My work explores the often cryptic yet revelatory relationship between dick and pussy, or the gross material, the primal urge, and the numinous divine, the infinite womb. With influences as diverse as Laura Ingalls-Wilder and Daniel Johnston, a schism is created that mocks and defies didactic discourse.
Ever since I was an embryo broiling in the hellfire snakepit that is 20th century Texas. I have been enthralled by the absurdity of language. Why do we speak at all? Why do we disobey Bukowski and try like maniacal motherfucker? What begins as bewilderment soon degenerates into sugar crazed futility, leaving the viewer/listener/taster/feeler with a vague sense of nausea and an exasperated WHAT THE FUCK???
The truth is my work is not a package of Twinkies to be quickly and mindlessly consumed en route to a Maroon 5 or BLINK-182 concert. My work is not a can of Coors. My work is not a can of Budweiseer. My work is not a Hello Kitty butt plug. My work is not any kind of sandwich.
Rather, my work is a Chef Boyardee pizza. Bitch, you gotta work that dough. You must take the time and the effort to consume my art. No, baby, my art has no nutritional value. If you add your own gluten free vegan toppings to my art you will make it suck. Let my art be exactly what it is, a hot and tasty white trash snack that will only satisfy those who are not Italian.
2018 San Antonio, Texas Misti Rainwater
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