Skip to main content

Narratives:

As I continue to develop my own narratives through art, the direction and content of my work will naturally evolve alongside societal changes. Engaging with the present moment offers a continual opportunity for reflection and commentary.

We Are More Similar


In a world increasingly divided by surface-level difference, We Are More Similar calls for a deeper kind of seeing — one rooted in empathy, not assumption.

This work challenges the persistent habit of judging others by their physical appearance rather than their actions, character, or lived experience. It confronts the reality that many choose not to listen, not to understand — because doing so requires effort, vulnerability, and a willingness to reconsider one's own beliefs.

By inviting viewers to pause and reflect, We Are More Similar suggests a simple yet radical idea: that beneath the layers of identity imposed by society, our shared humanity runs deeper than what separates us.

It’s a quiet but insistent reminder that compassion is a choice — and that choosing to truly see one another is the first step toward any meaningful change.




No Vacancy


At its core, No Vacancy challenges the viewer to reconsider the meaning of home. Once synonymous with safety, comfort, and belonging, the concept of "home" is here reduced to its most minimal, makeshift form — a space barely fit for human life.


This sculpture evokes a sense of confinement and dehumanization, confronting the viewer with the stark reality that, for many, shelter is no longer a given, but a luxury. The structure’s stripped-down form speaks not only to physical limitation but to emotional and societal abandonment — a commentary on how systemic inequality has turned basic housing into an unattainable dream for growing swaths of the population.


No Vacancy becomes both a literal and metaphorical signpost:
There is no room left. No room in the market. No room in the policy. No room for those who can’t keep up.






How Many More?


In this provocative reimagining of the Capitol Reflecting Pool, the water is gone. In its place rest 50 cast glass baby faces, each nestled upon a stack of school books — a haunting tribute to innocent lives lost or forever changed by gun violence. The glass, fragile and cold, evokes the vulnerability of childhood. The books, once symbols of growth and potential, now serve as silent headstones.

Where there was once a pool for reflection and calm, there is now a graveyard of promise. The U.S. Capitol Building, seated just beyond, appears unchanged — until the viewer notices its dome upheld by bullets. This architectural impossibility is a sharp metaphor: democracy propped up not by ideals, but by the enduring political power of gun lobbies and a system paralyzed by division and fear.

Reflected in the baby faces are the four presidents who have held office since Columbine. Their faces peer down as if in contemplation — or shame. The reflection asks a question none of them fully answered:
How many more?

This installation is not merely memorial; it is indictment.
It is a demand.
It is a mirror held up to a nation where children are sacrificed and change remains deferred.




Listening Post


A satellite dish with ears.


This surreal image lies at the heart of Listening Post, a sculpture that explores the fragile boundary between personal expression and surveillance in the digital age. Traditionally a tool for receiving signals from distant sources, the satellite dish here becomes a symbol of constant, invasive listening. The addition of "ears" renders the object uncanny — not just a passive receiver, but an active, almost sentient presence.


In a world oversaturated with technology, where our conversations, movements, and even thoughts can be tracked, stored, and analyzed, Listening Post reflects the creeping anxiety that privacy is becoming obsolete. Whether through government oversight, corporate data harvesting, or the invisible architectures of social media, the piece suggests that someone — or something — is always listening.




Gary Eitzen