Rococo Slaughter

Artistic Statement

On rainy summer nights, I seem destined to traverse the deepest caverns of my mind - particularly in the early morning hours. The thing I keep visually referencing in my mind is: gold trim.

The kind of trim that fits so elegantly upon the creaky walls, paneled with wondrous arts - its volume, though, a veil upon the specific beauty of each individual piece. The kind of trim that elegantly drips down from the corners where the ceilings meet the walls, and into the porous lavishness of wooden furniture hailing from 18th-century Europe.

Whenever the sensibilities of the people who owned such extravagances was put to the test, it is certain that these proto-revolutionary victims found themselves situated among the trim. And I just wonder whether any of them thanked their lucky stars, that their last glimpses of life would likely be the sight of this golden trim, all covered by the blood running down their eyes as they drift peaceably beyond consciousness and into deep, indefinite rest.

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