This interview explores the practice of lwrds duniam, an interdisciplinary and performance-based artist whose work is rooted in decolonial, ecological and animistic worldviews. Drawing on ancestral memory, embodied knowledge and a deep attentiveness to place, lwrds develops artistic practices that operate across performance, visual art, research and collective processes. Through this conversation with Patrick Degeorges, the artist reflects on their path into art, their relationship to territory and ecology, and the conditions—material, political and temporal—necessary for artists to contribute meaningfully to territorial transformation. The interview highlights the role of artistic practice as a connective force, capable of bridging scientific, social and cultural spheres, and of fostering new forms of collective engagement with living environments.
Patrick Degeorges
To begin with, I would like to ask a seemingly simple question: how did you become an artist? How did your engagement with the arts take shape?
lwrds duniam
It is a big question, and I realise that I answer it from two perspectives at once. On the one hand, I feel that I never really had another option. Becoming an artist seemed inevitable. From childhood, from the moment I had any sense of myself, I was always drawing, making small sculptures, creating things with my hands. I was constantly expressing myself artistically and performatively, while also engaging deeply with nature. When I look at my current practice, I can clearly see how it all began there. In that sense, it feels as though there was no alternative path for me.
At the same time, being an artist is also an active, ongoing choice. Every day, I choose to be an artist, and more specifically, to be the kind of artist that I am. This means choosing precarity, choosing to exist outside established norms, choosing to step aside and observe what is happening in the world in order to reflect it back differently. It also means refusing a linear career path, refusing predefined milestones or expectations of what an artist should look like. Nothing in my trajectory has been straightforward or easy. I have very consciously taken what one might call the scenic route.
Patrick Degeorges
You emphasise the fact that you are a particular kind of artist, different from what is conventionally understood as an artist. Could you clarify this difference? What distinguishes your practice?
lwrds duniam
I define myself as an interdisciplinary artist, but first and foremost as a performance artist. Everything I do emerges from a performative impulse. My work is grounded in expression through the body and in energetic connection—with what I do, but also with everything that exists. In this sense, my artistic practice is inseparable from practices of magic-making and witchcraft. My spiritual practice and my art practice are one and the same.
This alignment shapes how I exist in the world and the lens through which I move. For me, everything has to be coherent in order for the work to emerge. I work as a performance artist, a sculptor, an illustrator, a graphic designer, but all of these forms are extensions of a deeper, ancestral connection—to land, to place, to knowledge. There is a strong desire to dig beneath appearances, to reach the core of things: to understand how and why processes unfold, to look at what lies behind what we see, and then to reflect that back.
I thrive in abstraction. This is connected to how my mind works as a neurodivergent person. My thinking is highly conceptual, and I spend a great deal of time in my inner world, moving between multiple selves. As I grow older, these different facets of myself have become increasingly distinct, almost autonomous. I often experience myself as a kind of portal—through which ancestral energies, memories of the land, and territorial histories can pass. I feel deeply attuned and intuitively connected, and this is where my work originates.
The forms my work takes, the directions my research follows, and even the life choices I make are all aligned with this attunement. Everything needs to move in the same direction. When it does not, I experience friction—both physically and emotionally.
Patrick Degeorges
I understand what you are describing. We discussed this previously: your inspiration and creativity emerge from your capacity to align yourself with ancestral lines, territorial entities, places, and memories, and to attune yourself bodily, emotionally, and spiritually to these energies. From there, you begin to vibrate, to act, and to produce work—whether through performance, drawing, writing, or abstraction.
This leads us to a key question. How does your practice connect to ecology? More precisely, how does your work engage with political ecology: with the defence of land, of natural entities, of living beings? Given the way you describe your relationship to territory and memory, the question seems almost inevitable. How does this ecological engagement translate into your artistic practice?
lwrds duniam
It is indeed a big question. My approach is fundamentally decolonial and anti-colonial, rooted in the context in which I was born, in South America. Growing up in a mixed-race family made me acutely aware of my otherness from a very young age. Difference was never abstract for me—it was embodied and immediate.
Over time, I came to see this awareness as a kind of gift. Looking at my family and at myself, I recognised how difference shaped us all, and this prompted questions: How did we get here? How did this history unfold? I became increasingly aware of the tensions produced by racism, anti-Blackness, and the erasure of Indigeneity—violence that I felt directly and that was enacted upon me. As a result, I became politicised and radicalised very early.
This deep desire for justice quickly connected me to the land. As I began to understand the impact of colonisation—historically and structurally—it became clear how land, bodies, and histories were intertwined. The violence inflicted on Black and Indigenous peoples, the arrival of Spanish, Portuguese, and British colonial powers, and the lasting effects of these processes all became legible to me. I could feel this history living in my body.
I grew up in Callao, Peru’s main port city, on the coast. This location was deeply significant: it was a place through which so many of my ancestors had passed. I felt a strong Indigenous connection to this territory—to the coast, the ocean, the trees, the climate. I understood this environment intuitively and developed a strong sense of responsibility toward the biome I inhabited. From a young age, I was uneasy with the concept of the nation-state, with borders that seemed arbitrary and disconnected from lived realities.
As an Afro-descendant and Indigenous descendant, I also felt connected to distant places—territories far removed geographically, yet deeply present in my everyday life. I began seeking these connections and gradually understood what ancestral memory really meant. I experienced strong intuitions and visions that drew me toward other places, even though I was, by nature, quite solitary and introspective.
Some of my earliest memories are profoundly ecological. One of the clearest dates back to when I was about three years old: I remember seeing a tree that appeared to be bleeding, its sap deep red like blood. The image struck me physically. I wanted to touch it, and I remember thinking, what is happening to this tree? Something broke inside me in that moment. I felt that the tree was as alive as I was—another living entity deserving care. This was also when I realised that not everyone perceived the world this way.
My animistic worldview was not shared by everyone around me, but instead of abandoning it, I invested more deeply in understanding and supporting it. This worldview has continuously nourished my political and ecological consciousness, shaping how I understand justice, land, and interdependence.
Patrick Degeorges
I was particularly struck by how you emphasised the colonial dimension of transformation. Colonial processes are, by nature, violently transformative, and a decolonial artistic practice cannot avoid engaging with transformation. From this perspective, your work reconnects very clearly with the defence of places and with the ecology of those places.
The childhood memory you shared, and the animistic relationship you describe with other entities—although not widely shared in our societies—could represent a powerful transformative force if we were to think and feel differently collectively.
lwrds duniam
Yes, and this is also why I have been thinking a great deal about site-specificity.
Patrick Degeorges
You clearly articulate the connection between your practice, ecology, and the defence of ecological issues. From a decolonial perspective, this engagement seems almost self-evident. Perhaps we can push this further. As I was saying earlier, being a decolonial artist implies being inherently transformative. How does this position guide the way you design transformative artistic practices? What kinds of transformative practices are you involved in, and how do they relate to land, territory, and forms of ecological defence?
lwrds duniam
One of the first things that comes to mind is the notion of site-specificity. Interestingly, I had not initially framed my work explicitly in those terms, but it is deeply aligned with site-specific and site-responsive practices. This dimension is fundamental to my work, because everything I do must be attuned to the specific energies, entities, and conditions of a place. Territorial specificity is essential—not only culturally or spiritually, but ecologically as well. The work emerges in response to what is happening in a given territory, including the transformations it is undergoing and the need to protect what is already there.
This understanding connects closely to an Indigenous Andean-Amazonian cosmology often translated as Buen Vivir or Good Living. I am particularly drawn to another translation: Splendid Existence, because it captures the depth of this worldview. In this cosmology, the purpose of life is to exist splendidly. This is understood as a threefold process: to love splendidly, to labour splendidly, and to think splendidly. These three dimensions correspond to the three realms of Andean-Amazonian cosmology, which conceives space-time as spherical-cyclical, and in constant flux—three interrelated spheres existing within one another.
The waking world—middle realm—is the space of action and labour, where we act splendidly sharing the land with all that exists. The outermost realm corresponds to dreams, abstractions, this is where spirits and deities reside. The innermost is the underworld, source of raw emotion, creative energy, and decay. Crucially, this cosmology proposes a radically different understanding of time: the future emerges from the innermost realm, while the past resides ahead. To move forward, one must look to the past; one advances while facing backward. This worldview deeply informs how I understand reality and guides how I move through the world, how I enter spaces, how I relate to land, and how I work with other caretakers and stakeholders within different territories.
Sharing these cosmologies and forms of ancestral knowledge is central to my practice. Wherever I go, I keep encountering striking similarities in Indigenous worldviews across cultures. These recurring connections reinforce my sense that such knowledge systems are not isolated, but relational and globally resonant.
Patrick Degeorges
Perhaps we could illustrate what you have just described through a concrete project. I am thinking, for instance, of Khipucamayoc: weaver of arboreal entanglements, which you have developed in different contexts.
lwrds duniam
Yes. I am thinking in particular of a project I developed in Ireland, which I later submitted as documentation for the COAL Prize in 2024. I named it Pachamama spell. That moment marked a decisive stage in the development of my Khipu-based practice. This was in 2023, and by then I had already been working with the Khipu in both sculptural and performance contexts.
The Khipu is an Indigenous Andean technology: a communicative and mnemonic system made of cords and knots. It consists of a main cord from which multiple strings hang, each bearing knots of different sizes, colours, and textures. These variations carry meaning. Khipus were used for accounting, storytelling, and record-keeping. Messages could be transmitted by runners carrying a Khipu, which would then be added to or interpreted by others. There were also designated keepers of the cords, who stored them as living archives—effectively functioning as libraries.
Patrick Degeorges
How are the knots read?
lwrds duniam
When I was in school, I was taught that Khipus could no longer be read—that the knowledge had been eradicated by colonisation, and that the practice had effectively disappeared. Even then, this explanation felt incomplete to me. I continued researching independently and found evidence suggesting otherwise. Indigenous communities have always found ways to protect and transmit knowledge, often covertly.
Khipus are read through touch as much as sight. The system operates almost like a tactile language: the size, type, and placement of knots communicate information through embodied knowledge. The complexity of some Khipus is astonishing—vast networks of threads encoding immense amounts of information. I believe that this knowledge also lives ancestrally within many of us.
I continue to make Khipus, as do many other artists working with this form today, driven by a shared need to bring it forward again. I sense that there may even be a language specific to my own Khipus. I cannot always articulate it consciously, but I can recognise recurring patterns in what I make. Something is being transmitted, even if it remains partially opaque.
Patrick Degeorges
In a way, when you tell stories through your knots, you are reactivating the Khipu’s original function. You are working within the tradition while also inventing a personal language. This reinvention seems faithful to what the Khipu is meant to do: carry memory and connect to land.
lwrds duniam
Exactly. This became particularly clear during my residency in Ireland. I spent about six weeks there—first participating in a performance art intensive, and then undertaking a soil-themed residency in North Tipperary, in the Irish countryside. The residency was explicitly focused on land and soil, and the location—central Ireland in spring—was incredibly powerful.
Ireland was a place I had long felt drawn to, and this was my first time visiting. The opportunity emerged quickly, tied to my ancestry. One of my known ancestors was born in Dublin in the early nineteenth century. His surname is the one I carry. He never returned to Ireland and died in Peru, where his burial place is unknown. His life unfolded during the time of the Great Famine, and while he later participated in oppressive systems himself, I hold compassion for the circumstances and choices he faced. His story, like so many others, is complex and unresolved.
Being in Ireland activated a strong sense of ancestral restitution. From the moment I approached the island, I felt a powerful energetic recognition. Arriving in Dublin, I experienced an unexpected sense of familiarity—as if I already knew the streets. I felt more at home there than I ever had in the places where I was born or where I have lived for decades.
During the residency, the land itself felt profoundly open and alive. I had intense dreams every night and spent long periods in the forest. I also devoted time to learning about Irish history, colonisation, and Indigenous cosmologies—the pantheons of deities, the animism of the land, the vitality of forests. The landscape vibrated with presence.
My intention was to heal an ancestral ache through connection with the land and soil. Storytelling became central, and the Khipu emerged as the medium through which these stories could be woven. I selected a specific site in the forest and began building a relationship with it—getting to know the trees, the animals, the small beings inhabiting that place. I followed strict protocols: asking permission, offering energy and care, moving slowly. The work was collaborative and reciprocal. I was not imposing myself on the site; I was being received by it.
Over time, I began collecting arboreal remnants and repurposing fabrics from Milford House, the estate that housed us at Live Art Ireland. I knotted, sang, and spoke stories aloud to the trees. Each night I would leave the installation, and each morning I would return to find it altered—birds had taken sticks, foxes had passed through, new materials had appeared. Jays, in particular, played an active role. This became one of my first true experiences of interspecies collaboration.
The structures grew gradually, composed of branches and multiple Khipus extending in different directions. I initially imagined something resembling a body or mummified remains, referencing histories of extraction and theft. Instead, the work evolved into an abstract assemblage—Khipus and branches connecting to rocks, roots, and trees. I do not begin with a fixed aesthetic vision. I follow sensation and intuition. I know a work is complete when it feels complete—when the ritual has concluded, when the spell has settled.
The process was physically and emotionally demanding, involving long hours of labour over many days. On the final day, as the structure fully emerged, I perceived it as a story I could not verbalise but could clearly see: a layered narrative of Irish ancestry, colonial history, Black and Indigenous embodiment, Europe and the Americas, land and memory. It revealed the violence of whiteness as a flattening force, erasing the plurality of European identities. Europe appeared simultaneously vast and small—densely layered with histories often rendered invisible.
Being there made all of this knowledge palpable. It came alive through my body, through ancestral connection. Unexpectedly, the project gave me a sense of home—something I had never experienced before in an embodied way. That sense of home reappeared later, notably during my work at ArtMill.
Patrick Degeorges
I would like to help you pursue the line you have just opened. You described the Khipu as a ritual, even as a spell. I understand why you use that term, but I would like to make it more explicit. What is the effect of this spell? There is a preparation, an intention that needs to be clarified, a process that must be carefully followed. And then, at a certain point, you know that the work is finished. What is it that makes you feel that it is done?
I would also like to use the notion of a “public” not in the sense of an audience, but in the sense we discussed at ArtMill: people who are concerned, implicated, engaged together in a situation or a problem. How does the spell act on people in this sense? How does it operate in relation to the place itself? From this perspective, how would you articulate its action and its effects?
lwrds duniam
I have been thinking a lot about how the work invites people to think differently about a place, and to feel it differently as well. Something shifts. It is a change in perspective, a transformation. Casting a spell is, in itself, a transformative act: it alters how a space operates. Through this shift, people enter into a different relationship with the place. They begin to ask new questions—about who they are in that space, about how they belong to it, about what it asks of them.
From what I have observed through conversations with people who have interacted with my work, the spell functions almost like a series of trigger points. It activates something. People often tell me that they experience the space differently afterward, as if what they thought they knew suddenly becomes uncertain. There is a moment of disruption: you think you know this place—but you do not. That gesture, that reframing, is something I consciously cultivate in my work.
This also relates to my own position. I live and work in Tkaronto (Toronto), which is not where I was born. It is a place shaped by long histories of exchange between Indigenous peoples and those who arrived later, including my own ancestors. There is a relationship there, but it is not uncomplicated, and it is not “home” in a simple sense. Still, when I work in a place—wherever it is—this shifting of perception occurs. The work unsettles familiarity and opens the space to other readings, other presences.
Patrick Degeorges
This resonates strongly with a question we have struggled to articulate in other contexts. I am thinking of Roman Krznaric’s book The Good Ancestor: How to Think Long Term in a Short-Term World (2020). His central question is: how can we become good ancestors? He frames this largely in political terms—how to act responsibly toward the places and systems we depend on, how to think across seven generations rather than focusing only on immediate outcomes.
When artists engage in transformative practices connected to territory and to the people who inhabit it, it seems to me that they are doing something similar: helping us imagine what it means to become better ancestors. As I was listening to you, I thought that what you describe—the change in perception, the reframing of place and self—might be precisely one of the effects of this work. It may awaken a sense of responsibility, or at least raise the question of what it means to be a good ancestor. Does this idea resonate with you?
lwrds duniam
Yes, very much so. In my communities, we speak a great deal about ancestrality, future ancestry, and the responsibility of being a good future ancestor. Legacy, for me, is inseparable from this question. Becoming a good ancestor is something I think about constantly.
I am increasingly intentional about this now, but when I look back, I realise that I have been doing this my entire life. I seem to have an ability to bring something out in people—to reach beneath the surface and touch the core of a situation. I do not work at the level of appearances. I am interested in what lies underneath, in the deeper responsibilities we have toward one another.
This responsibility extends beyond human relationships. It includes more-than-human beings as well. What are our obligations of care? How do these responsibilities operate in practice? Who are we in a given space, and what does that space ask of us?
I move through the world by naming myself—where I come from, what my context is—and I share this openly, with vulnerability. For me, this openness is not a strategy; it is a necessity. It is tied to personal trauma, intergenerational trauma, and a deep desire for harm to stop. I want cycles of violence and damage to end. Out of love and care, I share knowledge and stories. I see this as my responsibility as an ancestor: to be a storyteller.
Storytelling has the power to awaken memory and connection in others, to remind us that we are only as strong as our communities. We are not isolated individuals; we exist in relation—with people, with land, with other beings. We are not merely citizens of a country or components of a system. We are something much more relational and grounded than that. The work invites people to return to what is real, to what is close, and to rebuild from there.
Patrick Degeorges
This also connects to what you said earlier about time in Indigenous American cosmologies—the idea that we walk backwards into the future, facing the past. The future is behind us, sensed rather than seen, while the past is visible and familiar. The practice you describe seems to align strongly with this understanding of time.
There is another question I would like to raise, related to community. One dimension of transformative artistic practices concerns the commons: how they are nourished, how they are sustained. What legitimacy do artists have to intervene in this process? Artists may help people rediscover forgotten forms of community or realise that other ways of relating to a place are possible—but how can they do so legitimately, especially when they are not from that place? How do you connect to local communities? How do you involve them in a process of transformation, of becoming better ancestors, or of relating differently to a territory?
lwrds duniam
That is a complex question, and I often ask myself how this legitimacy is established. I think part of it comes from the act of enunciation—from naming who we are and recognising ourselves in that naming. Through this recognition, we find others who are walking similar paths.
I exist within multiple, overlapping spheres: the art academy, more academic spaces, activist art circles, and broader activist communities. These spheres intersect in different ways, but they are all oriented toward related political and ethical concerns, ranging from radical to more moderate positions. What matters is that none of this work happens in isolation.
My practice is not individualistic, even when it is formally “my” work. It relies on relationships. My life partner, for instance, is a crucial support for my practice; without them, much of my work would not be possible. For exemple, we did a project together named apu llantén in 2018. This relational structure extends outward: we support one another so that art can happen at all. Everything is interdependent.
Legitimacy, for me, emerges from this collective existence. We move together, even if we move differently. There is conflict, of course, but conflict is part of sharing territory—both physical and symbolic. What matters is entering these tensions with openness and a desire to work through them. This collectivity is what grounds the work. It cannot be otherwise, because none of us exists independently.
Patrick Degeorges
In that sense, how did this collective dimension manifest during your work in Ireland? How did your project connect to local communities there?
lwrds duniam
In Ireland, I was working with Live Art Ireland, which allowed me to connect directly with the performance art community in Dublin and beyond. The community is relatively small, given the size of the island, and connections form quickly. During the first week, I participated in a performance art intensive led by La Pocha Nostra with sixteen artists—roughly half the group was Irish, and the rest were international participants, including Canadians. One of them turned out to be a neighbour of mine back in Toronto, whom I had never met before.
Through the performance process itself, we became deeply connected almost immediately. The methodology of these intensives creates intimacy very quickly; within twenty-four hours, we were functioning as a collective body. Knowledge, energy, and creative practices circulated freely among us.
Residency time moves differently. A month can feel like six months, even a year. You are supported, held in a communal rhythm. I have learned through these experiences that I feel most alive when I am living and working in this shared way—sharing space, time, and life with other artists. There is a profound sense of recognition, as if we have always known one another. This creates an intense form of cross-pollination, one that continues long after the residency ends.
Patrick Degeorges
You have described how your work unfolds through collective processes and encounters with other artists, but I would like to return to the question of the territory itself. How can an artistic project meaningfully engage with the place in which it is developed, and potentially have an effect on that territory? Working collectively may provide a certain form of legitimacy, but it also raises the question of mediation. Artists often arrive without the time or the lived experience necessary to fully grasp local issues. Mediation—through people who know the place, its inhabitants, and its struggles—may therefore be essential.
In the Irish project, did such mediation take place? Were you able to work with local actors in a way that was meaningful not only for your own practice, but also for them? More broadly, how do you see the role of mediation in this type of territorial engagement?
lwrds duniam
Yes, mediation happened quite organically. We met locals from the surrounding area, and these encounters were extremely meaningful. One of the farmers joined us for dinner; he was a soil scientist who had taken over his family farm. The conversation that followed became a moment of intense knowledge exchange. There were three of us artists at that stage, and we shared our respective practices and perspectives, while he spoke about the transformations he was implementing on his land.
He explained how he was treating the soil differently from his father and grandfather, reintroducing heirloom oat varieties that had long been abandoned in favour of a single industrial strain. These older varieties were thriving. He also described his commitment to no-till farming, despite resistance from his father, who believed that tilling was necessary for crops to grow. For him, preserving the mycelial networks in the soil was essential. Beyond his own practice, he spoke about ongoing conversations among local farmers, encouraging them to rethink how they relate to the land—often by reconnecting with pre-colonial or more traditional approaches to agriculture.
These exchanges resonated deeply with my own knowledge and experiences. They created a space where different forms of situated knowledge could meet. I would never have had access to this kind of understanding otherwise—about how the land is actually worked, how it lives, and how political struggles shape these practices. For instance, the farmers spoke about conflicts surrounding the bogs: who is allowed to cut peat for fuel, under what conditions, and how these decisions are regulated. These were issues I had known nothing about before.
This kind of learning is fundamental to my practice. Given its specificity, it is essential for me to understand the place I am working in, and to leave with more knowledge than I arrived with. I do a great deal of research beforehand, but it cannot replace local knowledge. Listening to stories, learning from lived experience, and then carrying that knowledge forward—sharing it with others—is crucial. Many people are unaware even of basic territorial realities. For me, this circulation of knowledge is central. It is precisely what I think of as the knots of the Khipu: continually creating and reinforcing connections.
Patrick Degeorges
This brings us to an issue we have not yet addressed directly: time and economic viability. These practices require time—time to build collectives, to understand a place, to observe effects, and to sustain relationships. Within the framework of Transformative Territories, we question if artists can and should play a role in territorial transformation. But in practical terms, how is this possible? How do you manage economically, and what would be necessary for this kind of long-term, transformative engagement to be viable?
lwrds duniam
Quite simply: funding for time. Most of my work has been largely self-funded, that is a choice I have made, and one I accept, but it comes with precarity.
In the case of ArtMill, I initially received no funding, but I was later granted support from the Ontario Arts Council to cover 60% of my flight, which I am deeply grateful for. Still, the situation remains extremely unstable. The amount of labour required to apply for grants is disproportionate to what is often received. Applications can take one or two months of work, followed by waiting periods of four months or more. Many opportunities require applying six to eight months in advance, which is incompatible with the reality most artists I know face. Projects often emerge within weeks, not months.
For the kind of work I do, a minimum of one month in a place is necessary. Ideally, I would stay two or three months—or even longer—in order to develop a deeper understanding of the territory, to return multiple times, and to build sustained relationships. Financial constraints are the primary limitation. They are, quite simply, what prevents me from doing more of the work that feels necessary.
Patrick Degeorges
The question, then, is how we might design systems that make it possible to direct resources toward artists by recognising the missions they fulfil. Art is often seen as non-essential, secondary to supposedly more urgent concerns. But if we understand art as a way of reconnecting us to places, to forms of collective life, and to meaning—then it becomes central to the transformations required to continue living on this planet. From your experience, how could we make artists and artistic practices visible as essential, perhaps as critical as scientific work, in addressing the threats facing our territories today?
lwrds duniam
I believe artists possess a specific capacity to move across different spheres. As I mentioned earlier, I navigate academic contexts, activist spaces, artistic communities, and other social worlds. Artists move through these spheres almost spectrally, with a kind of agility that allows them to understand different languages, values, and modes of action.
This makes artists ideal companions to scientists, researchers, educators, activists, and policymakers. Artistic practice is inherently transformative. Artists often become artists precisely because they are interdisciplinary by nature—because they cannot limit themselves to a single field or method. Most artists I know are multi-hyphenate practitioners, deeply engaged in multiple forms of knowledge, including scholarship.
I often think of this role through the image of the Khipu. There are many threads—science, education, activism, policy—but art functions as the main thread that holds everything together. Artists act almost like conductors, bringing different melodies into relation. Without this connective role, each domain risks operating in isolation. Artists create the joints, the points of articulation, that allow collective transformation to take place.
Patrick Degeorges
This seems like a fitting way to conclude our conversation. We began with your personal path toward becoming an artist and the nature of your practice, and we end with a reflection on why artists like you are needed today to help drive transformation. Thank you very much for your time and for this conversation lwrds.
lwrds duniam
Thank you very much, Patrick.
