Salad Days

Nov 16, 2023

Recently, I’ve been thinking about youth. There’s a certain naiveté and confidence that I remember having that was full of experimentation and freedom. I felt so comfortable and experienced in my practice and it’s only upon reflection that I realize I had no idea what I was doing. There was a tremendous amount of luck that I fell prey to as I was exploring what my visual language was. Thinking back on these pictures that were so foundational to what “my style” ended up becoming, I wonder what the ratio was from intuition to pure accident. There was a certain amount of unknown that I haven’t really felt in a while, and I’m not sure I crave or hate that feeling now. My personality sways from perfectionist to “fuck it” in this push and pull trying to figure out what works. I simultaneously want the process to control me while also controlling it.

The strangest thing about art making over long periods of time, is that old work feels like someone else made it. I still identify with the experience of being there, making the thing, but mostly dwell on the mistakes and what I would do differently now that I “know better”.

The last picture of the white horse in snow is my most memorable picture to other people, by far. When I was standing in the two feet of snow with the horse running full speed at me, I felt like I was about to die. I took the picture as Star ran past me, wincing behind the camera. After I took it, Janine asked me if I got the shot, I was 100% convinced that I had totally missed it. Call it intuition, call it luck, it worked out.

Barthes Death of the Author describes the meaning being interpreted by the viewer’s interpretation, not the intention of the author. What does it mean when the author becomes so separated from their work that they don’t feel like the author anymore? Do they become just another viewer with a new interpretation?

Maybe the answer is I have to let go a little, tap into my former youth innocence, and not be so worried about the faults. Enjoy! : ^ )