DANCE of DECAY

A delicate balance between our environment and our human interaction with it seems important during this, the year of the pandemic. Although the virus is made by nature, it is also made possible by human interference. This relationship reveals itself to me as I study shapes of decomposition and microbial patterns. While in the studio, I view decomposing pods, unraveling bulbs, and dried aquatic fragments under a magnifying glass. In my current work, I find that the patterns of decay seem to echo the invisible forces controlling their movement. Paradoxically these delicate remains of life reflect both the fragility and the vitality of the earth and its oceans.

These images contain my fears and my hopes in response to our current climate crisis. The earth I have always depended on is undergoing dramatic change. And yet, the patterns of decay are constantly surprising me. Although I use close observation, these paintings are not strictly representational. My tendency is to amplify minute details, to pump up color saturation, and to intensify contrast to the point where the image becomes something altogether different. Observation of dead, inanimate objects offers me the challenge to imbue them with movement and activity.

Ambiguity of space in these paintings suggests that what is inside can seem larger than the container itself. Borders hold the objects; yet most of them cannot help but push outside these boundaries or spill back inside the frames. In a vibrant ecosystem, I see the process of decay as a cyclical dance in which the various agents play their parts. Ordering of the steps is important. Rotting vegetation, sun, wind, and rain all have assigned roles and are inscribed into the choreography. I find hope in nature’s ability to regenerate; even as the drooping blooms of a flower are about to fall to the ground, the smallest seed peeks out, hinting at its potential for new growth.

Oil paintings on linen, 60" x 34" - 62" x 36

The series Dance of Decay began as a search for patterns in the natural world. A Romanesco cauliflower I picked up at the farmer’s market displayed a fractal-like recurring spiral pattern.  The mathematical beauty described by Archimedes, Descartes, and Fibonacci revealed itself in rhythms on a shifting scale, both macro and micro. A bunch of onions led to the image "Cartesian Vortices."  The composition comes from a seventeenth-century drawing by René Descartes. It renders in visual form his theory of movement among celestial bodies. By observing the peeling skin and prismatic colors of drying onions, I discovered a parallel to Descartes’ geometric structures. Like Descartes’ diagram, my painting evokes the invisible forces that animate things large and small: not only the heavenly planets, but also the earthly onion.

Repurposed boxes, drawers, and card catalogues contain the seeds, nuts, and pods I observed in the large oil paintings for "Dance of Decay." People were interested to see the original inspirations for the abstracted images of decay. Combining natural objects and smaller paintings of the magnified seeds revealed similar patterns . Man-made objects were added when their shapes or functions coincided with those of the natural objects. For example, the woven pattern of the mandarin orange sack mirrored the shape and function of the basket-like weaving pattern on the Sweetgum balls.

These details show close-ups from the project, "DANCE OF DECAY."

The memory drawings are found object collages with mixed media on Rives BFK paper. Included materials are cardboard slide mounts, sewn threads, antique hat pins, souvenirs, photos, and buttons. The repurposed objects are the odd bits and pieces that settle to the backs of household drawers, surviving the sifting of what gets used and what gets thrown away. They contain the memories and stories of their migration. The embroidery stitches control the movement in the drawings, and they attach the cardboard slide mount, an object obsolete today, yet essential for artist submissions in the past.

Like selected works in my “Tactile Memories” series, some of these paintings have been included in "tactile" exhibitions, where the participants are encouraged to use sequential touch in exploring the artworks. Dedicated to writer and neurologist Oliver Sacks, the windows are inspired by one of his stories. During a residency at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts in Sweetbriar, VA, I experimented with ways to mix the visual and the tactile. The neurologist's experience with various patients included one man who was virtually blind at an early age; later he had his vision restored as an adult. The story raised questions about how someone with limited vision might experience visual clues.

I began by placing on the panels various tactile objects such as sand, string, gauze, cotton, and fabrics. After layers of gesso and sanding, the textures were then covered with oil paint. The actual textures on the top of the oil-painted windows were complemented by the illusionary texture on the paper drawings below. With eyes closed, I began by rolling textured objects soaked in paint across large rolls of BFK paper. I moved the objects (e.g. nuts, seeds, sponges) through the paints without knowing what they looked like. Later, I cut the paper in sections and paired them with the oil paintings. The juxtaposition of the upper textured panels with the lower illusionary textures on paper is designed to challenge our usual modes of perception.

According to Sacks, "The rest of us, born sighted, can scarcely imagine such confusion . . . .we make our world through incessant experience, categorization, memory, reconnection . . . . But what [the man] saw had no coherence." (To See and Not See," The New Yorker May 10, 1993.) It was difficult to understand a simultaneous view when one was accustomed to a sequential view of the world.

 The images in this series are metaphorical containers for memories. Often personal, the embedded objects represent stories of family and friends. Included, for example, are fragments of souvenirs my grandparents brought me as a child. Several panels hold items I salvaged while emptying my mother’s apartment after she died. These everyday relics are the odd bits and pieces that settle to the backs of household drawers, surviving the sifting of what gets used and what gets thrown away.

The images in this series are metaphorical containers for memories. As in Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past, these mementos act as building blocks in “the vast structure of recollection.” Often personal, the objects embedded in the panels represent stories of family and friends. Included, for example, are fragments of souvenirs my grandparents brought me as a child. Several panels hold items I salvaged while emptying my mother’s apartment after she died. These everyday relics are the odd bits and pieces that settle to the backs of household drawers, surviving the sifting of what gets used and what gets thrown away. It becomes a game to recognize common objects hidden in the panels: objects that recollect the stories of their migration.
 
The exhibit contains about fifty images, each around twenty-two inches high. Texture is an important component, sometimes with actual textures and other times by the illusion of texture. Several of the pieces have been invited into “tactile” exhibits, in which visitors are encouraged to use sequential touch in exploring the artworks. Since many of the items are familiar, the game of recognition is also available to someone without vision.

Memories are tricky, just like the texture that is sometimes an illusion. As the stories are told, collected, retold, and recollected, they change. The story then takes the place of the memory, and as Proust explains it, “Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.” Building memories requires a strong imagination.

Active Still Life: Noisy Se Butsu

These photographs and works on paper are inspirations for my paintings and convey the "Active Still Life."

Many academic artists work from arbitrary objects, which they place on a table, in order to observe the effects of light, shadow, form, and color. In English, we call this collection of objects a “Still Life.” In French it is called “Nature Morte.” An art student I met told me the Japanese translation for still life is “Se-Butsu,” which roughly means “quiet objects.” The somewhat oxymoronic nature of these terms intrigues me. I call my still life studies “Noisy Se-Butsu” because for me, the still life is active, the quiet objects are noisy, and dead nature still has life in it.