Sissy Bar: Trailer Song - REAL LYRICS!

Don’t believe the interwebs, here are the real lyrics. I know cause I wrote ‘em.

[Verse 1]
There's a dream in the back of my mind
Across the tracks is where I'll find my
Trailer trailer pretty trailer
Trailer trailer pretty trailer

[Verse 2]
Tole painting in the den
My Coleman stove is broke again oh damn
Neighbor neighbor, call the neighbor
We'll have dinner in their trailer

Chorus]
And if you find a place (find a place)
Double wide for extra space (extra space)
Plywood Astroturf and a happy face
You've found my dream

[Verse 3]
Pull out the cot when friends come 'round
Pull out the Coors and drink it down right down
Sailor sailor meet my neighbor
He lives in that other trailer

[Verse 4]
Rusted bike on my front lawn
It'll be there when I've gone away
Goodbye trailer, see ya later
Hope I find another trailer

[Chorus]
And if you find a place (find a place)
Double wide for extra space (extra space)
Plywood Astroturf and a happy face
You've found my dream

The lost embroidery of Patty Hearst (1974-1975) 

On February 4, 1974, 19-year-old Patty Hearst was kidnapped from her Berkeley apartment. An urban guerrilla left-wing group called the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA) claimed responsibility for the abduction. (from Wikipedia)
 
“I had been, you know, held in the closet for two months and, you know, abused in all manner of ways. I was very good at doing what I was told.”
— Patty Hearst
 
 
 
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“Mom, Dad. I’m OK. I’m with a combat unit that’s armed with automatic weapons. And these people aren’t just a bunch of nuts. They’ve been really honest with me but they’re perfectly willing to die for what they’re doing. And I want to get out of here but the only way I’m going to is if we do it their way.”
— Patty Hearst, Day 9
 
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“All feminist revolutionaries must support armed struggle and their sister soldiers because we fight to free ourselves. LOVE-POWER-STRUGGLE”
— Symbionese Liberation Army Communique
 
 
 
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“I have been given the choice of one: being released in a safe area, or two: joining the forces of the Symbionese Liberation Army and fighting for my freedom and the freedom of all oppressed people. I have chosen to stay and fight. ”
— Patty Hearst, Day 59
 
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“DEATH TO THE FASCIST INSECT THAT PREYS ON THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE”
— Symbionese Liberation Army Communique
 
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“Greetings to the people. This is Tania.”
— Patty Hearst, Day 104
 
 

A discovery

I’ve been thinking about otherworldly influences, moments of rupture and porousness between the seen and unseen worlds.

These are my first stop-motion videos. (Not my last.)

 

Layers, leaks and lies 

WEEK 4

X fascinates me with its multiplicity, its refusal to be confined to one meaning. One of my favorite descriptions is from X Artists Books:

“X is a connection, a multiplier, a kiss, a proxy. X is a signature, a mark; it stands for treasure, uncharted territory, the core of infinity. X is mysterious and surprising. X attracts and repels; X learns from correction. X marks the spot.”

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I’ve been thinking about language

a lot recently. Specifically, its failures and limitations. The imperfect container that language creates for human consciousness. Language controls how we understand the world. A prism; a prison.

Phase 1. Used jeans, paint, spray paint, thread. X marks the spot.

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I’ve been thinking about the gaps

in language: redactions, what’s missing, what’s left out or hard to see, opacity. What can’t we see? What don’t we know? Does the unseen influence us without our knowledge and if so, how?

Phase 2. Sand and paint added. Negative redactions.

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I’ve been thinking about failure.

We create stories and systems that make us feel like we are in control. We compartmentalize and rationalize. But what happens when the containers fail? What happens when (to quote William S. Burroughs) “the future leaks out”?

Phase 3. Acrylic drips added. Signs of leaking.

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I’ve been thinking about repetition,

ritual and process. Making, re-making, cutting, scraping, spraying, hiding, revealing, moving, re-moving, over and over. And what of the in-between space, the so-called “negative” space, the silhouette? Is a message coming through? Is this working? Should I try again?

Phase X. The explorations continue…

Meet Elizabeth Denneau 

Week 3

I want to introduce you to the work of artist Elizabeth (Lizz) Denneau. I hope you enjoy her work as much as I do! (This interview happens to be a class assignment for our MFA program at SAIC but it was also a great opportunity for me to learn more about the incredible work she is making.)

 

“A lot of what I’m doing is attempting to commune with my ancestors through my work, to tell their stories as well as mine.” - Lizz Denneau

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Joy Ray: Your sculptures have so much presence, Lizz. I would love to hear your thoughts on that. Do you feel they have consciousness, and are you engaged in a dialogue with them? Does this change as a piece evolves, and even after it is finished? Do they feel like “you” or “not you”?

Lizz Denneau: I think a lot of it depends on the piece itself. A lot of times when I’m working with a more figurative piece there is a connection there. It also has a lot to do with how the idea for the piece manifests itself to me. For instance I may be doing research and have an outline for how I want to address the research visually. I know that there will be a bust and it will be attached to - whatever and then I usually rely on the piece to tell me what it needs after that. Or, I have an object that I know is connected to my work somehow, I just don’t know who or what they are yet. In both cases I am moving on instinct which honestly is something I’ve only done in recent years.  I dialogue with my pieces constantly. I do feel they are very much tied to my creative existence and in turn my emotions (which is tied to whatever I’m researching or thinking about), but also my ancestry, my genetic memory, which makes them something different altogether. 

JR: How do you think audiences/viewers sense them?

LD: I’m not always sure how viewers see my sculptures. I think there is a noticeable undercurrent in them that seems to affect them in different ways. Some folks tell me they like my work but can’t look at it too long - they’re afraid it will look back or it just makes them uncomfortable in general. I’m totally ok with that. Others tell me it feels “powerful”.

JR: I would love to hear more about the materials you use. How do you select them, and why? For instance….Are there materials that you are working with for a purely functional reason (they do a job that you need to get done)? Vs materials that you select for resonance with your themes/subject matter? Vs materials that you are intuitively drawn to but you’re not quite sure why?

LD: I tend to collect lots of adornments. Weird little objects, things I find in thrift stores that for some reason speak to me. Sometimes I am hunting for something specific like a porcelain figurine or an antique tea cup.Those items are generally the focal points of the piece, they're conveying something. The jewels and things I attach to my objects don’t always have direct meaning. I may be choosing them on instinct or to create a greater aesthetic. 

JR: And what is the material you use to sculpt your figures?

LD: Most times I find a base that speaks to me, a wig display head, a busted up mannequin and then I transform it. Sometimes I cut it apart or add to it. I use an apoxie clay to create the rest of the base such as the face or a hand or a body. I get a lot of satisfaction from refurbishing and transforming an object into something else.

JR: It seems that your work takes a long time to make. The making is labor intensive, as is the historical research that goes into your work. What are your thoughts about this? Are time and/or labor important components or materials of your work? Do you seek ways to make work more quickly? How would that change your work?

LD: When I was younger I did a lot of painting and I would produce a series of paintings quickly for a show. I always had to have a looming deadline. The result would be some ok paintings I was never satisfied with fully. When I went back to school in my late 30s I found myself falling in love with printmaking and I think a huge part of it was that I was forced to slow down. Printmaking is this sometimes tedious step by step process, but I was often left unsatisfied with my results. When I started sculpting I knew I had found something that brought all my artistic sensibilities in one medium and I realized that if I was going to be satisfied with this work I had to take my time. I found that I enjoyed slow art making (sometimes a little too much) and I could happily spend hours gluing tiny beads to a bust. I might gain some skills like mold making that will make my process slightly faster, but I’m not really concerned about that right now.

JR: I notice you are working on heads/busts right now. This makes me think about Greco-Roman statuary, Barbie styling heads and wig shop displays, among other things. What are you thinking of in choosing to work in this form? Do you think you’ll ever make bodies (or have you ever done so)?

LD: The first experiment in these sculptures was a 6 ft woman pieced together from mannequin parts, I created specifically for a show. She was lovely, but a little janky and I wasn’t super well versed on what materials would work for this type of sculpture. I eventually pulled her apart and am reworking her. I haven’t attempted to go big again yet because I am aware of how much that would take and quite honestly my studio is too small for life sized work.

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JR: I’m interested in the idea of magic, spells and manifestation. Do you feel that your work is summoning or embodying any type of magical energy or charge (note: I do!) If so, how would you describe it, or what do you hope that its purpose is? 

LD: A lot of what I’m doing is attempting to commune with my ancestors through my work, to tell their stories as well as mine. I reach out to them for inspiration and guidance. They don’t always answer though. It is clear to me that I have to do the work to be able to connect with not only my ancestors, but also what I see as a greater creative energy that I believe all artists have access to. Drawing on this idea of genetic memory, that we as human beings are tapped into generations of experience that we may not have a clue about, and then using that to create, well that is a form of magic making. I think the idea of spells is interesting. I think an expansion of that term is needed. A spell is a ritual to summon magic into your life and intercede on your behalf or someone else's. I’d like to suggest that we do this all the time, just not through what we traditionally think a spell is. If my aim is to convey emotion, education, communion, and empowerment through my art making, it is an act of intercession that those things would affect those who would view my work. If you look at it that way, my artwork could be spells in solid form.

JR: I love that idea and I totally agree with it. Speaking of spirituality, what is an Orisha? I’d love to know more about the Yoruba traditions you mention in your blog.

LD: An Orisha is a sort of minor deity or spirit originating from the Yoruba religion. There’s a lot of manifestations of Orishas because of the Atlantic Slave Trade. The religions and traditions of Africa came with its people not only to the US, but Mexico, South America and Canada. So you’ll see variations on the tenants of Yoruba traditions such as Hoodoo and Voodoo. They intercede on the behalf of humans not unlike the saints in Catholicism. To be honest I’m still learning about the Yoruba traditions.

JR: I love your studio walls! I feel like they are works of art in their own right. And it’s so interesting to get glimpses of your research. How do you find your research stories such as the Pearl Incident and the slave revolt on the Destrehan Plantation? Are there particular books, authors or resources that are most helpful to you? What attracts you to particular stories?

LD: My discovery of the Pearl Incident was driven by my ancestors. I was creating the piece Metré le feu and found myself obsessively gluing pearls instinctively. My good friend was watching my process at many stages and asked what was with all the pearls. I told her that the sculpture just told me she wanted them. I had no idea why and shrugged it off. She was convinced it meant something and came back very excited and said “so you know about this Pearl Incident right?” I figured my ancestors were asking me to do some research. The Pearl Incident led to so many different stories. You start digging up these bones and you just find more. My interest in the resistance efforts by slaves led me to the story of the revolt on Destrehan Plantation. There was actually a fabulous reenactment of that revolt created by Dread Scott. So it’s books, other artists, news articles, films. Once you train your eyes on a topic you will see the threads everywhere, you just have to figure out which one you should pull on.

JR: What artists do you consider yourself to be in conversation with, and what is your perspective on that conversation?

LD: I’m not sure I feel like I’m in conversation with any artists - at least ones that influence me the most. I don’t yet feel like I’m part of the conversation, but I am fed by it. Hopefully that makes sense. I went to see Bisa Butler’s exhibition at the Art Institute. I am continually nourished by her work, but the most powerful moments were watching how her work nourished the people encountering it for the first time - particularly Black people. It was something to watch. It reminded me and grounded me in the power of representation and how it can give the gift of being seen. I am fed by lots of artists - the power of words by Glenn Ligon, the subversive truth-telling of Kara Walker, the arresting nature and symbolism of reclaimed objects by Abigail DeVille, the materials and meaning-making of Rashid Johnson… There are so so many and I’m truly thankful for the banquet of inspiration they provide.


Elizabeth Denneau is an artist and art educator residing in the Sonoran Southwest. In her artistic practice, she is continually influenced by narratives of human perseverance, vulnerability, hidden histories, and power dynamics. Elizabeth works in a number of mediums, which are often inspired by her time as a fashion designer. In an attempt to connect with her ancestors, her current work is a series of sculptures that revolve around the unspoken, buried, and erased histories of the antebellum south and their reverberations throughout generations into modern culture. She teaches contemporary art and culture at Marana High School in Tucson, Arizona while working with local community organizers and colleges to develop practical models of social justice in art education. You can learn more about her here and follow her on Instagram at @lizz_denneau_art.

You can find Lizz’s interview with me here.

All photographs courtesy of Elizabeth Denneau.

Rituals, layers and time 

WEEK 2

Everyday as I walk to my studio, I pass a particular abandoned lot. The first time I saw it, something about it stopped my heart. It had a certain abject energy that captivated me. It was barren, polluted, yet somehow charged. I visualized a dance performance occurring in it (note: I do not ever do this sort of thing!) and even spoke about this to a dancer/choreographer in my MFA program. Something about this space was calling to me. In the last few days, the lot has changed. Construction equipment has moved in. Blue fencing has gone up. Piles of materials have appeared. The lot is changing. But how? Into what? I feel a loss.

 

I recognize similarities between this lot, its changes, and my studio practice. Changes. Transformations. Layers. Deliberacy that is also opaque. I collect materials. I break them down. I change them. I combine them. I change them. I repeat these processes, over and over, restlessly, relentlessly, until a piece is done. There are forced stops or resting points, to let materials dry. Moments of reflection. A time to check the compass, try to peer into the future. What might this be? What does this want to be? Lately I’ve been thinking about the steps, the sequence. What does this mean? How does one stage affect the others? I’m particularly interested in the semi-accidental marks left on the dropcloths. They suggest archeological remains, excavations, blueprints, the outlines around bodies at a crime scene. I think of Rosalind Krauss’ Index (“the marks or traces of…the thing to which they refer, the object they signify.”)

 

I find myself returning, over and over, to certain elements. A slow dance, a purposeful progression with an unknown endpoint. Here is an example: I had a thought about making an oozing sort of shape out of poured paint. Would it hold its shape when dry? I made a few to see. It worked! I put them up under a few pieces, taping them to the wall. Nothing permanent. I liked them. I made more. At this moment I am worried about their durability. They seem too fragile, and also too wrinkled. I am experimenting with applying other materials to them, to strengthen and perhaps smooth them. I am wondering if other materials are the answer: resin perhaps? Something else? I am wondering who I can consult with about this. But I am in love with the idea of oozing paintings.

 

Individual pieces evolve in a similar way. Step by step, an unfolding narrative of change. Here is an example, and I use this piece because I hate it. I’ve hated it every step of the way. It is never good. It is always irritating. Because of this, I am happy to change it. Perhaps, I think, the next transformation will make it work? It began as a quick sketch to pass the time, at small scale because I didn’t have access to my studio yet. The mark was an attempt at a fingerprint motif (that I’ve been using lately) but it failed, and looked like a spiral. The spray painted text (that I’ve been using lately) ended up totally illegible, to the point that I don’t even know what I was trying to write. I added goop and dangling threads, which helped to a certain extent. A studio visitor suggested that I layer my work on the wall, and I thought I would try that out on this piece, because (a) it’s small and (b) I don’t care about it at all. So I made a backing layer and added the onesie (that I’ve been playing around with as materials) to bulk it up. But then I thought: Is this onesie piece interesting? Are these actually separate pieces? Do I really want to hide the onesie piece under this first, totally unsuccessful and failing piece? I hung them separately. I hung them together. I attached them at the top only, but left the 3 other sides open (a secret book). And then, finally, I sewed this shut (a secret pregnancy?) In the final shot, as you can see, I’m seeing what it looks like if I add the oozing element. I wonder: is this starting to fail less? Is it going somewhere interesting, finally? Will I end up loving it more because of the journey we have been on together? It is my problem child. Maybe we will find redemption together.

Practicing Fearlessness 

WEEK 1

I’ve been thinking about what it means to practice art. To have an art practice. On the one hand, it positions art with other professions that are also thought of as practicing: e.g. medicine and law. “Practicing” in this sense is equated to “masterfully doing,” not “learning and trying,” and these professions are known to require significant education and knowledge, and bring prestige and the opportunity for wealth accumulation, so it’s interesting that art is in their linguistic company. Art (I suspect) is more likely seen as requiring almost no education (rather an innate talent), and perhaps as deserving of less respect. This makes me think this phrasing must harken back to another time when Art was viewed as a more elevated pursuit.

I also think about the notion of practice and what am I doing when I “practice art”.  I tend to think of “my art practice” as the full spectrum of activities related to being an artist. It encompasses research, networking, marketing… everything that happens inside and outside of the studio. And in fact there are discrete activities that I “practice” in the sense of repeat over and over with the aim of improving my ability to do them. I’m thinking about things like stretching canvasses, packing and shipping art, submitting applications, or posting to social media. The nuts and bolts of the job, and the least pleasant.

Versus what I do with my actual art-making, which is a continual series of experiments: new materials, new techniques, improvisations that incorporate but are not limited to past riffs and moves. There are dead ends, strange detours, frequent failures, delightful surprises, unforeseen pit stops. Namely, the opposite of practice.

Or is it? Perhaps what I am actually practicing when I am making art is the act of bravery, leaping without fear off a cliff and not worrying about sticking the landing. I’m practicing the ability to trust my instinct and intuition. The fearlessness required to do something to a canvas that just might ruin it, but inaction or a “safer” choice would most certainly doom it completely.

I’ve come up with techniques that trick my mind into letting go:

  • I buy supplies in bulk. I hate the feeling of preciousness that comes with using small amounts of materials. I’m naturally inclined to stinginess, I hate to waste things. Having a big bucket of some gel medium at hand, a giant bag of sand, a huge roll of fabric, makes me feel resplendent in materials, free to use them as liberally as I want in that moment, free to fuck up and fail.

  • I view all of my work as “experiments” and none of it as “final work”. I try to have a mindset that even when I’m making large-scale time-consuming work, it’s all just things I’m trying in preparation for some other, later, “real” pieces (that never happen).

  • I typically work in multiples, doing similar if not exactly identical things to several pieces at once. One might fail, one might succeed. I sometimes feel like a scientist in a lab, with different petri dishes going at once. What if I did this? What if I did that?

  • I don’t let myself think too far ahead. I’m never working towards a specific end result. Instead, I’m discovering the path as I make it, one step at a time. I think: What am I going to do next? I’m going to use this material, or this technique. That’s what I’ll do. And then I do it. And then I think about what comes next.

  • I try to work quickly, not mulling too much over what I’m doing. I just go for it. One thing that helps is that many of my most ridiculous and sure-to-fail experiments have resulted in some of my best successes. I’m learning to trust myself.

All of this is perfectly represented by the first card of the Tarot, The Fool. The Fool wanders off a cliff, following its fancy, oblivious to the risk and danger, only to find the road magically appearing under its feet, step by step.

It is a state of grace.

Week 1: Hello Chicago!

Week 1: Hello Chicago!

 

Edward Goldman: "Very sophisticated work."

Notes from a Zoom crit today with the equally amazing Kimberly Brooks and Edward Goldman.

Kimberly Brooks: Joy Ray is a Hawaiian artist and she makes sculpture. She sews together paper and cloth and…

Edward Goldman: And it’s embroidered.

Kimberly Brooks: Yes, and it’s got embroidery. And she just had an incredible installation in an art space in Hawaii where she was responding to the pandemic and the curve of it going up, and she created a whole installation where you can see visually the shape of the graph but in sculpture form. Her works are very arresting.

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Edward Goldman: It tells a story which is bigger than the piece. I like to say that sometimes artists, especially well known artists at the big galleries, have to make large scale paintings. Large scale sculpture and paintings will grab your attention by the size, but when you see one thousand soldiers on parade, it’s like just their size. But to see one soldier, one actor on the stage holding your attention, that’s the art and message. I like this because it’s for me a letter. You remember I was a little bit criticizing too many words in one painting that you showed me. Here I read these lines like a musical score. Or letters in a medieval manuscript. And it allows me to stop and to write some, and to hear her voice, my voice. This is a very sophisticated work. And you know what, knowing the artist is from Hawaii, I would expect it to have such bright colors and preference. And to have this kind of Nordic…

Kimberly Brooks: Very well put. I love the idea of interpreting it as some kind of manuscript. She also creates this sense of decay with sand and paint, so it looks like it’s been affected by the environment intentionally, and she does it so well. Every artist is fascinated by this but she just nails it.

Edward Goldman: Working at the Hermitage Museum there is a huge collection of ancient art, a thousand years old to twentieth century, Matisse and Picasso. I remember sometimes holding in my hands an Egyption papyrus or medieval manuscripts, done not on paper but on the skin of animals. This kind of work makes me want to touch it with my hands. There is something….I don’t know, the knowledge of classical art by this particular artist. Somehow I feel text and books influencing her. Not just that she reads books but she loves to hold books in her hands. It’s a good manuscript.

Kimberly Brooks: You’re exactly right.

Edward Goldman: Joy, it’s a joy to look at your work.

Plague Manifesto (March 5 - September 2, 2020)

 
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Plague Manifesto (March 5 - September 2, 2020) is a somber and poetic visualization of the COVID pandemic in Hawaii. Joy Ray created this monumental textile collage to dimensionalize and memorialize this experience. Blending data and expression, Plague Manifesto portrays the emotional and psychological landscape of this unique time.
 

Beginnings

On March 5, Hawaii’s first Emergency Proclamation about COVID was issued. Things happened pretty quickly after that. Travel bans. Shelter in place orders. Beach and business closures. Quarantines and lockdowns.

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I’d been working on some pretty exciting things at the time.

Among other things, I was about to have my first solo show in California, opening in April 2020. I was getting ready for a group show at Art Basel Ping Pong in Switzerland in June 2020.

Spoiler alert: these events did not happen.

This was a time of unknowns, fears, rumors, illnesses, deaths, tragedies.

Cancelled art shows? The least of anyone’s worries.

But.

I found myself both wanting to make art, and a little unsure about what, if anything, I was making art for, if not myself. I basically went off the grid… or at least off the stretcher bars.

While locked down at my house/studio, I started making a series of abstract fragments.

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They were 42” wide (the width of the Osnaburg fabric that I use as my canvas) and varied in height from 4” to 14”.

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Each was different, incorporating motifs both familiar (to those who know my work) and new.

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Cryptographic chalk marks. Lava-like textures of paint and sand. Meandering paths of string and twine. Alien markings.

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What were these strips, these fragments?

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I kept making them. The shapes were unwieldy, the edges irregular.

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Of what use could they possibly be? I wasn’t sure.

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I kept making them. I added mask-like elements, similar to those I’d made for a volunteer project in the early days of COVID.

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By June, if I put all the strips together, they were around 15 feet in length.

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A name started buzzing around in my head: Plague Journal.

Documentation of my time in the time of COVID.





something is coming together

Around that time, curator Andi Campognone started putting together a group exhibition. She was looking for LARGE work that would demonstrate that contemporary art is alive and kicking in Hawaii (if underground compared to tourist-oriented giclees). She saw this piece and selected it for the show. It was time to assemble the fragments into a cohesive whole.

I experimented with different configurations but selected to go with a gradient that progresses from lightest to darkest, symbolic of the emotional and psychological journey of this period.

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But how to assemble them? Recently I’d been experimenting with constructing canvasses from smaller pieces, sewing the pieces to each other. A type of collage.

But this piece would be bigger than anything I’d ever done before. It needed stability and strength. So I decided to attach all of the components on to backing fabric.

I prepared 20 feet of backing fabric, divided into more easily transportable sections. I applied gesso and paint to strengthen and seal it, and added code, text, patterns and textures to it (along with the fragments).

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I was thinking about Robert Rauschenberg’s 1/4 Mile.

Documenting a personal journey, one section at a time.

I was thinking about Queen Liliuokalani’s Quilt, made in 1895 while imprisoned in her own palace after being forced to surrender her throne.

Memorializing a present uncertain moment with deeply personal and layered textile art.

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I was thinking about The Riddle of the Sphinx by Mike Kelley.

Storytelling through monumental textiles.


I was thinking about lukasa.

Storytelling through physical materials such as beads.

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And of course I was thinking about COVID. After a summer in which Big Island cases had dropped to almost nothing, inter-island travel had opened back up again and COVID was back with a vengeance. It was becoming clear that this journey was far from over.

THE PERSONAL VS THE COLLECTIVE

Andi challenged me to come up with an interesting way of presenting this work. “Don’t just hang it on the wall,” she said.

I came across this graph of the COVID case curve in Hawaii.

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I decided to build a structure that brought this shape into tangible reality, at a scale that was larger than human-sized.

Monumental.

Every day I tracked the new case data, added it to my spreadsheet. I used a 7-day rolling average and used the 6 month period that started with the first COVID proclamation. The numbers kept going up and up. My planned structure was getting taller and taller, the curve steeper and steeper.

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I built models out of foamcore, measured and remeasured, refined and re-refined my plan.

At last it was time to build the real thing. I designed the structure so it could be broken down to fit into my car for transportation to the gallery. Along the way, problems presented themselves. What would support the fabric on the platform? Slats weren’t enough. I eventually decided on a roll of carpet.

In talking to my friend and fellow Hawaii artist Bailey Ferguson, I realized that the piece had outgrown its original name.

It was no longer just a “Plague Journal”—something personal and private. It had become epic in nature.

It was now “Plague Manifesto.”


FINISHING TOUCHES

I have an insatiable appetite for the archeological, the buried, the partially excavated. And particularly this moment, that feels instantly and always of historical note, where time is collapsing in on itself, mirrored and refracted, jumbling past, present and future in a dizzying kaleidoscope, running at different speeds… layers were essential.

So I applied layers and textures to the piece: sand and paint, handmade clay and fabric beads, petrified lumps of string and burlap, all assembled together in a monumental collage.

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One of the last parts I added was 75 red elements—clay, fabric, bits of wool—one for every life lost to COVID in Hawaii between March 5 and September 2.

The final piece was everything I’d hoped for.

Somber and substantial. A stark visualization of the personal and collective experiences of this pandemic. Data and psychology blended together in one cohesive whole. A foreboding landscape of dark imaginings, lost paths, chaos, magic, prayer and so much more.

I installed it at the Kahilu Gallery in Waimea on September 18. It is 8 feet tall and 12 feet long. The textile artwork is 20 feet long.

I see it as a way to dimensionalize and memorialize some of what we have been through together as a community.

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Texture as a form of story-telling

I’ve been thinking about the narrative implicit in texture—texture as a form of storytelling.

From the bark of a tree or the cracks of a sidewalk or the side of a building exterior, we can glean information about what has happened to that tree or that sidewalk or that building.

Just like the skin of the human body telling a story—our wrinkles and our spots and imperfections and scars—all physical objects in the world bear those kinds of marks, clues to what has come before.

Imagine a fence.

When it’s new, there’s a lot of consistency in the materials and the construction, assuming someone’s done a decent job. It looks consistent and regular and standard.

If you come back in 10 years or 20 years to look at that same fence, what are you going to find? Discoloration, marks, maybe graffiti. Some missing, fallen, decayed, rotting, partially removed boards, some gaps in the fence, maybe some of the nails or screws have come out, maybe whole sections have collapsed. Maybe plants have grown over parts of it.

You’re going to see traces of the past. Traces of narrative.

Photo by Betty Brown

Photo by Betty Brown

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That visual connection is so automatic and intuitive—to look at something that is used, that is worn, immediately our brain starts filling in the possibilities of what happened. It’s so seamless, it’s almost as if it’s written on the object. And in some ways it is.

But it’s in a language that’s physical, material, visual, even sensory—and it’s transportive. The old worn fence is like a time machine. Suddenly as if in a dream state you’re flying back in time, getting glimpses of children playing, people hanging out next to it, the dog scratching at it, little plants getting seeded in the ground and then getting larger.


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There’s something about the not-knowing that is, I think, better—that idea of a mystery just out of reach. We can sense the shape of what the answer might be, but there’s no way to really know the answer.

xx

The Voynich Manuscript

Many thanks to Catherine Ruane for this discovery…

Per Wikipedia,

There are instances where the same common word appears up to three times in a row. Words that differ by only one letter also repeat with unusual frequency, causing single-substitution alphabet decipherings to yield babble-like text. In 1962, cryptanalyst Elizebeth Friedman described such attempts as "doomed to utter frustration.”…. The first section of the book is almost certainly herbal, but attempts have failed to identify the plants… The basins and tubes in the balneological section are sometimes interpreted as implying a connection to alchemy, yet they bear little obvious resemblance to the alchemical equipment of the period.”

In other words, what appears to be a delightful and willful puzzle, created solely to frustrate and mystify. I approve.

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Let’s just say the only way this makes sense is if each string of characters represents a single letter or sound, not a word….

Also WTF is going on in this hot tub:

Getting with The Program (Shockboxx)

There’s something very magical going on at ShockBoxx Project in Hermosa Beach.

Ever since I first laid eyes on this gallery, I’ve been all in. I totally connect with the brilliant dark and street art influenced work they consistently show. Located on a gritty industrial street, it’s as close to 80s New York as you can get in Hermosa (plus they’re connected to legendary NY gallerist Patti Astor, who I met there at a retrospective exhibition of her Fun Gallery memorabilia.) But mostly, everyone involved with ShockBoxx is talented, kind and generous. Good people making great art.

Now, I’m lucky enough to be part of it. That’s right, I’ve just been added to the gallery’s roster of artists, aka The Program!

You can read my story here.

You can find my new work for sale in the ShockBoxx Artsy Store.

And I’m busy concocting plans for upcoming shows…!

Many thanks to owner (and amazing artist) Mike Collins and the rest of the supportive and talented crew. Get a taste of their work here and check out more at The Program and on Artsy:


Uncertain times

Just a quick note to say that (along with almost everything else right now) the dates for my upcoming shows are in flux.

This includes my first solo exhibition, Alchemy of Time, at Werkshack Gallery in Oakland CA, and Ping Pong Art Basel.

I’ll let you know the dates as they are announced.

In the meantime…

Stay safe.

Be healthy.

Be kind.

Make art!

Some of my recent work…the themes of this body of work feel more relevant to me now than ever (the poignant beauty of impermanence, ruin and decay). More to come…

Magical Thinking

An upcoming exhibition in Honolulu, ARTINTIME, gave me the perfect opportunity to make something I’ve been thinking about for awhile: an Oracle deck. I’ve long been interested in Tarot and Oracle cards as a method of using symbols and visual language to access intuition.

Sewing is an exercise in applied intentionality, combining materials into something new, charged with intimate and deliberate focus.

All the pieces in this show must use a small tin box, 3” x 3”. (See photos from past shows here.)

I rusted, distressed and pulled apart my little tin, and added a stitched title.

Inside are 14 different Oracle cards, each with an image and name stitched on one side.

A plain black backing keeps them identical when reversed, allowing someone to randomly select a card. It also creates a little pocket, inside which is a short statement describing each card. I also included a Guide.

I named it THE ORACLE OF WOVEN SPELLS because there is, I believe, something very magical about stitching. Sewing is an exercise in applied intentionality, combining materials into something new, charged with intimate and deliberate focus.

I’m excited that this deck is out in the world, and curious to see where its journey will take it.

ARTINTIME opens Friday April 3 at 6pm at the Hawaii State Art Museum in Honolulu.

Kaona - the hidden layers of meaning (Carl F. K. Pao)

I’ve been thinking a lot about something I heard Big Island artist Carl F. K. Pao say recently at an artist talk. He was asked about the layers in his paintings. He mentioned that the Hawaiian word for layers is Kaona. (As best I can tell from Google, this word refers to layers of meanings in things, some are not which immediately apparent.) He said,

“Kaona—layers—are not to hide things but to reflect the wisdom of age. As you become older, you see more layers, more depth.”

You can see the layers in his work. As he told me and my friend, artist Bailey Ferguson, that evening, he begins each painting by putting his personal mark on the canvas, a familial hieroglyph, a signature honoring his heritage. Each painting goes literally on top of this massive signature. You can see traces of this underpainting, this mark, peeking out from underneath the “actual paintings”.

As someone who uses layers in their work, is in fact obsessed with layers, I love this new way of looking at them. I tend to think of layers in terms of archeology, secrets, things being hidden and revealed. I I love this idea of thinking about layers as multiplicities. AND, not OR.

Mahalo, Carl F. K. Pao! And if you’re in Hawaii, don’t miss his incredible exibition of paintings based on the life of Kamehameha, on view at the Donkey Mill in Holualoa through March 20. Painted on black roofing paper, these paintings fuse street art with Hawaiian colors, symbols and history. I find them to be nothing short of profound.

"this is my way of keeping intellect on a short rein." (Antoni Tàpies)

More Antoni Tàpies, from a BBC documentary:

“In order to prevent technique from taking over, I have to set traps for myself. I use materials that dry very fast, that compel me to work at great speed. Working quickly and spontaneously like this is

my way of keeping intellect on a short rein, of keeping reason in its place so the unconscious can run free.”

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“It is generally accepted that paintings are composed of shapes and colors. But I have this desire to experiment with a third element: texture. It seems to me that

by using thick materials that could be molded into violent shapes with cracks and scratches,

I could find a way of expressing myself that would be different from academic painting.”

You don’t say…

Details from recent work. My texture obsession continues. Thinking of ruins, decay, the myth of immortality, impermanence, memory, time…


Inside the carport studio...

I make work in Hawaii and Los Angeles. In LA I have an amazing studio in downtown LA that I share with 4 artists. In Hawaii I have my carport.

Now I love a lot of things about my carport. It’s convenient. It’s well ventilated, which is good when I’m using spray paint. It’s a perfect size.

But it has one major drawback, which is that it is totally unprotected. Gekkos, leaves, debris blowing through, getting stuck in my work… truly “en pleine aire”. I kept thinking I should try to find a studio in Kona. But the cost! The hassle!

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Then a couple of weeks ago, I started thinking about these gadgets that you use to keep flies off food. What if I could have jumbo sized ones, to put over my paintings?

So I decided to make some myself. And they are AWESOME! They work so well I made them in 4 sizes: 2’, 3’, 4’ and 6’ square.

Total game changer!

When I use them it feels like putting a cake in the oven. If you’ve ever made a cake, you know how satisfying that moment is. I love them. They make me happy. And…

 
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"Instinct is the only thing that can get us closer to the truth." (Gonzalo Borondo)

Thank you Juxtapoz for this beautiful interview with artist Gonzalo Borondo. Some of my favorite bits:

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“Research is trying to put some layers of artifice and lies out there, digging into the depths of the unknown. It is working without knowing where you are going. It is not looking for an answer, as I already accept that there are none.”

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“I keep going inside the tunnel, and then things appear. It is about taking steps towards something higher that I cannot express in words, but which might bring us closer to this world's mystery.”

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“In my work, I shed light on connections, contradictions, paradoxes and the hidden relationships between time and space. This, in turn, may open the path of these higher questions, or at least bring the feeling, the sensation that one layer has lifted.”

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“My work is actually a lot about layers and trying to discover what lies behind them; maybe it is why I like to scratch surfaces, to dig inside of them.”

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“I don't know if there is a real truth and I don't want to find out because I know it is impossible…I go by instinct and by my feelings in what I do.”

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“Through theory, you cannot touch the heart… Instinct is probably the only thing that can get us closer to the truth.”

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 (Pix are from the Museum of Contemporary Art in Bordeaux, taken by me in 2007. I fell in love with that space. In 2019 Borondo worked with the Museum on an installation in Bordeaux.)

Candlewicks & Forbidden Stitches

Oh the delights of Google. Today’s wormhole led me to a couple of wonderful embroidery-related discoveries…

Candlewicking

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I came across this fascinating article about how frontier women who wanted to embroider turned to using candlewicks due to the scarcity of thread. They also developed stitches that used less thread, avoiding satin stitches in favor of a more open design. I love the look of this.

 

The Forbidden Stitch

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The stitch with the sexiest name comes from Chinese embroidery. The coolest (and apparently fake) story is that it was so intricate that it would turn the embroiderer blind, so was therefore forbidden. The true story appears to be that it comes from the Forbidden City, and was therefore forbidden to be used elsewhere. Along with the backstory, the stitch sadly is not as sexy as its name.

More at NY Times (sub req’d).