These images are studies for my upcoming Fellowship exhibition at A.I.R., Chaulmoogra Seeds for Dr. Alice Ball, a site-specific installation that tells a story of transcending division through care. It is inspired by the pioneering chemist Dr. Alice Augusta Ball, an African American scientist and educator working in Hawaii who in 1915 developed the first successful treatment for Hansen’s disease, known as leprosy. Dr. Ball treated many Native Hawaiian patients and taught a diverse group of students in territorial Hawaii – a place that continues to struggle against legacies of colonialism, racism, and environmental degradation. I am from Hawaii, and my grandmother grew up on Molokai, the island where patients of Hansen’s disease were forcibly isolated from their families. In Hawaii, leprosy was commonly known as the ‘separating sickness’ or the ‘illness that divides families.’ Dr. Ball’s efforts transcended the stigmatization of leprosy and enabled families to reunite. My exhibition for A.I.R. honors Dr. Ball, her transformative work, and the chaulmoogra–a tree from India and Southeast Asia, the seeds of which produce an oil essential to the treatment of Hansen's disease. This experimental, interdisciplinary project comprises sculptural objects, archival photos, and written text. Although my Fellowship exhibition was originally scheduled to open May 29th, I feel the work will resonate with viewers in stronger, more personal ways when it is finally realized later this year.
Aliza Shvarts
Closer (2020), a transformative work of art made for non-commercial purpose partially using but not affecting the market or market potential of the published original, by Aliza Shvarts.
Jane Swavely
This was the very first thing I made in quarantine; I made it while I was talking on the phone. Until recently these pastel drawings were the only thing I could make during this devastating time of existential crisis.
Ada Potter
Right now it feels like everything has been upended or is in flux. This instability can be bewildering but can also make us see anew the assumptions we have been making. Perhaps there’s possibilities here.
H.A. Halpert
A proposition condemned by the church in 1277: That eternity and the ages exist not in reality but only in the mind.
It's hard to know.
Cynthia Karasek
I have been working with branches and parts of trees because of their complex curves and animated shapes. I combine them with galvanized objects and metal screen to make intricate and dynamic volumes. The meaning of the work derives from the contradictory references and forms to find relationships that are familiar or humorous and beautiful.
Carolyn Martin
Thinking about differences based on a lack of fairness or justice.
Rosina Lardieri
When I left NYC in March, I thought I would be gone for three weeks, not three months. I had all the wrong clothes and a tremendous sense of displacement. I craved the comfort of the home that I had left behind: my studio, my friends, my ongoing relationships with the people who lived outside in my neighborhood. I wanted to pick up the "Anything Helps" project here, in Los Angeles, but I was afraid—fear of Coronavirus permeated everything. I photographed early in the morning, looking for the comfort of my practice but finding only fugitive traces in the landscape.
The call to participate in Sympoiesis made me aware that I had become a person who now turned my head, kept my distance and looked away from the homeless. And then suddenly as if by magic, I met Davin, Devon, and Colin who live on my corner in Los Angeles, and the work began again.
Aphrodite Navab
My new series, Heart Island, is in honor and memory of the unclaimed pandemic victims in mass burials on Hart Island, New York. It was formerly called Heart island in 1775 because of the island’s heart-like shape. The ‘e’ was dropped shortly after. This series hopes to add the heart back into this dehumanizing process. To be unclaimed does not mean that their lives do not matter. My work houses stories of exile, displacement and migration, of rupture and suture, of survival and loss. Rather than disintegrating, the subjects in my work transform into other subjects, suggesting metamorphosis and reinvention through drawing. The subjects transcend their confines, taking flight. The more I immersed myself in making these abstract ink drawings, the more four interconnected heart shapes emerged, symbolizing my three siblings, Alexander, Pericles, Demetra and me, connected eternally by love and loyalty. Our father is a retired Cardiologist and we lost our beloved brother Alexander to sudden cardiac death. In the words of Rumi, “Only from the heart can you touch the sky.”
Yvette Drury Dubinsky
Savoring this spring, watching the enthusiasm of the plant life as it flourishes, the irony that the plants behave as they always do this time of year is remarkable. I’m not consciously trying to draw the landscape. I just walk in the park and then I go to my studio and what comes out now is various greens and has vertical lines like the trees I’ve been looking at.
Tomoko Amaki Abe
The current situation the world is facing has in many ways forced us to pause and take a deep breath. My work focuses on the shift in our perception with regard to the relationship between humans and the environment. This glass sculpture Silver lining is made with a cast of a plastic bag with a projected image of the sun coming out of a cloud. The plastic bag takes hundreds of years before it degrades back into nature whereas the cloud melts into the air in a matter of seconds, bringing out the tension and ambiguity between transience and permanence.
Tomoko Amaki Abe, Silver lining, 2020. Glass, Photo projection. 12 x 20 x 8 inches.
Joan Snitzer
My recent works stage a measured and unpredictable allegory of hypnotic color and form events. Each painting is executed by hand-pouring pigment into pools of aqueous solvents, mounting a fluid mood and presenting a full continuous surface resembling expanses of land, sea, and beyond
Sareh Imani
During the pandemic, like so many other artists, I have been using materials that I could find in my home studio. One day I found a bottle of liquid latex, that I had completely forgotten about, and I decided to make my own latex glove. I was thinking about how latex gloves work as some sort of disposable second layer of skin to protect us from contracting the virus. And how there is no immediate touch with that layer covering our hands, whenever we are outside.
Sareh Imani, Double-skin, 2020. Liquid latex. 12 x 6 inches.
Susan Stainman
One continuous loop of pleated and tucked fabric, the cummerbund hugs each user's body, a placeholder for our missing physical contact, and then loops again to hold the users six feet apart. At once at a distance and also within a contained, private space, each user can lean out against the fabric creating a delicate balance between their body and that of their partner. Just as in a trust exercise, each user must purposefully balance their weight to keep their partner from falling.
Before COVID-19, I was making art objects that used proximity as an entry point to think about how we live together, see one another and ourselves. Using proximity is clearly no longer a possibility, except between individuals sheltering together in lockdown. So, I have turned to the space of six feet. What does six feet feel like? What are the possibilities for intimacy, connection, and embodied play at six feet apart? Cummerbund for Socially Distant Connection is the first object I've made that contemplates this distance.
Susan Bee
I painted Heartwing in my studio in Brooklyn during the pandemic, after my upcoming show at A.I.R. was postponed. The painting was inspired by a page from a medieval manuscript showing two women holding nets, catching flying hearts in space. In these difficult times, instead of seeing people in person, we’ve turned to virtual encounters. Our hearts are tangled, trapped in nets.
Erica Stoller
Working in isolation meant using available materials, what was on hand in the studio. And with social distancing in mind, how to measure 6 feet and who is the measurer? I made a series of walking sticks. One is a staff. And the plural: staves. Left. Right. Left. Right. But when someone approaches, the vertical pole becomes a horizontal distance marker. Come no closer!
Daria Dorosh
Remember me, Long wait, and Too bad is a trilogy and visual narrative on the interdependence of biological life. Three branches are wrapped in textiles and sewn until a soft closed form evolves on the wood armature. The titles are a doorway to emotion and reflection on the state of human interaction with the planet we call home.
Bonam Kim
I have been making small pieces with materials that I can find at home since we're in quarantine. Two works are my visual diaries on certain dates related to my feeling and thoughts. On April 2, people in Brooklyn stuck at their tiny apartment made me think about the image that dollhouse people were sealed inside of tiny cubes in gum packages. On April 6, I created my own cell phone case while thinking about panic buying and hoarding of products like Lysol and Clorox during the coronavirus pandemic.
Nancy Storrow
Attending the environment, using available materials, being in and holding community.
Liz Surbeck Biddle
Working in isolation has me venturing into a small, manageable, three dimensional collage format of 5 1/2 x 8 1/2 x 5/16 inches, which makes it easier to set up the materials, all in a small box. I’m cutting up and pasting scads of old scraps of cyanotypes and drawings, some created with a sense of danger and foreboding or laced with a bit of humor.