I believe in people.
I believe that art and technology together can make things better.
I believe art has the capacity to change lives, to make things beautiful.
I believe in beauty as a poetic and political statement.
I am interested in relationships between people and the work of art.
I am interested in how beauty can become a commonality.
I am interested in how people and art can come together through technology.
I am interested in how we understand beauty, art and technology.

Memory; On Paper and the Digital

I love paper; the touch, the delicacy of it. It has a memory unlike any other form.

If you fold it, it will remember. If you spill something, it absorbs it. Any act upon its surface remains. Paper will not lie to you. It just is. And yet, paper is ephemeral. Too much sunlight it will turn on you; yellow an angry protest to its condition. Stored improperly, the edges will deteriorate at an astonishing rate. It is not permanent, does not pretend to be. To work on paper is to work on eventual nothingness.

My love of paper is tied into its essence. The memory, the fragility and the eventual disintegration inherent in paper are also why I love net art pieces. They share the same soul.

When something is put on the web, a version always remains; the memory of it stays. It also absorbs, much like paper. Net art can absorb viruses, spills of code. The access to the work of net art, is fragile; dependant upon outside influences; power, web browser, site traffic. Much like paper it is dependant on its environment for survival. The speed with which works rise and fall in popularity on the web, creates a eventual meaninglessness, a nothingness made up of ones and zeros. Othe nes and zeros, alternating binary forms of the web are not unlike the alternating cross patterns of paper fiber.

Still, there is nothing like holding something in your hand, especially when that thing is paper. I love the ephemeral nature of paper, although I hold it. I know eventually one day it will be dust. And for net art, although I access it, I don't really believe that a hundred years from now it will still be there.

Perhaps my skepticism comes from my generation. We grew up as computers were beginning, but we remember a time before a time when the tactile world ruled.

On Drawing

I pick up a pencil. I make a mark. The mark takes time to make. Seconds become a distance, a line, a mark. I feel the tug of paper, the smell of atoms starting to decay in sunlight. The mark remains.

I look out on the world. It is there solid, and yet, I want to remediate it in lines and form and color. I want this to remain when all our voices cease to sound and all language is lost, except the mark.

I pick up a pencil. I make a mark.