Anxiety, preoccupation with death and an urge to create something sculpturally tangible haunted my somewhat delicate mind. I was searching and looking for a reasonable form of expression. My paintings have become reflections of my own insecurities, my photographs have become sexually charged with conformity to aesthetics, my abstractions became whispers of Action Painting. I paced my thoughts overtly to my dear companions but my sculptures gave only reassuring hints of Brancusi, I cut tiles but they became inflated and fragile Carl Andres; I was destined for the cliche of the lost artist, poor and replicated. In my seeking for therapy I grabbed a thickly woven tan linen. The fabric bore all the beauty that art can offer; even before I made my marks upon it. I cut the linen into small uneven lengths and piled them. I felt the weight of the linen stacked. It had the fragility of a baby in your arms, it felt all to alive, all to precious. I laid them out upon the dusty worn floor, they were not at home separated like that. I gathered the precious linen stack and decided it was not ready. I put that stack in a small envelope and went on painting.
Several weeks later the anxiety, paranoia and obsessions turned mad. I dug myself into another mental jail. Inescapable for even the most imaginative of minds. I stumbled upon the small cuts of linen and started to roll them to ease my drowning thoughts. I kept rolling them and tying them with intense knots. The physical strain of tying each knot made my hands burn with soreness of anticipation. I grabbed some pink silks, various weaves of linens and layered my peculiar new friend with fabrics of all sorts. It was freedom. I had no fumes from paints to worry my thoughts, I had no photograph that was to light or to dark, I had no abstraction that made me stain my new jeans. I took this object and placed it on a raw slab of wood and looked, rather saw, rather felt. I saw comfort in age, comfort to feel and control when no control can be found. What was this object, what was this sculpture, what did I do?
I feverishly searched for more exotic fabrics to find meaning in my new elongated objects. They emerged to some as phallic, some as voodoo dolls, some as crap and some as material beauty. I do not wish to tell you what I make of them, for I was just the facilitator. They created themselves and I will only guide the direction they choose to go. The material likes the contrast of hard elements. The material appreciates the comfort of being cast out on a concrete slab or cozy into the crevice of a maple box. They creep and lean in corners to tight for the eye to handle. They adorn your private closets and watch your intimate actions. They drape over cinder blocks and cram between metal beams. I believe they appreciate contrast, as to much of one thing will for surely be death of us. I find they appreciate the company of objects like themselves perhaps they find peace in seriality or in massive arenas; showing off their threads and rolls like a jovial grandpa.
I do not know when or if they will find their way but they exist and I gaze upon them as a priest would gaze upon an Icon. I shall hold on for some reason and maybe that reason can be explained beneath each knot or fold of fabric. Ive never had an Icon, something to kiss, beads to roll between my sweaty palms, a hat to place upon my dark hair. Can these odd formations be my Icon, be my savor?
A woman makes me psychotic and tame. My woman, a magnificent love of admiration which obsesses me with marvelous beauty. I cannot explain my adornment for representing the lady, the girl, the goddess, the beast. What I can explain is what they do to my guts, my aches and my dear dear heart. I find subtle beauty in her wide eyes, her scent and her taste. I find my interest in how a woman holds life in her womb and temptation in her thoughts. I find that shes a creature of intense beauty along with flaws of anger, moods of untamable interest and emotions resembling a goddesses wrath. My girl, my women, they know me more then I know myself. I found myself hopeless in their hands and my birth gifted by their gentleness. My loves, my breath is because of you. Your power and heroism cannot match my weakened soul. I paint, I sculpt, I draw you as an ode. In respect to your power I give you this gift of eternal admiration. I dare not paint a man, for we are only built in your shadow. Our weakness is your tears and my lovej is sculpted out of your taste. My girl, for you will never know my representation of you. Your colors do not fade and your pallet will change. Your pose cannot be set straight, only interpreted. I love you all, I find your will as an unpaintable entity. Though I will continue to draw you my dear. My sweat, is all for you, my blood makes an offering to the beauty for you hold within your gaze. I will paint you reclined, paint you upright, paint you crying because all are worth my time.
Her hair smells of desire that cannot be represented in pigment; but I will try. I am determined to capture my woman as something more then god. God cannot exist without her and my smile cannot grin without you. My anxiety is only to please you and my tears will hopefully add flavor to your lips. Your breasts will be worshiped within my brush and your pussy will be forever prayed upon by my mouth. I am an animal and your a human. I am a beast and you are the handler. You may move me, may shift me, may beat me and I will surrender. I paint you because I have no choice. My eye twitches for you and my throat tightens for her. I am powerless without your approval. Do you like my new woman painting? Do you think its good? Do you love me? My woman a goddess that cannot be explained or represented upon canvas, upon paper, represented in fabric, but I will attempt it for I have no choice.
by Adam Handler, 2013