Pneumatic disappearance

Why do I like moving images? Is it because they make me feel less lonely? Or because they keep me from thinking about anything other than the images themselves?

Looking back at my work during my BA and MA, most of it consisted of cute drawings or pseudo-infographics. (If I could go back to that time, I would erase all of them.) When did I shift to video practice? I remember the moment very clearly—it was the most intensely immersive experience I have ever had. I enjoyed the liveness of performance, with my video interacting with the audience. The shock of it made me feel alive. I felt as though I could disappear and let my work exist independently. The moving image seemed to take over my life, absorbing it and creating a new conversation with the people watching.

Photography and still images do not give me that same sense of vitality. Even if they are part of a performative practice, they do not speak back to others. Instead, they create a monologue. They feel like a diary or a doodle—a trace left behind for someone else—but they remain a part of me. Moving images, however, take something from me. The moment I present them, they begin performing on their own, existing within a specific time and space, where they no longer need me. In that space, I become a spectator, peering at a part of myself as it interacts with others—reflecting something back at me, but beyond my control. It is a kind of death. Not a permanent one, but a partial death, one that is constantly replaced by the new life of the work itself.

I want to create a statue that can replace me. To pour my sorrows into that statue, so I can keep them for myself instead.