#home I feel like I have returned from the land of the dead #summer #2018 #moving I did it, I finally moved out on my own. After years of growing up under my parents’ roof, volatile shared apartments, and never feeling quite “at home” anywhere, I can finally read a book by the window, set up a proper studio space, and call a place my own.
#interiors What is home? I have unfairly attached utopic ideals to this place, but it’s the most porous and intimate space I know. Architecturally, the first homes in human history were womb-like caves. Cave dwellers carried out their daily lives near the entrance by daylight and reserved the innermost sanctums for sacred private rituals, including the first human creations before language (Lascaux cave paintings, c. 17,000 BCE, France). Artists and writers have always implicitly understood that the boundaries between architectural interiors and our inner lives are highly permeable, at times indistinguishable (Edward Hopper, Virginia Woolf, the Surrealists). Homes can be a secret world, hidden from view (Martin Wong “My Secret World, acrylic on canvas, 1978-81). It can be a space of healing solitude, a protective barrier against the disappointments of the world (Van Gogh “Bedroom in Arles”, oil on canvas, 1888). Ultimately, a home can also be a site of infinite transformation, where inside, outside, alternate dimensions, and underworlds can collapse and hidden portals are revealed (Tim Burton “Beetlejuice", David Lynch “Twin Peaks”). #Inner space is the place, and as my summer of turmoil finally comes to an end, I can feel my senses and interiorities returning. It’s becoming clear what my personal, aesthetic, and professional interests are converging toward – defining interior realities to their fullest.
#rain #palimpsest #house
A couple weeks ago, I finally unpacked everything for my new apartment. I opened the window and sat down in my reading chair to rest. A rainstorm was brewing after days of insufferable summer heat and as the rain poured, the walls became porous and the veils between past and present lifted #escapology The storm brought me back to the best memories of my childhood, a time when I built caves, forests, labyrinths, portals, basements, gardens, and worlds to get lost in. Troubled children choose to either run outward or inward to escape, and as an unhappy child, I chose to burrow deep inside myself. On Saturday afternoons, I built cave forts in my room with the TV running in the background. It was during this period of time that I learned to draw and the art of psychic escape. The syndicated movies and TV reruns became a guidebook. I owe part of my childhood to Tim Burton and his production designer Bo Welch, because their German Expressionist inspired sets (Beetlejuice, Edward Scissorhands) gave me the first hint that reality was not what it seemed. I came to know every detail of the otherworldly Victorian house in “Practical Magic”; the raw streets of 80s East Village New York in “Basquiat”; the chiaroscuro play of light and dark in “Blue Velvet”. Surrounded by inner worlds so dense, I learned to live inside my head for years
#ghosts Escape became a compulsion, and intoxicating habits can become ingrained in one’s character. It took me years as an adult to learn that even “utopias” have their limitations. To forever burrow inward as refuge from betrayal and disappointments is to become estranged from life itself, to live a life unfulfilled. There were cobwebs over these inner labyrinths that I built so many years ago, but as the rain faded into the night, I can feel everything come rushing back …