jacob butts

biography

      failure to be a complete failure to be a complete failure to be a complete

      On July 22, 1980 there was a volcanic eruption from Mount Saint Helens; on this same day I was born. Could this
      mark a moment of "magic" or "greatness", potentially, but honestly, who cares?

      I have become interested in the questions 1) What is the meaning of life and 2) What is the meaning of [a more local       (specifically me and my)] art practice. Through the contemplation of these very questions I believe that I have almost       collapsed, or at the very least, I have been made unstable; furthermore, this has led me to understand that I am the       utter definition of cliché.

      Cliffhanger...

      Through the act of asking unanswerable questions I feel I am placing myself in the realm of modernism; uh oh! I am       searching for a shelter behind the guise of the ideals of greatness [individual: i.e. narcissism, or (group: i.e. Chicago       Bulls 91-93 and 96-98)] , a hope for something better, and worst of all progress. These values had been questioned and       tormented into defining modernism as a romantic white male mysticism of failure; the very idea of utopian corruption.       Postmodernism wanted to collapse, destroy, or at least debunk these ideals; showing any sign of progress was and is       always going to be relative to some other moment of back-pedaling.

      I suspect expected greatness, though I hope and dream that it is real and true. I feel that we as humans have to
      believe that what we do is bettering, or at least not damaging the world. The pinnacle of human endeavors comes
      from remembrance. Looking at what has been around the longest (i.e. The pyramids, the Great Wall of China,       Stonehenge, and other examples of failed cultures) is what makes something "great", but what if I want to be great
      now? I can create a failed facade of greatness by preserving artifacts of my life, stories or text that show my
      questioning and logical illogic logic. I can mock the making of "great objects" by making my own models of such from
      wood and bricks purchased at home improvement stores . I want to ask if my attempts are any less important
      [which I honestly feel are and aren't (postmodern or even more post so I circle back to modern).

      Why do I do the things I do? Why does anyone do anything? I may have found out! We have to do something or we do       nothing. We occupy ourselves for the sheer purpose of occupation. Like that incredible explosion or energetic
      exhaust which Mount Saint Helens couldn't contain anymore; the lava was bubbling to the surface at the same time
      I was. It all comes to energy and then a release of that energy. In essence this is why I make things. I have an
      egoistic desire for self-preservation, though also containing an equally (or a little less than equal) desire for self-
      degradation. I have an impulse to make, I am compelled to keep making, just to do something, though I have to also
      believe that I am doing something good; no, make that great.

      I want to make work that operates on the line between success and failure, the same line I see when I think about
      modernism and postmodernism. I am in the position of believing in optimism and progress, while at the same time
      completely realizing how wrong, absurd, and romantic those beliefs are. I want to reach for the stars by being shot
      out of a cannon, yet I know the cannon could potentially burn me, or if that doesn't, the stars would.