Tag Archives: University of Maryland

Current Exhibition

Window to Earth

We Live in the Sky: Home, Displacement, Identity from October 16 to December 7, 2024 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Oliver Foley

We Live in the Sky is an exhibition dominated by the tones of paper and black ink, with the vast majority of the works on paper using an achromatic palette. Amongst these works, Tori Ellison’s Windows in the Sky (2024) stands out as one of the exhibition’s only multicolor screenprints. Screen prints only have two discrete values of color: there are areas where the screen allows ink through and areas where the photoresist is hardened and the ink cannot pass through. In order to create the illusion of grays and color gradients, this piece employs a technique called halftone. Halftone prints transform an image into a grid of colored dots, and these dots are scaled in size based on how much of a color should be perceived. In Windows in the Sky, the paper is black, so the space left between the halftone dots of the color results in a darkening of the perceived color. The areas of intersection where the different colored screens meet appears lighter and more saturated, since more of the black background is obscured by the ink.

Tori Ellison, Windows in the Sky (2024)

This dark, yet colorful piece is hung opposite from Tori Ellison’s Sky Writing (2024). The airy, freely floating Sky Writing hangs in stark contrast to the earthy tones of Windows in the Sky. The parchment is semi-translucent like a cloud covering the sun, sparsely adorned with the shadow-like tendrils of calligraphy. One of the central sheets of Sky Writing even uses the same screen as Windows in the Sky, but in a neutral black rather than a hued ink. The bird of the earth and bird of the sky face each other in the gallery space.  The two pieces mirror each other in many ways, including literally: Windows in the Sky is enclosed in a highly reflective glass frame, which almost always reflects the lights of the space and Sky Writing. At times the dark print is overpowered by the reflections, like the reflections of sky on a lake. Standing in this space between Sky Writing and Windows in the Sky conjures up the feeling of floating amidst dense clouds and looking down onto earth through a small window. 

Tori Ellison, Sky Writing (2024)

Tori Ellison’s work is included in We Live in the Sky at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from October 16th to December 7th, 2024. For more information on Ellison, visit https://www.toriellison.com/. For more information on We Live in the Sky and related events, visit https://stamp.umd.edu/articles/stamp_gallery_presents_we_live_sky_home_displacement_identity or visit our instagram @stampgalleryumd.

Current Exhibition

Standing and Showering in Sound: What Center and Periphery Mean in Mami Takahashi’s Audio Journal

We Live in the Sky: Home, Displacement, Identity from October 16 to December 7, 2024, at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Trinitee Tatum

Some cannot see the forest for the trees—drawn too close to the core, captivated by its light and promises, unable to look back. Others, existing farther away, wholly see it but are paralyzed by its force. The dominant Western, Anglo-Saxon American narrative weaves itself so insidiously into the cultural zeitgeist and media that it’s hard to identify and articulate, like a word lingering on the tip of the tongue or a dog chasing its tail. My initial introduction to this piece was an anecdote about feeling invisible and othered when prompted to retell my family’s “immigration” story in the third grade. The words evaded me as I attempted to articulate how exclusionary the assignment felt as I was asked to frame my ancestors’ enslavement in relation to immigration via Ellis Island. How, when it came to immigrating to the United States, Ellis Island was at the center, and everything else existed in the margins. Combating the tides of this pervasive dominant narrative is a daunting task, but artists like Mami Takahashi wield the power of language to center and platform the voices of immigrants. In her work Audio Journal (2024), Takahashi memorializes the unique and individualized experiences of immigration, the sensations of belonging and disbelonging, in a sonic assemblage.

Our struggles as immigrants, though individual and varying, share a winding path of fear. Some similar fears are shared regardless of the story: social fear related to the fragility of status, fear of differences in culture and accents, fear of missing out on “common knowledge,” and fear of a limited support system in the new country.

Mami Takahashi via website.
Mami Takahashi, Audio Journal, 2024.

Best described as a sound collage, Audio Journal is a harmonic layering of audio recordings from the Austin, Texas, immigrant community, a collaborative collection of 1-minute recordings at 11 AM from immigrant communities, and interviews from UMD’s international community. Activated by stepping into a marked circle on the gallery floor, a directional speaker bathes visitors from above in a blend of immigrant stories interwoven with fleeting sounds of daily life. The speaker’s design makes the sound feel as if it emanates from the listener’s own body, creating an intimate, almost internal experience that dissipates upon leaving the listening area, with sound softly spilling from the shower’s edges. Artist Takahashi’s use of a directional speaker here “investigates intimacy, though not necessarily closeness, in public spaces.” The speaker itself embodies a boundary– a threshold– separating the center from the periphery, powerfully demonstrating how voices at the center can overwhelm those on the margins.

Krystof Wodiczko, Monument for the Living, 2020.

Takahashi’s work of using language to hold space for immigrant voices parallels Polish artist Krzysztof Wodiczko’s ongoing projects of documenting the lives of immigrants, refugees, and other marginalized communities. Wodiczko’s Monument (2020) is the superimposition of the likenesses and spoken narratives of twelve resettled refugees onto the 1881 monument to Admiral David Glasgow Farragut in Madison Square Park. Reimagining the statue of this Union hero challenges the preconceived notions of which stories are preserved and honored for future generations– and which are left to fade into obscurity.

Audio Journal uses the act of standing to hold space for immigrant voices, urging visitors to make both a literal and metaphorical commitment to honor the narratives, experiences, and challenges of immigrant communities. Standing becomes an intentional, active exertion of the body—a stance that amplifies voices often overshadowed by dominant narratives. It acknowledges the physical and emotional labor involved in sharing and receiving these stories, inviting visitors to stand, listen, and shower in the sound.

Mami Takahashi’s work is included in We Live in the Sky: Home, Displacement, Identity at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from October 16 to December 7, 2024. 

For more information on Mami Takahashi, visit https://mamitakahashi.art/. 

Current Exhibition

Hidden in Plain Sight: The Paradoxes of Self-Expression in Mami Takahashi’s Writing Myself

We Live in the Sky: Home, Displacement, Identity from October 16 to December 7, 2024 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Noa Nelson

Mami Takahashi’s video performance Writing Myself is a fascinating exploration of identity, language, and the paradoxes of self-expression. In this work, Takahashi uses writing as a tool not to reveal herself but to disappear, turning what could be a deeply personal form of communication into an act of obscuration. By transforming writing into a form of erasure, she invites us to contemplate the contradictions inherent in sharing our experiences while simultaneously shielding them from understanding.

The piece unfolds as Takahashi writes in Japanese –her mother tongue– on transparent film, using this familiar language to express anecdotes, quotes, memories, and thoughts. Born and raised in Tokyo, Takahashi often draws on themes of displacement and distance from home, and the use of Japanese in her work becomes a way of grounding herself within these feelings. The physicality of her process is deliberate and measured, it feels both intimate and meditative. As she writes, the text gradually builds up, creating a dense layer of characters that ultimately forms a barrier between her and the viewer. Her presence, once clearly visible, becomes obscured behind a wall of words, a literal screen of her thoughts that paradoxically makes them unreadable.

In Writing Myself, Takahashi wrestles with the tensions between expression and obscurity. On the one hand, writing is an act of communication—a way to connect, to leave behind a trace of one’s thoughts and experiences. But by layering the text until it becomes indecipherable, she complicates the act of sharing through writing. Her words, meant to be seen, are concealed, much like memories that fade with time or thoughts that lose clarity in translation. This paradox reflects the struggle between the desire to express oneself fully and the instinct to hide or protect certain truths.

  Mami Takahashi, “Writing Myself”, 2015, Single-channel Video, 03:00 min    

Takahashi’s work also comments on the way we face reality or escape from it. Writing, in many ways, serves as a means of confronting one’s experiences, offering a way to make sense of the world. Yet in Writing Myself, writing also becomes a means of retreat—a way for the artist to distance herself from the viewer. As she disappears behind her own words, she creates a space where the boundary between revelation and concealment becomes blurred. It’s as if she is using language to construct a mask, one that hides her while simultaneously revealing the contours of her thoughts.

For those who do not read Japanese, the text remains an opaque screen, inviting them to reflect on the limits of their understanding. Even for those who can read the language, the layering of characters turns the script into a visual rather than legible experience. The tension between the familiar and the inaccessible is present, echoing the complexities of cultural identity and the experiences of those who navigate multiple worlds.

Writing Myself serves as a powerful meditation on the contradictions of self-expression. Takahashi’s methodical writing process becomes an act of introspection, yet the final product is a wall that prevents true insight into her mind. It is a reminder that the act of sharing is never straightforward—every word we offer can also be a means of concealing, and every attempt to communicate can result in further mystery.

Through Writing Myself, Mami Takahashi challenges us to reconsider what it means to understand another person’s experiences. She invites us into her world, only to remind us that some aspects will always remain out of reach. Her piece, like the layers of text she builds, is a beautiful contradiction—an artwork that is as much about what it conceals as what it reveals. It serves as a reminder that art, much like language, is often most powerful when it embraces the spaces between expression and obscurity.

Mami Takahashi’s work is included in We Live in the Sky: Home, Displacement, Identity at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from October 16 to December 7, 2024.

For more information on Mami Takahashi, visit https://mamitakahashi.art/.

For more information on We Live in the Sky: Home, Displacement, Identity and related events, visit https://stamp.umd.edu/centers/stamp_gallery.

Current Exhibition

Securi ex machina, or Safe from the machine

The Digital Landscape from August 26 to October 5, 2024, at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Trinitee Tatum

For an instant, I stood in front of Chris Combs’ Pollination (2023). It simultaneously stole my face and voice, projecting a virtual me before the physical me. The real me. I should have felt violated, exposed, but I stayed. I let Pollination search and seize me. I spoke so it could hear me. I was compelled to let it document me. A moment of pirated digitalization transformed into a prolonged, authorized archival of the self for my own benefit. What led me, and many others, to indulge in and consent to Pollination’s surveillance? Are we hoping to see if technology perceives us the way we see ourselves? Or is it the hope that this piece documents our existence forever, so we may never be forgotten? Perhaps the answer lies somewhere in the unearthing of the algorithmic and systematic indulgence of surveillance for the sake of vanity and ego.

Chris Combs, Pollination, 2023. Aluminum, DIN terminal blocks, wire, screens, computers, 5×4.5×4’. Screenshot via artist’s website.

Pollination is an interactive flower-shaped piece that responds to faces and speech. It uses a camera to recognize faces, transforming them into rotating flower-like shapes, while a microphone listens to speech and displays its transcription on multiple small screens. However, Pollination does not fulfill the desire to be forever etched into the ether as nothing is uploaded from the piece. It uses “whisper.cpp” to transcribe audio entirely within the device and the facial recognition is powered by OpenCV. The closed circuited experience of Pollination means the user’s interaction is disposable, ephemeral. It’s a denial of permanent documentation.

Search results of security camera selfies on Pinterest.

On both systemic and individualistic levels, surveillance is often driven by concerns of fear, vulnerability, and a struggle for control. Surveillance pacifies through the external imposition of order, creating an illusion of security and stability through acts of monitoring, predicting, and understanding. However, this sense of authority is often superficial, and surveillance’s inherently parasitic nature demands data for eternity. Only major organizations have been able to harness the beast by overtly passing the labor of watching on to the users. Big tech companies create opportunities for self-surveillance and external monitoring via social media, but rather than creating a sense of control, this often exacerbates feelings of inadequacy and insecurities. Intentionally or unintentionally, users equate their self-worth to their social media metrics and are driven to curate a perfect public image to feel both internal and external validation. The more susceptible users watch themselves and others via digital networks, the more the images and algorithms reinforce their insecurities, where they compare and conflate themselves with the idealized, curated lives on their feeds. This creates a feedback loop where insecurity fuels surveillance, and surveillance fuels further insecurity.

Screenshot of ChatGPT when prompted to consider its own participation in self surveillance.

Ultimately, (self)-surveillance driven by insecurity is an endless and futile pursuit of reassurance as it only temporarily assuages fears– big, existential fears of the unknown, the fear of losing control, the fear of mortality, the fear of fate. The fear that we are here, and then we are gone. This reassurance, however, is fleeting, a temporary respite. The more one surveils, the more one realizes that complete control or total knowledge is impossible. Look Pollination in the eye, speak to its mic, but seek personal satisfaction beyond the screens. 

Chris Combs’ work is included in The Digital Landscape at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from August 26 to October 5, 2024. 

Uncategorized

Subjugating Spaces and Bodily Autonomy: Resistance with Michelle Lisa Herman

The Digital Landscape from August 26 to October 5, 2024 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Olivia DiJulio 

As a woman with disabilities, my work is often multisensory and immersive, as I feel it is important to provide multiple ways for people to experience the artwork.

Michelle Lisa Herman

Every day, we navigate the architecture that surrounds us, interacting with buildings, walkways, and streets that were designed and approved by planners and stakeholders. But who truly defines the physical and social purposes of our spaces? Whose needs and experiences are prioritized in the creation of our environments? The Digital Landscape features three of Michelle Lisa Herman’s multimedia works that deconstruct the history of stigmatizing narratives surrounding disability, and to give viewers the agency to reimagine the body as it is in space. 

What inspires and drives the design of architecture? This pressing question is central to Herman’s exploration of physical and social spaces. Self-identifying as a woman with disabilities, Herman critiques the hegemony that buildings and institutions of power support. Untitled (To Bear the Weight) #2 (2022) is a small video installation that projects Herman’s moving body on a paper model of Bremen’s town hall. Viewers can circle the entire model, allowing for an interpersonal viewing experience. Herman’s inspiration for this piece was found after observing 16th-century architecture during her exchange program in Bremen, Germany. 

Michelle Lisa Herman, Untitled (To Bear the Weight) #2, 2022. Video installation. Video courtesy of the Artist.

The medium of the video projection connects the themes of communication, societal norms, and technology of The Digital Landscape. Acting as the pillars, columns, and arcways, Herman uses her body to make an unconventional impression. The most notable part of the piece is the reference to Leonardo DaVinci’s Vitruvian Man. The iconography of the Vitruvian Man portrayed by Herman’s body emphasizes the dominant, Eurocentric nature of architectural design. Incorporating her body into the building forms a powerful message of resistance against the idealized calculations of the “white, able male body”, as described by Herman. In realizing this connection, Herman challenges the viewer to rethink how power and design are interconnected. Beyond the physical spaces that surround us, the unnoticed, invisible roots of power fuel systems of oppression through collective ignorance. 

Untitled (Construction) #2 (2024) and Untitled (Construction) #8 (2024) are from the same collection of works using casts of Herman’s limbs to build structural forms. This series combines the delicate positions of her arms and hands in tandem with other objects to create a surreal composition. The visual contrast of the organic and rigid forms among the colorful lighting conveys an archaic feel reminiscent of historically European, marble buildings.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michelle Lisa Herman, Untitled (Construction) #2 and #8, 2024. Giclee on fabric mounted to aluminum. Images courtesy of the Artist.

Herman’s pieces demonstrate the importance of activist art and critical messaging through media. Instead of encouraging stereotypical narratives, Herman reclaims what is stolen from artists with disabilities. Reminiscent of the “Supercrip” label, disability should not be an inspirational model for non-disabled people. Agency to those working against instilled norms of disability, Herman’s work reflects upon independence from oppressive institutions. She reminds us of the reality that many marginalized identities face daily about their bodies. The fetishization of disability thrives from portraying it as a superpower, obscuring the very real experiences behind it.   

The ways we navigate the world are defined by the bodies we were born with and the boundaries set by society. However, Michelle Lisa Herman is one of many voices that address the importance of inclusive design and solidarity for marginalized groups. While it can be easy to assume that our reality is fully optimized, broadening our senses and perspectives is essential for embracing the experiences of others. In presenting The Digital Landscape, both To Bear the Weight and Construction subjugate the social constructions that define our public and private spaces. 

Michelle Lisa Herman’s work is included in The Digital Landscape at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from August 26 to October 5, 2024. For more information on Michelle Lisa Herman, visit https://www.michellelisaherman.com/.  For more information on The Digital Landscape and related events, visit https://stamp.umd.edu/centers/stamp_gallery. 

Current Exhibition

The Power of What We Don’t See: Reflections on Mollye Bendell’s Outgrown

The Digital Landscape from August 26 to October 5, 2024 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Noa Nelson

The Power of What We Don’t See: Reflections on Mollye Bendell’s Outgrown

In the modern world, we’re conditioned to focus on what we can see, on the immediate and the tangible. We view our surroundings, assessing value and importance based on what is in front of us. But art often asks us to dig deeper, to look beyond the obvious and consider the unseen forces at play. Mollye Bendell’s Outgrown (2022), with its engraved acrylic panels and augmented reality (AR) application, pushes us to do just that — it invites us to confront the unseen and the forgotten.

In Outgrown, Bendell resurrects the often-overlooked weeds that once grew in a space, visualizing a world where these overlooked plants thrive. Using AR, viewers look through a tablet provided with the installation and see the weeds rising up from the acrylic panels, reclaiming space in a way that transcends human control. These spirits are not just remnants of a past ecosystem but also a vision of a possible future, where the weeds have evolved into various flowers that grow and intertwine. Each one builds off the others, forming complex, beautiful networks of foliage. The physical panels, approximately 4×6 feet in size (all together), glow with an eerie beauty, but it’s the AR experience that elevates the piece from mere aesthetic object to a meditation on nature, memory, and visibility.

 

Mollye Bendell, Outgrown, 2022. Engraved acrylic panels, augmented reality application. Photo Courtesy of the Artist.

 

Bendell’s work operates on multiple levels, but what stands out most is its insistence on honoring what we don’t see. The weeds she portrays are not the curated flowers we often associate with beauty in gardens, but the plants we ignore, dismiss, or actively remove from sight. By presenting their new forms in AR, she makes visible the life that has been pushed out of view — both literally and metaphorically. The new form these weeds take in their resurrection is striking. They blossom into a variety of flowers, a kaleidoscope of growth and beauty. Bendell transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary, reminding us that even the most disregarded forms of life have their own potential to bloom into something magnificent. The resilience of these weeds turns into a celebration of their ability to persist, adapt, and thrive.

The piece also speaks to the power of AR itself — a technology that overlays digital images on the real world, making the invisible visible. Through AR, Outgrown transforms what would be a static installation into a dynamic, evolving interaction. This element reflects the tension between what we perceive with our eyes and what actually exists around us. Weeds, much like many aspects of life, often go unnoticed until something or someone draws our attention to them. In Bendell’s work, the use of AR acts as a metaphor for the limitations of human perception. It asks us to question what else we are not seeing. What exists beyond our narrow field of vision? 

There’s also a deeply ecological undercurrent in Outgrown. In many ways, it presents a post-apocalyptic vision — not of a world devoid of life, but of one where nature has “outgrown” human control. The weeds, given the space to thrive, suggest that even in the absence of human cultivation, life persists. Yet, what could have been a harsh takeover of an overgrown wilderness instead becomes something unexpectedly beautiful. The weeds evolve into flowers of different kinds, building off one another, creating a web of new growth, connected in their vitality. This post-human biodiversity is a haunting vision, but one with a redemptive quality. It’s a reminder that the natural world doesn’t need us to survive. In fact, it might do better without our interference. The ghosts of the weeds are both a eulogy for the plants we’ve displaced and a warning of the resilience of nature, which won’t sit idle forever.

This quiet rebellion of weeds is symbolic of the many things in life that exist outside our perception — the overlooked, the forgotten, the marginalized. Yet, when given the space, these elements flourish in ways we might not have imagined. Bendell reminds us that what we dismiss or attempt to control will not remain hidden forever. In Outgrown, these spirits of plants rise not in defiance but in quiet beauty, suggesting that nature’s capacity for growth is beyond what we can imagine.

The power of Outgrown lies not only in its visual elements but in its conceptual framework. It’s an exploration of how much exists beyond the scope of human vision, and a critique of our tendency to ignore what doesn’t fit neatly into our view of the world. By making visible what is usually unseen, Bendell asks us to reconsider our relationship with the environment, with the invisible forces around us, and with the things we choose not to see.

Ultimately, Outgrown challenges us to pay attention. The beauty and resilience of the natural world exist beyond our gaze, and just because we don’t see something doesn’t mean it isn’t there. There is power in what we overlook, in the spaces we leave behind, and in the things we fail to acknowledge. Bendell’s piece asks us to expand our perception, to honor what grows in the margins, and to consider that the unseen may be just as important — if not more so — than what is in front of us. And as the weeds in Outgrown transform into flowers, we are reminded that beauty can arise from what we least expect, building and growing in ways we never imagined.

 

Mollye Bendell’s work is included in The Digital Landscape at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from August 26 to October 5, 2024.

For more information on Mollye Bendell, visit https://mollyebendell.com/

For more information on The Digital Landscape and related events, visit https://stamp.umd.edu/centers/stamp_gallery

Current Exhibition

Seeing Again: An Exploration of Concepts in Margaret Walker’s ‘living’ and ‘dressing’

Leave a comment

Palinopsia from April 23 to May 17, 2024, at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Rachel Schmid-James

“The past often repeats itself” is a popular saying in the modern world, but there is much more truth in it than just surface level. When I am performing a task such as cooking or riding the train, I am hit with memories of holding my grandfather’s hand while boarding the MARC or getting flour all over myself while helping my grandmother make red beans and rice. In the Stamp Gallery’s latest exhibition Palinopsia, artist Margaret Walker breathes life into this feeling, showing that the past cannot always be clearly distinguished from the present.

Each artist in this show brought their unique interpretation of the idea of “palinopsia” to this exhibit, each exploring a different aspect of the term. A medical condition, palinopsia causes images to be repeated in a person’s field of vision after the stimuli have been removed. The word itself comes from the combining of the Greek words palin (again) and opsia (seeing), which Walker engages with through exploring the ties between generations. She portrays images of her family members and herself over and over again to encourage the audience to engage with the themes, just as the word palinopsia suggests. 

The first thing the viewer sees when they turn to the left of the gallery is a transparent piece of silk printed with images of a woman covering a series of small, square mirrors. The woman, Walker herself, stands at different angles, her image repeating over and over again side by side, the mirror reflecting not only Walker but the viewer as well. The work, titled dressing, not only uses the body to explore palinopsia but also involves the viewer in the experience. It seems to ask the viewer to reflect on the ways their body and memory interact, as Walker writes in her artist statement that her work “explores the memory of her body as a tool to connect family histories.”

Margaret Walker, dressing (2024), photographic prints on silk, mirrors.

Composed of four hanging photographic prints on silk, her piece living explores generations and family ties, and the repetition of images in the same way people with the condition palinopsia, experience life. Each of the prints depicts Walker, her mother, or her grandmother doing textile work. When looking straight at the prints, which have been hung with space between them, the images of all three women blend, appearing as one person even though the photos were taken years apart. The sheerness of the silk makes each layer appear to float and shift slightly in the breeze, reminiscent of the fleeting nature of memory. The fluidity of the work combined with Walker’s storytelling creates a beautiful testament to the generations that came before each of us. 

Margaret Walker, living (2024), photographic prints on silk.

Both of these pieces present something likely familiar to the audience. In some way or another, every person is inherently connected to the past, especially as it relates to their own family and friends. Even the family or ancestors we never met are still important, for they continue to be seen in the features on our faces or the stories we are told by those who came before us. Just last night I was sitting with my grandmother and my new puppy Zipper when the conversation switched to my late grandfather’s old dog. Although in the moment it was just fun to share the memories and stories we recalled, I realize now when thinking of Walker’s work that it is so much more than that. Someday my grandmother will pass away and it will be up to me to carry on the stories and descriptions I have of her. My children and grandchildren may not know her personally, but just like in Walker’s work I hope they can draw the parallels when looking at photos of me alongside her and consider the fleeting nature of time and generations, but also the deep impact of memory and experience. I hope viewers can see in their own lives the ways palinopsia, or “again seeing,” is present, within their families or otherwise.

Walker’s work is included in Palinopsia at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from April 23 to May 17, 2024.

Current Exhibition

Authenticity, AI, and the New East in Varvara Tokareva’s ‘Utopia’

Leave a comment

Palinopsia from April 23rd to May 17th, 2024, at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by James Cho

What is a utopia? Can one act as a facade to hide a dystopia? In Varvara Tokareva’s three Utopia pieces, she questions these same sentiments about the state of the USSR during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Alongside this inquiry, Tokareva also questions the authenticity of AI as a generative art form. Together, her work has viewers inquire about how we remember the nature of the USSR and how we currently perceive AI. 

 

Varvara Tokareva, Utopia II (Screen Print), 2024.

Per the historical record, it is possible to answer both of these subjects. Whether in the form of digital prints, screen prints, or videos generated using AI and archival sources, Tokareva’s Utopia pieces reflect how the Soviet Union wanted to portray itself as a strong, perfect, and militaristic state. In essence, a perfect utopia. However, when thinking more deeply about the time period, it’s possible to discern how Tokareva reveals the true dystopia of the USSR. In her prints and videos, dozens of gymnasts choreograph themselves into perfect pyramids or parade around an open field at the Summer Olympics in 1980. Behind these literal performances hides the horror of not just the dozens of proxy wars that the USSR and United States conducted during the Cold War, but also the government’s treatment of people within the Soviet Union. The unity that Tokareva showcases in her works as a recreation of the Soviet aesthetic contrasts sharply with the USSR’s abuse and manipulation of countries in the Eastern Bloc or “Comecon.”: a system that first appeared under Stalin’s “Cominform” and then under the Warsaw Pact, notwithstanding the military crackdown in East Germany through the Berlin Wall as part of the larger “Iron Curtain” that separated Western and Eastern Europe. 

Varvara Tokareva, Utopia I (Digital Prints), 2024.

The focus of Utopia, the Olympic Games in Soviet Moscow that took place in July 1980, is a marvellous example of the USSR’s desire to hide this dystopia. At this time, the USSR had been facing allegations of its athletes using testosterone to improve their performance in previous Games. On top of this, due to the USSR’s invasion of Afghanistan months earlier, the United States and multiple other countries boycotted the Summer Olympics in 1980 and a large number of European countries that attended competed under the flag of the Olympic Games rather than their native flags. Thus, despite the Soviet perfectionism displayed in the generative models that Tokareva used to create Utopia I-III, the Olympics that year were full of strife and global disunity.

This absurdity and dystopia that would not come to an end until the election of Mikhail Gorbachev in 1985 and his democratic reforms carry similar sentiments to our treatment of AI-generated art today. In the same way that we remember the USSR as full of conflict and superficiality, the general consensus surrounding generative art is the same. Art made by AI is commonly seen as hollow and quite literally artificial. In using this form of art to depict the Soviet Union, Tokareva brilliantly marries the art form and subject together to represent common views and memories of the Union and AI-generated art. 

Varvara Tokareva, Utopia III (Three-channel video on three monitors), 2023-2024.

As a medium, the AI-generated prints even function in the same way as the USSR does. From afar, the works look normal, but when getting a closer look viewers can see missing faces, extra body parts, and other minor imperfections created by the AI. With the USSR, the performances at the Olympic Games and propaganda spread about the success of the Communist party and Soviet Union during the Cold War hid how people in the Eastern Bloc and Russia were impoverished and struggling to eke out a living. 
Altogether, Utopia is a perfect example of the exhibition’s title, Palinopsia, which are visual symptoms in which there is an abnormal persistence or recurrence of an image in time. Though the USSR is gone today, the image of a utopia in Russia still persists. The ongoing war in Ukraine is a reminder of the persistence and recurrence of a dystopia being hidden behind puppet governments.

 

Current Exhibition, Explore, Uncategorized

Exploring Reality in Palinopsia

Leave a comment

Palinopsia from April 23 to May 17, 2024 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Ellen Zhang

What is palinopsia? Palinopsia refers to a fascinating visual phenomenon where individuals repeatedly see images even after the original visual stimuli have disappeared. In the exhibition Palinopsia, artists Trevon Jakaar Coleman, Jill Stauffer, Varvara Tokareva, and Margaret Walker offer their unique perspectives on what is real versus seen, inviting visitors to delve into the realm of perception and interpretation.

According to Coleman’s website, his works aim to “challenge expectation, iconography, language, and space, creating a distance that leaves room for inquiry” (http://www.trevonjakaar.com/). In Palinopsia, Coleman’s works draw inspiration from comic books and other non-fiction sources. The alien-like figures and terrain are what make his works particularly captivating. At the same time, there are elements of the real world. For instance, in Untitled Creatures #1-4, videos of natural landscapes are encapsulated by what seem like extraterrestrial beings. By blurring the line between reality and fiction, Coleman challenges the idea of the world we know. Is there more to what is visible to us? Is there another world that we are not capable of seeing? Another way in which Coleman achieves his broader purpose of “leav[ing] room for inquiry” is how he titles his work. All four pieces in Palinopsia begin with “untitled” in their names. This suggests that Coleman wants the viewer to engage in his work actively. He encourages his audience to rely on their individual perception to create meaning from his work rather than setting an expectation for what his work represents via a title. 

Trevon Jakaar Coleman, Untitled Creatures #1-4 (2024), Mixed Media.

Tokareva’s work, in particular, compliments the underlying themes of Coleman’s pieces. What I found most intriguing about her pieces is how she incorporates different AI tools to portray history. Her research delves into the “New East”, utilizing archival visuals “to capture a significant change within society” as described on her website (https://printingmadnessforever.com/). Looking through the eyes of the audience, discerning the extent that the original source materials (from the Olympics) have been manipulated by AI proves challenging, prompting the question of AI’s authenticity. Like Coleman, Tokareva blurs the line between what is real and what isn’t by drawing attention to the unreliability of perception. More specifically, her work reiterates the importance of knowing the source of information. In Utopia III, three TV screens display videos of the Olympic Games in Soviet Moscow in July 1980. To what extent do these AI-generated videos include real elements of the Olympic Games? Can we even distinguish what’s real or not if our perception of the East is biased? Those that view her work, knowing that it incorporates AI, will question the authenticity of the content and walk away without a set opinion. In Tokareva’s work, the line between reality and AI is blurred due to the Western gaze, largely dictated by Western media forms, of what the East was and what it is now. 

Varvara Tokareva, Utopia III (2023-2024), Three-Channel Video on Three Monitors.

Coleman and Tokareva’s works capture the inconsistency of perspective and consequent interpretation by prompting their audience to wonder what is real and what isn’t. In the same way that palinopsia works, their works serve as visual phenomena that merge real and perceived. The significance of doing so is that we, as audience members, are compelled to reconsider our preconceptions and confront the complexities of our visual and ideological perspectives. Through their art, we are pushed to reconsider what we know to be true: our interpretations of space, history, and culture. By challenging our understanding, their art sparks intellectual dialogue while encouraging the exploration and acceptance of diverse perspectives.

Trevon Jakaar Coleman and Varvara Tokareva’s works are included in Palinopsia at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from April 23 to May 17, 2024. Coleman will be hosting a Analog Projection Workshop with Jill Stauffer April 29, 7-9pm. Tokareva will be hosting a Cyanotype Workshop with Margaret Walker May 7, 3-4pm. Both events are free and open to the public. For more information on Coleman, visit trevonjakaar.com and on Instagram @trevonjakaar. For more information on Tokareva, visit https://printingmadnessforever.com/. For more information on Palinopsia and related events, visit https://stamp.umd.edu/centers/stamp_gallery.

Current Exhibition

What it Means to Linger

Leave a comment

I Resist This from March 4 to April 6, 2024 at The Stamp Gallery | University of Maryland, College Park | Written by Reshma Jasmin

The first time I visited Stamp Gallery’s I Resist This was on its fourth day open. The current exhibition takes the form of an artist residency, which means that the artist, Charlotte Richardson-Deppe, would be working on the pieces for the exhibition in the gallery itself throughout the course of the program. I had met Richardson-Deppe prior to this exhibition, but I didn’t know her in the context of her work as an artist. I also had never encountered a behind-the-scenes look into the artistic process serving as an artform itself. As such, I was looking forward to talking to her about the inspiration behind her choice to perform her process and watching her in action. But on my first day in the gallery, I was alone. A bit later, someone came in, and commiserated with me about not seeing Richardson-Deppe. But she noted that she saw traces of Richardson-Deppe’s presence over the course of hours or days— in Crocs which had been moved and through progress on a textile piece that was splayed out on benches.

When I came in the next day, I did see Richardson-Deppe, and I was able to chat with her and watch her work for hours. I learned about the function of her two sewing machines; one that was well equipped for heavier fabrics (machine on the left) and the other that was meant only for hemming (machine on the right). She told me about her thrift-store strategy of buying a large quantity of cheap clothes and how she mostly collected sweaters, pull-overs, sweatpants, and leggings by chance, but that such heavier materials held up longer for her wearable creations.

Stamp Gallery on March 15, 2024

I Resist This is an exploration of interdependence versus independence, and, in many ways, serves as social commentary about the futile desire for complete independence and the simultaneously undeniable need for social support. To one of the many UMD art courses that visited the gallery, Richardson-Deppe described how she wanted to make visible the invisible relationships and networks and explore different social dynamics. e also mentioned that her wearable pieces did eventually rip during performance, but that it was an expected and welcome end. She informed me that she also teaches in the art department, and I came in during the exact hours she taught a class the day before. I was relieved that I’d be able to see Richardson-Deppe once a week, so the disappointment of the day before dissipated. But the movement of her Crocs lingered in my mind. Why was the sign of previous presence more melancholic than absence alone?

Whenever I was in the gallery sans Richardson-Deppe, I’d look for her Crocs, and sure enough, they’d be in a different location than when I last saw them (See if you can spot them in the photos below!). It was comforting to know she had been there, but she also felt just out of reach. Would I see her again? Absolutely, and it would often be the very next day, and I knew that. And yet, each time I didn’t see her, I felt as though we were two ships passing in the night. 

Stamp Gallery on March 15, 2024 Stamp Gallery on March 15, 2024

Stamp Gallery on April 05, 2024

My expectations all came from the descriptor: Artist-In-Residence. “___-in-residence” is most commonly used for professors, artists, poets, etc. This use comes from the definition of “resident” from the 14th century Medieval Latin word residentem and/or residens, which refers to one who dwells in one location to fulfill their duty in a Christian mission/obligation sense. The phrase “___-in-residence” and the expanded context of the definition only began showing up in the 19th century. 

Related to resident is residence, or in Medieval Latin, residentia, which means is one’s dwelling place or the act of dwelling in a place. These words are derivatives of residere, which is Medieval Latin for reside. The broken down meaning is “re-”: back, again and “sidere”/“sed”: to sit. Together, residere means “sit down, settle; remain behind, rest, linger; be left.”

Richardson-Deppe’s pieces rest, remain, and are left behind while she’s not in the gallery. But Richardson-Deppe also lingers and settles in the gallery during the moments she herself is absent from the space. The growing piles of soft sculpture, the textile pieces approaching completion, the ever-changing composition of the items resting on her worktable, and of course, the silently moving Crocs all continue her performance of creation. The fact that all such changes occurred are signs of life, signs of Richardson-Deppe.

I Resist This is an exploration of interdependence versus independence, and, in many ways, serves as social commentary about the futile desire for complete independence and the simultaneously undeniable need for social support. To one of the many UMD art courses that visited the gallery, Richardson-Deppe described how she wanted to make visible the invisible relationships and networks and explore different social dynamics. 

Charlotte Richardson-Deppe, Red (2023), Screenshot from video. Performers: Gwyneth Blair, Lisa Dang, Sarah Gnolek, Amanda Murphy, Charlotte Richardson-Deppe, Kat Ritzman, Jill Stauffer, Allie Wallace, Jackie Wang.

The relationship between an artist and their labor is typically invisible; most exhibitions only display completed artwork, and even if an artist is present at times to discuss their process and inspiration, we don’t get to see them at work. Through her residency, when Richardson-Deppe is in the gallery, her hands on the textiles and sewing machine are seen; as the maker she is part of her work. However, even residents of homes leave to fulfill their other responsibilities and live out other parts of their lives. One part of being a “resident”  involves leaving and returning, being absent and present. In the moments when Richardson-Deppe is not in the gallery, the connection to her work that was once visible disappears. Yet, though we do not see her, we still unconsciously perceive her presence in the changes to her work and workspace. What is invisible is still there, even if it only exists in the abstract understanding that change occurred and someone was responsible for it. Like Richardson-Deppe suggests through her work, even invisible relationships are inarguably present.

Stamp Gallery on March 15, 2024

Stamp Gallery on April 05, 2024

Humans look for signs of life everywhere. In space, we search for biomarkers, water/ice, radio waves, pollution. In biology, we look for order, sensitivity or response to the environment, reproduction, growth and development, regulation, homeostasis, and energy processing. In my homes, I look for whose shoes are present and which ones; I notice what food in the fridge is slowly decreasing and whether things have been shuffled around; what the arrangement of dishes in the dishwasher looks like; what doors are open; whether there are lights turned on and which ones. I look not only for signs that someone was home or not, but also for signs of who specifically is, and what they might be up to, how they feel.

Even when their presence is dubious, we look for people. Regardless of how lonesome we feel, when we search for people, and even when they aren’t around, we find them. Sometimes, we’re not even looking for them but we feel them throughout their absence nonetheless. Even when Richardson-Deppe isn’t in the gallery, she lingers.

Our presence in each others’ lives is irrefutable and irrevocable. People come and go, but there are always the traces they leave behind. And as melancholy as it is to feel each other linger, there’s a comfort in knowing that people are always around us, that they always stay with us.

Charlotte Richardson-Deppe’s work is included in I Resist This at The Stamp Gallery of the University of Maryland, College Park, from March 4th to April 6th, 2024. Richardson-Deppe will end her artist residency with the performance I Resist This on April 6th, 2024 at 7pm.