This piece resulted from an invitational exhibition and below is a little information behind the work and process:
I was asked to participate in the Transformations invitational exhibition last spring. At the time I felt a little anxious about agreeing to any artistic project obligation as I've been on a break from fine art, but eager to see if this could shake something loose from my subconscious. Appealing to my background in illustration, the project involved pairing a poet and visual artist together to collaborate.
For the longest time I tried to force a process to the surface, at one time even contemplating tearing up the few paintings i still have and creating a new work from the resulting snippets. Greg and I went down a number of paths before arriving at the finished pieces. We talked about themes we used in our work, symbolism and imagery we might employ to convey a certain concept or idea. He would write works based on these themes and I would attempt a response with imagery.
The thing is, while painting was a huge part of who I was for a number of years, painting is a very personal process for me. A dialog between me, the brush and the canvas - my works were very much like visual journals. It didn't feel right to apply that method to a collaborative project.
My process, too, is a bit unusual. I don't sketch, doodle or jot, instead, I sort of percolate. Ideas come and go in the form of vague images and cloudy concepts. Before, the camera was a significant partner in my painting process. I'd know what idea I wanted to capture and I'd set out collecting the props and setting needed to develop the idea. Shooting image after image (in many cases ending up with over 200 photos to work with). I'd select the final composition and set into painting.
In early 2007, I adapted photography into a creative medium (rather than simply a documentary method). More immediate and forgiving, photography allows me to compose the world around me to fit my motivation. It frees me up to make mistakes and use poor judgment - I haven't lost hours or even days in a single image.
Near the end of the project, the pressure was setting in for me. It seemed my creativity was worn down and I'd have nothing but weakly executed work to hang. Then, tragically my best friend from years ago died suddenly. My world shifted so abruptly. Upon my request, Greg Byrd sent me single lines and snippets from his writings and each struck me like a dagger. It was like I was reading a long lost journal of memories. Details were missing, but the heart and snapshot of the moment was there. I could see how the moments could be anyone's memories, and yet they related so personally to my own life. Immediately the project clicked for me.
I headed out to capture imagery from Greg's writings and interpret them from my own perspective. Memories are delicate things. If we don't use them, they distort, fade and change over time. Share common memories and suddenly snippets of a story you never had, become your own. They grow, they shrink, they fade and they change. There's no way to "go back" and relive a moment and this is what makes what you keep with you so precious.
I collected the images over the span of two months and merged those with images I had taken throughout the year. Developed onto metallic paper, the images were then embedded into epoxy resin. The purpose was to further distort the image. In order to see it best, you need to stand directly in front and look into the resin. The casting process lent its own chaos to the process, causing the images to buckle and wrinkle under the heat and occasionally belching forth bubbles and liquid epoxy just before the cast set.
The finished piece is mounted to heavy, cradled pine which has been painted, rubbed and written on. The writings are faded and nearly impossible to read. Hash marks along the side mark the passage of time. The finished piece sparkles like jewels in the light - a bitter sweet result of such a tragic loss. The piece is so deeply personal to me and yet it is not all mine. Greg's writings and his own thoughts have intertwined with my own, creating a hybrid of memories that we now share.

