Artist Statement (Revised after 911)

My work, consisting of little pieces of whittled wood, has crystallized out of a fascination for... wood. I like wood. Wood is important. The eternal role of an artist is to remind us of our humanity, to connect us with the mystery when we have lost our way. For me, the magical process of uniting disparate pieces of wood to express a new consciousness best serves to manifest my response to this imperative. From a wood pile of forgotten prunings I glean the twigs and branches in the tradition of the 19th Century Romantic Movement. The twigs are often vulgar, even ugly, yet evoke symbols of the beauty and mystery of life. For, after all, what is a chair, anyway? Is it just someplace to sit? Or is it a manifestation of the support provided by the natural world? I don’t know.
I prefer to work in all three dimensions, that is of heighth, width and depth. The tiny pieces of what appear to be furniture pull together the heterogeneous remnants of my multi-dimensional consciousness as the twigs and branches metamorphose into recognizable shapes and forms. There is a pathos in the wood, an odd poignancy that moves and shapes my movements as the knife I weild reveals the mystery. What will emerge? A bed, a screen, another chair? Will the tiny sculpture be unsophisticated, pathetically pretentious or hallograph into something humorous, poignant, even baroque? A shrine-consciousness pervades my work, sometimes mystical, always rustic. By shrine-consciousness I think I mean that my spouse will take my art and make displays like little shrines arranging them on available flat surfaces in ways that give them new meaning, juxtaposing them out of their usual context. The shrines will be confusing to some but comprehensible to others. There are those who worship the Adirondack chair and make cat noises when face-to-face with tiny carved cabins with birch bark roofs. Art is strangely moving and the artist can be overcome with self-awe. However, the humility of knife cuts and glue burns brings one back to reality and reminds one of the harms caused by the terrorists. Since 9-11 my art has taken a new, more agressive turn, resorting, as I mentioned, to knife and gun and more volitile and poisonous glues. My edge is honed and stropped, my gun is loaded and heated. My chisel will split a whisker. Stacks of branches provide a protective barrier, a shield, and as I whittle pretentious themes emerge as chips flying from maple twig. Defended thus, and protected by my art I seek to explain it, but fail. It is what it is—wood and glue. And what does that have to do with terrorism? It scares me to think about it.

Comments

[dave andersen]

Not meant as in any way as a critical judgement on your juxtaposition of art and violence, I did observe that the back of your chair laden with the cornucopia of fall vegetables could serve a dual function (re: the old maxim about the best art is that art which combines in a seamless way form and function); the forked branch with very little
modification (not even needing the imagination of one comfortable with the polysyllabic language of the deconstructionist)could be strung with inner tube rubber and be used as a DaVinci like minature catapult (slingshot). Not only could it serve as a very confusing instrument of assault, but after the battle the weary warrior would have a place to sit
down.