a drawing from memory, 2015, printed text, painter’s tape, graphite on wall, dimensions variable
“I saw a piece of tape,
adhesive side up,
on the sidewalk.
I stepped on it, fully aware
that it might
stick to the bottom of my shoe.
Still, I was so surprised
when it happened
and it was oddly exciting.
Part of me wanted it to stay there
for a while and let it become
a companion, a friend.
But the whole thing felt kinda silly so,
after half a block, I stopped
and returned him to his world.
I regret it.
We probably would have gotten close.”
Untitled (Rock), 2015, printed text, archival inkjet print, receipts, painter’s tape, dimensions variable
“After two weeks of being here (I came here with a little less than two grand, most of which I acquired in the days leading up to my move), I only had one-hundred and fifty dollars left. I went to an art supply store in Brooklyn and planned to spend about fifty dollars. I gathered paint and other supplies to get started on something small, and came across a shelf in the back of the store that was filled with decent-sized stones, marble and alabaster.
There was this smooth yet jagged-shaped rock at the front of the shelf. The others were your standard rock colors, but this one was a light seafoam green. It was cute, and it said “11” on it, so I carried it around the store with me while I picked out other materials to go with it. At the checkout counter, my total was $100.82, meaning that I would only have about fifty dollars to live off of for the next two weeks. Despite my fear and confusion in that moment, I gave the cashier my card and walked home with a bag of art supplies and what felt to me like a semi-precious stone.
When I got home, I anxiously searched for the receipt so I could see where I went wrong. I typically am an over-spender, but I couldn’t figure out how the total got so high. I looked through the items listed on the receipt and came to the disheartening realization that it was my seafoam green beauty. I had thought that “11” referred to dollars instead of pounds (weight, not currency), so the rock turned out to be $28.60 before tax. Broke and embarrassed, I carried the stone back to the store to return it, along with some of the other supplies.
The staff were disappointed; I guess no one ever buys the rocks...”
White rose/Moved from one place/To another, 2016, printed text, diagrams, and dye-sublimation prints on bulletin boards, white rose, a copy of Jean Genet’s Miracle of the Rose, fold-out table, dimensions variable
White rose/Moved from one place/To another, 2016, image detail
“Saturday, March 19, 2016
Moved from one place
On my way to get coffee before going to the studio, I see a lone white rose on the sidewalk. I stopped to take a picture of it with my phone — one with flash and one without. The sun was just beginning to set, so it barely made a difference.
I thought about picking it up, but I had no reason to.
A few minutes later, with a cortado in hand, I walk back down my street. The rose is no longer in its original position. It’s displaced to another location along the sidewalk.
I stand there for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. There’s a man who lives in my building smoking a cigarette outside. I felt too strange to act on this impulse of being with the rose. I lit up a cigarette and waited to be alone.
He went inside the building, so I began to photograph the rose from various vantage points, with flash and without. The sky was considerably darker now, so my phone flash made a difference. It didn’t feel like it was enough. My moment with this object was incomplete, so I thought through my options.
I could have brought it up to my apartment, but that would have added several minutes to my already delayed trip. I could have brought it directly to my studio, but the thought of carrying this rose throughout my commute made me feel silly. I quickly stashed the rose behind a bush and made my way to the subway. I planned to come back for it later that night.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
I had forgotten about the rose until the following day at work. I nervously wondered if it was still there. I checked on it that night after work, and it was quietly resting right where I had left it.
I brought the rose up to my bedroom and carefully leaned it up against the wall next to my shelving unit. I photographed it in its new home. This decaying muse was my guest for two days.
I haphazardly transported it to my studio in a crowded plastic bag, like an afterthought. In its dried up and sulking state, it shattered into pieces, as if it were made of delicate glass.”