i think about identity often.
maybe too often.
i think about what it means to be human.
all the little intricacies—the memories, experiences, and idiosyncrasies.
sometimes i think that identity is really just a myth our body tells our mind in order to function properly in modern society.
i think that our body is a homunculus our thoughts use to stumble across this sacred earth.
i get a little frustrated when i talk or write about identity, or when i write, period. i am not blessed with the dexterity that a lot of my contemporaries have to go hard as fuck on a keyboard.
which is why i paint and play instruments.
sometimes i look for clarity in a canvas, sometimes in sound.
i paint more than ever. life has gifted me with something of a break. i have been thinking. sometimes i have master plans; sometimes i have severe episodes of shitty rumination.
lately, i question what selling art means.
any creative who wants to make a living from art has to somehow sell parts of their identity.
memories.
experiences.
life itself.
is it storytelling?
is it just product?
i think i create to have evidence.
evidence that i thought about something i won’t or can’t put into words.
evidence of my ancestry,
obsessions,
inner chaos,
spirit.
a good friend once asked me why i don’t like taking pictures.
“don’t you want evidence of your life?”
yes, i do.
that’s why i make art.
what better evidence than:
“here, i made this.”.
-adamn, mudman.