Sam Fox School of Design & Visual Arts Washington University in St. Louis
2024 MFA in Visual Art Thesis Exhibition
SLINGSHOT
Installation view, Slingshot: 2024 MFA in Visual Art Thesis Exhibition.
Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum, Washington University in St. Louis, 2024.
Photo: Virginia Harold
MFA in Visual Art
Sam Fox School of Design & Visual Arts
Washington University in St. Louis
The MFA in Visual Art program in the Sam Fox School of Design & Visual Arts at Washington University in St. Louis educates artists who will define and change the future of their disciplines—in small, medium, and extra-large ways.
It instills students with the agency and resiliency that will be essential to the next generation of artists. Led by professor and chair Lisa Bulawsky, the program is home to an inclusive, close-knit community of renegade makers and thinkers and offers students a site of rigorous inquiry, humanity, and intellectual generosity.
The program is located within a tier-one research institution and is proud of its location in St. Louis, which serves as both an extension of the studio and site of engagement for art and artists.
The MFA in Visual Art professionally prepares students for a diversified approach to the field of contemporary art that nurtures sustained, lifelong engagement while recognizing multiple pathways and definitions for a career in the arts and culture. Learn more about the MFA in Visual Art program at samfoxschool.washu.edu
Program Leadership
Lisa Bulawsky
Professor & Chair, MFA in Visual Art Director, Island Press
Amy Hauft
Director, College of Art and Graduate School of Art
Jane Reuter Hitzeman and Herbert F. Hitzeman Jr. Professor of Art
Carmon Colangelo
Ralph J. Nagel Dean, Sam Fox School of Design & Visual Arts
E. Desmond Lee Professor for Collaboration in the Arts
MFA in Visual Art Faculty
Jamie Adams
Heather Bennett
Lisa Bulawsky
Joe deVera
Amy Hauft
Meghan Kirkwood
Arny Nadler
Patricia Olynyk
Jack Risley
Denise Ward-Brown
Cheryl Wassenaar
Monika Weiss
2024 MFA in Visual Art Students
Emily Elhoffer
Jordan Geiger
Joni P. Gordon
Mad Green
Sophia Hatzikos
Micah Mickles
Sarah Moon
Samantha Neu
Lynne Smith
Essay
Eileen G'Sell
Senior Lecturer in Arts & Sciences
Eileen G’Sell is a poet and critic with recent contributions to Poetry, Hyperallergic, The Baffler, and The Chronicle of Higher Education
Her second volume of poetry, Francofilaments, is forthcoming from Broken Sleep Books. Her first nonfiction book, Lipstick, will be published as part of Bloomsbury's Object Lessons series in 2025. In 2023, she received the Rabkin Prize for arts journalism. She teaches at Washington University in St. Louis.
Editor
Caitlin Custer
Photographers
Virginia Harold and Dmitri Jackson
Designer
James Walker
Exhibition Identity Design
Lynne Smith
Exhibition Organizer
Leslie Markle, Curator for Public Art, Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum
Printer
Advertiser’s Printing
Publisher
Washington University in St. Louis
Sam Fox School of Design & Visual Arts
© 2024 Washington University in St. Louis. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the permission of the publisher.
At the entrance, a giant tongue, smooth to the touch, beckons to be climbed. On the other side of the partition, six slashed panels are layered in band-aids. Across the gallery, a cascade of cerulean tiles captures the placidity of a summer swim. Looming over the Mediterranean blue, a pleather-bound figure reveals an AI-generated deepfake of its onlooker. Nearby, a hyper-feminine triptych whispers to a monument of memory jugs paying tribute to a father’s might. In the corner, a repaired paperclip peeks out from the shadow of what looks like a towering steel beam. On one wall hangs a white quilt depicting in white thread the symbols of Zen Buddhism. Yards away a flatscreen above a boxing ring reads, “We are so fucking angry.”
The artworks that comprise Slingshot, the Sam Fox School of Design & Visual Arts’ 2024 MFA in Visual Art Thesis Exhibition, fling us back and forth between apparent binaries that flirt with their material and affective flipsides. Propelled from one piece to the next, the visitor is compelled to jettison staid notions of masculine and feminine, devout and irreverent, natural and artificial. Each of the nine MFA candidates whose work is on view—Emily Elhoffer, Jordan Geiger, Joni P. Gordon, Mad Green, Sophia Hatzikos, Micah Mickles, Sarah Moon, Samantha Neu, and Lynne Smith—betrays a keen awareness of the subtle tensions within all objects, philosophies, and identity labels. What is delightfully strange can be suddenly somber; what is quiet and small can turn brazen and fierce. Polarities prove a fertile playground for the mind, body, and spirit. While many works in Slingshot engage the psychic and physical
scars of racism, sexism, and homophobia, a sense of ludic possibility emerges nonetheless. In one, an imperious unicorn shakes her glittery mane; in another, an imagined boxer dances onstage. One pole of meaning does not, and cannot, exist sans awareness of the other. In such a creative context, play becomes profound.
Having the privilege of getting to know each artist a bit this spring, it is clear that the cohesion of Slingshot as an exhibition is born of true community rather than competition. However necessarily solitudinous at times, the process of making and thinking about art is, at its best, inherently interactive—porous to and generous toward differing personalities and modes of approach. An experience as kinetic as it is intellectually stimulating, Slingshot proves a fitting culmination of two years (and incalculable hours) of experimentation, diligence, and love.
Eileen G'Sell Writer and Critic
Slingshot:
Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum, Washington University in St. Louis, 2024.
Photo: Virginia Harold
Emily Elhoffer 6
Jordan Geiger 10
Joni P. Gordon 14
Mad Green 18
Sophia Hatzikos 22
Micah Mickles 26
Sarah Moon 30
Samantha Neu 34
Lynne Smith 38
Emily Elhoffer
From Andrea Dworkin’s second-wave radical feminism to more recent brouhaha surrounding Taylor Swift deepfakes, pornography has long been directly linked to the objectification and exploitation of female-identified bodies. But what if the vulgarity—and predictability—of porn could inform a practice that celebrates, rather than denigrates, the corporeal and androgynous? What if artificial intelligence could reveal something painfully true about ourselves, how we might unwittingly kowtow to gendered patterns of behavior, how we subconsciously anticipate an airbrushed, antiseptic body onscreen?
Invested in the intersection of the seer and the seen, the digital and the embodied, Emily Elhoffer brings phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty into the unwieldy wilderness of contemporary visual culture. Reminiscent of Lisa Yuskavitch, Anna Unnenberg, and Mona Hatoum, Elhoffer’s fatty, fleshy forms betray a passion for materials and a rejection of hegemonic beauty standards. Oversized tinsel and spring construction clamps merge with the feminine and somatic; boundaries between body dysmorphia and gender dysphoria collapse through sculptures and images that channel as much desire as disgust.
Waggishly titled Self-Portrait, Elhoffer’s seven-foot humanoid form comprised of white pleather, plastic, and polyester towers over the curious passerby. A monochromatic cross between the Michelin Man and Merlin the Wizard, the figure stoops as though weighed down by the heft of its erratic corpulence. White hair streams fountain-like from its soft, androgynous orifices. Programmed after deepfake AI, a computer hidden inside the figure projects an image onto a curved screen folded into its skin; a monstrous surrogate that mimics the movements of the viewer’s visage. Above the screen, a camera lens resembles an erotic or digestive cavity, calling to mind the many meanings of “aperture.” How might identity be reimagined within our bodies, and through the screens that surveil and seduce? What if, ironically, our juiciest, most nonbinary selves can be modeled through binary code?
Emily Elhoffer, Self-Portrait, 2024 (foreground)
Pleather, plastic, polyester, wood, steel, projector, and computer, 92 x 39 3/8 x 33 in.
Photo: Virginia Harold.
Elhoffer
Emily Elhoffer, Self-Portrait, 2024
Pleather, plastic, polyester, wood, steel, projector, and computer, 92 x 39 3/8 x 33 in.
Photos: Virginia Harold.
Jordan Geiger
A white cotton quilt. An antique piano bench. A portable pump organ from World War I that magically folds into a suitcase. Mingling Americana with what would seem its opposite, the symbols and ethos of Zen Buddhism, Jordan Geiger embraces an artistic practice wherein humility and divinity intertwine.
Born and raised in Boonville, Missouri, Geiger mines the past for a more hopeful, open, and nonjudgmental acceptance of the present. Basing his creative process on the spiritual concept of presence itself, beyond trying to fix or control, Geiger meditates through repetitive drawing, chanting, breathing, and stitching, the material world acting as a metonym for human impermanence—for all our limited time on earth—in which the self and all its suffering can be resurrected through the mundane rather than the messianic.
Geiger’s exhibition installation The Buddha Maitreya merges an Eastern sensibility with Midwestern folk traditions. After years of osmotically absorbing knowledge of the fiber arts from family matriarchs, Geiger draws upon the tradition of white-onwhite whole-cloth quilting, through which the image stitched emerges quietly through an adjustment of the viewer’s perception. Wielding a long-arm quilting machine that involved his whole body, Geiger stitched the outline of a piano onto the fabric’s surface. Below the whole-cloth quilt sits the original bench of a piano belonging to the artist’s grandmother, on which 108 cotton strips lay available for the taking—each depicting a hand-drawn square, triangle, and circle that reference the three portals of Sengai Gibon’s Buddhist universe.
“The Buddha of the twenty-first century—Maitreya, the Buddha of Love—may well be a community rather than an individual,” claimed Thích Nhất Hạnh, one of many spiritual teachers inspiring the work. In accordance to this collective vision, Geiger asks an audience to ring bells as he performs with a pump organ and chants, “My love, my love, Maitreya” in the gallery space.
← Jordan Geiger, The Buddha Maitreya, 2024 Cotton, thread, batting, ink, and piano bench, 78 x 76 x 30 in. overall
Photo: Virginia Harold.
↑↓ Jordan Geiger, The Buddha Maitreya, 2024
Cotton, thread, batting, ink, and piano bench, 78 x 76 x 30 in. overall
Photos: Dmitri Jackson.
↑↓ Jordan Geiger, The Buddha Maitreya, 2024 Cotton, thread, batting, ink, and piano bench, 78 x 76 x 30 in. overall
Photos: Virginia Harold.
Joni P. Gordon
How do a band-aid and brown paper bag carry the marks of racial and color privilege? How might a humble string mop be reconceived to convey the taxing psychic and physical effects of discrimination? Born and raised in Manchester, Jamaica, interdisciplinary “artivist” Joni P. Gordon mingles art and activist practices to excavate hidden histories and public secrets that affect the African diaspora—be they the East St. Louis race massacre of 1917, the killing of Michael Brown in 2014, or the ongoing colorism that pervades Black communities in much of the Global South.
Inspired in part by Carrie Mae Weems’s way of reframing Black history, Gordon’s photography applies the aesthetics of Dutch still-life vanitas paintings to portray skinbleaching creams and beauty products. Linking these damaging, often carcinogenic, products to the legacy of colonialism, Gordon reveals the deadly repercussions of enduring colorist paradigms. In [W]hole, Gordon’s installation for the exhibition, six black panels are stacked into the structure of a massive room divider that towers ten feet tall. Each canvas is scarred—and repaired—with an array of sundry items that gesture to the lived experience of racism: gashes in the surface are sutured with rope, yarn, and white thread; crumpled brown paper bags are collaged to reference the common evaluation of an ideal Black complexion; small bandages painted black seem a hollow means of protection. In the center, a large mirror invites the viewer to reconsider where they stand in the history of racial violence, whether it is a perpetrator, a victim, a bystander, or perhaps more than one.
Unraveling at the frayed seams what it means to be Black—in Jamaica versus the United States, to oneself versus others—[W]hole negotiates double-consciousness from an intersectional lens, relying on the semantics of both cultures.
Joni P. Gordon, [W]hole, 2024
Paint, ink, thread, rope, sand, mirror, kraft paper, and photographs on Masonite, 96 x 126 x 48 in.
Photo: Virginia Harold.
Joni P. Gordon
Joni P. Gordon, [W]hole, 2024 Paint, ink, thread, rope, sand, mirror, kraft paper, and photographs on Masonite, 96 x 126 x 48 in.
Photo: Virginia Harold.
Mad Green
From rainbow flags to safe spaces, queer identities have, in recent times at least, been affiliated with a cheery pacifism, a philosophy of non-violence that challenges heteronormative and patriarchal modes of conquest. But what if upending these destructive forces demands something other than talk and legislation? Why can’t a nonbinary or trans person throw a hook or a jab? Why shouldn’t they practice the art of martial arts?
Trained in their youth in mixed martial arts, Mad Green’s interdisciplinary practice incorporates performance, video, sculpture, and social practice as a means of confronting the violence of expected gender conformity. Launching “Queer Fight Club” in 2023 in their hometown of St. Louis, Green forged a new kind of queer solidarity based on sweat, tears, and shit-talk. Based on this life-affirming experience, Green set out to represent their community to outsiders without forfeiting the integrity of the group dynamic.
Erecting a boxing ring to scale, Green’s Goin’ Down Swinging installation invites the viewer to dance around like a fighter and maneuver their opponent according to the club manifesto, which is drawn in a path on the floor. Above the ring, on a fuchsia flatscreen, mantras taken from individual club members are broadcast in all caps: “We are so fucking angry.” “We punch things for fun, and those who deserve it.” “We are not as useless as we’ve been made to feel.” “We will become louder, stronger.”
Acknowledging the history of trauma that informs Queer Fight Club—and Green’s oeuvre—the wooden posts at each corner of the ring display drawings of moments of homophobic violence endured by the artist.
“This is so fucking serious. And so fun,” declares the screen, a buoyant rejection of both propriety and binary thinking.
Mad Green, Goin' Down Swinging, 2024
Multimedia installation with video, 5 min.; 72 x 140 x 120 in.
Photos: Virginia Harold.
Mad Green, Goin' Down Swinging, 2024
Multimedia installation with video, 5 min.; 72 x 140 x 120 in.
Photos: Virginia Harold.
Sophia Hatzikos
Water makes up most of our bodies as it fills the majority of our imperiled planet. Unfriendly to smartphones, and our cyborgian reliance on technology, water keeps us alive but could swallow us whole. It is, perhaps, the most underrated molecule— modest in construction but vast in mythos.
Sophia Hatzikos’s sculptural practice immerses the body of the artist and viewer into waterscapes reimagined as tangible artistic forms. The artist is informed both by her own empirical research and the sensory abandon that defines what she dubs “sweet time”—the experience of swimming when the water buoys you and your only sense of time is the sun passing overhead. In Malaki, Greece, Hatzikos plumbs the depths of how what is shaped by the artist’s hand can approximate the rapturous experience of the natural world. How might one marinate in landscape or seascape then recreate that sensory memory in her studio? How might place spill over from the literal and representative to the metaphorical and abstract?
Hatzikos’s installation Absence is constructed of 141 hydraulic press molds of terracotta relief tiles, a project made possible via the time, energy, and technical expertise of over forty members of the community. Resembling the backsplash of a sink or pool splattered onto the pristine whiteness at the juncture of two gallery walls, each tile is painted a similar Santorini blue, its curved relief emulating the forms of moving water though fixed in place. Together they form the likeness of a darker blue stream, slithering snake-like from far above us to pooling at the floor at our feet, a proxy, perhaps, for the artist swimming through her past. Negative space between the tiles leads us to imagine what isn’t there—what can’t be—as any human intervention into natural space will inevitably lead to a sense of loss.
Sophia Hatzikos, Absence, 2024 Ceramic and wood, 204 x 180 x 72 in.
Photo: Virginia Harold.
↑ Sophia Hatzikos, Absence, 2024 Ceramic and wood, 204 x 180 x 72 in.
Photo: Dmitri Jackson.
→ Sophia Hatzikos, Absence, 2024 Ceramic and wood, 204 x 180 x 72 in.
Photo: Virginia Harold.
↑← Sophia Hatzikos, Absence, 2024 Ceramic and wood, 204 x 180 x 72 in.
Photos: Virginia Harold.
Micah Mickles
The gold lion has long symbolized might, courage, and authority; its likeness appears on flags, rings, and medallions, its imperious form adopted by statues guarding sovereign and state institutions. For multimedia artist Micah Mickles, the lion serves as one of many insignias in honor of his late father, Rayfield Mickles, a charismatic jack-of-all trades who passed away when the artist was only eighteen. A soldier, businessman, police officer, and politician, Rayfield was as layered as he was larger than life. How might an adult son reconcile his father’s loss with his powerful legacy? How can abandoned detritus carve a path to reckon with the past and present?
Inspired in part by the handmade shrines of Betye Saar and James Hampton, Mickles built Rayfield’s Chamber, an unconventional, deeply personal monument to his father. Numbered “7554,” the address of the artist’s childhood home in Maplewood, Missouri, from afar the chamber resembles a vertical cage of two-by-fours on wheels. Up close, the wooden structure houses 31 “memory jugs” that channel the memorial traditions of the American South to pay tribute to Rayfield’s inimitable persona. Covered in mortar, each vessel is festooned with an eclectic array of metal, fabric, and found objects sourced from his home or a nearby antique store: Mufasa and Simba Happy Meal toys, rusted nails, door keys, an acrylic flower bouquet, feathers, shirt buttons, a gold-plated scale, computer parts, a capitol dome. On one jug, a lone wooden crutch shoots up from a chartreuse vessel, in honor of his father’s mobility issues toward the end of his life. On another, two gleaming tubular wrenches form a crucifix over a base of iridescent green.
In the center of the chamber, the largest vessel is slashed with a machete dangling a vintage BB gun. A small American flag droops at a 45-degree angle, surrounded by toy soldiers, recalling the father’s service in Vietnam, of which he rarely spoke during Mickles’s childhood. The open ceiling serves to suggest that these jugs, and the memories they hold, are not trapped in this chamber after all. Instead each vessel points to the sky, a realm unfettered by material concerns and the hustle of making an honest living.
Micah Mickles, Rayfield's Chamber, 2024
Assemblage sculpture with wood, metal, fabric, and found objects, 84 x 60 x 48 in.
Photo: Dmitri Jackson.
Micah Mickles, Rayfield's Chamber, 2024
Assemblage sculpture with wood, metal, fabric, and found objects, 84 x 60 x 48 in.
Photos: Virginia Harold.
Sarah Moon, The Land of Reverie: Convulsive Beauty, Enchanted Portal, Mystic Delight, 2024
Acrylic paint, oil pastel, spray paint, collage, rhinestones, and glitter on 3 canvases, 96 x 72 in. each
Photo: Dmitri Jackson.
Sarah Moon, The Land of Reverie: Convulsive Beauty, Enchanted Portal, Mystic Delight, 2024
Acrylic paint, oil pastel, spray paint, collage, rhinestones, and glitter on 3 canvases, 96 x 72 in. each
Photo: Virginia Harold.
Sarah Moon
Take the glitter glue and rhinestones of a princess party and throw in a dash of Mary Oliver’s enchantment with the natural world, and you’ll find Sarah Moon’s droll, daring, yet deeply earnest artistic vision. Inspired by pop culture icons like Miley Cyrus and Kesha as much as the high-octane color palette of German painter Katharina Grosse, Moon summons early aughts nostalgia with singular panache. Her mixed media canvases present a girly, escapist playscape of unapologetic ornamentation; fuchsias, blues, and acid greens freak out in layered brush strokes, drips, and swirling orbs. Moon’s world suggests the overwhelming possibility in chaos. Our imaginations can lead the way out of militarized, masculinized human existence into a unicorn pasture of smiles and light.
A trippy, visually cacophonous triptych, The Land of Reverie: Convulsive Beauty, Enchanted Portal, Mystic Delight confronts the viewer with a maximalist universe of hyper-feminine abandon. Mining her “internet child” alongside her “inner child”, as they may very well be one and the same, Moon presents a saturated landscape of mixed media and hybridized digital realms. To the left, the Land of Convulsive Beauty feels at once subaqueous and rainbow-born as googly-eyed sea creatures float upward to a polychromatic river mingling fore-, middle-, and background. To the right, the Land of Mystic Delight offers a golden walkway redolent of the yellow brick road, one leading to fluorescent roses and a sparkling skyscape.
In the center, The Land of the Enchanted Portal centrifugally spins around a psychedelic star bust overlooking collaged unicorns, butterflies, and fish. Connecting the three canvases, translucent plastic half domes bubble up like magnifying glasses, each orb directing us, portal-like, into this benevolent, boisterous Eden.
Sarah Moon, The Land of Reverie: Convulsive Beauty, Enchanted Portal, Mystic Delight, 2024
Acrylic paint, oil pastel, spray paint, collage, rhinestones, and glitter on 3 canvases, 96 x 72 in. each
Photo: Virginia Harold.
Samantha Neu
Is that a toe or a foot? An enormous tongue or a cotton-candy-colored slide? For interdisciplinary artist Samantha Neu, ambiguity liberates, carving a liminal path to meaning that rejects staid figuration. The grotesque and erotic coalesce, as do the abject and the unobjectionably playful. Organic shapes flirt with building materials sold in bulk at Home Depot. Dark, curly body hair becomes its own quirky calligraphy; the bobs of our porous, vulnerable human bodies bleed into cypress knees jutting from the forest ground.
Shifting away from the artist's focus on two-dimensional works, Homesick is a looming, larger-than-life sculpture constructed primarily out of insulation foam. Neu lures the viewer into what seems an intimate anatomical region—at once oral, clitoral, and vaginal—but conflates these private epithelial spaces with a piece of common playground equipment. Both pubic and public, what is under the pink is also exposed, begging the question of how safe any of us can truly be. Obsessed with lumpen forms, the artist repeatedly carved, sanded, and coated the rectangular foam board to achieve a smooth, plaster-like texture.
Swapping anatomy for antinomy, the title of the piece suggests comfort and ailment, domesticity and loss. The surface of the tongue slide is mottled to mimic lingual papillae, the little bumps that grant the muscle the ability to taste. And yet the rest of the sculpture is cloud-like, as though lifted from a Care Bears cel and floated into the gallery.
Inspired by Polish sculptor Alina Szapocznikow, Neu blends humor with anxiety to approximate the true weirdness of the somatic experience. Making viewers more acutely aware of their own unruly bodies in space, Homesick frees the body from propriety for something much more perplexing, prankish, and seductive.
Samantha Neu, Homesick, 2024
Insulation foam, joint compound, and paint, 84 x 60 x 120 in.
Photo: Dmitri Jackson.
Samantha Neu, Homesick, 2024
Insulation foam, joint compound, and paint, 84 x 60 x 120 in.
Photos: Virginia Harold.
Samantha Neu, Homesick, 2024
Insulation foam, joint compound, and paint, 84 x 60 x 120 in.
Photo: Dmitri Jackson.
Lynne Smith
What do we owe the material world? How might we let it shape us, rather than assume that we are the ones in control? Interdisciplinary artist Lynne Smith asks us to reconsider the hidden profundity of all things: a pink gum ball, a junked sink, a weed blooming from concrete, a drainage sleeve reclaimed from the curb. Seduced by material, she embarks on a give-and-take process of repurposing discarded objects, empathetic to their forms, however humble.
“There’s a lot of empathy when I deal with material bodies,” the artist explains. Informed by the improvisation and chance experienced as a single mother, Smith tends to sundry stuff as though it, too, were worthy of compassion. She is drawn to all materials—the type is immaterial. Detritus flickers and begs to be bounty; things themselves have power, not as status symbols but as spiritual talismans.
In the gallery’s corner—a space that itself can suggest both protection or punishment—two subtle interventions function together to surprise the passerby, beckoning the viewer to consider the intimate nature of space and object. Behind W14, W15 (whatever it takes), a towering white beam reaching the ceiling that initially seems part of the permanent architecture, a simple paperclip pokes out of the wall, its snapped metal wire carefully wrapped in light pink thread that dangles toward the floor. Titled Every Thing, this galvanized filament casts its delicate shadow on the opposite wall. Walk by too quickly and you’ll miss the whole thing: which, of course, is the artist’s point.
Informed by Jane Bennett’s conception of “thing power,” the idea that objects have agency, Smith feels the magnetic pull of the material realm and honors the dignity in the details. Entropy flirts with alchemy, fragility with resilience.
Lynne Smith, W14, W15 (whatever it takes), 2024
Non-standard steel (steel, foam, epoxy, adhesive, putty, saliva, and latex paint), 300 x 15 x 15 in.
Photo: Dmitri Jackson.
Lynne Smith, W14, W15 (whatever it takes), 2024
Non-standard steel (steel, foam, epoxy, adhesive, putty, saliva, and latex paint), 300 x 15 x 15 in.
Photos: Dmitri Jackson.
Lynne Smith, Every One, 2024
Broken paperclip, thread, and air, 7 x 1/16 x 2 in.
Photo: Virginia Harold.
Installation view, Slingshot: 2024 MFA in Visual Art Thesis Exhibition.
Mildred Lane Kemper Art Museum, Washington University in St. Louis, 2024.
Photo: Virginia Harold
