Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS from October 29th to December 7th, 2019 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Maddi Rihn.
During the summer before my sophomore year of high school, I wasted endless hours in the makeshift studio space that was my bedroom, spreading acrylic paint amateurly onto canvas. I distinctly remember listening to a select few albums over and over, one of which was (fittingly) Hop Along’s Painted Shut. The cover, a semi-exaggerated take on the traditional still life, features a large stack of fruit on a blue background, skillfully rendered by the lead singer (Frances Quinlan) herself. Not only did listening to this album while painting draw an inextricable attachment for me between experiencing art and making art, but it also led to a certain realization. As a newly budding musician and a longtime visual artist torn between genre, I came to understand that I didn’t have to choose a single medium to devote my energy to; mediums across the artistic spectrum – whether it be music, painting, dance, or literature – overlap, influence each other, and work together in a very important and necessary way.
There are countless other examples of this relationship, especially when it comes to art and literature. In 1964, Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s City Lights published Frank O’Hara’s Lunch Poems, a collection of poems infamously written during O’Hara’s breaks while working at the Museum of Modern Art (where he later became a curator). Currently, an exhibition in the MoMA features the work of O’Hara and artist Larry Rivers intertwined and in conversation with one another. In another example of the art-literature line being blurred, Jack Kerouac’s Book of Sketches was published posthumously in 2006, containing a number of documentary “spontaneous prose poems,” – what Kerouac liked to call “sketches,” – written during Kerouac’s travels across the United States. Language is so often used as media, in the way that paint is used for a painting, to create a work of art.
In the current exhibition in the Stamp Gallery, Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS, two of Shan Kelley’s pieces, Self Portrait IIIand Count Me Out, break down the art/literature barrier. Count Me Out reads like poem meant to be spoken aloud, while Self Portrait III reads more like art, like how Jenny Holzer’s Truisms read. Within the realm of a single medium in both of these pieces, Kelley creates two different distinctive mediums and subsequent meanings – that is, what is generally considered to be “art,” and what is generally considered to be “literature.” Rather than drawing a distinct separation, he blurs the line between them.
In the past couple of weeks on the Stamp Gallery radio show, Art Hour, I’ve been hoping to get a further grasp on the connections between these three artistic mediums. Each week, a playlist is curated by one of the docents at the gallery in relation to the current exhibition, along with a short description of how the songs go along with themes, ideas, or images of the exhibition. Though some pairings might be more obviously fitting than others, it’s been interesting to see the many interpretations of how songs relate to artworks in the gallery. Though I have yet to arrive at a particular definition of this relationship between art and music (or between any other mediums, for that matter) I continue to witness examples of it almost everywhere I go, taking the form of comics, film, music, or visual art.
Shan Kelley’s work is included in Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from October 29th to December 7th, 2019.
For more information on Shan Kelley, visit shankelley.com.
Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS from October 29th to December 7th at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Balbina Yang
“Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS” is not only eye-catching but also moving. Through various iconography, the works featured in this exhibition explore deeper the experiences that the artists bring with them. From the icons of the Red Cross to the pansy, Lucas Rougeux, Antonius-Tín Bui, and John Paradiso challenge viewers on their perceptions on commonplace objects in the LGBTQ+ community.
The Red Cross has been around for decades, and the image of the red cross is a symbol of aid. In “Clean Blood Only,” Rougeux highlights this symbol by painting it in the center of the canvas. However, although it has connotations of help and in a sense, safety, its surroundings say the contrary. In the wake of the Pulse shooting, many blood donation centers put out a call for blood claiming that anyone was welcome to donate. Rougeux scatters text, such as “All Types” and “Free Snacks” to portray an amicable, non-discriminatory environment. Unfortunately, these blood donation centers restrict gay men, especially those with HIV/AIDS from donating their blood. Obviously, with such a limitation, the centers are not as welcoming as they claim to be. Rougeux calls upon this hypocrisy, which is only further heightened by the stark red of the red cross that was – is – supposed to be a symbol of inclusivity.
Rougeux is not the only one who utilizes iconography in the artwork. Bui draws upon their experiences as a non-binary Asian-American to create vivid and intricate paper-cut designs that make up their “Not Sorry for the Trouble” series. Coming from a Vietnamese background, Bui is concerned with bridging the gap between their experiences as an Asian-American and their experiences as non-binary, part of the LGBTQ+ community. First, through their work, they remind us that AAPI do exist in this community, and second, the perceptions towards them need to be addressed, particularly in the HIV/AIDS crisis. Such perceptions include sexual stereotypes that do nothing but hurt AAPI. Bui cuts out East Asian icons, which act as the base of their messages. In “Not Your Submissive Bottom,” an ancient warrior is surrounded by flowers from which tassels hang. The text in all-capitals, the delicate paper cutting, as well as the vibrant red against the white, create a sense of urgency to Bui’s message: that AAPI in the LGBTQ+ community are not your stereotypes.
In “Pansies and Tulips,” Paradiso creates an evocative quilted piece that display of gay men, especially during the HIV/AIDS epidemic. In the center of the piece is a snapshot of two men kissing and surrounding them are colorful pansies. The pansy may be just a flower, but in the LGBTQ+ community, it’s also a derogatory word used to describe gay or feminine men. With such negative history, Paradiso reclaims both the word as well as the icon to evoke a beautiful and haunting sentiment. However, while he reclaims “pansy,” he reminds us that the stigma around gay men still exists as exemplified by the “CAUTION” tape that runs throughout the piece. The “CAUTION” warns the viewer that what they’re about to see is still taboo even in modern day and that the LGBTQ+ community is very much still marginalized within society.
Every single piece in “Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS” is colorful and evocative. The HIV/AIDS crisis happened largely in the ‘80s, and that was only a few decades ago. While it has died down, there is still very much stigma towards the disease and those with it. Rougeux, Bui, and Paradiso not only remind us of the crisis and the community involved, but they also use stark but beautiful iconography to transform their experiences into those that others can gain knowledge from.
Antonius-Tín Bui, Lucas Rougeux, and John Paradiso’s works are included in Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from October 29th to December 7th, 2019.
Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS from October 29th to December 7th at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Marjorie Antonio
Antonius-Tín Bui’s papercut works are lined up at the forefront of Stamp Gallery in this year’s exhibition “Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS.” Underneath the gallery spotlights, the complicated shadows of the intricate papercut works are exposed, lending the two-dimensional works a three-dimensional effect. I interpret this effect as an allegory to a marginalized community within the greater marginalized community of gay culture: Asian American LGBTQIA+ individuals.
Asian American LGBTQIA+ individuals exist. While it may have gone without saying, it is not uncommon for Asian American families and overall culture to brush off “tendencies” of queer AAPIs. Gender and sex are not often talked about within Asian American families, especially within Vietnamese, Laotian, Hmong, and Cambodian refugee populations, many of whom experienced trauma due to war and militarization. Communication between the 1st generation and 2nd generation Asian immigrants and Asian Americans are impacted by stress factors such as language barriers, acculturation gaps, and culture shocks.
Bui’s Not Sorry for the Trouble is a response to the shared AAPI experience of intergenerational trauma, as well as a challenge to the stereotypical notions that AAPIs are silent, apolitical, and submissive. Looking at the structures of Not Sorry for the Trouble, the cut paper forms are delicate and incredibly detailed. This medium may also be a nod to the Chinese origin of the paper cutting art form. The shadows of the cut paper forms elevate the pieces from the physical flatness and provide a mesmerizing effect for the viewer from all angles. Each piece has a dedicated spotlight that emphasizes an illusioned physical depth. I interpreted this depth as the elucidation of Bui’s message about aspects of the AAPI and AAPI LGBTQIA+ community.
The cut paper forms are crafted around a phrase, in order as follows: “Fight Segregaytion”, “Silence = Death”, “Act Up, Fight Back, Fight AIDS!”, “Not Your Submissive Bottom”, and “Not Your Token.” “Segregaytion” refers to the predominant white, heteropatriarchal gay spaces that Bui exists in. I interpreted this piece as a response to gay culture as determined by white men, which have marginalized racial minorities who identify as gay. By speaking of the divide within the gay community, Bui advocates “fighting segregaytion” and finding unity instead. “Not Your Submissive Bottom” and “Not Your Token” both refer to the perceptions of AAPI LGBTQIA+ individuals. It is commonly perpetuated in the media and popular culture that gay Asian men are “submissive bottoms” due to the effeminate performative qualities that some gay Asian men subscribe to. This is a harmful stereotype since it does not speak for all gay Asian men and has greater implications if one considers the history of white colonialism, supremacy, and militarism in Asia. The “submissive” trait that is tacked on Asian and Asian American individuals is a product of lingering power dynamics between the colonizer and the colonized, where the colonizer is the white man and the colonized are the imperial subjects and indigenous population. Bui challenges the problematic perceptions of AAPI LGBTQIA+ individuals by providing a medium to discuss the oftentimes forgotten history of United States imperialism in Asia.
Bui’s pieces “Silence = Death” speaks directly to the shared Asian experience of silence. The American emphasis of the 1st Amendment right to free speech is contrasted to the shared Asian experience of silence about intersectional issues of gender, sex, racism, and abuse. By leaving these issues to fester in the shadows, Asian Americans, not just AAPI LGBTQIA+ individuals, are at risk for sexually transmitted infections. According to an article published by Thy Vo in 2016, “Asian Americans are the least likely to use protection, with 40 percent of Asian American women having unprotected sex in their lifetime, according to a 2005 study. Another study found that 44 percent of college-aged Chinese and Filipino women used withdrawal as a contraceptive method, compared to the national average of 12 percent.” These statistics show that the silence surrounding AAPI issues impact the health of the greater AAPI community, in addition to AAPI LGBTQIA+ individuals. “Act Up, Fight Back, Fight AIDS!” is a call-to-action of mobilizing the AAPI community to reduce the risk of AIDS.
While I have attempted to interpret Bui’s work in the lenses of Asian American history, post/colonialist studies, LGBTQIA+ studies, and art form, I acknowledge that I am only scratching the surface of what their work truly conveys. Not Sorry for the Trouble is a dynamic work that every time I view it, I come out with another interpretation that leaves me wondering how five cut paper forms capture the essence of a shared Asian American experience. It is also a homage to the LGBTQIA+ AAPIs who have been actively forgotten and erased.
I am only able to interpret Bui’s work to this extent due to my privilege in learning about Asian American history and other intersectional issues that the AAPI community experiences through University of Maryland, College Park’s Asian American Studies program. I recognize that not many people are able to learn about the marginalized histories of AAPIs in an academic setting, and my own experience is uncommon within the larger academic emphasis on the United States and European histories. I am cognizant that my research and academic interests are focused in Southeast Asia and the Philippines. Therefore, I am not as familiar in East Asian influences in Bui’s work, so I elected to not focus on the East Asian shared experience, but others have. The community of AAPI artists, performers, and creatives are growing and I am excited to see if and how they visualize their experiences in their artistic work.
I was incredibly humbled when Bui’s work was featured at the Stamp Gallery since I do not see a lot AAPI artists in museum and gallery spaces especially in conversation about the HIV/AIDS epidemic, which is dominated by the gay white male perspective. Antonius-Tín Bui is a queer, gender non-binary, Vietnamese American artist who created Not Sorry for the Trouble who engages and will to continue to engage a dialogue on AAPI sexuality, silence, perceptions. Under the gallery spotlights, the cut paper forms of Not Sorry for the Trouble drop shadows that bring intrigued observers in, setting the stage for a larger dialogue of the intersections of art, AAPI identity, Asian American history, LGBTQIA+ issues, the HIV/AIDS epidemic, and so much more.
Antonius-Tín Bui is the child of Paul and Van Bui, two Vietnamese refugees. Not Sorry for the Trouble is a series of traditional cut paper forms that have re-imagined to confront Asian American Pacific Islander issues. The phrases incorporated stand in contrast to the stereotypical perception of AAPIs as being silent, apolitical, and submissive. These five works from the series are directly inspired by Bui’s lived experience as a queer, gender non-binary, Vietnamese American in a predominantly white, heteropatriarchal gay spaces. Bui made this work specifically for their queer ancestors, the LGBTQIA+ AAPIs who have been actively forgotten and erased.
David, E.J. R., “We Have Colonial Mentality: An Honest Call to the Filipino American Community,” in Filipino American Psychology: Personal Narratives, 97-105. Edited by Nadal, 2010.
See, Sarita E. The Decolonized Eye: Filipino American Art and Performance. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009.
Antonius-Tín Bui’s work is included in Still Here: Art on HIV/AIDS at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from October 29th to December 7th, 2019.
New Arrivals 2019 from September 11th to October 20th, 2019 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Maddi Rihn
From afar, Diane Meyer’s work appears to be unordinary. On a white wall protruding perpendicularly from the windowed side of the Stamp Gallery hang three of Meyer’s pieces, each of them small enough that they could comfortably fit in, say, a scrapbook. The bottom-right picture, New Jersey VII, captures a lakeside scene, an unidentifiable figure perched atop a rock, peering into the reflective water. Above it lies a picture of an early spring countryside, New Jersey IX, complete with grazing cows and a broken-down fence, not unlike memories I have of looking out the window while driving around my rural hometown. And at the top, The West I, a rust-colored desert scattered with prominent Utahan rock formations in the background. These pictures themselves are perhaps mundane, appearing journalistic rather than artistic, but upon closer inspection, reveal the true diligence and detail put into the creation of these works. Meyer’s photographs are spotted with miniature hand-embroidered square pixels, matched perfectly with the colors of the background, that alter and obscure part of the image. It’s these pixels that give the work such complex meaning; they epitomize perfectly the emotion and politics associated with keeping and maintaining memory.
When I approach these pieces, I think of my mother’s role as the documenter, if you will, of my family. Nowadays she scrapbooks less diligently (if at all – technology perhaps lessens the pressure of forgetting) but my memories of my mother adamantly cutting and pasting pictures into a book, a now 15-year-old artifact of my childhood, still ring clearly in my head. There is something so intimate and meticulous about memory-keeping, in the form of scrapbooking and photo-album-keeping, yet we so often overlook its importance in the grand scheme of history and art. This role of the woman as a documenter is part of what Meyer is getting at with her three pieces in New Arrivals 2019.
In her series, Time Spent That Might Otherwise Be Forgotten, when Meyer combines embroidery, a traditionally feminine-coded task, with photography, and especially in this case, photographs that hold memories, places, and people, she comments on the role of the woman as family memory-keeper and how this vitally important craft is often overlooked. Additionally, the usage of embroidery brings up the critical rhetoric around traditionally feminine craft, such as fiber art, being overlooked in the realm of “high art”. Family memory-keeping is often deemed essential, but the person doing it is often vastly removed from the work. In any other context, she would be deemed a historian – but because this is considered domestic work, similarly to the way sewing, knitting, and embroidery has been reduced to craft, she is not.
By contrast, in the age of technology, the task of memory-keeping has become largely obsolete. The age of keeping physical pictures, photo albums, and scrapbooking is long over for most people; it is no longer seen as valuable, but futile. This forces us to confront the effect technology has on memory and on history. Does technology indeed glitch, like the pixels in Meyer’s pieces, our memory of things? Does it perhaps interfere with our experience? Does technology aid us or work to our detriment when we use it to remember? How may technology skew our perceptions of others?
Meyers’ photos bring us closer to our reality, no matter how much we try to detach ourselves from it. In the age of widespread, easily accessible documentation, how do we navigate something as inherently subjective as memory?
Diane Meyer’s work is included in New Arrivals 2019 at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from September 11th to October 20th, 2019.
For more information on Diane Meyer, visit dianemeyer.net
New Arrivals 2019 from September 11th to October 20th, 2019 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Gabrielle O’Brien
Art has always been a reflection of the times we live in. The current Anthropogenic period is no exception. Driven primarily by human influence, the Anthropocene is a period that has seen significant environmental destruction and increasing climate change. As a result, the volume of artwork addressing the negative influence of humans on nature has grown in recent years. This is seen in the emergence of climate change art, a field of art inspired by climate change and global warming. The purpose of this field is to provide amore accessible and personalized method of engaging with data related to climate change than is traditionally allowed through research articles or scientific presentations. This movement, and others like it, are critical to engaging the public in thoughtful, meaningful discourse about the environmental crisis we currently face. It
also acts as a bridge to connect the scientific world with a broader audience.
New Arrivals 2019 contains multiple pieces that explore the relationship between mankind and nature in the context of climate change. Steel Face Concrete Bendby Letha Wilson features a natural scene overlain with strips of steel and layers of concrete. The steel and concrete appear to slash through the vegetation, evoking a sense of destruction and industrialization. This suggests the dominant manner in which mankind has manipulated nature for our own purposes. Pulling Back the Lace by Rachel Schmidt displays projected footage shot on the Isle of Skye on an image of lace being pulled back. The video presents “glitches” where evidence of humanity is seen in the natural scenery. The piece highlights the far-reaching, negative impact of civilization and emphasizes that no place, even a remote island, is immune to the influence of mankind.
The exhibition features two pieces by Noel Kassewitz, I Wish to Communicate With You and Rococo Remastered: Sunset on the Empire, that both address rising sea levels, a consequence of global warming. I Wish to Communicate With You combines found flotation devices with woven paintings with an accompanying print of the piece floating off the coast of New York City. This not only rouses a sense of urgency, conveying to the viewer the nearness of global warming to our everyday life, but also uses humor to connect to the viewer, as the purpose of the flotation devices is to ensure the piece will survive in the face of rising sea levels. Rococo Remastered: Sunset on the Empire is a sculptural painting made of marine foam and sailcloth that Kassewitz used to float down the Potomac River. The piece also utilizes humor to comment on the environmental crisis, as it is floatation-ready and would also survive throughout rising sea levels.
It is clear that climate change is not going to disappear. In fact, if trends continue, it will
accelerate and its consequences will worsen in severity within our lifetime. However, art serves as a beacon of hope in that it is an avenue to encourage honest, productive conversations about the crisis we currently face.
Letha Wilson’s, Rachel Schmidt’s, and Noel Kassewitz’s work is included in New Arrivals 2019 at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from September 11th to October 20th, 2019.
New Arrivals 2019 from September 11th to October 20th, 2019 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Balbina Yang
The beauty of an artwork not only lies in its message, but also in its medium. In fact, the medium may be the thing that gives an artwork its meaning. Such an effect is true in multiple works in New Arrivals 2019. From 3,180 KM by Lester Rodriguez to Steel Face and Concrete Bend by Letha Wilson, the natural materialities of the artworks evoke messages that can be appreciated and, consequently, internalized by anyone who witnesses them.
In 3,180 KM, Rodriguez utilizes wood in two styles: larger pieces that form the base atop which toothpicks are inserted. The artwork itself illuminates the themes of immigration. The number, 3,180 KM is the distance of the border between the U.S. and Mexico. Obviously, these themes are rather grim as they are relevant in today’s society. However, Rodriguez decides to use toothpicks, a structure which are structurally thin as well as traditionally flimsy. By utilizing a weaker style of wood, Rodriguez emphasizes the precarious situation that the border presents to both immigrants and non-immigrants. Yet, these toothpicks are supported by the larger blocks of wood beneath. Not only that, there are not just one or two toothpicks, there are so many that the work itself seems to be made of a solid plane of toothpicks.
By contrasting the styles of wood and their respective durabilities, Rodriguez presents an aesthetic that supports the fact that although the border may be a precarious situation, it is very much present and will always be.
Rodriguez isn’t the only artist to use natural materials to convey the message in their artwork. In Steel Face and Concrete Bend, Wilson forces viewers to contemplate the relationship of the two sides of nature: natural and manmade. The work features a photograph of leaves juxtaposed to swatches of concrete and strips of steel. Concrete is made up of natural sand and gravel mixed with water and chemical additives. Steel, too, may seem natural but is actually synthetic. The photograph may seem natural because it shows leaves, entities that exist in the natural world. However, the photograph is manmade not just through its practice, which people have cultivated throughout history, but also through its materiality. By flipping back and forth from natural and manmade materials, Wilson ponders the connection between two worlds that we, as viewers, seldom step back to think about. In a sense, Wilson inverts the meaning of natural objects by giving them an artificial one, and vice versa.
Both 3,180 KM and Steel Face and Concrete Bend are powerful pieces that force us as viewers to take a look at the world through its material values. While the artworks may seem simplistic in terms of the number of materials used, the way that they are styled to create a cohesive argument is what makes the pieces stand out. In fact, if 3,180 KM wasn’t made of wood, much less toothpicks, and if Steel Face and Concrete Bend wasn’t made up of photographs, steel, and concrete, the meanings of each may not be as powerful as they are now.
Lester Rodriguez’s and Letha Wilson’s works are included in New Arrivals 2019 at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from September 11th to October 20th, 2019.
New Arrivals 2019 from September 11th to October 20th, 2019 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Fiona Yang
Art has always been funny, and often in the darkest times. Dadaism, for example, was an art movement that occurred right before and continued during World War I. Dadaism embodies the absurdity and existentialism of the time. Dadaist artists were disillusioned. Many had tried to experiment with new mediums and styles of art in the period before the war, to which public response had been dismissive, if not scornful. Dadaist artists cited repressive social structures and the unquestioned pressure to conform as reasons for this backlash to their art.
Artists then turned their attention to the war. World War I was the first war in which trench warfare and devastating advances in weaponry were employed, leading to casualties never seen before in warfare. Dadaist artists once again cited repressive, conformist values, but this time as causes for the war, arguing that people bought into corrupt and nationalistic politics without question. Dadaist art emerged as an attack on “rational thought” – the type of overly logical and reasoned thinking that had suppressed art and allowed disasters like World War I to happen.
The purpose of Dadaism, then, was individualistic, absurdist expressionism as a way to provoke thought in the general public. Artists found a way to do this through humor. Humor has always been an accessible medium. Art that is funny catches people’s attention and makes them laugh, which in turn allows them to feel more open and reflective about the work. A Dadaist example of humor would be Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain from 1917. At first glance, it is a urinal with a name printed on it. At second glance – perhaps influenced by the locational context of an art gallery, or by an informational plaque – it becomes art. This dichotomy is funny! It also, however, allows you to think more deeply about the piece: what makes it art? How has it been elevated from its original, lowly position as a urinal? What was the “rational” thought process that led you to conclude it was art?
These conceptual questions are what Dadaists wanted us to ask when looking at their art, but humor is the vehicle that drives us to ask in the first place. If not for the humor inherent in this piece, it is very possible that it would not have the historical significance it has in the art world today.
Another contemporary example of humorous art hangs in Stamp Gallery today.
Noel Kassewitz’s Rococo Remastered: Sunset on the Empire is the perfect contemporary complement to Dadaist artwork. Rococo Remastered is a raft that Kassewitz actually puts to use in the Potomac River, as proved in the piece’s accompanying video documentation. The video’s backing track is a hilariously upbeat song that is distinctly at odds with the darker themes of the work. While it’s funny to see Kassewitz try to paddle on this raft in the Potomac River, the work is actually trying to communicate a serious, deeper message about climate change and revolution. Kassewitz’s purpose in making this piece was to inject humor into climate change and the rise of sea levels, and therefore encourage more people to think about the subject. There is a definite parallel between the existentialism of World War I and current nihilistic, existential attitudes towards climate change.
Additionally, Kassewitz embodies the idea of revolution into her work with her use of “millennial pink.” Pink was a very common color used in Rococo-period art, and the Rococo period directly preceded the French Revolution. Kassewitz, by using “millennial pink,” observes another type of revolution on the way – perhaps one that will redirect our thinking on climate policy, or about art. That hint towards a “revolution” is also directly paralleled by the Dadaists’ revolutionary, incendiary thinking on individualism and expression.
In the end, both Kassewitz’s piece and Dadaist art is brought together across time by the humor they use to provoke thought about their respective contexts. Kassewitz uses humor to make climate change more accessible; Duchamp used it to question the purpose of art and the rationality of thought. Humor is and always has been a universal medium.
Noel Kassewitz’s work is included in New Arrivals 2019 at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from September 11th to October 20th, 2019.
New Arrivals 2019 from September 11th to October 20th, 2019 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Marjorie Antonio
I live in America. That is what Karlo Andrei Ibarra’s work Continental declares in bright neon blue. As a person who immigrated to the United States as a child, I found Ibarra’s Continental to be a particularly bold piece. The use of neon as a medium may be one of the best ways to present that statement. It is an unforgiving, bull-horn loud, daring-to-be-noticed, icy blue. The simple declarative statement is only three letters; the form taught in elementary level Spanish. However, if you truly consider the history of migration, displacement, identity, and globalization, it is certainly impressive how his work speaks volumes in just three words.
While Ibarra prompts us to question what living in America means, I deconstructed his piece with each neon word: What does “vivo” mean, what does “en” reflect, and what truly is considered “America”?
“Vivo” – derived from the Latin vīvere means to live, to be alive. While the concept is similar between the two definitions, the connotation of just being alive versus living reflects the struggles of immigrants, the work that must be found to survive and to live comfortably. “En” – meaning in – questioning what inclusion really means. Ibarra captures the current political argument of exclusion versus inclusion and im/migration. While many universities and workplaces across the U.S. are championing the initiative to have more diverse and inclusive spaces, unfortunately, multicultural representation or acceptance is not often seen on the federal level, whether be in immigration policies, ICE raids, Supreme Court decisions, and executive orders. Another component of Ibarra’s work is the very definition of America. Does that include North America (such as Canada and Mexico), Central and Latin America, or South America? Yet, the colloquial definition of America only includes the United States of America and very much excludes any others. The geographic connotation of America is perhaps one of the most interesting questions that Ibarra offers for the viewer to consider. To say “I live in America” almost never begets more questions, just the common understanding of America’s borders and distinct culture.
I found Continental to be one of the most striking in Stamp Gallery’s “New Arrivals 2019” exhibition, which is a student-curated collection as part of the University of Maryland’s Contemporary Art Purchasing Program (CAPP). I am particularly impressed by the cohesiveness of the current show since all of the artwork transverses multiple mediums, yet, the messages that the pieces convey are in-conversation with one another. Continental, in particular, spoke to me about the millions of immigrants that currently reside in the United States, and the work adjacent to it, Lester Rodríguez’s 3,180 KM, represents the length of the border between the United States and Mexico. Borders, whether they keep things in or out, is part of the vocabulary of this collection.
Ibarra’s Continent is so much more than three neon words; it is a defiant statement of the body restrained by imaginary borders, by anti-immigrant laws, by what America is considered versus what it actually is. It is the voice of the many people who take pride in their residency, of the life they have crafted and toiled for, resounding in neon lettering, in a language that will soon be the most spoken in the world. I can hear the voices sing: vivo en america.
Karlo Andrei Ibarra’s’s work is included in New Arrivals 2019 at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from September 11th to October 20th, 2019.
This is the fifth installment of the VOX LACUNAE artist interview series. VOX LACUNAE features work by Sobia Ahmad, Sera Boeno, Marta Gutierrez, Nilou Kazemzadeh, Jason Kuo, Kim Llerna, and Yuli Wang.
Nilou Kazemzadeh | Multimedia artist | Exhibiting in VOX LACUNAE from July 18 to August 22, 2018 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Interview by Rina Goldman
Tell me a bit about yourself, where are you from? How did you start creating art?
I was born and raised in Maryland by my immigrant Iranian parents. Since childhood, I always enjoyed artistic endeavors such as drawing random eligible writing on the wooden frame of my bed when I was probably around 6 or 7 years old. My parents also enrolled me in various art classes growing up at community art centers or Montgomery College. Besides those, I think what subconsciously lead me to creating art or being attracted to it was all the Persian art I grew up seeing and living with.
How did your work for VOX LACUNAE develop? Is it something you created for this show or had you previously been working with language and art?
I didn’t create the work specifically for VOX LACUNAE but when I saw the open call I knew my work would fit perfectly with the theme. The main focus of my work revolves around language and the meaning of things. When I was a student at the University of Maryland College Park I began to experiment with writing Farsi and translating it into art. Funny side story: I started incorporating Farsi calligraphy into my work when I had to take the language placement test at UMD. The first time I took it I was placed into intermediate Persian which was way above my understanding so I dropped out after the first class! I then made it my mission to test out of taking any Persian class. I began to read much more Farsi poetry and began to take the written words and repeating it on paper as a way of practicing, and that’s how style came into existence.
Within the exhibition, you have a collage, a carved pieces, an embossed pieces and an etching –that’s a wide variety of styles– what is your favorite to work with?
Now that you write it out, I do work with a lot of different materials and processes. I guess I enjoy seeing how the calligraphy is affected when it is incorporated into various materials or vice versa. Most of the work I produce is through printmaking which has so many different processes such as relief, intaglio, litho, and screen printing. I really enjoy experimenting and learning about new processes.
Mother’s Letters I. 2016. Woodcut, letter
How does being able to speak a language other than English impact your artwork?
Farsi as a language is very poetic and expressive. The script that makes up farsi is also very free flowing and mysterious to me. Growing up in America I would always have to code-switch growing up. Switching from my American culture to my Persian culture. As a result, naturally, I became more accustomed to english and my American culture. When I write in English, I can immediately read what I wrote. In Farsi, I can’t do that, I still have to sound out each and every letter in order to read it. I can’t just look at a Farsi word and read it, I think that’s why I am attracted to writing in Farsi and not in English.
You use the geometric style of Kufic calligraphy when writing in Farsi within your artwork, what drew you to that style? Does it mean something to you?
This goes back to my interest in experimenting. While I was researching different calligraphy styles, Kufic calligraphy stood out to me because of how different it looked. It is characterized by its very geometric script. The writing is arranged like a maze, everything fits perfectly in a given boundary. Learning how to write in Kufi makes me feel like i’ve built yet another bridge between my two identities.
What do you wish for people (who do not know Farsi) to see when looking at your work?
I understand that the meaning of my work can be hard to understand, especially when the viewer cannot read Farsi or decipher the words. I would like viewers to take in the effect that I create with the calligraphy, and if i’ve done a good job of presenting the work, they will be able to feel the emotions I felt in the process. For an example, Sal-e Bad almost looks like a maze with no real exit point. It feels tight and suffocating with no open space. Release in contrast, is light and airy, the prints gently billow as they hang from the wall. The work allows for a moment of reflection and rest.
When creating Sal-e Bad(The Bad Year), why did you choose to do a blind embossing instead of a print? What does blind embossing represent to you?
Sal-e Bad was created after a difficult phase in my life. The poetry reads:
“The bad year, the windy year, the year of tears, the year of doubts, the year of long days” – Ahmad Shamlu
For this piece I took those words and arranged them in a repeating and mirrored Kufic style. By using this poem, which I related so deeply to at the time, helped me close a door on that chapter of my life. Through my work, the repeated writing, in a way has become a mode of personal healing. This leads me to explain why I chose to do a blind embossment instead of a inked print. When I was experimenting, I wanted to try doing a print with an exaggerated indentation. When I pulled the blind embossment off the block I was immediately taken by the light and shadow play. In certain light sources the calligraphy fully reveals itself to the viewer why in others, the print looks like a blank unused piece of paper. This alludes to the hidden struggles we go through throughout our lives. Sometimes these conflicts are physical and in view while some can be internal and unseen. The blind embossment was then the best chose in representing how I felt during that time.
Sal-e Bad (The Bad Year). 2017. Blind embossment
Can you tell me a bit more about your piece Release? What drew you to create such a contradictory piece?
Release was made before all the other pieces, and was created in response to the 2016 Republican Primaries. This event opened my eyes to the very real distrust and prejudice pressed upon people of Middle Eastern background. Just like I state in the previous response, the prints were a way for me to reason and work through my issues and emotions. The poetry I used for this piece reads:
“You will not deserve the name of human, if you are indifferent of others pains.” -Saadi
The act of repeating these words endlessly over the surface of the plate allowed me the time to really think about what this poem meant to me. I learned that the poem is not just about the people I felt needed to hear this, but also my reaction to the things they said. How can I be setting myself above these people when I too was feeding into the hatred. So this poem really became a mantra for my growth as a person. I still have times when I let my emotions get the best of me, but this poem always comes to mind when necessary and I remember the meaning of the piece and that helps ground me.
Release, 2016. Intaglio/relief collagraph on mulberry paper
How do you feel your use of language within your art works to fill a gap in our understanding of different cultures?
Growing up, I never really saw anything connected to my Persian culture outside of my home and family. I think it is extremely important to represent yourself and your culture to the outside world in order to demystify presumptions of one’s identity. I think including farsi calligraphy helps normalize Arabic looking text and imagery. I believe that most of the distrust and hatred stems from our fear of the unknown. From my own experience, i’ve found that being present and a proud middle eastern woman helps rewrite the age old stereotypes of my people and neighbors.
What inspires you to create art? Where do your ideas come from?
My inspiration comes from wanting to represent my rich culture as a way of honoring my ancestors and family. It’s a way of learning about myself and growing as a person. My ideas comes from my environment, things I read, images I see, my friends and family, artifacts I find around the house. Anything can potentially inspire the creation of work.
Where do you see your art going from here?
I have absolutely no idea! All I know is that creating art is an integral part of my life and I will continue to do it for a very long time!
Nilou Kazemzadeh’s work is included in Vox Lacunae at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from July 18th to August 22nd, 2018.
[detail] Catatonic Tomography Cycle (2018) by second-year MFA candidate Clay Dunklin, is available for view at The Stamp Gallery’s MEDIA LUX exhibition through May 19, 2018.This is the fourth installment of the MEDIA LUX artist interview series. MEDIA LUX features work by Clay Dunklin, Mason Hurley, Irene Pantelis, Monroe Isenberg, and Gina Takaoka.
Clay Dunklin | Second-Year Master of Fine Arts Candidate | Exhibiting in MEDIA LUX from April 2nd through May 19th, 2018 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Interview by Grace DeWitt
To start with some background, where are you from, and what brought you to the MFA program at the University of Maryland?
Really, I came here for location. I grew up in the middle-of-nowhere in East Texas where there is virtually no arts culture or art opportunities and then spent the last several years in Orlando, FL. Orlando is great but the contemporary art world there is still in a stage of infancy and opportunities are few. Here we sit in this nice place between Baltimore and Washington–even New York and Philadelphia are in close proximity. So there’s a lot to engage with and see. I really wanted to be someplace where I had all of that at my fingertips.
Can you briefly summarize the focus of your artistic practice?
My practice is very much project-based and contextual–I create a lot of parts but they really need to be installed and viewed together to make relationships and begin to make sense. I’m also not really media specific. I mean, my background is in drawing and I still think of all the work in terms of drawing, but my practice is not really just drawing, or sculpture, or video. It’s all of that. I guess I use whatever media feels right for the work.
Are there any artists you are following right now, or any specific artists who have inspired your work so far?
I’m really into Mark Leckey right now. He won the Turner Prize a few years ago and does video, image-based, and object-based works. He creates these great installations with found objects usually in front of a green screen. This really influenced the current piece, Catatonic Tomography Cycle, with the painting of that flat color on the wall and the flatness of the prints. His work made me think about achieving a kind of compression of the objects or alternatively a slight dimensionality as if just beginning to poke out into space. This is aided by the one-sided viewing of the work–even though there are objects it’s not really in the round like in Leckey’s work.
I’m really drawn to Jannis Kounellis’ work as well. For me, his installations sat in this really beautiful place between complexity and simplicity. Objects would be hung with rope from the ceiling or piled on the floor or he’d just fill a gallery with live horses–it was very straightforward like that. But the scale and the way he could fill a space was pretty awe-inspiring.
I also have a bit of a crush on Anicka Yi. Her exhibition at the Guggenheim for the Hugo Boss Prize was pretty fantastic. The piece Maybe She’s Born With It is like this huge inflatable plastic dome with tempura fried flowers in it. I kind of want to live in there.
I understand that you underwent a pretty extreme medical illness about this time last year, which plays a role in your work now. Did your practice focus on the body before this illness? How would you say your direction changed because of this experience?
Yeah, it was pretty scary actually. I had several extended stays in the hospital with this weird and kind of rare neurological disease. Most of my time in the hospital was spent just trying to figure out what this was. Then I got put on these wacky medicines that took my mind to weird places and really affected my body and how my body reacted to external stimuli. It was a wild ride for sure. I took a bit of time trying to figure out what to do with that whole experience in terms of my work and I honestly tried to avoid it. It couldn’t be helped though, it just began to creep into the studio, so I gave in and decided to just see where it takes the work. And I think a year was enough time to sort of process and be ready to talk about it. However, I don’t think it totally uprooted the direction of my practice. I’ve always been working with body as subject in some capacity–I come from a very heavy figure drawing background so I guess that is just kind of ingrained in me somewhere. I’m interested in the body as this sort of mediator between us and the world. It’s how we contextualize and make sense of everything. But I think technology is really redefining that role as we’re becoming more and more cyborgian with our phones and such. But your body still has to interface with technology so that specifically is where I want my work to be situated–that little meeting point between body and technology.
Can you share some information about the title of your MEDIA LUX installation, Catatonic Tomography Cycle?
This piece deals with my experience of being sick in a pretty overt way. Here I’m using some of the more conceptual elements of the work to steer the formal qualities and I think this becomes really evident through the title. A catatonic state is an altered mental status that can be brought on by neurological disorders. This is what I experienced several times throughout my illness. It was like being a zombie or something. I have little to no memory of those times but apparently I wouldn’t speak or even move really, like being frozen. This is referenced in the stillness of the image-based components and in the slow looping videos that maybe start to reference time as something structured in layers and less linearly. This directly relates to tomography,which is a kind of imaging used most commonly in the medical field where the whole is broken up and viewed as layers (think MRI images). Again, this is referenced in some of the actual physical medical imagery used, but, it is also labeling all of these individual components as layers or slices of the whole that still contain information about the whole, and then compressing all of that into a kind of flatness (back to the Mark Lackey reference). And cycle goes back conceptually to the cyclical nature of the disease but also formally to the looping of the videos and as an indicator of the singular installation being composed of many parts: like an opera or song cycle in music composition.
Detail from one of two looping videos in Dunklin’s Catatonic Tomography Cycle (2018) installation in MEDIA LUX at The Stamp Gallery.
We’ve talked a little bit about how the footage in your installation touches on ideas of creation. Can you go into further detail about how the footage builds into the more complex idea of the MEDIA LUX installation as a whole?
This work has really taken on a kind of language all its own, as I think most works tend to do, and if you understand the artist as mythmaker, this language becomes inherently mythological. So I am constantly reflecting on the relationship between what is a deeply personal mythological language and a more universal one. I was reflecting on this relationship between creation and destruction and how water or fluid can act between those two modes. I think about the Grand Canyon where water has destroyed the landscape yet simultaneously created a new one or how this fluid around my brain acts as protection yet is the main antagonist in the story of my illness. Newborns emerge from a fluid incubator in what is a very traumatic process. None of this is new. But how do we reference these ideas that are inherent to our body in a relevant and deeply personal way? What kind of contemporary Athene can emerge from the fluid site of the head? The Native Americans around what is California today had a creation myth of humans being made from clay of the earth, as most cultures did, but with the added idea that the creator-god mixed spit with the earth to give humans life. So again, what does that mean for a contemporary body as a fluid site?
I’m interested in hearing more about your photographic/record-keeping processes and preferences. Could you highlight some other works of yours that applied captured imagery to installation? What are your intentions when it comes to image resolution and image manipulation in your work?
Like I said earlier, I’m interested in this intersection of body and technology and specifically how we negotiate those two as mediators between the self and the world. We’ve really embarked on a time where we’re beginning to experience everything through tech, even things we’re physically present for. Think about a concert where people snap every single song. Yes, now all of your friends can experience that too through an app on their phone but also you as the physically present viewer are experiencing a live event through compressed, digital, pixelated images and videos via your handheld device. That’s fascinating to me. It’s becoming second nature to understand our world through compressed images. So in terms of the work, I’m not intentionally after low quality images verging on pixilated abstraction just like I’m not intentionally after the most high quality images aimed at some kind of illusion. I don’t care about the illusion. If the image even slightly or in a subversive way recalls a quality of imagery experienced in the everyday then it brings it into that space of body/technology interface. It also begins to recall or make visible the process of the image-making, similar to how the process of tomographic imaging is inherently stamped on the images it produces simply because of the kind of images it produces. It’s a performative process where the thing is the action of its own doing and in this way, the images now become objects.
Detail of water images, blacklight, and clay component in Dunklin’s Catatonic Tomography Cycle (2018) installation.
Thinking back to the installation at The Stamp Gallery, what drew you to the use of those dark water images, applied directly on the left portion of the installation wall?
Those images come from documentation of a previous project where I was changing or obscuring the surface of my body by applying charcoal powder. I would then wash that off and be left with this deep dark charcoal water. From that, I began to pull paper thinking that these new surfaces and objects could be made from my body sluff. So the water became a transformative site where something new could emerge–this goes back to your previous question about creation and the metamyth. I had prints of these images and it just kind of hit me that they needed to be included with this project. The water references fluid around the brain but also starts to resemble images of space. That push and pull between something recognizable and something alien interests me and speaks to cosmic or magical thinking and some of the mental imagery conjured while on medication that was making me totally loopy. The application and composition of the prints is pointing to digital glitch in a way. The long linear format of each print is kind of filmic but really isn’t about time as we perceive it. As said earlier, it’s about something layered or sliced and reassembled.
Detail of wall sculpture in Dunklin’s Catatonic Tomography Cycle (2018) installation.
MEDIA LUX is an exhibition that presents five artists’ interpretation of, or association with, light. How does light relate to your concept in Catatonic Tomography Cycle?
Light is really a formal element here. When the decision was made to have the gallery dimly lit I thought that was great because video work is self-illuminating. For the rest of the installation I had to be more strategic about lighting. I knew the sculpture emerging from the wall was the one thing I wanted to be lit pretty intensely. Then the blue glow of the black light was again a formal and strategic color choice as it stands in relationship to the warm yellow of that spotlight. So that really was a further iteration of the colors found in the video works.
Detail of wall drawing in Dunklin’s Catatonic Tomography Cycle (2018) installation, available for view through May 19, 2018 in The Stamp Gallery.
Is there any advice you have for undergraduate artists or others at the beginning of their art careers?
I think one of the biggest things that I needed to hear as an undergrad was to really invest in the learning processes. It’s easy for people who have some talent to take the time in studio for granted or to not really put themselves out there because they’re afraid of failure. Make a ton, experiment a ton, be confident even in ‘failure,’ and pull everything you can out of your instructors and fellow students. Otherwise, you’ll likely only be performing at a slightly higher level than when you started college. How much good will that have really done you?
I know you have an installation up right now at VisArts, yolk | shell | source | system, a collaborative with another UMD MFA student, Bekí Basch. Anything else you have going on or coming up that you’d like to promote here?
Yeah! This was actually my first collaborative project and it was really the best experience. It’s a huge 70 foot long window display a couple of blocks from VisArts. So it definitely presented its own set of challenges but made for some great experimentation. We had a reception and artist talk for that on May 4th, and the installation will be up through June.
Clay Dunklin’s work is included in MEDIA LUX at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from April 2nd through May 19th, 2018.
The cover, a semi-exaggerated take on the traditional still life, features a large stack of fruit on a blue background, skillfully rendered by the lead singer (Frances Quinlan) herself. Not only did listening to this album while painting draw an inextricable attachment for me between experiencing art and making art, but it also led to a certain realization. As a newly budding musician and a longtime visual artist torn between genre, I came to understand that I didn’t have to choose a single medium to devote my energy to; mediums across the artistic spectrum – whether it be music, painting, dance, or literature – overlap, influence each other, and work together in a very important and necessary way.
and Count Me Out, break down the art/literature barrier. Count Me Out reads like poem meant to be spoken aloud, while Self Portrait III reads more like art, like how Jenny Holzer’s Truisms read. Within the realm of a single medium in both of these pieces, Kelley creates two different distinctive mediums and subsequent meanings – that is, what is generally considered to be “art,” and what is generally considered to be “literature.” Rather than drawing a distinct separation, he blurs the line between them.
contrary. In the wake of the Pulse shooting, many blood donation centers put out a call for blood claiming that anyone was welcome to donate. Rougeux scatters text, such as “All Types” and “Free Snacks” to portray an amicable, non-discriminatory environment. Unfortunately, these blood donation centers restrict gay men, especially those with HIV/AIDS from donating their blood. Obviously, with such a limitation, the centers are not as welcoming as they claim to be. Rougeux calls upon this hypocrisy, which is only further heightened by the stark red of the red cross that was – is – supposed to be a symbol of inclusivity.
flowers from which tassels hang. The text in all-capitals, the delicate paper cutting, as well as the vibrant red against the white, create a sense of urgency to Bui’s message: that AAPI in the LGBTQ+ community are not your stereotypes.
I was incredibly humbled when Bui’s work was featured at the Stamp Gallery since I do not see a lot AAPI artists in museum and gallery spaces especially in conversation about the HIV/AIDS epidemic, which is dominated by the gay white male perspective. Antonius-Tín Bui is a queer, gender non-binary, Vietnamese American artist who created 
