Loneliness is personal, and it is also political. Loneliness is collective; it is a city. As to how to inhabit it, there are no rules and nor is there any need to feel shame, only to remember that the pursuit of individual happiness does not trump or excuse our obligations to each other. We are in this together, this accumulation of scars, this world of objects, this physical and temporary heaven that so often takes on the countenance of hell. What matters is kindness; what matters is solidarity. What matters is staying alert, staying open, because if we know anything from what has gone before us, it is that the time for feeling will not last.
― Olivia Laing, The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone
Like many, I’ve been struggling to find a place of rest in the hyperreality of Seattle’s great change. The last time this happened was the late nineties. I left for New York where I became the newcomer. I learned that arriving to a new city means entering the territory of others, with histories to acknowledge and respect. Now I know to ask on whose occupied land we stand, whose histories need to be acknowledged and respected. We settlers were, ourselves, once new. In many ways we’re always new. Perhaps this causes a restlessness about what we call home. How then, do we make a home?
A LONE, a city-wide exhibition of video and visual art installations presented by Vignettes and Gramma Poetry in Seattle, seeks to inspire and provoke questions about what it means to be alone, to feel lonely, and to find a home within the cities we love, and leave. Seven artists from across the US and England have placed ten works of art on billboards and websites to speak to these complex states in reflection of late-stage capitalism, gentrification, displacement, community, identity, and connectivity. The works speak to the often isolated nature of everyday life in a city, the feeling of disconnect, the stigma of solitude, and the need for beauty in the midst of relentless development and industry.
As generators of industry, cities continually construct themselves over the layers of their former selves. The city I left is not the city to which I returned. This is not just about Seattle, anymore. I carry the memory of two cities superimposed over one another like slices of time in a continuum. I’m simultaneously living the past, present, and future on a multitude of overlapping streets.
Loneliness is born of the wreckage of what was once familiar but now gone: the ghosts of your friends and communities past, of everyone’s stories of the way things were, of one person’s old being someone else’s new (and future old). Loneliness is arriving to a place where you don’t know a single soul; returning to a place so many others have left; remaining while your communities are leaving. It is loving a place that is becoming unrecognizable. Loneliness is a place going through “a fleeing” as A LONE artist Leena Joshi calls it, because desire is complicated by one’s ability to survive. To feel lonesome is to observe the romance of a changing city become tainted by the reality of what that change really means. This romance becomes repulsion when present in the place we love; and it’s the seductive draw of a place we’ve not yet been. Be careful of this romance. Loneliness is about feeling like only one of few, if not only one, in a crowd. Cities inevitably fail the most truly lonely and isolated of us all.
Brooklyn poet Tommy Pico’s sound piece, iLONE--located on both the Vignettes and Gramma Poetry websites—defines the difference between being alone and being lonely as Alone is a physical feeling, literal proximity, just not being around other bodies. Lonely is a desire, the urge for a companion or sympathetic compatibility; something on the other side of the country; something shivering, or feeling incomplete? right?....lonely is a kind of math.
The math of loneliness dicates that sometimes mental health organizations take advantage of ad space to promote hotlines for those of us who may be feeling incomplete. There were more of these throughout New York in the wake of 9/11 than I could count. They besought our grieving, traumatized hearts to reach towards empathetic ears and reassured us we didn’t have to shoulder our burden alone. I should have called then, because in the years since I’ve never felt more lonely than I do in a city with no muscle memory of enduring the labor of that shadow. That shadow leaves me both alone, and lonely.
Emboldened by the memory, I called Laura Sullivan Cassidy’s hotline, found posted on a West Seattle billboard for A LONE, to see what kind of comfort it would provide. Faintly at first, across the line, there came a scratchy, staticy melody that bathed me in a great sense of nostalgia. A jangly guitar, hypnotic rhythm, and ethereal voice --Laura’s own— asked me if I’d ever been to the ocean; if I’d ever leaned over the mouth of a river; if I’d ever stood perfectly still in a dry creek bed. The music itself reminds me of Lou Reed or Velvet Underground. But the poetry recalls the work of Steven Jesse Bernstein, a Seattle icon. Her cadence lulled me into a sense of remembering the very same Seattle that made us who we are today, awash in music and mysticism; volcanoes, tectonics, and waterways; the freedom to be. Where is that city, where is that teen, now?
Cities rewrite their histories even as they write their present day. For example, many would call the intersection at 12th & Marion — where Brooklyn artist Alexandra Bell’s wheat paste for A LONE is placed— Capitol Hill. That’s incorrect. It is historically, and still (according to city maps), the border between First Hill and Squire Park. It also happens to historically be a redlined district. But this is the way colonizers, capitalists, and developers rewrite a city. We override the names and the histories that belonged to it. This quickly follows the removal of the people who lived in it. How then does a city shape, thwart, and oppress history? Alexandra Bell challenges the assumption that the stories we’re reading in the news are accurate, well-represented, or representative. Her Counternarratives series reveals another side, a hidden story, a script that needs to be rewritten to bring into view. Bell’s editorial suggestions in red are presented alongside an alternative final version of the New York Times front page, nudging us into considering a different perspective, and perhaps a more concrete history. Through the shared knowledge of accurate history, can we build empathy?
In describing works and artists as empathetic, I draw a correlation between the breadth of human experience and the need to be tender. If we are each of us alone at some point, some time, then we need to have a point of contact between us. I come back often to what I’ve observed as a movement in Tenderness, running deeply through the work of many artists in this city and beyond. Tenderness is anti-capitalist. Tenderness is anti-isolation. Tenderness is the throughline between the tidal ebb and flow of West Coast cities; our boom/bust anthropology. The work in A LONE connects this tide to the larger scale of gentrification taking place across all our cities from the West Coast of the US to Europe. Everyone concerns themselves with the survival of the bust. But it’s the survival of the boom that we must find, and examine.
Leena Joshi’s billboard stands defiantly picturesque against the backdrop of the city’s industrial core, near the port. On the billboard is the familiar image of Tahoma (Mt. Rainier), towering larger than life over the West Seattle Bridge. The text proclaims, unabashedly:
WILL THE LAST BAD BITCH LEAVING SEATTLE—
TURN OUT THE LIGHTS
It does not ask the last bad bitch to turn the lights off. It demands that it must be done. It’s over. Once that bad bitch leaves, she’s gone. For good.
Unlike the billboard it references, Joshi's proclamation is made during the boom times when jobs, revenue, and money are being made. This isn’t the disaster scenario of an economy gone dry. This is the battle cry of every person our current economy has displaced. Desire has been complicated by the ability to survive. Desire has been tainted by a lack of love, of tenderness, of nurture. This billboard says on behalf of many, Fine. If you don’t want us, we don’t want you either. This is the only way to survive a boom that feels more like a bust for the disadvantaged: one leaves, whether or not one wants to leave.
The style of communication in A LONE tethers individuals through the broadcasting nature of the billboard. This broadcast conveys the message that we are never really alone in our experiences. We’re in this together even in our isolation. Someone we may never know has made the effort to reach out and say it’s not just you here, feeling this way, doing that thing, dreaming that dream. Because of their isolated nature and tendency to rise up over their neighboring structures, billboards are the perfect medium for this poetic broadcast.
In 2016, Vignettes launched their Marquee series, a platform for text-based pieces, viewable to the public in front of the El Capitan apartments in the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle. Some exhibitions featured projections, others featured poems, all presenting text on a small, backlit letterboard placed in the window of founder and curator Sierra Stinson’s apartment.
The Marquee was inspired by Jenny Holzer’s Truisms, a project featuring large, prominent text pieces in public domains such as subway platforms, storefronts, exterior walls and billboards. Like Holzer’s works and the Vignettes Marquee, the billboards of A LONE subvert their revenue-generating purpose by displacing the saleable ads with unsaleable works. Unlike quick-grab advertising, these artworks ask us to spend time with them. They transform the broadcast into catalysts for thought on quips, queries, declarations, and provocation. They take up space to rewrite incorrect histories and narratives, challenge our assumptions, and convey a necessary message. They take back some measure of space in a city where space is swiftly being taken away.
This assertion, this pushback, is an alignment with tenderness—artists provoke us to speak, to contemplate, to recall with them so that in the end, though we may feel alone— and it’s ok to be alone— we don’t ever have to feel lonely.
A LONE: A CITY-WIDE EXHIBITION OF EMPATHETIC VOICES AND WORD-BASED CREATIONS; curated by Vignettes and Gramma Poetry, runs in public spaces throughout the city of Seattle during the month of May.
Brian Cypher lives just over an hour outside of Seattle in an area populated by farmland and flanked by abrupt, tall, evergreen-lined hills. Far off in the distance you can see Orcas Island, and the faint smell of salt air floats in from Puget Sound. When I arrive, the sky is cast in an eerie orange light reminiscent of sunset, but it’s mid-afternoon. There are forest fires nearby. The edges of our surroundings are soft, diffused, hazy, and warm. This is summertime in the Northwest.
When I step into Brian’s newly-forged studio, the soft edges of my surroundings shift into a crisp full-spectrum focus. He’s built a small studio that feels like a miniature Manhattan art gallery - a large room with high panoramic windows, exposed wood beam trestle, and plain concrete floor - in which he houses his archive and works tirelessly on a new extremely large-format body of work. But while it’s clearly extraordinarily crafted, even though only in progress, it’s not what catches my attention immediately. I am captivated by a much quieter row to my right, a series of works on brown paper which emit a soft vibration of irresistible shapes, line, and tangle.
I last worked with Brian for his solo exhibition Future Forage at LxWxH Gallery. In that series, he explored a similar vein of tangle evoking many of the same forms and concepts. Historically, Cypher's work was rooted in equation, drawing on geometry, pattern, rhythm, and mark-making; his lineage echoing the aesthetics and formalism of Abstract Expressionism and Minimalism. In Future Forage, Cypher broke free from the confines of line to revel in an electric display of asymmetrical organic forms and bright chroma.
Now, for Hinterland at Studio E in Georgetown, Cypher's process has shifted from excavation to rebuilding. He begins with existing layers of leftover paper and globs of drywall mud left on the paper which lined his studio during construction. In this way, he participates in a kind of secret collaboration with the builders, finding his way forward through this familiar-but-different terrain. It would make sense in the wake of the construction of his new studio, that this architectural process would manifest in the literal surface of these new works. They are are a direct product of the remnants of what’s been left behind. Their compositional light and texture reflect the natural world outside, while built on the manmade materials from inside. Each decision and mark is an additive with intention
The very definition of hinterland describes something more specific than just back country or the middle of nowhere: it’s defined as an area that lies inland but directly adjacent to a coastline. This is precisely where Cypher lives, physically if not not metaphorically. These paintings describe branches, barbs, clusters and nets - all familiar terrain but carrying the potential for unknown terrain. Their symbolic power is in their mapping, which echo the nearby landscape of grasslands, tree branches, hillsides, and bodies of water; as well as bridges, roads, and highways as seen from above. Or, even, the trestle of the studio itself.
Cypher taps into an ancient lineage of descriptive and symbolic documentation of the surrounding world. We are always building on top of ruins and leftovers of the past. Having emerged from the fallen material of new construction, like a new forest after a burn; this series of works on paper has become a fascinating cluster of new growth. They are as varied as the sprouts which grow from freshly uncovered hibernating seeds. They reveal an excavated, built-up landscape, after a long journey beneath the soil. This is the hinterland - a complex array of newfound visual and tactile texture.
Brian Cypher's solo exhibition Hinterland is on view at Studio E in Georgetown through October 3.
Gallery hours are Fridays and Saturdays, 1-6pm, with the artist present on Saturdays.
609 S Brandon St, Seattle WA 98108
(click on the images below to enlarge)
How many of us think of Seattle as home to a river?
The Duwamish River, flowing through the southern and southwestern reaches of Seattle, is out of sight to many city dwellers on a day-to-day basis. But it’s there, threading its body through the valleys of our industrial districts; its mouth yawning through bridges and around shipyards to pour itself into Elliott Bay.
The Duwamish has been shaped by humans, and its course changed over time. It is still wild in parts, in spite of urban development, holding some small refuge for birds of prey, waterfowl, fish, and a few mammals. As an estuary, it was once home to a complex ecosystem of this kind of wildlife and humans; a resident population of cedars, firs, and alders flanking its shores alongside tideflats, swamps, forest, and wetlands. It is named after the indigenous tribe who populated this region around the river and Elliott Bay and Lake Washington, and who are still fighting for federal recognition of their tribe.
This river represents the duality of both timelessness and change. It flows, relentlessly, through land and through time. It rises, falls, and shifts color depending on the season and the weather. And though it no longer meanders, its path is now held by the walls of its industrial bed and the manufactured island splitting its delta. No longer flanked by a forest of native deciduous and evergreen trees, it is adorned with great cranes, container ships, and industrial warehouses.
To most people, the Duwamish is an abstract idea: a historical artifact, a superfund site, an unrecognized people, a thing that is largely present and yet invisible. Ask a portion of the population what comes to mind when they think of Duwamish and most will say dirty water. Many will recall the local tribe after which the river is named, the People of the Inside, and their displacement. Oddly, few will mention the industry that has replaced the forests, wildlife, and people. Much of Seattle’s historic and present-day trade is seated here: shipyards, steel mills, foundries, steam plants, rail lines, container yards, the Port of Seattle, Boeing, cargo terminals, commercial moorage, garbage and recycle facilities, the Department of Homeland Security, and a few cruise ships. And to others still, the Duwamish is home to neighborhoods like Georgetown, South Park, and Allentown. Nestled in the curves of its banks, these neighborhoods portray a rare urban environment: river life, complete with docks, rowboats, and summertime swims.
This begins to give shape to the abstraction of a river. This river we can see but not see. This river that we know of, but don’t see much of. How do we see a river?
In Process and Artifacts at Gallery 4Culture, the twelve artists of the Duwamish Artist Residency reveal their vision of the river when they’re working along its shores, hiking through green spaces, sketching among abandoned warehouses, and shooting film from across its bridges. Through their plein-air studies, landscape drawings and paintings, abstractions, rubbings, photographs, and observations of life along the river we begin to see this underrepresented region in a new way. Their bond with this untouristed district of the city is evident in their growing visual language around the river’s history and ecology.
What I felt strongly while viewing the collection of work from the Residency was an underlying connection and response to the enduring nature of the river, the objects alongside it, the blurring of past and present (as in I could not identify a specific time), the relentless flow and movement of the river, the light, the angles, and the color. There is a kind of quiet peaceful nature to this secret revealed through artist eyes. Each piece is like a stolen moment that if not documented, would slip past like a current in the river itself.
The work throughout this exhibition reflects the nature of the Duwamish River’s flux and feeling of lapsed time. It deftly captures this cinéma-vérité, which could be any point in time, not necessarily now, but also past and future. There are recursions in the entire collection of work throughout Process and Artifacts—patterns in composition, negative space, and form. Some pieces form a grid, alluding to the surrounding city blocks; and some exist in resolute denial of it. The artists reference nature, or industry, without falling into a precise narrative about either but instead pulling forward a tactile feeling of the place. The resulting artifacts leave us with a reflection of the timeless pattern of life along a river, looping back into itself, as we loop back around to it. The river calls, and we respond.
Joey Veltkamp is unfolding one of the largest quilts I’ve seen him make, meant to envelop not just one body but two. The largest patches are made from a friend’s red plaid lumberjack flannel; one pocket prominently, lovingly, placed near the top of the blanket. “... this is for love letters,” Joey explains as he pats the pocket and flattens out the quilt. I nearly die from the sweetness, the sincerity of the remark, and absolute romance of the thought that a quilt could be made to contain such a thing.
It fits to hear those words come from Joey’s lips. After all, his entire body of work is a love letter. Even when the work is about mundane objects, Veltkamp is reaching out from the heart to express something tangible about the emotions we’re feeling. In the truest sense, he is drawing from a long history of art made from love and nurture, creating objects with beauty and meaning as well as function and memory.
In 1987, a group of friends wanted to honor the multitude of deaths that AIDS had wreaked upon the gay community. Their response was to create a quilt memorializing the names of people who had died, and is known as The AIDS Memorial Quilt, founded by The NAMES Project Foundation. Born out of anguish, the NAMES Project has served as a monument to the catastrophic effect the disease had not only on an entire culture, but on individual lives. This project points at those lives and humanizes them. These were people, not numbers or statistics. The immediate personal impact of the disease was devastating to an entire culture. Through the act of sewing – a form of mending - and naming, the AIDS Memorial Quilt became an act of healing.
The spectre of the Memorial Quilt is real. Its purpose was to commemorate the ghosts of people we remember and heal those who remain. In 2011, Joey Veltkamp exhibited a collection of colorful, pinched clay ghost sculptures at SOIL Gallery in Seattle to document his own journey through sadness. Sweet, simple, and playful, they were small protagonists in a story about grief without a name or a place. They served as symbols of people – friends, old celebrities, fictional characters – but over time they became friendly, warm, and comforting fixtures. It is from these that a new body of work emerged, a series of drawings Veltkamp made based on the shape, color, and repetition of form inspired by piles of blankets. Like ghosts, blankets are imbued with the presence of a person. Unlike ghosts, they don’t hold the shape of the person beneath them. Still, they are altered by our interaction, carrying our scent when we’re gone. Blankets and quilts hold us when others can’t. They keep us warm. Soft, cozy, and sometimes fluffy; they are in the truest sense of the word, “comforters”.
It would be easy to assume that “craft” seems to take the pressure off an artist. Quilts don’t carry the weight of Western art history. They do carry the extensive history of craft-making, nurture, caretaking, and the art of women across cultures and across time. Perhaps the most famous among them are the startlingly Abstract Expressionist quilts made by the Women of Gee’s Bend. The work of these women from Alabama can be seen across modern art museums and galleries all over the US, something I’m certain those making them never imagined would happen. And why would anyone imagine it to happen? Textile arts are passed on through generations of women, and made intimately in small gatherings. Though they are not made for exhibition, they are a document of a culture. Quilts are a recording of moments in time. They are a portrait of the person for whom they are made. But the people making them remain invisible.
Quilt-making has long been relegated to the work of women confined to the home, who were expected to take care of their men and children and to some extent, each other. Historically, while men’s work is expressly tied to the notion of identity and recognition, women have laboured without any expectation of it. In these traditional heteronormative roles, men are celebrated for their work, and women are only noticed when it isn’t done. So what does it mean when a man takes on the work that is traditionally assigned to women? What about a gay man who allies himself with women? The question becomes one about narrative, who is describing it, and how it’s being told.
When a gay man takes on the feminine language and acts of women, he isn't able to stand in place of her but he potentially positions himself alongside her. Feminine gay men still benefit from their gender status, but culture will demote them – being femme, or like a woman, is not of value to the privileged in Western society. To say one is “like a girl” is to say they are weak, inferior, or less than. If the worst insult one man can hurl towards another is to identify him as “female”, then the gay male holds an identity as one who is male, but who like women, receives men; and who is then placed between. He can speak neither for men, nor for women. He has his own story of hardship, acceptance, gender roles, and identity.
Joey Veltkamp is creating a series of quilts and flags where color forms stories of identity through symbolism. Common themes of alienation or weirdness emerge, for example, in the way he uses neon, giving us a visual clue that there is something happening or about to happen. This use of color is a marker of uncanny Pacific Northwest energy, a sign of something strange or supernatural. Veltkamp loves to touch on the bizarre nature and mythology of this rainy, dark, and mystical region - our penchant for vampires, serial killers, and long dark winters creates a sort of Norse-like feeling of weirdness and the supernatural. The Northwest, a historically transient location in the furthermost corner of the lower 48 States, is a home to misfits, weirdos, and outcasts.
Veltkamp often points to these cultural references or people in his flags. Through them, he celebrates feminist, queer, and minority remembrances or slogans. “A Day Without Lesbians Is Like A Day Without Sunshine”, or pulls an uncanny quote from a Nirvana song that evokes the scratchy voice of Kurt Cobain screaming “No Recess”. Or they cite a ballad of strength such Alicia Keys’ “That Girl is On Fire”. Each of these embody a duality which reflects the history of the music they reference. Like old 45s, the flags have “A sides” and “B sides”, often containing two different texts or an image and a text that correspond with one another.
The flags feel celebratory but they are also a call to attention. They are evocative of banners carried by activists during a march, containing short but memorable words to carry home and not forget. But rather than protest, they serve as an homage to the heroes in his life, people who are in his words folks who create space. And in fact, while Veltkamp isn’t ordinarily identified as an activist artist, he has a history of doing just such a thing in his artistic practice: he creates space. Whether that’s been through his blog ‘Best Of’, using his studio residency at Seattle University for a series of workshops taught by artists in the Seattle community, or creating the Seattle Women’s Convention at the Hedreen Gallery (again, at Seattle University); this is precisely what Joey’s activism looks like. He clears the stage for others to speak, or just be.
It would be easy to describe Veltkamp’s work as pop art, not only because of its references but because of its colorful iconography. But playing with both subject matter and object-ness, Veltkamp’s works describe a lineage that traces back to the work of Jasper Johns - a gay male artist (his lover was Robert Rauschenberg) who treated the duality of his works with a distinct philosophy that they could be all things at once, both subject and object; formal composition and material. He defied the macho-ism of his Abstract Expressionist contemporaries, whose work was more like a stamp of their personality, and instead pursued conveying symbols outside of their meaning. Johns’ best examples of painting as object, separate from symbol, are his series of flag paintings or targets. Both toyed with our attachment to the symbol while declaring their presence as formal constructions. The game is in our attention to the symbol, as well as its life as an independent work of art. Johns once said:
Sometimes I see it and then paint it. Other times I paint it and then see it. Both are impure situations, and I prefer neither. At every point in nature there is something to see. My work contains similar possibilities for the changing focus of the eye.
This points back to Veltkamp’s still lifes (the diary drawings) and his blanket series, which are collections of things demanding to be viewed out of context as a collection of marks on paper. He draws them because he sees them; he sees them, therefore he draws them.
The transition from soft quilts into draughtsmanship formalizes them. They recall Veltkamp’s diary drawings which described his life and the lives of those he knew, giving weight and meaning to mundanity, a pile we might not otherwise give attention to. He has given composition to the clutter, and order to chaos. These objects alone have no significance, but when portrayed together they tell a compelling story, if not a biography. In much the same way, blankets are blankets until viewed through another lens. What is ordinary changes simply because we are looking. And when we are looking, we begin to see the many different sides of a thing, and what that thing can be.
Jasper Johns spoke frequently to the duality in his work. He said:
I made the flags and targets to open men’s eyes … (they) were both things - which are seen and not looked at - examined.
We expect artists to exist in a dynamic, rather than a static state. We expect them to respond to their environment and a constant stream of input and information. While some collectors or critics might fear a lack of consistency in the work, the continuity actually lies within the artist’s underlying philosophy. The artist him/her/self is the binding thread. Therefore consistency is an inevitability. Artists must allow themselves duality and contradiction - I am this, I am not this, I am these things. It speaks to their unspeakable compulsion to make things, whatever those things may be, whether tangible, idea-based versus object-based, curatorial, and so on.
True to the content of love letters, Joey Veltkamp’s duality is sweet, nostalgic, and celebratory. Like a rush of blood to the head we are dizzy with color, joy, and happiness. Of course there is context, meaning, and a story Veltkamp wants to tell us, but he doesn’t tell it for us. His view is only a window into a world he is willing to share and we are allowed to move through it and place ourselves within it. He has created a space for us.
The best art lives and moves with us, wherever we go. We carry it, like a pocket full of love letters.
Last July, Shaun Kardinal created an interactive piece for Seattle's web-based gallery project Violet Strays. It was an astounding piece of math. At first glance, it's an image. Then it occurs to you to hover your mouse over it, or perhaps this happens accidentally or intuitively. Things start to spin around, and layer up as you move the arrow. Once you click the image, it reloads to start something new and your dance begins again. The joy of the piece is in your discovery of an invitation to play.
This user-dependent browser-based piece is built from a photo feed which accumulated over the course of his one week "installation". The overlays are geometric and graphic but if you know Kardinal's work, you know these marks are essentially a virtual embroidery stitch on a virtual card. The piece is titled "Heptaparaparshinokh" which upon some research was revealed to be "The Law of Seven (or Octave)" - fascinatingly having to do with seven points of swerving from a previous direction of a force's movement. Heptaparaparshinokh is an elegant marriage of concept and aesthetic.
Kardinal's sewing came at a time when there wasn't much sewing going on in Seattle, but it was beginning to creep into view. Unlike large scale projects such as my own where the stitch is large and spans a 14 foot wall; this vein of work brings art down to an intimate level where the work is cherished and hand-held. Artists love postcards. They trade them, they add to them, they become elaborate exquisite corpse projects. But Shaun keeps it quiet, simple, and contained. They are created from his own world but he is offering them to you without pretense or expectation. They are what you want them to be.
I appreciate that Kardinal's stitching has become more integrated with the collaged image, that there is a visual storyline of colour, shape, and form that springs from the composition underneath. The fault of many artists who embroider is that the stitch has little or nothing to do with its source, serving more as an arbitrary treatement of line and colour for the sake of design. That isn't necessarily bad, but it's the particular virtue of Connotations that the hand of the artist aligns itself with the material so well. This integration is what makes it so strong and in my opinion, though it manifests in Connotations it truly culminates in his web project Heptaparaparshinokh. This is an experiment that I look forward to seeing continue both in tactile paper pieces and hopefully, some day on a screen once again.
GO SEE CONNOTATIONS AT JOE BAR
Capitol Hill Art Walk, 12 April 2012810 East Roy Street @ Harvard
12 April - 8 May