Although at any given moment I can find myself straying from discernable subject matter into a more abstract realm, it seems that recently I’ve been working humanlike forms in my artwork. They are not depictions of humans so much as they are musings on the human essence.

I would say that my thoughts, having slipped away from traditional paths of distinction, like the Apollonian vs. Dionysian idea, are also veering from more modern approaches, like our seemingly useful psychological and sociological mindsets. It seems to me that what we think of as human barely scratches the surface of the organism which actually exists. It is like putting an egg into a pot in order to hard-boil it: the water is seething and turning, and there is a tiny skin which forms on the surface of the water – a barely existing membrane, but it comes from the organic material of the egg. It seems to me that our intellect and accomplishments as human beings – our whole history of civilization as we’ve constructed it - are like that tenacious but constantly torn and re-made membrane. But what about the egg itself? And all of that roiling, untouchable water in between?

My approach feels very biological to me, as though I am feeling for sides of humanity which are basic to the creature and have little to do with one’s situation in the world and society. They are built, perhaps, into the DNA – or deeper: into the very need to thrash and writhe - to live, to exist – and to be.

These are not directions of the human psyche – they are more the possibilities of the human biota, as I see them.

There is the feral side of humanness which is purely animal, even bestial. Completely mindless, it is alien, non responsive to reason, restive, and sudden. It is dangerous, but at the same time thrilling and graceful. There is the frisson which comes with the possibility of lack of control, of helplessness.

Again thoughtless, there is a side of the human biota which is unmotivated by desire or need. Aimless and undirectioned, it seems awkward but at the same time charming, because it threatens nothing - personal, but at the same time impersonal. The angel in the movie Barbarella says, as he saves both the heroine and the villainess from destruction, ”Angels have no memory”.

There is the aspect of humanness which simply desires to move, to shape surrounding space with its own being, to express its sensuality as a living creature. This is not a desire to exhibit or display exuberance - it is simply the overflow of life force, which at the same time understands its own ridiculous and humorous situation, its own tiny limitations. Brazen and ridiculously proud, Sylph is caught only in the moment.

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