Despite years of living in New York City and the surrounding area, the actual, cultural, and religious landscape of my native Mississippi is forever ingrained, and this abiding influence has become an allegorical part of my drawing vision. My style is fueled by a long time interest in insect-like, gestural lines and packed compositions. But the subject matter is undoubtedly a union of memory and narrative, often about piles of seemingly inconsequential junk as seen by passers by. And yet these drawings depict a rambling, private utopia.
Re-purposed washing machines, homemade roller coasters, fifth-hand rockets, and refurbished mechanical bulls are just some of the items that are the raw creative fodder for the somewhat dubious characters who operate within these landscapes. They are fencing themselves in, making a go of things, surviving. In my imagination, the folks who inhabit these worlds are embattled creators, sovereign over their respective dwellings. They are fervent inventors and collectors who are creating elaborate (if unfathomable) systems for themselves, ways to exist and thrive.
While no people are actually visible, there is evidence of frenzied life in the scenes. There are projects underway, cryptic systems, battles ensuing, and smoldering fires. I like to think of the natural settings, gnarled trees, and impossible cliffs as living parts of these systems. The land itself is manipulated, incorporated, alive, often functioning as a barrier that contributes to the isolation of the locale.
In my experience, the fragments and detritus of human endeavor are not exclusive to rural southern landscapes: I have personally observed plenty in New York and in other necks of the woods, too. So while the visual language I use is inseparable from my southern roots, the drive to order, to systematize, to invent, to make sense of the nonsensical, and the scattered physical evidence of this struggle, seems to me a universal human characteristic. These landscapes are tall tales, made-up scenes where I can carry out my own imaginings and leave my own fragments.
Re-purposed washing machines, homemade roller coasters, fifth-hand rockets, and refurbished mechanical bulls are just some of the items that are the raw creative fodder for the somewhat dubious characters who operate within these landscapes. They are fencing themselves in, making a go of things, surviving. In my imagination, the folks who inhabit these worlds are embattled creators, sovereign over their respective dwellings. They are fervent inventors and collectors who are creating elaborate (if unfathomable) systems for themselves, ways to exist and thrive.
While no people are actually visible, there is evidence of frenzied life in the scenes. There are projects underway, cryptic systems, battles ensuing, and smoldering fires. I like to think of the natural settings, gnarled trees, and impossible cliffs as living parts of these systems. The land itself is manipulated, incorporated, alive, often functioning as a barrier that contributes to the isolation of the locale.
In my experience, the fragments and detritus of human endeavor are not exclusive to rural southern landscapes: I have personally observed plenty in New York and in other necks of the woods, too. So while the visual language I use is inseparable from my southern roots, the drive to order, to systematize, to invent, to make sense of the nonsensical, and the scattered physical evidence of this struggle, seems to me a universal human characteristic. These landscapes are tall tales, made-up scenes where I can carry out my own imaginings and leave my own fragments.
