ERASE R
ERASER
CURATING CONTEMPORARY
2
Generator Gems We speak in tiny generator gems. Everything you say sets off a new whirling and wheeling in me. Your each sound is a gem, and you pour polished opals, rainbowing thoughts and fractalline noise over my head; each time I am washed away in your light waves. ~ Alexis Christakes
ERASER VOLUME 2 KING D E G A LVA N A BRIGGS S U L L I VA N ANDERSON R BRIGGS C H R I S TA K E S
CURATING CONTEMPORARY
Contributors
Born in London 1977, Jai Llewellyn is a Painter living and working in Scotland. He received his BA in drawing and MA in printmaking both from Camberwell College of arts London. He has exhibited across Europe and the USA and is represented by Gray Contemporary, USA, And Gallery and Tatha Gallery, UK, and Galerie Christoph Abbuhl, CH. He has been highlighted in several online publications including, Studio Critical, Freud Monk Gallery and has written for Instantloveland.com. He has also curated for Raumx, London. Rachel Jobe Reese is Director and Curator of the Cress Gallery of Art at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga (UTC) since 2020. From 2015-2019, Reese served as Curator of Modern and Contemporary Art at Telfair Museums where she stewarded the permanent collection of modern and contemporary art as well as organized 20 special exhibitions in the Jepson Center—including the 2019 retrospective and accompanying catalogue for Suzanne Jackson: Five Decades (Telfair Books, 2019). Jacob Cartwright is an artist based in New York City. He received a BFA in Painting from the Kansas City Art Institute in 2000. His paintings explore patterned color space as a constructive method. Recent curatorial work includes New York is Now, a show presented in Athens, Greece as part of the Platforms Project independent art fair. He is a member of American Abstract Artists
Lauren Whearty is a painter based in Philadelphia, Pa. She received her MFA from The Ohio State University, and her BFA from Tyler School of Art, Temple University. She has attended Yale’s Norfolk School of Art, The Vermont Studio Center, & The Golden Foundation, & recently received an Elizabeth Greenshields Foundation grant. Lauren currently teaches at Tyler School of Art & Architecture and The University of The Arts in Philadelphia, PA, and is a Co-Director at Ortega y Gasset Projects, an artist-run curatorial collective in Brooklyn, NY. James Lambert is an artist based in Boston, MA. He earned his MFA from Massachusetts College of Art, and BFA from Rhode Island School of Design. His work has been exhibited nationally and in Europe. Outside of his individual practice, he is cofounder of two collaborative ventures in the Boston area, Artist Made Paper and the artists group JAWS. He teaches part time at Massachusetts College of Art, Bunker Hill Community College, and Endicott College. Alan Pocaro is an artist and writer based in Illinois. His award-winning works have been featured in numerous national and international exhibitions. Associated with the New Aesthetics movement -an informal group of individuals who emphasize the physical and material nature of art- Pocaro is a member of the AICA. His writing has appeared in New American Paintings, Art Critical, Abstract Critical, City Beat and ART PAPERS. Pocaro is currently appointed Associate Professor of Art + Design at Eastern Illinois University.
SEAN SULLIVAN Jai Llewellyn: Could you explain a little about your methods of working? Sean Sullivan: For the past ten years or so I’ve been waking up early in the morning (before
the day job) to make small, oil drawings on found paper using a technique I refer to as ‘oil transfer’. I believe technically they’re considered monotypes though I don’t often use that term. Essentially I apply oil sticks to paper to create a homemade version of carbon paper (R&F Pigment Sticks to be precise; full disclosure, I make them for a living). I then use these sheets of color to transfer marks to found paper culled from books. I often use drawing guides - a washer, a ruler and other miscellany to put something between myself and the mark or the drawing - a way to achieve precision, push the automatic but also allow for unknowns.
JL: You obviously have a love for drawing, what part does drawing play in the evolution of your work?
SS: Drawing has always served as a sort of distraction for me - a small act of insurrection
- a declaration of spirit that began in high school math class because I didn’t understand what was going on - it was a way to escape. I still don’t understand for the most part so all the same applies. I find the act of drawing restorative and calming but the results are often unknown to me - as if someone else made the drawing. I also equally love painting, making sculpture, writing, but mostly love moving things around in the studio and on the page. I have very limited studio time (1-2 hrs a day if lucky) and therefore drawing has become a sort of shorthand for everything else creatively speaking - a way to keep the hands moving.
JL: In the installation of your work I have seen pieces grouped together, do you see these as individual works or part of a whole?
SS: I consider each piece an individual work but often feel they make most sense when shown together. Having said that, I’m more and more interested these days in exploring alternative
Red Eye Noir (2019). 10.25 x 6 in. Oil on found paper mounted on hardboard
approaches of installation. To let pieces hold their own (or not). To pair pieces. To explore ideas of framing, space and editing in ways I haven’t before. A bit of that approach was explored with Dan Devening in our 2019 collective, group show called ‘sun is setting/faith in strangers’. A process I really enjoyed.
Jacob Cartwright: Your exhibition at Jack Hanley Gallery had a notable informality
in the installation; the clusters of work in isolation felt like studio arrangements although taken as a gestalt the show suggested a kind of gesamtkunstwerk (a “total work”). This approach felt true to the work in that there is humbleness of materials and a kind of smallness to the approach yet there is an iterative coherence that suggest a larger and more sprawling project. Can you talk about how you think about the relationship between the whole and its parts in your work?
SS: Informality, humbleness of materials and smallness of approach all resonate quite a bit.
I guess I think of it as living (and in this case) making art within means. And I want to push that as much as I can because I think it’s important, even political in a sense. I think much of what I make is tied to home in many ways. In the warmer months my studio is a sun porch connected to our living room - in the winter it’s our kitchen table. Art is not something separate. I grew up in a house surrounded by ‘things’. Things that served no real purpose other than what they offered aesthetically. My mom, a nurse by trade, had a real love for decorating the house - moving things around. She was an avid collector - baskets of all shapes and sizes, folk art, quilts, etc. In the 1980’s and 90’s she called it ‘country’ but it was much more sophisticated than that. There was a real love and appreciation for surface, color, composition and history - also just the act of finding - collecting. I have no doubt this is where my installation approach and to a greater degree, my visual and tactile sense comes from.
JC: Your drawing based works, both abstract and architectural, tend to be constructed
from repetitive, tool assisted marks. In their materials and process they have a way of affectionately invoking vernacular and outsider art. You’ve described your web and instagram handle (“Parade-Pimlico-Pearl”) as a mantra which itself implies repetition, something that’s already imbedded in the phrase via alliteration. I’m interested in the workmanlike mindfulness that the use of repetition within your practice evokes. It occurs to me that this sensibility feels distinct from the art fair centered model that drives the art world now. Can you describe what you might propose if someone invited you to stage an ideal viewing situation for your work?
SS: To echo other parts of our conversation I think I’d say an ideal viewing situation would be
along the lines of something ‘formally informal’ if that makes sense. I do love the strict formality of the white box and museum settings - that anything exists solely to present art is important and kind of amazing to me. Having said that I have a real soft spot for the small, artist run, storefront space. More often than not those spaces are able to preserve (either by choice or lack of resources) a certain historical residue. Some other ideals would include: a giant window flooding the space with natural light (a big plus). I’d also throw in a few tables and maybe shelving similar to a good record or bookstore. I like when art is stacked or propped against a wall. I like the viewer to ‘discover’ work in their own time - to find it freely and if possible, to pick it up and really experience it up close. Thanks so much for the thoughtful, insightful questions - I really appreciate the opportunity to think and put into words feelings about art and art making.
JC: I’ve noted a degree of mediation throughout your work-I’m thinking of the oil stick
transfer drawings and the stencil paintings made with a brayer. Overall the process and materials allude to printmaking. There are early industrial connotations that imply printing and, thusly, a matrix outside of the work itself. Your final works tend to read as a kind of record or a trace. I’m interested to hear the resonance, both material and immaterial, that the act of physical transference has for you.
SS: I’ve long thought of my particular process as a ‘recording’ process, akin to musical recordings and early photography. In both there is a medium (film or tape), there is an action or performance and there is a recording of that action that occurred in real time - human time. It becomes a record. And that record transmits the intended performance but can also include things like a cough of some anonymous person who was there watching, listening - 50, 60, 80 years ago. I find that very moving. Same goes for a shadow of a figure off frame or someone caught in a photograph who happen to be walking by in the distance. They have no idea they were recorded but they were. I believe imbedded within that matrix (the process and its physical results) are ideas and information that transcend intellectual articulation but communicate some sense of ‘something’ - a presence, a human record. The crude process I employ attempts to achieve similar results.
Electric Current (2019). 8 x 11 in. Oil on found paper mounted on hardboard
Facade no.2 (in pink) (2019). 10.25 x 7 in. Oil on found paper mounted on hardboard
I Was an Angel Above (2019). 10.25 x 6.5 in. Oil on found paper mounted on hardboard
Bel Canto (2019). 9 x 5.5 in. Oil on found paper mounted on hardboard
Untitled (2019). 8 x 5.5 in. Oil on found paper
Bazaar (2019). 10.25 x 7 in. Oil on found paper mounted on hardboard
Untitled (2019). 9.5 x 9.5 in. Oil on found paper
Harper Lee (2019). 8.5 x 11.25 in. Oil on found paper mounted on hardboard
Untitled (2019). 13 x 9.5 in. Oil on found paper
Sea Wall (2019). 11 x 8 in. Oil on found paper
Orchid (2019). 7.5 x 11 in. Oil on found paper mounted on hardboard
DAMIEN HOAR de GALVAN Jai Llewellyn: Could you explain a little about your practice? Damien Hoar de Galvan: I make fairly small, mostly wooden abstract sculptures. The wood
is a mixture of found and new material and the same goes for the color and surface. In some cases there’s no manipulation of the individual bits and in others I will paint, sand or otherwise change the wood. The process of making is mostly intuitive play balanced with a healthy dose of frustration. I don’t often sketch my ideas beforehand and the sculptures grow and change as they are being built, generally ending up quite different than I imagine when I begin them. As far as meaning or concept or statement as to why I do what I do I really don’t have one. It’s the act of making, working, hoping. I don’t understand much about human existence and when I’m able to block the questioning and doubting of my brain and focus on making, I tend to feel better. I hope that comes through in the work.
JL: The relationship between painting and sculpture is very apparent in your work, what importance do you place on these boundaries?
DHdG: I don’t specifically think about them. I build objects so they usually fall into the sculpture
category but I generally only work on the surface of the “front” which is a more painterly approach I guess. From time to time I will try and make a 2D painting to hang on the wall and it usually doesn’t go very well. I think I’m just stuck somewhere between the two disciplines but I don’t worry about that too much.
JL: The structure and the way your objects are pieced together is clear to see and often emphasized by colour choices, how does colour and form interact throughout the process?
Yellow One (2017). 16” x 12” x 2” in. Wood, various paints and glue
DHdG: As I work on each sculpture I’m usually focused on the small details, how two pieces
of wood fit together, the lines they create, the imperfections or color on the surface etc. I then have to step back a distance as the overall shape or form is taking place. Somewhere in that process the two considerations: surface and form start to work together but I don’t think it’s always atthe same time. Sometimes I know what color I want a piece to be (usually the more monochromatic ones) before I start and sometimes the color is still changing after the final form has been decided. They each help each other along but it’s probably more subconscious than not.
J Lambert: Within your current body of work, do you recognize any recurring structures or formations, for example, head shapes, works with cavities etc? And are any forms referential?
DHdG: I think certain shapes definitely continue to appear, it’s not really deliberate but I guess
it’s a result of how I work and what I find to be satisfying. There are times I can see where something is headed and will intentionally either lean into or away from what I think is happening. Repetition has its pros and cons I suppose. As far as them being referential….I think I prefer things to remain vague and not absolute
J Lambert: Do you work on a single piece at a time, in groups or in a serial manner? How much time does a work need to make its journey?
DHdG: It really all depends. I guess in most cases its one at a time, if I’m working towards a
show I like there to be some sort of cohesiveness to the work so that may be considered a series even if it’s not super obvious. The time question is a tricky one. People will ask me that and I never know quite what to say, a week? a month? I do question if something is worthy of being done if I don’t feel I’ve spent enough time working on it. It’s possible to overwork something too but I think it’s a good thing if you can finish something and then live with it for a bit before you send it out into the world. There are definitely pieces I wish I could get back to change things on them.
J Lambert: The contrast between recto/verso is an exciting element to your sculptures.
How do both sides develop as you work on a piece?
DHdG: The back is almost always completely unintentional. It’s a nice surprise for me as
the maker to see what happens when the piece is finished. I generally end up liking things that
happen by accident better than carefully considered. That being said I do usually keep them as the “back”. The only time I really add anything to the back is if I don’t like how light is coming through cracks in the wood, if that happens I’ll paint a dark color over the seams to prevent the light from through.
J Lambert: According to shape, opposite sides are often reflections of each other. An-
other curiosity about the format is that it gives two iterations within a common body— a doubling. Do you think about the mind, emotions or the subconscious in relation to these pieces?
DHdG: I think about all three of those things a lot. I think emotions certainly control most of
what I do and working is really one of the only things I’ve found to be an antidote from certainly negative emotions but also just achieving some sort of control over my mind in general. I also believe that the world is extremely complicated and there are many sides, explanations and gray area to most problems. The doubling you speak of could work in that way, that things are almost never quite as they seem, there’s always a “back”. And then of course there is always subconscious, found meaning, digging deeper. Our world is one of constant stimulus, a million images to look at and probably not enough consideration to all we consume so I think the subconscious is very important. It’s probably always working, helping us make sense of everything and weaving its way into the work.
Green One (2017). 10” x 9” x 2” in. Wood, various paints and glue
Skeleton (2018). 10” x 7” x 2” in. Wood, various paints and glue
39 (2019) 12” x 9” x 2” in. Wood, various paints and glue
If It Feels Good Do It (2015). 6” x 7” x 3” in. Wood, various paints and glue
Everything In Its Right Place (2015). 8” x 10” x 3” in. Wood, various paints and glue
Pearl (2019) 9” x 8” x 3” in. Wood, various paints and glue
Guts (2019) 12” x 10” x 2” in. Wood, various paints and glue
8 (2019). 12” x 7” x 2” in. Wood, various paints and glue
Pig (2019). 9” x 11” x 2” in. Wood, various paints and glue
Tree (2019). 9” x 11” x 2” in. Wood, various paints and glue
CLINTON KING Jacob Cartwright: When we’ve talked about your paint handling in some of your newer
work, you’ve offered Morandi as a model saying that “when you get closer to the paintings they keep giving you more information”. What this implies to me is twofold: the first aspect indicates that there is a generous wealth of data nested within the work; the other aspect is the one I’d like to explore-the way this idea hinges on a viewer who is investigating the work deeply. Can you talk about the way that you conceptualize the viewer in the making of your work? Clinton King: A great work of art draws you in, I spoke of Morandi in this manner, particularly in the way his work rewards the viewer at all levels of examination. However, I would currently put Richter’s abstracts closer to my current paintings. To me Richter’s magic exists in the infinite detail hidden in the paint as it separates in the push and pull. I found similar beauty in the way a loaded brush unfolds. It’s fascinating how much information can be communicated in a single gesture. To put it simply, I want to present to the viewer an object/experience that operates at various levels of resolution. The spectrum paintings are an attempt to engage painting as a kind of material study, one that despite being minimalist in approach or application, produces maximal results.
JC: I know that you value a process that is fundamentally open in terms of how the
paintings will resolve themselves. While this emphasizes real time decision making I suspect it is also evidence of a certain trust; I’m reminded of Agnes Martin advising that self expression is inevitable (”In your work, in the way you do your work, and in the results of your work, your self is expressed”). Are intentionality and openness necessarily different modes or, in your process, can they be one and the same? Do you value process or resolution more in your painting practice? CK: A big question to unpack... Intention, spontaneity, blind process, concept generators ... curious how these modes often remove the artist from the picture. Yet its personal trust (or faith) that allows even the most mechanical process to develop a personality in a practice.
Damage Boost. (2019). 64 x 50 in. Oil on canvas
To me intentionality and openness are two different modes of the same discovery process, perhaps both lead to the same expression of the Self regardless of their method. Though it’s my personal opinion that openness is an essential precursor to the discovery of the Self. In openness we first discover and learn to communicate what is unknown or obscure (unconscious), from this, intentionality can develop to a point where complex concepts can be communicated clearly.
JC: One feature I’ve noted in your work over time is the recurrence of paintings that
read as a palimpsest. Sometimes marks are partially erased or, conversely, the way a final paint application lays on the surface is determined by the texture of previous paint layers. I know you’ve studied Carl Jung who wrote about cryptomnesia (from the Greek: “hidden-memory”). When the creative process is examined from this perspective the revelatory aspect of artistic production can be interpreted as the emergence of a memory from the unconscious, something that would seem to be embodied in those aspects of your work I’ve described. Is this a useful concept for you? How has Jung’s thinking come to bear on your practice?
CK: I think an interesting distinction could be made between a palimpsest, and cryptomnesia.
With a palmipsest a previous mark (still visible) is intentionally obscured by a new mark. Whereas with cryptomensia, a thought or image emerges that despite existing before, bears no conscious connection to its history. Perhaps a palimpsest with its repression is more Freudian, whereas Crytomenisa being unconscious and autonomous, would be more Jungian. These two ideas you’ve brought up hold an interesting distinction in terms of the unconscious and painting. For instance, dreams are often described in terms of figures, actions and images. Yet it’s the mood or tone of the dream that gives dreams that “numinosity” as Jung called it. The people, places and things in the dreams are in effect palimpsests of your daily life, whereas the larger patters (archetypes) are often unconscious and borrowed (as in cryptomnesia). I associate this emotional tone with abstraction. Art can transmit this energy to the viewer, this is what I believe gives a Rothko its cathexis. I’m interested in communicated this energy, I’m also interested in expressing what is forgotten or hidden. I have Jung to thank for this deeper interest.
JC: The first time I came by your studio we concluded the visit by watching UFO videos
on YouTube. I left thinking about the pursuit of a kind of knowledge that hovers just past the cusp of the knowable. What are your thoughts on humankind’s pursuit of the extraterrestrial? Are there parallels in what we seek within an artistic experience?
CK: I would use the term UFO here as a placeholder for ‘vehicle of the great unknown’ as the
term ‘unconscious’ might still point to something too tangible. A UFO is both real and unreal, a vessel that can expose the limits of thought. Like great paintings they can swoop us up and compress time. They are in effect vehicle for thought, travelling as far as your imagination can take you, when you reach your limits you know the UFO is capable of going even further. Thus to me, the UFO represents all that we do not know and cannot possibly know. I’ve been working on some new UFOs in my studio, feel free to stop by and hop in.
J Lambert: There are some recurring forms in your works over the years— nets,
wonky loops, ellipses, pairs of triangle and more. I’m curious to learn more about the source of some of this imagery. For example, Amédée Ozenfant and Bruno Munari both investigated the origin of basic forms like circles and triangles, and determined that they are innate forms, not inventions. In contrast, someone like Forrest Bess has a personalized language. Can you describe the history and nature of some of these forms in your work over time?
CK: There’s a clip on YouTube from the BBC documentary where a man reveals how platonic
forms can be found in nature by blowing and connecting soap bubbles. He says Quote: “(The bubbles) have no other choice.” I’m deeply fascinated by this natural way. Finding patterns in chaos, breaking patterns, perhaps there’s a bit of Sol LeWitt in this idea, this notion that progress can emerge from limitations and/or from the exhaustion of possibilities. Ozenfat and Munari are both witty and playful in their exploration, at times making a new alphabet from modifying existing forms. Bess on the other invented a kind of language, perhaps in order to express something more akin to poetry. In my own work I’ve been very interested in this idea of visual language, though not in liner words but what I might call “ knowings.” More unexpectedly thoughtful than rational, maybe this is what breaking a deeper pattern is all about.
Luminal Bloom (2019). 60 x 54 in. Oil on canvas
Android Dream (2019). 60 x 54 in. Oil on canvas
J Lambert: The newest works from your studio feel like a departure. Many former
pieces feature a kind of skeletal figuration absorbed into various luminous or atmospheric spaces. What I’m seeing now are works where the mark making is densely networking with itself, like a Pollock. How did you get here, and what kind of questions are you exploring with this shift?
CK: The blended stroke began creeping in my work in early 2018. I loved the mark for its sim-
plicity and beauty but felt it was too recognizable, so I repressed it. Then one night I dreamt that I filled a whole canvas of just that single mark. I woke up and told my wife and she simply said. “Why not paint it”, so I did... About halfway through that first painting I looked up and was immediately reminded me of the first time I saw a Jackson Pollock, the way it exploded in front of me. It was as if the compression of time and energy gave way to a single moment. I realized I was encroaching on a similar experience with that first painting. It was as if an entire universe of possibility burst from a pinhole. It was about information hitting critical mass. Though I feel my own works divulge themselves in a very different manner than Pollock’s. Where Pollock’s liquid drip has fallen bold and crisp, my spectrum paintings are like tie-dyed silk launched from a confetti cannon. Every time I start one I find something new.
J Lambert: I think vivid or mesmeric are fair words for describing your works. There’s a perceptual aspect to much of it, but it feels augmented by other modes of seeing and visualization (psychedelic, meditative, trance, spectral, quantum etc). Do such ways of seeing factor into your process and how you want the work to be experienced?
CK: It’s been interesting hearing all of the descriptions and associations connected to this new
body of work. After I painted the first spectrum painting the first thing I heard was ‘It looks digital’, the second most common response is in reference to psychedelia. I’ve also heard crystallography, microscopic, neurons etc. All of which are perfectly suitable interpretations, though I never set out to illustrate any theme. I just wanted to see what happened if I dedicated myself to following a literal dream. What emerged was a study in perception, interpretation and devotion. Ultimately I believe these works are about the experience, both the experience of making the work, and the experience of perceiving the work. If I can convey this experience of experiencing to the viewer then perhaps I have succeeded in communicating something truly ineffable.
Facets (2019). 64 x 50 in. Oil on canvas
Brilliant Pebbles (2019). 64 x 50 in. Oil on canvas
Beholder’s Share (2019). 64 x 50 in. Oil on linen
Spectral Mass (2019). 64 x 50 in. Oil on linen
Path of Totality (2019). 64 x 50 in. Oil on linen
Polyfusion (2019). 64 x 50 in. Oil on linen
Incandescent State (2019). 64 x 50 in. Oil on linen
Neon Goth (2019). 64 x 50 in. Oil on linen
AMELIA BRIGGS Rachel Reese: Can you demystify the process of painting these Inflatables for us a
little bit...are you using brushes or a spray gun? Something that strikes me is that in direct relation to the physical act of painting, is an equally physical act of encapsulating these as sculptures with the latex paint. How are you negotiating between painting (surface) and sealing (conceptually or materially)?
Amelia Briggs: I am using brushes, I was trained as a painter and spent many years painting
the figure before slowly moving into abstraction and then sculpture. When I first began making 3D works I thought of them as blank canvases. My process was split between two modes of thinking. The first was sculptural and purely about space and building a cohesive object. Then, once the piece was complete I would switch my approach and think only about painting, color, drawing, composition, etc. In terms of sealing, each work begins with countless layers of paper mache and latex to build up a durable surface. Each layer gets sanded down to create a cohesive and smooth surface. Over time I have come to see my work as more about sculpture than painting and the two processes no longer feel separate. I have stopped drawing or painting imagery onto the objects and approach the final application of paint as a means to simply add a specific color or texture. If I am creating color transitions I use oil paint as it is easier to blend and mix colors and if I am depicting a solid color I prefer latex as it offers a slight shine, creating the illusion of plastic.
RR: How would you describe your approach to painting tonalities or shading on the
Inflatables? I feel drawn to the works where there are almost illogical color relationships or transitions that occur. They seem to push back against the illusionistic drive to support these forms three-dimensionally.
AB: Towards the end of my time as a more “traditional� painter I took great pleasure in rendering
the bulbous body parts of cartoon characters or abstract shapes. I was fascinated by color and would often spend hours mixing my palette before beginning a painting. As I have transitioned
Pinkie (2019). 33.5 x 26.5 x 6� Panel, fabric, fiber, latex, oil,
into sculpture the bulbous forms that existed in my 2D paintings have become 3D, no longer requiring me to render them with paint. However, my love of color and rendering remain which is why I am inclined to paint rich color transitions. I still love finding and mixing color, blending each into the next. There must be some part of me that still sees each piece as a canvas (as I mentioned previously) because I have yet to use paint in support of the object’s shape and form. Maybe that is next.
RR: Rainbow Brite or My Little Pony? AB: Both Alan Pocaro: I’m a firm believer that a painting must reveal (illusory, but not necessarily
realistic) space and that sculpture must transform (actual) space. Your works appear very much like a form of bas-relief to me and the installation view from the Elephant Gallery confirms their ability to effect the transformation of the gallery’s environs to something approaching a cartoon sitting room, albeit one with sinister overtones. Is the transformative power of three-dimensionality a crucial element in these objects? Is it important for you as their maker?
Amelia Briggs: The 3D element is an important part of my process. As for the fact that they
tend to hang on the wall, speaks to my background as a painter and a deep connection to a 2D approach to making. This question makes me think about a time I went into the Mickey Mouse house at Disney World as a child. I still remember walking into that space and being in awe of the visual absurdity. The room had everything you would expect to find in a house except it existed in a bulbous language. I also relate this to watching cartoons like the Simpsons and seeing characters enter other dimensions, where everything was suddenly in a different visual language. That had a big impact on me. It is important that my work be cohesive, everything must be in the same visual language as though you are entering a different reality. My show at Elephant gave me the opportunity to create an otherworldly children’s play room. I wanted the work to play with the viewer, walking a line between the 2D and 3D, allowing the dimensionality of the works to take up space while remaining on the wall, separating themselves from the viewer and forbidding real interaction.
AP: Your works strike me as being fun and, frankly, a little strange and gross; much
like children’s toys. Many of the works also uncannily evoke cheap consumer goods. A corollary to consumerism is disposability. Are you ever concerned that your works’ visual proximity to these kinds of throw away items, will lead to your works rapid consumption by the viewer?
AB: I hope that I am able to make something that simultaneously mimics and stands apart from mass produced objects. While I do find brightly colored, cheap plastic toys to be beautiful I am striving to create something stranger and removed from what we expect to see when we think about toys and generic consumer goods. Those strange elements come in the form of material, abstraction, color, texture and scale. I do want the viewer to be reminded of them, hopefully triggering some memory in the process. My own childhood memories and toys play a big role in my work and help guide my decisions but I strive to walk a line between the familiar and strange. Hopefully the work is strange enough that it doesn’t feel commonplace.
Lawn (2019). 46.5 x 49 x 5� Fiber, fabric, faux fur, latex, panel
Vision (2019). 22 x 20 x 4.5� Faux fur, fiber, yarn, plastic, panel
Show (2019). 61 x 54 x 5� Faux fur, fiber, yarn, plastic, panel
Preservation (2019). 44.5 x 33 x 5� Faux fur, fiber, acrylic, panel
Dearest (2019). 39 x 35.5 x 5� Faux fur, yarn fabric, fiber, panel
Heat Source (2019). 44 x 37 x 5.25� Fiber, fabric, latex, oil
Muppet (2019). 42 x 31 x 5� Fiber, fabric, faux fur, panel, latex, oil
Mirror Mirror (2019). 37.5 x 34.5 x 4� Fiber, panel, latex, panel, fabric
Moppet Installation at Elephant Gallery March 2019, Nashville, TN
KY ANDERSON Lauren Whearty: I have been really into the Getty Podcast series, “Recording Artists”
where they create a discussion that includes audio interviews of women artists from their archive - so I have been thinking a lot about what artists have given me in the form of support like permission, passion for their work, and strength of character. In that regard I wonder who might your painting heroes be? And what kind of support have they given you?
Ky Anderson: I love that series. I could listen to Helen Molesworth talk about art all day. I
noticed a similarity between all the women interviewed. Everyone wanted to label them, as a female artist and as a feminist. They all fought against labels and categories, insisting were just artists. I understand and I think that it’s still relevant today. Of course I am a feminist and of course I’m proud to be a female artist but really I am just an artist, nothing else. When I’m painting I don’t think about being a woman, I just think about my work.
All that being said, I do tend to have mostly female painting heros. I suppose I can relate to them in a different way, maybe I feel closer to them. Each artist inspires me in a specific way. Louise Bourgeois for her line work in her drawings, for her confidence in her content and the way she expected and almost demaded people to understand exactly what she was making art about. In the 2019 curated show by Amy Sillman at MoMA she picked out a large painting by Helen Frankenthaler. I keep thinking about that piece. It’s huge with one amorphic shape taking up about half the painting. I strive for that kind of confidence. I’m inspired by Sillman’s eye, she saw what is amazing about that painting, pulled it out of storage and we got to see it. Most museums and curators might not have displayed that particular Frankenthaler painting, thinking that it’s simplicity was not its strength. But I was so inspired when I saw it. I once read an interview with Tal R, he said that any subject matter can open the door to start painting. I don’t know if I really believe him, but I like what he was implying, that the act of painting itself was more important than the subject matter. I also really enjoy painters like Albert Oehlen, Joanne Greenbaum and Charline von Heyl. These three painters remind me that I don’t always have to understand the language of abstraction. I enjoy their paintings but I don’t understand the specific
Two Eyes (2019). 72 x 60 in. Pigment and acrylic on paper
language they are speaking. Their work challenges me in a way I like. I’m also forever inspired by my community of artists friends. I’m lucky to be in constant dialog with them about our inspirations, materials, successes and failures in the studio.
LW: Your work has an exciting sense of scale - it refers to architecture, landscape, and
the human experience of those spaces - can you talk about your relationship to size in paintings? I’m curious about your gestural moves that refer to the human body, the ability of a painting to feel like an experience beyond an image or the pictorial, and how painting can make the everyday extra special through the connections made through the process of painting.
KA: I’m glad you’re able to see the scale in my work. I’m most comfortable painting on a
larger scale, there is a looseness that happens when I paint large and I can take more chances. It’s physical, it takes my whole body by stretching and reaching. On this scale I’d like to think I’m making something you could send your imagination into. This is where the figure comes in, someone stepping into the work. Scale is different for every artist. When some artists scale up their work the individual shapes stay the same size, so the larger work becomes more complex and dense. I scale up my proportionally, so an archway that takes up half the space in a small piece also takes up half the space in a large piece. I find this interesting how everyone imagines scale so differently. I like that idea… “painting can make the everyday extra special through the connections made through the process of painting”. That’s a really nice way to look at the process of making art. As an artist I’m always in search mode and I like to keep myself in a mental space where I’m able to feel when something inspires me.
LW: The best abstraction achieves a realness in its scale, color, organization, and a
specific sense of identity or character. I see abstraction as a way to reframe our world through physical means so that we can see those things anew. What kind of stuff in the world gets you thinking about painting ideas, and how do those inspirations transform through your processes?
KA: My ideas come from everywhere. From quick moments that turn into a shape that I’ll use
for years to waking up in the middle of the night with full visualizations of new bodies of work. Most often I’m writing a memoir in my work, but something has shifted in the past year where I
often feel like a fiction writer. My ideas are not as personal as they used to be, sometimes they are completely made up stories. I have a pretty consistent process as I work. Ideas form as I paint, those ideas then begin to take a literal shape in my mind. The idea becomes a form with shapes and lines. As the idea becomes fully formed I can then float around the idea as a shape and see it from all sides. Once that happens I’m really ready to paint it and I paint it from all sides, including from above. I do find that an idea can change as I’m working with it. It grows as I’m painting. I started a series around 2015 called The Rock Piler. I started painting about someone I knew who piled rocks, a lot of rocks. I thought a lot about this obsessive behavior. When I started painting this series I felt so different from this person, but the more I painted about them I began to recognize myself in The Rock Piler. These paintings changed over time, they began to not only be about this specific person but to be about all people and their compulsive natures, including my own. I began to think, why am I any different than The Rock Piler? This person piles rocks over and over, and then I make paintings about them and their rocks over and over. Really no different.
Rachel Reese: I’ve read that you have a background in fibers and sculpture, in
addition to painting. Can you describe how this range of technical facilities enhances your work’s material impulse?
KA: I studied Fiber and Sculpture in undergrad. As soon as I graduated I started painting
and this was always my plan. In school I wanted to learn as much as I could about a variety of materials, fabric and dyes, paper making, welding, building etc. Looking back I think what influenced me just as much was never taking a painting class. I still approach my work the same way as I did in school. Curious about non traditional ways of working in a traditional practice. I’m very specific with how I want my paint to act. Sometimes I need it to be like fabric dye so that the first layers of a painting are stained into untreated canvas or paper, or I need it to be saturated but at the same time transparent. Because of this I’ve let go of the paint tube and I make my own paint with various mediums, pigments, thickeners, thinners and whatever else finds its way into my mixtures. I also can’t help but see the canvas I work on as fabric. I often end up cutting up my discarded paintings, sewing and collaging them into new things. This process doesn’t really leave my studio and so far I haven’t resolved any of this work into something I feel is finished. It’s part of working out my ideas, cutting out shapes instead of painting them.
Stacked Viewing (2019). 54 x 50 in. Pigment, acrylic and oil on raw canvas
Segment (2019). 64 x 101 in. Pigment and acrylic on raw canvas
RR: Are you compelled to repeat certain visual systems or symbols in
your paintings? And, if perhaps not perceptible, do you feel your approach to painting in a series format encourages a push and pull between premeditated and intuitive mark making?
KA: The repetition in my work happens as a byproduct of my process. I don’t stop painting
even if I am not sure what I’m painting about. I’m sorting out my ideas as I’m painting, during this process imagery naturally repeats itself. If I haven’t painted my idea quite right I don’t paint it out, I’ll start a new painting as a correction, all evidence of the search. Once the idea has formed then repetition happens because I’ve just got it just right and I’m fully ready to paint it. Out of this process a series develops. I believe that intuition is based on fact. I don’t work intuitively, every move I make is done because of experience and knowing what I like and don’t like. Sometimes I rely on chance in my work, I’ll spill or drip, but this is also done with intention. I’ve mixed the paint just right so that it will drip exactly the way I want it to.
RR: How do you think we, as an art viewing audience, can learn (or re-learn) to push
back against the perception that abstraction is non-narrative or illegible as a visual language?
KA: In 2018, Phyllis Tuchman wrote an article in ArtNews about Amy Sillman. She says “Pure
abstraction has receded, replaced by something more diffuse and nuanced. It’s more thoughtful, too.” I recognize that some of the early abstract expressionists painters fought against narrative painting, but now there are a multitude of branches within abstract painting. Tushman’s quote about contemporary abstraction is simple, but I completely agree with it and I think that art viewing audiences are aware of these changes and are comfortable exploring the content of abstraction. As someone spends my days immersed in visual language I wouldn’t describe the visuals of abstraction as illegible. Visual language is colors, shapes, tones, lines, transparencies, drips and so much more. My work is narrative, but often the story or idea behind the work can be just as loose as the finished painting. I’m comfortable with my ideas and stories not making perfect sense. In 2019 I made a series titled Parkway Plans. This work is about making plans, specifically within the landscape and communal environment. Plans that an individual makes alongside plans a community makes. There’s a back and forth between these plans, my plans, our plans, my plans, our plans, like breathing. I can’t explain and don’t feel the need to explain the details of this idea, they are in the paintings.
Aquifer (2019). 48 x 52 in. Pigment, acrylic and oil on raw canvas
Mountains and Eyes (2019). 58 x 50 in. Pigment, acrylic and oil on raw canvas
Star School (2020). 20.3, 25 x 22 in. Pigment and acrylic on paper
Side Eye (2020). 20.3, 30 x 22 in. Pigment and acrylic on paper
Underwater (2019). 60 x 70 in. Pigment, acrylic and oil on raw canvas
Star Structure (2019). 54 x 50 in. Pigment, acrylic and oil on raw canvas
Making Plans (2019). 67 x 84 in. Pigment, acrylic and oil on raw canvas
Blue Flip (2020). 72 x 84 in. Pigment and acrylic on paper
RICK BRIGGS Alan Pocaro: The statement on your website resonated with me as both a writer and an
artist, particularly the notion of surprise. Abstraction is also my first love. But I also think that as a visual idiom, abstraction has been pretty thoroughly explored, and the remaining room for formal surprise, if there is any, is pretty small. To combat this, I’ve noted that many contemporary abstract painters self-consciously mine “bad design” in order to effect the “shock of the new”. Is this something that informs your approach, are you concerned with something that looks “new”?
Rick Briggs: That’s a good question but I don’t agree that abstraction (and painting in general)
is exhausted, and I say that as someone who has lived through all those years when painting was marginalized. As I look around at the myriad examples of abstraction in NYC shows and the studios of my peers, it’s clear that the language of abstraction is constantly being revitalized and expanded upon. I don’t know much about the world of design, although I do know one shouldn’t put a “figure” smack dab in the middle of a composition, which, of course, occasionally compels me to do exactly that. I’m also conscious of the need to distinguish myself from others and make a contribution that furthers “the conversation”. But rather than trying to make something “new”, I’m more concerned with expressing something reflective of my life. So when attaching a paint roller sleeve to the surface of a canvas, I’m not only disrupting the surface and making a compositional decision, but also referring to my lifelong day job, and building a vocabulary. The rollers (or rags) I attach are often the same ones used to move the paint around on that particular canvas. This has precedent in a Jasper Johns’ painting titled “Fool’s House” from which he hangs a broom that was used in the making of the painting – a pretty radical, and new, gesture for 1964. So in the context of the Johns’ painting, or the surface embellishments of many, many other artists such as Chris Ofili, or Thornton Dial, it’s simply one painting within a much larger tradition. We’re all standing on the shoulders of others.
The Owls Are Not What They Seem (2018-19) 14 x 16 in. Alkyd house paint, spray, oil stick on canvas
AP: Much of abstraction’s more than 100-year history has been associated with the quest for an autographic “style”, an inimitable approach to the canvas that distinguishes one artist from the next. Although I see commonalities between paintings, your works seem to embrace “styleless-ness”. What do you think are the roles played by style and technique in your work and in contemporary abstraction?
RB: I’ve always admired artists who give themselves the liberty to move around stylistically and
who are truly involved in investigating what Painting can be. Since you’ve looked at my website, you see that I’ve moved from abstraction to a cartoon-like narrative series and back to abstraction. It’s very important to commit to a field of play (aka, idea) for a number of years, with a set of variables that makes one’s terms of engagement clear. I respect the integrity of each individual painting and am open to the process to see where the painting wants to go. Rather than having an agenda in advance, I rely on improvisation and my language to make something happen while building on my personal painting history. As far as technique is concerned, I’ve always been fond of the phrase ‘necessity is the mother of invention’. Technique invents itself.
AP: I always tell my students “art is hard”. It’s kind of a joke, kind of not. Unlike a still-life comprised of fruits painted from observation, which has an end-point and a series of formal and technical problems that need to be solved by the artist (how do I make these lines and color seem like fruit?) abstraction has only self-imposed formal problems. There is no preconceived compositional end-point, only stopping points. From that point of view, abstraction is especially hard. How do you negotiate this? How does a work get started, and how do you make the decision to end it?
RB: Art is hard and that’s no joke! But there are ways to get going that take the weight off.
For me, a painting can start anywhere and end anywhere. Often I’ll start by rolling on vertical up-and-down paint strokes as if I’m rolling out a wall. Sometimes I’ll just attach the paint skin that forms within the paint can because I need a particular color to continue working on a painting that’s already in progress. In this way, I take the pressure off starting a painting. I work on multiple paintings at the same time, which also lessens the pressure of focusing too much on one individual painting. A painting is complete when it answers all the questions it raises, both formally and content-wise.
Lauren Whearty: A sense of ease and immediacy are painting goals that feel like they
take a lifetime to achieve, and I see those things in your painting in a way that expreses both bravado and shows great care. I think that’s a tough balance to strike, and you achieve that while still having this really rich and physical material history on the canvas. Can you talk about arriving at that kind of impactful moment of a painting - whether that be a sense of totality or thinking about the ‘final image’ of a painting?
Rick Briggs: First of all, thank you, Lauren, for those comments. I spent a ton of time from my
Tyler days at the original Barnes Foundation studying those early Matisse’s. His paintings are full of confident strokes delivered in a relaxed manner that build solid compositions via color. I was in awe then and I continue to be in awe. So to double back for a second on Alan’s question: our “style” becomes an amalgam of all these qualities of those who’ve gone before us that we admire and try to emulate. I think of qualities I’d like to have in my paintings and things I like to do that give me pleasure in the making. Instead of “bravado”, which generally carries negative associations these days (wrongly, I think) for AbEx painters, I hope people see courage, economy, and freedom. I love risk-taking, which could also be mistaken for bravado. When I pick up a can of spray paint I never know quite what will happen: will the spray go where I want it to go?, will it sputter?, will it run?, but that’s the excitement of it, the not knowing, and just trusting yourself. One problem I pursue is how to keep the process and risk-taking open all the way through to the end of the painting. The final image is a matter of getting the space, color, and rhythm right, and keeping it fresh.
LW: I think comedians and artists have so much in common, we’re all using our energy
and time to crafting experiences and reactions on a very personal level. I literally laugh out loud when I get to experience some of your paintings in person - from the conversation between tools and paint to the art historical relationships to the “I can’t believe he did that!” moments. Can you talk about humor in you paintings and why that is such a strong element in your work?
RB: Ha! I do occasionally make myself laugh by surprising myself in the studio and I’m glad that
somehow comes through. The thing comedians are great at is creating the set-up, which is a line of thinking (or field of play?) and then when you least expect it, they hit you with the unexpected punch line. For me, that idea of doing the unexpected is pretty exciting but without the pre-existing context of one’s own language, it wouldn’t make any sense. My earlier Painter Man series were narrative and intentionally darkly humorous but humor in abstraction is perhaps more subtle or absurd. BTW, it’s funny you bring this up because when I was in 5th grade, I had pretty much narrowed down my possible future occupations to priest, artist, and comedian.
Wild Child (2010-19) 30 x 30 in. Alkyd house paint, spray, oil stick, roller sleeve, stir stick on canvas
In the Beginning was The Garden (2016-19). 24 x 30 in. Alkyd house paint, spray, oil stick, paint swatch on canvas
LW: Titles are so hard for me - and so I recognize in yours the ability to add something
to the paintings - because their context can shift the original perception of the painting. Your titles add a sense of memory, narrative, imagery and/or word play to the paintings that I find really exciting. Can you talk about your process of titling artworks? RB: Titles are hard for me too but generally they arrive just as the content becomes apparent. A title is another way into a painting and I try to choose one that doesn’t foreclose multiple readings. I think of titles as completing the act of generosity or vulnerability that painting entails. I’m shooting for titles that are personal and poetic, and lately there have been a bunch that reference pop culture, but that have personal meaning for me. I paint to fulfill my creative need but also, since painting has an aspect that is philosophical, it becomes a meditation on my life, which the meditative nature of painting lends itself to so naturally. As I’m painting I’m thinking of the formal elements and things I’d like to do in the painting. As I proceed, I’m looking for a shift from that logical brain that knows how to make a painting to a more illogical, unconscious brain for some kind of transformation to happen. A fragment of an image may occur or something else about the process or color that might suggest the content. I recently took a singing class where we sang the 4-part harmony of the Beach Boys, who I love both harmonically and lyrically, and the songs we covered ended up as titles for paintings. One way or another, the personal always enters the work. It’s unavoidable.
Acid Spring (2016-19) 30 x 36 in. Alkyd house paint, spray, oil stick, roller sleeves on canvas
Wild as the Wind (2016) 24 x 30 in. Alkyd house paint, spray, oil stick on canvas
Transmute (2016) 24 x 30 in. Alkyd house paint, spray, oil stick, oil on canvas
Flash (2016). 24 x 30 in. Alkyd house paint, oil stick, rags, on canvas
Don’t Worry Baby (2019). 37 x 54 in. Alkyd house paint, color swatches, spray, oil stick, oil on canvas
Bouquet for Mom (2017). 24 x 30 in. Alkyd house paint, oil stick, on canvas
Door Number Three (2020). 12 x 9 in. Acrylic house paint and paper towel on paper
Installation shot, American Academy of Arts and Letters, spring 2019
ALEXIS CHRISTAKES Caves We are caves We are taverns, tabernacles, and temples, hollowed out by our efforts, kept sacred by our debtors, We are endless, pointlessly complex, cavernous to the point of abstraction, fruitlessness, and solitude. We are still mirror images, just alike our neighbor, nothing unique, and the sooner we know that, the sooner we can stop being lonely, incomplete.
In the Ether You look away sometimes, for the better, lost in the ether, under a dozen electric stars, floating over corn husk ghost rows everywhere we go, and we roll over a road map going small nowhere places— you ask by laughing; I answer you by dancing. The curtain is infinite and stained by centuries of stardust—what should I want? We are ethereal, ephemeral fairy tale characters: you in your wool wizard coats, me in my words like dusty corduroy. So it is strange to think of you, too, as a river and to know the story will be different next time I step in, and to know we are our story, and we might not still exist when it ends.
Expense are we wasting something precious, each other or the wine? where is the line— the measuring cup lies the jigger is weighted by one too many precious liquors my lungs are lined with one too many heavy bitters. every spilled drop costs, and I can never spill enough to repay you what you lost.
Dark Matter humans are so habit to hurt they have to hurt you people are most afraid of what they themselves do lovers are least loyal at their old fault lines the way water is heaviest after all that time the way lies are easiest to believe at the worst times the way you bring out the worst in me sometimes are you most honest most cruel or most mine you are the pineal knot in the universe where love is invented each day I am the dark matter that floats in between you forget about most days
Beltane May all your tinders re-flame. May all your sleepless fires only burn brighter. I hope your heart is a red flame. I hope your body is a vessel for kind senses. I hope it fails you never. May the green be so true, it tastes. May the breeze be so feigned, it frays. May the sun torch the earth and the flowers wash in its rains. May we be dry as a desert and then drown again. I hope we fall in love more deeply at midnight. I hope we trust just because we live in each other’s insides. I hope I never doubt the infinity of my shape. I pray you learn to see your skin as the sun it takes.
Antarctica I want to disappear into an arctic circle where nobody visits often enough to map the last place I fell down, the last time I told a lie, the last day I ducked my head in an oven before shaking it in disappointment and turning around to face the kitchen like it never happened, like the sink has never washed the dishes I should have washed days ago, like the granite counter has never bruised me left and right, like the white cupboards have never washed me away, like this house has not kept me for a decade, didn’t lose me right as it feared the worst for me or like she’s the only one who would. I want my blood to slow in the solidity, my hair to familiarize with icicles, my irises to turn into snowflakes and break baby crystals every time I blink. I want my skin to blur to stark white, the color that glows like a ghost in the back of your dream, in the bedtime of Illinois Christmases, in a box of melted letters in the back of my closet. I want to disintegrate in the drizzle and dry out in a frigid desert; I want to lose existence like I lost my keys and my mind and my favorite necklace. I wanna give up watching the sun and the atmosphere battle and bleed neon lights. I wanna divide when there are too many points of light. I want to go away, where the snow will bury me, where the rain doesn’t reach, where the quiet is guaranteed, where oblivion meets easy.
ERASE R
CURATING CONTEMPORARY
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