Statement
People — “normal” people — tend to turn away when confronted with evidence of a genetic abnormality. This apparent reflex has always intrigued me; why, of all possible reactions to the unfamiliar, do so many of us feel this ostrich-like compulsion not to see it? Is it simple shock? Pity? Fear? Some primal concern of our ancestors’ that an extra pair of legs might turn out to be contagious?
Imagine a baby is born with an extra limb, or two sisters are born with a single torso — if the condition is dangerous, they will spend their lives in hospitals, hidden from the eyes of the world. At death, their unusual bodies will likely be preserved, jarred, and put on display in medical museums. In short, their treatment in society will correspond to the curious blend of suppression and spectacle that surround a strong taboo. Alive, these infants violate a societal pressure that would seek to conceal mutations — and therefore they are transformed in death to biological pornography: their bodies are turned into images, and obscene ones at that — images not to be seen.
Perhaps my fascination for genetic obscurities and medical illustrations is due in part to the fact that my reaction to them has never been to look away. I’ve never known why. As a student I was given the opportunity to visit UCSF’s morgue and draw from real-life cadavers. It was an odd yet enlightening experience; since then I’ve become enchanted with the idea of seeing things as they really are — being forced to confront what we might not want to acknowledge. I’m often disturbed, I admit, as much as interested. I collect hundreds of images of conjoined twins, even parasitic twins, and they’re extremely hard to look at. I find myself revolted. But I look anyway. Art has always functioned to show us what we couldn’t otherwise see. And having looked directly at these babies, I see them for what they are — human beings, and beautiful products of the natural world.
In combining carnivorous plants with conjoined twins, in my newest work, I’m exploring positive and negative understandings of the process of genetic mutation. In the case of the carnivorous plants, as we readily acknowledge, long histories of adaptation have made them bizarrely fit to a particular environment. But the twins, upon whom the same process of random genetic mutation has acted, strike us as abominations, accidents, unsuited for any environment. Why the difference in perception? In the latter case, within our own species, we are encountering something like an in-group taboo against mutation — a biological conservatism. It seems we are horrified to acknowledge that mutations are still taking place in our gene pool, that the evolutionary engine is still engaged.
The images of the twins I use are part of a survival narrative, which affects how they are portrayed in the work. My compositions and color schemes are informed by kaleidoscopes and mandalas. Kaleidoscopes, for me, invoke a childhood sense of wonder — they recombine simple shapes and colors into new, magical images. Mandalas represent the interconnection of all things in a universal flow. After all, we are all created by mutations, all part of the same swirling mass of colors and forms. In recognizing the reality of these mysterious creatures, I intend to give my viewers a sense of productive bewilderment — and, ultimately, to enact an aesthetic renovation of the world as it actually is.
