Trivial Pursuit Aligning my concepts, materials, and processes also underscores two basic premises central to my work. First, visual art, at its core, is a form of communication. Humans are generally on a quest to live a purposeful life that meaningfully connects with others. Second, I believe in shared experiences. We may, at times, think ourselves alone in some experience–big or small–only to realize many people share this experience in their own way. So, at the core of my practice, lies the belief that as an artist,I am imbued with creativity and perspective in order to make work that connects with others. There is a sense of comfort and belonging when one can relate with others. Growing up, I loved watching Seinfeld – the show about nothing. For me, the show was about everything: everything that could easily be overlooked. Even watching reruns today, I marvel at how the series gives justice to observations and situations that some might be tempted to call trivial. In one episode, Jerry gets annoyed with Elaine’s close-talking boyfriend. Jerry recognizes that feeling one’s hot breath on your face as they invade your personal space is off-putting. I feel understood and validated. For me, Seinfeld works in a similar way to artists who bring a sense of wonder to the seemingly banal, such as photographer Stephen Shore (Fig. 1) and multi-media artist Robert Therrien (Fig. 2). In both cases, their work triggers an awareness of what is possible: prying our eyes open to a fresh way of seeing the same ole’ same ole’. Similarly, the grit and glamour of life embody the subject matter of my work: the places we go, the bumps in the road, and the discoveries along the way. To borrow from artist Scott Grieger: my inspiration “resides in the commonplace experiences and normal modes of perception.”[4] Nothing is too trivial. I take the vulnerable step of putting myself out there saying, “This is my experience and here is my perspective.” I initiate a conversation – allowing viewers to see themselves (or not) in my work. My work may be steeped in personal history, but the materials I use are easily recognizable and generally come charged with specific associations for viewers. Thus, when complete, the work transcends its original meaning. Artist Jim Hodges notes that “memories are transmitted through materials.”[5] I am opening up a personal conversation in a public space, encouraging viewers to attach their own associations to the work. In this way the work grows – the conversation evolves. Cubicle For Cubicle (Fig. 3), a graduate studio installation, inspiration struck with a common conversation: cubicles are scary confining places. It was my first week in the MFA program at Florida International University. I entered the program imagining that this three-year journey would be a place – both figuratively and literally – of artistic free-thinking. It would be a place where I would build my creativity, explore new realms of creative engagement, and be surrounded by all things artistic. Most importantly, though, it would be a retreat from my fluorescent-lit, nine-to-five, office day-job. |
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Imagine my shock and horror when, after slipping the freshly cut key into the door of studio #116, I was confronted with, of all things, a fluorescent-lit cubicle—a literal ten-foot by ten-foot cubicle (Fig. 4). I audibly gasped. Nausea coursed through my body. I slammed the door as quickly as I could and promptly left. This was a scary, confining, and confusing place to make art. After much thought, I decided not to make art in my studio. Typically, cubicles are not environments that foster out-of-the-box thinking. I did not want my cubicle to be a place where my inspiration went to die. Instead, my studio would become the art. The studio was my blank canvas. ForCubicle, I re-imagined the idea of a cubicle space and was reminded of South Korean artist Do Ho Suh. Similar to me, Suh’s work is informed by personal experiences and “highlights the important connections we make between physical places and memory.”[6] Using memory as my guide, I recalled that when younger, I spent a lot of time waiting in my dad’s office. One more phone call, appointment, or letter before we could leave. Office supplies quickly became toys. Staplers were fun. Liquid white-out was a mini-paint set. I smeared it over fresh pen and highlighter ink. Multi-colored plastic-coated paper clips became hair clips, long chain necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. |
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Paralleling Suh’s The Perfect Home II (Fig. 9), Cubicle explores personal experiences and memory in relation to space. Suh’s work relates to personal identity and displacement. His piece re-creates, to scale, his former New York apartment in the Chelsea district, which he called home for nineteen years.[7] Similarly, as many can relate to living in cramped spaces, Cubicle relates to those who work in confined spaces. As I explored my feelings toward my new studio—somewhere between haunting and wonderment—I encouraged my viewers to do the same: explore and re-imagine their own confined spaces.
In-between What I felt toward my graduate studio was real, but any attempt to verbalize that feeling was futile. I could rattle off a list – perplexity, nostalgia, angst, curiosity, bewilderment, surprise – but none of these would be quite right. I am interested in those hard-to-define emotional in-between spaces—the spaces between concrete pinpointable feelings. At first, the lack of vernacular can be seen as barrier to communication—an annoyance even. However, I have come to see the beauty in it: my work says more than could ever be articulated with words. |
Bernini In-between Artists depicting the in-between in art is not new. Italian sculptor Gian Lorenzo Bernini sets himself apart from his predecessors and contemporaries with his combination of realistic representation, emotional weight, and depiction of the in-between moment – as opposed to a before or after. These aspects can be seen in his sculpture, David (Fig. 10). David, a life-size marble sculpture, depicts the biblical character of David. David, a young Israelite shepherd, was tasked with bringing food to his older brothers who were setting up camp and preparing for war against the Philistines. Upon his arrival at camp, David accepts the challenge of the opposing Philistine giant war hero, Goliath, for a single combat match. Goliath, armed with bronze armor, a spear, and javelin is defeated by David, armed with mere stones and a sling. Bernini’sDavid embraces the Baroque ideals of action, drama, and humanization. Yet, most interesting is Bernini’s selection of that in-between moment of the narrative. Michelangelo’s David (Fig. 11) is a statue rendered contemplative and calm before the fight, with a slingshot resting over his shoulder. Donatello’s bronze David (Fig. 12) is the after – the head of Goliath at David’s feet. Bernini’s Davidis a split-second of the in-between, frozen in time. |
The responses I received about my decision caused me to recall childhood – a time when you could tell anyone your wildest dreams, and no one would laugh at you or tell you it was impossible. Being a big list-maker, I associated hopes and dreams with the act of writing them down. Many times, a journal can be one’s safe space—a space without judgment where one can be honest and free to express one’s most vulnerable self.
At this time, paper became an important material due to its ability to symbolize this vulnerability. Materials work as symbols and metaphors in my work. I am inspired by the 15thCentury Flemish painters who used symbolism, particularly Jan van Eyck. I became enthralled with this idea when his Portrait of Giovanni Arnolfini and His Wife, Giovanna Cenami (Fig. 14) was decoded in an early art history class. While the painting looked convincing in its own right, it takes a deeper meaning when one realizes that everything in the painting symbolizes something else. As my art history textbook noted, “[t]he small dog may simply be a pet, but it serves also as a symbol of fidelity and its rare breed – affenpinscher – suggests wealth.”[12] I became aware that private information could be hidden in plain sight. Further, something could be used to read as one thing while simultaneously having other meanings. Paper does this, too. There is a brute delicacy in paper, strong and fragile at the same time. However, I also wanted to elicit that childhood state of mind where hopes and dreams fly unfettered. Suddenly, I knew exactlywhat paper I wanted to use. When I was little, my mom kept a stack of bright multi-colored paper on a shelf beyond my reach. The paper was used mainly for special occasions: making birthday cards, thank you cards, or special projects. In my eyes, this was the crème del la crèmeof paper. Sometimes, when I passed the shelf, I would stop and stare longingly at the stack. On the occasions I was rewarded with a few sheets for my own devises, I would carefully plan out their use. This was the paper I selected for my installation. When deciding on what form the paper would take, I once again recalled my childhood. I started thinking about the things I used to make with paper when I was younger. I remember learning to make paper planes from my cousin and feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment when I could make a plane all by myself, without his assistance. That plane design, the Dart, would be my choice for the installation. Paper planes became a clear symbol not only for youth, but for the fragility of one’s plans, ambitions, and hopes. Different sized planes create visual interest and represented how some dreams can be grander than others. It also symbolized multiple dreams developing at different rates. The studio/installation space represented one’s mind. Maintaining the same paper plane design for all the planes suggested they are from the same maker. In my installation, the planes are taking flight, but are not soaring, hence my decision to include the ground – artificial green grass. In one sense, the grass would seem tall, suggesting an open landscape where grass can be seen for miles. Conversely, having the grass high on the studio walls would give the viewer a sense of confinement. By not covering the ceiling, it allows room for the idea that, with more momentum, the planes could fly up and out of the studio. The grass highlights the duality and coexistence of freedom and limitation. |
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Fragmented Flowers Embroidery was the perfect symbol for tradition as it dates back to the second millennium BCE.[15] It also gives a warm homey feel. At this time, I was thinking about my family’s history and lamenting the fact that we do not have any multi-generational heirlooms. My grandparents emphasized personal relationships over material possessions. I saw the embroideries as filling this heirloom void. I felt an urgency to make these embroideries – relics – that signified history and tradition for my family as we were losing our patriarch. In the same vein as Turkish artist Defne Tesal’s contemporary embroideries (Fig. 15), I was also exploring pain, peace, and chaos.[16] While Tesal was embroidering her view from a window seat, I was embroidering my view: the view of flowers from a seat next to my grandfather’s bed (Fig. 16). I noted how flowers themselves are neutral. They can mark a variety of occasions: some happy (anniversary, congratulations, romance) and others, not so (funeral, get well, cheer up). This one motif could be seen from multiple perspectives: while flowers might make one smile, they might make another cry. Just as I was experiencing feelings that could not be explained or accurately described, so I wanted the work to reflect this, too. I found myself asking the same question artist Julie Mehretu asked herself, “How do I construct or make images in ways that deal with things that we don’t have the proper language for?”[17] Abstraction became the vehicle to discuss this. Because of abstraction’s inherent inability to “explain,” abstracting flowers came to represent my emotional in-between space. Mehretu notes that her work is not a depiction, rather she “want[s] the work to be felt as much as read.”[18] My abstracted flowers stood for this in-between state I was in – would my grandfather live or die – and the un-surety of the outcome. In the same way, the flowers are in an in-between state: not quite flowers, but not quite not flowers. They implied possibilities: perhaps the geometric shapes would get clearer and be more readable as flowers or perhaps they were going to further abstract and become something else completely. Color was my vehicle to signal emotions. My early pieces from this series – made during the end of my grandfather’s life – employ somber and muted corals, greens, and pinks. Other pieces, later in the series, utilize brighter and more colorful hues such as bright fuchsia, sunny yellow, and cobalt blue (Fig. 17). At some point, I began selecting colors purely based on feeling. I would look down at my embroidery box of neatly wound floss organized by color and select whichever hue spoke to me, whether it made sense visually to the pattern I was working on, or not. Russian artist Wassily Kandinsky might say that my use of color “play[s] different musical notes, causing vibrations of the soul.”[19] By working this way, the pieces became portraits of feelings –showcasing the range of nameless emotions one can feel. |
Dear Grandpa
I paused working the Fragmented Flowers embroidery series after my grandfather passed away as I was abruptly confronted with a new set of emotions. My grandfather’s death made my grandmother’s passing seven years earlier seem final. I know it sounds strange – even writing it. I felt the finality and knew I had to come to grips with the fact that I have no living grandparents. Suddenly, I had so much I wanted to say. So, I decided to hand-embroider a letter to my grandfather, saying what I needed to say in that moment. Dear Grandpa (Fig. 18) is a hand-embroidered, larger than life letter. Upon initial glance one might not even notice the embroidered scrawl: the cream thread provides little to no contrast to the gauzy cream fabric. One immediately gathers a sense of ephemerality upon viewing the weightless letter float from the rusty, sturdy, and well-used typewriter borrowed from my grandfather. The actual words of the letter are not important, rather, the idea of sending a message heavenward is stressed. Yet, if one wants to read what I wrote, the words are visible. Excess fabric falls from the typewriter onto the floor – the letter is not complete. In reality, the letter says more than what appears. As I was hand-embroidering the piece, stroke by stroke, there was a longer conversation happening. So, on the surface is a letter but embedded in the piece is a conversation. |
Landscape of our Lives
Just as my materials work as metaphors adding layers of meaning to the work, so too does my engagement in process-oriented work. Through repetition, I am making a larger, overarching statement with my works. It is the idea that one thing/one mark/one daily action may not seem like much alone, but when combined, they form the landscape of our lives. In a similar way, Damien Hirst’s giant medicine cabinet, Infinity (Fig. 19), contains over 6,000 meticulously arranged colorful medicine pills. For Hirst, the work symbolizes art’s healing power.[23] However, the work also underscores how accumulation and repetition can take many forms. While some collect stamps or dolls, Hirst’s work can be seen as collection of a repeated action: the accumulation of one’s daily pill taking regimen. My series Moving Mountains (Fig. 20) explores this idea. The works are small and intimate. From a normal viewing distance, the work conjures ideas of mountain ranges or landscapes. Upon closer inspection, one can distinguish tiny single strokes of ink -- small individual lines which are imperfect, made without the use of a straightedge. The work highlights how one makes their own landscape with each daily action taken. It also highlights the power of repetition, no matter how imperfect. Alone, a single stroke seems unimportant – wonky even. However, a thousand strokes become a statement. |
Shine Bright My large hanging piece, Fragmented Flowers (shine bright) (Fig. 23) is a continued metaphor for the in-between, wherein I use actual physical space to represent the in-between. On one hand, the fragments could float further and further apart, becoming their own separate islands. Or, the fragments have the possibility of floating closer together, making a solid flower image. Similar to when one takes a leap of faith, the pattern has been freed from the constraints and safety of fabric, wall, and frame. The fragments are in their most vulnerable state, suspended in space, viewable from all sides. Likewise, when one challenges one’s self to grow and take risks, one can feel exposed and insecure. Taking the risk becomes a defiant act of hope. In Fragmented Flowers (shine bright), each element is meticulously covered with shiny sequins on both sides, with each side displaying a slightly different color variation. The work is multi-faceted – not unlike life – and while being bright and shiny, it also marks ephemerality and delicacy. Just as personal experiences can take on new meaning through the lens of time or additional experiences, so this piece can be seen differently depending on the physical perspective of the viewer. The bold and vivid color palette unabashedly makes a statement that cannot be ignored. |