I was as a child passionate about insects and deathly afraid of horror. I spent my waking hours clambering through the outdoors, catching bugs in jars only to release them by sunset. And then, when night fell, I was pursued by terrifying monsters that seemed more real than the sunlit world I thrived in.
As I grew older my fear of the night—and all the threats I imagined came with it—tempered into a macabre fascination. What was dismissed as childish eccentricities became more apparently queer as I progressed into adulthood, and with the revelation of both my sexuality and gender came a second revelation that much of the world would be hostile to my existence. The creatures born of nightmares understandably became nonthreatening by comparison.
Throughout my life I pursued the creative arts. I wrote stories about desire, monstrosity, and all the combinations of the two. I painted insect heads upon human bodies, drew faces afflicted with painful growths. I was enchanted by the transgressive monstrous, but even now I’m uncertain if the hostile world I crawl through is that recurring monstrous, or if I myself am that monster. Perhaps my work doesn’t contain such a clear-cut answer.
More clear-cut is my exploration of different media in my work. Sometimes I work in the written word, and sometimes I work with the visual. Sometimes I’m lovingly painting acrylic landscapes, and sometimes I’m weaving together strips of old x-rays. Sometimes I go to local art stories for paint and pens, and sometimes I dig through thrift stores to find old objects to repurpose into my art.
My career as an artist is ever evolving, even in the face of an increasingly uncertain future. And if that evolution ever stagnates, well, I can retreat into the wilderness and let the insects take me.
Gabriel Wormwood