Like foot traffic on the swing bridge and river rats on the run, the city’s flotsam and jetsam told us to throw it all away, only impermanence is permanent, and we too would run into the sea, into the “wild, wide space”, but we are stuck here like detritus, stubborn and ungovernable like silt choking the Belize river delta.
Even after twenty years, we have no idea who or what we are doing.
The Image Factory is not a cathedral to art, not an inviolable space – we champion only the right to be ridiculous; irreverence as audacity. 20 years has to be marked because the factory has survived in spite of our better judgement, in spite of mass-indifference – it is not a commitment to a vision, but to art’s enduring spirit, to be.