gallery

Reconstructive Memory
Several inspirations and outcomes exist within this project simultaneously- familial history melding into reactions to larger societal issues folding into the history of images.

When viewed, Reconstructive Memory often stands as a non-linear narrative that investigates the ways in which we receive information and how images can only tell part of the story. Consisting of a looped video and photographs, the piece transitions between curiosity, apathy, and disclosure. The viewer encounters the portraits of the stuffed animals, once loved and revered but now discarded, and is mildly interested. Something is not quite right with them- they look damaged, but the story is not quite clear. Moving on, the viewer discovers the video, which shows the reason for the disfigurement of the plushies. The photographs take on an entirely different meaning, and most people go back to reinvestigate them with new eyes. Reactions to the piece have ranged from intense discomfort and sadness to excited amusement. Then a question arises- have the methods we use to comprehend our world become the very thing that distance us from it?

Let’s peek behind the curtain, shall we?
The video portion of Reconstructive Memory was inspired by conversations with my father. I can still hear his descriptions of the majestic pheasant- the graceful movements, the beautiful feathers. If one were ever near the road, he would stop the truck and watch the bird until it flew away. I never understood this tender love for the very thing that he would later kill while on a hunting trip. I became interested in the notion of what I thought of as "loving something to death". A seemingly tender and genuine affection coupled with acts of domination or destruction. I began to notice variations of this phenomenon in the way my dog giddily extracted the stuffing of her toys and ripped out the eyes, the art of taxidermy, relationships, zoos, politics, and war. Compelled to explore further, I collected stuffed animals- at one time well loved, protected, and cherished, with the intent of destroying them.

Once I had a stockpile of stuffed animals, I ventured into rural North Dakota with a few experienced hunters and was shown how to use a shotgun properly. I had never touched a gun before, and the experience was frightening- and exhilarating. After a few hours of shooting, I was so comfortable with the gun that I forgot the very real damage it could do. After all, I was blowing up inanimate objects and watching the beautiful display of their insides float through the air. Removed enough from reality, destruction is intoxicating.

Afterwards, I was left with a video and a studio littered with injured animals missing eyes, arms, and legs. A strong desire to put the animals back together formed almost immediately. So, I began the labor-intensive process of sewing up all of the buckshot holes, salvaging stuffing, and sorting out appendages for the original owners. This incredibly time-consuming act of attempting to "fix" what I had done reflected my initial vigor now mixed with latent regret. The mending of the disfigured plushies was laborious, but fostered a new and intimate relationship with the animals. It became important that the stitches were visible with threads hanging, illustrating the sympathetic gesture of repair combined with the failure to mend completely. I realized that the process of making Reconstructive Memory narrates a story repeated throughout history; the story of destroying something without a realistic notion of consequence, regretting it, and then attempting to fix the unintended consequence. The photographic portion of Reconstructive Memory documents the failed effort to restore what I had forever altered. Combined together, the resulting installation then speaks to the methods in which we share information and memory and how it can only tell a fraction of the story.