I used to think of my sculptures as reliquaries, as each sculpture contained the portraits of an individual who violently fought for anti-racist, anti-capitalist, or anti-imperialist causes.  I spoke of the work as an act of contrition – as if ritualistically venerating a domestic terrorist could absolve myself of my own political indolence.  Since then, however, the scope of the work has slightly changed.

I have realized, however, that the word “reliquary” does not quite capture the nature of these sculptures.  The portraits I paint are not holy relics, but rather a physical testament to the hours I spend researching these actors’ lives and the structures they fought against.  Furthermore, these individuals are not saints: they are terrorists, charlatans, and scammers.  If anything, these sculptures are over-involved exercises in art handling, as I am creating wooden crates specifically designed to hold and transport paintings.  These crates then become Trojan Horses, smuggling criminals into the white-cube art space. 

What I am really doing here, I think, is questioning my own role as a political actor.  If mailing bombs to elected officials, self-immolating on the steps of the Supreme Court, and Voting Blue no Matter Who feels so futile, then what hope do I, the atomized artist working alone in my studio, have to tear down the structures which dictate our lives?  Can I invent my own aesthetic sensibility and use it to recruit adherents to a Leftist cause?  Is my artwork a political act, or is it merely a replacement for political involvement? 

I realize I am not only asking these questions of myself, but that I am also asking them of the audience.  I want the audience to read the wall labels and to engage with the histories my sculptures contain.  I want my audience to understand the abstruse structures of power Donald DeFreeze fought against, and Scooter Libby fought to maintain.  I want the audience to appreciate that the physical space these sculptures occupy is also a socio-political space. 

I have created sculptures for the following individuals: Ted Kaczynski, Kenneth Lay, Chris Dorner, Donald DeFreeze, Francis Hughes, Diana Oughton, Abu Zubaydah, Scooter Libby, Andreas Baader, and Ulrike Meinhof.  These sculptures’ forms point to nameable objects divorced from their utility: a wheel which cannot spin, a boat which cannot float, an uncomfortable throne, and an empty sarcophagus.  These sculptures also point to American vernacular architecture and furniture traditions, and in turn suggest my sculptures have a tradition of their own: an alternative cultural canon which revels in the absurdity of martyrdom and the malevolent vacancy of deep-state bureaucrats.