I have no heroic artist narrative. I've never tied myself to another artist for an entire year. I've never nailed myself to a car. I've never made a masterpiece by sheer force of my own virile genius.

Instead my work must be, as a dear friend of mine who works in aerospace called it, rapidly deployable and rapidly stowable. My work must fit within the cracks in the pavement of my disabilities. Easy to pick up for minutes or hours and just as easy to set back down. Stasis tolerant, able to be left for hours or months while my body collapses, my neurology turns chaotic, my joints dislocate, and my senses revolt.

My work is not these finished dead things, my images, my sculptures, my AI. These things are simply proof. Much like proofs in mathematics each piece is one in a series of true statements leading to the acceptance of a more complex truth. My work proves the existence and inherent value of disabled lives, of autistic minds, of my life, and of my mind.