Encased behind a full wall of glass, the spectacle lures you into its arena as it swallows up its own habitat. It is a bio-graphic simulation mimicking a petri dish with the potential for pulsing livelihood and is inspired by Tim Wheeler’s macro photographs of microorganisms. We are invited into the aggrandized world of the roving lichen. Anamorphic skeletal beings are loosely assembled into a maze for walking through in awe. Hanging from the ceiling, tied to the walls, and some constructions on the floor, the works loom like an unkempt forest canopy or a shadowy overture of faceless non-characters ready to morph into yet another unknown being. They are quite beautiful in their naturally unnatural state. As the pieces are somewhat tilted in different directions, we must search for and shift our line of sight to find their intricacies and nuances.
Passing through from one side of the space to the other, poetically distraught marionettes awake toward the viewer. What is this soft structure saying to me? It is orange and wide, resembles a horn, and it speaks. Everything speaks. Except the translucent brittle bulbs. Not all at once. Quietly whispering perhaps, and then in concert. We have many miniature caverns to see inside, like the profusion, no, the multiplicity, of an Hieronymus Bosch masterpiece. The bright red algae composite is an opulent open mouth. Attached felt barnacles, garnished with jaun-esque-like paint and marker, open like the bells of daffodils. She sculpts them utilizing synthetic materials: acrylic, latex, and cast silicone. They always have a quality of ‘adaptation.’ Yes, that is what this says. Transmutation. Or rather, resilience. That is what I wish to see in these non-shapes. No, wait again. They are not shapes. They are a single composition of magnified co-habitants. I know they are supposed to be like creatures, but I wish they had more light, or more life than this. I thought they were going to float, but now they are sinking. I wish they lifted us from the depths of the floor to which they only fall down asleep. It might be a dream. This space is supposed to be their own, and I think they occupy it well. Within and within another precocious world again and again as in Rainer Maria Rilke’s poetry:
“Again and again…
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.”