An act of protest.
 
I've had a long-held hatred for abstract expressionism or ABEX art. These four pieces went against everything my art practice stood for. I became obsessed with these squiggles, scribbles, marks, and moments of chaos that create these pieces. They consumed my mind every time I closed my eyes, and until last night, I didn't know why. 
 
What does it mean to sit and scribble in a dying world?
Am I worthy of scribbling?
Who deserves to scribble?
 
You of course, but I didn't know that you also included me. 
Nothing in this world tells me, I am meant to scribble, nothing about this existence fosters this approach, yet here I sit, scribbling. 
The joy, the release, the freedom of the paint and the magic of the unknown, these are the feelings I crave, they are not the ones I run towards. 
 
My art has been pain, it has been documentation, it has been, emotion, it has been honest, it has been cruel, it has been kind, but it rarely is made with glee. To fund my existence, as a previously unhoused queer body, through scribbles, is to reclaim the time I lost in my childhood.
 
I can scribble for there are crayons,
there is paper,
there is time,
 and there is safety enough to scribble. 
 
Dimensions: 18 x 24 in.