1992
I want to expose a specific state of mind that I have experienced as female: the flight from reality through wallowing in one's fantasies and suffocating in the sticky, candy-flavored sentiment that springs up around this state of mind. It's an extreme case of vertigo–the fear, not of falling, but of the knowledge that you want to fall.
I was born as a painter when I woke and found myself drenched in this saccharin-goo. Simultaneously, I was immersed in the traditional painting theory and technique of the big art Daddies. Instead of looking elsewhere, I opted to make my work ot of personal experiences and desires: shame, guilt, fear, self-loathing, the longing for romance, flowers, a Barbie-doll body, a perfect painting surface and pretty colors.
By exploiting my private knowledge I am taking on the role of victimizer as well as victim in my own ambition.
What I'm describing may not be flattering to womankind, but making something artificially heroic, the strapping-on-a-dildo method of art-making or the relegation of being a good girl making quilts doesn't work for me.
I offer no solution. I don't believe there is one.