Well, in returning to this, I’ve suddenly remembered why I’ve been so fixated on the idea of artistic and aesthetic obscuration for the last couple weeks!
I was recently fortunate enough to visit an engaging, thought and feeling-provoking exhibition of the artist Arturo Herrera at Sikkema Malloy Jenkins, a gallery in New York City. I am honestly always fascinated by the artistic usage of found imagery or objects, and there’s some of that here — plus a lot more.
The exhibition includes a series of large, wall-hanging pieces combining painted abstraction and collage in what’s effectively the background with an overlaid pattern of felt that suggests a somehow living and growing slice of latticework. The felt intentionally covers up much — though not all — of the visual rest of each artwork.
Besides a similarly styled, large wall painting, also included was a series of found photographs to which Herrera added silkscreened, black abstractions that, again, obscure — though less disruptively than in those other artworks.
The artworks all embodied simultaneous perception — perhaps of simply two sensory realities at the same time, or maybe of a place combined with a place and time entirely different.
In the felt-overlaid works, the background visuals were sprawling in the glances we got — contrasting sharply with the visual persistence in the front, as though (for the lighter-colored felt inclusions) a wash of light now arrived as an apparition, an angel-of-sorts on the path.
I imagine the future and the eventual past, in the same place.
Below, I also wrote some poetry while contemplating these pieces. Doing so — writing poetry in response to artwork — has been a fun idea to try.
Arturo Herrera’s current exhibition at Sikkema Malloy Jenkins in New York closes on July 25.
Going Out to Dinner at
By Valerie Bright, spurred by art from Arturo Herrera
Stand in front of a masterpiece and close your
Eyes.
The light finds itself obscured by the
Reflection.
I can’t read what’s under the sign, under the
Water. Roses bloom, as if from a cloud of
Mist. A rainy Sunday spins itself into a web of lunches and
Steps.
I’m
Trying to peel back the
Topsoil. Trying to divine the paint’s wishes for
Me. I’m sitting across from someone, and
I almost recognize them. But there’s a cloud between
Us.
I awake, tending a garden.
I find the
Blankets of soil reassuring.
I dig up a brown, hardcover book, sweetly wrapped in protective plastic, and though equally careful in my unwrapping,
I
can’t see it.
My book-wrapped
Garden sprouts trellis, cast iron railing on the wall, construction notices, pictures from trips
I never took, and the ghosts of commemorative imagery from trips
I did take. Banana crate fences encircle
Me, like
hospital orderlies.
I see
Myself, standing in front of a monochromatically painted wall. Entrenched non-existences, latching themselves into a sweep of together, latched to an
electrified overlay in the subways and a church that was
never finished.
A living room full of picture frames pointing to a single
Door.
A neighborhood of winding roads that converge on a single
Doctor’s office.
A field of metal subway columns that march around a single
Person.
A daily planner that repeats the same
Appointment, over and over, ad infinitum.
A spiral of flyers in the bus station for the
Same Broadway show.
A lavish restaurant with
One table in the middle of it at which no one sits.
A pile of garbage bags
Empty scrapbook pages from ten years ago
Dated journal entries with no content but the
Same letter, repeating itself into a chant.
Apparitions in the periphery of the road trip
I’m watching someone come through the
Door, and they recognize
Me.
