I say I am finding grace, but I think I am succumbing to liminality. My life runs between two parallel lines. I hop between either line, attempting to escape the middle ground of liminality that lies between them.
"Love Is the Message, the Message Is Death" tasks audiences with witnessing a strategically curated assemblage of a checkered U.S. history of police brutality, promotions of church gospel, distilled expressions of dejection, perseverance for social change, beatific song and dance, and other acts of Black performativity and expressivity in all its awesome variety.
It’s November in Brighton Beach. A creature with five arms walks by the water. It has eyes in place of hands. Its skin glitters in the sun. Today, it is searching—always searching.
A multimedia collage layering digital artwork, vintage tv ads, and film clips explores my creative process and critiques the representation of women in the mid-twentieth century, all to Astrud Gilberto's iconic bossa nova beat.
In a renewal of intention behind existing objects of the past, who is the iconoclast? The one that does not ascribe new meaning because time has passed or the one that does?