We humans spend a lot of time marshalling our lives to give the appearance of looking like we know what we’re doing. But are we ever in control? Can we ever be in control? The term “control freak” immediately comes to mind, with all its bad connotations.
All of these attempts to control gives a picture of beings who shoebox and compartmentalize, but in the end have little say in what the outside world does or what our own minds and bodies demand. This is all too apparent looking at the eternal battle we wage against dirt.
Dirt is not only a natural by-product, it is our natural by-product. Our negative attitudes towards it far outweigh its detrimental effect. But it is a visible enemy and can therefore be subjected to a degree of human control. We produce and buy so many antiseptic products (pressure washers, anti-bacterial soaps, toilet ducks, ad nausea) that attempt to deny dirt its very existence. And yes, this is in contradiction to the theory that proposes we took form from star dust …
I’m no proponent of dirt for dirt’s sake, but you can see its presence in my work. I co-exist (or is a better phrase co-create?) with it, using a lot of old, sometimes grimy, sometimes dusty, well-handled things: found objects, in the modern vernacular. I’ve always been shy of starting on a big, white, blank canvas-other new materials also give me pause- too precious for me to mess up. That has drawn me to well-worn, used surfaces: work has already been started for me. No need to be anxious about where that first mark will go. In this respect, I guess I’m a bit of a cheater.
I was raised by thrifty parents who, being children of the great depression, gave me little apprehension about used things. As a matter of fact, the idea that many folks want new and nothing but new astonishes me. There is a glaring sense of waste that infects the American world. I guess it’s for the fact that so many things around us are, like orphan animals, looking for a home or needing to be re-purposed (more modern vernacular-I always preferred re-used). I relish the idea of using something already broken in and then adding my own touch to it. To repeat, this leaves me less fear of making the first scratch-of ruining what was once virginal. Although there are certain “finds” that are in the “do not touch” category, but that is for another discussion.
I guess that I look on the grime and dust on my found stuff as a sort of ready-made pigment, alterable yet able to be seen as an element that can stand on its own. If I alter the material, I go to lengths to hide any raw “exposed” edges. Often, a “pigment” of sorts can be made from excess surface dirt and water-here I feel as though I practice a certain type of simple alchemy: the wound healing itself. In theory, this leads to the idea that many disparate materials can be put together and “blended”. Visually, all can be bound to look similar, using the “pigment” of dirt and water to overcast everything with a common wash. Of course, you need to balance these elements - otherwise, you could create an imbalance that can’t be corrected with any amount of overwashing. But, again, this is a topic for another discussion.
So what power does dirt have? For me, it authenticates. When mass manufacturing rules and the populace froths at the mouth to be the first to own the latest mix of electronics and plastic, it’s a pleasure to encounter something with the true mark of age. What’s old or used is damn near shunned, not having the gloss or speed of that new thing, still shrink-wrapped.
But what is old carries a certain badge with it: you know that the dirt on the object was not put there in any way but wear and tear. The thing before you was handled previously and had value to somebody. Perhaps even a place in the home-or a name or a sentimental meaning. The thing before you is not sanitized, it is not sterile, but it is saturated with its own history.
"Hello" is approximately 16" tall and created from a wooden carving wrapped with old canvas. The canvas was then wrapped and nailed into place and the assembly inserted inot an old found (dirty!) box. Sorry, this piece is sold.
