
Torrential Tuesday greetings, collector friends. NYC is under a darkened sky that's pouring down rain upon us, and seriously, we've had enough already! Saturday's deluge put a damper on my art-seeking ambitions for that evening, scaling back attendance to one (great) show and one (super fun) after party. Ambitions aside, I was a little tuckered out from celebrating 20x200's anniversary on Friday evening and I've got plenty of other openings to attend, and attend to, this week. I need all the energy I can muster!
With today's duo of editions, we continue our celebration of Carrie Marill's NYC solo debut Doing a Lot with Very Little. House Plant 2 and House Plant 3 are both based on original paintings which you'll be able to see live and in person on Friday evening at the gallery.
As Carrie said at dinner last night, the work that she's made for this exhibition is about seeing, which I interpret as remembering to look. The quiet, delicate presence of her humble house plants reminds me that the most mundane things can anchor a moment and define a memory. We all have an idea of a house plant, but Carrie is remembering specific plants, which she contemplated at specific moments, in a specific place. In detailing the intricate geometry of branches and leaves and noticing the way the plants in 2 seem to stretch together towards an unseen sun, she is creating a richer connection to the time and the place that she remembered to see them. She's taken some plants, and turned them into those plants, the ones that were there when she was, if you will, doing a lot with very little.
I fear that perhaps I am making no sense, so I'll try to give you another example. The other night, I was at a reading. There was a lot going on. On stage were two charismatic presences, the writer Augusten Burroughs and singer/songwriter Tegan (without Sara.) The room was full, of people and books and energy. The air held a lot too: sounds, smells, light. The floor boards creaked and maybe the chairs weren't so comfortable. It was a lot to take in, so much so that I felt myself in danger of taking in nothing at all. So I did this thing I do sometimes (I suggest you try it, it works!)
I decided to look, and to see. I fixed my eyes on the tall slim case of books situated on the wall, behind the stage, behind and between Tegan and Augusten, with two very large windows on either side of it. It was the Classical Music section. There was a Jazz book shelved wrongly, so it stood out. When I think about the book and its silver lettering along a blue spine, I can hear the burr of the grinder from the cafe behind me, and the click of the shutter from the photographer who sat next to me. And I remember the socks that my friend who was sitting beside me was wearing. And how narrow Tegan's jeans were, and how sinewy Augusten is and the strange timbre of his voice when he read.
I went back to that classical music shelf, and expanded my view to the windows flanking it which looked onto other windows, behind which were George Nelson lamps and sleek aluminum chairs. Their coldness, and the richness they implied, made me listen harder to Tegan's guitar playing, and look more closely at the faces of the audience. It made me appreciate that much more how great the Housing Works Bookstore is, with its dark wood, its unpredictable selection and its readings and performances. It reminded me of conversations I've been having with another friend of mine, one who grew up here in New York like I did, about the things that are disappearing and how we remember them and what they actually mean.
My point is this: in remembering to see something, I fired up every other sense as well. I made a memory of something that might have been forgotten, and the memory connects to a lot of things beyond that specific place and time. Carrie's way of seeing reminds me of this, which may or may not be her intention, but I have a feeling she'll enjoy the association regardless. And speaking of Carrie and seeing, I need to go see her right this very minute.
You? I'll see you tomorrow!
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