She was cursed. On her sixteenth birthday, it was said, she would prick her finger on a needle and drift into a forever sleep, from which only the finest man’s kiss could awaken her. Her three voluptuous godmothers made a vow to look out for her, to protect her so that the curse would never come true. However, their protection was not enough; the curse prevailed. The three godmothers searched through the city for the one man who could save their Sleeping Beauty.
To create an expression is close to innocence. Childhood is often stolen from you with every judgement made, innocence stolen with it. You go into a room alone and try to collect the pieces of your life and meet your monster.
Everyone has a monster that haunts them—monsters inside and outside. I have fought monsters. And turned into a complete monster in the midst of the fight.
At a certain point I just started breaking. Breaking everything that was given to me, everything that I was working with. Because it was the only way I could carve myself into the hard-ass clay I was given. And if you have to make something with a hammer instead of a scalpel, the result will be more rigid, more raw.
Achieving the ultimate success through the ultimate level of bashing—running through a fucking wall and taking the bruises and wearing the fucking bruises and shit. And jumping in a cold pool with a half hard-on.
I am moved by visions that feel very physical, very aggressive—where the body is molded and shaped, twisted, and beaten into existence. Within these works, I locate my affinity for—or maybe my addiction to—the body.
My father once said to me that a pornographic image actually tattoos your mind. It never leaves you. It binds to your senses and your psyche. Beauty is pornographic to me, it’s a trigger in that same way—a chemical reaction that moves blood in the body. That is powerful. The other joy that’s the most pure can only come through God.—Kanye West