Inside of Us
To me veins are like secrets the body has let slip. More subtle and quiet than excretions or orifices, they show the insides of us, through the outside. They are weak-points, ones we all have. They emerge where the skin is thin, close to the bone. Their colour occurs rarely in nature, and in terms of the body has implications of death, in art it connotes spirituality or the infinite. The blood is blue because it has no oxygen -it's been spent, and so in a way we see little these pieces of death evident in the living body. And we can only ever see it in this state, this colour, whilst it is contained by the flesh, as soon as it is exposed to the outside environment it oxidizes and becomes red. I wonder what it would be like if we could see the micro-second before it changes, that thick blue liquid. Part of what interests me is this desire to see more, to be closer to something, but knowing that it would be destroyed before you could. This tension between embracing, absorbing or fusing with something, and holding it at a distance, looking and never really being able to enter it or to be pierced by it, is what to me defines an 'image'. Although technically sculptures, I consider these to be images.
