The Soul of America at War
I take responsibility for any image with my name on it, but when it is birthed I am just as unknowing about it as anyone.
Every artwork is a self-portrait. So when angry women began appearing on my drawing board a few years ago, I thought I was uncovering a personal issue. In early 2003 the outpouring of images ramped up to dozens daily even while my personal life seemed relatively calm.
Then I made a connection. Just perhaps, the images reflected the unconscious collective angst of our nation’s launch into preemptive war- (an anguish that has now taken voice).
These are not depictions of real women. Some otherworldly feminine being fixes me with the unwavering eyes of terrible scrutiny. The power- inevitable as gravity- of Her penetrating gaze I feel as a silent indictment of the rash actions taken in our name. But Her wealth and wisdom remain unavailable to us as long as we shove Her into the shadows.
She is at once mythical and dead real. America’s compassion is just as authentic as our aggression. At what cost do we ignore this gaze?
