The media takes a linear, story-telling approach to 9/11. As an artist, I felt the need to capture the essence of that moment, the chaos, terror and random everyday thoughts that came into my head, making the whole experience even more horrifying.

My boyfriend innocently sleeping when the first attack happened and my elderly grandma, whom I had planned to visit that autumn. The hope that she always gave me, fueled by her remarkable life. My primal scream and then my rational mind kicking in, trying to explain what had happened. How I questioned my own beliefs in a world that I thought I could shape through my dreams. Reaffirming that there is no God, or she simply doesn’t care.

And even humor. Perhaps as a defense mechanism. People always ask me about the ass. I am a gay man, after all, and I do love ass. And yes, even in moments like 9/11, we have thoughts that are sensual, sexual, mundane, extraordinary and often random.

But I don’t believe now that the ass was a random thought and certainly not a trivial part of my quilt panel. I remember as a teen how others would make fun of someone’s ass. The bottom, the rear-end. It was always so negative, and yet I saw asses differently.

But positive or negative, the ass here does have a parallel to 9/11, which in many respects is an end. And life is cyclical, after all. The ass is both the end of the cycle, but also the beginning of a new one. Without commenting on whether it is good or bad, I simply wanted to document that as part of my chaotic, fragmented 9/11 experience.