COSMETIC CARNAGE

A broken promise for every broken back. A chipped nail for every chipped plate. An hour spent pining for every minute spent darning. A wrinkle for every ruffle; a snag in an old pair of stockings for every novel bought in the grocery check-out. A stubborn stain to scour for every passionate smear. A slow death for every "forever" that never began.

Is there a virgin-goddess left in all the land? Is your uterus cursed?
Should one have his "trophy-wife" stuffed and mounted in her prime?
When the apron strings are cut and the food, feces and grime-stained smock falls to the floor will we be repulsed or transfixed by the flesh that has been revealed beneath?

In my work, surface ideals of feminine desirability butt up against rather un-sexy realities such as gender-assigned labor, sociological expectations, psychic vulnerability and physical mortality (decay).

Symbols of fertility, innocence and beauty are combined with (and made from) bodily detritus, domestic furnishings and women's garments. Seed pods, giant clamshells, soiled gloves, tangled bedsprings, and botched dissections are embellished with frills and notions reminiscent of prom-dresses, wedding veils, flower gardens, plush velvet interiors of jewelry boxes, drug-store cosmetics and hand-made valentines. Hair that has fallen out of my head is meticulously collected from sheets, laundry piles and floorboards and is then laced into a wedding veil. A miniature bridge, connecting no two discernable points, is assembled from clippings of the nails from my fingers and toes. Once the laundry is dry, the lint is separated by color and pressed into over-sized roses.

The construction is sometimes crude, but is always laborious in necessity.
Tedium emphasizes a frenetic obsession. Every tuck, every tick, every stitch is a record of time passed. Neurosis becomes meditation. Meditation wants to be exorcism. Memory wants desperately to be immortal, but forever is a long time.