Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Individual, 2009
dress, blower fan, masking tape, carpet, internal spot light,
plexiglas box
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
student work
I am co-teaching a beginning sculpture class this semester with Jenna Efrein, and we recently had an interesting assignment about tension which incorporated cast glass elements. Here are a few images of the work from the critique, and more can be found on the class blog.
(Teaching is fun!)
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Rumination #9
Dear Thesis,
I want to tell you a little bit about my upbringing. My father was the pastor of a Pentecostal church, so I was known in church circles as a "PK", or pastor's kid. The Assemblies of God denomination with which my dad's church was affiliated is unique in many ways. Church services were long and rowdy, with hours of singing, clapping, tambourine-playing, and raising of hands, and alter calls at the end that would make people cry and sometimes shake or fall over backwards. The services were informal and interactive, and often extremely emotional. Each visitor was greeted with a hug or a handshake, and everyone was welcome.
Assemblies of God churches are not cathedrals. Their services are sometimes not even held in official church buildings, but in school cafeterias, tents, storefronts, and VFW halls. I used to envy the majestic architecture and stained glass windows at the Catholic church down the street from ours, which was a drab brown box with an unimpressive steeple. The reason our church wasn't built like theirs, I was told, was because it was meant to feel less intimidating, more comfortable and approachable. It was a church for people who didn't normally like church. It was a church for ex-convicts, ex-priests, gypsies, motorcycle gangs, illegal immigrants and all-American families alike. It was a church whose drum set had to be encased in plexiglas because the other members of the 12-piece rock band couldn't hear themselves on the monitors during the worship service.
It's strange to relate the work I am doing now to my past experiences in church. I cannot, however, ignore the uncanny resemblances. For instance, in my work it's important that I employ devices, processes and locations that are familiar to the audience in order to encourage a level of understanding and participation. Just like how my dad used to hold services in a tent on the lawn in front of the church in order to make it more accessible to passersby during the summer, I prefer to exhibit my work in a coffee shop, office building or Elk's Lodge. I desire to make art for people who normally don't like art.
The most notable characteristic of an Assemblies of God church is the speaking in tongues. People would speak quietly to themselves in prayer, and also on occasion out loud to the rest of the congregation. It was believed to be a heavenly language that a person would utter when they were overcome by the Holy Spirit. When a parishioner would speak in tongues to the congregation there had to be another person present whom God would allow to interpret their message, in order for everyone to understand what was being said. I was often told stories about missionaries who would speak in tongues in a foreign country, only to find out that the natives could understand them because they were unknowingly speaking their language. I'm pretty sure that the original intention of the pentecost was to allow people of different cultures to understand each other even if they didn't speak the same language. What a beautiful idea!
I think I have transposed this same intention, of universal understanding gained through an alternate form of communication, to art. Perhaps making art is like speaking in tongues, and viewers are the interpreters. If so, then what is the Holy Spirit? What overcomes an artist when a work of art is created? Even to me, an artist, it is a mystery.
Yours truly,
I want to tell you a little bit about my upbringing. My father was the pastor of a Pentecostal church, so I was known in church circles as a "PK", or pastor's kid. The Assemblies of God denomination with which my dad's church was affiliated is unique in many ways. Church services were long and rowdy, with hours of singing, clapping, tambourine-playing, and raising of hands, and alter calls at the end that would make people cry and sometimes shake or fall over backwards. The services were informal and interactive, and often extremely emotional. Each visitor was greeted with a hug or a handshake, and everyone was welcome.
Assemblies of God churches are not cathedrals. Their services are sometimes not even held in official church buildings, but in school cafeterias, tents, storefronts, and VFW halls. I used to envy the majestic architecture and stained glass windows at the Catholic church down the street from ours, which was a drab brown box with an unimpressive steeple. The reason our church wasn't built like theirs, I was told, was because it was meant to feel less intimidating, more comfortable and approachable. It was a church for people who didn't normally like church. It was a church for ex-convicts, ex-priests, gypsies, motorcycle gangs, illegal immigrants and all-American families alike. It was a church whose drum set had to be encased in plexiglas because the other members of the 12-piece rock band couldn't hear themselves on the monitors during the worship service.
It's strange to relate the work I am doing now to my past experiences in church. I cannot, however, ignore the uncanny resemblances. For instance, in my work it's important that I employ devices, processes and locations that are familiar to the audience in order to encourage a level of understanding and participation. Just like how my dad used to hold services in a tent on the lawn in front of the church in order to make it more accessible to passersby during the summer, I prefer to exhibit my work in a coffee shop, office building or Elk's Lodge. I desire to make art for people who normally don't like art.
The most notable characteristic of an Assemblies of God church is the speaking in tongues. People would speak quietly to themselves in prayer, and also on occasion out loud to the rest of the congregation. It was believed to be a heavenly language that a person would utter when they were overcome by the Holy Spirit. When a parishioner would speak in tongues to the congregation there had to be another person present whom God would allow to interpret their message, in order for everyone to understand what was being said. I was often told stories about missionaries who would speak in tongues in a foreign country, only to find out that the natives could understand them because they were unknowingly speaking their language. I'm pretty sure that the original intention of the pentecost was to allow people of different cultures to understand each other even if they didn't speak the same language. What a beautiful idea!
I think I have transposed this same intention, of universal understanding gained through an alternate form of communication, to art. Perhaps making art is like speaking in tongues, and viewers are the interpreters. If so, then what is the Holy Spirit? What overcomes an artist when a work of art is created? Even to me, an artist, it is a mystery.
Yours truly,
Alicia
Thursday, March 5, 2009
in an email from Anneke:
"every tuesday and friday is black market bread day, and we go buy steaming delicious hot woodfired illegal bread from a widow in a basement."
images from my midterm review
The billboard is still in progress and the dress is going to be tweaked a bit after getting feedback about it from my faculty... but this is work that is going to go in my thesis show... !
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Process Is Concept
The dean is paying for the publication of a limited edition artist book titled "Process Is Concept", featuring work by all the 2nd year grads. We each get to design two spreads and these are mine. The top one is documentation from a project I did last semester called "The Length of Now" and the one with the rocks is a collage... perhaps I will call it "The Weight of Now".
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
rumination #8
Dear Thesis,
Today was a beautiful day. I slept until 1 PM by accident, so unfortunately I missed half of its beauty. But I was determined to make the most of it, so I took a bath and sat outside for a spell wearing only a light sweater, and read an article in The Sun - actually, I read the article in both suns, the star and the magazine! - titled "Why I Am Not Going to Buy A Computer". Then, with my face turned up toward the sun - the star, not the magazine - and my eyes shut tight, I listened to the sounds of the birds returning for spring, the creek behind my house, the wind in the evergreens, and the noise of the cars passing by on the street. Have you ever noticed how the distant passing of cars sounds just like waves crashing and receding on the beach? I had never noticed that before.
I think I have a somewhat untraditional sense of place. To me, place is not a static thing. It is dynamic, fluid. I, myself, am not stationary, both literally and metaphorically speaking, so I perceive my surrounding environment as constantly changing due to my movement through it and my continuously shifting perspective of it. Perhaps this is why I love to make large-scale sculpture, because of its ability to provide its viewer with multiple perspectives, and therefore multiple experiences. Sculpture resides in real time and space, and therefore, in a certain sense, can become its own kind of place.
According to the dictionary on my computer, 'home' has many definitions, the first being "the place where one lives permanently". That sentence is absurd to me. Why would anyone live anywhere - or for that matter do anything - permanently? The very idea of permanence makes me cringe. Nothing in the natural world is permanent; everything is constantly, ever-so-slightly changing. But people crave permanence, and are always trying to fabricate it in their lives in one form or another. It's like playing pretend! Why do we do that, I wonder? Is it because, in order to live, we need to pretend we're not going to die?
My favorite definition of 'home' is the one listed towards the bottom, which is "a place where something flourishes, is most typically found, or from which it originates." That's the kind of place I want to live in (but still not permanently).
Yours truly,
Today was a beautiful day. I slept until 1 PM by accident, so unfortunately I missed half of its beauty. But I was determined to make the most of it, so I took a bath and sat outside for a spell wearing only a light sweater, and read an article in The Sun - actually, I read the article in both suns, the star and the magazine! - titled "Why I Am Not Going to Buy A Computer". Then, with my face turned up toward the sun - the star, not the magazine - and my eyes shut tight, I listened to the sounds of the birds returning for spring, the creek behind my house, the wind in the evergreens, and the noise of the cars passing by on the street. Have you ever noticed how the distant passing of cars sounds just like waves crashing and receding on the beach? I had never noticed that before.
I think I have a somewhat untraditional sense of place. To me, place is not a static thing. It is dynamic, fluid. I, myself, am not stationary, both literally and metaphorically speaking, so I perceive my surrounding environment as constantly changing due to my movement through it and my continuously shifting perspective of it. Perhaps this is why I love to make large-scale sculpture, because of its ability to provide its viewer with multiple perspectives, and therefore multiple experiences. Sculpture resides in real time and space, and therefore, in a certain sense, can become its own kind of place.
According to the dictionary on my computer, 'home' has many definitions, the first being "the place where one lives permanently". That sentence is absurd to me. Why would anyone live anywhere - or for that matter do anything - permanently? The very idea of permanence makes me cringe. Nothing in the natural world is permanent; everything is constantly, ever-so-slightly changing. But people crave permanence, and are always trying to fabricate it in their lives in one form or another. It's like playing pretend! Why do we do that, I wonder? Is it because, in order to live, we need to pretend we're not going to die?
My favorite definition of 'home' is the one listed towards the bottom, which is "a place where something flourishes, is most typically found, or from which it originates." That's the kind of place I want to live in (but still not permanently).
Yours truly,
Alicia
making a model
Victoria and I are in the process of making a 1/2" scale model of our thesis show space and all the work we are going to put in it. Tonight we made little paper footprints of the things that are still in progress or indefinite.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Breath
This past week was spent mostly dancing, both on stage and in living rooms. Here is a video of Friday night's performance. The dance was choreographed by Caylin Janet to music by Brian Eno. (I am in the very middle during most of it and I am part of the duet towards the end... but you probably won't be able to see me since this video is so small).
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
rumination #7
Dear Thesis,
I apologize for not being more consistent. I am not the type of artist who can be alone in my studio work, work, working all the time like a creative recluse. I need to be out and about in the world, living life, getting inspired by the people and places and objects found within everyday situations. I thrive on social interaction. I love people! That's basically what it would boil down to if I could fit it in a pot.
When I began graduate school I was so excited to set up my studio (I had never had a studio that wasn't my living room), and to arrange and organize what few belongings and materials I had brought with me. That initial excitement evaporated when I realized what a lonely place a studio can be, especially if you feel, as I did, that you were expected to spend the majority of your time there, "making things".
People bring me to life!
I often question whether there is really any such thing as an individual. I, myself, do not feel like one. I like to imagine I have blurry edges. I think there is more freedom in being one of many than one alone.
Yours truly,
I apologize for not being more consistent. I am not the type of artist who can be alone in my studio work, work, working all the time like a creative recluse. I need to be out and about in the world, living life, getting inspired by the people and places and objects found within everyday situations. I thrive on social interaction. I love people! That's basically what it would boil down to if I could fit it in a pot.
When I began graduate school I was so excited to set up my studio (I had never had a studio that wasn't my living room), and to arrange and organize what few belongings and materials I had brought with me. That initial excitement evaporated when I realized what a lonely place a studio can be, especially if you feel, as I did, that you were expected to spend the majority of your time there, "making things".
Last year I made a sculpture titled 'It's Nice To Meet You!'. It was inspired by those "wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube men" seen on the side of the road (and in the show Family Guy), advertising for grand openings of car dealerships or party stores. I was driving by one such inflatable in the car with a friend, and I randomly mentioned something about how funny it would be to have one of those tube men made to look like me. So I did! I found a caricature artist online to draw my portrait, and I hired an advertising company to design an inflatable of my height and proportions (but with a slightly larger head and longer arms). When you walk into the room, I am nothing but a deflated sack of colorful plastic lying on the ground. But when a person approaches for a closer look, I jump up and wave my arms to say hello!
People bring me to life!
I often question whether there is really any such thing as an individual. I, myself, do not feel like one. I like to imagine I have blurry edges. I think there is more freedom in being one of many than one alone.
Yours truly,
Alicia
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Boom Is Over. Long Live the Art!
from this NYT article by Holland Cotter:
"It’s day-job time again in America, and that’s O.K. Artists have always had them — van Gogh the preacher, Pollock the busboy, Henry Darger the janitor — and will again. The trick is to try to make them an energy source, not a chore.
... There will be many, many changes for art and artists in the years ahead. Trying to predict them is like trying to forecast the economy. You can only ask questions. The 21st century will almost certainly see consciousness-altering changes in digital access to knowledge and in the shaping of visual culture. What will artists do with this?
Will the art industry continue to cling to art’s traditional analog status, to insist that the material, buyable object is the only truly legitimate form of art, which is what the painting revival of the last few years has really been about? Will contemporary art continue to be, as it is now, a fancyish Fortunoff’s, a party supply shop for the Love Boat crew? Or will artists — and teachers, and critics — jump ship, swim for land that is still hard to locate on existing maps and make it their home and workplace?
I’m not talking about creating ’60s-style utopias; all those notions are dead and gone and weren’t so great to begin with. I’m talking about carving out a place in the larger culture where a condition of abnormality can be sustained, where imagining the unknown and the unknowable — impossible to buy or sell — is the primary enterprise. Crazy! says anyone with an ounce of business sense.
Right. Exactly. Crazy."
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
stacks of paper = extended horizon?
I am interested in the way that, if a photograph is printed full bleed and then stacked on top of itself, the sides of the stack of paper become vertical extensions of the image that's on top (you can see it in this tiny image here, of a stack of prints by Felix Gonzales Torres). I am thinking about using this visual phenomenon to "extend" a photograph of the horizon, but I'm trying to figure out how it would work. Ideally, I'd like the stack to be very tall (above a person's head, so they have to get above it to see what the photograph is of, so there is some wonder/investigation involved in the experience), but the printing will be really expensive. And if I orient the stack horizontally as opposed to vertically I have to figure out how it will be held together, and whether it would be on the ground or elevated somehow. Here's an example of paper clamped together and suspended horizontally:
Drew Goerlitz's "Slump"
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