Garage Band

Rumble whine

Rumble Growl

I don't know, do yoooo?

High Whine

Gibber Gabber

Do you know? I don't know

Do I have to? Don't tell me what to do

Who the fuck knows?

Whine in Growl

Memory + Oblivion
What I have in common with all makers of art, including the novelists, poets and composers I so admire ( and envy ), is Memory.
I have come to believe that memory is the driving force of art, with time as its engine, and Oblivion as its fuel (which will inevitably run out). Memory, yes, but not just personal remembrances and under-surface memories of pain, desire and disappointment from my youth, not just biography.
I am addressing the idea of memory as sensory, sensational and sensual, something we share as human beings across all divisions and differences, including historical time. It is life lived through light, fragrance, odor, touch soothing, sexual or painful, warmth and cold, dark, sounds and rhythms
booming, rustling or harmonic, shapes, colors, objects, voices and whispers, movement, silence, and tastes.
Memory marks the life lived and passing, racing up to the present and shooting past us into forgetting and nothingness. Art can, must, help us to recall it, to recall it again and hold it, savor it, not as the thing or moment itself but as the memory of its sensation. Art is the agent of memory.
We have to let go of the event, sense or object as we move through time and space, but the work of art is the station, the receptacle, the safeguard, the treasury - and the transmitter - of the memory, of the life lived and the lives shared.


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