This aggregation of form must be like the slow building of a snail shell. The work is in just adding to what’s there: starting at that one spot where the growth left off, working your way around but always spiraling outward, always adding on to — each movement contributing to something larger. Aggregations.
I had purple hair and drove a ’67 Chevy Caprice I had glued things to and painted … and she wore black wings and drove her ostentatiously large shiny red pickup truck with her name emblazoned on the front! It only made sense that we’d meet up in her driveway and chat.
... he made up for it by mailing me fantastic Thurber-esque cartoons, some of which I didn't realize were also adult-esque until years later. (A well-endowed woman wearing pearls with the caption "Whose cellar door is good for sliding down? Mrs. Gotrocks, that's who!")
I think of making spaces as sacred. Not in some precious sense — just the opposite. ...They are the physical space where ideas in our heads come into the world. They are sacred because they're where shit gets real.
I like dung beetles. And I mean really like – a dung beetle pushing a ball of dung is on my short list for tattoo number three. (If that seems gross to you just refer to it as a scarab – oh yes, it's suddenly so noble!) They are a nice shape. They represent intense transformation. They seem sincere and comical at the same time, and I relate to that. And then there's the whole without them we would be drowning in poop factor.