator of meaning. Step closer, because from far away, my work is abstract, but if you clap three times, the narrative will appear.

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My art is my brain’s battlefield.