My work comes about as a form of journal, and this past year has been revealing, to put it gently. In a data-driven environment, decisions still rest on the weight of emotion. The specter of fact strides along in magic slippers; pointed, yet somehow clueless.
For this body of work I lived in that in-between place where certainty and wonder finish each other’s sentences. It’s an imaginative space, vital to the human creature predicament: I am animal, I am fiction.
Questioning the notion that ordinary objects can become an “object of art,” Bogus encourages a debate about authorship and originality, dissolving the distinction between sanctioned museum pieces and iconic everyday consumed objects.
My work comes about as a form of journal, and this past year has been revealing, to put it gently. In a data-driven environment, decisions still rest on the weight of emotion. The specter of fact strides along in magic slippers; pointed, yet somehow clueless.
For this body of work I lived in that in-between place where certainty and wonder finish each other’s sentences. It’s an imaginative space, vital to the human creature predicament: I am animal, I am fiction.
