PUBLICATIONS 03.








All It Took Was One Really Big Dick To Knock Me Off The Face Of The Earth



What would it look like if your inner child was suddenly struck with the trials and tribulations of adulthood all at once, and, in response, crawled out from the depths of your soul, full of rage, fuming over innocence lost, to scream, cry, and cum all over? This is the sort of image I seek to evoke and portray in my artwork.





My name is HURRICANE ALEXANDER.













Imagine A Rage Scene ; Bird Meets Bird, Birds Build Nest, Bird Rapes Bird, ... and Now We’re Scrambling an Omelette



Feeling the way I’m feeling just isn’t going to cut it. Every day I open my eyes to a half-eaten bowl of melted frozen yogurt, with chocolate sauce smeared across my pillow. The footpath to the spree sparkles below my window, and the birds are back to their old tricks.

I hide beneath my blankets and pretend I don’t give a damn.
Screech, squawk, kick, squeal.
Screech-grip, bitch. Screak-squeal, bitch. Scream, bitch; Bellyache













The Hurricane, The ‘Forever' Scream



As the inner child ascends to the tip of your psyche, ALL OTHER CONCEPTIONS OF SELF HIDE IN FEAR.
Rage, Rage, Rage, Rage ...Art is PASSION. Yes.
Art is CONTROVERSY. YES.
Claiming something to be art is an art piece, is the art piece ... I’m thinking of things less tangible, more cerebral ... thinking all physical artwork is merely a placeholder, a symbol, for the real horrors/wonders within ourselves, etcetera.


Art is a WEAPON. Yes.

Art, and the art of seeing art where others cannot, is a loaded handgun. Consider art as something dangerous ... EXPLOSIVE; it breaks the bones of tradition and normality, forcing the unspeakable to take its rightful place in the public arena, the external playground of human emotion & interaction and its ties to secrecy, yadda-yadda.
Art is a CHALLENGE.
Art should be CHALLENGING. Yes. Yes. Yes.
When an artist presents a piece of work that can’t easily be placed in a category, for example, labeled as a painting/sculpture/performance/etc., or linked to a specic era/icon/concept in art history, then the spectator is forced to occupy a place of surreal discomfort, a very fragile, disoriented place, and essentially told to gure it out for themselves. When the artist makes it clear that their understanding of art diers signicantly from that of the viewer, it opens up a large hole, or portal, or invitation, in which the viewer can attempt to ll in the gaps and write their own story —>WhyamIthewaythatIam?...





A little more about me:I am an installation/performance/chaos artist whose work centers around queer violence, mental illness, and the private lives of fear. My work exists as a congregation of symbolic screams, some silent, internal, while others quite loud, erupting vulgarly into the outside world. The agonizing solitude I experienced throughout adolescence, growing up queer and neurodivergent in rural America, the feeling of wanting to escape but needing to hide, fuels my creative process. I aim to blur the line between tragedy and satire, allowing playful absurdity to creep into spheres of paranoid horror. The ctitious evolution from gifted child to gifted adult self-destructs and rapidly mutates, along with my understanding of art itself, and my confounding desire to be, in its most radical form, artless. Through the regurgitation of my deeply persuasive manic-depressive episodes, I strive to unearth and devour the intimate vulnerabilities of each art-viewer/audience in an attempt to reclaim our own humanness.Scream bitch, scream bitch; SCREAM!




The Large, Erect Penis | The First Cumming



At the very tip of the iceberg is fear, sure, but fear is complicated. Raw fear has the power to send us spiraling backwards, way back, directly to those intensely haunting memories from adolescence. In moments of fragility, our eccentric imagination can easily become our reality, consequently, our deepest, darkest fears can creep outside the dream world and settle into the world of the “real.” This creeping can be completely overlooked and have adverse eects, ranging from fascinating to absolutely horrifying, on a person’s perception of existence.
You wake up in the middle of the night in a puddle of piss. The room is pitch black, you are alone. In the shadowy corner stands a strange man, watching you, slowly

moving closer. As he glides across the room, the moonlight illuminates his naked body, exposing his large, erect penis. Suddenly, there is a rapid shift from terror to fantasy as the man straddles you on the bed. In this moment, fear becomes a turn on for you, and this scares you too – scared of the dark, scared of being alone, and scared of yourself too ... but you’re not alone.
Your mother wakes up, fearing you’re in danger, sensing the nightmare, and catches you masturbating. She watches, through the crack in the door, as you climax for the very rst time. In that specic moment you notice two eyes ash in the doorway, then disappear, and footsteps down the hall. Confused, you imagine yourself through your mother’s eyes – little you, covered in piss and cum and terribly frightened, and you don’t know what to do ... And you don’t know how to feel ...












What can you do? What can you feel?


With this image in mind, you can probably tell I have a thing for perversion and perverts and all things deemed “perverted.” I want to encourage art-viewers to push far past personal comfort zones and traditional artistic analysis, and ultimately succumb to “the bizarre,” that which subsists uniquely in the kaleidoscope sentiment of the viewer. Fear, paranoia, isolation and the curse of creativity is the cocktail being served, which, after a few big sips, can be boiled down to an all-embracing human narrative of shame and self-deception. It’s no wonder my work corkscrews simultaneously into places of downright horror and naive silliness; it’s here, in this “both” zone, where monsters, such as the monsters I’ve encounter on my journey with Bipolar Disorder and Depression, establish a rhythm and independence that allows them to be examined precisely and challenged radically.I walk into the room and pull down my underwear. The room goes quiet.






I call this The Large, Erect Penis Effect, where the presence of a large, erect penis at a party makes people dumb. Dumb as a box of rocks. It’s a similar thing to pulling out a gun, I guess, but even more menacing. In the right setting, however, with the right people, the mood gets dumb and ... happy. Happy as a box of rocks!






The “Me,” The “You,” The “Other”

While constructing my nightmarish playgrounds I think a lot about taboos; what extremely intimate topic can I allow myself to think deeply about and express? What can be said about what can’t be said? ...



 I like to tease established taboos with a silly tongue, talking openly and honestly about mental illness, sex, and madness in the modern world, but focusing on dangerously personal and suggestive details, almost in the tone of Isn’t it crazy that this is real ... that this is happening? Isn’t it crazy that you’re real. THINK ABOUT A CUM SOCK, for instance, the sensation of thrusting a penis into a dirty, old sock, sti from overuse, and cumming, and keeping that sock on your bedside table, or better, in a secret little drawer. Think about COLLAPSING ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR AND SOBBING INTO A BOWL OF FROSTED FLAKES, and while you’re shoving spoonfuls of cereal into your mouth between gasps, you notice an old postcard hiding underneath the fridge. It’s a letter from your sister. The sight of it makes your stomach turn.






Like Sylvia Plath once wrote,

“The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.”
By posing hard truths related to the cycles of abuse we impose on ourselves, art and artists have the ability to pull pain, “pain” as a concept, away from bland discourses like “I’m suering because life is hard,” or, “I’m hurting because this and that happened to me,” and position pain directly in the gut of the beholder, meaning ratify the emotional, soulful warfare that exists on the inside, and continue to map out these webs of pain across multiple terrains of existence, ultimately acknowledging its more meticulous and universal characteristics.






I WANT TO TELL A STORY THAT IS REAL. 



Gut-wrenchingly real, really.

Through fullness and depth, I hope to move audiences swiftly past shock value, or use shock value (and sex appeal) as bait, like cheese on a mousetrap, and eventually arrive upstream, at a root cause, exposing a much more expansive evil. The audience is urged to help shift the cultural narrative from a place of abysmal numbness to one of openness, not by extending a helping hand to others, but rather by actively destroying emotional and intellectual blockages within themselves. The path forward is uncertain simply because it has to be, because we have to build it. Therefore, the nuanced fear tied to identity existentialism and what is considered “good” or “normal,” or “me” or “you,” aka fear of the other versus fear of the “other” within ourselves, is at the core of my work.Urgency & The Ticking Clock

Certainly, the terrain of depression is bursting with obstacles and intricacies unimaginable to the stable mind.



All it took was one really big dick to knock me o the face of the earth ...
Not really.

What I meant to say is: All it took was one really bad acid trip in my sophomore year of university to truly knock me o the face of the earth; I fell so deeply into paranoia and delusional thinking, my self-harming tendencies, blah-blah-blah. Pushing through that darkness, I had lots of revelations concerning the urgency of emotion and self expression in the face of a mental illness epidemic and an imposed MASS SILENCING. For awhile, growing up, I thought suicide would be the worst outcome of my mental illness, but this is a very selsh thought. The plethora of fucked-up scenarios I experienced in the years following that bad trip, proved that there are places inside of us that are far worse than death. One of the scariest features of meeting yourself at rock bottom, confronting yourself, at least for me, is realizing that there’s absolutely nothing. After rotting away in my depression for an ungodly amount of time, I eventually managed to accept the fact that I am nothing, and, by surrendering to the nothingness, I was able to unlock the potential to be absolutely everything.
If there is one thing I wish I had access to when I was so unbearably depressed, it’s someone saying “Yes, exactly, exactly that, me too,” or “I’ve been there ... This is what it was like for me,” talking about the experience of being depressed rather than how to become un-depressed. Instead, most resources are like “just hold on / it will get better / this is how you get better / this is how you heal ... ” ... SO NOBODY IS ACTUALLY TALKING ABOUT IT?! How am I supposed to heal when I am actively getting fucked by death itself?! My frustration with the resources available for individuals trapped within a mental crisis has driven me to be the motherfucker that does, in fact, talk about it.







A Full Recession Into Dissociation, Delusionment, and Despair

If you know my work, you probably know that I am usually covered in some sort of thick, bloody, gross liquid.
I like to submerge myself in the literal and symbolic uid of depression/psychosis in the hopes of unifying these multiple realms of being; my work is not a mere product of my mind, but rather is my mind, or even more, is my mind once I’ve lost my mind. Urgency becomes a primary factor here due to the cyclic disposition of Bipolar Disorder, where there is a limited amount of time before the next depressive/manic episode wherein adequate communication becomes near impossible. I believe that it’s extremely urgent to express yourself while you can, and to talk about mental illness in a way that expresses just how severe and life-altering it can be.Do not hold back.





We Grunt When We’re Manic!



In the daytime, I’m a man, in the night, I’m a monster, but at the end of it all, I’m just a boy. Just a child. I have eyes that are like woodpeckers, hollowing out the world around me, putting holes in reality. I have an imagination that can make a grown man sick to his stomach.

Because you (grunt when you’re manic) tortured you – 
Poor tortured you
You torture your
self senseless

And it just so happens that I (grunt when I’m manic) 
tortured me – I know I tortured me
Poor 
tortured me
I torture me
Torture me 
Tortured 
me Tortured







A Societal Ache/Rot



Art-making is less of a cathartic process and more of an educational one for me; it is a blunt reminder and validation of just how twisted our thinking processes can become when our depression takes over, as well as a reminder that the full spectrum of emotions is valuable; all sensitivities are worthy of investigation, and falling deeper into our “challenging” emotions oftentimes brings us closer to ourselves and to what it means to be alive. With this mindset, the inherent suering of being alive, of having a body that aches, a brain that aches, is the primary building blocks of connection and community. By boldly sharing our own personal encounters with emotional and mental torment, our own unhinged delusions, intrusive thoughts, thoughts of non-belonging, hopelessness, self-sabotage and suicide, we can all actively strengthen the bonds between the people and art around us. It is common to feel trapped within oneself as a person suering from mental illness, but it is crucial to recognize that we are trapped rst and foremost within society (capitalism, societal norms, binary systems of oppression, etcetera). It is an artist’s job to draw parallels between these invisible cages, exposing our traumas and exposing our bravery by being able to point our ngers outward, and upward, dismantling suering on all levels, at all scales, bit by bit, in a life-long search for collective clarity and liberation.


XO HURRICANE ALEXANDER




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