I'm an artist born in SD, raised in ND, fled to states afar; then came back to ND. Creating art on these chilly plains does implant something into those who do so. What it is...I'm unsure...can only say it...feels as waiting does.
My work is almost as old as I am; it’s taken leaps and turns, rarely stopping long enough for me to get comfortable with it. Sometimes I look back and say to myself "what was all that about." All I can say for sure, it’s come about in its time for one reason or another, I guess it doesn't matter in the end just why. Had anyone asked one of my fore-mothers or fathers why they were moving the dirt around with a stick as they were, would they have received a solid answer?
Art asks questions like that, and actually there are people who find their answers revealed in remnant traces of the movements left by a stick and the stick master.
I'm one of who those who find answers in the tracings, usually about myself. I figure once I know myself fully, I'll have a better handle on the rest of creation.
It's good to have the art around, housing those pieces that didn't find shelter in someone else's abode. They affirm that I'm functionally receiving and transmitting information. Lord only knows, this world needs more information transmitted. Information that transcends its time is the kind of information I'd like to put out, but who's to know maybe I am doing just that. Waiting for perceptions to catch up with the work. Isn't that a posture worth holding on to?