February 6, 2010
posted and written by caroline picard
What follows is the curatorial statement used for FLUXspace exhibit
February 6 – March 6, 2010
Opening Reception: February 6, 2010, 7 – 10 pm CLOSING RECEPTION TBA
Gallery Hours: Saturdays 12 – 4 pm or by appointment
Contact: Angela Jerardi, 202.258.9670 /
ANTENNAS in the middle of a snowstorm
curatorial statment about Isolated Fictions
It has been snowing for the last several hours. In the short time I’ve been in Philadelphia, anticipation for that snow has been the main subject of conversation. It was the anticipation of that storm that made me think about imagination and the way we project ourselves into the future, building and sharing expectations.
Three nights ago, a stranger crossed my path at midnight. He shook his head repeatedly, “Snow, snow, snow, snow, snow…” he said. That’s when I knew. That’s when I knew it was going to be a big storm.
It’s fitting that Isolated Fictions would open with a storm; 189 years ago a group of sailors who created the original North Georgia Gazette were very cold. They were cold and they sat in the dark for many months, waiting for the ice that locked their ships into the Arctic Circle to melt. It’s fitting that an exhibition inspired by the Gazette would coincide with a hazardous storm. There are a number of comparisons worth noting.
Due to preventative weather conditions, almost two feet of snow, we expect a small turnout. The sailors were cold on a ship; we’re cold in a warehouse. The sailors made work, imagining the possibility of a future audience. We put up an exhibition—Rebecca Grady and I came from Chicago, Amanda Browder came from New York. We anticipate someone other than ourselves and our hosts at FLUX will witness it. Further, Isolated Fictions takes place in North Kensington, an out-of-the-way neighborhood with narrow streets, families, an occasional bodega, a bar, a hair salon. FLUXspace is a destination venue for contemporary art enthusiasts. Most of those would come from elsewhere—other neighborhoods in other parts of the city. The North Pole is also a destination venue, though it’s enthusiasts are, perhaps, of a different sort.
Obviously, it is absurd to draw any literal comparisons between the inhospitable, natural Arctic North and a contemporary urban art gallery. Yet perhaps in this show, in this place, there are echoes and refractions which, having extended out of Parry’s experience, muting and deviating through time, suddenly, and oddly, reappear here as a kind of temporary eddy.
In 2009, The Green Lantern Press reprinted and re-contextualized that 1821 newspaper. In addition to excerpts from the Captain’s journal and the newspaper itself (featuring original poems, play reviews, classified ads, etc.), the text is punctuated with images of work by contemporary artists. Both the design of the book and the interjection of those artists creates a bridge from an historical event to our contemporary present; from the world of the sailor/expeditionist to that of the artist.
Those sailors wrote from a place without a guaranteed audience. They had no way of knowing whether the papers they wrote, the experiments they executed, journals kept, would ever find their way beyond the arctic landscape. Nevertheless, they put on plays for one another, wore sometimes girlish costumes, published writing—investing in the idea of posterity. Creating something for a hoped-for audience, an audience that would only exist if they were to survive their conditions and escape the ice. To believe in such an audience is as life-affirming as the fictions they made for one another. Both are hopeful. I would argue that such an investment was essential to their survival. Considering the odds they were up against, Parry’s expedition was an unprecedented success. Only one man died.
Isolated Fictions picks up on the idea of communication; focusing on the action of (art)work. That desire to make work, to be heard, in order to communicate something specific. Each piece is evidence of such work, an attempt for an individual to communicate. Each piece demands its own terms, using different formal vocabularies using found material. The necessary idea behind each work is that, despite its idiosyncratic aesthetic language, both (art)maker and audience believe its meaning can be communicated. Similarly, the everyday speaker assumes his or her thought can be expressed in words, while the listener assumes he or she can grasp that same speaker’s thought. It’s remarkable, really. Impossible. Absurd.
And yet. A suspension of disbelief is required in order to participate in the world. One must hope that the work can and will be heard, just as the work must hope that it is understandable. That hope is a kind of striving.
Jason Dunda’s The Tower, shows a painstaking care to brushstroke and detail; he shows us an impossible construction, cartoon-like with intricate pattern and color. The tower looks like it’s constructed with a variety of found and various two x fours. From far away, the tower looks believable. On closer inspection, however, one sees the individual pieces of the tower are not connected by any nail or screw. At best, they are dubious load-bearers. The Tower demands a degree of imaginative participation from the viewer, asking that one imagine it can be used. It also points to a natural desire to climb above one’s perspective. Towers are erected to see from a higher vantage, for protection or knowledge. When creating a tower, one also creates a point of vulnerability, a place from which one is easily seen. The Tower is self-reflexive, in this way, pointing to the art making process—the illusory potential of materials, the demand of viewer participation (via imagination/projection), the desire to communicate and or see something greater than oneself. Even, the vulnerability of imagination.
Devin King’s 2 squared + 4 = 8 samples sentences from different sources. He gathers these and reforms them onto a page, creating a poem, or a space, or a narrative. He borrows characters from the Gazette, “Hooper” for instance, is captured as he might have been in the Arctic, performing on stage. Splice that image together with Kathryn on the telephone curling the chord, or Victor Hugo’s proverbial octopus (what Hugo called “killjoys of the contemplator,”) to mixtapes and aggressive historicizing. King’s work actively lays out various examples of communication-attempts. By re-contextualizing them he disrupts the specific meaning of each original phrase. By creating a new surface with those phrases, the words become flat objects, the disjointed and intuitive narrative a spectral projection who’s meaning is ultimately subjective.
No Floe (2005), by Carmen Price, operates similarly, providing a space—revealing more than anything the work of an introspective process. The care of the graphite coloring, its texture, its soft mottled-ness—like fur almost—provides a means to measure time taken in the drawing’s completion. It seems almost like a landscape painted of a very particular inner space, one inaccessible to a larger audience beyond its present form, as a representation of that space, not a literal depiction of it. There are three distinct forms of mark-making or color that used. The first operates like a kind of wash, or pale blue sky. The ground is the graphite–a solid field of grey, textured by the directional lines its comprised by. Then too there is a floating overlay of triangular marks–these combine to read as a single structure, appearing in one sense like a floating iceberg. Yet her too, the combined meaning of these marks is projected, a result of the viewer making assumption, assuming even that each constituent family of mark making can be associated with the literal, physical world out the window. While the marriage is successful in composition, they could simply be doodles, a collection of found lines.
Iceberg is a soft sculpture by New York artist, Amanda Browder. In some way Browder creates a three-dimensional, tactile experience of what Price hints at in his drawing. Stitching one-dimensional fabric surfaces together, Browder creates a sense of depth, abstracted from the variant kinds of ice and surface that make up icebergs. Here too, she uses found, donated materials and the coalescent patterns, the gingham print on one facet of the structure, abutting the polyester pants-suit leg of another facet, topped with a crag of white stuffed animal fur, recontextualize mass-produced, factory materials into a singular object that mimics nature. Here too, the form points beneath itself, to the space it theoretically occupies underneath the floor, extending into the well-known metaphor that the tip of any given iceberg represents one tenth of its true size. Using this three-dimensional structure, Browder defines a phsyical space of abstraction. One which the viewer must then negotiate.
Deb Sokolow’s work creates a different kind of space for the viewer. While integrating text and images, she always uses the second person, teasing out paranoid fantasies. In this instance, however, she projects a specific relationship onto that viewer, controlling the viewer’s position by way of suggestion. “Is there a draft in the room?” she asks, imposing on you the role of Captain Parry. “Odd. There shouldn’t be.” Imposing on you again the beginnings of concern. Integrating historical events with rumor and suspicion, Sokolow builds a narrative as one might a house—composing her narrative around your head. It is as though she cannot be sure that you will understand her work as it might take place in her eyes. Instead, she controls what you see through your own eyes.
Rebecca Grady has a number of pieces in this exhibition. She made the framed grid at the bottom of the stairs. She also made the Arctic Map, where again, one sees the result of interpretation and fantasy projected onto an existing landscape—the earth. Her most curious piece is comprised of sheets of paper that hang straight down from a pipe parallel to the floor. The sheets curl under themselves. They are crinkled in places with devising topographies. It is likely the most cryptic piece in the show. The most demanding. And for all it’s simplicity, the most inaccessible. Here one must ask what the piece is asking; what the (art)maker is trying to communicate. A Fraction of an Instant Where Water and Human Ambition Collide creates a wall upon which we look, through which we cannot pass. It is constructed of usable material, material humanity can manipulate to express other things. And yet its largess, its emotional inexpressiveness is daunting. Reminiscent of sheets of ice or a waterfall, the paper becomes a metaphor for natural elements beyond human control. The ice that locked Parry’s ships into a winter season of darkness.
Finally, Nick Butcher’s piece Grain Advance is a mirror replica of an original, vintage historic record. Butcher pours woodglue on the record, applies paper to the back and, when dry, the paper pulls the woodglue cast. That cast is then played. The sound is ghostly, full of pops and static. The needle gets stuck in tracks and loops over and over itself. Here too the meaning of the original record is lost. A shadow remains and that shadow creates a new audio space, one the viewer inhabits. The audio space, the way it repeats itself, is also a measure of time, whereby the repetition, the tireless monotony, influences our experience of progression. I always find myself imagining that the record is very old. I project myself into a past that presumably exists, in as much as the record is evidence of it. And yet. That record is false evidence. It has been fabricated.
Each piece reflects a process of making just as much as it reveals an earnest intention to communicate. We are here now, standing in an idiosyncratic space, in a part of the city generally overlooked by upwardly mobile denizens with annual subscriptions to the New Yorker. Nevertheless it is such bizarre and focused and marginalized activities as these that make life interesting. As a final note on communication, I thought I’d pull a quote that Devin sited during the book launch for the Gazette. At one point, Victor Hugo spoke to the ocean. Hugo asked it to write a piece of music that described itself for the flute. This is what it said, rapping on a table:
“Your flute pierced with little holes like the ass of a shitting brat disgusts me. Bring me an orchestra and I’ll make you a song. Take all the great noises, all the tumults, all the fracases, all the rages that float free in space, the morning breeze, the evening breeze, the wind of the night, the wind of the grave, storms, simoons, nor-easters that run their violent fingers through the hair of trees like desperate beings, rising tide on the beaches, rivers plunging into seas, cataracts, waterpouts, vomitings of the enormous breast of the world, what lions roar, what elephants bellow with their trunks, what impregnable snakes hiss in their convolutions, what whales low through their humid nostrils, what mastodons pant in the entrails of the earth, what the horses of the sun neigh in the depths of the sky, what the entire menagerie of the wind thunders in its aerial cages, what insults fire and water throw at each other, one from the bottom of his volcanic yap the other from the bottom of his abysmal yap, and tell me: here is your orchestra—make harmony from this din, make love from these hates, make peace from these battle, be the maestro of that which has no master.”
February 3, 2010
September 10, 2009
posted by Caroline Picard
We got this super awesome review in this week’s TimeOut Chicago which is due out (in print) tomorrow…anyway, I thought I’d share the first paragraph to whet the appetite, so to speak. What follows was written by Jonathan Messinger…. (photos courtesy of Sonnenzimmer)
Anonymous critics may have found their ultimate playground in the comments sections of countless websites, but cowardly griping is no 21st-century invention. In fact, in 1819, a sailor saw an opportunity to namelessly sound off in a letter to the editor of The North Georgia Gazette and Winter Chronicle, complaining that the theater scene had grown too concerned with putting up new work and had forgotten the old favorites.
Of course, we’re willing to cut “A Looker-On” (as he called himself) a little slack, given the risk of retribution. He was in a more closed community, being one of 92 men stranded just off the Baffin Bay in the winter, waiting out the season on two ships moored to the ice.
Royal Navy vessels Hecla and Gripere made the voyage from England in 1819, attempting to find the Northwest Passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific Oceans. The ships had been prepped to wait out the winter months: Heavy cloths covered their decks, and they were stocked with fuel, food and provisions to last them through. But Lt. William Edward Parry knew the men would need to keep themselves busy, so he commissioned The Chronicle, designed to report the good news of the camp, and plays to provide entertainment (which stuck in A Looker-On’s craw). The North Georgia Gazette and Winter Chronicle was produced in numerous editions, a historical document that doubles as historical oddity, and brought back to print by Chicago’s Green Lantern Press.
April 6, 2009
posted by Caroline Picard
written by Captain Parry (whom Lily finds quite dashing)
also excerpted from The Captain’s Log (c. 1821) and to be published in our forthcoming publication The North Georgia Gazette.
The effect which exposure to severe frost has, in benumbing the mental as well as the corporeal faculties, was very striking in this man, as well as in two of the young gentlement who returned after dark, and of whom we were anxious to make inquiries respecting Pearson. When I sent for them into my cabin, they looked wild, spoke thick and indistinctly, and it was impossible to draw from them a rational answer to any of our questions. After being on board for a short time, the mental faculties appeared gradually to return with the returning circulation, and it was not till then that looker-on could easily persuade himself that they had not been drinking too freely. To those who have been much accustomed to cold countries this will be no newe remark; but I cannot help thinking (and it is with this view that I speak of it) that many a man may have been punished for intoxication, who was only suffering from the benumbing effects of frost; for I have more than once seen our people in a state so exactly resembling that of the most stupid intoxication, that I should certainly have charged them with that offence, had I not been quite sure that no possible means were afforded them on Melville Island, to procure any thing stronger than snow-water. In order to guard in some measure against the danger of persons losing their way, which was more and more to be apprehended as the days became shorter, and the ground more covered with snow, which gives such a dreary sameness to the country, we erected on all the hills within two or three miles of the harbour, finger-posts pointing towards the ships.
January 1, 2009
The following is a poem written on board the H.M.S. Hecla in 1820 while it was landlocked in the Arctic circle and was forced to spend the entire winter marooned on Melville Island, enduring months of total darkness and severe cold. It appeared in the North Georgia Gazette, a newspaper initiated by Sir William Edward Parry, Captain of the Hecla in an effort to distract the officers and crew from the isolation and tedium of the long winter months.
For the WINTER CHRONICLE.
THOUGHTS ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, A.D. 1820.
The moments of chasten’d delight are gone by,
When we left our loved homes o’er new regions to rove,
When the firm manly grasp, and the soft female sigh,
Mark’d the mingled sensations of friendship and love.
The season of pleasure has hurried away,
When through far-stretching ice a safe passage we found,
The led us again to the dark rolling sea,
And the signal was seen “on for Lancaster’s Sound.
The joys that we felt when we pass’d by the shore,
Where no footstep of man had e’er yet been imprest,
When rose in the distance no mountain-tops hoar,
As the sun of the evening bright gilded the west,
Full swiftly they fled—and that hour too is gone
When we gain’d the meridian assign’d as a bound,
To entitle our crews to their country’s first boon,
Hail’d by all as an omen the passage was found.
And past with our pleasures, are moments of pain;
Of anxious suspense, and of eager alarm—
Environ’d by ice, skill and ardour were vain
The swift moving mass of its force to disarm;
Tho’ dash’d on the beach, and our boats torn away,
No anchors could hold us, nor cable secure;
The dread and the peril expired with the day,
When none but high Heaven could our safety ensure.
Involved with the ages existent before
Is the year that has brought us thus far on our way
And gratitude calls us, our God to adore
For the oft-renew’d mercies its annals display;
The floomy meridian of darkness is past,
And ere long shall gay Spring and the herbage revive,
O’er the wide waste of ice shall re-echo the blast,
And the firm prison’d ocean its fetters shall rive.
Now dawns the New Year! But what mind can expose
The events that await us before it expires?
In the isles of the south to remember its close,
Or in regions of frost mourn our frustrate desires!
Yet Hope points the track that our vessels shall force
Till Pacific’s wide ocean around us we view;
Bright Hope shall expand as we follow our course,
And the dangers we meet but our courage renew.
The friends we have left, at this season of mirth
Do their bosoms or pleasure or anguish sustain?
Do they deem us yet safe in these wilds of the earth,
Or whelm’d in the surges that whiten the main?
No longer they now can expect our return,
No longer they mark ev’ry change of the breeze;
But the thought of despair fond affection will spurn,
And confident rest on Almighty decrees!
With them we but share the proud hope of success,
And look forward with joy to the days yet to come;
When the heart overflowing, warm tears shall express
How sincere is the welcome that greets us at home;
Be happiness theirs while we severed remain!—
Be fortitude firm, and exertion, our own!
Till the shores of Old Albion once more we regain,
Once more to enjoy every bliss we have known.
 Our ships were the first that succeeded in effecting a passage to the westward, through the ice which occupies the middle of Baffin’s Bay in the early part of the summer.
 Telegraphic signal made by Hecla, after breaking through the first barrier of ice.
 The evening was beautifully clear when we sailed over the spot assigned to CROKER’s MOUNTAINS.
 The meridian of 110˚ west, which entitled us to the first reward of 5,000l.
posted by Lily
December 13, 2008
from Sir Sir William Edward Parry’s “Journal of a Voyage for the Discover of a North-West Passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific performed in the years 1819-20, in His Majesty’s Ships HECLA and GRIPER…”
A halo around the moon.
A column of light under the sun.
Refracted hummocks of ice.
A halo with parhelia, observed around the sun.
Parhelia situated outside the halo
posted by Lily
December 12, 2008
This is an excerpt from the forthcoming Green Lantern publication, The North Georgia Gazette.
by Lily Robert-Foley