The Quirky Uncanny: Ceramic Sculpture by Klara Kristalova

Klara Kristalova, The Sleepless (2011), glazed stoneware and porcelain

Klara Kristalova, The Sleepless (2011), glazed stoneware and porcelain

Between my new enthusiasm for Robert Gober and recent introduction to Gregor Schnieder’s Dead House u r, I am full up on the uncanny, whether you consider it “the name for everything that ought to have remained hidden and secret and has become visible” or the familiar made strange through repression (for both ideas, see Freud’s The Uncanny). Sweden-based artist Klara Kristalova creates ceramic figurines of people, animals, and the hybrids in-between that call on the lighter, quirkier side of the uncanny, where the strange and secret might yet be a friendly force.


Birdwoman, 2013, glazed stoneware

Kristalova’s  playful work suggests childhood fairytales and fantasies come true, but with a disturbing erosion of natural boundaries and identities. I saw work by the artist recently at the Norton Museum, where the images below were taken, but the artist is represented stateside by Lehmann Maupin gallery. These works recall, in form but also in whimsy, Meissen porcelain figures writ large. I really enjoy the tactile quality of the material itself, and how the handmade aesthetic suggests these subjects are somehow personal to the artist. At the same time, each figure seems to contain its own animus, so that I empathize all the more with its uneasy relationship to this world.





The Black Unconscious: Odilon Redon’s Lithographs of St. Anthony

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Plate 13 “…And eyes that without heads were floating like mollusks”

I think of dreamy, smudged pinks and blues when I think of the work of Odilon Redon, the 19th century French Symbolist artist. However, a recurring concern of the artist was the temptation of St. Anthony by the devil, as told in a popular contemporary book by Gustave Flaubert, which Redon rendered in lithograph three times over the course of his life. Flaubert wrote an imaginative version of the saint’s story featuring mythical beasts, different religious traditions, and a mystical journey. “The Nightmare Transported into Art: Odilon Redon’s St. Anthony,” a recently closed exhibition at the Georgia Museum of Art, displayed a complete set of Redon’s 1896 series of prints. Redon’s imaginative lithographs often imaged unusual or unimportant narrative moments. For example, although impossible sea creatures are not prominent in the tale, the artist enjoyed the opportunity to give them form, as in Plate 13 (above).

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Plate 18 “Anthony: What is the point of all of this? The Devil: There is no point.”

These lithographs embrace their black and white nature to great but mysterious effect, so that, even with captions taken from Flaubert’s book, they require interpretation from the viewer. Despite my initial idea of the artist, Redon had a strong preference for black. The artist wrote that:

Black is the most essential color. …Black should be respected. Nothing prostitutes it. It does not please the eye and does not awaken sensuality. It is the agent of the spirit much more than the splendid color of the palette or of the prism.

In fact, in lithographs, etchings, and charcoal drawings, Redon used only black in his work from 1870 until 1895. This obvious contrast to the concurrent work of the Impressionists, with their preference for sparkling color and rejection of black even in shadows, suggests the commitment of Redon to a hidden, interior world rather than the material one that the Impressionists strove to document.

Phone Tag: Interview with Trevor Amery

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Work in progress (kayak), wood, 33 branches, artificial sinew, boiled linseed oil, turpentine, ballistic nylon

For the inaugural interview of Phone Tag, I Skyped with Trevor Amery in his studio one evening. His studio is a white room almost entirely filled with the half-finished wooden hull of a boat. Trevor works in the domain of installation and social sculpture, a combination of people, object, and context. Recently, he moved to San Diego to join the M.F.A. department at the University of California, San Diego. I know Trevor and his work because we both received Fulbright grants to Hungary in 2012-3.

Phone Tag is a generative interview format, where I ask each participating artist five questions (plus others as the discussion meanders). At the end, I ask him or her to introduce me to a working artist whose attitude and work they find interesting and/or inspiring, who I will then interview with the same five questions.


Linnea West: “What are you working on now?”

Trevor Amery: “Since I’ve gotten here to San Diego, you know I brought the boat with me, and it was maybe a quarter of the way there. But I’ve done an insane amount of work on it since I’ve been down here. It’s about 17 feet long. I’m trying to mirror it, so this is a Mylar skin that I’m playing with now. This is the bow. It was this piece that got me going in the studio.”

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LW: “It also takes up your whole studio.”

TA: “Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass. But it’s an enjoyable, meditative pain in the ass. This is a 2,000 year old boat design. It’s actually a combination of an Aleutian island design and a Greenland design. Now, few make these, and it’s a leisure thing for people in the Pacific Northwest who are able to pay for someone to make half the boat for them and then get the experience of putting together a kayak. That feeds into some of my interests: this whole post-knowledge, weekend warrior, we-can-learn-everything-in-a-weekend kind of culture. I love that kind of access to information, and so for me, that this was a pdf off of the internet that I constructed the boat from, is an important relationship.

These boats were used to hunt. So I’ve been thinking of ways to mirror the boat, in kind of a low-tech way, as camouflage. They used to create a camo effect using different color seal skins. I’m going to be using it as kind of an experiment.

It’s really evolved now, as I’m using it as like a prop for photo shoots now. I’m interested in, to quote from Ricardo Dominguez, a San Diego-based artist, ‘creating a unique context where truth and lies can exist where otherwise they could not.’ I really liked that idea, of creating a fiction, or creating a fictional history. So I decided to create the photo shoot where maybe I make the props for it but then I try to make things somewhat real, but then play with what’s real and what’s fake and sort of complicate it all.”

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LW: “I want to ask who has influenced your practice. But also if anything or anyone during these past few months of starting grad school has been a new chain of thought for you.”

TA: “Well first, to be super cheesy and a bit romantic, of course, Katie—”

LW: “And Katie is your fiancé”

TA: “Yes, my fiancé. She’s an artist and she’s brilliant. Her work is better than anyone I know. To be honest, in the five years, it would be insane for me not to acknowledge the fact that she has been such an amazing influence. She’s made me a more critical thinker.

Other than that, so many friends, like peer groups. When I was at Skowhegan, people like John Dombroski, he was just so in line with being present and aware of this world and tapping into that presence to really make such delicate and sensitive work that’s really powerful and evocative. Ian Jones, who’s a friend from there. We had so many amazing conversations over beer about correlationism and constellationism and kind of the conversation between objects in proximity and of creating conversations through proximity or almost like constructing context in a way. Lilly McElroy for her humor and her honesty with an action that I think is really inspiring. And just, you know, formal studio visits. Byron Kim, kicking my ass and telling me not to be so precious. Sheila Pepe telling me to do everything and more.

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LW: When did you first begin to think of yourself as an artist?”

TA: “I don’t know. I always did. Like a lot of people, I always did it. Am I still? Am I now? Yes, I am told by the institution I am in now that I am. I have put in my cultural dues, I guess you could say.

I never had a specific moment where I thought “I’m an artist,” but for me one of the biggest shifts was when I stopped painting. I painted until four or five years ago. I flew to do a residency in Finland, and en route Ryanair confiscated my oil paints. I got to the two-month residency without my materials and definitely without the budget to go rebuy oil paints in Finland, which is a very expensive country. So I had to figure out how to make there. I ended up doing all these sculptures and installations with found materials, firewood, and all these things. This is going to sound really romantic, but I was in a canoe on a lake with firewood piled up on either side of me as high as my head, front and back. I was paddling out to this floating platform to do this site-specific installation. I just stopped and thought ‘Holy shit, this could be my work.’ That to me is probably the biggest eureka moment.”


Raft, 2011, Site-specific installation firewood, floating dock

LW: “What would an ideal day be like in your studio?”

TA: “One thing I try to do is make every mental state in the studio productive. When I wake up, I need my coffee. So, early, in my brain-not-firing state, starting with things that are maybe more physical like grinding or lathing or knots. When things really start going, writing down thoughts, taking those moments to read as much as I can, work on my ideas, and be open to whatever. Reading around lunch. Concepting. Questioning what I’m working on and thinking about where it could go. Seeing what it needs to become. Having that space in the day is really important. Definitely some bullshitting with some people. I need humans in my life. A coffee break or beer or whatever with whoever is around. And the freedom to let it inform me.

I guess the ideal day isn’t always in the studio. That’s one day. An idea I’m working on now just came out of waking up really early one morning to go hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail to get some headspace outside of my studio. An ideal day in the studio is a lot of things.”

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PCT Artifact, 2014, recovered branch from a burnt out section of the Pacific Crest Trail, steel, spray paint, vinyl

LW: “When you think about where you’ll go next and your career as an artist, do you think it is important to be in a big urban center where there are more opportunities but are also more expensive, or is it better to be somewhere lower cost where you can focus on making work?”

TA: “That’s the question of my lifetime. I think about this question all the time; Katie and I talk about it all the time. We’ve been transient, her since 2010, me since 2011. We have not had a stationary home since then. We’ve done residencies internationally, nationally. We’ve done the really difficult process of saving up as much money as you can so you can go off and do this thing or that.  Return and repeat. I guess for me, ideally, stability is important but with enough exploration and transience. I’d love to have a few bases of operation. Maybe one in L.A., one somewhere in Europe. You know, spending the majority of the year, eight months, somewhere and the rest maybe in remote studios and getting into as many conversations and ways of seeing as I can. For me to try and retain a level of presence and awareness and not create in a vacuum.”

LW: “Maybe our generation is the first to feel comfortable living with that idea of mobility. To not have a home, that one thing that is home. There’s this Korean artist who makes these wonderful houses out of silk—“

TA: “Do Ho Suh

LW: “Yes, and he builds his New York apartment out of fabric and it’s to the specifications of the walls and the bookshelves and the fireplace, but when he takes it to an art fair, he packs it in his suitcase and he just goes there.”

TA: “Yeah, it’s incredible to think about that—architecture as safety blanket.”

LW: “For sure. Well, this concludes the official part of the interview.”

TA: “I hope I answered everything.”

LW: “That was awesome. Thank you.”