Dissecting the subtext of my culture is to me perplexing, unsettling, overloading… necessary. I am trying to navigate in a land where I feel like an alien. Like a cave woman. Like a good consumer. Like I could probably stand to do more with my hair. It is difficult to for me reconcile the disparity of the need to be desired and the guilt and shame felt in the process of making myself desirable. I take part in a society willfully glosses over layers of degradation, bathing ourselves in decadence and convenience. Repulsed and terrified by our own interior primal nature and impending mortality, we defer our attention toward pageantry, antiquity and pre-packaged nostalgia in order to curate comfortable personas.
In my work, objects from the forefront of our daily lives are fragmented or deconstructed and then re-contextualized with detritus from the periphery. I combine cheap, mass-produced items which are made to appeal to our impulsive nature with other materials or objects that possess implicit sentimentality . I’m trying to uncover some true primal essence within a culture that presents pre-fabricated ideals of what a woman should aspire to (or just barely squeeze herself into). Familiar materials such as red craft felt, plastic packaging, floral upholstery textiles and phone cords are transformed into stylized viscera. Single-occasion formal-wear and retired undergarments are reanimated as parasites and embellishment for predators’ nests. Housekeeping accoutrements are hyper-sexualized and violated . My own bodily debris, on the other hand, is collected and used as a primitive craft/ hobbyist medium for creating trinkets and weaving lace .
Focusing on absurdity within the contradictions of the illusions we construct and the delusions we guard allows for dark comedy to momentarily trump a lineage of tragedy.