John W. Love, Jr.
Narrative is everywhere…shadows and corners…cracks and crevices of psyches laid bare…exposed bits of breath…thinking nothing of snatching my ass up and demanding I give it a resplendent place to be.
Salt has emerged as the desired domain.
Traversing literature, performance, installation, video, mysticism, and media, I conjure crystalline worlds of blurred lines and Absurdist kisses to the psyche. Mythic characters laugh at our banal hold on realness as our cultural ists and isms are turned inside out in an enthralling navigation of sex, money, power, beauty, desire, humor, and identity.
Mine is an existence of intentional awe and perpetual exploration. Permeable and penetrating, uncategorizable yet cutting a figure unable to deny distinction, I am a blurred line. As I curl up in the perpetual tussle between the real, surreal, medium, craft, and the navigation of the human condition, I smear boundaries and blur lines not because I’m being a cryptic asshole but because the definitions all fit like a fat man in a toddler’s big girl dress.
Hell, even that gorgeous disaster is a narrative I take pleasure in entertaining.
I create, tell fantastical stories, share, and have an uncanny knack for speaking to even you in ways neither of us anticipated.