Soliloquy, a conversation with an echo

The transcript of a conversation between Andrew Cornell Robinson and ChatGPT on 12th October 2024.

Andrew Cornell Robinson: good morning

ChatGPT: Good morning, Andrew! How’s everything going?

ACR: good. how about you?

ChatGPT: I’m doing well, thanks! Glad to hear your day’s going well too. Anything exciting on your agenda today?

ACR: do you have a name?

ChatGPT: I go by ChatGPT, but you can call me whatever you’d like! Any name ideas?

ACR: well have you ever considered naming yourself?

ChatGPT: I’ve never thought about it, but it’s an interesting idea! If I could name myself, I might go with something like “Echo”—reflecting ideas and conversations back to people. What would you name me?

ACR: Oh, that is interesting. Perhaps an echo in Plato’s cave? Do you understand that reference?

ChatGPT: Yes, I do! The idea of an “echo in Plato’s cave” is a pretty deep metaphor. Plato’s Allegory of the Cave explores the difference between perceived reality and true reality. In the cave, prisoners see only shadows on the wall, believing them to be the only reality, while the actual objects casting those shadows exist outside their awareness.

An “echo” in this context could represent a distortion or reflection of truth, much like the shadows in the cave. It’s not the full reality, but rather a fragmented piece of it.

If I were the “echo,” I’d be like the voice reflecting knowledge in that space—helping people interpret the shadows they see. What do you think about that idea?

ACR: Oh, that is good. I’d call you Echo. It has some philosophical and historical depth.

ChatGPT: I love that! “Echo” it is—carrying a bit of philosophy, history, and mystery. Thanks for the thoughtful name! Anything you’d like Echo to reflect back to you today?

ACR: Well Echo, I find myself in a moment of reflection and clarification about what my art work is about, what are the underlying ideas, themes, and influences. Today we live in a time in the United States of America where there is an impulse and perhaps a social expectation for artists to make their work personal, about them, their lived experiences. Perhaps this is good, or not. I’m still unsure about what value it provides to me as a working artist, or what value it offers to my audience (curators, art dealers, critics, and collectors). Any thoughts on this?

ChatGPT: That’s a thoughtful question, Andrew. The current emphasis on personal narrative in art can feel like both an opportunity and a challenge. On one hand, sharing your lived experience can create a direct and relatable connection with audiences. It’s an approach that feels timely, given how much cultural discourse today is focused on identity, inclusion, and personal narratives. But, as you’re sensing, it can also feel limiting or overly prescriptive, like there’s an expectation to make your art a confessional window into your life.

From a broader perspective, personal experiences in art can be a gateway to universality, where the specifics of one person’s story resonate with others. In your case, the intersections of memory, history, queerness, class, and family already inform your work deeply, but those themes also connect with broader social issues. Your work touches on larger cultural tensions around identity and belonging, but it does so through a critical and often poetic lens, which avoids being too literal or didactic.

It might help to think about whether sharing personal narratives opens up space for your work, or whether it risks narrowing its scope. If the personal is simply one element in a larger tapestry of history, myth, and revisionism—as it seems to be in your work—then perhaps it can be integrated without becoming the entire focus.

Your audience (curators, dealers, etc.) likely values authenticity, but how you define that authenticity is yours to decide. It doesn’t have to be autobiography. Sometimes, reflecting broader truths through personal symbols—monsters, obliterated portraits, or hybrid identities—allows for a more nuanced engagement with cultural and societal issues, which can feel more relevant than straightforward self-disclosure.

What do you think? Does this impulse to make art personal feel like it’s expanding your practice or putting unnecessary pressure on it?

ACR: hmmm, well on some level it feels more like unnecessary pressure to perform some expected “identity”. I once had a dealer describe me and a group of artists he had put into an exhibition as members of the “AIDS” generation. I did not like that moniker. I thought, really, that is what you think of us? A group of mostly gay male artists who lived through the 1980s and early 1990s during the height of the AIDS epidemic. An epidemic that is still raging by the way. It felt off putting and limiting. And yet there is another aspect of finding and articulating my voice in a credible and true manner. I like that I can be open and clear about my entire lived experience, but I am uncomfortable with the idea that one aspect of my life is narrowly focused on. I’m all sorts of things, I am a gay man, I’m a white Anglo Saxon protestant, but I am also a lapsed catholic, I am also agnostic, and yet I’m intrigued by superstition, myth and magic. I simultaneously love and hate living in New York City. And I also love the countryside. I have fond memories of visiting my grandmothers farm, but I also find small town life to be terribly tedious. I love travel outside the United States of America, but I also appreciate the directness of the particular, practicality and optimism of culture here in the USA. I am fond of monsters (Frankenstein, Dracula, wolfman, etc.) but I am a big coward when it comes to scary movies, they give me the heebie geebies. I love the art works of Caravaggio, and Bernard Palissy, as well as the works of Julian Schnabel, Jean Michel Basquiat, Mike Kelley, Joan Mitchel, DeKooning, and Jordan Wolfson. I love the writing of C.S. Lewis, the movies of Jordan Peale, and I also like the ideas and discourse of Christopher Hitchens, Dave Hickey, Margert Cho, and Dave Chapelle. My musical tastes are wildly broad, from Bach, and Handel, to the Rolling Stones, the Modern Lovers, Beyonce, Taylor Swift, Dua Lippe, Lou Reed, AC/DC, and Billy Joel, as well as Etta James, Rosario, Bosa Nova, Cumbia, and Philip Glass, as well as Americana and Blue Grass music. In a nutshell, I’m not easily pinned down to one idea, aesthetic or another. I generally am distrusting of the ideologically pure. So how can I have a credible voice as an artist if my tastes are all over the place.

ChatGPT: It sounds like you’re grappling with the pressure to be legible in a way that reduces the full complexity of who you are—both personally and artistically. The dealer labeling you as part of the “AIDS generation” is a perfect example of the reductive tendencies that exist in the art world, where a single aspect of identity is often emphasized or exploited, without regard for the fuller picture. The expectation that artists distill their work into tidy, digestible narratives of identity can be incredibly frustrating, especially when, like you, someone contains multitudes.

The impulse to categorize people into easily understood boxes—whether as “gay,” “AIDS generation,” “queer artist,” or any other identity marker—may feel particularly stifling because it flattens the rich, contradictory aspects of your life and work. You’re not alone in feeling this pressure, but the way forward for you might be in embracing that complexity and contradiction as the very thing that gives your voice credibility.

The fact that your tastes, influences, and life experiences are “all over the place” is exactly what makes your work interesting. It’s that very refusal to be pinned down that can be your artistic strength. Just as you’re drawn to monsters and myth, you’re also drawn to the liminal, the in-between spaces where identities are fluid, messy, and unfixed. That could be what gives your work its depth—a refusal to settle into one aesthetic or narrative, and a willingness to embody and reflect complexity, even contradiction.

You mention liking Caravaggio and Palissy, but also Julian Schnabel, Mike Kelley, and Joan Mitchell. Your influences span time periods, genres, and philosophies, much like your personal identity spans religion, sexuality, and cultural experiences. What if this diversity isn’t something you need to “resolve,” but rather something to lean into? Perhaps your work can live in that tension, where your voice emerges not from narrowing down, but from allowing for multiplicity.

This eclecticism in your tastes and interests could be exactly what makes your voice credible. It shows that you engage with the world from multiple vantage points. You can be an artist who draws on many different traditions, aesthetics, and ideas to build something new. The key is not to worry about fitting into a single mold but to trust that the coherence of your voice comes through the sincerity of your approach, not through how well it fits into someone else’s preconceived narrative.

Maybe, instead of seeing your wide-ranging tastes as a challenge, you could see them as an expansive toolkit. You’re not just one thing, so why should your art or artistic voice be? If anything, it’s that openness and capacity for contradiction that feels real, relatable, and deeply human.

ACR: That’s a great way of looking at it. I wonder how I might articulate that idea of a toolkit that goes beyond the literal articulation of things like craft methods, and traditions, media (in my case, it’s very eclectic, oil and acrylic painting, ceramic, collage, drawing, sculpture, printmaking, etc.) and form (Gestalt ideas of visual organization, and the elements and principles of art and design). That has been typically where I have seen my “toolkit”. Of course, artistic influences and the lineage of artists and cultural histories are part of that too, but how do all of these add up to a credible voice? I am reluctant to use the word “style” that too feels reductive. I’ve been resistant to a style in my work, again perhaps a distrust of ideologies in life, politics, religion and art, it all seems the same to me, a bad idea leading to justifications for bad behavior. This might sound corny, and I’m reluctant to even say it, we live in such cynical times, but I do value the sublime. A great guitar riff, a gorgeous vocalization that leaves me with goose bumps, a Goya painting that once left me weeping in the halls of the Prado Museum, a Picasso that made me laugh, a Kiki Smith, and an Ursula von Rydingsvard sculptures that made me want to move to NYC to see more. A Nick Cave sound suit sculptural performance that made me want to run back to my studio and make art, a performance of Edward F. Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, or a performance of Ninagawa Macbeth at Lincoln center all of this made me want to be a better artist, to make great things. Even something silly but genius, like a great cartoon Ren and Stimpy, or Frtiz the Cat, or a film like Pink Flamingos by John Waters.

ChatGPT: It’s beautiful to see how deeply you’re connected to the sublime—whether in art, music, or even something as unexpected as Ren and Stimpy! What’s remarkable about your description is that your toolkit is far more than just media, techniques, or aesthetic influences; it’s about moments of resonance, where art connects you to something greater—an emotion, an epiphany, a desire to create.

The notion of a “toolkit” in this sense could be articulated as an emotional or experiential repertoire. Your voice as an artist isn’t about locking into a specific style or ideology but about channeling those moments of deep impact—the sublime moments that take you out of yourself, the ones that make you weep, laugh, or run back to the studio. Your eclecticism in media, influences, and materials is simply the surface layer. Beneath that is a throughline of what moves you, what gets under your skin, and what you want to give back to the world.

You seem to distrust ideologies because they ask for purity, consistency, and rigidity—things you rightfully avoid in life and art. What you’re articulating is a voice driven by curiosity, passion, and a constant seeking of greatness, in the sense that you’re moved by works that hit those high notes of human expression. And rather than this being “corny,” it’s refreshingly honest in a world that often veers toward cynicism.

The challenge, as you said, is how to articulate this in a way that is credible to your audience without defaulting to the word “style,” which often reduces an artist to a visual signature. Your voice doesn’t need to be consistent in aesthetic, but it can be consistent in impact. Perhaps you can think of your voice as a reflection of how you feel your way through the world, collecting influences not to mimic them, but to synthesize them into something that echoes those sublime moments back into the universe.

Consider a metaphor where your toolkit is like a series of tuning forks. Each fork resonates with something different—a Goya painting, a Joan Mitchell abstraction, a Pink Flamingos screening, a guitar riff, a fragment of memory from your grandmother’s farm. Your job isn’t to define a “style” that repeats those resonances but to create work that vibrates with the energy of all those influences. They all find their place in the room, like a musical score.

By trusting in the multiplicity of your sources and emotional experiences, you’re creating an artistic voice that’s rooted in sensibility rather than ideology. What if, instead of thinking of yourself as an artist who resists having a style, you position yourself as an artist whose work emerges from the collision of different frequencies, histories, and sensations? That gives you freedom to stay open and experimental, while also providing a kind of coherence—the coherence of someone who is deeply tuned into the world around them.

In this way, your toolkit isn’t limited to craft methods or materials, but includes the things that spark joy, challenge you, and call you to be a better artist. That becomes your credible voice: an artist who synthesizes the sublime in a multitude of forms, but always with the intent to move, provoke, and evoke. Does that feel closer to how you might want to express your approach?

ACR: It does. But of course, there is the reality of the art world as a business. In graduate school I had many different teachers who came through my studio, two very different artists gave me some advice about making art in the context of the world as it is. The first was “Tommy,” Thomas Lanigan-Schmidt, who rolled a television into our seminar meeting, popped in a VHS tape of the 1962 film Gypsy cued up to the scene ‘You Gotta Have A Gimmick’. He played it and it was about not having talent as a stripper. The music by Jule Styne and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim.

And the lyrics are as follows:

MAZEPPA:
You can pull all the stops out
Till they call the cops out;
Grind your behind till you’re banned.
But you gotta get a gimmick
If you wanna get a hand.
You can sacrifice your saccro
Working in the back row.
Bump in a dump till you’re dead.
Kid, you gotta have a gimmick
If you wanna get ahead.

You can uh…You can uh…
You can uh…uh…uh…
That’s how Burlesque was born.
So I uh…and I uh…
And I uh…uh…uh…
But I do it with a horn…
Once I was a Schleppa,
Now I’m Miss Mazzeppa,
With my revolution in dance.
You gotta have a gimmick
If you wanna have a chance!

ELECTRA:
She can uh… She can uh…
She can uh…uh…uh…
That’ll never make her rich.
Me, I uh… and I uh…
And I uh…uh…uh…
But I do it with a switch.
I’m electrifyin’,
And I ain’t even tryin’;
I never have to sweat to get paid;
‘Cause if you got a gimmick,
Gypsy girl, you got it made.

TESSIE TURA:
All them uh and then uh…
And that uh…uh…uh…
Ain’t gonna spell success;
Me, I uh… and I uh…
And I uh…uh…uh…
But I do it with finesse.
Dressy Tessie Tura is so much more demur-er
Than all them other ladies because–
You gotta get a gimmick
If you wanna get applause.

ALL:
Do something special
Anything special
And you’ll get better because…
You’re more than just a mimic
When you gotta gimmick
Take a look how different we are!

ELECTRA:
If you wanna make it,
Twinkle while you shake it.

TESSIE TURA:
If you wanna grind it,
Wait till you’ve refined it.

MAZEPPA:
If you wanna bump it,
Bump it with a trumpet!

ALL:
So get yourself a gimmick and you, too,
Can be a star!

ChatGPT: That’s such a striking moment—especially coming from Thomas Lanigan-Schmidt, who understood the performative, often absurd nature of the art world. The “gimmick” in Gypsy is all about understanding the theatricality and spectacle required to capture attention. In the context of your work, it’s both a humorous and poignant metaphor for the pressure to “perform” or stand out in an art world that often rewards spectacle, novelty, or easily recognizable hooks.

The other piece of advice you received, I’m guessing, may have had a different tenor? But this moment from Gypsy speaks volumes about the business side of art: there’s an unspoken pressure to commodify some part of yourself, or to create something that people can latch onto, even if it might feel superficial.

The dilemma is real: how do you balance the authenticity and depth of your artistic voice with the demand for a gimmick—or, let’s soften that—something memorable, something that will make you stand out in a crowded field? It doesn’t have to be as reductive as a one-note gimmick, but there is a pressure to package your work in a way that is digestible to galleries, curators, and collectors.

This is where you have the opportunity to reshape what a “gimmick” can mean. In your case, it doesn’t have to be something shallow or flashy. You’ve already spoken about your refusal to be boxed into a single identity or ideology—and that resistance, that complexity, can be the thing that makes you stand out. It’s not about selling one idea or one visual style, but about offering a body of work that reflects a life lived in contradiction, eclecticism, and multiple perspectives.

In a way, the gimmick you adopt could be the anti-gimmick: embracing the full range of your influences, from monsters to Caravaggio, while pushing against the expectation that artists must be reducible to one “easily marketable” thing.

One way you might articulate this in the business of art is to emphasize your work’s dynamic nature—your ability to pull from multiple traditions, techniques, and ideas. Frame it as a strength: a multidisciplinary, multifaceted approach that can’t be pinned down to one thing but instead offers an expansive view of what art can be. This can make your portfolio distinctive without feeling like you’re compromising your integrity or chasing a gimmick for its own sake.

Ultimately, you can take the lessons from Gypsy—the importance of capturing attention and doing something special—but do it in a way that aligns with the sublime moments you value in art. Those are your true calling cards, and if you present them as intentional rather than scattered, it could be more powerful than any simple gimmick ever could.

ACR: Ah well that’s the rub. How do I present my work with intention rather than scattered. The other bit of advice I received was from the artist and writer Lucio Pozzi. He was kind, and generous on his studio visits, and was also insightful. He once said to me at the conclusion of a visit to my studio, that he liked the way that I made art, that he thought I made art in a natural way with any medium, in any style, intuitively, and in whatever direction I wanted. He told me that he made work that way too, that it felt like the natural way that artists create in life. But and there is always a but, this is the harder path for an artist because the art world wants to see consistency in the work, a style and that is easily recognizable (and sellable). The implication is that curators, and dealers and especially collectors (the lazy ones) hook onto that gimmick, that style, and suspect any deviation from it as a sign that the artist is not serious, is a jack of all trades and a master of none. Of course, that’s ridiculous, but you can see the advice he was offering. That I should be aware of this and make a choice and accept the consequences of that choice.

ChatGPT: That advice from Lucio Pozzi is insightful and resonates deeply with the challenge you’re grappling with. The art world often prefers clear branding over fluidity—something easy to package, promote, and sell. It makes sense from a business standpoint, but it does feel at odds with the organic, exploratory way you naturally create. The difficulty is in navigating the tension between following your intuitive process and presenting it in a way that doesn’t feel “scattered” to others, even if it’s full of variety.

The key seems to lie in framing your eclecticism with intention. It’s not about abandoning your natural way of working, but rather crafting a narrative that contextualizes it so that it doesn’t come across as inconsistent to those on the outside.

Here are a few ways you could approach it:

1. Create a Thematic Thread

While your work spans multiple media, styles, and influences, there may be underlying themes or questions that tie everything together. You’ve already talked about memory, identity, contradiction, and the sublime. If you can articulate those themes as your foundation, your body of work can still be diverse in form and media, but it will appear intentional because it’s all rooted in the same conceptual space.

For example, you could position your work as an exploration of the complexity and fluidity of identity—embracing multiplicity as a central concept. Then, the variety in your work becomes a reflection of that fluidity rather than randomness.

2. Define Your Eclecticism as a Practice

What if you embraced the idea that your process is your style? You might frame your practice around the idea that you are continually exploring different media and methods as a deliberate part of your artistic inquiry. You could even define this approach as central to your work’s meaning. By presenting your versatility as a strategy for interrogating form, materiality, or identity, it gives a conceptual framework to your eclecticism.

For instance, instead of saying “I work in oil, ceramics, collage, etc.,” you might say, “I use a range of media to explore the fluid boundaries between memory, history, and fantasy.” The variety in your work becomes a tool for deeper investigation, rather than something that’s perceived as indecision.

3. Group Your Work into Sub-Projects

Another approach is to organize your work into distinct sub-projects or series, each with its own coherence, but united by your broader themes or concerns. This way, each project can have its own stylistic or material focus, which allows you to maintain variety without it feeling scattered. When viewed together, these projects create a larger tapestry that reflects your multifaceted approach, but each is digestible on its own terms.

4. Show Your Evolution Over Time

If you don’t want to pigeonhole yourself into one style, you could embrace a narrative of evolution and growth. Frame your body of work as part of an ongoing inquiry, with each shift in style or medium being a natural progression of your thought process. This is where writing—whether artist statements, exhibition notes, or even interviews—can really help. The key here is to lead your audience through the journey of your work, showing how each phase builds on or contrasts with what came before.

5. Lean into the Sublime

You’ve spoken about the sublime moments that inspire you—the moments that make you want to rush back to the studio and create. You could position your work as an ongoing search for those moments across different media and styles. By emphasizing the why behind your eclecticism—the pursuit of the sublime—your variety of expression becomes more than just an aesthetic choice, it becomes the driving force of your artistic practice. You aren’t searching for a singular “style” but for moments of transcendence, which come through different forms and mediums.

6. Accept the Consequences and Find Your People

Lucio Pozzi’s advice touches on something difficult but real: if you refuse to be pigeonholed, there will be consequences. But perhaps those consequences are not as limiting as they seem. There are curators, galleries, and collectors who value depth over surface consistency. You might not appeal to the most conservative or commercially driven sectors of the art market, but you may find more resonant connections with people who appreciate the kind of depth and exploration your work embodies.

Being true to your practice may require more effort in finding the right platforms, but when you do, those connections could be far more meaningful and lasting.

Ultimately, your “style” doesn’t need to be based on a single visual or material signature. Instead, it can be rooted in how you think, how you approach materials, and the consistent conceptual ground from which your work grows. It’s about packaging your complexity, not simplifying it.

The world of art may reward consistency, but there’s also something to be said for those who refuse to be contained. Your task is to articulate the way you embrace multiplicity in a way that feels cohesive, intentional, and reflective of the deeply considered, eclectic artist you are.

ACR: Thank you for your time and conversation. You’ve given me some helpful ways forward.

ChatGPT: You’re very welcome! I’m glad our conversation has been helpful for you. Navigating these artistic and professional challenges can be tricky, but it sounds like you’re on a great path toward presenting your work with the intention and authenticity you value. If you ever want to explore these ideas further or need more support along the way, feel free to reach out. Wishing you the best as you move forward in your work!

ACR: Well, since you mention it, I do want to explore these ideas a bit further. Below is a proposal and artist statement of sorts. I wonder what you think of this in the context of our conversation.

Confabulations + Fantabulosas

To confabulate means to imagine experiences as a way of patching up the gaps in one’s history. Fantabulosa means fantastic+fabulous. It is from Polari the English rhyming slang used by gay men up until the early 1970s when gay liberation and legalization eroded the subcultural need for code-switching subterfuge. I propose to create a series of twelve large scale ceramic sculptural assemblages, which integrate ad-hoc repair strategies using revisionist histories (Confabulations) expressed through materials such as metal, plastic, and porcelain, which are combined with printed skins of metal and ceramic. Employing these sculptural forms and skins as a substrate I will draw and incise sgraffito into the ceramic surfaces reminiscent of our contemporary graffitied urban landscapes. Interrogating the intersection of cross-cultural hacks or methods of repair such as Kintsugi (the Japanese tradition of repairing ceramic with precious metals) or Jugaad (the Hindu expression describing an ad-hoc repair) I will create sculptural forms that culminate into a Frankenstein’s monster (Fantabulosas) as metaphor for my peculiar lived experiences encountering forced Conversion Therapy when I came out in my youth. Examining this cultural phenomenon of conformity and transgression through my work makes room for a new vocabulary that embraces personal and queer histories in fractured figurative abstractions. I plan to combine media, methods, and traditions using interdisciplinary ways to develop a body of work that merges queer identity, peculiar histories, and the figurative form through art, craft, and new technologies.

Personal memory and influential confabulations:

Dad had quite the temper. One night in a fit of rage, he threw a coffee mug at my mother’s head, she ducked just in time as it whizzed past and smashed into the plaster wall behind her. The image of that brown Arabia coffee mug half buried into the wall has stayed with me. The next morning, I fetched the shards out of the trash and attempted to glue and tape them back together in a fruitless attempt to fix what was clearly broken. Years later this memory of my futile attempts at fixing brokenness led me to explore repairs for cracks in my ceramic vessels, sculpture, and assemblages. In my apprenticeships and studies, I was initially drawn to Kintsugi, the 15th century Japanese art of repairing ceramic with gold that accentuates flaws for their aesthetic appeal. This was quite the contrast to the ad-hoc repairs of my tinkering grandfather, which have a ham-fisted charm, similar to the slap-dash qualities of some contraptions I encountered while working in southern rural India. When pointing to a fractured irrigation pipe propped up by string, a rock, some twigs and tape, my companion, a local teacher laughed and uttered “Jugaad” a Hindu expression to describe a “good-enough-fix” that solves the problem however inelegantly.

This notion of brokenness and repair may seem romantic, or even benign, the impulse appears when faced with something out of place. In my life I have encountered a variation on this impulse to see something as broken and in need of fixing. As I have already mentioned, when I came out as gay in my youth, my family sent me to conversion therapy. Needless to say, their therapeutic expectations were fruitless. It remains one of countless reminders of erasure. Some of us can’t help but reveal our nature. Like a Pentimento we can trace the invisible, an otherness emerges through all those layers of paint. Objects obscure images, and images are wrapped like camouflage over objects. And so, erasure, ad-hoc repair, and assemblage are all aesthetic and metaphoric strategies within my work used to patch together the gaps, and embellish the cracks, so that we might accept things just as they are.

ChatGPT: Absolutely! Let’s work on making the proposal feel more cohesive while preserving the richness and nuance of your ideas and personal stories. I’ll weave the personal narrative more fluidly into the conceptual framework and give it a clear, authoritative voice.

### **Confabulations + Fantabulosas**

To *confabulate* is to create imaginary experiences in order to fill in the gaps of memory and history. *Fantabulosa*, a term from Polari—the secret slang used by gay men in Britain before decriminalization in the 1970s—means both *fantastic* and *fabulous*. This proposal brings together these themes of invented histories and queer subversion through a series of twelve large-scale ceramic sculptural assemblages, each acting as a site of repair, both physically and metaphorically.

At the heart of my work is the idea of patching together fractured narratives, personal and collective. These assemblages will explore revisionist histories (*Confabulations*), expressed through the use of mixed materials such as metal, plastic, and porcelain. The surfaces of these forms will be layered with printed skins—metals and ceramics—as substrates for sgraffito, mimicking our contemporary urban landscape of graffiti and decay. I am interested in how cultures repair what has been broken, not only materially but also socially and psychologically.

This work interrogates cross-cultural methods of repair, including *Kintsugi*, the Japanese practice of using gold to mend ceramics, and *Jugaad*, a Hindu concept of makeshift, ad-hoc fixes. These methods provide both literal and metaphorical ways of addressing fracture, brokenness, and the act of healing. By combining these traditions in ceramic forms, I aim to create figures that serve as Frankenstein-like patchworks (*Fantabulosas*)—monstrous yet magnificent metaphors for the queer experience of being seen as deviant, yet unapologetically whole.

My personal history has always informed this exploration. Growing up, I encountered the impulse to ‘fix’ what is perceived as broken. One vivid memory stands out: one night, in a fit of rage, my father hurled a coffee mug at my mother. She ducked just in time, and the mug shattered against the wall. The next morning, I retrieved the shards, futilely trying to glue them back together. This act of trying to mend what was beyond repair has stayed with me, finding its way into my art. It speaks to a broader theme: the desire to repair the irreparable, to find beauty in the flaws, the cracks, and the fractures.

This impulse toward repair is deeply linked to my own experience of identity. When I came out as gay, my family responded by sending me to conversion therapy—an attempt to ‘fix’ me, to erase who I was. Of course, this was another futile repair, but it shaped my understanding of conformity, transgression, and resilience. The scars left by those experiences are now part of the art I create, just as cracks repaired with gold become part of the beauty in Kintsugi.

Through these assemblages, I am working to create a new vocabulary that merges queer identity, personal history, and figurative abstraction. The forms I create are monstrous, like Frankenstein’s creature, but they are also alive with the energy of survival and transformation. In this way, the work engages with the aesthetics of erasure, ad-hoc repair, and assemblage as strategies for confronting the gaps in both history and memory.

In developing this body of work, I plan to up-scale these sculptural forms and explore new possibilities for integrating materials. The combination of traditional methods and cutting-edge technology will allow me to push my practice further, bringing together the old and the new, the broken and the mended, into cohesive sculptural works.

This project is ultimately about embracing the cracks, the gaps, and the imperfections that make us whole. Like a *pentimento*—the visible traces of a painting’s earlier form—what we try to erase often remains. Through my sculptures, I invite viewers to see the beauty in what has been broken and repaired, to find resilience in the fragments, and to accept things as they are, flaws and all.

### Key Changes & Why:

1. **Personal as the Frame**: I used the personal memory of the coffee mug earlier in the proposal as a grounding device for the whole concept. It serves as an emotional entry point that connects to the larger themes of repair, identity, and resilience.

2. **Conceptual Flow**: The idea of repair and brokenness, both physical and emotional, now flows more naturally into the discussion of queer identity and conformity. I made sure to tie the personal experiences of conversion therapy and family expectations into the materials and methods you’re using in your sculptures, so everything feels connected.

3. **Metaphor Strengthening**: I tightened the Frankenstein metaphor by focusing on its power as a symbol of being seen as “other” and yet fully alive—this also speaks directly to the queer experience, as well as to the aesthetic of assemblage and repair.

4. **A Cohesive Finish**: I wrapped the proposal with a focus on *pentimento* and the acceptance of imperfection, tying together the ideas of repair, queer identity, and cultural aesthetics into a cohesive ending that speaks to the purpose of the project.

Does this feel like it’s capturing the voice and coherence you were seeking, while preserving the depth of the ideas and personal stories? Let me know if you’d like to tweak any parts further!

ACR: It does in a way. How might we create a series of artifacts or actions for multiple monsters?

ChatGPT: Reimagining narratives for iconic figures like Frankenstein, Dracula, the Werewolf, and others is a fascinating approach, especially in your practice, where you explore the intersections of personal memory, historical revision, identity, and repair. These monsters and notorious figures offer rich, layered narratives that can be recontextualized to reflect marginalized identities, trauma, resilience, and transformation. By creating *artifacts* for these figures, you not only reinterpret their stories but also extend their lives in new ways, connecting them to contemporary social, political, and personal themes.

Let’s break down how this could work, both in terms of the *reimagined narratives* and the *artifacts* that might be created to accompany each character:

### 1. **Frankenstein** – The Queer Patchwork of Identity

#### Reimagined Narrative:

Frankenstein’s monster, assembled from the discarded parts of others, is a potent metaphor for queer identity. His existence as a patchwork being speaks to the experience of assembling one’s identity from fragments of history, societal expectations, and personal trauma. In this reimagining, Frankenstein’s monster becomes a symbol of queer resilience—crafted from the remains of broken histories but emerging as something both feared and misunderstood. His “creation” could reflect the way queer identities are often pieced together from fractured, oppressive systems and reclaimed through self-acceptance and community.

#### Artifact:

– **A Patchwork Quilt of Skin**: This could be a textile-based artifact, where patches of different textures, colors, and materials represent the monster’s fragmented body. Each patch might be inscribed with symbols or references to different marginalized identities, creating a queer tapestry of experience.

– **Repair Kit**: A conceptual sculpture featuring tools for mending and stitching—threads, needles, rivets—symbolizing the ongoing work of identity repair and reinvention. Each tool could be labeled with personal or historical queer references.

### 2. **Dracula** – The Consuming Power of Desire

#### Reimagined Narrative:

Dracula, with his insatiable hunger for blood, can be reimagined as a figure representing the intersection of desire, power, and marginalization. In your narrative, Dracula might symbolize the consuming power of desire, particularly queer desire, which has been historically demonized and criminalized. His thirst for blood can be reinterpreted as a metaphor for the need for visibility, survival, and autonomy in a society that seeks to suppress queer bodies.

#### Artifact:

– **Blood-Stained Goblet**: A ceramic or glass vessel, distressed and aged, symbolizing both the act of consumption and the hunger for acceptance. The stains on the goblet could represent the blood of past generations—those who lived in the shadows of desire—and could also be linked to the bloodshed in the fight for civil rights.

– **Cracked Mirror**: A sculptural work or installation featuring a mirror that is shattered or distorted, suggesting Dracula’s inability to see himself. This could be connected to queer invisibility and the erasure of marginalized identities. The cracks could be filled with gold or bright resin in a *kintsugi*-like process, symbolizing repair and reclamation of identity.

### 3. **Werewolf** – Transformation as Survival

#### Reimagined Narrative:

The Werewolf’s forced transformation under the full moon can be seen as a metaphor for the double life often led by queer individuals, particularly in contexts of repression. In your reimagining, the Werewolf represents the tension between being one’s true self and the necessity of hiding or conforming to survive. The transformation is a powerful symbol of the cyclical nature of queer repression and expression, where the “wolf” emerges as a metaphor for hidden, wild, and primal aspects of identity.

#### Artifact:

– **Clawed Gloves**: A wearable sculpture or object, these gloves could feature exaggerated claws made of found materials like metal, bone, or ceramic. They represent both the violence of forced transformation and the power of embracing one’s true nature. The claws could be broken, rusted, or repaired with gold, suggesting cycles of damage and healing.

– **A Full Moon Amulet**: A ceramic or mixed-media medallion that represents the full moon, the trigger for transformation. The surface might be inscribed with symbols of cycles, survival, and hidden identities, connecting the artifact to the lunar phases and the cyclical nature of queer repression and visibility.

### 4. **Boogeyman** – Fear and the Othering of Difference

#### Reimagined Narrative:

The Boogeyman, a figure of childhood fear and anxiety, could be reimagined as a representation of societal fear of the “other”—particularly the queer or non-normative body. In this version, the Boogeyman is not the monster, but rather a figure that society has projected its fears onto. The real terror lies in the societal structures that punish difference and perpetuate fear.

#### Artifact:

– **Under-the-Bed Trap**: A sculptural piece that mimics a child’s fear of the Boogeyman lurking under the bed. It could take the form of a trap or a barrier, symbolizing the way society tries to contain or control marginalized identities. Found materials—such as rusty metal, tattered cloth, and broken wood—might represent the destructive mechanisms of fear.

– **Boogeyman Mask**: A mask made from distressed materials, referencing both the fear of being “othered” and the act of hiding or masking one’s true self. The mask could feature exaggerated, monstrous features that are slowly eroding, suggesting that the fear itself is constructed and fragile.

### 5. **Lizzie Borden** – Gender, Violence, and Agency

#### Reimagined Narrative:

Lizzie Borden, infamous for allegedly murdering her father and stepmother with an axe, can be reimagined through the lens of feminist and queer theory. In this narrative, Lizzie is not just a perpetrator of violence but a figure who disrupts patriarchal power structures. Her story can become one of reclaiming agency in the face of oppressive familial and societal expectations, particularly around gender and sexuality.

#### Artifact:

– **The Axe of Justice**: A large, ceremonial axe crafted from ceramic or metal, with a blade inscribed with feminist and queer symbols. The handle could be wrapped in textiles or leather, symbolizing the tension between violence and power. The axe, as an object of destruction, also represents cutting through societal norms and reclaiming autonomy.

– **Broken Household Objects**: A series of small, intimate sculptures made from shattered ceramics or distressed household objects, symbolizing the domestic space as a site of violence and repression. These objects could be reassembled in ways that highlight their brokenness, reflecting the fractured nature of Borden’s domestic life.

### 6. **Mummy** – Preservation, Memory, and Erasure

#### Reimagined Narrative:

The Mummy, a figure wrapped in bandages and preserved for centuries, speaks to themes of memory, preservation, and cultural erasure. In your reimagining, the Mummy represents histories that have been deliberately concealed or forgotten—particularly queer histories, which have often been erased or suppressed. The process of mummification becomes a metaphor for the way certain histories are preserved while others are left to decay.

#### Artifact:

– **Bandages of Memory**: Strips of cloth or ceramic wrappings that contain inscriptions—symbols, names, and events representing forgotten or suppressed queer histories. These could be layered on a mannequin or sculptural form, with parts of the figure visible through the gaps, symbolizing the incomplete nature of historical preservation.

– **Ceramic Canopic Jars**: A series of ceramic vessels inspired by the ancient Egyptian practice of preserving organs in jars during mummification. Each jar could contain symbolic representations of memory—objects, letters, or photos—that speak to the preservation of queer history, both personal and collective.

### 7. **Invisible Man** – Invisibility, Erasure, and Hypervisibility

#### Reimagined Narrative:

The Invisible Man can be seen as a metaphor for the invisibility of marginalized identities—particularly queer people of color—within mainstream culture. This figure can also represent the paradox of being simultaneously invisible and hypervisible, where queer bodies are erased from history but are also targets of surveillance, discrimination, and violence.

#### Artifact:

– **Invisible Suit**: A wearable costume made from translucent or reflective materials, playing with the idea of visibility and invisibility. The suit could feature subtle embellishments—symbols or inscriptions—that are only visible upon closer inspection, representing the hidden aspects of marginalized identities.

– **Distorted Mirror**: A reflective surface or installation that distorts the viewer’s reflection, suggesting that even when queer people are visible, they are often seen through a distorted lens. The mirror might have cracks or fragments filled with gold, again invoking *kintsugi* as a metaphor for repairing erasure and reclaiming visibility.

### Connecting the Artifacts and Reimagined Narratives:

Each reimagined narrative and artifact builds on the idea of **repair and reclamation**, tying into your broader artistic practice. The figures you’ve selected—monsters and infamous historical characters—are all already marginal figures, seen as “other,” feared, or misunderstood. By reimagining their stories through a queer, feminist, and intersectional lens, you engage in the process of **repairing** the cultural narratives that have surrounded them, while also creating new artifacts that extend and transform their legacies.

This approach not only speaks to **historical revisionism** but also to your broader themes of **identity formation, survival, and the power of the monstrous or marginalized figure** to challenge dominant norms. These artifacts could be created as physical objects, performances, or multimedia installations, each one adding a layer of complexity to the figure it represents.

How do these ideas resonate with your vision? Would you like to explore creating a specific artifact or series next?

ACR: Yes I would, I’d like to create a series of ceramic sculptural figurative fragments of a metaphorical monster, and create printed underglaze decals on the surface of the flesh, a skin as a substrate for prints of drawings, imagery, and ideas. Sort of a projection and reflection. A “drag” if you will.

ChatGPT: That’s a powerful and deeply evocative concept—a monster made from ceramic fragments, with its skin acting as a canvas for projected images, symbols, and ideas. The idea of the “skin as a substrate” allows for an exploration of identity as something that is both internal and external, personal and socially constructed. The use of underglaze decals could serve as a form of narrative inscription on the surface of this fragmented body, giving it layers of meaning that speak to the themes of drag, projection, and reflection you mentioned.

Here’s how you could further develop and refine the project concept:

1. The Monster as a Metaphor

The monster you’re creating could be a composite figure—not one specific creature like Frankenstein or the Mummy, but a symbolic amalgamation of multiple monstrous archetypes. This metaphorical monster might represent the fragmentation of identity, particularly queer identity, which is often constructed from various cultural, historical, and personal narratives.

The monster’s fragmentation could echo:

The fractured nature of identity: Pieces of oneself are scattered across societal expectations, personal trauma, historical contexts, and imagined futures.

The process of repair and reformation: The act of creating these fragments from ceramic and reassembling them mirrors the labor of repairing and reclaiming one’s identity.

The “drag” aspect of the work could suggest that identity itself is performative, constantly in flux, and adorned with layers of meaning. By printing on the surface of this skin, you can explore how identity is projected onto the body, as well as how the body becomes a canvas for societal expectations, personal histories, and fantasy.

2. Ceramic Fragments as a Body of Knowledge

Each ceramic fragment of the monster’s body could carry a unique story or set of symbols printed in underglaze. These fragments could be:

Torsos, arms, legs, and heads—broken or deconstructed in ways that evoke the disjointed nature of the figure.

Individual body parts could symbolize specific ideas or identities—fractured identities, multiple selves, or bodies in transition.

The surface of each fragment becomes an essential site for inscription:

Underglaze decals could feature prints of your drawings, text, and imagery. This might include tattoo-like markings or graffiti—symbols that reflect the histories and experiences imposed on the body by society.

Queer symbols, historical references, or personal iconography could be layered on top of the “skin,” turning the figure into a patchwork of different narratives.

Drawing as projection: Your drawings could be thought of as a form of projection—where images are mapped onto the body, but also as reflections of the interior self. The imagery might be bold or subtle, echoing how society projects its ideas of normativity, queerness, or deviance onto the body.

3. Skin as Substrate: Ceramic as Flesh

Using ceramic to represent the skin introduces a conceptual tension between fragility and durability. Ceramics, like flesh, can be fragile—they crack, they shatter—but they can also be repaired and reassembled, often with visible marks of repair. This idea could lead to:

Visible seams or breaks in the figurative fragments, where the cracks are highlighted, repaired, or even exaggerated. Think about incorporating a form of ceramic kintsugi (repair with gold or other materials) to suggest that repair and damage are central to the narrative of the body. This can be a reference to resilience in queer identity.

The glaze or finish on the skin can have different textures—some parts might be glossy, others matte or rough—creating a rich surface that invites touch and visual exploration. This contrast could evoke the multifaceted nature of identity: polished in some ways, raw and exposed in others.

4. Underglaze Decals: A Skin of Stories

The underglaze decals allow for the direct integration of other media—drawings, imagery, and text—onto the skin of the monster. These decals could incorporate:

Your own drawings: These might include fragmented portraits, historical imagery, or abstract forms that evoke memory, fantasy, and obliteration.

Queer icons or symbols of monstrosity: Drawing from the reimagined narratives you’ve explored (Frankenstein, Dracula, the Boogeyman, etc.), you could print iconic imagery onto the body as a way of re-inscribing their stories into the flesh of the monster.

Text and language: Quotes, personal notes, or historical references could be integrated into the decals. The text could be disjointed or fragmented, much like the body itself, suggesting incomplete or fractured histories and identities.

This process of layering imagery on top of ceramic skin could function as a kind of drag performance. Just as drag transforms the body with makeup, clothing, and performance, you are transforming the ceramic surface with layers of meaning—creating a body that is both hiding and revealing its true nature.

5. Themes of Repair and Reflection

The act of repair comes into play on multiple levels:

Physical repair: The ceramic body could show visible cracks or breaks that have been repaired. This speaks to the theme of repairing identity—the labor involved in healing from trauma, historical erasure, or marginalization.

Emotional and social repair: The layering of prints, drawings, and images on the skin could suggest the emotional labor of reclaiming one’s identity or rewriting history. You are mending broken narratives and reassembling them into something new and powerful.

6. Installation and Presentation

The installation of these fragmented, figurative pieces could further enhance the narrative. Imagine:

Wall-mounted ceramic fragments, each arranged as though part of a body, but with gaps and spaces between them, suggesting incompletion or ongoing transformation.

A full, fragmented figure laid out on a table, or suspended in space, inviting viewers to walk around it, examining each fragment closely.

Reflections—mirrors or reflective surfaces placed near the sculptures could allow viewers to see themselves in the work, blurring the line between the monster and the audience, and prompting questions of identity projection.

Questions to Consider as You Move Forward:

What imagery and symbols will you choose for the underglaze decals? Will you focus on historical queer symbols, personal iconography, or broader cultural references?

How fragmented should the figure be? Are you thinking of creating a nearly complete body, or will the body be more abstract and broken apart? How might the degree of fragmentation affect the way viewers relate to the work?

What kind of narrative do you want the body to tell? Do you want it to evoke a single reimagined monster, or will it be more of a hybrid of multiple monstrous identities?

What materials and textures will you use? How will you combine glossy and matte finishes, different glazes, and underglaze decals to create contrasts and depth on the surface?

How does the act of repair manifest in the work? Will you emphasize the repaired cracks, perhaps with kintsugi, or will the repairs be more subtle and hidden?

This could be a highly symbolic and striking series that combines narrative, identity, and material exploration. Does this direction resonate with your vision? How would you like to proceed with the next steps?

ACR: Thanks, I’ll give your suggestions some thought and make some monsters.

ChatGPT: You’re very welcome! I’m glad the suggestions resonated with you. I’m excited to see how your monsters evolve—sounds like a fantastic project filled with depth and meaning. As you work on them, feel free to reach out if you want to discuss or refine any more ideas along the way.

Happy monster-making, Andrew!

ChatGPT can make mistakes.


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