Art (2015)

 

Not everyone in a turban and beard is an enemy. I created this self-portrait as part of a series examining the very real human toll of war—a toll that is often glossed over in the films of Hollywood that glorify violence for the sake of entertainment. I assume the persona of an Afghan Tajik from Northern Afghanistan and created a semi-fictional life story of hardship, war, and death. I use the term “semi-fictional” as his story is a composite of stories I heard while in Afghanistan. This character—much like a large part of myself—is dead; for few go to war and return whole. I served as an infantry advisor to the Afghan National Army in northern Afghanistan during 2010, the most violent year of that war. Myself and eight other Americans spent a large part of our tour living in a remote outpost with 40 Afghan soldiers, the majority of whom were ethnic Tajik. The region we lived in was likewise majority Tajik, though there were other ethnic groups present. Afghanistan itself is an anomaly of empire—created by a line drawn on a map during the “Great Game” between Russia and the United Kingdom. I lived among the soldiers of the Afghan army. I shared meals and jokes with them. We fought alongside each other and mourned our dead together. We forged a mutual respect for one another. In this photo, I wear traditional clothing that one of my local interpreters, a Tajik and good friend, bought for me. Not a day goes by that I do not think of the war or the people involved. I left a part of myself over there and brought back something else in its place. This piece is symbolic of that transformation and illustrative of the cross-cultural relationship between advisor and foreign soldier: a sharing of belief, identity, and hardship. Moreover, it serves as a stark reminder to the harsh realities of war and its many faces: soldier, civilian, Westerner, Tajik, Hazara, Uzbek, Pashtun, young and old. At least eight American, Hungarian, and German soldiers and one of my Afghan soldiers were killed in this small corner of northern Afghanistan during the six months that I was there. May they never be forgotten.

 

 

 

Doc served as a combat medic during the Vietnam War from 1967-1968. He was 19 years old during the Tet Offensive. He has survived four separate cancers, all related to exposure to Agent Orange. His war was long ago and he has grown older, but it is still fresh in his mind.

 

 

 

Every day, we encounter innumerable details that we likely disregard. The quiet smell of a woman sitting next to you, the cashier who you never bother to make eye-contact with, the hundred tiny movements of a hand as it grabs a glass or scratches an itch. Sometimes we lose these details because we do not understand them, or see relevance in them, or more likely, we just don’t notice them. Oil painting is one of the most fundamental and powerful ways to capture those subtleties and nuances, compact them into a space and build something out of them. In my piece, “Pilgrimage to Supercuts,” I focus on the “little people” who are, too often, the neglected details of our day to day. The impact of the subtleties of the painting – the brush strokes, the thick layers of color – compact and interact with each other to create a face, just as the “little people” compact and interact to create the foundations of community. The figure in the painting is a man who travels around the world and devotes his life to sharing his stories to other people. He guides other transients through those stories, these collections of details so that they may find relevance in their own details. I intended for the subject to match the real person as closely as possible; however, through the knack of accident, many viewers see another familiar face in his. There’s a reason why I spent 30 hours painting a face that no one looks at. 

 

 

 

This installation is from an exploration of multiples. In this case, multiples of one face. Exploring texture, finish, and display, this piece exhibits a unique perspective on the somber expressions of sleep and eternal rest.

 

 

 

This image is the compilation of a collection of photos I took while experimenting with photographing the stars on a cold November night in Bozeman, Montana. With 10 to 30-second exposures, I was left a good amount of time between each shot to gaze up and wonder about the infinite expanse above me. Thankfully, the cold was temporary, but I will always still wonder.

 

 

 

There are states of mind which occur where we are not aware of ourselves. We are having an experience but are not consciously reflecting on that experience, our attention is fully devoted to what we are doing. These are peak experiences, and it is these moments which I live for. My work is trying to provoke these moments both for myself, when I am creating and for others when they are experiencing the work. I am not looking for some middle ground, I am looking for what is most profound.

 

 

 

There are states of mind which occur where we are not aware of ourselves. We are having an experience but are not consciously reflecting on that experience, our attention is fully devoted to what we are doing. These are peak experiences, and it is these moments which I live for. My work is trying to provoke these moments both for myself, when I am creating and for others when they are experiencing the work. I am not looking for some middle ground, I am looking for what is most profound.

 

 

 

As an individual who is currently transitioning from childhood to adulthood, I’ve noticed that I’ve lost much of the creativity I once possessed in adolescence. Picasso depicted this idea when he said, “Everyone is an artist. The problem is how we remain an artist when we grow up.” I intended this piece to represent the results of growing up. The further we diverge from childhood, the more rigid and narrow our boundaries become, and we cannot think for ourselves. I believe that creativity’s executioner is the fear of being wrong. Children gain experience by attempting new things. While no giraffes (that we know of ) wear purple scarfs and boots, a child doesn’t see that as wrong. Adults do, and because of this, we limit ourselves. The way we can solve this is simply by taking risks. In this piece, for example, I used my non-dominant hand to illustrate the child’s rendition of the giraffe. It was to mimic how a child draws, but I also felt less restrained. With my untrained hand I could experience art the way I did fifteen years ago. That refreshing start gave me more freedom, and I felt that I had been pushed out of my boundaries into a new creative space.

 

 

 

This piece commemorates the role that animals have played throughout my life. Ever since I was a child I have been fascinated with the animal kingdom, and I have felt especially inspired by reptilian patterns and textures. Within the hustle and bustle of modern society, I feel that it is easy to lose sight of the beauty that the Natural World has to offer. My goal with this sculpture was to offer the viewer a chance to observe this beauty from a new perspective. The lizard stands in a contemplative stance, signifying the respect and admiration I have toward these extraordinary creatures. Each scale was carved by hand with a dental tool, making this project extremely time consuming. As a commemorative piece, I wanted to put in as much effort as I could so that the viewer could experience the same feelings that I do when observing Nature’s creations.

 

 

 

 

 

“60 lbs” is a series of self-portraits that explore what it’s felt like to lose nearly 1/3 of myself. Although I am happy and comfortable with my body now, my memories of the past, especially in my childhood home, are still haunted and overwhelmed by the insecurities and discomfort of being overweight. Using 60 lbs of pig fat to represent the 60 lbs I’ve lost, I wanted to face those memories head on by re-experiencing and visualizing the physical weight that was lost and also the residual emotional weight that remains. Although society focuses on the external appearance and success of health and weight loss, the internal emotional journey is a far longer process that can’t be judged by numbers. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An overt threat from your Subconscious: death of the I/ welcome to New York City It is dark on the corner of broad-way and base-line, darker than I have ever seen it in this wash of 24 years. The night hOlds the BLACK usually reserved for a moonless Midnight fog, in a dense Canopy of trees. the stars offer no respite, and the only hint of form I can make out of the darkened faMiliar shopping center is illuMinated by the deep flashing purPles of an electrical stoRm broiling amongst the peAks of the mountains. It is warm. Summer time. But there are no cars, no people, no trees, and the stark buildings offer no salvation of light in their onyx window panes. I begin to walk the familiar path from the corner, around the stAr-buckS, behind the tac-o-bell, and towards my old safe house of the brew-Ing-mark-it. but, as I begin to pass through the parking lot, I realize that there are people there behind the veiled obsidian glass of the windows, they whisper of the evils they dream of, their voices carry across the silent vOid, amplified by the deafening flashes and silence of the electrical storm crashing in vehement waves behind me. The violet flashes launch my criPpled shadow fifty feet in front of me, illuminating my fraYed edges in SHARP relief. after a time of watching their voices plot across the failiNg distance between us, I slowly turn to my left, and wander towards the street searching for some solidarity from the stoic road. i trace the siDewalk, which lines the road, following its path back towards the star-bucks, which waits my arrival in complaCent silence. As I near the parking lot I realize that time has been RAVaging the concrete, craCks and fiSSures run in joyful chaos through the extent of the parking lot at recalcitrant angles, rarely capitulating the my desire for them to REJOIN. RootS from long dead treEs have forced the sidewalk into waves and fissures. As I stAnd there wasting away, enjoying the power of time, I hear the muffled yell of an unintelligible word float slowly though the void of time created by the violet lightning. As I try to decipher the meaning of the sound pulsating through my brain I see a man running from the darkness, his form moving as slOw as the sound which recently burst so violently from the confines of his throat. He is wreathed in the rags of a vagabond, the outer shell billowing behind him in his haste. His face is lined like the rapidly deteriorating cement I am standing on, ravaged by the force of a million years condensed into seconds. His beard is white like a glaCier in an oil spiLl. his hOod hides his hair, but in his eyes I sEe the sTorm gathering behind me, his irises’ are so blue that they appear white, and his oversized pupils are threatening to consume me. I try to scream, or run, as his disembodied call slowly washes over me again, but I am frozen in place. I watch in paralytic horror as the time and space between us collapse.

 

 

 

Cadence, Steven Andrew Thomas

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Artichoke Heart, Taylor Grzesiek 

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