As the political and social climate in this country grows increasingly volatile, I find myself frequently brooding over what, as an artist, I can and should be doing. I lay awake at night scheming elaborate, frightening art installations involving icebergs, skeletons, semi-automatic weapons, and live rabbits. (Those ideas never pass muster in the light of day.) I write songs about thoughtlessness and rivers on fire. (You can listen to those songs on soundcloud.com/thankyou-einstein). I take odd photos like this one of a porta-potty in the moonlight, that somehow seem to me like messages or metaphors. Is the porta-potty our humanity? Is it a different, rarely documented angle of the white house? Is the moon representing hope? Does it symbolize ambivalence? I really can’t say. I only know that my typical urge to build lush bright images of thriving root formations and curious creatures has been replaced by something morbid and unsettling.
