I always tell myself that I aim to create work that’s truly disturbing — that’s not just gory or creepy or weird, but that has a genuine, insidious effect on an ontological level. I want to make things that the viewer or the reader cannot recover from, that they feel changed by having encountered … work that provides no answers, no reassurance, no room for denial or reconciliation. Work that is the sworn enemy of repression of any kind.
And yet, I know, I still want to be an artist, an aesthete, not someone bringing about real change in the real world. Thus, I want my work to be ‘truly disturbing’ and yet somehow still comforting due to the fact that it’s art — a form contained within a certain medium, accessible only to those who choose to engage with it — and not reality. This is certainly a comfort to me.
I know that, beneath all this, is the realm of the TRULY DISTURBING — the place where art doesn’t matter, where intellect doesn’t matter, where the entire human race doesn’t matter. And this is a place I’m as scared as anyone to go to. It’s a place I work very hard to avoid ever having to even consider.
So I may aspire to create art that’s truly disturbing, but I’m still a coward. Maybe more so than most people, who at least accept that there are real things they’ve repressed, and are happy to go on repressing those things for as long as possible, without clinging to the belief that exploding repression somehow liberates the mind from the terrors that seek to annihilate it.