I’m pretty sure that my work reflects a perpetual crisis of identity. I ask it questions like:
Who am I?
What is my place in the world?
How does my public Self, constructed from a mish-mash of other people’s assumptions and my own attempts to Be Something, relate to the indefinable, private truth of who I am?
And how did I become this other person, hanging up the laundry for five people, drowning in the flotsom and jetsom of family life? Is she me? And how does she find her place between the toned, muscular shoulders of Giacometti and Grayson Perry?
Setting aside the questions about my place in the wider Art World, I mostly think my work is an attempt to try to make sense of the gap between this-person-that-I-really-am and the boxes in which I put myself or am put by others. Which involves lots of questions both about who I really am, and how I think I might be perceived. This has been going on for years, and will probably never be resolved. My journals and sketchbooks are full of unanswered questions. Rich pickings for an artist.
I do experience periodic crises, when it feels like I could scream and no-one would hear me, but overall it seems like I am becoming more comfortable with the existential uncertainty, which doesn’t threaten to derail me like it used to, but instead forms the springboard for pretty much everything that comes out of the studio.