air, breath, and suffocation, the inflatable membrane is too big
for the room. I construct it from my collection of plastic bags—delicate,
translucent, ethereal skin. Imprinted with logos, slogans, and
promises: “Go Home a Hero”, “Giving Our Best”,
“We Have the Answers,” each warns of the danger of
Like a bad dream, the thousands of bags in my studio develop a
collective voice. They are hawking the “American Dream,”
promising success through consumerism. It strikes me that this
“Dream” has dreamed me. I cut the bags into pieces.
Without premeditation, I assemble medallions, checkers, and zigzags,
letting my hand choose. The inflatable sculpture takes shape as
a vaguely anthropomorphic pillow, something that will humor and
These works unveil my silence, they are speeches without applause
or the sound of printing. They are documents, stories, signs;
works that dissolve feelings under a fetishist finery, tumults
of voiceless screams and moments of nonconformity. They are collected
objects that trigger my state of calm. It is a chronicle of my
passage through life.
The matrix is the mind. The mind that zealously guards feelings,
events that accumulate excesses and chimeras, anxiety and happiness,
frustrations and passions, adulating mouths, cursing eyes, spirits
that caress or numb my face when my head sinks into the wadding
of the pillow at night.