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Playlisting – The Art of Process

“The Language of Summoning.” 2016. Panel from triptych.

I studied music extensively for years, and in my first-first life (the phase before I majored in English, before I returned for my BFA and MFA in visual art), I thought for sure I’d be a studio musician. A female trumpet-player-keyboardist who didn’t succumb to babies and family and rote domesticity over a prominent role in male-dominated studio music circles. I planned to attend USC, had funding in place–then changed my mind and followed visual art and literature at Berkeley (though I still eschewed domesticity). Because I’m also Indiana Jones, rolling under that slamming stone door, whip in hand.

But the vitality, the flow, the importance of music has never left my studio.

My mono, single-speaker tape recorder was either this model, or very close to it. It was a late 70s device, purchased from K-Mart and first used by my parents, later gifted to me.

 

Ahhh, the classic red K-Mart KMC tapes.

My interdisciplinary work often includes experimental audio and sound. I’ve been sampling, remixing and building audio since I was a kid with cheap K-mart cassettes and a single-speaker tape recorder, capturing audio from the television and playing it back on my parents’ hifi while another TV show played in the background, re-recording the real-time dub on another receiver. The possibilities, layers, and outputs were endless, resurfacing even now in recent projects. The urge to manipulate and receive, polish and process–all tied to a strong audio core. All tied to sound and music.

It doesn’t surprise me that music is crucial to each body of work I develop.

More than just a studio soundtrack, far from “noise” filling voidspace as I work, music, audio and sound play fundamental roles in every step of my studio practice. I carefully construct playlists before I begin work on a given series, allowing the list to mutate and evolve with the project.

It’s not about setting the mood or getting into “the zone” via music. It’s about deep, conceptual and intellectual analysis of each track, each moment, each lyric or note–fitting and associating strings of thought, each delicate audio mark folding into the next, participating in a cross-media dialogue that resonates with the visual art, contributes to it, alters its surface. The playlist construction phase is a contemplative space, speaking to the theory, research and writing that are also done beforehand (and simultaneously) as the new project develops.

Taking the time to produce a playlist allows me to really get inside my project, inside the philosophy that makes it vital (for me). It allows me to refine what I see as the body, the shape, the tone, the voice of a given series.

Each playlist echoes, contributes to, informs, and is itself informed by its corresponding visual series. In the space of sound, I find resolution, direction, clarity, and compliment, even with work that’s intentionally open-ended, irresolute, or defiant against narrative closure. I learn more about my project through this process, through the act of hunting, acquiring and remixing strands of musical thought.

Individual frame from the triptych, “The Language of Summoning,” 2016.

Even the order of the tracks is important. They are carefully selected and placed, flowing one into another. These playlists are not made to impress.  They are meant to investigate, expand, amplify and attend to their corresponding bodies of work. Perhaps they’re even inseparable from the work on some level.

Sometimes the lists are awkward, strange, predictable, surprising… but they’re always earnest. I don’t care if a track is unpopular, wildly timeless or critically irrelevant–each is relevant to my process, to a given moment, a given fold. 

Yes, there are some overlaps. Certain tracks find their way onto the next list, especially when projects are close-heeled. This cross-pollination is often evident in the work itself; relationships between idea, color, form, process, you name it. It’s no accident. I allow it to be.

Playlists themselves are a manifestation of our filter bubble, that celestial-jukebox-global-DJ-remix attitude; hacking, splicing, associating and folding source material into new output… the flexible nature of playlisting is how I work in other media!

A sampling of playlists for recent bodies of work:

Poppy Transitory / Poppy Receding:

https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/223gordp4up2qxbkiru2pfmfa/playlist/7DIzme2MhEDZKIrLjth9Y8

Channeling – Televisual Memory and Media Seance (early stages, still taking form)

https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/223gordp4up2qxbkiru2pfmfa/playlist/56N3aH7VQTVLm9ZvcOHzWB

In this Twilight Sleep (Axis Mundi project) (still taking form)

https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/223gordp4up2qxbkiru2pfmfa/playlist/0uPwgeGRYW5xXpri6bTaUW

Sonny Could Not (Whitespace-Bluespace – Televisual Memory and the Implied Catastrophe) – I still find this list is mutating

https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/223gordp4up2qxbkiru2pfmfa/playlist/4dXUqJVatJ3fb2InINup0s

The Cascade – Moments in the Televisual Desert:

https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/223gordp4up2qxbkiru2pfmfa/playlist/0GXRnkxospCVnCq7nouDsa

10 Minutes Before

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“10 Minutes Before,” 2016. Diptych. Ren Adams. Experimental photography with manual glitch.

I’ll admit this year feels like “the time before.” Hell, it’s felt that way since last November.  It feels that way right now. There’s ozone tension around me, within me. In my living room. In my social feeds. In my work.

My work, I realize, is all about this extruded moment. It is time before, the time after. The extended agony of the moment itself, before it collapses into the next phase. It always wants to hold its breath. When it exhales, it catches. It assumes and subsumes these time-bent spaces.

Being inside my work is exceptionally uncomfortable. Being in this moment now, in myself, in the world, is a form of living while holding my breath. It seems a collective breath, though not an all-inclusive one.

We seem suspended in that transitory space right before the piercing, forever-change of “the event” eclipses our understanding of everything that’s come before. Everything we hold consistent, understandable, even joyfully reckless. This is the night before the pivot point.

This is two and a half minutes to midnight.

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“The Distance Between Us,” 2016. Upper left panel of quadriptych. Ren Adams. Experimental photography with manual glitch.

But there are two kinds of suspended moments at play here: 10 Minutes Before (the unaware) and Two and a Half Minutes to Midnight (the mercilessly aware).

The difference between the painfully ambiguous suspended moment (two and a half minutes) and the blissfully unaware “night before” is the way in which the experiential “time before” gains importance in retrospect. The person experiencing the “time before” has no awareness that there’s about to be a very divergent “time after.” They live life unknowingly, with no specific sense of doom,  no specific doom-turning lined out. They don’t wake up and say, “tonight my wife will die from an accidentally fatal combination of doctor-prescribed medications, complicated by her undiagnosed heart condition!” They wake up, take a shower, eat, go to work. 

Once the “time before” is defined by the “terrible event,” the moments leading up to the change are reevaluated with a fresh perspective. They now form the final moments of normalcy before the illusion was shattered.

The night before my sister was murdered holds merciless clarity for my parents–the ordinary, domestic rituals they performed, the unremarkable process of events. Mundane conversations. Simple things ignored. The fact that my sister asked for pudding only “10 Minutes Before” her actual death still haunts my mother, 45 years later. Mom refused to give her dessert because Cindy had been naughty earlier that evening and was being punished. In this case, “10 Minutes” was actually a matter of hours, but the gravity remains. And the simple act of doling out punishment, not abnormal on its own, now takes on the mythical role of “what if I had…” … “if only I could go back in time and give her dessert, knowing what I know now…” … “if only I could go back to the time where I only had to worry about giving out dessert.” If only life was still the time before, with pudding and punishments and school the next day.

This kind of retrospective moment-before is one without weight before the pivot point. It’s an ordinary pizza night. Work as usual. Kids grounded for misbehaving. A dripping faucet. Frustration over Netflix hiccups. The mechanics and methods of domesticity only gain monumental importance (or monumental emptiness) after “the event.” This is everyday life. We are always “10 Minutes Before” something, we are simply unaware.

Lost normalcy might even be recalled fondly–recognition that it can all radically shift. The simple joy of walking to the couch is exalted the day after one loses the ability to walk. How easy it was to walk over, to sit, to watch TV.

It really is a great privilege to live in a space where you can expect things to  be “normal,” where you can assume life will flow without incumbency or tragedy, and that “terrible events” are allowed to be the aberration, not the norm.

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Individual still from installation: “When I Looked Through You,” 2016. Experimental photography with manual glitch. Ren Adams.

But what of this moment? This extruded moment that seems to have no day-after realization of a deceptively comfortable time before?

What is this unyielding, elusive “Two and a Half Minutes to Midnight?”

It is a strange, merciless space. We know something is coming. We know it deeply, naturally. We don’t know exactly what is is, or whether it’s a series of somethings, webbed and suffocating, invasive and evasive. We don’t know if it permeates the lives of millions, or pierces the moments of a select few. Some of us have been in this space before, and millions of us are in this place right now, as much as we try to combat, avoid, adopt, subvert or destroy it.

Many have spent their entire lives two and a half minutes to midnight.

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“I Could not Watch You Fall Apart,” 2016. Manual and digital glitch with experimental photography. Ren Adams.

It’s a paralyzing sense of impending doom. Truly impending doom. Not an archetypal apocalypse, which proves certain people right/wrong and ends the cycle of confusion in a swoop–but a system of disturbances and moments leading to a bizarre, extruded “apocalypse.” An extended moment that refuses to collapse. Such that every moment is “10 Minutes Before” the next terrible thing.

When the clock is 2 1/2 minutes to midnight, however, you are fully aware of each excruciating time before. You simply cannot conceive of the time after. There is no release.

I have been suspended in this sense of collective breath-holding, of video-pause action delay that permeates everything for me, and for many, at this moment… I ask myself, what is this space? What is it that we’re feeling, this bizarro-world social cabinet of opposites? I have been here before on a micro scale, so this touches a deeply ingrained sense of unease. I know there can, and will be, extended “time afters” and no one is immune or exempt.

So, I come to another kind of “time before.” Is my work still relevant in the face of this? In the space of global crises? Everything that seems poised to unfold? Everything that is simultaneously unraveling and intensifying? Everything that’s streaming from and filling the floodgate?

Am I still relevant?

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Individual still from installation: “The Language of Falling Apart,” 2016. Manual and digital glitch with experimental photography. Ren Adams.

What’s the point of creating work if everything is two and a half minutes to midnight? What is the nature of political artwork? What is an artist’s role?

These are complex, multi-faceted points that I raise as rhetoric, better investigated in other essays. I don’t pretend to have the answers, but I do come equipped with a desire to question.

And I realize… this is a familiar terrain. A familiar external Cold War. A familiar internal Cold War. A familiar war.

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Individual still from installation: “When I Looked Through You,” 2016. Experimental photography with manual glitch. Ren Adams.

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Individual still from installation: “When I Looked Through You,” 2016. Experimental photography with manual glitch. Ren Adams.

As an artist, watching arts funding end up on the chopping block, watching the NEA, PBS, and other arts agencies recede into the distance–the act of making, of our presence in the studio, of our voice in the classroom and the exhibition space–the strident motion of being ourselves become political in their own execution. They have weight. They are the weft and warp of interlocked experience.

My work is relevant. I allow myself to be. I acknowledge that it is relevant. I allow myself  to continue.

I am relevant.

My work need not carry images of specific politicians or incidents to relate to the sense of anxiety I’ve carried, an anxiety that subsumes this moment, that plagued my Cold War childhood, that plagues millions now.

My work is relevant. It expresses, investigates, indulges both forms of the philosophical “time before” and isn’t afraid to stand inside the “time after.” It lives in the now, in its own relentless, unresolved present moment. In my moment. In our moment.

It emerges from a space of uncertainty, dancing with abstraction and specificity, giving gravity to my own entanglement with knowing and unknowing. This is life, after all. An uncertain dance.

I intend for my work to blueprint a sense of anxiety that’s familiar terrain to many; the uncanny connection we have to feeling almost-safe. That it connects to Cold War television is no surprise. That I use the language of television, with its soft-and-hard dichotomies, its ability to simultaneously offer shallowness and depth, its incomplete, mosaic presentation–is also no surprise. I am always prepared for these moments, even in my direst state of unpreparedness… I am always suspended.

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Individual still from installation: “The Glass and the Fire,” 2016. Experimental photography with manual glitch. Ren Adams.

Having decided that it’s okay (even important) for me to continue making work, in my own way, allowed me to view my recent series with the kind of fresh perspective that comes with “the time after.” My most recent bodies of work have preemptively suggested the sensation of “two and a half minutes to midnight,” and they’ve always dealt with describing a rather indescribable space without being too pedantic or obvious. At least, that’s my intention.

The title of my piece at the top of this essay, “10 Minutes Before,” is a reference to an Alfred Hitchcock Presents television episode title from 1964: “10 Minutes from Now.”

Police grow suspicious of unsuccessful artist James Bellington, after the city commissioner receives a series of bomb threats.  James attempts to meet with the commissioner, in order to personally condemn the commissioner’s choice for the city’s public art display–but he shows up at city hall with a suspicious box.  The police assume it’s a bomb and stop him, only to discover the box contains art supplies. At a public art museum, James is again stopped for carrying a suspicious package, which also turns out to be harmless. As a side note, James is considered “unsuccessful” by the police because he hasn’t had luck selling his artwork and his style seems “all over the place.”

After a cycle of bomb threats paired with faux bombs, the police force James to see a psychiatrist. He tells the psychiatrist that his next bomb threat will be real. The police again stop a bomb-carrying James at the city art museum, where he gives everyone ten minutes to get out, before he blows the place, all while making a political stand for a change in the way art is chosen and represented by the city. Spoiler alert: with the museum empty, and James keeping the authorities at bay, James’ unknown accomplices steal the museum’s most valuable paintings, replacing them with fakes painted by James himself. When the theft is complete, James surrenders. He opens the box to reveal a harmless alarm clock. Unaware of his part in the theft, the police let him go.

“10 Minutes from Now” is a fascinating title choice, as is the tension between the way the artist is supposed to behave if he’s to be perceived as “successful” (i.e., selling works for money), and the way in which the artist actually behaves (his own body of work becomes the strange game of manipulation played out through performance, bomb-like sculptures, and hidden use of forgery). This is a microcosm of the 60s revolt against the museum-structure. I could analyze this episode for pages,  but I won’t do that here. I think the episode speaks for itself, as does the expectation of what an artist should be, could be, can be, subversive or not. The funny thing is, using his artistic talents to forge paintings would probably garner a populist recognition of his “ability,” even as his execution of such works are illegal. The episode itself suggests the forgeries may be James’ literal retaliation, in support of his original protest, at the same time it presents the potential that his protest is entirely meant as smokescreen. Dichotomies, hello.

My piece, “10 Minutes Before,” is not intended to suggest the content or motives of the original Hitchcock episode. Instead, it’s meant to grapple with the same sense of suspension–that 10 Minutes from this point, this interminable, unavoidable and suspended point, that 10 minutes from now, all things have changed. All things have shifted. All things are different. There’s a bomb in the museum, and it might be fake, or it might be real, but it definitely is.

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Left piece, detail, from the diptych, “10 Minutes Before,” 2016. Ren Adams. Experimental photography and manual glitch.

What causes him to cover his face, in anticipation of what’s to come? What do you bring to this piece, that attempts to resolve the gravity of their forms?

What kinds of moments-before are suspended now?

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Juan Carlos Romero, Jan. 20, 2017.

My first draft of this blog post was written February 6th, 2017. The day before my dad’s 80th birthday. The day before my friend Juan Carlos Romero, fellow printmaker, artist, philosopher and fellow maker, was shot to death on Stanford, between Central and Silver, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He was 26.

His death is an active murder investigation. His life was full of ideas.

His then-unknowing final Facebook post was:

“It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”

William Ernest Henley, Invictus, 1875

As I was writing this essay’s first draft, I had no idea (how could I not?) I was again working “10 Minutes Before” another suspended moment, and the mundane coffee-drink, edit-delete writing was another comfortable space, even as it explored the continuously uncomfortable.

At 3 am, February 7, 2017, Juan Carlos was dead. I have the luck and privilege of enjoying a “time after,” as painful as it is. For Juan Carlos, there was only the final “time before.”

January – March (and late 2016) Happenings

I had a blogging dry spell for in November and December, so I missed sharing exhibition updates. Here are my current and recent goings-on:

January – March, 2017

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“Disturbance,” 2016. Single pane from triptych. Variable output sizes (38″ x 40″ for LACDA exhibition). Ren Adams. Experimental cell phone photography with analog glitch.

Electron Salon – at LACDA

What:
I am part of an invitation-only group exhibition featuring digital art and experimental photography, at LACDA (Los Angeles Center for Digital Art).

Exhibition opening: SATURDAY, JANUARY 14, 6-9PM
Exhibition runs Jan. 14 – Feb. 18, 2017.

Where:
LACDA – Los Angeles Center For Digital Art 
Gallery Row, downtown Los Angeles
104 E. 4th St. between Main and Los Angeles Streets.

104 East Fourth Street
Los Angeles, CA 90013
http://www.lacda.com


The Write Place at the Write Time Journal will be featuring one of my pieces from Desert (Loss) – update in February


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Walk n’ Talk – Short Artist Talk Series at Gallery with a Cause

I will be giving a short artist talk on pieces from my “Poppy Transitory” series during next week’s “Walk and Talk” with curator Regina Held, at the New Mexico Cancer Center’s Gallery with a Cause. Other artists will also be present, so there should be a rapid-fire series of talks. This is a great opportunity to view the exhibition and hear more about the ideas and techniques behind the work. The exhibition itself runs through March 3.

Wednesday, January 11 at 6 PM – 7:30-ish PM

Where:

New Mexico Cancer Center
Gallery with a Cause
4901 Lang Ave NE, Albuquerque NM 87109.


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The Art of Giving/The Gift of Art

Selected works from my Poppy Transitory series are featured in a special group exhibition at Gallery with a Cause, part of the New Mexico Cancer Center.

Exhibition runs Dec. 10, 2016 – March 3, 2017.

Opening Reception:
PLEASE NOTE: This is a date change from the earlier published time: 
Sunday, December 18, 4-7 pm.

Where:
New Mexico Cancer Center
Gallery with a Cause
4901 Lang Ave NE, Albuquerque NM 87109.


December, 2016 (highlights)

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Snap to Grid

Exhibition runs December 8-31, 2016
Reception: Saturday, December 10, 6-9 pm

Where:
LACDA – Los Angeles Center For Digital Art 
Gallery Row, downtown Los Angeles
104 E. 4th St. between Main and Los Angeles Streets.

104 East Fourth Street
Los Angeles, CA 90013
http://www.lacda.com


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Annual Holiday Printmaking Sale and 4th International Juried Print Exhibition
New, current and former members of New Grounds Print Workshop & Gallery offer a variety of original works on paper at excellent prices. 

Fridays and Saturdays from 10 AM- 6 PM, beginning Nov. 21, running through December 31.

Official opening reception is December 1, 2016. 6-8 pm.
I will be giving a public talk on the international print exhibition (I was this year’s juror for the international exhibition) on Dec. 1, at 6:30 pm.

Where:
New Grounds Print Workshop & Gallery
3812 Central Ave SE
Albuquerque, NM 87108


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Stirring: A Literary Showcase

“Moments Before,” 2016. Featured in Stirring: A Literary Showcase‘s December edition cover. Archive pending.


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The Hand Magazine – Issue #14 (December)

Featured several pieces from Poppy Transitory, including “Momentary Monuments,” 2016.

http://www.thehandmagazine.space/?page_id=2179

Also featured an article /exhibition catalog for the Pressient Exhibition by Trish Meyer. Trish interviewed me, and other artists in the exhibition.

Pressient – Cotemporary Abstract Printmaking Exhibition

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Selected works from my Poppy Transitory series are featured in Pressient – Contemporary Abstract Printmaking, an August exhibition at The Weyrich Gallery. Curated by Trish Meyer, the show offers a selection of contemporary printmakers and their works on paper.

Fore more information on the exhibition, and to download the exhibition catalog, please visit my portfolio.

Pressient_Postcard_proof2_2016-06-16-2

 

Foothill Freeway

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Emergency! Season 2, Episode 12 (1972). Captured as part of The Cascade – Moments in the Televisual Desert. Image depicts a Foothill Freeway bridge, running East-West, with the Los Angeles County Cascades in the distance. 

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A recent Google Street View image (and screen cap) showing the same location

Part of my ongoing Cascade work is related to the complex, cross-pollination (and conflation) of media and site, television and memory, location and dislocation. Of particular interest is the strange, media-cum-reality Google Street View database, which houses an ongoing, organic and constantly shifting dataspace that maps the movement of humans and development across much of the planet.

In my thesis, I expanded on a suggestion made by my mentor at the time, Kevin McCoy: many older television programs act as early forms of Google Street View themselves–an idea well represented in series like Emergency!, Adam-12, CHiPS, Knight Rider, Starsky & Hutch and The A-Team (to name a few).  These programs not only provide a rolling, documentary undercurrent, they also reinvent the candid spaces they intentionally and inadvertently capture when environmental footage becomes B-roll which haunts televisual structure like a ghost. Repetition and loops become part of the conceptual language of programming and of our parceled viewing experience.

As I take the Cascade in new directions, building videos, playing with new levels of digital imaging and paintings, I am revisiting the relationship between program footage and entries into the Google database–reflecting on the distance (or lack of distance) between forms of landscape documentation, invention and reinvention through various methods of capture. I am using more Google Street Views (literally and conceptually) in the implementation of new work.

Here are a few more Google Street Views of the same area represented by the above screen cap, from The Cascade:

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The last GSV (above) is shot past the overpass (where the emergency vehicles are parked in the television capture), heading up Highway 14.

Desert (Loss) Studio Shots

Here are a few shots of the pieces for Desert (Loss) at various stages of layering, on their way to completion in September and October.

My intent was a combination of flatness and density, like strata of information, memory or sensations that converge and entangle as a kind of information overload. Only certain shapes escape the mosaic chaos. The geographical, imagined and supposed become concurrent events.

Landscape  itself is neither completely geographical nor entirely theoretical. Historian Simon Schama suggests “landscape is a work of the mind. Its scenery is built up as much from strata of memory as from layers of rock” (7). This is vital to Desert (Loss), as well as the larger body of work Desert… spawns from (The Cascade…), as ambiguous, digitally-informed landscape ruptures and re-contextualizes the nature of location, by way of a strange elasticity. Time, perspective and distance are contingencies in my manipulated topography.

In this case, I sampled my videos, media and screen caps and flattened them into graphic strata. Layered like transparent sediment, they suggest the way pinpointed moments and memories freeze with a fictionalized quality, yet remain transient and insubstantial (yet hardened as iconic distillations). until built up with other layers of memory and experience (additional strata), forming a relational network that allows the viewer to understand.

An earlier phase:

And later phases:

View the finished works here and here.

Desert (Loss) – Solo Exhibition Opening Nov. 6

"San Fernando (tomorrow, never)," 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12".

“San Fernando (tomorrow, never),” 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12″.

Desert (Loss), 2015 – Project/Artist Statement

Desert (Loss) investigates the suspension between loss and distance, through the language of a fractured desert. These remixed landscapes imply the weirdness of the West; vastness and density become memories of memory, mutations of a white-hot encounter. Historian Simon Schama says “landscape is a work of the mind. Its scenery is built up as much from strata of memory as from layers of rock,” just as our own stories and memories are constructed of layered moments.

My strata are flattened, graphic layers, which suggest the way recollection develops a fictional sheen, with pinpoints of lucid detail; certain moments burn and remain. The play between flatness and depth asks what it means to inhabit the space between memory and experience, where fleeting exchanges flare and dissolve. My compressed imagery is remixed, just as we shuffle memories like tracks on a playlist—moments fade and recur. Some details get replayed.

In processing a personal sense of dislocation and loss, I am drawn to the landscape of media and television—complex spaces I’ve inhabited in life and through the ambiguity of fact-fiction. Like memory, TV offers a dual sense of place, a spark of the ‘here’ and ‘elsewhere.’ Imagery in Desert (Loss) remixes my own media-infused artwork, drawing on television, personal photographs and even Google Street View to form a composite desert; a California-New Mexico-Hollywood of past and present.

See more from the series here and here.

Solo Exhibition Opening:

Where:
New Grounds Gallery
3812 Central Ave SE
Albuquerque, NM 87108

When:
Exhibition runs through November 30, 2015.
Artist / opening reception: Friday, Nov. 6, 6-8 pm.
Printmaking Demo (of my serigraphy techniques), Friday, Nov. 6 (6:30 pm).
Sneak Preview: Tuesday, Nov. 3 – Thursday, Nov. 5, 2015.

Foothill Freeway & Balboa (I see you in all things), 2015. Layered serigraphy, image transfer, Akua monotype. 9 x 12".

Foothill Freeway & Balboa (I see you in all things), 2015. Layered serigraphy, image transfer, Akua monotype. 9 x 12″.

 

"Pearblossom Highway (only a little more time...)," 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12".

“Pearblossom Highway (only a little more time…),” 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12″.

"La Brea (effervescent)," 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12".

“La Brea (effervescent),” 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12″.

 

"Inglewood (substance of now)," 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12".

“Inglewood (substance of now),” 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12″.

"Mojave (Always)," 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12".

“Mojave (Always),” 2015. Serigraphy and monotype. 9 x 12″.

The curator’s favorite:

"Sylmar Suspension (in my nothing)," 2015. Serigraphy, image transfer and monotype. 9 x 12".

“Sylmar Suspension (in my nothing),” 2015. Serigraphy, image transfer and monotype. 9 x 12″.