For some time, I have suspected that a motorcycle will end my life; I have dreamt it enough times that it is a certainty in my mind. In periods of insomnia, it is this dream which wakes me and causes me to go weeks without hopes of a gentle rest. The scene may change, but always there is a crash and metallic screech followed by the resumption of conscious thought.
I lived in Barcelona for a summer, and it was here, surrounded by mopeds and compact European motorcycles, where I sought some sort of closure to this premonition. In my dreams I am already the owner of a bike (I never experience the acquisition of my killing machine) and as such, knew that it would be next to impossible to prevent this from occurring (I will one day–– maybe soon, maybe in many years––awake to the realization that I have already purchased a Kawasaki Ninja). At this point, it would most certainly be too late to intervein upon Fate. I have always wondered; will it be my fault or the motorcycle’s? This I will never know, either having killed myself or having met my end in a catastrophic mechanical failure.
Though she may never be avoided, I began to wonder if Fate could be tricked (or perhaps amused enough to change her mind). When awoken at some ghoulish hour, I would rise and dress myself up as a roving insurance investigator in disguise. In my plainclothes, no one would know that I was performing the role of an insurance company’s investigator disguised as a petty hobby photographer (ideally a pervert with a motorcycle fetish). In a casual conversation about city life, my copy editor that summer told me a terrible story about a friend of hers who was disfigured by a Rieju. She said that if it is documented prior to a crash that a bike was poorly maintained, insurance companies will take measures to avoid a major payout. That is, if a photo demonstrates that your bike has been damaged in some significant manner (ideally, you will be in this photo with the monster) and it is demonstrated that you kept riding it, your child/partner/dear dog will not receive the six figures otherwise earmarked to them upon your collision into the next world.
I lived in Barcelona for a summer, and it was here, surrounded by mopeds and compact European motorcycles, where I sought some sort of closure to this premonition. In my dreams I am already the owner of a bike (I never experience the acquisition of my killing machine) and as such, knew that it would be next to impossible to prevent this from occurring (I will one day–– maybe soon, maybe in many years––awake to the realization that I have already purchased a Kawasaki Ninja). At this point, it would most certainly be too late to intervein upon Fate. I have always wondered; will it be my fault or the motorcycle’s? This I will never know, either having killed myself or having met my end in a catastrophic mechanical failure.
Though she may never be avoided, I began to wonder if Fate could be tricked (or perhaps amused enough to change her mind). When awoken at some ghoulish hour, I would rise and dress myself up as a roving insurance investigator in disguise. In my plainclothes, no one would know that I was performing the role of an insurance company’s investigator disguised as a petty hobby photographer (ideally a pervert with a motorcycle fetish). In a casual conversation about city life, my copy editor that summer told me a terrible story about a friend of hers who was disfigured by a Rieju. She said that if it is documented prior to a crash that a bike was poorly maintained, insurance companies will take measures to avoid a major payout. That is, if a photo demonstrates that your bike has been damaged in some significant manner (ideally, you will be in this photo with the monster) and it is demonstrated that you kept riding it, your child/partner/dear dog will not receive the six figures otherwise earmarked to them upon your collision into the next world.
In my show, Insomnia, I made votive offering of my pictures. I invited my friends and professors to view them in a gallery setting, disguising them as works of art. There are layers of performance here: on top is my artist persona; below, that of the disguised insurance agent; beneath it all is the truth, I am a zealot of superstition. With this project, I sought to create images which may rise up from this lowest level and enact a protective ritual. I am happy with them; I was able to get closer than I ever have to the impending disaster and it is, as of writing, yet to occur.
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