Advisor: Jason Paradis

There is something symbolic in the way an idea can come full circle. Like many in this world, I often ponder on the synchronicities we find occurring around us; the little moments and thoughts that, when taking a step back from the repetitiveness of everyday life, seem to be telling some kind of story. These “little signs” from the Universe, as I like to see it, appear to always be painting a path forward and illuminating the path from which you came. Every decision you ever made, every good or bad thing that ever occurred, the interconnectedness of it all — these signs illustrate the journey you have been taking your entire life. Though it’s easy to miss, these signs can sometimes align us for the things we never thought were possible, but in retrospect, they can show us that everything that ever happened had been leading you where you are all along.

This is, in a few words, what Delicate Intricacies means for me. It is the culmination of my life thus far, through the lens of the spiritual beliefs, experiences, and emotions I only recently have been able to fully grasp. Though I have a tendency to look to 2020 as the starting point of this awakening of spirituality and self-expression, this show examines my life in its entirety, in some ways challenging myself to look to the very beginning and explore the evolution of my beliefs, rather than the discovery of them. And while Delicate Intricacies began as a chronologically structured show, it has since grown into a more concise snapshot of the simple idea and juxtaposition of a person I used to be, confronted with the one I am today.

It is this opposition and, in some ways, this contradiction, which has become the heart of the installation presented in Delicate Intricacies. Relying on a mix of media ranging from oil and acrylic paintings, to linoleum cut prints and carefully curated installation sculptures, I have sought to create something bigger than a simple art exhibition. This is the story of my spiritual awakening, but larger than that, it is the experience of it. I have looked to capture the ideas, turning points, and foundations upon which it all seemed to be built on, while telling the story through varying styles of expression. It is my hope and intention that the viewers of Delicate Intricacies will be moved to find something along the paths of their own journeys, within the walls of mine.

I.

Like so many others across the globe, I’d be lying if I said that the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 and subsequent events that followed did not radically alter the way I view and experience life today. We can collectively agree that it was a turning point for our society and the many individuals who make it up. The lock-downs and unprecedented financial assistance our government provided to keep people home and away from each other meant that, for perhaps the first time in most people’s lives, we finally had a chance to slow down and search within. This looked different for everyone, and for me this meant returning to the love for art I had held as a child. It had always been a dream of mine to become an artist, but after the discouragement of my family, it had been long since forgotten. I instead turned to writing, where I then dreamed of becoming an author. But this, too, was pushed aside. As dreams for a meaningful and creative life were consistently met with resistance and disdain by the ones I looked up to most, I found a distinct dread in any thought of a prospective future in which I did nothing but contribute to the never-ending capitalist machine of our world. 

These feelings of dread were, of course, worsened by the belief system I was being raised with, although I did not realize it at the time. As the child of two now-retired NYPD police officers, I was brought up in a conservative household that often gave demand without justification, respect and obedience without explanation, and a strong belief in the predetermined binaries of our society without questioning. There were “good” people and “bad” people, “good” towns and “bad” towns, “good” jobs and “bad” jobs. We strived to be “good,” we feared what was “bad.” Religion was, of course, a major inclusion and contributor to this. My parents separated when I was seven, and the subsequent divorce and almost ten-year long custody battle meant that the things I was taught, the places I spent my holidays, and the experiences I had were now prescribed in the court papers of the divorce settlement. While my mother won custody, one of the agreements my father forced her to make was the insistence that my sister and I be raised Catholic, just like he had been. Now that I am older, the irony does not escape me, as “thou shall not covet your neighbor’s wife” is the Tenth Commandment, and my father coveting my neighbor’s wife is exactly what led to my parents’ divorce in the first place. I have no memory of my father taking us to mass unless it was for a wedding or a funeral, nor did he ever take us to our Catechism classes. And yet, to follow in the footsteps of my Italian-American family, to ease my grandmother with the peace of mind of knowing my soul was “saved” — to be Catholic, was to be “good.” 

My reflections on my upbringing are cemented in my installation and found object sculpture, Family Traditions. A title very much rooted in the fact that I often feel that I was only raised Catholic because it is the way it had always been done for the Cornettas. I approached this piece the way I feel my religious beliefs were approached: specifically placed and manufactured. The piece is deeply personal, as it displays the very dress I made my First Communion in. I affixed the dress to a cradled wood panel that has been covered in a floral wallpaper with nails, an allusion to the crucifixion of Christ. The use of a wallpaper to cover the wood panel gives a feeling of symbolic layering, as nothing in the sculpture and installation has been painted or drawn with my own hand, but rather applied to beautify and cover. 

Sam Cornetta, Family Traditions, 2024, found object sculpture and installation.

Symbolism is greatly important for my work, and especially in this piece. The flower displayed on the wallpaper is a lily, a symbol of purity and the flower of the Holy Mother in the Catholic religion, and additionally the national flower of Italy. Live flowers have also been affixed to the wooden cradle of the structure, creating an altar-like appearance. The flowers presented are lilies, whose symbolism has been presented above, as well as red carnations, symbolizing pure love, red roses, representing martyrdom, and white roses, for purity. I wanted each flower to represent something in Catholicism, and I wanted to make sure that they were in fact live flowers. Installed on the opening day of the exhibition, the flowers will slowly die without water or sunlight. While the beginning of the show will present the flowers as healthy and beautiful, over the duration of Delicate Intricacies they will wilt day by day. For me this symbolism will represent the wilting of my belief in the Catholic church. 

In front of the hanging board and dress, I have set up a small altar on a thrifted night stand. On display is a dish of communion wafers, pamphlets from the church I was raised in, funeral cards of my family members, holy water, a prayer candle for the Virgin Mary, a rosary and scapular my grandmother gave to me a few years before her death. The pamphlets, such as those addressing anti-abortion advocacy or calling for religion in public schooling, also speak to the political undertones I was raised with and associate with the Church. These objects, specifically the scapular and rosary, hold great meaning as they connect me to my grandmother and the version of Catholicism presented in my early life. 

Sam Cornetta, Family Traditions (close up), 2024, found object sculpture and installation.

My grandmother, Norma, was born in New York in 1933. I’m told she had always been a neurotic woman and most of my memories confirm this to be true. I never had a real explanation for this up until October of 2020, when I was told by my long-lost half-brother that she had, in fact, been diagnosed with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder in her lifetime. I will not designate her schizophrenia to be the sole reason for her emphatic belief in the Catholic church, but I will say that it may have influenced the conversations we had as a child. The greatest example I can present of my grandmother’s neuroticism lies in the many memories I have of her incessantly discussing the end of the world. She quite often spoke of the Second Coming of Christ as if it were an event that would be occurring tomorrow that had been communicated directly to her from God. I do not have many memories of my grandmother besides ones pertaining to religion. Whether we were throwing holy water in each of the rooms of my childhood home, or discussing the reason I needed to wear my scapular at all times was to ensure a ticket straight into Heaven incase I died while wearing it, every interaction was one that revolved around God. Further, every interaction was one that instilled in me some form of existential fear of Him. 

Looking back as an adult, I can understand and hold more empathy for the woman who raised my father. I can see the patterns of generational trauma, the untreated mental illness, and reliance on religion for answers in a world which may not have provided any. But from the perspective of a child, my grandmother was frightening, intimidating, and brought up questions I could never have found the answers to at such a young age. Thoughts surrounding the idea of death and the afterlife swarmed my head at night, and I have a distinct memory of crying to my mom one day in fifth grade that I was “scared the world [was] going to end in 2012.” Her response, dismissive and unworried, deemed my fear ridiculous. I never asked or brought it up again. 

As time moved forward, my anxiety remained. Topics like the Book of Revelations or the increasingly popular urban legend that the Mayans had predicted the end of the world made my adolescent heart beat out of its chest. I tried to get into the good graces of my parents by learning and mirroring their politics, specifically my father’s, subscribing to all of the anti-abortion and homophobic rhetoric that came with it. I didn’t necessarily go to church, but I still did not want to be a sinner. In all honesty, I just wanted to be saved from death.

Sam Cornetta, S.O.S., 2023, 11” x 8.5”, Gauche on Paper.

II.

On a chill March morning in 2015, I awoke from a dream unlike one I’d ever had before. Confused, I turned to my friend and told her that I had just dreamed about my grandmother hugging me goodbye. “Always say your prayers,” she had said. I hadn’t seen my grandmother since Christmas, and shrugged it off. Our brains fabricate weird stories, I had thought, and that would be the end of it. But then my father called, and suddenly things made more sense. He told me she had passed away twice overnight, only to be revived once more and placed into a medically induced coma. Here, he had said, she would stay for a few days, so my family could come and say goodbye. When I hung up the phone, I shook in disbelief. Had she come to me in my dream, standing on the bridge between life and death, to say goodbye?

The idea was not too far-fetched for me. I had always been a child who found enjoyment and curiosity in the supernatural. I had a weird fascination with ghosts and ghost hunting shows on television, and I often found comfort in the topic on the premise that it provided me with “proof” that the impending death that was always looming over my head was not final. When faith in God was not enough, I always had ghosts. That being said, this experience was my first actual interaction with something that I would define as supernatural. Had I not told my friend about the dream immediately after I had awoken, I am sure I would have convinced myself by now that I might have made the dream up. 

In moments such as these, it is hard to explain the sense of peace and energy that can overcome you. A sense of connection and belonging to something larger, a feeling of protection and an overwhelming sense that there really is something more. At the time, I couldn’t help but think that this was the feeling of God’s power and love. Proof that there was more and He was behind it all. I took my grandmother’s words to heart, and I tried becoming much more involved in my faith and the faith I was raised on. I began attending church weekly. My mother or step-mother would bring me on Sundays, and I would find solace in the knowledge that I could finally, tangibly, know what the “Holy Spirit” felt like. I reflected on my grandmother’s visit and how it was a turning point in my faith journey in a piece entitled “Memories,” which was written at some time after her death in 2015: 

The memory floated through her mind like a feather through the salty beach air. Her grandmother’s smile, her warm embrace, her firm statement: “Always say your prayers.” And while she had not physically experienced it, she knew it had happened. For as long as she had been alive, she had never experienced, nor heard of, any situation quite as coincidental as this. A dream about a grandmother, her grandmother, hugging her goodbye as she left some sort of party and telling her to say her prayers, only to then wake up and find out that the same grandmother that was in her dream was in a coma. … Her grandmother valued prayer more than a businessman values his capital. It was a tool more powerful than bombs, poison, or swords. The power of the word of God could heal, save, and protect. The purpose of her grandmother’s visit was to say goodbye, but it was also to remind her of what she had always told her to do in person: pray. Pray for her soul as she moves onto Heaven, and pray for the souls of the world, too. … And so, her grandmother’s final visit was one to always be remembered. It was one of great importance, and significantly boosted her faith in prayer and the Lord. God had allowed for her grandmother to come to her that night, and He will always be watching and protecting. She will never be alone.

Sam Cornetta, Always Say Your Prayers, 2024, 30” x 20”, Oil on Wood Panel.

Interestingly, I wonder if a part of me knew that I’d one day be looking back at this moment in my life when I wrote this piece. Another one of my synchronicities, perhaps. The presentation of the information from the third person is telling, as I subconsciously reveal the disconnect I had with myself in viewing the situation as though separate or above it. Sometimes it feels like walking through a museum of your own memories when you have trauma and, for me, my searching for these answers and acceptance in religion can be best explained through this lens. I feel a great separation from the person I was then, and although I still have no doubt in my mind that my grandmother did visit me in my dream that night, I no longer credit God’s miracles as the explanation. It did cement my belief that there is more. I could communicate and feel deeper than just our physical world, and that it was something worth exploring. These ideas remain with me to this day.

Delicate Intricacies is about the moments like this. The dreams and experiences that dismantle or rearrange everything you thought you knew; the ideas and feelings that stay with you and become a core part of who you are. In viewing my grandmother’s final words as a valuable part of my spiritual journey, I revisited them in the oil painting Always Say Your Prayers. Using my written account and memory of what happened as a reference, I delved into the tendencies and habits I’ve grown into as a painter over the past few years to create a new depiction of the dream. Combining the religious and spiritual feelings of the dream with my artistic proclivity to apply paint in thick, colorful ways, my new depiction of the dream feels more like my true retelling of it. I’ve allowed myself to use paint and art as a means of exploration and experimentation, just as much as expression. The wood panel upon which Always Say Your Prayers was painted became a place for my imagination to roam free, applying paint with tools ranging from brushes and palette knives, to syringes, oil sticks, the paint tubes themselves. While the person I was when I had written “Memories” may have restrained from such a vibrant range of colors, aiming for a more conservative depiction of the events, I now allow myself to bask in the colors of the rainbow. For me, the beauty lies in the fact that the surrealist nature of the painting rings more true than the original writing. The dreamscape, afterall, is never as clear cut as we often wish it was, and the chaotic appearance of the paint on the panel speaks to this. In the center, we have two figures, representing myself and my grandmother in our final embrace. My grandmother is winged as she transforms into my guardian angel and spirit guide and stands on the steps of the doorway between this world and the next. Stairs are placed throughout, indicating the stairway to Heaven that I envision my grandmother took as she walked through the portal that was death. Tears fall from the sky, watering the flowers and tree roots below, creating waterfalls and surrounding us with the elements of the earthly world. 

In my reflections on Always Say Your Prayers, I do find it important to note that these words still resonate with me. In my move away from the Church, I have not lost my conviction that there is something larger, something we cannot explain, something tying it all together. At times I still pray, although now I would direct my prayers to the “Universe” rather than God. After all, for me they’re one in the same.

III.

The hardest part about growing older is beginning to find the fallacies of your childhood. For me, that meant becoming friends with the people my parents had taught me to hate and fear, and learning to love them instead. It looked like forming an ideology that was not based on the bigotry and binaries, but one that was accepting and understanding. Ultimately, it looked like coming face to face with the person I am, wanted to be, and deep down, always was. 

By college I had moved away from the Catholic church and found myself in a void of spiritual or religious belief. Part of me still yearned for something larger, but another part of me, which had grown disillusioned with the idea of organized religion and the people who propagate it, grew cynical in my “connectedness to something bigger.” To the dismay of my parents and middle school self, I was turning out to be quite a leftist, and further, I was coming to the realization that I was Queer and Non-Binary. I’ve come to the conclusion that being raised by two conservative right-wing cops did more to “radicalize” me than any book or lecture ever could. I had seen and felt the racism, homophobia, islamophobia, and hatred with my own eyes. The “cop culture” of bragging about police brutality and  the inherent belief that they were above the law. In my heart, I knew it was not right, and yet, I had to remain silent. I did not feel safe or confident enough to vocally oppose my parents, and for years they held onto the false belief that I was their “golden child” in every way. I lived a double life, biting my tongue at the dinner table and finding a safe space with the friends I surrounded myself with.

Then, March 2020 came around. I went from smoking weed with my friends practically twenty-four seven, to isolation in a home with a family who really did not know who I was. Of course, I did not really know who I was until this time, either. Up until this point, I was riding the conveyor belt of life and it came to an abrupt stop. Whether it be death, illness, or another form of eye-opening moment, we rarely have the chance to slow down, look within, and evaluate ourselves. I see this as the reason I was stuck in a state of dissociation for so long. Viewing myself from the third person, doing what I thought I was supposed to do, and picturing my future as nothing but a black void. I may have never truly met myself if not for the lockdown, but it came at great cost, as quarantine became a pressure cooker not only for myself, but for the world. 

My relationship with my father was always a tumultuous one, and it reached its head in June of 2020. Just one day after my nineteenth birthday, George Floyd was murdered in a chilling case of police brutality. The Black Lives Matter movement erupted, as if a spark had been lit in a forest experiencing drought. With an entire world locked inside with nothing better to do than scroll social media, the topic became unavoidable, and I found myself at a crossroads between standing up for what is right or maintaining an uncomfortable silence. I ultimately spoke up for what I believed to be true, something that I am unsure I would have been empowered to do if not for the lockdown. Perhaps this was because I knew my father’s reaction would be horrific, but at least I would not have to confront the brunt of it face to face. In a simple chain of three texts, shortly after posting for the first time in support of a movement that stood against everything my parents represented and believed in, I was summarily disowned by my father. 

Looking back on this conflict with my father feels surreal in some ways, but inevitable in others. Even as it was happening, I knew deep down that it was something that was always going to occur. I did not see a path forward in which I could live truthfully and also keep him happy, and in many ways a sense of freedom came from the estrangement. This does not subtract, of course, from the fact that I was also completely devastated. The events were not confined to just my father and step-mom, but I quickly learned that the entire family would now be distancing themselves from me. Most of them never bothered to check-in, and to this day I am not sure if they even know the full story in regards to why I’d suddenly been “excommunicated.” Ironically, my godmother (and aunt), who I had looked up to for most of my life, decided not to part ways silently. She sent me a barrage of Instagram posts that ranged from “exposing Black Lives Matter as a fraud” and reminding me that “abortion was a sin.” In a painful and desperate decision to insolate myself from anymore pain or reminders of my familial rift, I ended up blocking not only my godmother, but every other aunt, uncle, cousin, step-sibling, and significant other I could think of. 

I often view this turbulent time in my life as a major turning point in all senses of the phrase. I went from having a constant fear of revealing who I was to the world, to finally and suddenly having the freedom to do so. I went from being told to fear the unknown, to exploring it. I saw this time as a new beginning of sorts, and felt a spiritual drive to find something more because of it. In my loneliest and darkest of times, a light and sliver of hope that something better must be coming kept me going. When you hit rock bottom all you can do is lie down and stare upward, and so, I did. I journaled, wrote poems, drew, painted, cried, did yoga and meditated. I was introduced to the art of tarot and I found a new hobby in astrology, even dabbling in witchcraft, something that had always interested me as a child. I was also introduced to the world of psychedelics at this time, taking my first tab of LSD in September 2020. It was after all of this that I thought: finally, everything makes sense.

Tarot resonated with me especially, as I found the intuitive aspect of the readings came natural to me. I found myself doing readings everyday during this time and often felt a great connection with the cards and the messages they brought. Tarot decks, which are split between the Major Arcana and Minor Arcana, hold great symbolism. With each card providing a different message, the overall deck tells the story of the Fool, a metaphor for anyone on the journey of life. Sometimes, a moment in life will occur that rings as a spot-on representation of the archetype of one of the Major Arcana cards. My estrangement and the subsequent fallout from my father’s political disagreement can best be summed up by the Tower card. The Tower can  best be described as a card representing upheaval, sudden change, chaos, and destruction. Many see it as the worst card in the deck, but as with everything in tarot and life, this is subjective. I see the Tower as the “rock bottom” card, as it relates to experiences such as break-ups, sudden job loss, unexpected news, or other similar situations. These can be called “tower moments,” which can be a helpful phrase to remind those for whom the card has been pulled that even these hard times will pass.

Sam Cornetta, TOWER MOMENT(cropped), 2023, 48” x 40”, Acrylic and Oil on Wood Panel.

My painting, TOWER MOMENT, is informed and inspired by this. The acrylic and oil painting is on a cradled wood panel in the shape of an upside-down triangle. This irregular shape represents the element of water in alchemy, and further, the element water is representative of emotions, feelings, and the unconscious mind. I see this painting as the expression of grief and isolation, as the figure lying in fetal position while surrounded by abstract figures is me at my lowest. An aura of indigo surrounds me, providing a visual for the feeling of separation from the others, and symbolizing the deep depression that I had fallen into. Roots cement me down into the blackness within, as the downward spiral of despair keeps me down. I did not depict the other figures realistically, but instead chose different patterns and variations of spirals, furthering the disconnect between myself and those around me. They are ghostly, and while each figure’s abstract pattern is different, they still stand together binded by their beliefs. The most important aspect of this painting was the background. The process of creating something on such a large scale meant that I was very physically involved, a method that has become an important part of my work. I’ve come to view my artistic practice as a spiritual ritual in its own right, as the combination of creating such an emotionally expressive and physically involved piece feels like a transmutation of the energy and pain into something beautiful and uniquely my own. In applying the paint for the background, I hastily applied and scraped the subtle colors of red, blue, and yellow. A texture is visible which creates the appearance of a downward spiral, and the paint of the figures is thickly applied to allow for a sense of depth and physicality to the piece. Speaking to the Tower, the colors behind the figures give an appearance of a setting sun, as the dusk can sometimes be likened to the feelings of depression and onset of grief. However, another interpretation can be assumed, which is that the colors are actually the display of a slow rising sun at dawn. This can be ultimately up to the viewer, asking them to examine the outlook they assume in situations like this in their own lives. It is worth noting that the next card after the Tower is the Star, a card of rebirth, rebuilding, and hope after the storm. I cannot come to a definitive answer as to how I interpret the sunrise/sunset, comparing it to my own version of the “cup half full/cup half empty” metaphor. However, seeing how I tried to maintain the outlook that everything that had happened with my family had occurred so I could be released onto the path of something bigger, I tend to view the colorful blend as a light on the horizon. A reminder that, even in the darkest of times, something positive is always coming. The dark times do not last forever.

Tarot cards and the themes, symbolisms, and prompts for introspection have led to my reliance on them as a great tool. I explore myself with the cards, and while there is a way of reading tarot secularly, I hold the belief that they are a gateway for communicating with not only your higher self, but also your spirit guides and the Universe at large. I revisit these ideas and my fascination with the idea of communication and divination through cards in other works, such as my diptych of linoleum cut prints, The Tower//The Star.

IV.

Looking back on the events that have gotten me to the place I am today has provided me

a great insight into the way I view the world overall. My tendency to rely on astrology and tarot as ways to provide answers and sometimes predictions for the future may lead some to think that I see life as a predetermined journey. The debate of free-will versus determinism always haunted me growing up in the Church, as the paradoxes of such ideas would send me plummeting into spirals of existentialism. One of the greatest motivators in my spiritual exploration has been the questions of these. 

At a particularly low-point in my mental health following the period after the fallout with my father, I pondered on this internal debate and sought my own answer. I began at the end, the only absolute truth of this life: one day, we will die. The idea of “memento mori,” the Latin phrase that, when translated, reminds us to “remember you must die,” has always influenced my decisions and approach to the world around me. Whether it had been as a child growing up around a grandmother whose only consistent message was that I needed to save my soul before the impending apocalypse, or learning throughout middle and high school that our planet was on a fast-track to overheating, the very grim reality and realization that I was merely mortal on a chaotic planet had always tortured me. At a time when the foundation of my beliefs and the family I thought would always be there for me was no longer underneath me, I found myself confronting the shadows within. The exploration of my fear of the inevitability of death was guided by further experimentation with psychedelics, and a particularly heavy dosage of psilocybin mushrooms one night had me plummeting headfirst into the void itself. My “ego death” as it can be referred to, felt like a death in all ways except literal. Psychological and physical pain ensued, as I sobbed and writhed and visions of the cosmos, suicide flashed before my mind’s eye. I saw a ladder appear and extend down into my gut, where a library of the traumas of my past became suddenly accessible. At my peak, I was simply a small orb of energy, moving slowly toward a large glowing ball of light, waiting to be absorbed. I was a small sphere of energy to be reunited with the larger ball of light from which I had come. And suddenly death made sense to me — it was simply a return to source. 

I do not think every person on this planet needs psychedelics to reach this conclusion, nor do I believe that it would be a responsible or safe suggestion to do so. In a way it is not that far off from what I had been taught growing up. The idea of Heaven is just an iteration of this idea, as it is described as a place in which you are reunited with the Creator and all of your loved ones. Similar to the stairs I painted for my grandmother to ascend to Heaven in Always Say Your Prayers, I view life as a series of steps that all lead to the same place. This is also where my consideration of the idea of a predetermined path or free-will comes into play, and I attempt to say that the answer lies somewhere in the middle.

I believe that we are simply bundles of energy, constantly interacting with and intersecting with the energy around us. There are lessons available to us, and if we choose to learn those lessons, we get closer to the people we are truly meant to be. Through the hard times and the easy, the people we meet and lose, the opportunities taken and missed — we always have the choice. I think a lot of this world is full of misery and disappointment because many people are following the path that is easiest. Rather than listening to their intuition and the lessons being put their was they become stuck in cycles rather than breaking free of them. They take the predetermined path given by their families, society, or some other outside expectations, all the while forgetting that this life is theirs alone, and in the end they will meet the fate that greets us all, regardless of the choices they made. 

Sam Cornetta, TIMELINE TO AWAKENING, 2024, 24” x 24”, Linoleum Cut Print on Paper.

TIMELINE TO AWAKENING is a three-part series of linoleum cut prints. One carving has been made of a spiraling clock, and another of a chaotic and abstract series of perpendicular and stair-like lines intersecting over each other, and in the end I created an overlapping image of the two scenes. Small ghostly figures seem to glide along the stairs, and while the two images may not seem to have anything in common at first, for me this is the visualization of my idea of our souls climbing the stairs of life and the interconnectedness of all of our paths and decisions,

while the clicking hand of time continues forward. The hands of the clock read 2:22, alluding to the angel number 222. The number two, especially in tarot, can signify choice, balance, and duality. I place it on the clock as a reminder that every decision we make in life is a choice, and should we choose to live with the remembrance of the conclusion awaiting us all, perhaps we will be all the happier for it. The “timeline,” therefore, signifies our own individual life paths, while the “awakening” is the person’s ability to come face to face with reality and take the decisions they make about the direction of their life into their own hands, with this in mind. Thus, TIMELINE TO AWAKENING serves as my own manifestation of “memento mori,” as the chaotic lines display the ups and downs of life. Further, however, they explore an idea of interconnectedness of the world that can sometimes be overlooked when examining the reality of death.

Some may argue that in the end we all die alone, and American individualism will have you raised believing that we live in a world of kill or be killed. A profound sense of loneliness can overtake a person, and many struggle throughout life as a result. I directly challenge this worldview in many ways, and urge any viewer of my show to do the same. In viewing all of humanity and the world as simple bundles of energy, one has to consider the possibility that we are not simply confined to our bodies, but constantly interacting with and responding to the energy around us, as well. The people we surround ourselves with and the environments we are in impact and communicate with us in ways unseen in the physical world. 

The idea of community is one of great importance to me and is something I have learned to value more than ever in the years following my estrangement. Additionally, in coming to terms with my identity as a Queer person, I have come to see just how vital it is to surround yourself with those who truly understand you and see you for who you are. The term “chosen family” often comes to mind, and as someone who lost most of theirs, I very much find truth in the sentiment. Humans need other humans to survive, and there is no shame in seeking support from others in times of need. I explore this concept in my drypoint print, The Spiral Downward.

Sam Cornetta, The Spiral Downward, 2023, 6” x 7-1/2”, Drypoint Print on Paper.

The Spiral Downward is an image that depicts the way I was feeling following the events of 2020. At this time my mental health was in an extremely precarious position. I found that rumination, extreme paranoia, anxiety, and at times, suicidal ideation were becoming increasingly prevalent in my day-to-day life. In the print a brain becomes rooted where my heart should be, as the incessant thoughts of doom and extreme fear became overpowering to the quiet reminders from my inner-self that things would not last this way forever. A spiral appears in my gut, becoming a visual representation of the deep depression I was falling into and providing imagery to the feeling of a pit in the bottom of your stomach. When experiencing such nasty symptoms in a mental health battle like this, it is easy to collapse into a ball and shut down. In reference to TOWER MOMENT, The Downward Spiral could be seen as the internal depiction of the battle I was facing during this time, while TOWER MOMENT depicts the outer one. In contrast however, The Downward Spiral provides a definitive outlook of optimism, as opposed to the subjective message provided in TOWER MOMENT. Two figures hold hands and become an anchor for the figure within myself on the diving board from which I seem to have fallen. At the same time we can see two figures holding hands on either side of my outer figure. They are outlined and surrounded by dots, which represent energy. The closer the figures get, the more entwined the dots of energy become. This is a symbolic way of showing that sometimes we fall so deep into ourselves that we need help and support from others to be pulled out of it. It is a kind reminder that we are not alone, and further, that there is no need to be alone. It is a piece that reflects on healing, community, and the love of the chosen family we surround ourselves with. The Downward Spiral is one of my most personal pieces, as it is pulled straight from my journal and brought to life in drypoint. It is my reflection on and thank you to those who helped me when I was at my lowest. It is also my reminder to others that there are people around them who love them and who would help them all the same

V.

The entire culmination of Delicate Intricacies is found in the final piece of my show. The largest painting I’ve ever made, We Are The Universe is a little over five feet wide and nine feet long and an entirely abstract acrylic painting. To paint it, I laid the loose canvas on the lawn of my backyard and found myself creating with a sense of physicality I had never been able to fully explore before. I walked on top of it, getting paint on my bare hands and feet and stamping green footprints into the painting forever. By the time I was finished my body was sore, as I had dripped, thrown, splattered, smeared, brushed, and finger-painted all over the canvas in the colors of the rainbow. It felt the truest depiction of a “transmutation of energy” that I had seen in my works yet, as any emotion I had was translated physically and artistically onto the canvas. Though I did not have a set idea of what I wanted the piece to look like when I was finished, I was able to look upon it and intuitively know that it encapsulated everything I wanted to say by the time I was done with it.

Sam Cornetta, We Are The Universe, 2024, 64-1/2″ x 9”, Acrylic on Loose Canvas.

We Are The Universe is named after a poem I wrote of the same title. I have always viewed the work as my response to the question “what do you believe?”, as it discusses my views of the idea of God, energy, and the Universe as a whole. In the poem, I write: “maybe I do / believe in God. // But, God is not / what everyone thinks / God is. He is / not a ‘he,’ / or a ‘she,’ / but rather / an ‘it,’/ or a ‘they.’ … // You are God. / Just as I am God. / God is an idea, and / God is tangible … / God is the stardust / that makes us all / up, the energy / buzzing around us / that we cannot see, / but we certainly / can feel.” Perhaps the entirety of the paper I have presented here today can be best summarized in these simple lines. 

My idea of God is not the one I was raised on, and in my journey from being raised Catholic to the familial turmoil that led me to the place I’m in today, I have taken ownership of the fact that I have taken my own path. My identity as a Queer person never allowed me to fully feel accepted in the Church, even if I did not even fully understand my identity yet at the time. Acceptance and love have always and will always be at the forefront of my values, and any institution that claimed to represent spirituality, but seemed to lack these vital aspects, was never one I was ever going to be able to fully immerse myself in. In coming to terms with the fluidity of my gender and sexuality, I have also concluded that the restrictive nature of the Catholic Church would have never allowed me to explore the depths of myself. Catholicism relies on the binaries of good and evil to keep everyone living in guilt that they are not doing what they should be to be saved. I experienced it throughout my adolescence, when thoughts of a possible attraction to the same gender as me would send me spiraling into bouts of shame and self-disgust. While I can confidently say today that I want to be a force of good in the world because I know it is what is right, I cannot help but question if it is rooted in the belief that I will be forced to an inescapable damnation if I do not.

In my expression of these ideas, I have relied on the use of light and dark in color. Many associate the colors of the rainbow with the LGTBQIA+ community, and I do invite this interpretation as someone who identifies within this group, but I also push past this. For example, in terms of spiritual practice, many people may associate different colors of the rainbow with the seven chakras or emotions. I welcome this, too. Ultimately, though, I rely on the colors of the rainbow as a means of utilizing the full spectrum of light. An interesting intersection between science and spirituality, the wavelengths of the energy that surround us become visible to our world, giving us the ability to see all the colors that surround us everyday. I have found that, rather than existing as one or the other — whether that be in regards to my gender expression, attraction, or moral compass —  I have learned to accept that we as humans are meant to ebb and flow on the spectrum of such ideas. In the fluid motions of the strokes of the painting, I have aimed to represent this. There is a clear spectrum and movement from light to dark, but it is intermixed with splatters of the contrasting color overtop. Within all of us is a multitude of possibilities, and to constrict ourselves because of the societal conditioning in which we’ve been raised, is to do a great disservice to the fact that we have been born at all. We contain dark and light within all of us, and rather than running away from the dark, we must learn to accept it, work with it, and guide it into the light. No one will ever be perfect, because perfection does not truly exist. And yet, if no one is perfect, doesn’t that mean that everyone is?

The painting and the entire installation in which We Are The Universe and Family Traditions has been placed which allows for outside interpretation to be brought into the works. The abstraction of We Are The Universe means that there are no limits to the messages and images people can “see” within the paint, and it allows my work to become an intersection between the beliefs and statements I am trying to make, and the ones that viewers may subconsciously be trying to hear. Additionally, I set the gallery room up in a way reminiscent of a church. Two benches placed symmetrically in the middle of the room provide a space for visitors to ponder on the works, while candles, tibetan sound bowls, and the scent of a sage essential oil diffuser surround them. Whether someone chooses to sit facing toward Family Traditions, or they choose to face toward We Are The Universe, a different opportunity for meditation awaits them. It feels right that when you face away from the door of the gallery and toward the big colorful painting juxtaposing the more subdued installation of Family Traditions, you are physically following the direction my life has taken. Simultaneously, however, the influences of Catholicism and my newer path of spirituality have been subtly merged in the scenes, scents, and sounds of the room. Finally, a collection of my writing is placed in a packet on the benches for a suggested reading experience while sitting in the room. Beginning with “Memories” and ending with “We are the Universe” (poem), I allow visitors to follow my journey through a curated series of poems that I feel can provide a more loose sense of context for the space. 

Sam Cornetta, Delicate Intricacies Installation, 2024.

I never aim to overtly tell the visitors of Delicate Intricacies what specifically occurred in my life to lead me on this spiritual journey, but rather guide them on a journey of their own with the imagery, symbolism, and words I’ve collected over this time. In telling my story through artistic expression I have healed, grown, and pushed others to examine themselves in ways I never thought I would have been able to just a year ago. Multiple people came up to me during the opening reception with tears in their eyes, telling me that my words or work had moved them in some way. Whether my work is understood in the full context, or the metaphors and personal symbolism are all fully realized, at the end of the day is not as important to me as my viewers getting something personal from it. What I express to the world is the pain, trauma, and triumph of twenty-three long years of life, and the energy is now released for others to examine and learn from. If anything is learned, my hope is that it is the knowledge that we are all interconnected, always moving backward and forward, confronting the shadows of our pasts, and aiming to make the world a better place. To end on a quote from my poem, I leave my reader with this: 

“O, God, / wonderful God, / You are the Universe. / I, I am the Universe. / And We, unified / together on this / planet heating up, / bundled together / in fear, / hoping and / praying for love— / We are the Universe.”