installation in progress

What I am attempting is to bring the personal into the public sector saying "This is the reality that we try not to notice, frequently ignore and otherwise hide...and in the midst of this entropy, happiness happens." Through these photographs I am admitting to my clutter, my clothes on top of the toiled, my plunger- opening doors to associations with showering, sleeping eating, acting- in fact...I hope that they glorify acting and accept its residue (like scarification is a remembrance of a ritual, like marks on your back are residue of your suspension) We are a culture of rituals except we call them routines...the bottle of wine before bed, the shower first thing in the morning, the cup of tea in front of the computer, 9 loads of laundry friday night. I am not implying that these things are mystical or spiritual, but they are relevant and necessary- they are mundane and sometimes odd...like my father's obsession with cottage cheese. And in the end, the art professor and the cabinet maker are both sometimes too tired to do the dishes, too busy to eat well, too distracted for politics--->but they are both moving, acting and leaving residue. And in a sense, clutter is comforting. It tells us that we are home and that it is safe to unload here, to screw the dishes and go to bed. Clutter is in sharp contrast to the way homes are portrayed in the media (in soap operas, tv shows, and magazines) where they are exhibited like professional porn stars on platforms, untouchable, attractive, with huge "pillows" and a great, well kept "lawn"...and if you've got one of THOSE baby, then you've made it. What does it come down to? That I suppose I am making amateour home pornography, glorifying the normalcy of my space, its details and imperfections, in essence creating 1200 portraits of (mundane) living.

(The images posted are about 1/10th of an installation I am currently fucking around trying to complete)