Mitchell Partner ’20
Ceramics, Mr. Mess
My often grotesque art is pushed by two desires–one, and more simply, how far can I go? How can I make clay question what you know, how can I make it as outlandish as possible with familiar tools, human biology? Secondly, and perhaps more profound, is my yearning to utterly destroy the notion of vanity. My whole life I’ve seen people morphed and contorted by this idea that they must look good, they must be presentable, that showing even a shred of what is so ingrained in our humanity is a sin. Being bestowed with physical grandeur may do wonders for your self confidence and the droves of social media worshippers may fill your ego, but at the end of the day what’s the point if you can’t even love yourself? It may be nice to have a luxurious home filled with belongings, but it won’t fill the void of family. I contort and morph clay in hopes that these people, steeped in the importance of image, may just step beside themselves and realize that it doesn’t matter. Ted Bundy was handsome, OJ Simpson was rich, and my art, thankfully, is utterly and forever awful.
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