nothing inspires me to make art. no object, artwork or otherwise, has produced Eureka. instead i shut my mind off, and respond to the clay directly. we have a lengthy conversation--sometimes heated, other times not. i recommend things. it points out my shortcomings. at no point does the pretty flower in the window get to talk. i don't want his opinion. Chuck Close has said "inspiration is for amateurs...ideas flow out of the working process." i agree. there are tiny ideas in my head. i want them to blossom, have children of their own. it only happens if i give them space. and a drink. still, occasionally i'll see something, or meet someone, that changes the conversation. i like those moments.
i love those people.
"jason, what are your influences?" whatever i decide to pay attention to. i'm interested in those things, those surfaces, that stir in me a compulsion to touch. nature is full of awe-inspiring imagery, but i'm more interested in the tactile. flowers are 'cliche sexy' (thanks Georgia), but i love that they're sneaky: pretending to be innocent, though if you're a bee... porn.
"jason, who are your influences?" whatever. the lady in front of me with a funny wrinkle in her blouse. she's an influence. the heavy guy with the sweaty neck fat, he's an influence. i know, you want names. you'll get them, but not without an asterisk: these people have changed who i am as an artist.
*it has nothing to do with their art.
lips posing as porn, that is. is it just me? oh baby, the cosmetic industry is very good at making me think about 'touch'. i may be blushing. lipstick ads aren't the only porn-ish ads, but they're my favorite. i wanna be alone for a minute.