This multimedia installation was in collaboration with Almanac and was premiered during Philadelphia Fringe 2017. The collaboration aimed to blur the line between set design and gallery installation, providing viewers and participants with a unique experience. The installation included wall drawings, paintings, and interactive sculptures that extend the physical and intellectual boundaries of Almanac’s performance.
This 20' x 8' x 6' suspended cloud housed three 'head spaces', each with a unique sensory experience that explored self-reflection, beliefs, and active listening and communication.
The installation invited viewers to check themselves, reimagine their mistakes, align their dreams, and question their individual beliefs and how they communicate those beliefs while adding their own textures to the overall experience.
In conversation with Kusama's popularized Infinity Mirrors, this space encouraged participants to combat their own demolition, as suggested by Kusama, and instead examine themselves from an external perspective.
This project was developed and created in conjunction with students from William Penn Charter School's Social Justice Club, Black Student's Union, and Art Club in Philadelphia, PA. It is currently searching for a permanent home.
In 2016, fifteen students under the age of eighteen lost their lives in conflicts with law enforcement. This installation is a reminder of the fragility of life and the sadness of unfulfilled dreams. It is a reminder of the power of weapons and the conflicts that they may, often fatally, cause and settle. However, these desks are also platform for discourse and change, and are meant to be exhibited in conjunction with programming around teenage mental health, police deescalation tactics, inner-city violence, and the BLM movement. The dark desks are also meant to usher in the light of knowledge, encouraging us all to remain students.
Enthalpy of Fusion
There’s no room to breath. It’s hot on the block.
Temperatures rise. Volumes rise. Pressures rise.
Mediums melt. Bodies melt. Relationships melt.
We don’t poke corpses because it’s WRONG; we don’t poke corpses because we’re afraid we might LIKE it.
I poke and prod with a light touch and a heavy line. The canvases the corpses I never poked, never touched, never said goodbye to, never thanked, never considered, and never warned. Corpses I never knew and never will. Pressure, as defined by space and force, runs the show. Pressure, as defined by a heavy hand, runs the show. Pressure, as defined by a heavy heart, runs the show.
It’s hot on the block. There’s no room to breath.
We gon’ pull up in that hooptie, like we cops on ‘em.
With M16’s, we gon’ put some shots on ‘em . . .
Grimey savage, that’s what we are . . .
Shots poppin’ out the AR.
Frenzied trigger fingers flick at the camera with no guns, but it’s impossible to not imagine the slugs. And, in the club, dance floors drip with sweat; the streets drip in colorful bloods.
The sound of war is like Beethoven’s music. We have become accustomed to this music: without it we couldn’t manage . . . We ordinary people own the world.
Father’s garden is the last oasis in a land of scorched and desolate streets. His green enclave stands a harbinger of life for the body, eyes, and soul. The mood is ethereal and the execution carnal: flower heads are torn by hollow tips; Father’s head by radar blips.
They left us in the jungle in the rain with a gun and a bayonet . . . and you better use the bayonet, because if you don’t kill them with it, they’ll kill you with it.
HA! In. The. RAAAAIN!
He is dressed better than I: black leather loafers, black slacks, black designer-looking tee, wrist watch, and a matching black hat like he’s at a funeral for his former self. He tucks his bag full of pan-handled groceries under his head and passes out on the park bench across from a graffiti-covered wall: a guerilla war of its own. A reclamation of lost land, barren ground, and ignored concrete. Cans, markers, nibs, and caps rattle in backpacks: the Ego still at play, strapped. Out of the house at 3 AM the snow stops, its undulations roll blue and yellow in the streetlights. The snow melts beneath our feet. The colors swirl.
am just thanx to ma god for given me to breath,
i just still hustling in street as such
She is dressed better than I. She is black; I am white. She stands proud on a small clean patch along the cradle of evolution. Cellular iterations of both our ancestors left in piles of tired bones and strained sinew. Dominant and recessive; flattened and aggressive. We talk about the animals she’s never seen, the life I’ve never lived, and the absolute confounding principles of global economics as defined by force, slavery, pressure, and, between us, shoulder shrugs, sideways glances, and luck. Part of her wants to move to where I live; part of me to where she lives.
"We are all unreliable narrators, not just in the way we tell our stories to others, but how we tell them to ourselves." -- Deb Caletti
"It's massive." - Bradley Cooper
"You need to get that checked." - Sienna Miller
Nutscapes is a collaborative conceptual project and meme that employs masculine vulnerability and humor to explore mankind's role in the natural world through the subversive lens of social-media and modern technologies. With participants from around the world questioning what a true selfie is, the narrative direction of Nutscapes is up to those who join in.
Nutscape iterations and memes from around the web.
Mitote refers to the cacophony of voices in your head. They are all talking but none of them seem to listen. Mitote is driven by false beliefs, self importance, fear, and layers of denial and justification. *
* As described by Don Miguel Ruiz in The Four Agreements
1,001 Self Portraits
The clash between the ego, the sub-conscious, and the true-self manifested in one-thousand-and-one self portraits drawn with eyes closed.
"Please assume, then, for the sake of argument, that there is in our souls a block of wax, in one case larger, in another smaller, in one case the wax is purer, in another more impure and harder, in some cases softer. Let us, then, say that this is the gift of Memory . . . and that whenever we wish to remember anything we see or hear or think of in our own minds, we hold this wax under the perceptions and thoughts and imprint them upon it, and whatever is imprinted we remember and know as long as its image lasts, but whatever is rubbed out or cannot be imprinted we forget and do not know." -- Socrates