I like to collect a few specific things that most people would throw away.
What does the evidence/detritus of a daily ritual look like hoarded over one year or five? Ten? What does it look like when someone meticulously cares for those discarded pieces?
Everything can be precious…even placebo pills, old tea bags, and state proofs. Sorting and organizing creates logic from disorder; a systemic rationalization of the absurd.
At what point does a habit of collecting or a fondness for familiar things become a signal of madness? Artists spend lifetimes articulating personal narrative in an impersonal world, embracing or dismissing the nostalgia that drives many to collect.
Nostalgia; defined by 19th century medics as the “vehement desire to go home,” it seems only logical to agree with those who say artists are mostly mad.
Printmaking itself seems mad: obsess in the perfect replication of a repetitive task. Smear ink all over ones’ self and other things, only to wipe it all away again. Lather, rinse, repeat.