Accuracy is not as quick as wit. Profound safari accumulates the glorious mess of Anastasia Samoylova. She is in depth and sight; the works are consummate. Supreme garbage, splendid topography, succinct reactions stimulate fabricated diversities. Planes of petulant shapes and iconography. The familiarity of something natural, but not quite. Quick and round, the formulation of confusion is superb and overwhelmed. Oculus of Samoylova inoculated in brightness and saturation. Besmirched visions of contemporary worlds; our Earth is impudently humiliated by interpretative human sublime. Captured, caught, correlated, catalogued, copied. Outright, inside, exterior, luster, divaricate. All life, as all constructions, is temporary. Tempered and tampered Samoylova’s work reflects this order of things. It is not without its absurdities as much as it’s not without impeccable alternative variety.
Absorptive repurposed space is redesigned. “Romantic natures always within me.” Samoylova is of certain rituals and acts that she feels born into. Meditative process and records take on a life of their own. Selective incisors cut meticulous puzzles forming dimensional labyrinths. The works are of carving reactive hands. Those hands are in response to her environment. Questions fill, crisp and refreshed. Liveliness of composition is discharged in hues and shades. Complicated simplicity of disarray. Desire beyond sex or material is intertwined into the escape of such luxury and aesthetic. To suggest such afflatus swoons inside the perceptions of endowed desires. To be transcended is very real.
Air is not predetermined by interpretation—it is totally open. Samoylova insists that she doesn’t have to be taken seriously. I’ll call her bluff on that. The focus of craft and eagerness to explore dictates an acknowledgment of passion and drive. The work is worthy; the ideas interpretive. If there is anything to not be serious about it’s the world outside such wonderfully poignant satire and art. The realization of course being that without one the other falls apart. Poised passion in perceptual grasp make way through awakened senses. The community established by conversations such as Samoylova’s is current and significant. They are not outright in policy or government, but are worthy of instigating mutiny. In such sublimity there is a conclusion, finally there is something that you cannot possess.
To see more of Anastasia Samoylova’s work click here.
The body’s gesture is dumbfounded. Great lakes of whites and grays liven the flesh of men. Their paths are coarse; latent in potential beneficiaries of mutual desires. Without absolute copulate their bodies become bellows and light. They’re pieces and parts, concocted coercions congruent and charmed. Bryson Rand is sly. One smile goes a very long way. One photo of his solo show Some Small Fever at New York’s LaMama Galleria has similar effect. What will the pictures look like? You must ask yourself. In the night, during the day, dawn and dusk are consumed in the mood and atmosphere of the photography. Rand’s imagery is devoted to the separate from. If a parallel universe free of judgments and insecurities lives, these photographs are of them.
There exists no organization to cope with such espionage as those who reside on the outskirts of the south side of this Pantheon.
Spaces exist outside of normality looming in illustrious sequins and unconditional fabulousness and acceptance. The mythical nature of such plausible world is not without worry or violence. Voices rise up high hungering for transformation and sanctuary. In these notions Rand resides. Determination looks powerful. People create breath and new body, formed in unusual precision. In the photos nearly everything trickles—just along the edges. Being part of something is like seeing for the first time. Man and woman are intermixed and sexuality is slight in comparison to what they are each capable of. Separate, together, loud, glorious, and besotted. Possessions of those someones with whom one is closely associated exude valor. Be a part of that.
How does imagery come alive? Reinterpret what’s in front of you. There may be no reason to care—only at first—but you do. In those crumbs is where magic resides. Whatever magic may mean to you. Unexpected and factual. If Rand didn’t make these things no one else would. Psychological potential exists beyond physicality. Some Small Fever is of kinds of flesh and bone, but beyond they are filled in with something else. A meeting of two galaxies kissed at all different entrances. Things change—don’t feel held down. You are a human. Juicy. What people are after is each their own. That journey needs to recognize the sides of all thoughts and acceptances. To reform and be present is a rebellious act. I AM HERE! I AM A PERSON. QUEER AND MAGNIFICENT! Maybe if only in my mind, but I see it in Rand’s work. That shout may be silent, but it is inside each frame, black and white.
Light emanates from inside the figures and forms. Look at the way skin looks. Sight your eyes and how you feel when you wonder what places play on environments you inhabit. We become comfortable or unsure. We are human. In rendering light Rand wants less misery. Joy is so possible. Separating ease from reactions and celebration is unacceptable. To create and exist in an outside world is beautiful.
It will reward you.
See more of Bryson Rand’s work by clicking here.
Fields of vision are taken for granted both in eyes and cameras. Space occupies. Voluptuous volume. Pungent periphery. Lively space between heads and ceilings; all too often invisible. Stages of lively performance are broad and commiserate on cockled calculates. Quick, nearly enough to be fleeting, the world dissolves. Interactions are not without reflection or capture. Katherine Hubbard is of wonder in regard to the structure and execution of such photographic implications. What’s implied by the space of photographic capture? Community and body. Bound and public. The activation of Hubbard is engagement. Movement cast in stillness. This great dichotomy of photography is complicated by exploration of terms of engagement and contexts. Being outside of things is as valuable as being inside.
Standing far away from the medium of photography lands you within. Situations are most important and avoiding feelings that are judgments expounds complications that are confident enough to hold. Recognizing intricacies of how to pictorialize and express photography scratches new surfaces. Viewership becomes communicative; relationships between others expound medium and turmoil. The values of the body are interwoven into the camera and there are all sorts of ways to shift responsibilities. Hubbard is a conductor. She is looking to express what gets left out by the camera. The expounding expanse of vision is measured with values, but only if you accept the invisible. Mediating individual attitudes and recognizing position can change objects, and windows, and meanings, and reasoning.
The camera deals with ‘bodyliness.’ Hubbard shuts down sensory. Distractions are terms of the body. You are a given, that viewership is skeptical. There is no passive watching, although falling asleep is ok too. Being a participant of you is the work. People do the work and there are no incorrect responses. The tangible objects of Hubbard act as catalyst. Results may vary—being present is necessary. Terms of the medium point to what’s next. Extending the ground and image plane cheat the stages and constructions. Dimensional physicality and space become more than forgotten emptiness. What steps out into yonder is a performance into environment. The body and the camera become the same. There is a traceability that comes back to the world.
We are subject to ourselves. Not permanent, but highly susceptible. The tool of photography is not of issue; there are problems in use. Hubbard recognizes fast relationships toward images. Her work inaugurates internal receptions of the camera and photography. Why do we see what we think we see? Question perception. What are you a part of? Acknowledge participation. Finding is fueled by emptying the frame. All becomes precise. Parts are allowed into the concept and imagery of photography. People orient—‘bodiness’ is shared. Thinking is circular.
Photography can be as much about constructed image as it is about the story it communicates. May Lin Le Goff moves past first impressions. Identities in her works are not removed; they are looking to be filled. Familiar features are obliterated. The magic of an effaced human is present. Le Goff pastes, cuts, and tears through colorful images creating often-fanciful creatures. Theirs is an aesthetic of confusion, wonder, and possibility. These images are as gestural as they are irreverent. The disorder and obscurity of a once familiar body plays on the desire to understand. The only way to craft an identity is to realize that you don’t know who you are. But you want to.
These works are about the drive to know thy-self.
Le Goff reconciles a struggle of concepts and materials. Processes drive through aesthetics and an exploration of gender is divulged. But maybe not specific or individual. Collective. Color thoughtful pleased and garnered in innate playfulness of emotion. Shapes reviewed from an archive of identified beauty. Le Goff’s deliberate experimentations resonate each other and establish a vocabulary of, what she calls, love things. Chosen elements, stolen concepts that lead to fluidity infuse the works’ possibility. The frustration she expresses in figuring out is resolved by the equilibrium and philosophy after the art. The driven making is a wondrous tool that formulates new citizenry in the frames of Le Goff’s design.
Ideals of beauty. Is that feminine?
Feminism is about common sense. It’s subversive. The nature of knowing what a thing is communicates its character. Transformation in a changeling obverts the original intent of these images’ photography. They expand personal history—behold new life. Forms and figures are a mixture of places where Le Goff’s work finds comfort. Recognizing actions and connections reformed in reconstruction remodel amazing freaks. There is still work to do. Curious community woven inside a soundscape of ignited choreography. Modern perspectives of gender abash societal norms of objectification. Women are more. Perfection is vague. Temperament and physicality are unrealistic. Insides out are expressive and Le Goff is after a unique beauty. The blossom of that quiddity connects many things in many ways. Strongest of all, Le Goff’s playa begins with this base. Anything is possible in the saturate of such diverse polychromatic resonance.
See more of May Lin Le Goff’s work by clicking here.
In the folds of minds and flesh an archenemy emerges. Planes of vexing paper and pounds of ached emotion light the locomotive of Patricia Voulgaris. She is the source of her own photography’s virulent creature. Intimate and unfamiliar the craft of her image is constant and mercurial. No mercy in that merriment. The body is forgiven; it is transformed and greater than original intent. Compounded in deep contrast the woman becomes a strangely biopic alien. Life form founded in a protuberant voluptuous narrative. The eloquence of trickery and thieves slumbers in the boundaries of possible connections and communication.
The space is of daring pursuit. The conflict of identity is pushed. Quality of things is important. Surfaces react. First layers seep in, seeking sounds in liminal volume. The process of Voulgaris’ making expands convalescence from perfection. Torn and irate, irrational and wonderful. What is desired is projected into the imagery. These creatures are of strength to those around it. The body expresses translations of reactions to things personal and declared. Complexity refined, refunded by impulse. In its simplicity the imagery begets its own clarity. Confounded reality.
Choose sight, outside of a group.
Lightning strikes of flash outfit these forms, laying wake to paling whites and precise blacks. They are a catastrophe, a cacophony, adorned and experimental—results variant in piquant hunger. Resounding newness and bric-a-brac components are somehow formulated in archaic language. Obfuscated, they are inescapably of the Earth. The camera is a cheated paradox of reality; that fact makes case in the hands of Voulgaris. It is wielded and those falsehoods become realities. Fidelity of the things humanness is questionable, but behind all faithfulness there is something deeper.
The self is not solid here. What can be seen is temporary. Overlapped, warren, plastique, quagmire. Emotive tissues, brute of metamorphosis, theories shrouded sympathetic. Spaces lacked near concentrated definition are of things and qualities deeper and downed, not face value. Polemic practice embroidered by imaginative poetic detritus. The common ground inside people is swelled by this imagery. Voulgaris is exonerated because she is no longer specific; that vessel is used to refine a uniqueness that is absurd in its universal fascination. Creatures are not defined by their specific likeness—only by their humility and ability for adaptation.
Stand in front of an infinite horizon. Space stretches out there; it seems forever. Thoughtful in its discreet uncertainty. A flat Earth almost makes sense here. The latitude provided is filled by looking and the reflections eyes can fill it with. Construction of will forms a journey of the things we each distinctly live with. Viewing the backs of folks gazing out into this blurring beyond is sort of away. Bill Jacobson’s figure, ground at Julie Saul Gallery is distinct and solid. The edges of figures are at odds with the nature, yet also somehow not. Traces of the body are out in landscape, lines on lines, forms flock straights but never straight. Feelings forming stillness in the background of the photographs. Jacobson makes a significant note when the plane behind the subject is referenced, “That’s the foreground to the viewer in the image.” These pictures are quite inside themselves, a spectacular universe of subtle slander to photography. Always headed one way, but never quite the result of expectation.
Watching interactions take light in certain sensitivity becomes hard to quantify. What are you looking at? Not really knowing is ok; working through takes a good amount of time. Knowing yourself is equally as difficult. So are conclusions. That introspective state motivates the qualities of Jacobson’s imagery. Color, black and white, a confusion of shapes and sizes. Genders are not nearly as significant as posture and pose. Light touches everything with the focus of mouth and mind. How does an individual figure out what’s real and what is pretend? Escape. Try too much, or not at all. Rhetoric quaint, repose physique, repurpose space, reinhabit nature. Try to make the pieces all fit—in a place totally forgotten. Get back—it feels like it’s coming from inside—hidden becomes unrecognized, open and explorative.
Does abstract exist?
Built up. Analysis and possibility, climb up high and fall down far. Pieces are real, parts are physical, space is filled in matter. What stretches in front of the people in figure, ground is not just trees and landscape. The space between them exists; there are no empty holes. It may be invisible but that place between is activated. Jacobson’s work has a different kind of void. Spend time and think, there is common knowledge and understanding. Think about everything. Trust in you. Is there something real? Is there something true? Don’t turn back. The face is indiscriminate, the languid quality of body is much more purposeful. And then the wind in field—picks up across that well. That wonderful blur, in space curled up in time. What could they possibly be thinking? About selves and sounds and minds or madness. All kinds of uncertain wonderful things.
Almost heard in noise something distinct but not quite thunder. The strength of the imagery is in outlines and semblance. Who’s to blame? Only Jacobson. Listen to vision, it’s nearly written down. People come around for fair or for folly. Neither is wrong. All is fair game. figure, ground is honed in these distinct explorations of collocate. The show is of viewers viewing viewers—visions vast, vexing, valued. That is a shameless act, not quite voyeuristic. All is layered, never absolute. Lacking in specificity, but allowing in adaptability. Do the people in the images become the people looking at the pictures? Or do they remain separate?