I never read short biographical notes.
I find chronological lists of main life events sterile.
So why should I expect you to read mine?
Again, if the interest is focused on ‘use’,
(as in to put something in a particular purpose),
then the list I would provide, would not satisfy your ambition.
I could then leave this space blank.
Blank like the life spans in which all appearances would proclaim:
a human body has contracted to the mere sustenance of its breath
states of motionlessness,
Yet the making of the work lies in stasis
and the drawing of the life in its acknowledgement.
I do not declare this a choice.
This is what I have: a hungry body,
an ever-changing net of multiple needs drafted in the awareness of death.
The search for food is a messy business and invariably tailor made. I dig with scissors into the guts of other bodies and concurrently into mine. The sorting is sedulous and long but shameless. My maintenance stinks of putrefaction. My liberation.
Unlike myths of creation, nothing comes first or second; nor does the word precede the building. Looking for food is blinded by the need, and therefore this biography will not have a culmination. I discover the child because I am in despair; I invent the woman because you are in my way; I force both of us into the artist because there is confinement.
Body wants to grow. I grow in stasis.