Julian's statement

My art is selfish and self-indulgent. It does not care if you are aware of it, or if it holds any meaning for you. In this way it is a guilty pleasure. It is not an exercise in self-exploration. It is not an exercise. My art is about the idea. It is about externalizing that idea before it becomes confused, muddled, or forgotten. It is consuming. My art is a willful manipulation of the soul; it intensifies, it dulls. It is wistful and nostalgic, and being so, is often yearning and sometimes brooding.  It exists to define an idea and to control a sentiment.

My art is selfless and generous. It cares about spreading awareness on issues, and making those issues emotionally charged for the audience. In this way it is philanthropic. It is also an exercise in self-exploration, a careful exercise in discovery. My art is about the moment. It is about recording that moment as I experience it, taking note of the mood. It is fleeting. My art is a spontaneous manipulation by the soul; it rises, it falls. It is whimsical and optimistic, and being so, is often light and sometimes witty. It exists as an idea and a sentiment. 

Corey's statement

I make art because I am compelled to do it. By demons. They live in my brain, but sometimes they take a boat through my blood straight down to my heart and they vacation there. Demons get a bad name. Probably because of the Bible, which is bullshit, but most people don't like to hear that. I like my demons because they make me think things that are different than the things I am supposed to think. For example, when I hear Joe Cocker's cover of Help From My Friends at a bar, I should remember The Wonder Years and then just get drunk. Instead, the demons remind me about the last episode of The Wonder Years where Winnie and Kevin get stuck in the rain on a long desolate road, and they go inside a barn and have a fight, but then they end up laying in the hay and making love. And the camera cranes out and Kevin's adult voiceover tells us that they never saw one another again, and then Kevin's children ask him to go out and play. My demons remind me that I am a melancholic depressive, and the thought of living in that barn in that moment with those people who loved each other so much but couldn't ever be together was the most horrible and wonderful thought I'd ever experienced as a child. My demons compel me to get out a sheet of paper and make a drawing about this incident. Everyone else at the bar keeps drinking and belting out that hilarious part of the song where Joe goes all crazy like, "Waaaaaaaaaooooooooah!" but I'm sitting there in a sketchbook, letting time fly by and letting my Imperial Russian Stout get warm. Which is okay, because it tastes a little better at room temperature.