My Adlerian-ass artist life. Starting a painting or a drawing is starting a defense or case presentation. Building up to modulate extensions which output into exterior interfaces, in a movement aimed toward purely functional processes. It seeks to be received, but only insofar as it becomes a thing that is processed, a labor-imbued spirit planted into its circuitry. What reads as a passable piece of art is legible only within that milieu of perception because of its license for passing. It creates its own path in the form of itself, much like a laser or a missile.

An art object should exist beyond its creator. Its creation is negligible, as is its viewer. The functioning art object is like a star whose light reaches you long after it has burned out. By the time you are able to perceive the art object, it has already eluded you. You believe you can construe marks and color as a particular or familiar sensation when these actors merely facilitate a ground for projective material hallucination. Built of communications, the art object acts ad infinitum as a continuous capture, a sequence of peripheral impacts resembling fan blades cycling forward. Countless particles reflect and refract off formations built of the same material, coming into contact with the same plane as their inaugurative phase and every version since, meeting each passing spectator in an endless referendum.

What presumes the viewer into a state of knowing is a dark umbrage flowing from interpreter to interpreter, an endless participation of cat-and-mouse events. Events which reveal that the ball is never in one's court. The ball ricochets from wall to wall, phasing out of itself at every junction of ball and wall. Finally, we see.

We see only with the vision permitted by our meeting with an other. When we hit a wall, a duplicate of our cognition is embodied, emanating into formation between the pressure and death of its previous deployer and the witness and pull of a new gravitational object. Finding new grounds for accenture, we are propelled into a grandiose spectral field whose whims determine us.

How do I control what I can? I make a piece of art. If I work really hard on this piece of art, I will be valued. This labor-object becomes a stand-in or proxy for myself. What others construe of this new body maps itself into a constellation of networks already designated by the material strata of my corpus.

Aesthetic being, or "material," functions as a code or script. Legible to everyone who encounters me and my work, I am able to pass into the frame of the other, bouncing not only off of, but through, the frame, enabling an endearment of rite that renews itself only through continual descent. Vision precipitates this force. Vision and light employ a fractory method of being, granted airtime only when the grounds are limited to anticipatory events. These freezes set the trajectory for planar encompassments, designating departures of this and that while fixing the next points of arrival.

What happens after an arrival is scheduled post-deorigination? Interfaces leap into opportunistic positions on the traveling body like sperm toward an unfertilized egg, attempting to pin down a point within the structure of crystallization. Marks made here and there not only respond to one another, but create, employ, denounce, and understand one another. These points use each other. The use of a co-organizer within a space that recognizes it through spatial demarcation is an unconscious yet familiar conquest. Receiving temporal substantiations fosters the conditions under which signals can even be received. A total conglomeration of refuse. A passing of nothing.