Human beings have, if nothing else, one thing in common. They occupy a bodily space; they breathe, eat, excrete, flake, blink, salivate, ejaculate, and expire. But what does it really mean to have a body? We are profoundly weird creatures, let's face it. We are fleshy bags supported by really hard things that expel solids and liquids on a regular basis. Yet, somehow we are infinitely more than that. Even though we, on some level, know we exist in a body, rarely do we truly think about it. In everyday life, we can't. If we sat and pondered the miracles at work every time we took a step, blinked an eye or digested a meal, nothing would get done. However, you must think about it, must consider the finite nature of the space you occupy as a flesh bag if you are to come to a greater understanding of yourself and the world around you.
Much of art is about the shared experience, and there is nothing more shared than bodily existence. In much of my work, I wish to remove artificial distinctions of "othering" that we place on other people to help elevate the human condition. I want to make my audience think about what humans share, beyond my American identity, my artistic identity, or any other institution I choose to identify with, I have a human identity.
The question now becomes how do we usually receive imagery dealing with the body, and how can I subvert that imagery to force my audience into a different, questioning, thinking mindset? The only bodily imagery we are even remotely comfortable with is anatomical illustration. When we look at the body as an object of study, as a tibialis anterior and extensor carpialis brevis, it becomes acceptably neutered imagery. It is my intention to remove that imagery that we (sometimes) recognize as bodily from its studious context and into real thinking about the human experience.
The illustrations of Vesalius, as well as the paintings of Jenny Saville (and by association Lucien Freud) have been most influential in thinking about my recent work. Vesalius and many of the old masters drew anatomical imagery, but Vesalius takes his images from purely studious to overly romanticized works of skeletons leaning over hearths built into Italian vistas, or people gracefully posing on a rocky hillside holding their own skin. For me, looking at the work of Vesalius was the beginning of looking at flesh (as in muscles, tissue, viscera) in a different way, and wanting more of it.
However, I have a glaring problem with Vesalius. No matter how flayed the flesh, or aching the skeleton, the bodies were always so very perfect. They tie themselves firmly to classical Greek sculpture, which I have always found to be far too much muscle bound idealism than the stunning realism it is so often referred to. Such is the power of art. Because we have looked back to the idealism of the ancient Greeks for so long, the idealized has become what we believe reality should be. Classical beauties, with their bulging veins and perfectly articulated muscles are few and far between.
I have a lingering interest in the beauty inherent in all people, even the ugly ones. Which is why the work of Jenny Saville resonated so strongly with me. Her paintings depict bloodied, fat, beaten bodies that are still more beautiful and relatable than any flower or beatific landscape. Her paintings show the body as a hunk of meat, a bloody stretchable, squashable, messy thing, that desires like you do, lives like you do, and will die like you will.
I want a form of that "Saville-ness" for myself, I admit. Our bodies, and by extension, our lives are messy affairs. The true nature of life is far closer to Fight Club than it is to Pride and Prejudice. Bodies and people are, in general, ugly vaguely hairy animals. I love them all the same. It is a true measure of my fascination with the human body that I seek beauty and humanity in the acne scars and stretch marks. I find the cross section of a human neck terribly intriguing, and you should too.
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