tonight at the Walker, i entered a gallery to find an overabundance of paintings nestled and stacked, hung and huddled nearly floor to ceiling around the four large walls of the room. Immediately i remembered my fondness for such a format. I've seen this before, quintessential to a museums permanent collection. So as to give many a piece the chance to shine, and its fair share of the lime-light. I find that my attitude changes in this environment, like the Parisian art salon, where schools of thought and creation are on parade. paintings both at war and in business with one another. Fighting to be noticed, and working together in scale and number towards greatness. I am certainly left thinking considerably more about the salon room than any other gallery that i saw tonight.
In my minds eye strong pieces become stronger, but weak do not become weaker, because they still hold the power of a dialogue with other works. singular objects sentenced, and disparaged to exist in solidarity to be surrounded by 3 cubic feet of white wall have no choice but to be , and be... self reliant, clear and concise, final.
But, this jumbled high-traffic mess that we may call context can allow any singular piece to thrive, and jive conversing with anyone of its close neighbors. They relate, and interact, providing a baseline and all of the highways and byways that may matriculate away from point A. In terms of pots, this baseline may be drinking vessel... in an exhibition, on a shelf, in a sink waiting to be scrubbed clean again.
Pots in context of one another, pots in context of life. What does mine say about yours , and yours of mine.
these are all just thoughts... but i smell an artist statement revision coming on. not now, because I've exercised my brain enough today.
You write so beautifully. And you inspire.
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