About

This website serves as a mapping exercise for my research and studies toward an MFA in Arts and Humanities.

thresh·old

(thrĕsh′ōld′, -hōld′)

n.

  1. A piece of wood or stone placed beneath a door.
  2. The place or point of beginning.
  3. The point that must be exceeded to begin producing a given effect or result or to elicit a response.

It is a journey that engages with thinkers and artists in a quest to interrogate my own art practice and its place in the world politically, critically and celebratory. I aim for a process oriented, transformative (becoming) art making that serves as a force for nature and the human (as opposed to ‘producing’  a traditional commercial gallery-museum high art object or an art instrumentalised as political activism..although both these forms have their place and are not (somewhat ethically confusingly) undesirable).

What an artist is and does within the boundary of its effect in society on repositioning the values of community and interconnection is part of my enquiry on this course . Inside and outside views are held up for inspection through my own individual interactions and dialogues with nature and also in participation and documentation of a community forest home school project.

Artistic research is about creating new situations and new knowledge from a self-critical and self-reflective framework, combining theory, practice with anarchistic experimentation and thus offering new ways of negotiating the world. With such risk taking also comes failure and new imaginary ways of being and connecting.

Strange plant becomings, becoming tree. This is not the transformation
of one into the other, but something passing from one to the other. This
something can be specified only as a sensation.
-Gilles Deleuze, A Thousand Plateaus, p. 173

The artist is a seer, a becomer. How else would he recount what
happened to him, or what he imagines, since he is a shadow? He has
seen something in life that is too great, too unbearable also, and the
mutual embrace of life that threatens it.
-Gilles Deleuze, A Thousand Plateaus, p. 171

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