The House That Art Built
The House That Art Built.
In the vacuum of isolation it wasn’t surprising my mind drifted to memory lane. Physically I was on lockdown but mentally I was travelling far and wide. To facilitate these flashbacks I re-engaged with my old works of art.
A portfolio of my artwork, started by my grandmother, had been kept for me. The contents dated back 30 years. The earliest work in the bunch was completed when I was age 3. I felt complex emotions as I went through old paintings and drawings; memories flooding back. Memories I had forgotten. Memories I couldn’t forget. It was clear to me how I became the product of these experiences and emotions, but still I felt burdened. The sheer volume and weight of my collection was oppressive and being self-critical (or perhaps self-aware), I was sure my collection of childhood, adolescent and student art was unremarkable and destined for the bin. Still, I wanted to acknowledge my past lives, so I used my old art as a substrate for new work.
Cutting, ripping, and painting over my art felt cathartic and violent. I wasn’t being precious about my materials or my former self but I was being thoughtful about what I preserved and what I let go. The end result is a series of houses. Houses that I lived in when the collage materials were being made. These houses are a reminder of the mental and physical spaces I once occupied and they are proof of personal evolution.