Mike Hobson

"We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality. We sleep in a long reproachful dust against ourselves. We are full to the gorge with our own names for misery. Life, the pastures in which the night feeds and prunes the cud that nourishes us to despair. Life, the permission to know death. We were created that the earth might

... See more

The prescriptive forms of the art world, as in the real world, alienate us from ourselves and our neighbors. It’s normal to make art. This is a manifest truth that is obscured by the institutional imperative to contain and monopolize awe.