Meaningless Gestures

On chill Ithaca evenings I like to walk to the suspension bridge and look over the edge.  As icy winds whip my face and the sound of crashing water reverberates in my head, I scream.  Sometimes they're wails of anger or pain.  Sometimes words come out in the form of incoherent thoughts with no beginning or end.  The scene is more awkward than cinematic, but that doesn’t matter to me.  All I need is to scream, but my cry is lost in the vacuum of the landscape, a gesture rendered meaningless.

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This solo show is about my torrential love affair with art.  It’s about the naïve and futile hope that my work could be more than decorative objects, hollow relics destined to be forgotten by time.