The process of making art, whether visual or musical, is similar to reaching into a blackened void hoping to discover something; not something new, but something transformative, a "new" iteration birthed by transformation, molded by digestion and charged by memory.
A triptych I painted some years ago titled "Hypnagogia" attempted to suggest all manner of irrationality and spectral presence. Images present themselves to you; somehow you wed them to each other and transform them.
The process of paint application and sanding is a constructive action, hoping to reveal a surprise inconceivable prior to those actions, hoping to find something I wasn't looking for. The evolution of a painting or musical piece continues, all serendipity, epiphany, and frustrating moments of stasis. I keep picking at the scars and scabs.
I am hoping to become a voyeur watching the painting begin to make itself, seemingly irreconcilable elements working together intent on feral unmeaning. Surface abuse continues unabated; distortion accumulates like fuzztone on a guitar line, voltage-controlled filter sludge interspersed with septic high-pitched detritus, and keening lines knotted by random movements meant to deter shadow "meanings."
"Real art has the capacity to make us nervous. By reducing the work of art to it's content and then interpreting that, one tames the work of art. Interpretation makes art maneagable, comfortable."
"Against Interpretation and Other Essays"
Discussing "HOWL" (1955), Allen Ginsberg stated "...my intention was to make a picture of the mind, mistakes and all."
Perhaps this comes closest to my feelings regarding the end product of the art-making process, an exploration free from destination... mistakes and all...perfect.
P O V
Photo by Pat Giancontieri
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Photos by Pat Giancontieri