Natalie Weis

Natalie Weis is an arts writer based in Louisville, Kentucky. Her particular interests include emerging artists working on the periphery—both geographically and in their chosen mediums. She is a regular contributor for Burnaway, Ruckus and UnderMain, as well as WFPL, Louisville’s NPR radio station. You can read all of her arts writing at


A Persistent Body: The Work of Yvonne Petkus

“All I ever really want to know is how other people are making it through life – where do they put their body, hour by hour, and how do they cope inside of it.”
—Miranda July

“Where does the pain live in your body? Your disappointments? The things you’re too ashamed to name? And your joys, hopes and longings – where do they live?”
—The Rev. Adam Bucko


It startles me how much the painting recalls the dream I had last night, the one where I am being pursued and trying to run, only I can’t get my legs to move, can’t will any kind of forward motion. And the woman on the canvas, naked and warm and fleshy in apricot and ochre, stretches her arms out alongside her, pulling back with a mighty effort as she moves through this dense fog of a landscape, this otherworldly vista. Like me in my dream, her legs seem to be constrained below her knees, engulfed by strokes of midnight blues and blacks that feel weighted and heavy despite the large swaths of white, icy teal and robin’s egg blue that color the canvas. Small marks of red-orange paint sear through the turbulence that surrounds her and mark her skin as she stares out at a distance far beyond us, an unknowable place.

Yvonne Petkus, “Tensile/Release”, oil on canvas, 42″ x 42″ x 2″, 2020

The piece, ​Tensile/Release, i​s a 2020 painting by Yvonne Petkus that typifies much of the artist’s work over the past decade. They are variations on a theme in which a figure, often alone, often unclothed, moves through an ethereal expanse of brushstrokes in a palette that recalls the writhing greys and blues of the sea in its darker and more mysterious manifestations. Most often working in oil on canvas or board, Yvonne tends to favor square ratios for her pieces, which creates a subtly voyeuristic effect: in paintings that are so dominated by the physical landscape, her square frame focuses the attention on the figure, on the intense psychological landscape that lies within.

Detail, “Tensile/Release”, oil on canvas, 42″ x 42″ x 2″, 2020

“My work has always been about what we carry in our bodies, the residues of trauma and abuse that we carry,” she says. “Not the hit or the blow or the psychological abuse in the moment, but how it feels ten years later, 15 years later, 30 years later. And the way I paint is about finding that – finding what emerges in each scenario from that sense of what we carry.”

Yvonne describes herself as a process painter and an incremental painter, drawing from many different inputs and experiences and working on multiple pieces at a time, working and reworking canvases with each one informing the others. She often takes months to complete a work; she sometimes alters a piece once it comes back from a gallery. Each begins as an underpainting that responds dynamically to the surface and allows her to find the initial gestures and movements that are influenced by her other works. These will naturally evolve as she adds layers of paint; visual references and cues in the underpainting may become entirely obscured or hidden by the time the work is finished (if such a thing is ever really possible).

What follows is a process of adding and subtracting layers and images, working something in, taking something out, adding a figure, subtracting an element. Painting, for Yvonne, is “a medium of thought and invention.” And if an image comes too easily or is too recognizable, she says, she has to break it and find the question about it: “It’s very much about this intense questioning, this directed struggle across the surface, and working it back and forth until it congeals and finds its presence or looks back at me and is itself.” Much like the figures and the landscapes she paints, Yvonne’s work has the sense that it’s always becoming, a restlessness that resists any final state.

“Her paintings are intense, which is exactly like her. Intense, layered, but there’s also a warmth to them, and a desire for connection and conversation,” a colleague tells me. Kristina Arnold heads the Department of Art at Western Kentucky University (WKU) in Bowling Green where Yvonne has taught for two decades, and has worked with her as a teacher and an artist since 2005. Kristina reconsiders her comment. “Warmth may be too light of a word. It’s intense and it’s searching, in that very human way that we all do. It’s a serious and intentional quest to connect with the other.”


Yvonne and I connect over email and Zoom. It is late autumn 2020 and the pandemic threat has drawn everyone back inside, heightened precautions and anxieties. Yvonne has been teaching at the university in-person and virtually, ten hours on Mondays and Wednesdays, less on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Evenings are reserved for her personal practice. A nocturnal animal, she works deep into the night, when the clamoring of the day’s emails and deadlines and committee meetings fall quiet and time seems to stand still for her. It is a time, she says, when she can breathe and be present.

Yvonne Petkus, “Holding Pattern”, oil on board, 12″ x 16″ x 2″, 2020

In the window of my laptop’s video conferencing app, all I can glimpse of this world is a small frame in which there is a figure – the artist – amid a swirling mass of oil on canvas. Yvonne is affable and open; she tells me about her formative childhood years frequenting the museums in New York, standing in awe in front of Anselm Kiefer works at MOMA and being drawn again and again to Rembrandt’s self-portrait at The Frick. She talks about her parents, both teachers, and her close but complicated relationship with her father, the son of Polish and Lithuanian immigrants, a strong, self-made man who served as Dean of Education at a college in New Jersey, where she was raised. He was a huge presence in her life, she says, and his death this past year was a tremendous loss.

Yvonne is engaging and enthusiastic, especially when she talks about her students and teaching, a practice that invigorates her personal work. Her methodologies are largely influenced by her time at Camberwell College of Arts in London, where she studied for a year as an undergraduate. At the time, she says, the British system of art education was focused on mentorship and self-motivation, and encouraged students to seek out feedback and instruction on their own.

Yvonne Petkus, “Processing the Scape: Resistance”, oil and acrylic on Mylar, 25″ x 40″, 2016

In much the same way, Yvonne wants her students to be self-directed. “The way I teach isn’t just showing someone how to do something, but also how to think, how to process, how to look for possibilities over outcomes. And for me that way of helping others find their expressive means and a sustainable practice is extremely energizing. I feel so connected to my students. There’s a lot of time involved, but it’s also very energizing for my work.” Yvonne was too self-effacing to mention it, but I later learned she had recently been recognized as a University Distinguished Professor at WKU, the highest honor bestowed by the institution.

I thank her for her time, and we agree to meet at her studio the weekend before Thanksgiving. Later, she emails me and apologizes but asks if we could reschedule for the following week – after realizing she would have an entire week free from her teaching obligations, she wanted to spend the time hunkered down in her studio. Already, I recognize this intensity of focus that was evident even in our first conversation, a relentless searching through her work, combined with a tendency to seek out the most extreme conditions in order to discover something about herself, and about us as human beings, about how we relate to each other and how we understand our place in the world.

“One of the things that’s most impressive about her body of work is how persistent it is,” Kristina later told me. “And how persistent ​she​ is. Some of that is through her prolificness. But there is also a persistence of discovery.”


The island country of Iceland is the most sparsely populated in Europe; it is dominated by a vast and wild terrain of mountains and glaciers, rivers, volcanoes and lava fields. The weather can alternate between raging hailstorms and blinding sunshine many times during the course of a single day and roads often close abruptly (there are, indeed, multiple apps for that). Its capital, Reykjavík, is characterized by extreme lengths of day and night, and its coastal location makes it prone to gale-force winds. About 75 miles to the north, the Snæfellsnes Peninsula is even more remote, providing the setting for 13th century Icelandic sagas as well as Jules Verne’s science-fiction novel ​Journey to the Center of the Earth. This is where Yvonne wanted to spend her 2016 sabbatical.​

The artist installing work for the SÍM International Artist Residency Program in Reykjavík, Iceland, 2016 (Photo: Sarah Yasdani)

This alone, some might find formidable. But Yvonne deliberately chose to go to Iceland in February and March, when the seasons shift from one extreme to another, from near-total darkness into almost ceaseless light. And then to use that time not just to paint, but to train for a marathon. And not just any marathon, but the Boston Marathon, one of the hardest to qualify for and also the most prestigious. And to do it barefoot.​ (Yielding slightly to the island’s dangerous terrain and weather, Yvonne did wear a minimalist sole while adhering to the principles of barefoot running. But still.)

“I think that as an artist and a person, I make things as hard as possible on myself,” she tells me, in case this fact had been lost on her interviewer. And yet beneath the dogged rigorousness of her pursuits, there exists an abiding beauty and heartfelt intention, an aching desire to discover what it means to be human and to be vulnerable, to feel what it means to be at the mercy of forces greater than yourself.

“Going to Iceland and training for a marathon in those conditions, it was intense,” she concedes. “But I intentionally did that because it affected how I relate to nature. I got to feel and experience struggle ​within​ a landscape. To be running through the national park and have people tell me that someone died there a year ago because of the winds. You were constantly aware of your own mortality and your vulnerability, but also your strength.”

The dramatic landscapes fed her work in other ways as well, the water and mountains and fog familiar to her earlier work now appearing in different forms and tones. Her palette expanded to include more brilliant whites and lighter teals and sky blues, her brushstrokes became broader and her figures smaller, sometimes to the point of nearly disappearing into the landscape altogether. And her canvases opened up, not only revealing more white space but also allowing her to break from the confines of the square and sprawl out in extravagant horizontal expanses.

In preparation for her trip, Yvonne had begun painting on plastic, knowing she couldn’t ship her canvases across the Atlantic and back again. The plastic enabled her to work larger and lighter (both in the sense that it weighed less and that it allowed more light to come through the images), empowering her to capture a land she describes as “extreme and subtle at the same time.” The work conveys a sense of terror and ecstasy in equal measure, that realization of one’s smallness and insignificance within the vast landscape of time and nature.

Installation shot of the artist’s solo show, “Arctic Residues – Sightings,” at the Downing Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky, 2017

On the island, Yvonne sat each day and watched the fishing boats as they sailed back and forth across the horizon, feeling an unspoken kinship with these workers as they went about their daily routines. When she exhibited her work in a solo show at the end of her residency, she was delighted to discover that some of the visitors were those very same people who had been aboard the boats. “We see our Iceland but in a way we’ve never seen it before,” they told her. They recognized and understood, she says.

“I don’t think she intentionally makes work thinking about the viewer in the back of her brain,” Kristina tells me. “She goes into her place and makes work. But at some level she’s very conscious of making that connection with an audience, even if that’s just one person to pull out and have a conversation with through her work.”


When she returned from Iceland, Yvonne had the opportunity to apply for a fellowship in Bosnia, an experience she had been seeking in order to understand more fully the struggle her father’s mother had endured as a young girl living in Poland during the early part of the last century – running from enemy forces, hiding in the woods, escaping an abusive first husband.

Yvonne Petkus, “Holding”, oil on plexiglass, 36” x 48” x 1/2”, 2019

In 2017, Yvonne became one of eight WKU faculty members selected to participate in the Zuheir Sofia Endowed International Faculty Seminar (ZSEIFS) in Bosnia and Herzegovina. In the six months leading up to their travel, Yvonne and her fellows engaged on an intensive study of the country, sharing learnings across the various disciplines they represented. Yvonne’s expertise in visual art was augmented with briefings by professors in history, law, journalism, folk studies, and social work, giving her a rich and multi-faceted understanding of the region before she even arrived.

Paints, sketches and works in progress. Yvonne works on multiple pieces at a time, using each to inform the others.

Once there, the group met with everyone from representatives from the Dayton Accords and the Missing Persons Commission to concentration camp survivors and people working within the schools to foster resolution. All the while, Yvonne was also doing her own research, visiting museums and meeting with artists and curators. She saw her grandmother everywhere, she says: in the cheekbones of the Bosnians she spoke with, in the photographs in museums, in the bones and the skin of the people she sketched.

Notes and sketches. Although Yvonne does not paint from photographs, she often sketches them to use as inputs for new works.

“In Bosnia, it became about this other type of awareness of the body. You could ​feel​ that idea of what we carry in our bodies,” she says. “People were so generous and immediate with you in terms of sharing experiences, sharing coffee, sharing everything. It was so much about human-to-human interaction – about sharing and understanding and empathy.”

Other figures began to appear in her paintings – clothed forms locked in struggle, ominous shadows, disembodied faces. Canvases resumed their tighter ratios as if closing in on the figures; the return to a darker palette took on the weightier burden of the subject matter. Faces now appeared in close-up, startling and disarming as they filled the frame, displaying an abjectness at the same time they almost dared the viewer to ignore them, ignore their suffering. And the naked woman’s gestures took on a new futility, her attempt to run becoming a seemingly impossible maneuver through the swirling mass of dark brushstrokes that now swallowed her above her knees, above her hips, above her chest.

“Everywhere I went, I sketched,” Yvonne says. “As a runner, I felt like I understood the gesture of a run and I’ve used it in my paintings for many years. But then when I saw these photographs of people dashing across the street, knowing that there were snipers that could kill them – and ​just did kill that person lying there in the street – there became this existential weight to the gesture of the run that I’ve been working with ever since, to try to understand.”

Back at home, Yvonne’s own work and her curatorial work (an exhibition of 12 artists of Bosnian and Balkan origin) was shown as part of WKU’s International Year Of… program, of which the 2017 focus was Bosnia. Bowling Green is home to nearly 5,000 Bosnians, many of them refugees from the war. One of them, a woman, approached Yvonne at the show, crying and telling her, “My neighbors knew where I was from, but this is the first time they understand.”

“She felt seen for the first time,” Yvonne says. “That’s as meaningful to me as getting into any Biennale.”

Yvonne Petkus, “Endurance (Nocturne)”, oil on board, 18” x 24” x 2”, 2018


One cold but bright Saturday in early December, a curator friend and I meet Yvonne at her home and climb the steep wooden steps to her attic studio, a comfortably claustrophobic space where shades are drawn to the outside world. Walls are covered with canvases, boards, sketches and photocopies. Tables are littered with paints and brushes and books, large envelopes of photos and clippings, black Moleskine sketchbooks with neatly printed labels that identify the contents as “BOSNIA 2019 (KUMA INTL & SARAJEVO)” or “AIDA SEHOVIC – wkshp.” And nestled amidst it all is one small, smooth, dark rock given to her by a fisherman in Iceland.

Yvonne is generous with her time, speaks passionately not only about her work, but also about her students, the nurturing artistic community in Bowling Green, and a book she has been reading called ​The University of Disaster.​ Published in conjunction with the Bosnia and Herzegovina pavilion at the 2017 Venice Biennale, the essays in the book center on the concept of a larger human project, an idea that Yvonne says gives her a sense of relief:

“Every time I paint I have this intense, almost overwhelming, desire to do it all, to say it all. One writer talks specifically about artwork as sketches of your partial extent of the larger measure. That I can offer a partial extent to this larger measure not only feels like, okay, I can handle that, but it also feels like I’m connected. I’m not just in here doing my own thing, I’m connecting to this larger project. And through the Bosnian work and people and connections and dialogs I’ve been able to have since 2017, I feel like it’s true.”

My friend and I had packed sandwiches for lunch, knowing restaurants would be closed due to COVID restrictions, and Yvonne graciously offers us the table on her front porch and brings us mugs of hot coffee. The three of us sit distanced and chat casually about museums and shows, holiday plans – and, of course, the pandemic, this collective psychological trauma that we were all experiencing to some degree, that will leave its residue long after a new normal has evolved. An orange tabby cat wanders over and jumps on my lap, sniffing the smoked salmon on my sandwich. Her tiny, sharp teeth nip at my hand, leaving little marks on my skin that I will carry with me back to Louisville, the faint physical residue of this sunny afternoon.

One corner of Yvonne’s studio. A self-described process painter, Yvonne uses inputs such as sketches, readings and other works (both hers and others’) to build her paintings.

In the underpainting for “Tensile/Release”, Yvonne incorporated the images of two cats and a bird as a tribute to her late father.

The next day I awaken to an email from Yvonne, who has realized I haven’t seen any of her work in the underpainting stage. She attaches a photo, a painting she had started just after her father had passed away; in this first layer she deliberately included two cats and a bird, as a memory of him and as a way of working through the loss. They were visual cues of happier days, a reference to her ink rendition of Goya’s ​Manuel Osorio Manrique de Zuniga​ that her father had kept on his wall for years. Many layers and months later, the work became ​Tensile/Release,​ and in its final stage, the animals are visible in only the most abstract way, in the way that only we know our own residues of trauma and loss, these secret joys and longings we carry with us.


Yvonne’s research was supported through the SÍM Artist Residency Program in Reykjavík and by the Hvítahús Artist Residency on the Snæfellsnes Peninsula, as well as through grants and awards from the WKU Office of International Programs, Potter College of Arts and Letters, and a 2019 Great Meadows Foundation Artist Professional Development Grant.

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Heaven In Hand: Julie Baldyga at KMAC Museum

“In Heaven Everyone Will Shake Your Hand: The Art of Julie Baldyga,” a book of the Louisville artist’s work published by the Louisville Story Program, was scheduled to be released at the opening of her solo show at KMAC Museum on April 17, 2020. Instead, books were shipped to those who had ordered them and who were now hunkered down at home during the pandemic-prompted lockdown. I vaguely remember enjoying a quick perusal of the book when it arrived, though admittedly it was soon covered up by other mail and forgotten amid the fresh anxieties that were threatening to bury everyone during those first quarantined spring weeks.

This is not any indication of the book’s quality – it is indeed a wonderful volume filled with more than 150 works from a career spanning nearly five decades, complemented by personal photographs of the artist and interviews with Baldyga’s friends and family. But I merely want to emphasize, for those who have not yet ventured out to discover this for themselves, after months of having my art consumption rationed to its digital forms, that the experience of viewing “Julie Baldyga’s Heavenly People” in the third-floor gallery of KMAC Museum was nothing short of ecstatic.

‘Billy on the Beach in California’, oil pastel on paper, c.1974-75.

I choose the word ‘ecstatic’ because there is a religious quality that permeates all of the works in the show. Perhaps it had something to do with staring into a stranger’s unmasked face for the first time since March, but standing in the empty gallery in front of Billy on the Beach in California, I found myself incredibly moved by this almost Christlike figure, his long, sandy hair blowing in the ocean breeze, a beatific smile across his tanned visage. With oil pastels, Baldyga deftly renders the folds of her subject’s chambray shirt with the same devotion to detail that older masters dedicated to the robes of religious icons. Encircling Billy’s head, her skillful blending of the tricky medium creates the faintest of halos against an azure sky. 

‘Hadley’ (center), oil pastel, c.1974-75, and other early works by Baldyga.

The work is one of few in the show – comprising more than a dozen of Baldyga’s pastels, along with several ceramic and soft sculpture works and six of her titular heavenly people — in which human hands are not a prominent focus. In Hadley, another early work, Baldyga portrays her subject (a friend of her brother Philip) from behind, obscuring his face entirely but allowing us to see, in magnified proportion, his hands held open in offering behind his back. Note what Baldyga chooses to detail: the machine stitching on his tennis shoes and the back pockets of his jeans, the veins threading down his forearms like the wires might attach to pistons.

“Most of us rely on the face as our essential point of contact,” notes curator Joey Yates. “It is often the primary way we communicate with one another. But for Julie, that point of connection seems to start with the hands. The detail and emphasis on hands are often the expressive center of her images.”

Combined with her penchant for portraying subjects from behind, this distinct perspective was what first drew Yates to Baldyga’s work, seeing it as “a portal into a particular vision of the world.” Nonverbal until she was seven years old, the artist expressed herself through drawing from an early age, a talent that her parents and her teachers at the Binet School (which she attended for ten formative years) enabled to flourish.

As a teenager, Julie began working in oil pastels, teaching herself how to blend pigments with her fingers and add depth and contour to her pieces. Her obsession with mechanics and technology was nurtured by her father, an MIT graduate and chemical engineer, who not only entertained all of Julie’s technical curiosities, but also supplied her with the wires, tubes and hoses she employed in early sculptures, along with the instructional manuals, model engines and spare parts that she recreated in drawings and ceramics. 

‘Elizabeth with a gas engine in her puff shooting smoke’, oil pastel on paper, 2010.

Women in engineering are a favorite subject of the artist’s, such as in the delightful Elizabeth with a gas engine in her puff shooting smoke. Like Billy on the beach so many years before, Elizabeth’s long, lustrous tresses (her “puff,” in Baldyga’s lexicon) are swept to the side, this time occupying enough of the canvas to make it a horizontal work. Dark curls of hair swirl around a gas engine, their curving lines echoed in the undulations of smoke emanating from the motor: mane and machine are happily one.

‘Kissing Fish’, oil pastel on paper, 2014. Collection of Susan Moremen.

Even more resplendent is the 2014 work Kissing Fish, in which the female subject is surrounded by lush palms and verdant grasses with small clusters of pink tulips while amphibious creatures with long arms and human hands tenderly pick at the young woman’s hair (her puff!). These two pairs of creatures have human hair, too, of course, and their hands and arms mirror each other in beautiful symmetry, reminiscent of a wondrous, Chagall-like space in which humans and animals float through joyful skies.

“Julie has invented her own world,” Yates says. “It is not only a place she can escape to, but also a world that she invites us, as viewers, into as well. In those moments when we want to turn away from the chaos around us, we rely on visionaries who can guide us to a respite from harsher realities.”

Six of Baldyga’s Heavenly People, mixed materials, various dates.

It is a curiosity, then, that the show’s namesake pieces – life-size representations of Baldyga’s friends that she creates out of found materials in the belief that they will inhabit these forms when they go to heaven – embody the idea that perfection is something achieved only in the afterlife. Because if we are to see our own world as Baldyga sees it, to view everyday objects with extraordinary reverence and regard ordinary people as subjects worthy of a visual hagiography – imperfections and all – then that seems like the sort of heavenly world in which I’d want to live.

Julie Baldyga’s ‘Heavenly People’ at KMAC Museum. (Photo: Ted Wathen)

“Julie Baldyga’s Heavenly People” is on view at KMAC Museum through November 8, 2020. KMAC Museum is located at 715 West Main Street, Louisville, Kentucky and is open Wednesday-Sunday, 10am-5pm.

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A Sort of Celestial Vibration of Earthly Materials, Maybe: L Gnadinger at Quappi Projects

“In each one of us, there is a place of perfect silence. This silence is not dead. It vibrates. It has a pulse. It is the force of this silence that drives a seeker to go within.” Swami Chidvilasananda

For the past two years, L Gnadinger has been quietly making art in the wooded hills of North Carolina on a fellowship at the Penland School of Craft, an open and progressive institute nestled within the Blue Ridge Mountains that offers the conditions for what the artist calls “a good, old fashioned spiritual retreat.” The explorations of this withdrawal to the woods are reflected in Gnadinger’s current solo show at Quappi Projects titled “Notably Untested Spiritual Gestures,” an ecumenical collection of textiles, ceramics, and works on paper that present their vision of a queer futurism as filtered through the visual vernacular of their Roman Catholic upbringing.

“Vestment”. Denim, fabrication steel, acrylic, steel dust. 8’ x 3’, 2019

Call them gestures, call them studies, or – as Gnadinger prefers – “spiritual experiments.” A handsewn white denim lab coat, Vestment, hangs at the back of the gallery and serves as a visual and thematic focal point, setting up the interplay of science and religion that permeates the show. Tailored to the artist’s proportions, the garment has a slightly unsettling liminal quality suggestive of some unseen presence: a ghost from ages past, perhaps, or its opposite – some future being that has created these objects ahead of our present time.

Gnadinger, who self-identifies as nonbinary, thinks of this figure as quasi-autobiographical, one who cobbles together fabric and paint and clay and steel in an attempt to create something that feels sacred: “It’s not religious art in the sense that it’s celebrating something that exists,” the artist says. “It’s more about making art in the hope that I might create something to celebrate – an inward spiritual self that is viable and feels real and honest.”

“Devotional: The Cold Knob”, Ceramic tile, found plate, zip ties, plywood, mortar, grout. 14.5” x 23.5”, 2019

“A Sort of Prayer”, Ceramic tile, found plate, steel, mortar, grout. 5.5” x 23.5”, 2019

Far from rebelling against the visual tropes of Christianity, Gnadinger’s work embraces them, taking classical religious forms and remaking them in the materials of their world (not Rome’s). Two triptychs, the vertical Devotional: The Cold Knob and horizontal A Sort of Prayer, are filled with fragments of found ceramics (faucet knobs, broken tea plates, electric outlet covers, orphaned floor tiles) and the artist’s own handmade tiles adorned with painted binary code, all in close and harmonious arrangement. 

“The marriage of ideas and materials is so beautifully executed,” remarks John Brooks, owner and curator of Quappi Projects. “If you count all of the individual colors in the works, the list is quite long, yet the whole show seems to vibrate in this very narrow band, as if everything is behind gauze or is slightly rubbed out.”

Like the rest of the pieces in the show, the triptychs don’t often stray from a quiet January palette of creamy whites and pale blues, salmon and apricot and copper and dirt – a far cry indeed from the red and gold and silver and brass that invest the traditional Catholic mass with so much of its visual power. Gnadinger’s religion is made from humbler stuff: the colors of the Blue Ridge Mountains in an early morning fog, the rock and clay they offer for our creative use.

“Banner, Ordinary Time”, Woven cotton, wool, plastic, newspaper, electrical fence, commercial clothes. 2’ x 8’, 2019.

Detail: “Banner, Ordinary Time”, Woven cotton, wool, plastic, newspaper, electrical fence, commercial clothes. 2’ x 8’, 2019.

In a hanging textile work, Banner, Ordinary Time, Gnadinger interweaves scraps of everyday garments, newspapers, and plastic with delicate strands of shimmering threads, again bringing together the mundane and the ethereal in pleasurable conversation. Even the title suggests a more accessible spirituality, one oriented to domestic ritual, rooted in our daily routines and grounded in our quotidian hopes and concerns, our small but personal lives.

Detail, Assorted ceramics

It is an idea that is given eloquent articulation in a collection of ceramics gathered on a white table like a band of misfit toys, roughhewn and misshapen but reverently – adoringly, even – marked and painted and glazed, as if to illustrate Simone Weil’s assertion that “absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.” The pieces take the vague shapes of bells and horns, chalice and ciborium, vessels for communal celebration rendered in lowly materials by humble hands. What more primal matter than clay, the very stuff that pre-Christian gods employed for their human creations?

“Untitled”, Acrylic, watercolor, charcoal on paper. 16” x 19”, 2019.

Gnadinger can call forth celestial realms as well, most notably in their works on paper. A trinity named Untitled offers the show’s rare concentrated use of the color black: over layers of collaged paper painted in a creamy shade of acrylic, they rub large swathes of charcoal to bring forth the shapes and textures of moon craters, nascent galaxies and futurist geometries. In the search for something larger than ourselves, we travel beyond the limits of heaven and into the infinite vastness of the universe, to this primordial mingling of cosmic dust, these eternal materials that are then imbued with ephemeral meaning through the artist’s hands.

“Presently Undetectable Things Or Maybe Tiny Ghosts, #7 – 18”, Acrylic, watercolor, linen thread, pen, charcoal, paper, canvas. 3” x 5”, 2019.

Look closer at the works on paper – Presently Undetectable Things Or Maybe Tiny Ghosts #5, #6, #7 – and see the linen threads mechanically stitched within the works; suddenly one can imagine our creature in the lab coat as an interstellar seamstress in her celestial atelier, carefully attending to the creation of a new world. (Let the series of miniatures, numbered #7-18, stand as the thumbnail sketches she created in birthing this grand design.) In Gnadinger’s spirituality, space is not a cosmic void but a pregnant silence quietly vibrating with possibility. The dead are not tiny ghosts, but instead very real things that are simply presently undetectable through our earthly ways of seeing.

“Altar with Telescope”, Fabricated steel, acrylic, ceramic, textile, thread, books. 8’ x 3’, 2019.

Perhaps that helps explain the titular objects in Altar With Telescope, a modestly proportioned work featuring a fabricated steel altar prepared for worship with ceremonial linens, a parcel of thin paper books and a mounted telescope made from a short cuff of ceramic wrapped with handwoven cloth. The inclusion of a telescope on the altar would seem to suggest that spiritual answers may be found in the stars, or that there is some merit in skyward searching, at least. 

“Presently Undetectable Things Or Maybe Tiny Ghosts, #5” behind another altar of sorts.

And yet Gnadinger’s rudimentary telescope contains no apparatus for magnification, not even the crude focus offered by a long, narrow tube: it is simply a circular frame through which to gaze. But what if that is the point? What if this collection of spiritual experiments reveals that, in fact, there’s nothing to reveal: the divine has been in plain sight all along, in the everyday vessels of our commonplace rituals, in the materials of our kitchens and baths, even here in this gallery where wine is poured and strangers gather in celebration of the communal grace of art. 

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Tasteful Nudes: Little To Provoke At Lexington Art League Show

As a tempestuous year comes to its close amidst bluster of impeachment trials and Brexit votes, threats to reproductive rights and struggles for minority rights, the ongoing opioid crisis and the progressing climate crisis, not to mention those stalwart nuisances of racism, classism and sexism, inside the sunlit halls of the Lexington Art League’s (LAL) Loudoun House home, all is calm, all is bright.

“Kentucky Nude,” this year’s iteration of the venerable organization’s once-annual-now-biennial nude show, runs December 6, 2019, to January 5, 2020, and features works by more than 50 Kentucky artists, juried by LAL studio artists Don Ament and Helene Steene. While previous years’ shows have been organized around tighter conceptual themes, such as self-portraiture or the rawness of human desire and physical form, “Kentucky Nude” presents more like a procession of classical figure studies, a mostly two-dimensional gathering of nubile white women reposing on sheets, sofas and other studio furnishings.

Not that there’s anything wrong with pursuing beauty for beauty’s sake. In fact, we should probably do a lot more of it, given the aforementioned political and cultural maelstrom that’s currently thrashing us about. To spend time with beauty and pleasure is, in some sense, to transcend the political, to affirm that there is more to life than the insidious crawl of the 24-hour news cycle, that we as human beings are far more complex and nuanced and expansive than any binary party system or policy debate would have us believe.

The difficulty is that the particular beauty on display in “Kentucky Nude” feels overwhelmingly overfamiliar, a sort of visual schmaltz on par with a dozen red roses, a batch of chocolate chip cookies, a kiss on the cheek from grandma. Perhaps more troubling is the show’s narrow range of flesh tones and dearth of minority perspectives – and of male physiques, much to this reviewer’s disappointment – which, while surely unintentional, comes across as slightly tone-deaf.  

Megan Martin, ‘Abuttment Blue’, 2019, acrylic on canvas, 48″ x 48″ (left) and Sarah Vaughn, ‘Am I OK?’, 2019, oil and spray paint, 48″ x 32″

At least we still have laughter! “A birthday suit,” we call this too too floppy flesh, and some of the best works in the show take a more lighthearted look at a well-worn (so to speak) subject. Sarah Vaughn uses hot pink backlighting to frame her painting of a naked woman arching her back in a dramatic gesture of surrender rendered in melancholy blues. Titled Am I OK?, the red-orange spray-painted sad face looking down on the figure suggests that she is not.

On the neighboring wall, Megan Martin’s Abuttment Blue features ten joyfully colorful imprints where ten correspondingly colorful bums have abutted with her black canvas. It’s less like Yves Klein’s use of naked women as human paintbrushes, more like a happily erotic game of Twister, or the fine art equivalent of Xeroxing your butt as the office holiday party descends into debauchery.

Aaron Lubrick, ‘Dan With His Cat’, 2018, acrylic, 60″ x 72″

Equally delightful is Aaron Lubrick’s Dan With His Cat and its playful nod to the afternoon luncheon: his companions in classical repose, formed in dark tones that quiet their nakedness; Dan’s cat a black silhouette that slinks in between the two; the landscape electric with acid-green grass, a periwinkle sea and a tiny red sailboat like a toy in the distance. Short, crude brushstrokes suggest an immediacy, a desire to capture this happiness lest it prove fleeting. (Milan Kundera, with a slight edit: “To sit with a cat on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring – it was peace.”)

Todd Fife, ‘Gabrielle d’Estrees Redux’, 2019, oil, graphite and resin, 19″ x 23″ (foreground) and Todd Fife, ‘The Pity’, 2019, oil, graphite, ink and resin, 14″ x 21″ (background)

Not to be left out of the riffing-on-the-classics party, Todd Fife takes aim with Gabrielle d’Estrees Redux, replacing the two sixteenth-century French noblewomen with a corpulent pair of white-haired female friends, one delicately pinching the sagging nipple of the other as a ribboned speech bubble coaxes a quote from the Marquis de Sade from her puckered red lips: On n’est jamais aussi dangereux quand on n’a pas honte que quand on est devenu trop vieux pour rougir. (One is never as dangerous when one is not ashamed as when one has become too old to blush.) The mind reels in speculative delight trying to imagine the act lewd enough to elicit a blush from the salacious Marquis. 

Maria Risner, ‘Melancholy Form’, 2017, mixed media, 18″ x 48″ (left), Rosemary Harney, ‘Pretty in Pearls’, 2019, mixed media, 27″ x 11″ (center) Sid Webb, ‘The Word Only He Can Say Publicly’, 2018, mixed media, 48″ x 24″ (right)

Sid Webb takes on the comedy-turned-horror-story that is the American presidency in the mixed media work The Word Only He Can Say Publicly, in which a starlet of the silent movie era gazes up helplessly as an orange-y, toupéed man in a black suit grabs at the word in question. It’s a scene that wouldn’t be out of place in the op-ed section, both because of its accuracy but also because it doesn’t seem to offer any new ideas to the current conversation. Curiously, the work is placed alongside two sculpted pieces – Maria Risner’s Melancholy Form and Rosemary Harney’s Pretty in Pearls – that, while respectfully depicted, nevertheless treat the naked female as mere object, leaving the viewer with the uneasy feeling that the sexist past is now more present than ever – or worse, that it’s become normalized.

Daja, ‘No’, 2019, mixed media, 36″ x 24″

Perhaps the more compelling response to the #metoo movement is Daja’s No. Her naked white subject walks away from us into a cerulean and sky blue color field, turning her head and shoulders to look at someone off to our right. Daja’s flat treatment of the figure creates a sense of affectlessness, as if distancing itself from the victim. The woman’s stare is equal parts pleading and withering – an emotional response that feels suitably discordant for a movement that empowered female victims at the same time it left a sense of despondence in its wake as we realized just how pervasive – and accepted – sexual violence had become. 

David Harover, ‘Alla Prima Nude #1’, 2018, oil paint, 12″ x 9″

Still, the show offers moments of honesty and gentleness, such as the two oil paintings by David Harover, their smallness (each less than 12 inches square) inviting a quiet intimacy. Harover seems to reveal his figures more than paint them, as if his brushstrokes were simply sweeping away the soft brown and goldenrod pigments that had settled on top of them. His Alla Prima Nude #1 is an ample woman, modestly concealing herself with her arm as she turns her torso away from us, her expression one of detached contentment. Of all the works in the show, it perhaps most fully embodies the idea of nakedness, that raw and primal state in which we are stripped bare of armor and artifice. Harover’s subject is neither ugly nor erotic, only human – vulnerable, tender, adored. In a word, beautiful. 

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In Search of Bodies Lost: Surveying The Internal Landscapes of Vian Sora

“People love narratives. They love winning stories. They think it’s a love story, this Iraqi girl, this American man. But it’s not that easy or glamorous or romantic.” – Vian Sora

Vian Sora, “End Of Hostilities”, 2019, Mixed media finished with oil on board, 120 x 1200 in., Collection of KMAC Museum

Prologue: End of Hostilities

The first thing the eye sees is the tiny rivulets of blue, the happy hue of a robin’s egg or a bright morning sky, undulating dots and dashes that wind around the other pools of color: swathes of violet and lilac here, lakes of deepest green over there. Forms and shapes possess an organic fluidity, as if millions of tiny water molecules were swirling in frenzied motion within the mass of a large wave slowly rolling across the canvas. 

There is a grittiness, too: dark bodies of black and grey, fragments of skulls and fractured bone hidden in the corner, half-buried under layers of pigment. Oxidized shades of crimson manifest like blood in all its violent expressions: splattered, bleeding and pooling. Even in the painting’s lighter areas, hundreds of hairline fissures materialize like the capillaries of human tissue or the cracked surface of desiccated land.

The work is undeniably chaotic, struggling to contain the exploded forms of color and texture and memory in a surge of energy and heat. And yet it also holds a persistent beauty, lines of elegance and grace that cut through the debris and roughness in lucid and reassuring curves. What is left is both a hope and a hollowness: streets clear of foreign tanks, skies absent of fighter jets, the silent stillness of a bombed-out city, this vast and sudden absence, this aching emptiness.   

End of Hostilities was first shown in Sora’s solo show “Unbounded Domains” at Moremen Gallery in the spring of 2019 and then acquired by KMAC Museum through the support of a donor. It also served as the departure point for a new body of work Sora was creating for the museum’s premier Triennial (on view August 24 – December 1, 2019) when I visited her studio that July and August.

Sora’s work serves not only as a record of horrific acts of violence and the lives they destroy, but also as a way of making sense of war, of beginning to fill the void it leaves in its wake. In the aftermath of terror and destruction, she sorts through the smoldering rubble, searching for some small fragment of beauty that will tell her: All is not lost. 

Vian Sora,”Peasant”, 2009, Mixed media on canvas, 45 x 37 in., Private collection

Part I: A New Language

When Sora came to the United States a decade ago, she brought with her a painting style and technique she first developed as a young artist in her native Iraq. She would begin by sculpting wet material onto her canvases, often in the intricate patterns of ancient Islamic ornament, and then build up multiple layers of paint in colors that offered the hazy illusion of sunlight seen through sandstorms. Only then would she add figures: translucent apparitions of veiled women, the primitive outlines of horses and birds. In the process of layering, Sora chose what to paint over and what to reveal, allowing her to hide forms in the canvas. “Most of my life in Iraq was very secretive,” she says. “I think most females are like that. And that technique was my little thing, my secret.” 

Sora had many paintings in this early style in her 2016 solo show at 1619 Flux, where KMAC curator Joey Yates first took notice of her work. “I recognized her skill and her aesthetic in that work,” Yates recalls, “but what I was really drawn to was a couple of newer abstract pieces that seemed unique to me. They had a very distinct visual language I hadn’t seen other people engage.”

The paintings Yates saw were the first in a new approach Sora had been exploring in which she banished the figurative forms, abandoned the bas-relief foundation and traded the palette of khaki and desert and dust for a piercing intensity of blues and yellows and greens. Black made its appearance, too: sometimes as plumes of smoke drifting in front of the technicolor chaos, sometimes shooting across the canvas like gunpowder, other times lurking in the background as a subtle shadow presence. Abstract forms were unknowable as friend or foe: a broad palm leaf could reveal itself as a human lung upon second glance, the dripping tendrils of vines could morph into disembodied veins. Sora had stumbled upon a psychological trompe l’oeil, creating an uneasy tension between exultation and terror through this deft exploitation of form and color.

Two years before the show, Sora had undergone a major operation. She was given general anesthesia, organs were removed from her body, and when she recovered she began painting in a completely new way. “I woke up with a wholly different visual language,” she says. “I used different colors, I changed my technique. And that helped me make sense of my existence, using these colors that were foreign to me in a manner that doesn’t exist in real life, to create a world that somehow is in my head.”

Sora has continued to work within this new aesthetic in the years following its introduction at the 1619 Flux exhibit, and she still has much to explore. “Even within this abstract language, she moves quickly,” Yates observes. “She’s not going back to the canvas with the same ideas. With the newer work, she’s making more vertical pieces and changing up the framing. She’s picking different colors. She’s thinking about different subjects. She’s able to maintain that identifiable abstract language as the same time she’s becoming really adept and nimble at working within it.”

Sora’s paintings begin with a barrage of fast-drying pigments

In Sora’s studio, the canvas starts down on the floor, subject to a blitzkrieg of fast-drying acrylics and pigments and inks, applied using whatever is within arm’s reach: brushes, sponges, paper, nylons, spray bottles. There is an earthly physicality to this work as Sora moves around the canvas, using arms and hands to manipulate the color, sometimes prostrating herself on the floor, face to canvas, using her breath to move the pigment in an extravagantly life-giving gesture.

“The beginning is very chaotic, the end is very controlling,” she says. “And the control is that tension between me and this thing called painting that is telling me, in some indirect language, that I need to go and work a little bit here to build those shapes. This is me finding the relationships and the bodies and the narrative that leads you through.” 

Even as Sora moves into the controlled part of the process, using a narrow brush of oil paint to carve out figures and forms, memory and meaning, one senses that she is still more midwife to the work than its master, not acting on the painting as much as she is allowing it to come into being. As she paints, her attempts to describe what’s happening between her and the canvas acquire a mystical, almost Tantric, vocabulary: she is doing what the painting is asking for, she says, following the lines to see where they take her, investigating forms that have the unsettling persistence of reoccurring dreams, led by some intuition she doesn’t always fully understand.

“I always start with an intention and an idea,” she says. “But the encounters that happen through the life of creating the work, you would not be honest to yourself and your path if you stick to the initial idea. You have to let everything that happens to you happen to the painting. It’s a long process. Some paintings take almost a year to finish because they have that much to give.”

Yates readily observes these encounters in her work: “All the issues she may deal with – war and trauma and PTSD and violence and death – she finds order within that chaos. And that chaos changes, right? Sometimes it’s connected to her family, sometimes it’s connected to larger issues of trauma and migration, but those things always feed into her personal experience, and she’s translating them into that expressive abstract language.”

“The bodies are still there,” he says. “She’s burying them in the landscapes.

Part II: Scenes From A New Country 

“I love the duality of grotesque and beautiful. That’s what interests me,” Sora says. “The two things that have affected me most, visually, are amazing scenes of natural beauty – these landscapes that I’m obsessed with – and scenes from car bombs in Baghdad.”

Vian Sora, “Citizen”, 2019, Oil on canvas, 48 x 48 in., Shown in “Unbounded Domains” at Moremen Gallery in April 2019

Ten years ago, when Sora began the process of gaining U.S. citizenship, she was restricted from leaving the country, cut off from the places that excited her – cities like Istanbul, Sao Paolo and Berlin that were teeming with the exotic vibrancy she found so invigorating. So she went to the desert – to Moab and Sedona with their colorful layers of rock, their mesas and bridges and buttes, those ancient vistas sculpted by air and water and the weight of time.

“The Canyonlands are very intense,” Sora says. “That visual landscape, that kind of terrifying beauty, completely messed me up. It’s like a scene from an archaic war zone, like the scene of an explosion. The way the light creates illusions on all these layers of rock. It feels like you could fall and break into hundreds of pieces. That sense of emptiness makes me want to go fill it with something.”

At the time, Sora and her husband were living in an elegant apartment overlooking a century-old park in Louisville, Kentucky. But because they were renters, she was afraid to attempt anything that might mar this borrowed home. She felt constricted: “I don’t like what I painted there because for me to work in a space it can’t be white and clean and perfect. I have to destroy the place to feel free enough that I can paint.”

A drafting table in Sora’s studio

Three years later, Sora was granted a citizenship that made her both subject to U.S. laws and free to leave its borders. She and her husband bought a house on a quiet suburban street, where Sora now has a light-filled studio with windows that look out onto a verdant garden with a small koi pond that her cat, Lilu, watches intently. Inside, linoleum tiles catch paint in splatters, drips and spills; a wooden drafting table gazes upward to the windows; a battered, armless office chair slumps abandoned in the middle of the room. Drawings and sketches scatter the floor, torn fragments from older sketchbooks pile up comfortably on the sofa as Sora apologizes for a mess that doesn’t actually exist.

“It’s kind of embarrassing, but I cannot work in an organized environment,” she tells me. “I once tried to force my space to look like one of those perfect Vogue magazine studios. I got color-coded drawers and organized everything, separated the acrylics, the pigments, the oils, the oil sticks, the whole thing. And then without even realizing what I was doing, within a day everything was mixed, everything was destroyed. But I think it’s part of the process. The chaotic start and then the control.” 

Sora is in her studio sixteen hours a day if her schedule allows, often working well into the night, sometimes waking from a dream and descending to the studio to feed it to the canvas. In many ways, she is doing the work of every artist, translating personal experience into a unique visual expression, putting memory into form and turning feeling into color. But Sora works in an emotional alchemy as well, taking what is secret and dark and buried, all that is grotesque and awful and horrific, and transmuting it into something light-filled, as beautifully ordered and knowable and free as the natural universe.

“I’m trying to make sense of these visuals that are coming out indirectly,” she tells me. “Most of this recent work, I feel, is an internal landscape. An internal landscape of a woman who lived through wars and physical discomfort, who was in accidents and witnessed family members die. And these grotesque, awful situations, I can turn them into something meaningful and powerful.”

Vian Sora, “Echo And Narcissus”, 2018, Mixed media on canvas, 84 x 60 in., Collection of Speed Art Museum

Sora wants her paintings to start a conversation about the effect of displacement and migration, about the effect of war on the human soul. And while this may cast her as a political artist in some minds, the great accomplishment of Sora’s work is, in fact, that it transcends the political. In choosing to find the beautiful in the grotesque, the order in the chaos, the tiny buds of green amid the rubble of destruction, Sora is affirming a world of pleasure and delight and spirit and wonder – those very things that remind us of what it is to be human. 

We are, in Sora’s words, “all of us, starving for connection with something. With each other.” And in her search to recapture what she’s lost – the smells of her grandmother’s garden, the warmth of her childhood summers, the textures of her homeland – Sora is able to find that universal human desire for love and belonging and connection, carving out a space that’s free from the political and full of those personal, intimate encounters that make a life rich with meaning.

“There is a certain smell and a temperature associated with my childhood and I’m always trying to replicate that,” she says. “It left such a gap in my soul not to have that anymore when I left Iraq. Maybe that’s why I use all these warm colors. For me, the scariest thing is not to have memories.”

Part III: Ancient History

Vian grew up in Baghdad, in a house where artists were always coming and going. She spent a lot of time in her grandmother’s garden, playing amongst rose bushes and pomegranate trees. In the summers, her family went to museums and archaeological sites along the Mediterranean. She loved art and math because they were the only things that made sense to her. She made drawings every day.

Then there was a war. The students had to go back to school even though there was no gas or electricity and smoke everywhere. One day, Vian was walking to school and a member of the Iraqi Intelligence Service ran a red light and hit her with his car. She flew six meters into the air and landed on her leg. It shattered. She had seven surgeries and walked on crutches for three years. Every day, she painted and drew.

She began showing her art in local galleries. Then she studied computer science and took a job with Mercedes-Benz. She was very good at it and all her colleagues loved her. Vian hated it and quit within a year so she could be an artist. Her boss with the very thick German accent said, Come with me. It was late and everyone else had gone home. She followed him back to his office where he opened a closet door and gestured inside. My wife, Maria, she was so miserable here in Baghdad. She thought she would take painting classes. All these expensive supplies. You should have them. Go be an artist.

Vian had her first solo show in Baghdad when she was 24. Her friends from Mercedes-Benz came and bought all her paintings. Foreign workers came to the galleries each day after they finished looking for weapons of mass destruction. Then her uncle was killed. Her father disappeared. The Iraqi government told the family he had been killed. Then he showed up one day. He had been tortured and imprisoned. The whole time this was going on, Vian painted and drew every day.

She took a job at the AP. She started as an assistant, but quickly learned all the jobs because her co-workers kept getting killed. Mostly she reported on car bombs. She and her crew would go to the bomb scene and interview people at the sidewalk cafe that now had bodies and body parts and organs everywhere. Vian would go back to the office and edit the footage and file the report saying how many people had died. She did this for three years. At night she would go to her studio and paint.

Then one day she and her colleagues were returning from a bomb site and they were bombed. Half the people in her crew died. The AP flew her to London and gave her a job and treated her like a hero. It was springtime and the city was sunny and beautiful. Vian wanted to kill herself. She met an American man who collected her art. She said, Look, I am really not the person you want to be with in a relationship with right now. But she was very smart and very beautiful so he ignored her. They lived in Turkey and the United Arab Emirates and then they moved to the United States. Vian had shows in Ankara and Istanbul and Kuwait City and Dubai.

She painted every day.

Epilogue: Last Sound

Vian Sora, “Last Sound”, 2018, Mixed media on canvas, 60 x 85 in

Late July, high summer. Uncomfortably humid, the sun intensely bright. The birds are silent, the trees are motionless in the breezeless air. Animals hide in shaded corners. Inside the artist’s studio, it is cool and quiet. The cat sits on the floor and watches the koi fish; the writer sits on the sofa and watches a painting that’s in the process of becoming Last Sound. The artist stands before a canvas taller and larger than herself, looking for meaning. Her dark hair is swept into a gracefully messy bun, her smooth olive skin smudged with pigment. She holds a broken piece of porcelain – it was the closest palette within reach – with a vivid blue oil paint and murmurs to herself, or perhaps to the canvas, as she contemplates the forms taking shape. 

It’s a conversation she’s been having, in some way, every day since she was a child and first put line to paper, that primal impulse to find meaning and give it expression. In a world where wars can be started by men in underground chambers, where a judge can decide the fate of an asylum-seeker, where entire lives can be blown apart in an instant by a 19-year-old boy with a suicide wish, art – the act of creating – offers its refuge of order and elegance, its unknowable grace. “How important is beauty to you?” the writer asks, and the artist holds her gaze on the canvas as she responds:

“It’s everything.”

UnderMain would like to thank The Great Meadows Foundation for support of our 2019 programming, which will include twelve in-depth studio visits of Kentucky artists. See our other publications related to this project: 

Emily Elizabeth Goodman visits Melissa Vandenberg
Hunter Kissel visits Harry Sanchez, Jr. 
Jim Fields visits Skylar Smith
Keith Banner visits Michael Goodlett

Miriam Keinle visits Lori Larusso
Sso-Rha Kang Visits Carlos Gamez De Francisco

The Great Meadows Foundation is a grant giving foundation whose mission is to critically strengthen and support visual art in Kentucky by empowering our community’s artists and other visual arts professionals to research, connect, and participate more actively in the broader contemporary art world.

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