Like a soft but firm tap right below one’s knee at the doctor’s office, I want to think of my work as a mallet that startles one into a space of reflexivity, as involuntary and unbidden as the jerk of a knee.

Fortunately, I’m too suspicious of images to be a visual artist. What seems familiar never is, and is never unfraught. Accordingly: each work is an objective, empirical, detached love letter to the anarchic connotations of signs. Both a particle and a wave, unfixable and unobservable in its totality the more directly it’s perceived, each incongruous piece is better surveilled, disdainfully, out of the corner of one’s eye.

But if public exhibition(ism) of normative bodyminds can be considered social practice, or even praxis, then perhaps I am a social practitioner—no, a material-semiotic social scientist. My work is, after all, about incontrovertible scientific facts and truth, proved through rigorous, unbiased, democratically peer-reviewed, controlled, double-blind, randomized studies of average people. My practice is a meta-analysis of hard and certain truths that have remained unchanged for millenia: physics, statistics, probability, medicine, nature, abnormality, reality, race, and sex.

Ruptures, disjunctures, and paradigm shifts that make up the unwhole body—the message is always embodied in the medium (median) of you.