To be an artist, to me, is to sneak around, pretend and to fool (kindly). To walk parallel but not as a part of. A sort of a magic trick. To dress in chameleon skin and disappear into any situation, going under cover, to make enough time to observe and to be.
Every single detail involves a journey into the infinitely large. A drop of water under a magnifying glass of a microscope is like a distant water-planet viewed through a telescope. When looking over the North of Iceland from an airplane, a corner sofa with a tongue does not cover a broad area of land. The green, velvet corner sofa with the tongue is a whole world with forest-grown peaks and deep valleys for the dust mite that lives there. It is all about contexts and references. The dust mite lives for a short time, compared to the lifespan of humans, only for three to four weeks. During that time, the dust mite reproduces about thirty little guys, which most humans consider to be a bit excessive. One gram of dust is the abode of thousands of dust mites, who live there in prosperity and enjoy their resources. A corner sofa with a tongue can house a community of hundreds of thousands of dust mites. Both dust mites and humans live in a constantly evolving process of transformation in an infinite intermediate state of life. In the dust gram - in addition to the living dust mites – the waste of both dust mites and humans, along with traces of dust mites that have left this worldly existence, can be found (and much much more).
In my existence, there is everything that exists. Everything I know, and everything I know I do not know, and what I do not know that I do not know. Coincidence seems to determine what I find out and get to understand.
Constantly changing maps.
An unbroken line in a flexible and modifiable drawing. Always forward, forceful and unstoppable. Always effortless; like the wind - sometimes exhausted and without tension but sometimes loud and tense. The drawing does not take sharp turns, but creeps around corners and over thresholds. Little by little, without anyone noticing, white has turned black.
I am in an eternal search for a neutral place; a palate cleanser, a subjective pause to remove any lingering flavors so the next may be enjoyed with a fresh perspective and I can observe the past without lasting aftertaste.
It all starts with just a few grains of pollen blowing in the wind that disperse and connect, creating something new, tiny and huge. All of this leaves an imprint in infinity that goes on effortlessly and ceaselessly.
The moment is fleeting. What has passed exists and is stored, the traces are proof; there is truth in the footprints. What is left is unknown and unpredictable. Both parts exist in some stage of existence and together they create a whole. Without one, the other could not exist. Right side out and inside out, where does one end and where does another begin, what is in and what is out? I do not directly perceive all stages of existence. For example, I perceive a music scale to a certain extent, but at some point I stop hearing and feeling sound, even though everything has sound. I am just a dust mite with limited perception and a strange lifestyle.
Now that I have finished explaining to you, dear reader, what it means to me to be an artist, it dawns on me that this is not exactly it, and that it is probably something else.
mynd // owen fiene