About My Creative Practice
First and foremost, my art is process-centered. Songs, stories, and videos are relics of an ongoing conversation with Life that often starts with WTF but somehow find its way into thanks. They’re anchors of my chosen frame: a relentless commitment to find the gift in whatever comes my way.
It’s a kind of self-hypnosis of hope that keeps me going when there’s no where to go. I make art to remind myself that I’m the one writing the show. I may not have control over the surprises that come in every act, but there is a choice in how I play with what I get. I’ve chosen love as the script.
It’s a practice that for some time I gave a name, and even taught workshops to invite others into the play. It’s simple: everything becomes poetry when we see ourselves in it, and when we ask good questions, the poetry always brings a message. Still it takes honestly: we don’t always get what we want or expect to see, but when we trust in the mirror, it always guides us into the next level of our journey.
It’s about the grace of growth, the same kind of yearning that sprouts feel when they reach towards the sun, even as they may not know what they’ll become.
Technically, I’m not actually an artist. I didn’t go to art school or music school or theater school or film school. I don’t know how to read music and I barely play the ukulele. What I make is pure magic that even surprises me sometimes because I don’t actually know how I do what I do, but I suppose that not-knowing is what makes it feel so true. I like the mystery in the making.
Still, it’s a discipline. Behind each song is hours of talking out-loud to the flies on the wall, or the homemade therapist I find in my dog. Each song has its own birthing journey through contractions and agitations. Like any birth, there’s always the threat of death, and sometimes songs kill me. Like a mother knows that life will never be the same after that little one comes out through her legs, the end is just the start of being born, again -each generation of ourselves an evolution.
All that to say: it feels like the art makes me (rather than the other way around). I surrender to its molding, and somehow a sound comes out.
I offer it as my gift of reflection now: as we grow together, may we all find the boundless beauty all around.
It’s a kind of self-hypnosis of hope that keeps me going when there’s no where to go. I make art to remind myself that I’m the one writing the show. I may not have control over the surprises that come in every act, but there is a choice in how I play with what I get. I’ve chosen love as the script.
It’s a practice that for some time I gave a name, and even taught workshops to invite others into the play. It’s simple: everything becomes poetry when we see ourselves in it, and when we ask good questions, the poetry always brings a message. Still it takes honestly: we don’t always get what we want or expect to see, but when we trust in the mirror, it always guides us into the next level of our journey.
It’s about the grace of growth, the same kind of yearning that sprouts feel when they reach towards the sun, even as they may not know what they’ll become.
Technically, I’m not actually an artist. I didn’t go to art school or music school or theater school or film school. I don’t know how to read music and I barely play the ukulele. What I make is pure magic that even surprises me sometimes because I don’t actually know how I do what I do, but I suppose that not-knowing is what makes it feel so true. I like the mystery in the making.
Still, it’s a discipline. Behind each song is hours of talking out-loud to the flies on the wall, or the homemade therapist I find in my dog. Each song has its own birthing journey through contractions and agitations. Like any birth, there’s always the threat of death, and sometimes songs kill me. Like a mother knows that life will never be the same after that little one comes out through her legs, the end is just the start of being born, again -each generation of ourselves an evolution.
All that to say: it feels like the art makes me (rather than the other way around). I surrender to its molding, and somehow a sound comes out.
I offer it as my gift of reflection now: as we grow together, may we all find the boundless beauty all around.
The Invitation
I see a world where we sing together, and even those who don’t sing have a part in the song. Today’s challenges can feel daunting without humming along. But, when we bring art, music, stories and poetry to the chores and tasks that feel so heavy, we are lifted into the joy of being. Chopping wood, carrying water, having those tough conversations, cleaning the toilet, weeding the garden: it’s all fun when we we make it a play. I’ve always dreamed of a living musical to pave the way.
We are the most endearing characters that this real world has ever seen, call it fiction, call it a dream.
I suppose that why it’s kinda perfect that I don’t really know what I’m doing: I like to be living proof that you don’t need fancy degrees, training, or top-notch equipment to play your part like a star.
This is an open-source invitation to make a play of loving who we are.
We are the most endearing characters that this real world has ever seen, call it fiction, call it a dream.
I suppose that why it’s kinda perfect that I don’t really know what I’m doing: I like to be living proof that you don’t need fancy degrees, training, or top-notch equipment to play your part like a star.
This is an open-source invitation to make a play of loving who we are.