GIVING WORSHIP TO raw-brut ART


The home of Raw Art — 137 ac (artist collective)

PARIS 1947         NEW YORK 2011

A full day of snow in New York was enchanting enough, like an invitation to silence the tricks of the mind with a white curtain over the pupils. For the opening of an art brut exhibition, American and contemporary, it was a good omen. I’m not reviewing the exhibition. This is a story of friendship, hope and despair bringing up, despite sixty years of distance and different countries, the same wish for freedom and authenticity in art expressed by The Company of Raw Art in Paris in 1947. Ideas and projects came from Jean Dubuffet, Jean Paulhan, Charles Ratton, Henri-Pierre Roché, and Michel Tapié:

“We are seeking artistic works such as paintings, drawings, statues and statuettes, all types of objects owing nothing to the imitation of works of art seen in museums, salons and galleries. They should put originality to use, along with the most spontaneous and personal inventions, they should be productions which the creator drew from deep within, the result of his [her] own inclination and moods, […] regardless of the conventions currently in use. Works without masks or contraints. We believe these abilities exist (at least at times) in every man [and woman].”

Bianca Sforni, Annatina Miescher, and Jonathan McVey, others around them, are first of all connected by friendship. And one idea lives in their minds: there is no such thing as outsider art. There are artists. Some of them were treasure islands found over decades of psychiatric practice by Dr. Annatina Miescher: they were self taught, sometimes in a strong conflict with life. In 2011, after twenty years as a director of the Outpatient Chemical Dependency Program of the Bellevue Hospital in New York, Dr. Miescher invited them to be part of the 137ac (artist collective) and share a studio. Some of their works were hung on the walls of Bianca Sforni’s Noho studio on March 5th for an exhibition blessed by the snow. Bianca, or you could call her White, is a belated gift I received from Claudia, a friend for all her life, after she passed away. She was Bianca’s gallerist in Milan. I met Bianca in New York and we ate and ate remembering Claudia who used to love a great deal of good food. What’s stronger than friendship?

Here’s the story, written by Annatina doctor, with images of the 137ac studio first and of her Bellevue Hospital office between words.

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137ac (artist collective) by Annatina Miescher

The 429.8 square feet studio is on the third floor of 137 West 14th Street in New York City. Four artist work there sharing all supplies. Kenny Guttierrez, the landlord, offered them a space in the building where he is creating a community he named Rat Park. He thought they would bring good karma. My parents pay the rent. I clean and help stretch canvas. Jonathan McVey made me stick to my dream and became my associate. We created a non-profit building support for the collective. We have no written contract with the painters, they have it clear: the studio air is tolerance, care and respect while they inspire and challenge each other to explore and develop their talent to the fullest. They have their own keys.

The four artists currently working at the studio are Paula Isaac, Janet Laing, Richard Lau and Uman while the collective counts several more. Painting need or desire and life circumstances do not always go hand in hand and the studio is small. Each artist has an extraordinary life course and could write a tremendous book, but they do not write, they paint. I hope you get to know them.

Now the dream. Mid 2010 I ended my over two decades career in Bellevue Hospital in order to continue practicing psychiatry based on my experience and ethical values outside of an institution in which the bureaucratic constraints had suddenly risen above the patient care. My time at Bellevue had been wonderful, I was the director of the Outpatient Chemical Dependency Program and together with the dedicated staff and patients was able to build a wholesome community for people to practice sober life in a fun loving oasis that included art, food, patient government and economy, pets and gardening integrated with first class medical and psychiatric treatments. My office was an art collection of patient works mixed with found objects and found animals. A timber wolf, a one eyed black cat called Six Toes, a pigeon, a pair of gay doves and three cockatiels roamed free in my office. Art has always been a way of life for me and I apply it to everything. “Practicing psychiatry is like making sculptures with found objects, you take inventory of what the person carries and help them balance it to walk on in life.” One day an Art Brut authority visited my office and was impressed by the art. His words still resonate in my heart: “you have to make them paint”, while his name faded. 

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So I had a dream debt: to see what the talented people I had met there could do if given the opportunity. This opportunity arrived in December 2011. I was introduced to Bjarne Melgaard who was looking for a source of painters to collaborate with. He offered to share his personal studio in Bushwick with painters without formal art education or contact with the contemporary art world. I brought eleven artists and became myself part of the group.

Bjarne was an exceptional host, he made it a point to not interfere with our work and gave us unlimited access to art supplies. We understood he was looking for authenticity. Then he offered us his own painted canvas to collaborate on and asked us to do papier mâché pieces to illustrate a book we did not read.

He included our works in his show at Ramiken Crucible, Ideal Pole part two: all words destroy and brought the collaborative works and all the papier mâché works to London in September 2012, to be in his ICA show, called “a House to Die in”, our group was called the Bellevue Survivors. Our time in Melgaard’s studio came to an end.

Words of Melgaard in Opening Ceremony News News, October 2, 2013
“these people make art not as a career choice but because they needed it for survival. Their way of relating to the images and the pictures was so different from my own. It was so direct and so private and so spontaneous, all at the same time.”

We continued the group in a smaller version and adopted the name 137ac. the Bellevue Survivors name inspired people in the press to be at liberty to refer to us neither as people nor artists but “the schizophrenics”. Melgaard continued to donate supplies, and curated our first 137ac show :”Dans ma Chambre” in a pop up space in the Chelsea art Gallery district in May 2013. While we learned how to work as a collective we had another show “Artists in Resonance” at Adjacent to Life (http://adjacenttolife.tumblr.com) curated by Mark Roth in October 2013 and offered a couple of studio art fairs.

Then Bianca Sforni offered to host and curate a show “Art Brut” in her beautiful Bleecker Street Studio in March 2015. She had followed the collective since its beginnings in Melgaard’s studio. Her professionalism, dedication and care challenged us to realize we have a responsibility to take our place in the contemporary art scene.

I smell paint between two birthdays on March 28

March 28 – My grandfather’s birthday, in 1887 — My daughter’s birthday, in 1974 March 28

ORESTE ALBERTINI  —  BARBARA CALABI

March is the Month of Expectation.

The thing we do not know –

The Persons of prognostication Are coming now –

We try to show becoming firmness-

But pompous Joy

Betray us, as his first Betrothal

Betrays a Boy.

EMILY DICKINSON

By Rosanna Albertini —  For someone like me who has never been able to remember father’s and mother’s day of birth, not to mention other birthdays, March 28 is a landmark, the only date cut into my brain. The two persons born that day never met; I’m the thread between them, although my attachment to each of them is free from biological specifications. I’m convinced we are “destiny’s grandchildren, stepchildren of God, who married Eternal Night, when she was widowed of Chaos, who engendered us.” (thank you Fernando, the great Pessoa).

So I love them both without conditions, because they are in me as permanent as my own body. They are the magnetic needle of my life. Chance has given them a similar beginning: Oreste was “il piturel,” the child painter helping master Cesare Maroni to restore walls and columns of the major church of my Lombard village. Niches and columns only looked like marble, because the hand painting was accurate, it convinced them they had embodied the spirit of marble. As a child, I never doubted they were marble. Barbara instead worked in Rome; the church was Saint Peter. Having been trained as a professional restorer in Florence, she could be part of the team that brought back to splendor the outside porch at the entrance of Saint Peter. But, it was the same task.

Roma. Barbara Calabi in Saint Peter Square, in front of the church.

Roma. Barbara Calabi in Saint Peter Square, in front of the church.

Besano, 1900. Oreste Albertini, (the first on the left) in front of the church with master Cesare Maroni.

Besano, 1900. Oreste Albertini, (the first on the left) in front of the church with master Cesare Maroni.

Now Barbara lives in Caprona, a Tuscan village near Pisa. I don’t know exactly if it’s Italy or Granducato di Toscana, Italian politics are rather obscure in these days. She was born in Venice, another quite independent republic trying to live on it’s past glories. She started painting on her own not long ago, in 2014.

BARBARA CALABI, Bosco innevato, 2014, Acrylic on canvas

BARBARA CALABI, Bosco innevato, 2014, Acrylic on canvas

BARBARA CALABI, La piena, 2014, Acrylic on canvas

BARBARA CALABI, La piena, 2014, Acrylic on canvas

Grandfather Oreste was an outdoor painter: strong shoes and the easel on his shoulders he spent decades looking for the colors of depth and the spirit of landscapes, especially in the Dolomites. The three paintings I publish here were made in the decade between 1930 and 1940. They are images from his son Alberto’s photographic archive. The Antermoia lake, night and daily view, and Passo Rolle. Alberto remembers the family was still in Passo Rolle, in September 1939, when the news arrived that the Nazy army had invaded Pollland. On top of the mountains, among cows and rocks, history was at hand through the radio, or reported by visitors; never too far, it was normally shared by the family and I’m quite sure part of it ended into the brush strokes.

ORESTE ALBERTINI, Lago di Antermoia di notte, 1930-1940

ORESTE ALBERTINI, Lago di Antermoia di notte, 1930-1940

ORESTE ALBERTINI, Lago di Antermoia di giorno, 1930-1940

ORESTE ALBERTINI, Lago di Antermoia di giorno, 1930-1940

28 marzo 1887: Compleanno del nonno – 28 marzo 1974: Compleanno di mia figlia

ORESTE ALBERTINI – BARBARA CALABI

Marzo è il mese delle Aspettative.

Le cose che non sappiamo –

Le Persone annunciate Si presentano adesso –

Anche se cerchiamo di indossare fermezza

Una Gioia pomposa

Ci tradisce. come il primo Fidanzamento

Tradisce un Ragazzo.

EMILY DICKENSON

Rosanna Albertini — Per una persona che non è mai stata capace di ricordare il giorno natale di padre e madre, per non dire di altri compleanni, che è poi il caso mio, il 28 marzo invece è una pietra miliare, l’unica data impressa nel cervello. Le due persone che nacquero quello stesso giorno non si sono mai incontrate; la mia persona è il legame fra loro. Va detto per la verità che il mio attaccamento non dipende da specificazioni biologiche. Sono convinta che siamo tutti “nipoti del destino, figli adottivi di Dio, il quale andò sposo alla Notte Eterna quando essa rimase vedova del Caos, dal quale siamo generati.” (Grazie Fernando, l’eccelso Pessoa).

Cosi l’affetto che ho per entrambi è incondizionato perché la loro presenza dentro di me ha la stessa durata del mio corpo. Sono l’ago magnetico della mia vita. La sorte ha voluto che avessero tutti e due lo stesso cominciamento: Oreste era “il piturel”, il pittore bambino che assisteva Il maestro Cesare Maroni nel restauro di muri e colonne della chiesa principale nel mio villaggio di Lombardia. Nicchie e colonne avevano l’apparenza del marmo, il lavoro manuale era accurato, e le convinceva che avevano incorporato almeno lo spirito del marmo. Da bambina, non ho mai dubitato che fossero marmo. Barbara invece lavorava a Roma per la chiesa di San Pietro. Addestrata a Firenze come restauratrice di professione, faceva parte del gruppo di restauratori incaricati di riportare in luce lo splendore del portico esterno all’ingresso di San Pietro. Ma il compito era lo stesso.

Barbara attualmente vive a Caprona, un villaggio toscano nei pressi di Pisa. Non so esattamente se sia Italia o Granducato di Toscana, vista l’oscurita della politica italiana di questi tempi. Era nata a Venezia, un’altra repubblica indipendente che cerca di riportare in vita glorie passate. Ha cominciato a dipingere non molto tempo fa, nel 2014.

Il nonno Oreste era un pittore itinerante: con scarpe grosse e cavalletto in spalla, camminò per decenni cercando di scoprire i colori della distanza e lo spirito dei paesaggi, specialmente sulle Dolomiti. I tre dipinti che accludo in immagini vengono dal decennio 1930-1940. Sono documentazione fotografica dall’archivio di suo figlio Alberto. Il lago di Antermoia visto di notte e di giorno, e il Passo Rolle. Alberto ricorda che la famiglia era ancora a Passo Rolle nel settembre 1939, quando giunse la notizia che l’esercito nazista aveva invaso la Polonia. In cima alle montagne, fra sassi e mucche, la storia era raggiungibile per radio o riferita da visitatori; mai troppo lontana, era normalmente condivisa dalla famiglia. Sono sicura che le reazioni prodotte in Oreste sono spesso finite nelle pennellate.

ORESTE ALBERTINI, Passo Rolle, 1930-1940

ORESTE ALBERTINI, Passo Rolle, 1930-1940

WIDE EYES OPEN

WIDE EYES OPEN

— About and around a drawing and a panting by Steve Galloway —

By ROSANNA ALBERTINI

STEVE GALLOWAY, Big Plume, 2010  11" x 14" Charcoal on paper Courtesy of the artist

STEVE GALLOWAY, Big Plume, 2010,  11″ x 14″ Charcoal on paper
Courtesy of the artist

Think if the earth could open her eyes and look at us. Or breath out a plume of smoke that fills the air with a gigantic human shape. Which one is the language of god? Words or figures? The figments of imagination or the texture of grammatical meanings? I’m playing, not joking. There is mystery in both, in both we question what does it mean to be human, today.

A Los Angeles artist, a son of the desert (see Importance of Being Perplexed, in this blog), has expressed the letter as well as the mystery of our juxtaposed states of mind; he made them beauty. In these days, beauty has often become intolerable. Is it maybe for the connection she makes to life itself? The tangible thing soft like the green buds on a branch hatching under pressure, leaves and flowers that want to grow out of the brown skin, to bloom and change and push toward their seasonal death.

Steve Galloway is welcome! He can see the eclipse of a human arrogance disconnected from natural and artificial cathedrals, or climbing towers of books from which texts have vanished. Survivors are absent minded, sweet people of dreams. Some irony in his smile, the artist loves them. He knows they don’t give up searching and jumping into the hole of memory. Nor do they stop looking into the eyes of the earth as if their body could translate unheard signs better than the brain.

STEVE GALLOWAY,  Stack, 2012, 50" x 40"  Oil on canvas Courtesy of the artist

STEVE GALLOWAY, Stack, 2012, 50″ x 40″ Oil on canvas
Courtesy of the artist

Condensing a thought by George Steiner, I see numb humans deafened by the common nonsense of the news and the theories, confused by “political barbarism and technocratic servitude,” evicted by the core of humanity if they don’t try to experience, again and again, the living voice coming from texts, music, visual arts. A few of us believe that poems, music, paintings, sculptures, speak an essential idiom: the beauty of survival. What we have become, doesn’t matter.

Pressing the face on the ground we might better decipher — the idea of sculptor, Giuseppe Penone — earthly magic and art stories.

 

fino a quando la terra è piu fredda della faccia premuta

nel suolo si capisce in dettaglio la forma del volto,

della pelle, dei peli, … ma man mano che si scalda

la terra, nel pensiero diventa piu chiaro che il cervello è

la terra.” (GIUSEPPE PENONE)

when the ground is still cooler than the face pressed

into the soil one can grab in detail the shape of the face,

of the skin, of the hair, … but as soon as the ground warms up,

more and more the thinking is clear that the brain is

earth.” (GIUSEPPE PENONE)

WE SHARE MORE WHEN WE FEEL INTERCONNECTED

— The Sharing Project —

2 : WE SHARE MORE WHEN WE FEEL INTERCONNECTED

By Joel Tauber

By Joel Tauber Freud writes in Civilization and its Discontents that when we’re first born, we recognize little separation between our egos and our surroundings. However, we soon learn – unless we have certain psychological pathologies – that we’re distinct entities. We notice that we desire things that aren’t contained within our bodies, so we adopt the reality principle and sever our egos from our environment.

Maturity” isolates and shrinks our egos, but not irrevocably. The act of sharing re-awakens our more interconnected selves. It blurs the boundaries between what is mine and thine, as philosopher Win-chiat Lee so eloquently explains; and it brings us together in the process.

This blurring is beautiful; but it’s not necessarily easy, even with the people that we love the most.

My birthday, Alison’s birthday, and our son Ozzie’s birthday are all within a few days of each other. While we attempt to honor our individual birthdays separately, the realities of the calendar don’t really allow us to do so. Ozzie made his second birthday explicitly communal by singing birthday songs for Alison and me. He sang one for his big brother Zeke as well, even though his birthday was three months away. It made both Alison and I want to cry, but it upset Zeke. He was happy to celebrate his brother’s birthday, but he didn’t want to lose the autonomy of his own special day in the process.

I encountered similar feelings when we invited some friends over that weekend. We sang birthday songs for Ozzie and Alison, but no one did so for me. I felt jealous and hurt, even as I worked to suppress those feelings. I found sharing my birthday to be both difficult and joyful, and I tried to make sense of my layered and conflicting emotions.

Philosopher Christian Miller talks about psychological studies that indicate that we have mixed characters. We’re neither purely compassionate nor purely selfish, and we tend to act more generously in particular contexts. If we feel especially happy, unhappy, or guilty; we are more likely to act altruistically.

When Zeke is happy, he shares so that he can perpetuate those feelings. When I’m unhappy or feel guilty, I share so that I can replace those feelings by better ones.

If we feel empathy, we are much more likely to share. Daniel Batson has done extensive research that demonstrates that people who are particularly empathic are more likely to be altruistic and that we are more likely to be altruistic towards people we know.

Batson’s research makes me optimistic. We can increase our capacities for altruism and sharing, once we allow ourselves to become more empathic people – a process that we can begin remarkably early in life.

Jessica Sommerville has discovered that we’re capable of acting altruistically as early as infancy, despite what Piaget and others once believed. 9-month olds give things to their parents and siblings of their own volition, and 12-month olds share toys with strangers.

There are plenty of individual differences amongst the infants in Sommerville’s studies. Some of them share quickly and generously, some share less generously, and some don’t share at all. As they get older, they tend to share more often, or at least up to a certain point. At the same time, they tend to become more discerning with their sharing, as many of them desire to share only with those they view as fair.

Zeke’s fort is sacred to him, and he only shares it with those he fully trusts. He shares it with his family. He also shares it with his close friend Connor, who is the only one of his peers who is “always nice to him.” Zeke lets Connor into his fort because he feels that he can share his problems with him and work together with him to solve them.

Zeke’s fort is both a refuge and a cure for bullying and other cruel behavior that causes him grief. He’s secure in his fort with his most beloved things. He uses his special tools and super hero powers to place the people who are hurting him into “jail.” He then “fixes” them by turning them into “good guys.”

At one level, Zeke understands that he’s pretending. At another level, it’s very much a conscious act. I see it as a personal and imaginative prayer or ritual aimed at fixing the universe – his particular version of the Kabbalistic concept, Tikkun Olam.

When Zeke shares his fort, it’s an act of extreme intimacy. I’m deeply moved whenever I enter Zeke’s fort. I feel the boundaries between us blurring; and I’m filled with awe at the profound level of sharing that Zeke is capable of achieving.

Joel Tauber, "SHARE" (photo direction: Joel Tauber, shot by Kristi Chan) from the art installation and movie, "The Sharing Project"

Joel Tauber, “SHARE” (photo direction: Joel Tauber, shot by Kristi Chan) from the art installation and movie, “The Sharing Project”

Joel Tauber is an artist and filmmaker who teaches experimental film and orchestrates the video art program at Wake Forest University. His current undertaking – “The Sharing Project” – will be presented as both a sculptural video installation and a feature film.

http://thesharingproject.net

MY BODY, THE UNKNOWN ME

NAOTAKA HIRO: My body, the unknown me

About Untitled (Mocap), 2015

NAOTAKA HIRO, Untitled (Mocap), 2015  Bronze, rope, steel   Dimensions variable Courtesy of Brennan & Griffin, New York

NAOTAKA HIRO, Untitled (Mocap), 2015 Bronze, rope, steel   Dimensions variable
Courtesy of Brennan & Griffin, New York

Untitled (Mocap) is a continuation of my previous sculptural works.  Using the same method of self-casting, I had pieces of palm-size, heated wax on my hand, that I pushed steadily against different places of the frontal part of my body —one by one, from head to toe, 58 times. 

Each cast bronze object, 58 pieces in total, has parts of my body surface imprinted on one side while traces of my fingers/palm cover the other side. 

All the parts are threaded by a single rope, thus the work has fixed and unfixed parts hung on the wall in the installation. The original body placements, as seen in the diagram-drawings, is being bundled up, displaced and re-arranged.  The work will be rearranged by the artist every time it is shown. (Naotaka Hiro)

NAOTAKA HIRO, Untitled (Mocap Drawing)  2015, Ink and pencil on paper, 72" x 48" Courtesy of Brenna & Griffin, New York

NAOTAKA HIRO, Untitled (Mocap Drawing) 2015, Ink and pencil on paper, 72″ x 48″
Courtesy of Brenna & Griffin, New York

The person has a mold. But not

its animal. The angelic ones

Speak of the soul, the mind. It is

An animal. … (Wallace Stevens)

Angels? Animals? A unique orchestra of organs for each person on earth? Plus the hardware, to support the subjectivity. Body surface: evidence that we belong to the material world. And everyone is unique, not so much for the chromosomes, but for life itself: if I was born in the countryside the city hurts me with noise, strange eyes of the car lights and unrequested offers to look and read and buy and pay. I can be killed if I don’t pay attention.

Naotaka Hiro isolates himself in his studio at the end of the day. Restless, he tries to imagine how to capture and render in an art piece his body’s hidden operations, the chemical dynamics that we call life. Aware of the senses yes, but for him more must be possible. “Motion capture” — “Mocap.”

HIRO.INDI10HIRO.INDI03HIRO.INDI01

Who’s driving the game? His mind or the body? The myth of Pygmalion, Rodin’s statues charged with human vibrations are things of the past. A stone is a stone and bronze is bronze is bronze. Still, other things must be possible — I’m imagining the artist’s puzzle — things that the eyes will discover when they appear. Not body parts, just forms of an imaginary dialogue between hand and body of the same person.

For the time being a piece of warm wax between the palm of his hand and different parts of his frontal body give him the answer, the one working for this piece: each pressure produces a local reaction. With no verbal ambiguity, the two parts are separate and one: the wax registers both: the result is a two-side booklet of physical language cast in bronze, a malleable space in between. Numbered, and cast in bronze, each entity refers to the body without being a body part. All together, connected by one rope, they might dream of the human body as we dream of prehistoric sites.

We only see, in Naotaka Hiro’s art piece, fragments of time, captured physicality. Maybe be there is a lion, or a tiger, in the final configuration. But, next time, positions will be changed. Who knows? Replaced by a Phoenix who simply decomposes before she was reborn? The artist, for sure, will play his art in front of the ‘animal spirits’ locked in the bronze.

Please read this stanza by Wallace Stevens. It’s the best portrait of Nao’s active work I found so far. Maybe not sculpture, maybe not true anymore that “Where word breaks off no thing may be.” (Friedrich Hölderlin) Yet, MOCAP gives the idea, if not the object.

WALLACE STEVENS stanza xix (from THE MAN WITH THE BLUE GUITAR)

That I may reduce the monster to

Myself, and then may be myself

In face of the monster, be more than part

Of it, more than the monstrous player of

One of its monstrous lutes, not be

Alone, but reduce the monster and be,

Two things, the two together as one,

And play of the monster and of myself,

Or better not of myself at all,

But of that as its intelligence,

Being the lion in the lute

Before the lion locked in stone.

NAOTAKA HIRO, Untitled, Mocap Map) 2015 detail

NAOTAKA HIRO, Untitled,(Mocap Map) 2015 detail.

FINITE INFINITY

TUNDRA-VENICE: Chapter 2  (Chevac, Alaska — Venice, California)

 COREY STEIN from Sunland, California

April in Chevak, the laundry is out drying on the line at 10 degrees. My cousin Harry and his wife Lena kiss in the kitchen up in Chevac AK. I like how you can’t tell if Harry is leaving or just arriving home. The boys around town, Lena and Harry’s sons, cruse in their boat, sitting on a sled mobile in front of a used clothing store. (Corey Stein)

COREY STEIN, "Lena and Harry" 2008 Seed beads hand sewn on felt,  11-1/2" x 8"x 2" Courtesy of the artist

COREY STEIN, “Lena and Harry” 2008
Seed beads hand sewn on felt, 11-1/2″ x 8″x 2″
Courtesy of the artist

COREY STEIN, "Laundry at 10 Degrees"  2008 Seed beads hand sewn on felt,   9"x 12"x 2"

COREY STEIN, “Laundry at 10 Degrees” 2008
Seed beads hand sewn on felt,  9″x 12″x 2″   Courtesy of the artist.

There is a solitude of space

A solitude of sea

A solitude of death, but these

Society shall be

Compared with that profounder site

That polar privacy

A soul admitted to itself −

Finite infinity.

EMILY DICKINSON

COREY STEIN, "Quality clothing"  2008 Seed beads hand sewn on felt  11"x 16-1/2"x 2 Courtesy of the artist

COREY STEIN, “Quality clothing” 2008
Seed beads hand sewn on felt,  11″x 16-1/2″x 2″   Courtesy of the artist

To Corey, if I know something of her.

Images emerge from the safe of her soul. The door is open, the kitchen wall disappears.

Love-threads grow, perhaps, from the seed beads to grab people and scenes from far, far away. Her fingers sew them into the surface of felt.

White fills the artist’s eyes. It’s a blinding space. Light that moves the air with vibrations of other things but is, herself, invisible. Some snow, a jacket, a refrigerator. Like the wind, whiteness is captured through the things she moves, sweeping other colors away.

There is not only one person in one soul. One body. One house for many.

Pictures mislead for they are beautiful and the mind likes to be tricked. But they are not a gallery of stills hung in the mind’s walls; they are the love-thread working in Corey’s hands, her soul open to emotions of others. “You are all welcome,” she says. “But please, clean your shoes on the mat before you enter, too much reality can hurt.”

ROSANNA ALBERTINI