Coming Out of the Tunnel
Lonely Planet Boy No. 1
Lonely Planet Boy No. 2
Lonely Planet Boy No. 3
Lonely Planet Boy No. 4
Lonely Planet Boy No. 5
Lonely Planet Boy No. 6
Lonely Planet Boy No. 7
Lonely Planet Boy No. 8
Lonely Planet Boy No. 9
Lonely Planet Boy No. 11
Lonely Planet Boy No. 10
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epresentations are fictions. Identity assumes authenticity, originality. Originality requires
taking the risk of being who one is. To paraphrase Sartre, We are what we are not; we are
not what we are. We often define ourselves, or allow others to define us. Our surface (what
we are not) is all we allow to show. Often, what is not visible (what we are), we maintain
in deeply hidden regions of our psychology. We allow other people (Sartre: “Hell...is
other people.” to determine our value as human entities in a wildly—at times—
indeterminate world. Is this good? Is this bad? It just is. As pictorial constructs, these
images attain the reality of change and conflict; they become more real than the person
they represent. They become oneself. One’s image survives oneself and becomes one’s
remembered reality. The once-current, Greenbergian/modernist idea that art should have
as one of its purposes or functions the amelioration of the human condition and some
feeling of confidence in the future is absent from my work. I am not trying to make a
better world, necessarily. All I am really doing is demonstrating to the spectator what the
world is like. The “renewal of mankind” must be left to others.
The text that I integrated with these images is from a poem I wrote called “Coming Out of
the Tunnel.” Since the text sometimes isn’t as legible as it could be on these images, I
have included it below.
This series of prints was shown originally at the Spurious Fugitive Postmodern Gallery in
South Bend, Indiana, from May 3 through 28, 2006.
taking the risk of being who one is. To paraphrase Sartre, We are what we are not; we are
not what we are. We often define ourselves, or allow others to define us. Our surface (what
we are not) is all we allow to show. Often, what is not visible (what we are), we maintain
in deeply hidden regions of our psychology. We allow other people (Sartre: “Hell...is
other people.” to determine our value as human entities in a wildly—at times—
indeterminate world. Is this good? Is this bad? It just is. As pictorial constructs, these
images attain the reality of change and conflict; they become more real than the person
they represent. They become oneself. One’s image survives oneself and becomes one’s
remembered reality. The once-current, Greenbergian/modernist idea that art should have
as one of its purposes or functions the amelioration of the human condition and some
feeling of confidence in the future is absent from my work. I am not trying to make a
better world, necessarily. All I am really doing is demonstrating to the spectator what the
world is like. The “renewal of mankind” must be left to others.
The text that I integrated with these images is from a poem I wrote called “Coming Out of
the Tunnel.” Since the text sometimes isn’t as legible as it could be on these images, I
have included it below.
This series of prints was shown originally at the Spurious Fugitive Postmodern Gallery in
South Bend, Indiana, from May 3 through 28, 2006.
Coming Out of the Tunnel
Sometimes you need to feel
wet heat on your skin
to prove you’re alive.
You feel dry as September soybeans,
dirty as powdery mildew
on your mother’s zinnias.
You hide behind glass.
You think you might be breaking into pieces.
You sit there stringing words,
trying to compose lines, meaning,
when what you really want
is to be fucking a buddy
on a bare mattress in a back room.
Or, barring that,
lying naked in rain,
your face buried in wet grass.
Sometimes you need to feel
wet heat on your skin
to prove you’re alive.
You feel dry as September soybeans,
dirty as powdery mildew
on your mother’s zinnias.
You hide behind glass.
You think you might be breaking into pieces.
You sit there stringing words,
trying to compose lines, meaning,
when what you really want
is to be fucking a buddy
on a bare mattress in a back room.
Or, barring that,
lying naked in rain,
your face buried in wet grass.
R
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13 Ways of Looking
Lonely Planet Boy
Lonely Planet Boy