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## Tour
### Description
### Title
tour.name = Untitled 10
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album_564E3A0A_7110_BDF9_41DD_335D798DCD94_4.label = poster design by Emma Shaughnessy and Madelyn Sheridan
album_564E3A0A_7110_BDF9_41DD_335D798DCD94_5.label = poster design by Darcy Olmstead and Hannah Windle
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album_6F1D3AE9_7170_523B_41B7_A6556EB1E90E_1.label = What happened to Lessie's boys (2)
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album_6F1D3AE9_7170_523B_41B7_A6556EB1E90E_4.label = What happened to Lessie's boys (5)
album_6F1D3AE9_7170_523B_41B7_A6556EB1E90E_5.label = What happened to Lessie's boys (6)
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### Body
htmlText_500842BA_7170_5219_41DB_01B9EEF6B7E6.html = What happened to Lessie’s boys (1-6)
Inkjet prints, 8.5” x 11”
EMMA COLEMAN
From Fontella
It all starts on Fontella. Fontella Road in Coleman Falls, Virginia. That’s where the census records seem to stop. Where my great-grandparents Lessie and Ham were raised. Where they first lived together. Where they birthed my grandaddy’s big brothers.
Fontella is the trunk from which the branches grow. The family creeps from Coleman Falls to Big Island, from Big Island to Buena Vista, from Buena Vista to Lexington, from Lexington to White Sulphur. And it leaves traces as it goes. Old addresses. Workplaces. Letters. Gravestones.
Lessie tried so hard to pull her boys out of the mountains and put shoes on their feet. And she did. Once Frank died and Ham left, she dragged her boys to Maryland. She broke the link that chained the Colemans to Virginia.
Or so she thought.
I ran back to it. I ran back to that tree trunk, and I got there through its branches. I traced love letters between great-grandparents. I traced my uncles’ draft cards. My aunts’ census documents. My grandaddy’s family photos. I traced the lines across generations until they connected. Until I got back to the place it all began.
This work demonstrates my need to understand my ancestral past. It is my effort to acknowledge my poor, mountain, hillbilly roots despite the shameful stereotypes that come with it. It is my way of hugging the trunk of that tree.
And I am still tracing. Still tracing old documents. Still scanning old photos. Still comparing faces and scars. Still visiting the places where my ancestors stood and the graves where they lie, to document them as I know them and to know my ancestors through them.
These printed diptychs, collages and photographs are my way of connecting the dots. I link handwritten notes and archival photographs to modern-day places, graves and homes. I cut out unknown faces in photographs and fill them in with clues from draft cards and death certificates. I pair my siblings faces with their ancestral look-alikes, collapsing two bodies and two generations into one.
I connect my family’s past to my personal present by merging them in the same frame. In doing so, I reclaim my history, as mysteriously hillbilly as it may be, and I come to know who I am. I am from Fontella.
—Emma Coleman
What happened to Lessie’s boys (1-6)
Inkjet prints, 8.5” x 11”
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
384 Hours
Latch hook canvas and yarn
69” x 70”
384 Hours
Latch hook canvas and yarn
69” x 70”
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
Installation
Safety cut printmaking, plexiglass printmaking, watercolor, paper, Duralar paper
2 adjoining panels: 102”’ x 72”, 102”’ x 102”
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
Installation
Safety cut printmaking, plexiglass printmaking, watercolor, paper, Duralar paper
2 adjoining panels: 102”’ x 72”, 102”’ x 102”
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
Installation
Safety cut printmaking, plexiglass printmaking, watercolor, paper, Duralar paper
2 adjoining panels: 102”’ x 72”, 102”’ x 102”
Senior Theses Exhibition Publicity Posters
ARTS131 Design I Students: Tess Collard, Todd Echols, Leslie Le, Jenna Marvet, Darcy Olmstead, Audrey Overholt, Mims Reynolds, Emma Shaughnessy, Madelyn Sheridan,
Ashley Shugart, Ida Whitney, Hannah Windle
Professor: Sandy de Lissovoy
384 Hours
Latch hook canvas and yarn
69” x 70”
384 Hours
Latch hook canvas and yarn
69” x 70”
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
384 Hours
Latch hook canvas and yarn
69” x 70”
Installation
Safety cut printmaking, plexiglass printmaking, watercolor, paper, Duralar paper
2 adjoining panels: 102”’ x 72”, 102”’ x 102”
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
Mend
Cotton polyester gauze, iron, linen, yarn, hay, cardboard, glue,
biodegradable foam peanuts; 8’ x 6’7”
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
205.5 Hours
Sharpie and BFK paper
26” x 40” each (series of 6)
Molded
Cement, iron, cotton, fabric, natural dyes, biodegradable foam peanuts, thread, yarn, hair, hay, pomegranates, avocados; 9”x 9” each
Installation
Mixed media including paper, canvas, ink, oil paint, watercolor, thread, pencil, and graphite
overall installation: 7’ x 5’
Untitled
Cardboard, wood, acrylic, bamboo tissue, electric motor, fan blades; 3’ x 3’ x 3’
Activate sculpture by turning on two switches located on top corners
of front and back of the box.
Untitled
Cardboard, acrylic, bamboo tissue, spandex fabric; 8” x 8”x 8”
To engage with sculpture reach into the box and interact with materials inside.
Senior Theses Exhibition Publicity Posters
ARTS131 Design I Students: Tess Collard, Todd Echols, Leslie Le, Jenna Marvet, Darcy Olmstead, Audrey Overholt, Mims Reynolds, Emma Shaughnessy, Madelyn Sheridan, Ashley Shugart, Ida Whitney, Hannah Windle
Professor: Sandy de Lissovoy
Plan Cut for 3’x3’x3’
Pencil on Paper
Untitled
Cardboard, wood, acrylic, bamboo tissue, electric motor, fan blades; 3’ x 3’ x 3’
Activate sculpture by turning on two switches located on top corners
of front and back of the box.
Untitled
Cardboard, wood, acrylic, bamboo tissue, electric motor, fan blades; 3’ x 3’ x 3’
Activate sculpture by turning on two switches located on top corners
of front and back of the box.
Installation
Mixed media including paper, canvas, ink, oil paint, watercolor, thread, pencil, and graphite
overall installation: 7’ x 5’
Elevation and Plan cut for 8”x8”x8”
Pencil on Paper
Untitled
Cardboard, wood, acrylic, bamboo tissue, electric motor, fan blades; 3’ x 3’ x 3’
Activate sculpture by turning on two switches located on top corners
of front and back of the box.
Plan Cut for 3’x3’x3’
Pencil on Paper
Untitled
Cardboard, acrylic, bamboo tissue, spandex fabric; 8” x 8”x 8”
To engage with sculpture reach into the box and interact with materials inside.
Elevation and Plan cut for 8”x8”x8”
Pencil on Paper
Mend
Cotton polyester gauze, iron, linen, yarn, hay, cardboard, glue,
biodegradable foam peanuts; 8’ x 6’7”
Untitled
Cardboard, acrylic, bamboo tissue, spandex fabric; 8” x 8”x 8”
To engage with sculpture reach into the box and interact with materials inside.
Elevation and Plan cut for 8”x8”x8”
Pencil on Paper
Mend
Cotton polyester gauze, iron, linen, yarn, hay, cardboard, glue,
biodegradable foam peanuts; 8’ x 6’7”
Untitled
Acrylic, bamboo, cardboard, DC motor, wood; 3.5” x 3.5” x 3.5” each
You are welcome to pick up the boxes and interact with them.
Untitled
Acrylic, bamboo, cardboard, DC motor, wood; 3.5” x 3.5” x 3.5” each
You are welcome to pick up the boxes and interact with them.
Untitled
Acrylic, bamboo, cardboard, DC motor, wood; 3.5” x 3.5” x 3.5” each
You are welcome to pick up the boxes and interact with them.
How Ian is like Keith
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Untitled
Acrylic, bamboo, cardboard, DC motor, wood; 3.5” x 3.5” x 3.5” each
You are welcome to pick up the boxes and interact with them.
Plan Cut for 3’x3’x3’
Pencil on Paper
Untitled
Cardboard, acrylic, bamboo tissue, spandex fabric; 8” x 8”x 8”
To engage with sculpture reach into the box and interact with materials inside.
Installation
Mixed media including paper, canvas, ink, oil paint, watercolor, thread, pencil, and graphite
overall installation: 7’ x 5’
Molded
Cement, iron, cotton, fabric, natural dyes, biodegradable foam peanuts, thread, yarn, hair, hay, pomegranates, avocados; 9”x 9” each
How Ian is like Keith
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Installation
Mixed media including paper, canvas, ink, oil paint, watercolor, thread, pencil, and graphite
overall installation: 7’ x 5’
Molded
Cement, iron, cotton, fabric, natural dyes, biodegradable foam peanuts, thread, yarn, hair, hay, pomegranates, avocados; 9”x 9” each
Senior Theses Exhibition Publicity Posters
ARTS131 Design I Students: Tess Collard, Todd Echols, Leslie Le, Jenna Marvet, Darcy Olmstead, Audrey Overholt, Mims Reynolds, Emma Shaughnessy, Madelyn Sheridan,
Ashley Shugart, Ida Whitney, Hannah Windle
Professor: Sandy de Lissovoy
Senior Theses Exhibition Publicity Posters
ARTS131 Design I Students: Tess Collard, Todd Echols, Leslie Le, Jenna Marvet, Darcy Olmstead, Audrey Overholt, Mims Reynolds, Emma Shaughnessy, Madelyn Sheridan,
Ashley Shugart, Ida Whitney, Hannah Windle
Professor: Sandy de Lissovoy
Mend
Cotton polyester gauze, iron, linen, yarn, hay, cardboard, glue,
biodegradable foam peanuts; 8’ x 6’7”
How Ian is like Keith
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Elevation and Plan cut for 8”x8”x8”
Pencil on Paper
Molded
Cement, iron, cotton, fabric, natural dyes, biodegradable foam peanuts, thread, yarn, hair, hay, pomegranates, avocados; 9”x 9” each
GABRIELA GOMEZ-MISSERIAN
Current
In my childhood summers, I hopped into the winding creeks in my backyard, slipping on my too-big green rain boots to move through the murky water in the woods. At ten years old, I was never searching for anything in particular — I just enjoyed watching the water bend around my legs as I glided through the stream, like a wandering spirit of the forest.
This June, when I was overwhelmed with the reality of the pandemic, unhealthy relationships, and the looming end of my time at Washington & Lee, I turned to Goshen Pass. The meandering streams, churning rapids, and pools became my summer sanctuary in Virginia. I adored this landscape tucked into the mountains, the way the water trickled through the bottom of the valley, passing over stone to continue its own flow. When I swam in the river, the water responded to the environment, ever-changing in the light, influenced by the land and rock, the colors of the trees. As I floated on the surface, I forgot about everything that tugged at me; instead, I let myself be pushed forward by the current.
Stepping back into nature has always been a remedy for me; I’m an observer and listener by heart, a person who has always been able to slow down in a place that asks for someone to listen to its running water, turning leaves—its heartbeat.
My work seeks to understand the movement of dynamic, meandering water, especially the manner in which fluid moves over stones as a manifestation of forward movement against resistance. I think about water as an element of healing, and its ability to be a space for meditation and floating, despite the physical obstacles a water channel may face. By the river, I find my own personal studio in nature, and I can listen to the hum of birds and bugs when I rest with my sketchbook.
My bodies of water combine loose paintings and drawings of moving water on paper and mylar, unanchored from the earth and rocks. They embrace a spiritual, roaming representation of flowing passages. Paint drips and splatters into tiny creeks across mylar with the help of a spray bottle, tracing its own environment. I find so much joy in creating my own ecosystem on the studio wall, creating an imaginative space wholly for myself, made by myself , from my own sketches torn out of my books from moments in nature, drawing from life.
With pencil and ink drawings of rock forms laying under, or over, rippling washes of oil paint on mylar, the tension of land and water fosters harmony, the way they resist yet require one another. Stones and dips in the earth create an opposition to the flow of any body of water, but the flow pushes forward, past the obstacles. With my time by the water, I’ve learned the ways peace comes from friction, how carving a path forward demands a barrier to push against it.
—Gabriela Gomez-Misserian
GABRIELA GOMEZ-MISSERIAN
Current
In my childhood summers, I hopped into the winding creeks in my backyard, slipping on my too-big green rain boots to move through the murky water in the woods. At ten years old, I was never searching for anything in particular — I just enjoyed watching the water bend around my legs as I glided through the stream, like a wandering spirit of the forest.
This June, when I was overwhelmed with the reality of the pandemic, unhealthy relationships, and the looming end of my time at Washington & Lee, I turned to Goshen Pass. The meandering streams, churning rapids, and pools became my summer sanctuary in Virginia. I adored this landscape tucked into the mountains, the way the water trickled through the bottom of the valley, passing over stone to continue its own flow. When I swam in the river, the water responded to the environment, ever-changing in the light, influenced by the land and rock, the colors of the trees. As I floated on the surface, I forgot about everything that tugged at me; instead, I let myself be pushed forward by the current.
Stepping back into nature has always been a remedy for me; I’m an observer and listener by heart, a person who has always been able to slow down in a place that asks for someone to listen to its running water, turning leaves—its heartbeat.
My work seeks to understand the movement of dynamic, meandering water, especially the manner in which fluid moves over stones as a manifestation of forward movement against resistance. I think about water as an element of healing, and its ability to be a space for meditation and floating, despite the physical obstacles a water channel may face. By the river, I find my own personal studio in nature, and I can listen to the hum of birds and bugs when I rest with my sketchbook.
My bodies of water combine loose paintings and drawings of moving water on paper and mylar, unanchored from the earth and rocks. They embrace a spiritual, roaming representation of flowing passages. Paint drips and splatters into tiny creeks across mylar with the help of a spray bottle, tracing its own environment. I find so much joy in creating my own ecosystem on the studio wall, creating an imaginative space wholly for myself, made by myself , from my own sketches torn out of my books from moments in nature, drawing from life.
With pencil and ink drawings of rock forms laying under, or over, rippling washes of oil paint on mylar, the tension of land and water fosters harmony, the way they resist yet require one another. Stones and dips in the earth create an opposition to the flow of any body of water, but the flow pushes forward, past the obstacles. With my time by the water, I’ve learned the ways peace comes from friction, how carving a path forward demands a barrier to push against it.
—Gabriela Gomez-Misserian
GABRIELA GOMEZ-MISSERIAN
Current
In my childhood summers, I hopped into the winding creeks in my backyard, slipping on my too-big green rain boots to move through the murky water in the woods. At ten years old, I was never searching for anything in particular — I just enjoyed watching the water bend around my legs as I glided through the stream, like a wandering spirit of the forest.
This June, when I was overwhelmed with the reality of the pandemic, unhealthy relationships, and the looming end of my time at Washington & Lee, I turned to Goshen Pass. The meandering streams, churning rapids, and pools became my summer sanctuary in Virginia. I adored this landscape tucked into the mountains, the way the water trickled through the bottom of the valley, passing over stone to continue its own flow. When I swam in the river, the water responded to the environment, ever-changing in the light, influenced by the land and rock, the colors of the trees. As I floated on the surface, I forgot about everything that tugged at me; instead, I let myself be pushed forward by the current.
Stepping back into nature has always been a remedy for me; I’m an observer and listener by heart, a person who has always been able to slow down in a place that asks for someone to listen to its running water, turning leaves—its heartbeat.
My work seeks to understand the movement of dynamic, meandering water, especially the manner in which fluid moves over stones as a manifestation of forward movement against resistance. I think about water as an element of healing, and its ability to be a space for meditation and floating, despite the physical obstacles a water channel may face. By the river, I find my own personal studio in nature, and I can listen to the hum of birds and bugs when I rest with my sketchbook.
My bodies of water combine loose paintings and drawings of moving water on paper and mylar, unanchored from the earth and rocks. They embrace a spiritual, roaming representation of flowing passages. Paint drips and splatters into tiny creeks across mylar with the help of a spray bottle, tracing its own environment. I find so much joy in creating my own ecosystem on the studio wall, creating an imaginative space wholly for myself, made by myself , from my own sketches torn out of my books from moments in nature, drawing from life.
With pencil and ink drawings of rock forms laying under, or over, rippling washes of oil paint on mylar, the tension of land and water fosters harmony, the way they resist yet require one another. Stones and dips in the earth create an opposition to the flow of any body of water, but the flow pushes forward, past the obstacles. With my time by the water, I’ve learned the ways peace comes from friction, how carving a path forward demands a barrier to push against it.
—Gabriela Gomez-Misserian
Where a dog greeted me
Inkjet print, 9” x 17”
Where Avery and Barbara honeymooned
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How Frank Died Young
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where a dog greeted me
Inkjet print, 9” x 17”
Where Avery and Barbara honeymooned
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How Lessie might have prayed
Inkjet print, 7.5” x 11”
How Frank Died Young
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How I am like Barbara
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Richard loved Mary Jane
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Ian is like Keith
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Maya is like George
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Connor is like Ham
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How Maya is like George
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Connor is like Ham
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How Ian is like Keith
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Connor is like Ham
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How I am like Barbara
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Lessie might have prayed
Inkjet print, 7.5” x 11”
How Richard loved Mary Jane
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Frank Died Young
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Frank Died Young
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Ian is like Keith
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where Dad and Ham have scars
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
GABRIELA GOMEZ-MISSERIAN
Current
In my childhood summers, I hopped into the winding creeks in my backyard, slipping on my too-big green rain boots to move through the murky water in the woods. At ten years old, I was never searching for anything in particular — I just enjoyed watching the water bend around my legs as I glided through the stream, like a wandering spirit of the forest.
This June, when I was overwhelmed with the reality of the pandemic, unhealthy relationships, and the looming end of my time at Washington & Lee, I turned to Goshen Pass. The meandering streams, churning rapids, and pools became my summer sanctuary in Virginia. I adored this landscape tucked into the mountains, the way the water trickled through the bottom of the valley, passing over stone to continue its own flow. When I swam in the river, the water responded to the environment, ever-changing in the light, influenced by the land and rock, the colors of the trees. As I floated on the surface, I forgot about everything that tugged at me; instead, I let myself be pushed forward by the current.
Stepping back into nature has always been a remedy for me; I’m an observer and listener by heart, a person who has always been able to slow down in a place that asks for someone to listen to its running water, turning leaves—its heartbeat.
My work seeks to understand the movement of dynamic, meandering water, especially the manner in which fluid moves over stones as a manifestation of forward movement against resistance. I think about water as an element of healing, and its ability to be a space for meditation and floating, despite the physical obstacles a water channel may face. By the river, I find my own personal studio in nature, and I can listen to the hum of birds and bugs when I rest with my sketchbook.
My bodies of water combine loose paintings and drawings of moving water on paper and mylar, unanchored from the earth and rocks. They embrace a spiritual, roaming representation of flowing passages. Paint drips and splatters into tiny creeks across mylar with the help of a spray bottle, tracing its own environment. I find so much joy in creating my own ecosystem on the studio wall, creating an imaginative space wholly for myself, made by myself , from my own sketches torn out of my books from moments in nature, drawing from life.
With pencil and ink drawings of rock forms laying under, or over, rippling washes of oil paint on mylar, the tension of land and water fosters harmony, the way they resist yet require one another. Stones and dips in the earth create an opposition to the flow of any body of water, but the flow pushes forward, past the obstacles. With my time by the water, I’ve learned the ways peace comes from friction, how carving a path forward demands a barrier to push against it.
—Gabriela Gomez-Misserian
How Maya is like George
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where a dog greeted me
Inkjet print, 9” x 17”
How I am like Barbara
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where a dog greeted me
Inkjet print, 9” x 17”
Where Avery and Barbara honeymooned
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How Connor is like Ham
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How Lessie might have prayed
Inkjet print, 7.5” x 11”
Where Dad and Ham have scars
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How I am like Barbara
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Maya is like George
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where Avery and Barbara honeymooned
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How Richard loved Mary Jane
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where Dad and Ham have scars
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where James lived
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where Dad and Ham have scars
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where Dad went to school
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where I found flowers still
Inkjet print, 9” x 13”
Where I am from
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where James lived
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where I found flowers still
Inkjet print, 9” x 13”
Where Dad went to school
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
How Richard loved Mary Jane
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
How Lessie might have prayed
Inkjet print, 7.5” x 11”
Where I am from
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where Dad went to school
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where James lived
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where I am from
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where Wavie lived on Jordan
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where James worked
Inkjet print, 11” x 14”
Where I found flowers still
Inkjet print, 9” x 13”
Where I am from
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where Dad went to school
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where James worked
Inkjet print, 11” x 14”
Where Wavie lived on Jordan
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where James lived
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where Wavie lived on Jordan
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where we found the pantry key
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 10.5”
Where we all go on dates
Inkjet print, 11” x 13”
Where we held reunions
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where we found the pantry key
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 10.5”
Where we all go on dates
Inkjet print, 11” x 13”
Where James worked
Inkjet print, 11” x 14”
Where James worked
Inkjet print, 11” x 14”
Where Wavie lived on Jordan
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 11”
Where I found flowers still
Inkjet print, 9” x 13”
Where we found the pantry key
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 10.5”
Where we held reunions
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where we all go on dates
Inkjet print, 11” x 13”
Where we held reunions
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
What happened to Lessie’s boys (1-6)
Inkjet prints, 8.5” x 11”
EMMA COLEMAN
From Fontella
It all starts on Fontella. Fontella Road in Coleman Falls, Virginia. That’s where the census records seem to stop. Where my great-grandparents Lessie and Ham were raised. Where they first lived together. Where they birthed my grandaddy’s big brothers.
Fontella is the trunk from which the branches grow. The family creeps from Coleman Falls to Big Island, from Big Island to Buena Vista, from Buena Vista to Lexington, from Lexington to White Sulphur. And it leaves traces as it goes. Old addresses. Workplaces. Letters. Gravestones.
Lessie tried so hard to pull her boys out of the mountains and put shoes on their feet. And she did. Once Frank died and Ham left, she dragged her boys to Maryland. She broke the link that chained the Colemans to Virginia.
Or so she thought.
I ran back to it. I ran back to that tree trunk, and I got there through its branches. I traced love letters between great-grandparents. I traced my uncles’ draft cards. My aunts’ census documents. My grandaddy’s family photos. I traced the lines across generations until they connected. Until I got back to the place it all began.
This work demonstrates my need to understand my ancestral past. It is my effort to acknowledge my poor, mountain, hillbilly roots despite the shameful stereotypes that come with it. It is my way of hugging the trunk of that tree.
And I am still tracing. Still tracing old documents. Still scanning old photos. Still comparing faces and scars. Still visiting the places where my ancestors stood and the graves where they lie, to document them as I know them and to know my ancestors through them.
These printed diptychs, collages and photographs are my way of connecting the dots. I link handwritten notes and archival photographs to modern-day places, graves and homes. I cut out unknown faces in photographs and fill them in with clues from draft cards and death certificates. I pair my siblings faces with their ancestral look-alikes, collapsing two bodies and two generations into one.
I connect my family’s past to my personal present by merging them in the same frame. In doing so, I reclaim my history, as mysteriously hillbilly as it may be, and I come to know who I am. I am from Fontella.
—Emma Coleman
EMMA COLEMAN
From Fontella
It all starts on Fontella. Fontella Road in Coleman Falls, Virginia. That’s where the census records seem to stop. Where my great-grandparents Lessie and Ham were raised. Where they first lived together. Where they birthed my grandaddy’s big brothers.
Fontella is the trunk from which the branches grow. The family creeps from Coleman Falls to Big Island, from Big Island to Buena Vista, from Buena Vista to Lexington, from Lexington to White Sulphur. And it leaves traces as it goes. Old addresses. Workplaces. Letters. Gravestones.
Lessie tried so hard to pull her boys out of the mountains and put shoes on their feet. And she did. Once Frank died and Ham left, she dragged her boys to Maryland. She broke the link that chained the Colemans to Virginia.
Or so she thought.
I ran back to it. I ran back to that tree trunk, and I got there through its branches. I traced love letters between great-grandparents. I traced my uncles’ draft cards. My aunts’ census documents. My grandaddy’s family photos. I traced the lines across generations until they connected. Until I got back to the place it all began.
This work demonstrates my need to understand my ancestral past. It is my effort to acknowledge my poor, mountain, hillbilly roots despite the shameful stereotypes that come with it. It is my way of hugging the trunk of that tree.
And I am still tracing. Still tracing old documents. Still scanning old photos. Still comparing faces and scars. Still visiting the places where my ancestors stood and the graves where they lie, to document them as I know them and to know my ancestors through them.
These printed diptychs, collages and photographs are my way of connecting the dots. I link handwritten notes and archival photographs to modern-day places, graves and homes. I cut out unknown faces in photographs and fill them in with clues from draft cards and death certificates. I pair my siblings faces with their ancestral look-alikes, collapsing two bodies and two generations into one.
I connect my family’s past to my personal present by merging them in the same frame. In doing so, I reclaim my history, as mysteriously hillbilly as it may be, and I come to know who I am. I am from Fontella.
—Emma Coleman
Where we held reunions
Inkjet print, 11” x 17”
Where we all go on dates
Inkjet print, 11” x 13”
Where we found the pantry key
Inkjet print, 8.5” x 10.5”
What happened to Lessie’s boys (1-6)
Inkjet prints, 8.5” x 11”
EMMA COLEMAN
From Fontella
It all starts on Fontella. Fontella Road in Coleman Falls, Virginia. That’s where the census records seem to stop. Where my great-grandparents Lessie and Ham were raised. Where they first lived together. Where they birthed my grandaddy’s big brothers.
Fontella is the trunk from which the branches grow. The family creeps from Coleman Falls to Big Island, from Big Island to Buena Vista, from Buena Vista to Lexington, from Lexington to White Sulphur. And it leaves traces as it goes. Old addresses. Workplaces. Letters. Gravestones.
Lessie tried so hard to pull her boys out of the mountains and put shoes on their feet. And she did. Once Frank died and Ham left, she dragged her boys to Maryland. She broke the link that chained the Colemans to Virginia.
Or so she thought.
I ran back to it. I ran back to that tree trunk, and I got there through its branches. I traced love letters between great-grandparents. I traced my uncles’ draft cards. My aunts’ census documents. My grandaddy’s family photos. I traced the lines across generations until they connected. Until I got back to the place it all began.
This work demonstrates my need to understand my ancestral past. It is my effort to acknowledge my poor, mountain, hillbilly roots despite the shameful stereotypes that come with it. It is my way of hugging the trunk of that tree.
And I am still tracing. Still tracing old documents. Still scanning old photos. Still comparing faces and scars. Still visiting the places where my ancestors stood and the graves where they lie, to document them as I know them and to know my ancestors through them.
These printed diptychs, collages and photographs are my way of connecting the dots. I link handwritten notes and archival photographs to modern-day places, graves and homes. I cut out unknown faces in photographs and fill them in with clues from draft cards and death certificates. I pair my siblings faces with their ancestral look-alikes, collapsing two bodies and two generations into one.
I connect my family’s past to my personal present by merging them in the same frame. In doing so, I reclaim my history, as mysteriously hillbilly as it may be, and I come to know who I am. I am from Fontella.
—Emma Coleman
MISSY BARRO
I’m a collector; I collect things. I store them and keep them to myself. Out of sight of all those around me, they are mine alone to cherish. I’ve been collecting since I was young from cicada shells plucked off trees in the summer, to bright orange and red leaves in the fall, to arrowheads scavenged in the valley of my family’s land. Not only this, but since I was little I would collect images in my head. The strongest one being a tree I would pass every Tuesday and Thursday on the way to tennis practice in the suburbs. This tree, however, was unlike one I had ever seen. The seedling of the tree had the misfortune of landing alongside a mesh fence. The trunk of the tree engulfed the mesh wiring, with portions of its body bellying through individual windows of the fence. Every few days, I would pass this tree and hold its bulging, disfigured corpse in my head. What beauty. What oddity represented. I filed it into my collection.
It is this little phenomenon that has lasted throughout the years with me. To me, the adaptive relationship between the tree and the metal fence seemed all too telling of greater reality, one in which the natural world is forced to bend and compensate for the presence of man and his structures. It is the story of life’s cycle, the same as that of the cicadas found in the summer. It is the story of beauty in decomposition, similar to the bright orange and red leaves found in the fall. As the tree adapts to the fence, growing to surpass and swallow its entirety, so will the environment outgrow mankind.
My art reflects this story of fragmentation, adaptation, and resilience. This is a story of bodies and forms in relationship to one another, and this series is defined by the juxtaposition between the softness of the yarns and the hardness of the metal, as the metals represent the resources manipulated by man to create infrastructures. The materials I use derive from a similar state of abandonment faced by many human structures. My materials consist of discarded metals, food waste, old cottons, and other collected items that would otherwise be discarded. Pushing the story of interconnectedness forward, I allow the rusted metals to bleed onto the soft materials, demonstrating in real time the effect we have on the local environment; we have stained our surroundings. We may occupy a space for now, but in time, we too will be collected by the natural world and return from whence we came.
—Missy Barro
Rapt
Iron, thread; 2’6” x 2”
Spud
Iron, paper, yarn; 6.5” x 1’
Spud
Iron, paper, yarn; 6.5” x 1’
From Poppy (2008)
Paper, pen; 3’ x 5”
MISSY BARRO
I’m a collector; I collect things. I store them and keep them to myself. Out of sight of all those around me, they are mine alone to cherish. I’ve been collecting since I was young from cicada shells plucked off trees in the summer, to bright orange and red leaves in the fall, to arrowheads scavenged in the valley of my family’s land. Not only this, but since I was little I would collect images in my head. The strongest one being a tree I would pass every Tuesday and Thursday on the way to tennis practice in the suburbs. This tree, however, was unlike one I had ever seen. The seedling of the tree had the misfortune of landing alongside a mesh fence. The trunk of the tree engulfed the mesh wiring, with portions of its body bellying through individual windows of the fence. Every few days, I would pass this tree and hold its bulging, disfigured corpse in my head. What beauty. What oddity represented. I filed it into my collection.
It is this little phenomenon that has lasted throughout the years with me. To me, the adaptive relationship between the tree and the metal fence seemed all too telling of greater reality, one in which the natural world is forced to bend and compensate for the presence of man and his structures. It is the story of life’s cycle, the same as that of the cicadas found in the summer. It is the story of beauty in decomposition, similar to the bright orange and red leaves found in the fall. As the tree adapts to the fence, growing to surpass and swallow its entirety, so will the environment outgrow mankind.
My art reflects this story of fragmentation, adaptation, and resilience. This is a story of bodies and forms in relationship to one another, and this series is defined by the juxtaposition between the softness of the yarns and the hardness of the metal, as the metals represent the resources manipulated by man to create infrastructures. The materials I use derive from a similar state of abandonment faced by many human structures. My materials consist of discarded metals, food waste, old cottons, and other collected items that would otherwise be discarded. Pushing the story of interconnectedness forward, I allow the rusted metals to bleed onto the soft materials, demonstrating in real time the effect we have on the local environment; we have stained our surroundings. We may occupy a space for now, but in time, we too will be collected by the natural world and return from whence we came.
—Missy Barro
Rapt
Iron, thread; 2’6” x 2”
Warped
Iron, thread; 1’7” x 10”
Rapt
Iron, thread; 2’6” x 2”
Spud
Iron, paper, yarn; 6.5” x 1’
MISSY BARRO
I’m a collector; I collect things. I store them and keep them to myself. Out of sight of all those around me, they are mine alone to cherish. I’ve been collecting since I was young from cicada shells plucked off trees in the summer, to bright orange and red leaves in the fall, to arrowheads scavenged in the valley of my family’s land. Not only this, but since I was little I would collect images in my head. The strongest one being a tree I would pass every Tuesday and Thursday on the way to tennis practice in the suburbs. This tree, however, was unlike one I had ever seen. The seedling of the tree had the misfortune of landing alongside a mesh fence. The trunk of the tree engulfed the mesh wiring, with portions of its body bellying through individual windows of the fence. Every few days, I would pass this tree and hold its bulging, disfigured corpse in my head. What beauty. What oddity represented. I filed it into my collection.
It is this little phenomenon that has lasted throughout the years with me. To me, the adaptive relationship between the tree and the metal fence seemed all too telling of greater reality, one in which the natural world is forced to bend and compensate for the presence of man and his structures. It is the story of life’s cycle, the same as that of the cicadas found in the summer. It is the story of beauty in decomposition, similar to the bright orange and red leaves found in the fall. As the tree adapts to the fence, growing to surpass and swallow its entirety, so will the environment outgrow mankind.
My art reflects this story of fragmentation, adaptation, and resilience. This is a story of bodies and forms in relationship to one another, and this series is defined by the juxtaposition between the softness of the yarns and the hardness of the metal, as the metals represent the resources manipulated by man to create infrastructures. The materials I use derive from a similar state of abandonment faced by many human structures. My materials consist of discarded metals, food waste, old cottons, and other collected items that would otherwise be discarded. Pushing the story of interconnectedness forward, I allow the rusted metals to bleed onto the soft materials, demonstrating in real time the effect we have on the local environment; we have stained our surroundings. We may occupy a space for now, but in time, we too will be collected by the natural world and return from whence we came.
—Missy Barro
Spud
Iron, paper, yarn; 6.5” x 1’
From Poppy (2008)
Paper, pen; 3’ x 5”
Rapt
Iron, thread; 2’6” x 2”
From Poppy (2008)
Paper, pen; 3’ x 5”
Warped
Iron, thread; 1’7” x 10”
MISSY BARRO
I’m a collector; I collect things. I store them and keep them to myself. Out of sight of all those around me, they are mine alone to cherish. I’ve been collecting since I was young from cicada shells plucked off trees in the summer, to bright orange and red leaves in the fall, to arrowheads scavenged in the valley of my family’s land. Not only this, but since I was little I would collect images in my head. The strongest one being a tree I would pass every Tuesday and Thursday on the way to tennis practice in the suburbs. This tree, however, was unlike one I had ever seen. The seedling of the tree had the misfortune of landing alongside a mesh fence. The trunk of the tree engulfed the mesh wiring, with portions of its body bellying through individual windows of the fence. Every few days, I would pass this tree and hold its bulging, disfigured corpse in my head. What beauty. What oddity represented. I filed it into my collection.
It is this little phenomenon that has lasted throughout the years with me. To me, the adaptive relationship between the tree and the metal fence seemed all too telling of greater reality, one in which the natural world is forced to bend and compensate for the presence of man and his structures. It is the story of life’s cycle, the same as that of the cicadas found in the summer. It is the story of beauty in decomposition, similar to the bright orange and red leaves found in the fall. As the tree adapts to the fence, growing to surpass and swallow its entirety, so will the environment outgrow mankind.
My art reflects this story of fragmentation, adaptation, and resilience. This is a story of bodies and forms in relationship to one another, and this series is defined by the juxtaposition between the softness of the yarns and the hardness of the metal, as the metals represent the resources manipulated by man to create infrastructures. The materials I use derive from a similar state of abandonment faced by many human structures. My materials consist of discarded metals, food waste, old cottons, and other collected items that would otherwise be discarded. Pushing the story of interconnectedness forward, I allow the rusted metals to bleed onto the soft materials, demonstrating in real time the effect we have on the local environment; we have stained our surroundings. We may occupy a space for now, but in time, we too will be collected by the natural world and return from whence we came.
—Missy Barro
From Poppy (2008)
Paper, pen; 3’ x 5”
Suture
Iron, thread ; 2’ x 4’4”
Warped
Iron, thread; 1’7” x 10”
Suture
Iron, thread ; 2’ x 4’4”
Warped
Iron, thread; 1’7” x 10”
Suture
Iron, thread ; 2’ x 4’4”
Saw
Iron, thread ; 1’ x 2’
Sown
Packing paper, iron, yarn ; 11” x 1’5”
Saw
Iron, thread ; 1’ x 2’
Sown
Packing paper, iron, yarn ; 11” x 1’5”
Suture
Iron, thread ; 2’ x 4’4”
Sown
Packing paper, iron, yarn ; 11” x 1’5”
Saw
Iron, thread ; 1’ x 2’
Sown
Packing paper, iron, yarn ; 11” x 1’5”
Saw
Iron, thread ; 1’ x 2’
LIZA MOORE
Assembly Line Therapy
I don’t follow rules that I don’t make myself- I create assignments and throw myself headfirst into them. Setting my own limitations allows me to focus when my choices are boundless.
The obvious premise of my work is to pull small details from organic forms, magnify them, and transform them with either color or scale. My arrangements of color, form, and scale transform my source material from an observational study to something entirely new. The idea that my work stems from a natural source is apparent, but through my manipulation and use of material, the patterns become almost psychedelic. Part of the work’s attraction is that I have no preconceived idea of what each piece will look like until they are finished, I reconstruct the patterns and see where this zooming in takes me. I am delighted by the transformation of the very real patterns found on tiny organisms to the nearly mechanical multi-colored, patterns of a latch-hook rug.
The labor intensity of my working style is soothing- even necessary- for me. It is similar to factory work. Once I have designed the pieces, the rest becomes repetitive assembly work that can be done while mulling over the worriment of the day. My work is not flexible once I begin assembling it. My work is compulsory and a form of therapy for me as the repetitive work allows me to zone out the stressors of 2020 and complete the goals, I set out for myself- the final product.
—Liza Moore
MARY STEPHEN STRASKE
Finding Joy and Beauty in the Patterns of Nature
I am happiest in nature. Over the past four years in Rockbridge County, I have found serenity in the natural area surrounding me. Whether it be hiking, running, or swimming, I constantly notice beauty in my surroundings. I am often stopped when a natural element catches my eye, in the overlapping ellipses of leaves above me, or elongated, reaching, crooked lines of branches, or the glimpse of a flying blue jay almost out of sight.
In my work, I combine my fascination with pattern and repetition with the medium of printmaking which forces me to rely on chance and fortuitous events. I establish a structure and order to the chaotic branches and twigs by imposing them on a grid, creating a wallpaper that embraces and makes sense of disorder.
By focusing on my surroundings in Lexington, I have created a deeper connection with the local flora and fauna- particularly spicebush and dogwood. These specific forms I juxtapose create my own viewpoint of the natural world around me with the nostalgic, and perhaps decorative, sense of wallpaper and home.
I have always been inspired by interiors that blur the space between indoors and outdoors. In my grandparents’ house, there is a powder room with wallpaper that transforms the room into a garden. There is a white gate with a diagonal crossing fence, bugs hidden everywhere, and birds flying around. Ever since I was a child, I have enjoyed the feeling of transportation that this room and its magical wallpaper gave me, the feeling of having landed in a more peaceful and natural place.
I did not initially realize my connection to this childhood memory when I began this project. My longing for contextual patterns and scenes comes out through my preferred medium of printmaking, which is a logical choice for making repetitive pattern or motifs. I enjoy the element of chance that printmaking allows. I usually draw out my prints first, then scratch them into plexiglass or carve them into a rubber matrix. From there, I see each print as one smaller piece of a larger puzzle. There are endless variations that contribute to making a print: how hard I scratch the plexiglass, over or under inking a plate, or if I paint each organism from memory or a guidebook. It is a messy and real process, and is one that allows me to translate these specific forms through my own filter of experience, thus constructing my world of chance.
—Mary Stephen Straske
printmaking, watercolor, paper, Duralar paper
2 adjoining panels: 102”’ x 72”, 102”’ x 102”
LIZA MOORE
Assembly Line Therapy
I don’t follow rules that I don’t make myself- I create assignments and throw myself headfirst into them. Setting my own limitations allows me to focus when my choices are boundless.
The obvious premise of my work is to pull small details from organic forms, magnify them, and transform them with either color or scale. My arrangements of color, form, and scale transform my source material from an observational study to something entirely new. The idea that my work stems from a natural source is apparent, but through my manipulation and use of material, the patterns become almost psychedelic. Part of the work’s attraction is that I have no preconceived idea of what each piece will look like until they are finished, I reconstruct the patterns and see where this zooming in takes me. I am delighted by the transformation of the very real patterns found on tiny organisms to the nearly mechanical multi-colored, patterns of a latch-hook rug.
The labor intensity of my working style is soothing- even necessary- for me. It is similar to factory work. Once I have designed the pieces, the rest becomes repetitive assembly work that can be done while mulling over the worriment of the day. My work is not flexible once I begin assembling it. My work is compulsory and a form of therapy for me as the repetitive work allows me to zone out the stressors of 2020 and complete the goals, I set out for myself- the final product.
—Liza Moore
MARY STEPHEN STRASKE
Finding Joy and Beauty in the Patterns of Nature
I am happiest in nature. Over the past four years in Rockbridge County, I have found serenity in the natural area surrounding me. Whether it be hiking, running, or swimming, I constantly notice beauty in my surroundings. I am often stopped when a natural element catches my eye, in the overlapping ellipses of leaves above me, or elongated, reaching, crooked lines of branches, or the glimpse of a flying blue jay almost out of sight.
In my work, I combine my fascination with pattern and repetition with the medium of printmaking which forces me to rely on chance and fortuitous events. I establish a structure and order to the chaotic branches and twigs by imposing them on a grid, creating a wallpaper that embraces and makes sense of disorder.
By focusing on my surroundings in Lexington, I have created a deeper connection with the local flora and fauna- particularly spicebush and dogwood. These specific forms I juxtapose create my own viewpoint of the natural world around me with the nostalgic, and perhaps decorative, sense of wallpaper and home.
I have always been inspired by interiors that blur the space between indoors and outdoors. In my grandparents’ house, there is a powder room with wallpaper that transforms the room into a garden. There is a white gate with a diagonal crossing fence, bugs hidden everywhere, and birds flying around. Ever since I was a child, I have enjoyed the feeling of transportation that this room and its magical wallpaper gave me, the feeling of having landed in a more peaceful and natural place.
I did not initially realize my connection to this childhood memory when I began this project. My longing for contextual patterns and scenes comes out through my preferred medium of printmaking, which is a logical choice for making repetitive pattern or motifs. I enjoy the element of chance that printmaking allows. I usually draw out my prints first, then scratch them into plexiglass or carve them into a rubber matrix. From there, I see each print as one smaller piece of a larger puzzle. There are endless variations that contribute to making a print: how hard I scratch the plexiglass, over or under inking a plate, or if I paint each organism from memory or a guidebook. It is a messy and real process, and is one that allows me to translate these specific forms through my own filter of experience, thus constructing my world of chance.
—Mary Stephen Straske
djoining panels:02”’ x 72”, 102”’ x 102”
LIZA MOORE
Assembly Line Therapy
I don’t follow rules that I don’t make myself- I create assignments and throw myself headfirst into them. Setting my own limitations allows me to focus when my choices are boundless.
The obvious premise of my work is to pull small details from organic forms, magnify them, and transform them with either color or scale. My arrangements of color, form, and scale transform my source material from an observational study to something entirely new. The idea that my work stems from a natural source is apparent, but through my manipulation and use of material, the patterns become almost psychedelic. Part of the work’s attraction is that I have no preconceived idea of what each piece will look like until they are finished, I reconstruct the patterns and see where this zooming in takes me. I am delighted by the transformation of the very real patterns found on tiny organisms to the nearly mechanical multi-colored, patterns of a latch-hook rug.
The labor intensity of my working style is soothing- even necessary- for me. It is similar to factory work. Once I have designed the pieces, the rest becomes repetitive assembly work that can be done while mulling over the worriment of the day. My work is not flexible once I begin assembling it. My work is compulsory and a form of therapy for me as the repetitive work allows me to zone out the stressors of 2020 and complete the goals, I set out for myself- the final product.
—Liza Moore
LIZA MOORE
Assembly Line Therapy
I don’t follow rules that I don’t make myself- I create assignments and throw myself headfirst into them. Setting my own limitations allows me to focus when my choices are boundless.
The obvious premise of my work is to pull small details from organic forms, magnify them, and transform them with either color or scale. My arrangements of color, form, and scale transform my source material from an observational study to something entirely new. The idea that my work stems from a natural source is apparent, but through my manipulation and use of material, the patterns become almost psychedelic. Part of the work’s attraction is that I have no preconceived idea of what each piece will look like until they are finished, I reconstruct the patterns and see where this zooming in takes me. I am delighted by the transformation of the very real patterns found on tiny organisms to the nearly mechanical multi-colored, patterns of a latch-hook rug.
The labor intensity of my working style is soothing- even necessary- for me. It is similar to factory work. Once I have designed the pieces, the rest becomes repetitive assembly work that can be done while mulling over the worriment of the day. My work is not flexible once I begin assembling it. My work is compulsory and a form of therapy for me as the repetitive work allows me to zone out the stressors of 2020 and complete the goals, I set out for myself- the final product.
—Liza Moore
REGGIE ZHAO
The Ontology of Daily Materials
Growing up in a crowded city in an overpopulated country, I lived in and between constructed spaces. The negative space outdoors was often narrow and defined by the positive spaces formed by buildings. Space was a precious resource. The dense city provided me with a large pool of strangers to spy on. I liked to observe where they came from and where they headed to. People’s eye-line, attention to sound sources, and physical interactions with the built environment conveyed information about why urban spaces excited, guided, or distressed us.
Such behavior of intentional observing and discovering prompted me to make art reactionarily. The materials that I work with come from previous projects or whatever is readily available to me. Cardboard is an enjoyable medium for its earthy smell and its crunchy sound when cut open. The corrugations and layers of the cardboard render the material with potentials for three-dimensional transformations. With a humble appearance and texture, cardboard welcomes us to handle and interact with it. Borrowing cardboards’ approachable nature, I invite you to examine the unremarkable brown-paper exterior and raise questions. Then we can dive in and demystify the contents inside.
The bamboo tissue came to me as an unexpected gift. For a project I worked on last year, I harvested bamboo from the Chessie Trail and split the sturdy bamboo logs into thin strips. As the strips cracked open, some fragile tissue pieces scrunched up to the bottom of the bamboo joints. The stark contrast between the exterior and the interior of bamboo inspired me to isolate the thin tissue from its vessel and highlight this “derivative” material in its own right.
The bamboo tissue’s crisp sound captured my attention and pointed me to explore the aural as an expressive medium that adds to the visual. Besides making sound with bamboo tissues, I continued to play with revealing the sound of other materials around us, such as cardboard and tin cans. Sound divides into at least two different forms : one kind serves as a backdrop to our daily perceptions, another attracts our attention. In my exploration, I placed the sound of what could easily fall into the first kind into the position of the second. The visual and the aural interact and work as an entity to bring out the constitution of the materials.
This collection of work reflects my journey on a sustained investigation of the ontology of materials – their genesis, potentials, afterlives, etc. The process of working with different materials taught me to observe and listen to their characters with intent. I partook in accentuating part of their lives, and now I present my exciting findings regarding their being to you.
—Reggie Zhao
Plan Cut for 3’x3’x3’
Pencil on Paper
MARY STEPHEN STRASKE
Finding Joy and Beauty in the Patterns of Nature
I am happiest in nature. Over the past four years in Rockbridge County, I have found serenity in the natural area surrounding me. Whether it be hiking, running, or swimming, I constantly notice beauty in my surroundings. I am often stopped when a natural element catches my eye, in the overlapping ellipses of leaves above me, or elongated, reaching, crooked lines of branches, or the glimpse of a flying blue jay almost out of sight.
In my work, I combine my fascination with pattern and repetition with the medium of printmaking which forces me to rely on chance and fortuitous events. I establish a structure and order to the chaotic branches and twigs by imposing them on a grid, creating a wallpaper that embraces and makes sense of disorder.
By focusing on my surroundings in Lexington, I have created a deeper connection with the local flora and fauna- particularly spicebush and dogwood. These specific forms I juxtapose create my own viewpoint of the natural world around me with the nostalgic, and perhaps decorative, sense of wallpaper and home.
I have always been inspired by interiors that blur the space between indoors and outdoors. In my grandparents’ house, there is a powder room with wallpaper that transforms the room into a garden. There is a white gate with a diagonal crossing fence, bugs hidden everywhere, and birds flying around. Ever since I was a child, I have enjoyed the feeling of transportation that this room and its magical wallpaper gave me, the feeling of having landed in a more peaceful and natural place.
I did not initially realize my connection to this childhood memory when I began this project. My longing for contextual patterns and scenes comes out through my preferred medium of printmaking, which is a logical choice for making repetitive pattern or motifs. I enjoy the element of chance that printmaking allows. I usually draw out my prints first, then scratch them into plexiglass or carve them into a rubber matrix. From there, I see each print as one smaller piece of a larger puzzle. There are endless variations that contribute to making a print: how hard I scratch the plexiglass, over or under inking a plate, or if I paint each organism from memory or a guidebook. It is a messy and real process, and is one that allows me to translate these specific forms through my own filter of experience, thus constructing my world of chance.
—Mary Stephen Straske
I paper
2 adjoining panels: 102”’ x 72”, 102”’ x 102”
REGGIE ZHAO
The Ontology of Daily Materials
Growing up in a crowded city in an overpopulated country, I lived in and between constructed spaces. The negative space outdoors was often narrow and defined by the positive spaces formed by buildings. Space was a precious resource. The dense city provided me with a large pool of strangers to spy on. I liked to observe where they came from and where they headed to. People’s eye-line, attention to sound sources, and physical interactions with the built environment conveyed information about why urban spaces excited, guided, or distressed us.
Such behavior of intentional observing and discovering prompted me to make art reactionarily. The materials that I work with come from previous projects or whatever is readily available to me. Cardboard is an enjoyable medium for its earthy smell and its crunchy sound when cut open. The corrugations and layers of the cardboard render the material with potentials for three-dimensional transformations. With a humble appearance and texture, cardboard welcomes us to handle and interact with it. Borrowing cardboards’ approachable nature, I invite you to examine the unremarkable brown-paper exterior and raise questions. Then we can dive in and demystify the contents inside.
The bamboo tissue came to me as an unexpected gift. For a project I worked on last year, I harvested bamboo from the Chessie Trail and split the sturdy bamboo logs into thin strips. As the strips cracked open, some fragile tissue pieces scrunched up to the bottom of the bamboo joints. The stark contrast between the exterior and the interior of bamboo inspired me to isolate the thin tissue from its vessel and highlight this “derivative” material in its own right.
The bamboo tissue’s crisp sound captured my attention and pointed me to explore the aural as an expressive medium that adds to the visual. Besides making sound with bamboo tissues, I continued to play with revealing the sound of other materials around us, such as cardboard and tin cans. Sound divides into at least two different forms : one kind serves as a backdrop to our daily perceptions, another attracts our attention. In my exploration, I placed the sound of what could easily fall into the first kind into the position of the second. The visual and the aural interact and work as an entity to bring out the constitution of the materials.
This collection of work reflects my journey on a sustained investigation of the ontology of materials – their genesis, potentials, afterlives, etc. The process of working with different materials taught me to observe and listen to their characters with intent. I partook in accentuating part of their lives, and now I present my exciting findings regarding their being to you.
—Reggie Zhao
MARY STEPHEN STRASKE
Finding Joy and Beauty in the Patterns of Nature
I am happiest in nature. Over the past four years in Rockbridge County, I have found serenity in the natural area surrounding me. Whether it be hiking, running, or swimming, I constantly notice beauty in my surroundings. I am often stopped when a natural element catches my eye, in the overlapping ellipses of leaves above me, or elongated, reaching, crooked lines of branches, or the glimpse of a flying blue jay almost out of sight.
In my work, I combine my fascination with pattern and repetition with the medium of printmaking which forces me to rely on chance and fortuitous events. I establish a structure and order to the chaotic branches and twigs by imposing them on a grid, creating a wallpaper that embraces and makes sense of disorder.
By focusing on my surroundings in Lexington, I have created a deeper connection with the local flora and fauna- particularly spicebush and dogwood. These specific forms I juxtapose create my own viewpoint of the natural world around me with the nostalgic, and perhaps decorative, sense of wallpaper and home.
I have always been inspired by interiors that blur the space between indoors and outdoors. In my grandparents’ house, there is a powder room with wallpaper that transforms the room into a garden. There is a white gate with a diagonal crossing fence, bugs hidden everywhere, and birds flying around. Ever since I was a child, I have enjoyed the feeling of transportation that this room and its magical wallpaper gave me, the feeling of having landed in a more peaceful and natural place.
I did not initially realize my connection to this childhood memory when I began this project. My longing for contextual patterns and scenes comes out through my preferred medium of printmaking, which is a logical choice for making repetitive pattern or motifs. I enjoy the element of chance that printmaking allows. I usually draw out my prints first, then scratch them into plexiglass or carve them into a rubber matrix. From there, I see each print as one smaller piece of a larger puzzle. There are endless variations that contribute to making a print: how hard I scratch the plexiglass, over or under inking a plate, or if I paint each organism from memory or a guidebook. It is a messy and real process, and is one that allows me to translate these specific forms through my own filter of experience, thus constructing my world of chance.
—Mary Stephen Straske
printmaking, watercolor, paper, Duralar paper
2 adjoining panels: 102”’ x 72”, 102”’ x 102”
REGGIE ZHAO
The Ontology of Daily Materials
Growing up in a crowded city in an overpopulated country, I lived in and between constructed spaces. The negative space outdoors was often narrow and defined by the positive spaces formed by buildings. Space was a precious resource. The dense city provided me with a large pool of strangers to spy on. I liked to observe where they came from and where they headed to. People’s eye-line, attention to sound sources, and physical interactions with the built environment conveyed information about why urban spaces excited, guided, or distressed us.
Such behavior of intentional observing and discovering prompted me to make art reactionarily. The materials that I work with come from previous projects or whatever is readily available to me. Cardboard is an enjoyable medium for its earthy smell and its crunchy sound when cut open. The corrugations and layers of the cardboard render the material with potentials for three-dimensional transformations. With a humble appearance and texture, cardboard welcomes us to handle and interact with it. Borrowing cardboards’ approachable nature, I invite you to examine the unremarkable brown-paper exterior and raise questions. Then we can dive in and demystify the contents inside.
The bamboo tissue came to me as an unexpected gift. For a project I worked on last year, I harvested bamboo from the Chessie Trail and split the sturdy bamboo logs into thin strips. As the strips cracked open, some fragile tissue pieces scrunched up to the bottom of the bamboo joints. The stark contrast between the exterior and the interior of bamboo inspired me to isolate the thin tissue from its vessel and highlight this “derivative” material in its own right.
The bamboo tissue’s crisp sound captured my attention and pointed me to explore the aural as an expressive medium that adds to the visual. Besides making sound with bamboo tissues, I continued to play with revealing the sound of other materials around us, such as cardboard and tin cans. Sound divides into at least two different forms : one kind serves as a backdrop to our daily perceptions, another attracts our attention. In my exploration, I placed the sound of what could easily fall into the first kind into the position of the second. The visual and the aural interact and work as an entity to bring out the constitution of the materials.
This collection of work reflects my journey on a sustained investigation of the ontology of materials – their genesis, potentials, afterlives, etc. The process of working with different materials taught me to observe and listen to their characters with intent. I partook in accentuating part of their lives, and now I present my exciting findings regarding their being to you.
—Reggie Zhao
REGGIE ZHAO
The Ontology of Daily Materials
Growing up in a crowded city in an overpopulated country, I lived in and between constructed spaces. The negative space outdoors was often narrow and defined by the positive spaces formed by buildings. Space was a precious resource. The dense city provided me with a large pool of strangers to spy on. I liked to observe where they came from and where they headed to. People’s eye-line, attention to sound sources, and physical interactions with the built environment conveyed information about why urban spaces excited, guided, or distressed us.
Such behavior of intentional observing and discovering prompted me to make art reactionarily. The materials that I work with come from previous projects or whatever is readily available to me. Cardboard is an enjoyable medium for its earthy smell and its crunchy sound when cut open. The corrugations and layers of the cardboard render the material with potentials for three-dimensional transformations. With a humble appearance and texture, cardboard welcomes us to handle and interact with it. Borrowing cardboards’ approachable nature, I invite you to examine the unremarkable brown-paper exterior and raise questions. Then we can dive in and demystify the contents inside.
The bamboo tissue came to me as an unexpected gift. For a project I worked on last year, I harvested bamboo from the Chessie Trail and split the sturdy bamboo logs into thin strips. As the strips cracked open, some fragile tissue pieces scrunched up to the bottom of the bamboo joints. The stark contrast between the exterior and the interior of bamboo inspired me to isolate the thin tissue from its vessel and highlight this “derivative” material in its own right.
The bamboo tissue’s crisp sound captured my attention and pointed me to explore the aural as an expressive medium that adds to the visual. Besides making sound with bamboo tissues, I continued to play with revealing the sound of other materials around us, such as cardboard and tin cans. Sound divides into at least two different forms : one kind serves as a backdrop to our daily perceptions, another attracts our attention. In my exploration, I placed the sound of what could easily fall into the first kind into the position of the second. The visual and the aural interact and work as an entity to bring out the constitution of the materials.
This collection of work reflects my journey on a sustained investigation of the ontology of materials – their genesis, potentials, afterlives, etc. The process of working with different materials taught me to observe and listen to their characters with intent. I partook in accentuating part of their lives, and now I present my exciting findings regarding their being to you.
—Reggie Zhao