Evidence of Love

So, this wasn't supposed to be the exhibit you have staring back at you.

For the past few months, I've been in/out of prisons, talking with parole offices,  met handfuls and handfuls of young men [mostly] who have carried guns for gangs, committed rape, sexually offended minors, voluntarily slaughtered people, assaulted, and subsequently, robbed people.

Here’s the part I didn’t expect: I liked all of them. Most of them charmed me. I was disarmed by the split between who they are/what they have done. So, I wanted to capture that and something else. Most of their backgrounds sucked: Abuse, brutality, poverty, racism, the expectable list. The whole time I'm wondering: Who might you have become with more concrete evidence of love?

But, when I began this work, I couldn't tolerate compiling the imagery I found myself piecing together. Everything came out murky and (perhaps) indicative of some sorrow I forgot to notice.

It was dark and broken and saddened me.

So, I retreated to beauty; the quiet accretion of soft images, clear-headed colors, arranged quietly, carefully, painted over, with the distance of lost ephemera.

I apologize.

Ce Ce Iandoli, February 3, 2009