Exercise is the ceaseless pursuit of ever more refined “results”. It is a personified action or series of actions that have a beginning, but no end. You determine where time is made and you decide when it is done. You choose to believe in a goal beyond the wall of apparent futility; you choose to avoid it, to avoid yourself. In his 2004 essay ‘Against Exercise’, Mark Grief indicates the fallacy of this choice. “Exercise...” he argues, “comes to us as an emissary from the realm of biological processes. It falls under the jurisdiction of the obligations of life itself, which only the self-destructive neglect.”
It's inherently physical, repetitive, buildable, reliant on a succession of burning actions. It's a palimpsest. Its three syllables resonate Americanness to an almost nauseating degree, carrying in its wake a rhythmic allegiance to the ethics of capitalist collectivism, but I like thinking about it in the singular form, where it slips into something more precise and bizarre. My impression of your work is that it's often quite nonchalantly methodical, without feeling severe. It's very worked-on, verging on chaotic... but very simple. It’s very singularly directed by your personal thoughts, feelings, influences, memories and energies. It's built and rebuilt and the finished piece suggests layers of something physical and temporal about which only you truly know the history.
Going through the motions day in, day out, you hope to find a thermodynamic system of reciprocity between your dedication and the world, or at least a good reason to leave the house.