The Ladies of PIECRUST would like to dedicate this issue to a lovely lady by the name of, Ms.Caroline DeBacker. Keep Calm, Carry On, Keep Making Things. We love you.
4-5
Works on
7-42
43-52
Artist Interview with Gina Alverez
etter to a Young Artist L Dear PIECRUST, its me Jennifer. By JE Baker.
54-57
Acknowledgements and Contributors
58-59
INGREDIENTS
Letters From the Ladies Paper
front page artwork by: JE Baker Wound Photograph 2011
Letter from
Readers of PIECRUST, So, here’s the skinny, (appropriate for a magazine with a dessert title, right?) We, the Ladies of PIECRUST, think nothing steals the show like a homemade pie – except maybe for a magazine about pie, art, and literature. The wonderful thing about a homemade pie crust is the basic idea of it. It’s a foundation. Throw some apples, sugar, & butter on it and call it golden delicious. Feeling the need for more sustenance? Forget the sweets and use chicken and carrots and feed the masses. Its flaky, its buttery, its flat-out love in a pan. LOVE, people!
the Ladies
Paper is the same thing, granted, it doesn’t taste as good, but it’s a great foundation for some delicious, satisfying art and writing. So, with works on paper, we have showcased photographs, text based images, beautiful sketches of large installations, poetry, video still images, and stories from the heartland. It’s a little this, a little that, a little sugar and a little salt. Really it’s all about flavor and sharing that flavor in palpable pages that delight with every turn, dog-eared corner, and doodle edge. This is why we chose a printed publication rather than a blog alone, because we wanted to have an intimate connection with our readers. We, the Ladies of PIECRUST, are the bakers and providers of the PIECRUST, and the artists and writers are the producers of the indulgent pie filling that will be their works on paper. Take it, read it, use it, share it, that’s what we want for it … to be consumed. Love and pie, Ladies of PIECRUST Lauren & Megan
Drawing by 25 year old Lauren Cardenas Recipe by 4 year old Megan Collins
Shoot it with a gun. Fry it in a skillet Cook five minutes until done
Collaboration from the Ladies
FR I ED R A BBI T R E C IPE
Works on Paper
Alison Kuo Tethered Sumi Ink on Paper 2009
Alison Kuo After noted Porcelain of Successive Dynasties Sumi Ink on Paper 2009
Max Marshall Black Lobster, Fabulous Views Photograph 2009
Mollie LaRue
GW says: WAVING TO J. ALFRED PRUFROCK FROM OTHER SIDE OF THE TROUGH In architecture, gustwick letter, literature, music, poetry, terrain, underwater on 11/16/2009 at 11:08 am i move as any crustacean crawler: one claw at window & one at bay one that dont, one what may one for night & one for day. this sickness aint one of shoot or pace— isnt pinch or ounce of me! i merely saw his lover drown while mermaid’s voice was peeling down. Night is a purple mass bruise w/ streetlight for green & brown the patient, not quite living, yet risen
Lazarus not needed— the bridge keeps its girders while its architect takes tea. used to start at static’s visage, waving the lilac branch: the dirty dishes, the sugar cube resting in garden soil, the dust that settles from foot-to-foot traffic & my decaying brain nowhere to be seen! … “if i considered my reply meant for one who might oneday return to the world, most certainly this flame would cease to flicker; and yet since none — if what i hear is true — ever returned alive from this abyss, then w/o fear of facing infamy, i answer you.”* and the answer is a question no longer that shapeless one kept for dark rooms, bleak streets and far flung from the face that wears round glasses, a handkerchief used chiefly to augment the pocket & no longer Do I dare Disturb the universe?* but Do I dare not? you say there will be and i say there IS time to put clean sheets on the bed before dirtying them again
time to saturate then remove to rip to tearing then recalibrate what’s riven time for a you to be a you & a me to be a me, no longer married to the sea. but perhaps what you feared most was a stab of the pin spearing guts to wall immobile in the display of a coffee spoon life’s demise for always it is best to appear unsuspicious best to continue the erudite chats & upper-air friendships that an admission would overturn. You were happy to be of service but walking on the beach admiring the obscurity of an ocean’s depths, the callow of a crab, one would wonder that maybe the artist’s mask may have revealed the reverie he’d intended conceal!
Meghan Johnson Bicycle & Car Oil on paper on Board 2011
Elvia Perrin Nothing out of Something Color Intaglio 2011
Natalie Baldeon Perra India ink on Yupo paper 2011
Carlie Trosclair Convergence Sketch #8 Paper, archival ink, vellum, transparency film 2001
Reid Norris
What You G e t Hu ng r y For
I’ve made a statement that I would like to retract. Last spring, at a discussion on feminism and art, I said that although I considered myself a feminist human being, I did not consider myself a feminist artist. My feeling then was that the convictions I had about feminism, art, and its history did not particularly enter into my own work. There are, after all, things in my life that I keep separate from art, and I figured that the patriarchal bias I saw and continue to see in the world simply didn’t apply. I’m a feminist, I remember saying, and I also like basketball. But I’m not a basketball artist. I’m not so sure anymore. I’m a square, so I’ve always liked the canon. I love the museum. Here’s where my problem starts. At the Metropolitan, there’s a gorgeous portrait by Velazquez. It’s a painting of a man called Juan de Pareja, and has everything you’d want in a good Velazquez –
striking moments of flesh color, nice blacks and umbers, pretty lace, a human experience. I looked at this painting several times before I read the card on the wall next to it. It turns out Velazquez owned Juan de Pareja. This information bothers me especially as a human being, but also as an artist. It changes the ideas about creation and human interaction that the painting presented to me. I can almost hear the artist now: “Come here, slave – it’s time to paint. Put this on. Stand still.” Why this painting changes my feelings about feminism and my own art is difficult to explain. I guess it’s not why you get hungry, but rather what you get hungry for that counts. It’s unsettling to find all of my problems with the Caucasian male history of art – the artist as genius, lord over the subject of the work – so neatly encapsulated in this wonderful picture. Furthermore, I am implicated. I believe reading and writing to be mutually entrenched. Both author and reader are responsible for creation of meaning. And I feel the same way about the maker and the viewer in visual art. The artist thought of this as a painting of a subhuman. I know what this says about Velazquez, but what does it say about me? So now to the heart of matters: I’m much more interested in how I am a feminist than in why I feel myself to be one. Feminism presents my artmaking with problems, which is fantastic. I love problems. I am steadfastly against problem solving. Problem solving is what squares (which I am one) do at real jobs (which I’ve had). Problem solving is what people do when they want to get answers, or create policy. Who the hell wants a policy, or a solution? Solution sounds like a watered down thing to me. What feminism really offers is freedom. It offers a skeptical eye; it encourages enigma and mystery and contradiction. Which is exactly what I’m after, what I’m hungry for. Apparently what I want is to stand in front of a Velazquez that I love and feel terrible about it. So feminism is a source rather than an ideology. Which makes it even more compelling, because then I can discard the notion that
feminism might be a program or, god forbid, a policy. People often talk about feminism as if it were affirmative action – if it succeeded perhaps we would no longer need it. I, for one, need it for my artmaking – for my reading of the past and my (qualified) hope for the future. Otherwise I’d have to stand in front of this terrific picture and feel completely fine. But significantly less inspired.
J.E. Baker and Natalie Baldeon Bucake Photograph 2011
Max Marshall Defense Mechanism, Fabulous Views Photograph 2011
Mollie LaRue
White Matter
White Matter is a system of nerve fibers in the brain that connect different processing areas. It continues to develop throughout adulthood, particularly when the brain focuses regularly on a certain cognitive activity. For instance, London cab drivers were found to have developed an unusually large hippocampus—the region of the brain involved with memory and navigation. This could in part be accounted for by a rigorous training program called “the Knowledge,” but significant experience involving the use of a specific cognitive activity over a period of time is an important part of development, indicated by the discovery that a cabby’s hippocampus grows larger in relation to years on the job. White Matter is how we develop the need to use our brains in a certain way.
I have not been sitting up straight. The record player broke, and I stopped staying in nights. I remember meeting you, too, years ago, around this time. You bit me, and while apologizing, spilled a drink on me. But I remember the rest of it; that’s the trouble. That’s why I write to you. There used to be telegraph cables connecting you to me, but those were removed during the late 1970’s. Without them, I wonder if the previous synchronicity we experienced is even a possibility. Where does the message go if it has no conduit to travel through, and how does a second message follow? I used to do the crossword every day, folding the newspaper into a tiny square that I’d leave near the toilet and return to regularly. Now I fold the paper, and my mind scatters into twenty-three uniform, square-shaped pieces. Most matter in the universe is not made of what we consider “normal” matter (protons, neutrons, electrons). It’s called Dark Matter, made of invisible, inscrutable particles that interact weakly with ordinary matter. This stuff has gravity that affects the orbits of stars and galaxies. More remains unknown than known about Dark Matter. I replaced the record player, found some decent tea, and now I don’t get around much any more. Each day I walk to the bus stop, take the bus to work, toil at a computer for eight to twelve hours, take the bus, and walk home. Sometimes I hear birds calling to one another during the walk, but usually the only sounds I pick up on are those of construction—jackhammer, reversing beep, catcalls. Sometimes I realize that I don’t know what I’m doing, but the tea helps.
Carrie DeBacker Creeper doing yoga Ink and marker on paper 2011
Natalie Baldeon Swell Ink wash on Arches 2011
Emily Squires 08/02/11 Silkscreen on tracing paper, vinyl, chartpak letters 2011
Mike Meier 03:02:640, 3:03:089 Pencil on paper 2011
Mike Meier 03:04:320, 03:05:365 Pencil on paper 2011
Max Marshall Fabulous Views, Fabulous Views Photography 2011
Mollie LaRue
GW says: making w. the rude pen In gustwick letter, love: the swamp, mythology, underwater, unrealized correspondence on 09/03/2010 at 6:23 pm
Gearheart, even crotchety old men get the blues, are made of the blues, return to it like some return to the dirt. this old man, he played four. he played knick-knack out the door. it was very still to make for a good exit, gestures & conundrums not withstanding. i hope that you are pacing. but i hope that you are well.
As soon as I wrote this, I said: “Go happy letter! now she’ll reach out her lovely hand for you. Perhaps she’ll even touch you with her snow-white teeth, bringing you to her lips, when she wishes to break your seal.” (Ovid, Leander to Hero)
cheap motels w. cigarette burns on the toilet seats. me & my dog. we live by the week, pay by the hour, have stopped making additions to our bug collection. it is a fine collection. driving through the smokey mountains.
and then this particular stretch through arkansas. coffee w.o ice & clutching at the steering wheel like stable mable fingers a pistol. we are on a journey. such a tedious way to admit the Loss of the Map. Three times I’ve left my clothes on the dry sands: three times, naked, painfully, I’ve tried to swim the roads: the swollen sea opposed my youthful undertaking, and, swimming against the waves, my head was submerged. (Ovid, Leander to Hero) you & me & max. you showed us your treehouse. we ate lobster rolls & worried over hurricanes. we sat simply and said nothing. the night was no less bright than high noon, you & me & a scuffle in the town square. you remained; me & max made haste. And OH no, I’m under H2O! once, you were prolific. just bessie’s “backwater blues” and a smart answer for everything. you made an index of dreams and filed them delicately, painstakingly into a card catalogue of sleeping-thoughts, ones that could be swept under-rug if such a rug you let obscure your floor. instead, you created the library where additions are never returned to again. Seeing a distant light, I said: ‘My fire is in that fire: that is the shore that holds my light. (Ovid, Leander to Hero) blinking light, vacancies! i can see the roaches from here! i can smell the stale smoke smell, another more foul & w.o name! i can fill that vacancy! i can insert my self into empty space, water into vase, flowers into water. in this case, hairy tare. If truth be known, coming to you from here I was a swimmer, when I returned, I seemed to myself like a drowning man. This too, if you would believe it: to you the way seemed smooth: from you returning, a hill of inert water. (Ovid, Leander to Hero) i tapped to get the rhythm going, but was unfound. me & max & a bottle of gin. german shepherds dont care for gin, but they dont judge you none for drinkin it neither. this old man, he played seven. he played seven up to heaven. i could never get the rhythm right, tapping swimming or kissing you. it’s ok to come home. it’s ok to be slippery. it’s ok to forget the words to the song i knew before i met you.
now, joined to you, I warm you with my heart, and much besides is concealed, by the modest tongue, that’s ashamed to speak of things it delights in doing. Alas! It’s brief and pleasure is untrue: for you always leave me, as sleep does. (Ovid, Hero to Leander) and i used to know a scope of moonshine—i mean, pardon the gin—light o’ the moon, used to break it down w. a boxcutter, tear the pieces like communion bread for you. goin to the river. goin to the church-house. movin on, i best be movin on, you say. so it’s max & me. me & max. he used to care fer a kitten like a pup, nuzzles from here to eternity. sooner or later, kittens grow, and max doesnt understand. neither do i. why should my body be left in the centre of the bed? (Ovid, Hero to Leander) the midas touch, that was what they said you had. edison spent the night w. you, and by morning was ruminating over a need for better light to see you by. hemingway swore by your stories. faulkner remarked upon your unmatched ability to brood. and the wright bros. were so heartbroken over you, they took to sailing on the wind. twain escaped by river. me & max, we just take shelter in smokey mountains, stunned at the relentless drawing in & releasing of breath. But let us meet, from opposite directions, in mid-strait, and exchange kisses, as we touch, on the crest of a wave, and each return, once more, to the cities we came from: that would be little, but better than nothing at all. (Ovid, Hero to Leander) maybe you will come to me, and say everything is allright afterall. the bars of moonlight may sustain you through fall & winter. maybe you’ll speak again to Bessie, knowin waking up in morn is the same trouble as fallin to sleep at nightfall. maybe me & max can keep good company, wave the white flag till our arms are sore and we be panting. yours, gustwick.
Aaron Coleman The Protagonist Mezzotints on Fabriano paper 2011
Aaron Coleman The Puppeteer Mezzotints on Fabriano paper 2011
Kim Wardenberg Whiners Wander in the Desert Digital Photography with Text 2011
David Stephan
WONDER BREAD Wayne B. was feeling slow physically but fast mentally as he sat outside the filling station on a warm, moist summer night in the town of M., Arkansas – a town where fried chicken was ubiquitous, but not good enough to be dubbed “famous,” and the methamphetamine problem was bad, but not bad enough to be hailed as notorious. He had just consumed his meal of a prepackaged bologna sandwich with mustard and a cup of applesauce (both purchased at the station) and was sitting-off the effects of his breakfast. He still had 30 minutes before his nightly shift began and was letting his mind race as he waited for the Brightest Spot in his Day. He thought about how he was going to have to purchase a fresh bottle of Wild Turkey after his shift ended and pondered which angler was going to win the bass fishing tournament he had yet to view on tape-delay. He also thought of his mother and the spartan confines of the county home in which she lay, not really dying, but certainly waiting to die. As these thoughts swirled around in his head, Wayne felt a warm sensation behind his ears and a pallor attach itself to his face. Was he feeling guilt for not Being There for his mother? No, he was at ease with that – after all,
she was not really there for him and nobody needs spectators to die. Perhaps he ate too fast and the applesauce and bologna were taxing all his resources prohibiting any other normal function? In just ten minutes Jeff, the Wonder Bread delivery driver would be making the second of his bi-weekly appearances. Just as he pulled his eyes up from his watch, Wayne spied two young men pulling into his service station. Wayne had been working at filling stations for over 20 years and thought highly of his ability to observe an incoming vehicle and decide just what the passengers inside would require. These two young men were easy for him to assess. Their car carried out-of-state plates and they had bicycles mounted on the back. They were clearly on a road trip to some other destination and were just going to use his place of employment as a pit stop on their way to friendlier confines for city-boys with strange ways of talking. He was right. As he observed them climbing out of the car, he intentionally overheard the two young travelers’ conversation, “Yo, this tank is yours,” said the taller of the two. “All right, fuck. I’ll swipe my card but you pump, I really need to have a piss,” was the reply from the other. “Whoa, damn,” called the Taller as the Pisser walked towards the station’s entrance, “check out all of the bugs we shattered on the front fender – and hey, see how late we can max beer in the this state!” “For sure,” was the reply. Wayne B. sighed. He was glad that he was not yet on the clock. He loathed the types of interactions that were sure to follow the arrival of such patrons. Thankfully, 2nd shift Carla was going to have to bear her accent to the snickering northerners and inform them that beer can be purchased until two o’clock in the a.m. Wayne glanced at his watch. Only 5 minutes until Jeff came with the Wonder Bread order. Wayne sat and thought about what to say to Jeff tonight. Should he mention the latest news about the town sheriff ’s recent drug arrest? Should he talk sports with Jeff? Jeff sometimes wore stock-car racing apparel and Wayne had been keeping abreast of the racing circuit just in attempt to connect with Jeff. He also
wondered if he should talk about his ailing mother and the anguish of not knowing how to act. He wanted Jeff to see his sensitive side, but was not sure if he would spoil the relationship with such a heavy topic. Wayne was wearing his favorite shirt that day. It was a boxy green T-shirt with the image of a fish being snagged from the water and drooping font saying, “Twist and Trout.” One minute before the delivery was due, the Pisser came outside. He approached Wayne, “Hey man,” he began, “sorry to hassle you, but there is nobody inside, do you work here?” Wayne’s back became drenched in sweat. “Goddamn it!” he thought. “Where the fuck is Carla? That bitch is always disappearing to some goddamn place to do godknowswhat – probably meth – and I have to cover for her incompetent ass while she hastens the rotting of her own teeth!” Wayne rose silently, kept his eyes averted from the young man and followed him inside. The Taller was standing at the register with a bag of beef jerky. Wayne remained silent. The Pisser, the patron who had impinged upon Wayne’s pre-shift meditation, asked, “In your estimation, how late is too late for one to purchase beer in this state?” “What the fuck kind of way of talking is that,” thought Wayne. He answered dryly, “Two.” Just then, Wayne saw the headlights of Jeff ’s truck as it bounced into the small loading dock that doubled as a smoking porch for the local farmers. He could hear the truck’s rear door being slammed open as the Pisser uttered, “Oh, ok then,” and then the two excused themselves to select their late night refreshment. Wayne tapped his foot with impatience. “Where the fuck is Carla!” he cursed in his inner-thoughts. He saw Jeff through the window as he pulled the dolly up to the ramp and prepared to grab the order. Jeff saw Wayne looking at him through the window and Jeff offered a half-wave, half-salute like gesture. Wayne smiled and nodded back. Wayne was glad for the contact and was quite sure, now that Jeff knew he was there, Jeff would allow him the time to finish up this foolish business with the discourteous out-of-towners and give him his ear for a minute. Jeff hadn’t been the delivery driver for more than six months, but Wayne already felt good
about approaching Jeff, he was confident the exchange would be pleasurable. The Pisser and the Taller returned with a 12 pack of beer and asked Wayne how much they owed. Wayne scanned the beef jerky and the 12-pack with an anxious hand. He wanted to see these out-oftowners and their bike-towing car get the hell away from his station so he could go and talk to Jeff. He had decided to talk about the sheriff ’s drug bust and had also decided that he was going out there no matter what – any other customers where just going to have to wait for Carla’s return. Wayne responded to the price inquiry in an even voice, but his lips smacked with dryness as he said, “$12.47.” The Taller paid with cash, said thanks and the two young men finally left the store. Not wanting to talk to Jeff with a mouth clicking of dryness, Wayne quickly walked to the cooler, pulled a sports-drink from the rack, told himself that he wasn’t going to pay for that shit because he already does too much for this stupid company anyways, and hastily slugged about one third of the red liquid. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Wayne proceeded to walk calmly out of the side door in order to meet Jeff with a quiet Cool and a friendly disposition. He didn’t want to betray his frenzied annoyance to the Brightest Spot of his Day. Wayne exited just in time to see Jeff ’s taillights bounce out of the driveway and on to the town of H. for his next stop, where he was perhaps somebody else’s Bright Spot. Wayne stood motionless with a red-sports-drink moustache on his stiff upper lip. Wayne felt a pure sadness materialize in his throat and started a new countdown. It would be three days until his Bright Spot would return.
Carling Hale amphetamine salt 10mg Digital Photography 2011
Anne Wรถlk Untitled mixed media on paper 2010
INTERVIEW WITH GINA ALVEREZ
image above courtesy of the artist.
Interview with Gina Alverez and the Ladies of PIECRUST, Lauren Cardenas and Megan Collins
PIECRUST: What’s your favorite pie? GINA: I love pumpkin pie, pumpkin pie is my favorite. PC: When we approached you about being in PIECRUST, what were your first reactions to the title? G: PIECRUST seems very feminine, that was kind of my first thing, but I’m a girl so I love that. It seems really sweet, nice, and the doilies, all those things resonate with me. It was not shocking. I think these independent and literary art journals are wonderful and under-utilized, especially in St. Louis. It was intriguing. PC: Do you have thoughts on pie and art? G: I have thoughts on cooking and art. I have thoughts on cooking and printmaking, specifically; they are like the same. When I actually think about it and being a printmaking teacher, mixing color, making plates cooking was always my reference in my demos because it was the easiest connection.½ teaspoon of vanilla is equal to burnt plate oil or setswell. It was natural; I always set up my demos like Martha Stewart. Whenever it was demo time everyone knew to follow around the table, cooking and printmaking go hand and hand. I grew up in a very cooking family; I am also Armenian on my dad’s side. Baking is more complicated, more precision, you can’t fly by the seat of your pants. PC: Where are you from originally? G: I am from Racine, Wisconsin. 20 minutes south of Milwaukee, population 80, 000, very middle class, pro-industry. My whole family lives in Wisconsin. My dad and grandfather worked in the printing industry at Western Publishing Golden Books. My father was a color matcher and grandfather was a pre-pressman. Though none of it became important or serendipitous until I was in college. PC: When did you know you wanted to be an artist? G: Well, this is my story. So when I was in high school, I had ceramics classes that I loved, but never did I consider pursuing the arts. That was never presented as an option for me. They were just electives, you know? I had no real ambition in high school. On graduation day, my ceramics teacher pulled me aside and said: I don’t know what your plans are but when you go away to school, you need to study art. That’s the first time anyone said that to me.
So, then when it was time to go to college- my parents wanted me to stay in Racine. But there was no way in hell that I was going to stay in Racine. This was my time to get out of here. So the compromise was to go three miles north of my hometown. After a semester, I declared an art major and took drawing and ceramics. The teacher was awful and she was having an affair with her students. She never said anything constructive; she just told me I had nice eyebrows. The second semester I took printmaking, and I just loved it. I loved the shop mentality. It was very community oriented. But when I told my parents that I was going for art, they told me that they would not help me financially, so I dropped out. I was like, screw this. I then worked in a plywood factory, a grocery store, and a bookstore that sold porn and tobacco. After I dropped out, I went and did an internship in NYC. I was 18; I was in NYC. I was so Midwestern, but not full blooded Armenian. I was not fully accepted by my peers, which was very defining for me because I was committed to pursuing a life with this religion in my life. It completely flipped the switched on me and I was like-what the hell. So I kind of got this sense of, I need to see what else is out there because I don’t know what the hell is going on. So I got a job in a plywood factory, but I operated a gigantic press. I worked my way up, this is just my personality, from the last person on the assembly line to operating that damn thing. I was invited to be on the bowling team. I got in good, but the men were all nasty. So I did all these weird things and then I moved to Charleston. I was then a nanny for a woman who ran a gallery, and in Charleston there’s this great regional museum that had a studio school, so I started taking clay classes. They asked me to be a monitor and then I got offered the job of the registrar. So, I started working in the arts as an administrator. There was also a print shop affiliated with it, so I started taking print classes again. So, it was like, my parents said they weren’t going to help, so I flew the coop and then it came back to me. You know, I turned 21 when I was there, I dumped my boyfriend, and he hated it, and I was footloose and fancy free and nowhere near my parents. It was awesome and I had a blast. And when I was done having a blast, I met my husband. And we decided to go back to school together. We went to Charleston, because at the time it was very affordable and they had a great printmaking class. I enrolled as a dual major in Studio Art and Costume Design. I was a costume shop assistant and it was a segway into this art world. There was an adrenaline to it, especially when you’re dressing people backstage. My husband was also going to school to get a degree in Spanish. And he was like, I’m going to graduate school. And I was like,
well, if you’re going to graduate school, I’m going to graduate school. So that’s how we both ended up here. I applied for printmaking and drawing, and I don’t think I would be an artist today if I hadn’t dropped out of school that first time around. I think I would be married with five kids living in Wisconsin. Working at a bank, probably. My parents were only concerned with how I was going to support myself. But here’s the kicker, they wanted me to get a degree in English. Which is basically the same freaking thing as getting a degree in Art. And I don’t like to read that much. So why would I do that? I’m a maker and I also grew up with a grandma who was a maker. And we always made my clothes. So that was a real influence on my art as well. And it was really funny because my grandma and I would go shopping and we would see something and she’d say, Oh I could make that. We’re not going to buy that. I mean, there’s pics of me in knickers. Purple and corduroy with a vest…. That was reversible. So I went to graduate school, and to be brutally honest about it, I went horribly into debt to go. It sucks. It very much sucks. I just think, oh I should just get a job that doesn’t have anything to do with art and it doesn’t seem to end. But then I think, why did I go through all that? On the other hand, I don’t think my work would be where it is now had I not gone to grad school. I mean, I love to make my work, but I’m pretty quiet about it. I’m a mother, I don’t go out and make these connections, and it really is horribly true that is all about who you know. And I’m really stubborn because I want my art to speak louder than my affiliations and associations. And I don’t know if that’s a recipe for success. I’m not convinced that it is; but it’s who I am and I don’t think it will change. It also its really hard to come to terms with what your willing to do to get to where you’re going and also what would be satisfying. Whether that’s local, regional, national, or international success. All of that, unfortunately, coincides with what you’re work is and also asking yourself, who am I and what do I want to do? And that all happens with your artwork as well, and it’s a tricky little situation. It’s a sticky wicket. I think that I love making, and that’s the most important thing. PC: So, now that you’re in STL, do you consider yourself a STL artist? G: Yeah, but I’m from Wisconsin, first and foremost PC: Do you think that has more of an effect on your art? Than maybe where you are now? Your backgound.?
G: Yeah, certainly. I think because it’s who I am and my work is just filled with who I am. So you know there’s like, I don’t know, yes I consider myself a STL artist, because this is where my art developed and I wasn’t an artist when I was in Wisconsin or Charleston. So, yes, I would consider myself a STL artist. PC: So, what’s your process? How do you get started? G: Um, well. I think I’m pretty material driven, first and foremost. You know I do sculptures and works on paper. Whether it’s paper or fiber, it’s all about the material to begin with- the ephemera. My studio practice also isn’t very regular. I don’t go into the studio everyday. Because I have a lot going on, so I’m pretty goal oriented. So that’s why, for me, I have to establish goals- shows, residencies. That pressure is really important to me. I think I’ve come to terms with that, because I think you always compare yourself to how other artists work. Which, you’re in school right now, you have a luxury of that being the only thing you have to do. I have a studio in the basement of my home. When I go down there, I have all my stuff that I like to work with. I’ll go down there with a very specific intent. So, I have two shows coming up next summer, one is a public commission and one is for Gallery 210 at UMSL, so right now I like to think about things for a while or play around with what it might look like. Or, if it’s a sculptural thing, I have elements that are like what I want to do with it, and I’ll play around with them. I also have a show that is a sketch for the public commission. So, it’s all very self referential, and all the work comes out of itself, so I need to do that first thing in order to do the next thing. And if that thing is a floor for an installation, it could then become a series of prints. So it’s all very modular in that way so I can reuse the idea and recycle the idea. So, material is the first thing I think of, not really content. And for me, the concept comes out of the making because there is that intimacy that comes out of you making your work that creates a dialogue that helps you understand what and why you are making what you are making. I also don’t put music on in my studio. It’s very quiet down there. I think because my daily life is full of a lot of noise, it’s sort of my place to go and just use my things and not have to get distracted. I’ve also done some collaborative work, which is a whole different kind of process. And I really don’t discern between 3D and 2D. It’s all very fluid. And if I think paper on paper is good for a paper piece, then paper on fabric is good for a sculpture piece. The same materials and visa versa- if I sew on this paper piece why can’t I sew on this sculpture piece? That conversation happens.
So, with printmaking, if you have a color palette, you have colors that resonate with you, you always start there. My natural inclinations start my process. I even have prints from undergrad that I cut up and use. I don’t have any qualms about cutting up prints for works on paper or putting them through shredders, or tearing up old books. For me, there is not a precious material. The final product may be precious, but not the material itself. Because ultimately, it’s problem solving. So you generate a problem for yourself and you solve it. So that means there’s no rules. PC: In terms of your studio, what’s your favorite thing? What can’t you live without? G: I can’t live without my circle hole punch. You know where I first discovered it? In the Book Studio. I didn’t know those things existed, and then Martha Stewart made one- and that’s mine! That’s my tool, love that thing. Well for me, it was that freeform hole punch versus the other kind that is so limited. I was like, I want the whole thing! I want right there! Someone recently was like, Why the holes? What is that? Why do you need that? I don’t know, I just like it. It alludes to something non existent that was existing. One of my two favorite things to say are: I like it, and it’s pretty. And I like it because it’s pretty, or it’s beautiful. PC: So, how do you choose your materials? Is it based on how pretty they are? G: Yes. I mean, that’s one of the criteria. PC: Is any of it sensory? Like how it feels? G: A lot of it is how it could feel. Especially with the fiber. I like a lot of the natural cotton, linen, and silk, and wool. There’s that whole sexy, earthy feel to it. I mean, I’m an earth sign, and I feel like that really informs my decision making. Even with the pumpkin pie, you know? I have a pretty specific criteria for what I like to use. If it isn’t inherently tactile, it’s important that it can be manipulated in that way is tactile or appears to be tactile. So that’s very important to me, especially with paper because paper can just be paper. So, you know, something that I see as a problem that I get to play with and manipulate. Also, I guess the everyday is very interesting- the democracy of materials- also being able to change it- whether it is dyed or a ton of holes are poked into it. I think that’s very important too, and also being able to use remnants of things. I think that contributes to the potential to contribute history to the work. If there’s any sort of nostalgia or wonderment in it. I don’t throw very much away,
because it can always be used. PC: So would you call yourself a collector of sorts? G: An accumulator. PC: Does gender play a role in your artwork? G: I’m a girl. Yeah, I make feminine work. You know a lot of people say to me: You need to talk about feminism when you talk about your work. And I’m not really comfortable with that, entirely, because I feel that I’m not knowledgable to talk about that because I haven’t had to struggle in the same way that my mom did. My mom told me this morning that her first year of working (for a professional job) she made $1270. That was her annual income. So, yeah, I don’t want to talk about feminism. What I want to talk about is: I think women are complicated. Even though, maybe we talk more than men, there are more things that are unspoken. There’s a sort of a sensory way of communicating. So the thing that you can’t verbalize is the thing that I want in my work. And I think that thing is inherently feminine. There are also very simple choices that turn it into female work, which is just the color and also the sewing- is very domestic and very rooted in women’s work. So, yes, but I love it, and I’m not afraid of it. I think I used to be afraid of it. I think in grad school you have to defend everything and you’re also kind of a minority- or at least I was when I was there. The people that I compare myself to are men. They are more social, able to make those connections a lot faster. In my particular case anxiety is what stumps that ability. It’s hard for women. It’s a problem that has to be solved. Or adjusted. If you want to get naked in a gallery, get naked in a gallery. That’s fine. I am not going to go that route, but I will make sculptures that appeal to the very sexual physical nature. I think subversiveness is important. PC: What do you feel like your artwork evokes for the viewer or do you care? G: No, I care. I have two kind of different things. For the sculptures, I hope there’s humor, because I think they are comical, to some degree. I also hope there’s a feeling of, I want to touch that, but I’m not suppose to, but I want to, but I am not suppose to. Then for the works on paper, im torn because they are more stagnant. That is why I want to apply to them, and sew on them, with the works on paper, it doesn’t matter to me so much. I think that those are made quite fast, less contemplative. They are like sketches, like the
image above, your love is kindest, 2008, courtesy of the artist.
things that inform the next things. so i’m not as critical with the works on paper as the sculptures or as hopeful. Always, I want people to think it’s beautfiul and simple. Like complicated simplicity, but the complication part is important and the way I address that is the replication and laborthat’s time, that’s what that is. Meditation, conversation, those things that are not verbalized. PC: Do you have a mentor, or is it an internal dialog? G: Its an internal dialog. I look a lot, but I don’t know that it’s necessarily important for that mentor be an actual person or to be this sort of active looking, and contemplating and researching and touching, smelling, or all that stuff. Or maybe my mentor is my five year old. PC: So, any advice for PIECRUST readers? G: Don’t be afraid to make bad work. It’s a problem you have to solve
and is potentially the next step. It is the next step. When I was teaching, I never allowed anyone to throw anything away. No plates, no steps, because you could do all sorts of stuff with that. There’s opportunity with remembering and occasionally what you’ve tried. So, I still have my work from undergrad. I don’t love it. I used to love it. I laugh at myself in my head because there were things that I wouldn’t sell because they were too precious. And now I think, God, I have to take this to my next house? Why didn’t I sell it and get the money? Now I just have all this stuff. I’ve re-used my thesis work. None of that is intact anymore. Also, if you can lose any preciousness about the work you make, that’s important. Become less emotional about criticism, but that also goes hand in hand with not having to be in love with what you make. You have to be willing to cut up what you make if you don’t like it. Some of my best things come from things that I have cut in half. Don’t stop, just alter it dramatically.
Letters
Acknowledgements
We would like to thank all the lovely people who supported us on KICKSTARTER. We could not have done this without your support!
Natalie Baldeon Kathleen Beebout Amanda Elise Bowles Claudia Cardenas Gabriela Cardenas Ma Baker Cardenas Pa Baker Cardenas Charbuko Keith and Sheri Collins Jana Harper Jean Lawson Matt McInerney Michael Mosley Lisa Orange Mickie Shearer Claudia Sperry Amy Thompson: Paper Boat Studios Logo Design: Kelsey Jackson
Cleveland, OH
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Aaron Coleman, Indianapolis, IN
Emily Squires St. Louis, MO
Caroline DeBacker Chicago, IL
David Stephan Madison, WI
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Kim Wardenberg St. Louis, MO
Alison Kuo Brooklyn, NY, Mollie LaRue Pampa, TX Max Marshall, Austin, TX http://maxjmarshall.weebly. com/ Mike Meier
Anne Wรถlk Berlin, Germany
Contributors
Gina T. Alverez St. Louis, MO www.ginatalverez.com JE Baker St Louis, MO www.jebaker.com
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