NO MAN'S LAND/one hand clapping?

(warning--images in this posting are slightly graphic)Three weeks ago I had an operation to fix two severed tendons on my left hand. The accident was preventable, yet unexpected. I was caught offguard, and life changed instantly, reminding me vividly of the fragile way we walk a thin line of safety and luck amidst a vast, dangerous environment. Tendon repair surgery is difficult to perform and to recover from. Classic medical training has sectioned the tendons of the hand into three zones, each with a varying level of success at regaining function. Until advances in recent decades, the red area was dubbed "no man's Land", where no amount of skill on the part of the surgeon could guarantee that the fingers would ever work again. My cuts fell directly in the red. The incision in the "orange" area is simply where the ends were located and retrieved.

The way that tendons are strung through our bodies is like the way that thread must be passed through a sewing machine to make it work. The complexity amazes me. Apparently at the place where your fingers bend on the underside of your hand, the tendons pass just below the skin, and can be cut by even a shallow scratch. What I did was deep, and the ER people knew instantly what had happened. 1 week

It took 5 hours of surgery to restring things. If looking at this picture makes you squeamish, imagine the constant, actual sensation that I've enjoyed for almost a month. This is a sensitive area, and I can assure you it feels worse than it looks.Experiencing this kind of pain takes away the fluffy veil that most days come wrapped in. The kinds of things you read about in the news feel less distant when you're experiencing the same throbbing sensations as the latest victims of the most recent explosions.

The human body is a miracle, working to heal whatever wrongs occur. It is selfless and tireless and magical, and my faith in biology is gigantic. The way we choose to use these magnificent bodies is often unfortunate, our actions contributing only shame to an otherwise flawless creation. Most days I conclude that it's much easier to love us than it is to love ourselves. In reaction, I've tended in life to distance myself from the "normal", perhaps alienating myself from the larger whole, yet at the same time trustfully relying on myself and other, solid, like-minded friends to create bubbles of sanity within the vast madness.

The medical system is an entity I've grown to mistrust due to the constant barrage of pharmaceutical advertisements on TV. The drug dealers seem to have paid-off or strong-armed every aspect of the system, and I have chosen to remain wary of what seems like a dangerous experiment being performed on the entire population under the guise of helping but, like most other corporate maneuvers, actually done in the name of profits alone. Without intervention, however, my tendons would never have healed, retracting like rubber bands deep into my arm, so now I found myself groveling at their feet, asking for emergency assistance which they were obligated to provide. In the end, my faith remains low, not due to the level of competence, but based rather upon the necessity of money to accomplish anything and everything.

2 weeks

Of all the mistakes humans have made, putting our faith in money has by far been our most detrimental decision. It makes me sick to think of the amount of time that is wasted by people doing nothing but earning money, especially compared with the potential that we could realize if we were motivated by other, less trivial factors, like want or need. All the world's ills could undoubtedly be solved by our species save for the moment when the bill arrives.

I wonder if sometime, while examining the archaeological evidence with deeper, more sophisticated technology, our scientists will discover that the dinosaurs actually perished due to poverty and economic collapse, not some asteroid at all. Conversely, I would not be surprised to read tomorrow that medical researchers have discovered that biology is also motivated by a microscopic monetary system and that cells start to age most rapidly when they begin to fall behind on their loan payments and organs shut down due to repossession. We treat money like it's a natural process when in fact it is our invention: a tool we've learned to use and an idea we've accepted.

3 weeks

When I had the stitches removed, the pain was excruciating, 40 slivers in a row, pulled from deep inside my skin. No anesthetic was offered, as I have no insurance. For 20 minutes I gripped my arm tight with the good hand and clenched my teeth. Now is the crucial time to begin mobility exercises, and this morning I had an appointment to have a new splint fabricated and begin physical therapy. Doctor's orders.

When I arrived at the hospital, however, I was turned away, for not being able to pay on the spot and owing too much already. "Come back next week", they said, "if you manage to make an arrangement." After 4 weeks of missed work, this does not seem likely. Again, my faith dims in humanity and I'm left to fend for myself, wondering what went wrong and longing to be caught in a parallel universe where decisions are based on logic and ability rather than cost and budget. Everytime I try to imagine why money is valued over life, I come up answerless. It's an overwhelmingly perplexing, yet inescapable, problem we share. Oh well, it could be worse... and at least 8 fingers are okay...

SHOCK & AWE/fear & disbelief

Most people assume that my sculptures include lots of welds, however, this is not true. The variety of incongruous materials I select makes welding near impossible, as only two metals of the same composition can be joined to each other. Additionally, the abundance of painted surfaces, as well my frequent decision to use plastic or wooden objects makes welding even less preferred, as these materials will constantly burst into flames from the sparks.

"Encyclopaedia Anatomica"

Spring 2003. While attending gradschool in Delaware, with access to full metal facilities and a great iron scrapyard, I created my only welded sculpture ever. Inspired by a copy of Encyclopaedia Anatomica, which is an amazing book containing photographs of wax models from a museum in Italy, I had an idea. The subject matter for my project would be "the five senses".

I began by creating an ear, 3 feet wide and 4 feet tall, which weighed about 100 pounds. I built the framework from welded, rusted iron, then added chrome and aluminum highlights by drilling holes and using nuts and bolts.

I paid special heed to the three tiny bones, the incus, maleus & stapes, that turn sounds from the world into electric impulses that our brains understand. I made them from trophies. The cut-away nature of the view reveals a cochlea in the inner-ear that is the horn from an old automobile.

The second sense to emerge would be smell. I did a quick sketch of my reflection using the glass of a welding hood, and I used it as a guide for the shape of the nostril and bridge.

Most of the metal came from car parts I scavenged nearby.

I wasn't content with a nose alone. I felt the need to include the sinus chamber as well.

The parts were selected by two criteria: color and shape. When working with found-objects I always prefer a natural finish to an altered one.

The cross-section was framed by a few cut and distorted bicycle rims.

Together, the two new sculptures took up nearly 10 feet of wallspace. I was eager to make the eye next, but then something tragic and unbelievable occurred, and the world stood still to watch it happen. In the months preceding, Bush had been cackling soundbites about WMD's and Iraq. "Nine eleven" was still being said often, and troops were being amassed. The administration was dead-set on gettin' Sadaam outa' there, and contractors were licking their lips as invasion seemed eminent. Planes began dropping flyers over the future battlefields in anticipation of the big event. Newsmedia raised the prices on prime advertising slots and began gearing-up reporters who were interested in being front line embedded. Yet for all the whining, and all the phonecalls, Bush was unable to get the approval of the UN, so it seemed relatively safe to assume that we would hold our ground. That's what I believed would happen, and I wasn't worried. I thought war was something that was earned, not purchased. I thought there were rules.

actual US leaflet

Then, one day while driving down to the ocean with my parents who were visiting me for a few days from Wisconsin, the radio station broke for a special, presidential, announcement. We all fell silent in disbelief as a squeaky cowboy issued an ultimatum to the military of Iraq to lay down their weapons and surrender in 72 hours, or face dire consequences. Not ten minutes had passed and the radio station went back to playing the Britney Spears as if nothing had happened.

actual US leaflet

I went to sleep that evening with a heavy weight on my mind. When the WTC towers fell it had been tragic and emotional. The senselessness of such deliberate destruction of lives and cities was horrific, and to have prevented it from happening by having had prior knowledge would very well have been the greatest miracle our planet had seen since JFK's successful last-minute agreement with Kruschev during the Cuban Missle Crisis. Unfortunately, this time, we had no warning, and prevented nothing. Now, considering Baghdad's predicament, and imagining how many more people might lose their lives and cities in less than a week, one could only pray for someone else to intervene, the international community, or congress. Nobody did.

Back in my MFA studio, during the 72 hour period, I was possessed. I continued to work on my artwork, only now the medical association dissolved. I was staring instead at body parts. Around the time the first aerial bombardments began, the "nose" became too heavy and crashed overnight to the ground, ripping a large section from the wall, and cracking the slab of the concrete floor. The final shape would weigh 550 pounds.

As our troops surged ahead, I thought a lot about violence, death, blood, and killing. I was in my mid-twenties at the time, healthy and athletic, and I imagined the situations being created involving others like myself, from here and abroad, being paid by rich, powerful people, to massacre others.

I read in awe as hundreds of billions of dollars were charged to my nation's already hefty expense account. This was the Bush economy coming to life, and the torrent of funds made millions of people forget what they were working to create: body parts. Missiles were fired and new orders were signed to replace them. Buildings were leveled and money was available to rebuild. Tons of money.

Amidst the zombied pool of American citizens it was difficult to speak against the effort. In a small conservative school in Delaware, one mention of concern for our motives would be met undoubtedly with the same ferocity of being found to be the one person rooting for the away team in a bar full of hometown fanatics. My challenge as an artist was to find a way to discretely cry folly in regards to the whole matter.What we were doing was underway. Flesh was being torn from bones, fingers and hands turned to shreds, eyeballs burst, and intestines spilled in dirt. The problem was heavy, and needed to be addressed. To show consolidarity with my fellow Americans, I too would create carnage. Nothing in my environment came anywhere near to conveying this kind of pain and gore, therefore I felt detached from what I knew to be real.

Only on this massive scale was I able to feel comfortably close to the disgusting result of violence for money. I tried to make the object as gruesome as possible, mixing red and pink and white with the burnt brown flesh.

Interior objects were embedded deliberately to point to the source of the conflict.Viewed from most angles, the sculpture looked like an abstraction, an interplay of objects and shapes. The title, "Operation Iraqi Freedom", conjured images of explosions and fires. People have grown so accustomed to accepting abstract images as art that it didn't occur to them look for more meaning.

Tiny details, perhaps, went unnoticed.I've never had an interest in making abstract artwork.
Everything is deliberate.
Beneath the floor piece, I drew a chalk outline in the shape of Iraq.

The view from the front reveals a yin-yang of flesh and bone.From the right, a few details of the face remain: an eyelid, the nose.

And from the left we see skull, bleached white and clean.After a while I rolled it outside, past some gun sculptures that another student was fabricating himself. The difference was, he supported the war, thought Clinton was a pussy, and owned dozens of handguns and rifles. As I said, this was dangerous turf. Left in the sun, with a new outline drawn on the asphalt, the sculpture began to corrode and decay.Each passing storm, each dew-filled morning, brought moisture to the metal, fueling the electrochemical rusting process.

Left long enough, the entire shape will sag and dissolve.

In time, the piece moved to a ring of concentric circles, a bullseye or maybe a crater, built earlier by my studiomate, Zach.In the process of moving the sculpture with a forklift, we noticed a nest of hornets that had stationed themselves deep within the structure.We were fortunate, escaping unharmed, as life returned to normal.

Others have not fared so well.

Left after graduation for future generations of metalshop scavengers, the sculpture has faded from existence, long before the conflict that inspired it.

current project(paused): ONE EURO

(author's note: having recently crippled myself and reduced annoyingly to three-finger typing, the shift key will not be my priority in the next few posts)

a few weeks ago, while walking through a recently pricey area of brooklyn called DUMBO, i noticed an original "banksy" graffiti. nothing particularly witty or interesting, but there nonetheless. banksy, as we all know, is one of the most successful artists in the contemporary artworld. his antics involving prestigious institutions, coupled with his insistence on anonymity, have somehow pushed him into the forefront of the accepted elite, and his work has been sold at auction for hundreds of thousands of dollars. a few weeks later, i passed the same site, this time cameraless, and noticed someone had painted out the signature, effectively destroying any value or significance for good. easy come, easy go. all i could wonder when i noticed this was "what separates him from me?"
why are some artists successful while so many others struggle? it doesn't seem to depend on the quality of the artwork a person makes. there are more factors. mysterious factors, different for us all. i am walking my own path, following my own rules, and waiting for the big break that will take me to the level of success i want dearly. the major difference between me and banksy is that i have no interest in anonymity. for me the art i make and the person i am are inseparable, impossible to differentiate. i'm interested in sharing both: it's a package deal.
during another walk on another day, i stumbled upon a sculpture by another of the artworld's elite. this time i was in rockefeller center and the artist was chris burden. actually, i went there specifically to see the piece after reading about it in the news. it's a skyscraper built from a million erector set pieces and is entitled, "what my father left me". i am impressed by repetition on this scale, even though the basic assumption is that he hired a group of others to do most of the work.
tourists crowded the vertical structure, snapping pictures with their cellphones. i wonder how many realize that chris burden became famous decades ago for torture and pain related art, most notably a performance piece in which a friend shot him in the arm at the gallery reception. my work seems to relate more to the engineering and repetition that Burden has been using recently, however, my recent accident, which has resulted in the temporary loss of one hand, makes me empathize with his earlier projects.

the palm of my hand, detail

before my injury, i had been making progress on a new sculpture. i started by purchasing a few dozen plastic trophy figures from the guy down the street.

i bought these with a specific image in mind for a specific show coming up in Berlin..to compliment a US dollar bill i once made from army toys, i would now make a euro dollar from gold and silver trophies, highlighting the overseas economic advantage of late, as america has plundered its resources and multiplied its debt.

i started by drawing a circle who's size roughly corresponded in scale to the dollar bill sculpture. in berlin, the two will be shown side by side, so they have to be to scale.

the template created, i began to lay out the pieces. a printout from google images serves as my model. the gold trophies will form the rim an the center will be silver.i cut off all the bases with a hacksaw, then i chopped up the figures into smaller pieces and invented a way to attach them seamlessly using drilled holes and pins made from thick wire.

the following sequence shows my progress until the work-ending accident. every time you see my left hand, remember, it doesn't work anymore! i liked it much better before, and miss it dearly.

the doctors say i should regain full usage eventually. i hope so. i'm going to berlin this fall and haven't much time to complete what needs doing before then...