You know, I’ve heard about “anger management” classes before.

It’s a quaint concept, really. But as an artist, I’ve found something to be far more therapeutic than expressing my feelings in mere words to fellow sufferers. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not putting down anger management. It works beautifully for some – namely those who wish to curb their rage and mitigate the madness. Thus, I completely accept that some wish to cure their wrath.

But I prefer to curate mine.

Thus, I present to you the most meaningful collection I’ve assembled in my very long and celebrated career. It is the culmination of over five years worth of my most intense and passionate work done into within the walls of my apartment studio. A synthesis of emotion, blood, sweat, and tears has served as both muse and media in the construction of each and every piece. Literally.

Friends, esteemed colleagues, and fans, I give you…. “The Wrath of Ash”:

We’ll begin with this treasured piece:

Medium: Iron lampstand.
Canvas: Unassuming entryway

Easily one of my favorites. It was going to be titled “I Kant read Nietzsche when you’re fckking flickering” or “You had ONE JOB.” But I ignored it for far longer than the time I spent reading and annoyed by its neglect of its singular duty. This worked on an artistic level because it gave my raw emotions enough time to build. After hours and days and weeks of its unpredictable luminary behavior, I finally blew a fuse of my own. It stopped flickering that day.

In fact, it stopped doing anything at all, ever again.

And they all lived happily ever after, painting the world with more creative destruction.

Like this unique gem:

Medium: Spontaneous judo chop.
Canvas: Whittled water closet metal

The beauty behind this one is that it was created in a moment of pure passion.

A girl filled with the dismal abyss that accompanies the lost promise of steaming aqueous therapy on her aching body after a long jog in the woods in winter because… the water won’t warm up. But my temper certainly did, so all wasn’t lost. Yes, passion. Passion is a force. Passion is unbridled truth and beauty in motion. Passion disregards the fact that you just had this fixture replaced, as it rips said rung from its roots in an explosive momentary act of bath wrath and throws it across the room like a Lifetime rapist does his victim’s panties while she pretends not to want it.

But she does.

Oh she does….

That slutty rung was asking for it.

Medium: frisbeed dish
Canvas: Kitchen wall

Now this part of my installment is meant to spur your cognitive gears.

It begs the same question we all collectively stay up late at night asking ourselves: Who knew that if you put a dinner plate upon a pot of delicious boiling stew (which you wouldn’t dream of slurping till it cooled down because it’s still simmering like some special kind of magma that even Satan would have to special order from whatever’s lower than hell), that if you were to pick it up using only your hand-skin as protection, it might feel uncomfortable? And keep you from working for several days? Because you now possess liquid bubbles where once fingertips resided?

Really, these plates should come with a warning of sorts.

But as they say, one man’s oversight is another man’s ultimately brilliant and raved about work of genius.

And here’s just another example:

Medium: Early onset dementia
Canvas: Barrier between where I eat and shit

Now, this one was at the earlier stages of my career. And my memory admittedly fails me a bit here. Thus, while I’m pretty sure that “Life is hard” preceded that one hour long seizure level anxiety attack I had which felt like I was getting a deep tissue from an electric fence, it may have also just been that one time I walked into the room and forgot why. (Infuriating, that, isn’t it?) Which would explain why I also forget which medium was responsible for gifting us with this magnificent masterpiece which looks a bit like the head of a dreadlockless Predator.

And, yet again, I’m presently unsure as to why I walked into this room…

Oh. Right.

To show you this visual treat in the room beside it:

Medium: Corpse of truculent window cover.
Canvas: Everything in a four foot radius.

Now, the backstory goes thusly: I understand and appreciate that most people think inanimate objects aren’t thinking and feeling behind those stoic exteriors of theirs. But much like the “anger management” solution to anger, these people are wrong. Thus, when our silent and still brethren become suddenly unruly, they need to be taught lessons they’re not likely to forget. For example, I adhere to that old punishment that dads do when they catch their kid smoking (“So, you wanna smoke, eh? Smoke the whole pack! Right now! Till you vomit blood and my inner goddess starts dancing because I’m a sadist!”) And that’s exactly what I imposed the day the venetian blind I invited into my home to live above my window flippantly decided it didn’t want to fulfill its simple obligation of guarding me from public view when darkness falls. As it came crashing to the ground – a kamikaze window cover who’d had enough of its mundane life – I went through all the stages of grief and then finally circled back around and ensconced myself safely into my favorite one: Sweet. Rage.

“So, you want to fall and break things, huh? Good! Let’s break lots of things! With your lifeless body!”

Like this:

And this:

And… we’ve brought it full circle. To another lamp!

Just as well, really. Had it stuck around long enough, it would’ve started flickering, too.

Maybe earned its own spot in my next showing – where it’d be criticized for being derivative of my own earlier work.

Then I’d just look desperate and mentally ill.

And we can’t have people thinking that.