Anxiety, Identity, and Distorted Pictures

Art is a socializing act. Multiple movements are screaming for an outlet. It’s possible to get sucked into the work. I suggest or interpret form in fluid ways. I embrace color- it is urgent, restless, and straight from the tube direct to the white space of the canvas, to home. I push each color, seeking transitions, intercessions, and breaks. Gradually, a thousand suggestions besiege me. From the onset, one knows that suggestions can be fleeting whims stacked in heaps of unattended dreams. They could also be haunting guilt from memory. Reality is about open-ended stories told with no beginnings, middle point, or end. It is such a vortex. We only have moments.

Belonging to a specific geographic location is somewhat stifling and unreal. The Internet arrived to disrupt Time and Space. Imagine the taming act- claiming a static place in a map as defining identity! Overly ambitious and arrogant. It is flawed and pretentious, somewhat like a colonialist dream of subjugation. Life veers beyond concrete, physicality and becomes electric transmissions. Dust from the path will caress the traveler, occasionally obscuring the view ahead. I am one with such dust. Call me what you will- African, migrant, a wannabe, whatever. Is it possible to put a genie that has tasted freedom back into the bottle, Aladdin? I belong. I am. But not by being separate, aloof, specific type. I am fluid, intuitive and interactive.

Adaptation is key to being contemporary if you feel this curious wanderlust. I resort to note-taking to never forget- where, when, and how I got here and became this person. Who am I? I am you.