It just happened. The crazy, I mean. The first crayon I held was like a magic wand and I knew instantly there were countless worlds to explore. At the edge of the backyard of my childhood home stretched a cornfield three times taller than the tallest boy and I was definitely not that boy. It stood so deep and vast that it looked like green midnight inside.
This is my alchemy...this is how I attempt to transmogrify negative to positive. This is what I have to give. This is my little drummer boy crazy. This is Vicarious Velocity.
April 5th - August 2nd, 2019
Jason Comotto Kansas City
My drive to create art mirrors my motivations to watch movies, listen to music, and read books. I enjoy a good story. I want a plot and characters that make me crave a journey the way I did when I was 5. Over the years the objects that hold these stories seem to have taken on some of the same attributes. When I look at the ninja turtles tape now, I think of my mom walking me through the video store. I remember the times huddled on the carpet watching it with my brother. I held onto it the same way you do with a childhood blanket. I have had countless opportunities to get rid of all these things. But I can’t. And at some point these objects became just as important as the information hidden within them.
June 7th - September 4th, 2019
Taylor Crites Excelsior Springs, Missouri
My paintings are the liminal Rubicon fluctuating ever uneasily between perception and imagination, and cross in resolute desire towards the unvanquished wildernesses of Imagination. Images, that is Images with a capital I (which engage all the senses beyond the merely optical, as well as the inner senses of intellect, imagination and emotion), are born of a talismanic urge and a bedeviling ambiguity concerning any form of representation. What is lost when we reconstitute the innately equivocal experiences of existence into the paradigmatic captivity of an Image? Through the inherent reduction and pseudo- caricature all art is, can an Image evoke, enlarge and elaborate its fiendishly untraceable origins rather than merely reinterpret them, propagate superficialities, fumblingly retrace and artfully reproduce/reduce? Memories are the fossils of experience; desire is their re-inception’s catalyst. The Remembered is a degraded palimpsest of the Actual, much scribbled-over by the ceaseless reimagining of the innumerable selves we are and inevitably become. This is one of the paramount concerns throughout my paintings and writings, which together constitute my grand theater of Images. They embody a quasi- parodic ekphrasis sublime in the catharsis of its Images, an art-experience that though ostensibly secular in theme and content, broaches on the purely religious, an inner poetics intensely ambiguous in its relation to literality, in its belief in an eternity bound God and material revelation.