I Have Seen Too Much, Wipe My Eyes Away (Install)
Boil and Bubble
 
"The night is long that never finds the day."
——William Shakespeare
 
Using recycled objects and images, manipulated photographs, and real and constructed memories, I selectively reveal aspects of my personal history as I expose the underlying passion-filled dreams, persistent anxieties, and dark desires of humanity. An important component of my art is the selection of objects and images that are its foundation. Each is from my personal archive—assembled over a lifetime—and, as such, is imbued with the history of its time as it relates to the present and as it presages future events. The objects/images may relate to a contemporary situation or an event from the past, but often the objects/images put themselves forward—an intuitive attraction between artist and material.
 
The core of Boil and Bubble is an installation, I have seen too much, wipe my eyes away, consisting of original photographs, Tar Gel, acrylic paint, found objects, documents, and images printed and collaged on eighty-five pages, each 10 x 8 inches. The pages are loosely grouped in six categories: Temple Heads, Tears, Stoops, Text, Trash and Yearbook. Temple Heads, Tears and Stoops were all shot on location in London. Yearbook speaks for itself as does Trash. Text is a combination of annotated text from my library, found text, and found images combined with text. The pages are installed instinctively—a blending of beauty and horror, grief and transcendence, secrecy and revelation, and dissonance and harmony—to allow the viewer to make the seemingly tenuous but vital connections between individuals and events referenced in the pages, connections that enable the collective heart of humanity to “beat on.”[1]
 
Also included in Boil and Bubble are two paintings from a series titled Dreams of Power. The subjects are contemporary political figures who shrink, fade and re-emerge before the eyes of the public. The ambition, dreams, and presence of these politicians will eventually be blotted out by time and memory—as the ambiguous puddles of pink Tar Gel blot out sections of the photographs. Dreamers, however, retreat into their dreams hoping that “things will adjust themselves by some great material or spiritual bonanza.”[2]My politicians are caught between the aforementioned hope of resurrection and the eventual disintegration of personality, their liquid ambitions passed on to succeeding generations.
 
[1]F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
[2]F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Crack-Up