IV: A "QUIET" YEARWhen a few projects of mine got a surprising amount of attention online, I realized I was not comfortable with the way people were reacting to my work. The problem was me, not them: as much as I had a decent technical understanding of my crafts, and as much as I could let myself be personal and vulnerable on impulse, I didn’t know how my technique and my personal expressions related to one another. So I abandoned the megalomania, stopped trying to develop my “brand”, and just made things that made me happy for a while.
III: PLASTICITY VERSUS DEPRESSIONI turned 18 and the world didn’t worship me yet. This, for me, was a problem. So I became obsessed with figuring out how to give people what they would want—and all the while, I became more and more miserable with my life. It took me weirdly wrong to figure out the problem: the more I tried to adjust to people around me, the less of me they actually saw. So something snapped and I began venting the hell out of my life. I became openly unhappy, and damn proud of it.
II: I CALLED MYSELF A WRITER AND IT WAS A MISTAKEI was weird and kind of a jerk in high school, so I didn’t have a whole ton of friends. I decided I would be a Writer instead, and that my fame and fortune would compensate me for all my childhood misery. That was probably not necessary. So… lots of alienation, lots of detachment from other people, lots of wondering if the problem was me or them. Lots of love letters, obvs. It was a dark era.
I: The Early Fuckaround YearsLooking back, I had a lot of fun as a kid. Some of the ways I went about making things remind me of how I make things today: a lot of (relative) ambition, wrapped up in a ton of whimsy. Some of the things I talked about became things I still obsess over today, but with a decade more of naiveté. The seeds are interesting to me. In certain ways, I haven’t changed much.
0: Half-Grown GardensThese are the half-grown gardens, stretched between the nothing which once was and the everything which still might be. We both grow from them and cultivate them, shaping that which shapes and has shaped us. They blossom into and within themselves. They are endlessly strange. They are still growing. There is always more.