Recent Work > Where we begin and end

Where we begin and end
Christopher Lin
May 21 - June 6, 2015
Hunter MFA Thesis Show
205 Hudson St

Where we begin and end
Ink, soap, water, soil, plastic vials and bubble wands, end table, and Mimosa pudica
2015
Wishing Well
Inflatable swimming pool, water, and ink
66 inch diameter
2015
Monolith
Air conditioner, human teeth, plaster, and pedestal
2014
Monolith (detail)
Air conditioner, human teeth, plaster, and pedestal
2014
Monolith (detail)
Air conditioner, human teeth, plaster, and pedestal
2014
Excoriate
Glue, skin, hair, and gut sutures
1 x 48 x 36 inches
2015
Symbiont
Non-rebreather oxygen mask and pleurocarp moss
3 x 12 x 4 inches
2014
Where we begin and end
Ink, soap, water, soil, plastic vials and bubble wands, end table, and Mimosa pudica
Installation view: In the Cloud, Ethan Cohen Fine Arts, June 23 - Aug 29, 2015
2015
Excoriate
Glue, skin, hair, gut sutures, and tiles
Installation view: On the Inner and Outer Self, Church of St. Paul the Apostle, Sept 2 - Oct 22, 2015
2015
Untitled (for Daniel)
Twelve family albums, artist's hair, plastic bags, and permanent marker
Installation view: On the Inner and Outer Self, Church of St. Paul the Apostle, Sept 2 - Oct 22, 2015
2015
Untitled (for Daniel)
2013-2014
Artist's hair, plastic bags, and permanent marker
Untitled (for Daniel)
2013-2014
Artist's hair, plastic bags, and permanent marker
Untitled (for Daniel)
2013-2014
Artist's hair, plastic bags, and permanent marker

How do we identify that which is ourselves and that which is not? Where do we begin and end? Where does one truly locate oneself? These questions are trickier than they seem. The hair on my head is me as much as my left eye, my hip joint, or the soles of my feet. But when my hair falls off, detaching from my body in the shower, on the pillow where my head tossed and turned the night before, or between my fingers as I run my hand through my hair, it instantaneously becomes disposable, unsanitary, repulsive. It is no longer considered to be a part of me. Its physical makeup has not changed, merely its connection to what I identify as my body.

What of our skin, which is composed of around 1.6 trillion cells, 500 million of which we slough off into the world each day? These dead skin cells populate our environment, our bodies dispersed in the corners of our bedrooms, floating in the air that we breathe in and out, absorbed, expelled, reabsorbed, and re-expelled. As I continue to live, I continue to shed material that is me into the world. I consume materials to sustain the process, Christopher Lin as process—an unconscious, unscripted performance. My body breaks down into hundreds of millions of pieces as I rebuild it from others, consuming the flesh of other organic beings and incorporating it into my own. Between each day, each moment, I am of a different composition. The balance of materials that make up my body, my identity, with each inhale and exhale, with each drop of sweat from my brow, adjusts and changes. Perhaps I am just the average of all these variations, or I am the sum. Such is the paradox of being—the boundlessness and the indeterminacy of the individual.