I'm quite please to present a printed feature for LxWxH in the November issue of Seattle Magazine, online and available at newsstands now. Arts and Cultureal Editor Brangien Davis has done a wonderful job of describing the project, making sure it sounds as approachable as the project is meant to be. Stay tuned for details of the November launch party for LxWxH (xHS) - HomeStead.

Also at the end of September I was invited to write for The Project Room's online magazine Off Paper, edited by Jenifer Ward. Inspired by the words and work of Mandy Greer, Amanda Manitach, and Joey Bates I chose to address the processes of process, and what artists who work obsessively must endure to get there. You can read the essay on the site: Gross Accumulation, Percussive Maps, and Finding One's Way

As always, I encourage you to keep checking in on these projects - I am particularly excited about the Project Room's calendar and featured artists! 

I'm not sure if I'm about to write about process, writing, studio practice, or being out of practice; but right now I have a jumble of thoughts I have to get out in order to get to the really good stuff. 

So I have this little piece of art by Troy Gua. It's one of my favourite pieces that I've acquired this year. It's a little framed canvas dot painted blue, titled Held, and I adore it because it embodies a quantum hybrid of probability. 

A quantum hybrid of probability is a multitude of outcomes all happening at once until an observation takes place, incurring the inevitable decisive action. In this case, a piece lives on the wall, waiting. It has been made, but not bought. And yet here it lives on my wall, bought. One can imagine the artist's breath being held in the hopes that the potential buyer will follow through, that it will leave the wall of the white cube to live on the wall of a collector's home. It's slightly sentimental. Or slightly wistful. It is not the definitive red dot of a certain sale; the blue dot suggests anxiety. Things could go either way but for now, things are leaning in its favour. You're not going to know, until you know. So you wait. 

As an artist, one lives in such a quantum cloud. While in the studio, the outcome of your efforts is both certain and uncertain. The making of a show has no guarantee of any kind of success, but it holds a lot of hope - the work we make will either leave our hands or it will come home with us to live in a box in the attic. It will either be seen, or it won't. Despite all this uncertainty, there must be some reason we make things, since we're all so busy making things with no discernible or quantifiable outcome. Perhaps we're all just working out some complicated ritual or scientific experiment, or exorcising demons. Many of us are certainly a vain species, building the work for the sake of the work and little else. I am one of these. By the time it's done and on the wall waiting, we're already moving on to the next thing, in hot pursuit of the next idea. The work is its own reward. 

And this is where I am living, this cloud of uncertainty, feeling my way along old familiar walls in the dark. I've been building, and drawing, and shifting focus. My studio process has been as exhilarating as it has been frustrating, regaining ground in more analytical efforts,  moving away from more narrative ones. Like many artists, I'm stripping away unneccessary material to get as close to the truth of the work as possible; at worst I've become a dry minimalist and at best, a relentless and obsessive editor which is in a way, what the work is about more than anything. I make work about the work, and I write about work the same way, spinning proverbial wool into yarn. The process is incomplete without documentation, record keeping, and tracking the work of others alongside my own. It's difficult to be objective, as I am attracted to very specific things. 

But hopefully, embedded in this cloud of probability exists the potential to regain the words I feel I've lost. I'm being sickeningly sincere, right now. But we are beholden to the processes we thrive on, and writing is a critical part of everything, for me. Without it, I live in danger of atrophy. It's been a while since I've really worked out artistic problems in words. Things could go either way but for now, things are leaning in my favour. I'm not going to know, until I know. So I will write, rather than wait. 

Ryan Mitchell, founder and director of Implied Violence, talks quietly in the hallway next to an ether dispensing machine. He is explaining the art of dressage - in equestrian sports it is the practise of training the horse to do what one would not naturally do; at times the horse may refuse the trainer's command in a brief, violent outburst before falling back into dressage. This may or may not be perceptible to the untrained eye, but beyond what we can see or believe the horse is engaging an internal battle - he is negating his refusal by continuing the dance in spite of his struggle against it.

It occurs to me that we do this in our lives nearly every day. We're trained to go to sleep and get up in the morning to work, bending to a system which dictates we must act a certain way politically and socially and perform a series of duties to either excel, keep up, participate, or purely survive. It doesn't matter what you’re doing in your life or how independently. You're a part of this. There is no escape. We continue the dance despite our struggles against it. We must constantly negotiate what we see against what we don’t see, balancing what we know against what we don’t.

The performers of Implied Violence demonstrate this dance with abandon and inconceivable discipline, serving as an unflinching mirror to our lives in extreme circumstance. They keep themselves awake for seventy-two hours at a time to endure the torture of ephemeral masks made of wax, tar, and honey. They bounce in place for eight hours straight in preparation to wear a corseted ribbon-encrusted dress. They adorn one another with leeches and knock each other out with ether to further alter their states, their decision making, and their perception of the world around them. They are both removing and immersing themselves in reality. At times, they balk. These are trials of the will. These are queries of fact and fiction, and whether there is a difference between them. While there is certainly enough photo documentation for you to bear witness outside of performance, it is not a reliable indicator of truth - you will have to decide for yourself what is true.

The work is raw, sexual, and art historical. Performer's eyes roll back in their heads as they succumb to fatigue, manic ecstasy, delirium, and ether. We are reminded of the creation of idols, and Bernini's Ecstasy of St Teresa. Lancing and blood evokes St. Sebastian and stigmata.  While many of the acts committed in a performance are presented in a violent fashion, there is an accompanying tenderness - cradling, caretaking, responsibility, and comfort to the performer's confusion and disorientation. It’s relentless, but there is an end. We walk away. They walk away. Hopefully, we are changed. 

Albert Von Keller is a quiet introduction and accompaniment to Implied Violence. His paintings suggest beauty and glow with a supernatural light. Underneath them lies something more less aesthetically beautiful, far more uncertain, and Other.  Although his work doesn't feel as direct as Implied Violence, it's subtly informative and involves romantic things like candlelight, witches, and ectoplasm. But similarly, we learn that states of consciousness are altered, trances achieved, and he claims that "nature breaks out in this moment without restraint" while performers dream-dance and produce flowing emanations. 

Von Keller's time was one of new discoveries and technologies; what had previously gone unseen was made visible. The body was the New World, a new line between fact and fiction and the differences between them. In order to feed his fascination, Von Keller engaged in paranormal exploration. He investigated the human psyche, prophesy, and trance states en tandem with the study of Christian resurrection, mystical healing, and stigmata. He held séances and performances in his home and studio, and directed his subjects as they posed for a photographer in order to paint them later.  But as with Implied Violence, his photo documentation is not a reliable indicator of truth - you would have to have been there or be willing to synthesise the information in the painting versus the image in the photograph. Here again, you must decide for yourself what is true.

Albert Von Keller and Implied Violence share an examination of the line where our idea of reality begins to blur. While Von Keller records those who step into unknown territory through mysticism, supernatural territory, and religious fervor; Implied Violence actively engages that pursuit through deprivation, bodily exertion or abuse, and tests of endurance. We stand by as spectators, while they endure as synesthetes and somnambulists. They push hard against a veil that we, in dressage, protest and accept all at once; hovering in a quantum state of is/not, yes/no, true/false, real/unreal, natural/unnatural. We must come to admit that despite what we want or seek or strive for, there may simply be no answer at all but our own. We dance, we fight, we dance. Hopefully, we are changed.

Implied Violence: Yes and More and Yes and Yes and Why
9 October, 2010 – 2 January, 2011

Exhibition opens 11am Saturday 9 October with a new performance, The Dorothy K: For Better, For Worse, and Forever; the first time Implied Violence has performed in Seattle in two years.

Séance: Albert von Keller and the Occult
9 October, 2010 – 2 January, 2011

Shortly after I moved back to the Pike/Pine corridor, I started noticing how this little storefront next to Sal's Barbershop had really interesting things to look at. I’d walk past hurriedly on my way to somewhere else and make a mental note to come back, but every time I came back I had to peer in the window because chances were I was late to another thing and I’d curse under my breath for lack of time. It’s the story of my life, the need to slow down.

I remember one particularly arresting show of portraits I wanted to inspect more closely, and I also remember noticing every time I walked by there were people hanging out together, inside and out, laughing—obviously a tight knit group. I remember feeling a sense of approval, that this is what places showing art should be like. Well that gallery is called pun(c)tuation, and you really need to spend some time there and this is why (and I'm an out-of-practise blogger so this is a total ramble):

In the last couple of years, Capitol Hill has forged a small art presence, on the edge of what I hope is a boom.  Grey Gallery (now on hiatus) was the first, followed by Vermillion, to combine efforts of a community hangout (read, BAR), gallery space, and music. I agree with this strategy and want more. While Grey is gone for the time being, the combined efforts of Amanda Manitach and the folks at The Living Room have brought art to their intimate high-ceilinged space with their first opening, It Is Happening Again, a solo show by Joey Veltkamp. And while Crawl Space is now a distant memory, Ghost Gallery has revived what I found to be an awkward but endearing space to have a show; complete with enclosed lawn, people spilling out into the street, and an impromptu barbeque. 

Which brings us back to pun(c)tuation. It’s an artist’s cooperative, opened November of last year, and seems to find that beautiful combination of fine art, craft, and folk roots to bring us colorful, intricate, process-based works by artists. Their statement says simply:

 
A co-operatively owned mixed use space

Focused on sustainable consumption

A home to all seekers of good taste

Incubator for Making and Doing

 We are here to do one thing and one thing only: Share

Come partake

 
I like this newly surfacing verbiage, of calling one’s self a maker, a tinkerer, a cobbler. It’s come to my attention through various conversations that while we understand we’re artists making art, it doesn’t always sit very well, nor does it taste quite right. When confronted with that prickly question of “what do you do” and answering “I’m an artist” I have to find some negotiable way of also saying “no, I’m not a painter or a sculptor, I make large scale paper shit that hangs from floor to ceiling made to look like soft fur but that also feels slightly dangerous and before you ask, no, nothing ever sells” and that’s a cumbersome way to introduce yourself. Rather perhaps I could say “I’m a maker of things”.
 
So this month’s featured maker is Stacey Rozich, a local artist with Slavic roots. Her imagery is rich and intriguing in the way that only creatures from the dreams Croatia can be. Sparking a memory, her work is evocative of another Slavic-inspired artist, Rachel Budde, who’s pro-cum-ant-agonists have become ever darker, bleeding over the fringe of our subconscious if only to remind us that those monsters are real and actual mirrors of ourselves. The difference is just that – Rozich’s creatures are more friendly reflections; perhaps ourselves in costume as more sinister archetypes. They cross over with Gala Bent’s strange menagerie; they bear two or too many legs, fur, aren’t quite right but aren’t terrifying beasts of the psyche.

Rozich’s own pull towards the irresistible allure of creatures and folklore has led her to pursue images and stories outside of the former Yugoslavia and delve into the worlds of Russia, Scandanavia, West Africa, and Native American mythology. Through her work, we see the threads which combine the elements of human fears, dreams, and storytelling.

Perhaps reminders are simply there to gently inspire us to do or be better, and don’t need to be so frightful as to make us look away. In sensing my own trend towards faerie tale inspired mythology and folklore, I’ve noticed a pull towards the quietly abject: long soft falls of hair, patterned swaths of fur, triangles for teeth, and a consistent recurring theme of danger belied by beauty. I don’t really know why so many of us are going there but I know it’s frankly irresistible.

Patterns of Renewal by Stacey Rozich opens tonight at Pun(c)tuation,  8pm-11pm @ 705A East Pike Street, Seattle WA 98122 and will be up through August 18 2010