Going back to New York was a convention of sorts, a delegation around my old heart. Although I was physically unable to meet up with all of my loved ones, I did reconnect with a few friends from back then, creative peers even, warmly generous souls who showed that the sun also shines radiantly up north. I found myself residing amongst true family even still.

Those connections proved medicinal to me, offering balm to the frictional wounds of transition. I recognized during that period of my trip that in order to be reborn, it was imperative that I be stripped bare. Reduced to the bare essentials. Deprived of longstanding comforts. Starting from the nape of a permanent address, through a narrowed wardrobe, right on down to my ego, I was to be naked from pride's defenses. Vulnerable at the woodshed. Finding footing on a questionable wooden plank. My life was on the ledge and I began to know failure was the only option.

I remembered a friend telling me how liberating "bombing on stage" was for him as an emerging comedian and my understanding around & failure began to set in. My benchmark for success was askew by the definitions and expectations of others. If I'm never honored with a solo show at Tate Modern, I haven't failed. Just as an abundance of Facebook "likes" and YouTube hits don't necessarily constitute success. Ultimately, my fear of failing had been greater than my will to succeed. So I had to face the beast full on. To feel the burn of disappointment. To be a chastising villain, an alter-ego to my heroic illusions, executing a strategic maneuver of self-sabotage. But I'd always worked hardest in the looming presence of last resorts & under the shadows of deadlines. It was my back-against-the-wall reflex. To do or die. The brash determination of necessity. I concluded that in order to save my life, I had to be shown I was losing it.

For as one life is lost, another finds its way. During an act of samaritanism, I found myself five hours north of NYC, assisting a friend of a friend in transporting her belongings back home to Rochester. This individual deed introduced me to her mother, an activist and art collector, who was curating an upcoming exhibition on the Rochester riots (rather, rebellion) of 1964. Its 50th anniversary was approaching; she enlisted my help in illustrating the historical causes and the psychological climate surrounding those events. The endeavor proved to be a well-rounded learning experience, concerning history, as well as overcoming the challenges of illustrating on commission while remaining devoted to my personal creative approaches.

Eine Katalogpublikation ist in Vorbereitung- a catalogue will be
published in September 2016 by ZELLERMAYER Galerie Berlin