"So many people glorify and romanticize “busy”. I do not. I value purpose. I believe in resting in reason and moving in passion. If you’re always busy/moving, you will miss important details. I like the mountain. Still, but when it moves, lands shift and earth quakes."
Through my work I attempt to examine the phenomenon of Starla and the Jewel Riders as a metaphorical interpretation of both Georgia O’Keeffe and twerking.
What began as a personal journey of dadaism has translated into images of quesadillas and eyelashes that resonate with Japanese people to question their own aquamarineness.
My mixed media piñatas embody an idiosyncratic view of Buddha, yet the familiar imagery allows for a connection between 2Pac, Ya Kun kaya toast and ice cream sundaes.
My work is in the private collection of Benedict Cumberbatch who said ‘Fuck me sideways!, that’s some real brilliant Art.’
I am a recipient of a grant from Folsom Prison where I served time for stealing mugs and tie clips from the gift shop of The Tate Modern. I have exhibited in group shows at Taco Bell and Future Perfect, though not at the same time. I currently spend my time between my balcony and Berlin.
— via the Artist Statement Generator 2000
kinda want to live up to this now
“Perfect Pussy may be the latest band to seem to incarnate the trope of the punk band as heroic underdog, but that trope has been around for a while, and can mean very different things depending on the cultural climate in which it is invoked. Saying that Perfect Pussy are punk rock heroes means something very different today from what it meant twenty years ago.”
— excellent #longread by Beth Tolmach on AdHoc: Perfect Pussy and the Corporate Media: Has Punk Been Co-Opted?
by Elaine Sexton
Let’s thank our mistakes, let’s bless them
for their humanity, their terribly weak chins.
We should offer them our gratitude and admiration
for giving us our clefts and scarring us with
embarrassment, the hot flash of confession.
Thank you, transgressions! for making us so right
in our imperfections. Less flawed, we might have
turned away, feeling too fit, our desires looking
for better directions. Without them, we might have
passed the place where one of us stood, watching
someone else walk away, and followed them,
while our perfect mistake walked straight towards us,
walked right into our cluttered, ordered lives
that could have been closed but were not,
that could have been asleep, but instead
stayed up, all night, forgetting the pill,
the good book, the necessary eight hours,
and lay there—in the middle of the bed—
keeping the heart awake—open and stunned,
stunning. How unhappy perfection must be
over there on the shelf without a crack, without
this critical break—this falling—this sudden, thrilling draft.