As a court interpreter, Gabriel Sosa is exposed to many narratives and situations he would not otherwise see. In graduate school at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts at Tufts, he decided to research and investigate these issues more incisively. Now, his career as a court interpreter and his career as an artist are intimately linked—both complementing and strengthening each other in powerful ways as he explores the importance of translation, testimony, memory, and social justice.

His latest exhibit, Please interrupt if you don’t understand, on display at A R E A Gallery in Cambridge through October 14th, confronts the use of language in the justice system, the overwhelming nature of the courtroom, and the fallibility of memory. Some of the exhibition’s larger drawings, for instance, use texts based on affidavits prepared by police officers in order to obtain search warrants.

“Due to the lengthy, often repetitive nature of these affidavits, I’ve often wondered how closely these texts are read in their entirety,” Sosa says. “I’m interested in the duality of that language; on the one hand, it’s essential because a warrant can’t be executed without that affidavit; on the other, if it’s glossed over, that language becomes disposable.”

Upon Further Questioning, 2017, charcoal and graphite on paper, 42 in. x 53 in.. Photo © Aníbal Martel

The exhibit also contains a series of drawings created with a typewriter and including fragments from court proceedings that Sosa has either observed or participated in. The drawings show how the typewriter epitomizes much about the justice system—it’s slow, mechanical, old-fashioned, and it only works in a certain way. It’s not malleable or flexible.

“I’m personally invested in this dialogue because I see up close how the justice system works, and in many cases, how it doesn’t work,” says Sosa. “Most people, especially in the art world, aren’t aware of how the court system works. I’m interested in creating awareness for the court system’s nuances, pitfalls, caveats, and opportunities for improvement.”

En dos ocasiones durante la primera quincena de abril, 2017, Graphite, oil, and chalk on paper, 30- x 44-© Aníbal Martel

In court, Sosa regularly hears multiple versions of the same event. For each  witness, their testimony becomes their truth, and as far as they’re concerned, the way they remember it is the way it happened. Sosa’s exhibition explores how memory transforms, and how despite the dilution of memories with the passage of time, people become more certain about the veracity of those memories.

“Words can lose meaning in different ways,” Sosa says. “These losses of significance become reflected in the drawings where texts become illegible—being layered, erased, and stacked one atop another. They become forgotten, tossed away, and recreated.”

While all of the documents Sosa uses in the exhibit are public, specific names have been eliminated as both a gesture of respect and as a subtle reminder that the situations, feelings, and experiences referred to in these works could happen to anyone, including ourselves.

Gabriel Sosa–artist
Somerville, Massachusetts
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Top image: Le queda un minuto (detail), 2017, Graphite on paper. Photo courtesy of the artist.

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Metalpoint artist Susan Schwalb uses a fork a bit differently from most people. While you or I use it to pick up a floret of broccoli or stab a piece of beef, Schwalb uses it to draw. She also uses steel wool; flat bars of silver or gold; and special styluses that hold fine pieces of silver, copper, or other metals. Basically, if it’s metal, chances are she’s tried drawing with it.

While this might sound like a strange new idea, drawing with metal—aka metalpoint—actually has a long history. In the Renaissance, long before graphite or red chalk existed, Leonardo da Vinci, Albrecht Dürer, and other Renaissance masters used metal to sketch out their ideas. The works were often unfinished, really more a means to an end than a product in itself.

Schwalb’s work, however, is anything but unfinished. This is work that is absolute and final, her intricate lines meticulously drawn, each with its own place in the abstract story she’s creating. Schwalb has taken an ancient technique and made it boldly contemporary by experimenting with different metals and evolving it from its figurative beginnings into the abstract. Her innovation and vision are recognized far and wide in the art world—her drawings and paintings can be found in the collections of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts, and London’s Victoria and Albert Museum, among many others.

Not bad for a technique Schwalb discovered by happenstance. “I was doing very precise ink drawings with a Rapidograph pen,” she recalls. “I kept looking for finer and finer lines. And then I was in the Hamptons with a few other artists for a few weeks. I looked at this artist working; it was silverpoint. Here’s a tool to make a line on my painting! I went back to the city, bought paper and tools, and started. Within a year it was my primary medium. “It’s the precise line I love. I never looked back.”

Intermezzo XXI, 2015, tin, silver, and goldpoint on black gesso, 12 × 12 × 2.125 in. Photo by Jacklyn Boylan

And yet, of course, she did look back, at least initially. Because looking back at the Renaissance is really the only way to learn how to do metalpoint. The drawings themselves are the only points of reference.
“I’m not that interested in all Renaissance drawings,” Schwalb says, “but I’m always interested in Renaissance silverpoint.” Apparently . . . how else to explain her spending not one, not two, but four days looking at the metalpoint retrospective Drawing in Silver and Gold: Leonardo to Jasper Johns at the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC in 2015? “By day two, my husband was looking at other parts of the museum, but I wasn’t. There are things in these drawings.

“I’m not looking at the whole image,” Schwalb continues. “Sometimes it’s just a little section.” She cites Rogier van der Weyden’s Portrait of an Unknown Young Woman as an example. The woman wears a traditional Dutch headdress with a flowing scarf. “I was really looking at how he got the darks and the lights,” Schwalb explains. “Right below her neck is a really thin line. I kept looking, looking, and looking.

“I found this medium, and it doesn’t seem to let me go.”

At her airy Watertown, Massachusetts, studio, Schwalb stands by her drawing table to illustrate various metals’ versatility. She picks up a piece of paper and grabs the aforementioned silver fork, pulling it across the paper to leave a line. She trades the fork for a piece of steel wool and creates a different set of lines. “You can draw with jewelry,” she says, scraping her ring against the wall to make a smudge. “It’s not complicated. What’s hard is the drawing. It is a direct medium. You have to be able to draw.”

Susan Schwalb lines up at her Watertown studio. Photo by Izzy Berdan

Each metal has its own properties, too. Understanding which one tarnishes and how much, for instance, is something Schwalb considers before she begins a piece. Silver, copper, and brass all change color differently. Tarnishing is also affected by the surface and time of year. In humid summer months, a piece can tarnish overnight. In the winter, it can take months. “I try to anticipate it, but I don’t always know,” she says. “Even after 40 years, the medium can surprise me. That’s the fun.”

Schwalb prefers to create series of drawings or paintings rather than individual works, exploring variations on a visual theme. “I do it because I want to try something else—different colors, different metals,” she explains. “One piece leads me to another.”

Her Orchid series, which began as a figurative study, gradually morphed into abstraction as Schwalb created lines around the orchid. “I took the image out. I was drawing what was behind it.” Then she began to tear the paper, eventually burning its edges. “I used a match, then a candle. I finally had to give up burning; if you put your finger on it, there’s a fingerprint,” she says, noting she used burning from 1978 to the early ’80s.

Through it all, she was always searching for the perfect exact line. “I have combined everything—gold leaf, tempera, burning the edges of the paper,” she says, recalling various phases. “It was that I was looking for a very fine line.”

While the colors, textures, and metals vary in her series, the linearity unites her work. Sometimes the lines are straight as arrows—she uses a T-square to ensure that. Other times they waver slightly. Sometimes she mixes the metals. Other times it’s one metal against a solid color.

Schwalb gives her series fairly generic titles—Strata, Music of Silence—deliberately. Individual paintings simply receive a number, as in Strata #246. She often uses musical references. “I don’t want a title that makes you read an image in it,” she says.

Harmonizations is a divergence from her signature line-and-band work. A series of squares with intricate lines, each one is slightly different, yet all meld to create a shimmering design. Each painting looks one way as you look at it straight on; if you look from the side, its depth and intricacies change entirely.

Orchid, photo courtesy of Susan Schwalb

“The creative process is peculiar,” Schwalb says. “Most work doesn’t have the clear narrative everyone would like. There is a narrative; it’s just not as obvious.”

Today, Schwalb draws primarily with styluses. In her earlier years, she often used wider, heavier bars of silver to make her marks, which was hard on her hands. For the same reason, she only shakes hands with her left. “I have to save my right hand for my work,” she explains.

Part of that work involves spreading the news about metalpoint as an art form. While Schwalb would prefer to answer questions about the intent of her art at her shows, she often carries a piece of paper and a silverpoint tool in her pocket. “In the end, I surrender,” she says. “They want to know. It looks like a pencil, but it isn’t. It’s shiny, more fine. People are curious. What is this?” And so, she tells them.

For more images of Schwalb’s work, plus a look around her studio, visit our subscriber-only gallery. 

Susan Schwalb–metalpoint artist
Watertown, Massachusetts
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Top image: Polyphony VIII, 2015, gold and silverpoint on carmine gesso, 16 × 16 × 1.5 in. Photo by Izzy Berdan

The post On Point appeared first on Take Magazine.

From braiding and rituals to altering memories, Silvi Naçi uses the power of performance to uplift the voices of marginalized communities. Under the nom de plume Silver Projects, Naçi has produced an impressive body of work that includes an artist residency at MASS MoCA (summer 2017) and the founding of STAND UP: Women* You Should Know—an ongoing series of lectures, interviews, and exhibitions focusing on “showing the work of marginalized artists of different class, race, gender identity, religion, cultural ethics, and immigration status”—a 45-woman* group show that premiered at Boston’s Gallery Kayafas in July 2017.

Silvi Naci, Weight of Memory, 2016

Take: What was it like growing up in Albania, and when did you immigrate to the United States?
Silvi Naci: I knew I wanted to be an artist since I was six years old—studying in Fier’s art and music school, [Shkolla] Jakov Xoxa. My cousin, an established painter, taught me how to paint in oils. I continued to study art after moving to the States at the age of 14. Leaving Albania was heartbreaking—but my mother wanted to give my sisters and me the opportunities that Albania couldn’t offer for three ambitious women hungry for education.

T: What have your experiences been as an artist and immigrant living in Boston?
SN: I’ve always had this overwhelming sense of non-belonging to any place, except with my mother. Leaving Albania at such an important age definitely created a slit in my mind. Although I have lived in Boston on and off for 16 years, I have never felt at home. Just this past summer, I returned “home” to Albania after nine long years. I thought maybe I would feel at home there, or at peace. But much has changed, and I have changed. And although I miss even the smallest rock in Albania, I am now an outsider [there] as I am an outsider living in the States.

I often ask other artists if they would be making the same artwork they make in the United States back in the country where they are from, so I started to ask myself the same question. Being born and raised in a country of control, oppression, corruption, and fear, it’s strange to think about ideas like, “You can be whatever you want,” and “Anything is possible.” Lower-middle-class Albanians living in Albania right now do not have that luxury of thought. A lot of my work looks at this disconnect, the contrast, and ideals. I am always trying to build a bridge between these two cultures and traditions.

T: Your work focuses on uplifting marginalized communities such as women, immigrants, and the LGBTQ community. Why is this important for you?
SN: I believe that if I ever have any power to be heard, I must bring people with me. There is an African proverb I love: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” I can’t imagine anything I would rather do than work with others and create meaningful and impactful work together. My practice is motivated by providing vigorous learning experiences in the arts, and supporting the voices of disenfranchised and ignored cultures. My curatorial work focuses on similar issues that my art addresses: gender, race, social politics, identity, immigration, borders. It is important for me to look at how people are working with these ideas in ways that I have never seen before—not only so I can learn, but to engage with others as well.

Untitled artwork by Silvi Naci

T: How has being an artist engaged your political beliefs in this intensely divided climate?
SN: That can be a whole article in itself! When POTUS won, much like everyone else in our country, I was heartbroken—filled with anxiety and panic. My family and I had already read this book, about Albania—we know how it ends. But [having come] to the States for safety and a better life, we now thought, “Where do we go from here?” The day after the election, I deleted all of my social media accounts besides Instagram, and decided to only focus on art and education. That seemed like the only answer for me to continue living. I just turned back to art and working with people who want to have engaging dialogue instead of turning to hate.

T: Can you describe one of your favorite recent performances?
SN: An ongoing performance that is so dear to me is ONE: pairing myself with someone of another communist culture, past or present, with a similar traumatic history—we braid our hair together into one. Mother Nature intended us to be one people, but as contemporary Western practices promote individuality and uniqueness, we struggle to disconnect and pull apart from each other. Physically and mentally [it’s] a painful act, clear in our expressions. I have a long list of people/countries I want to represent in this work. I think in the end it will be a long video through which the viewer is traveling through the world, one braid at a time.

Silvi Naci
Dorchester, Massachusetts
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Top image: Still of Naçi from KURV (“whore” in Albanian). Photo courtesy of Silvi Naçi

The post #TakeAction: Curating with a Cause appeared first on Take Magazine.

Klausland: The Life and Work of Klaus Postler, by Eileen Claveloux with Meghan Piercy, tells the story of this relatively unknown New England collage artist through personal essays that depict a man full of joyful generosity and intense focus. Claveloux, Postler’s longtime partner and an artist in her own right, wrote the following tributes for the book.

On January 6, 2013, Klaus Postler died very suddenly in his studio in Conway, Massachusetts, at the age of 61.

An artist who worked diligently and devotedly throughout his life, he spent the last five and a half years in Holyoke, Massachusetts, with me. Before that Klaus had lived in New York City, and for many years before that he resided in Westmoreland, New Hampshire, and the Brattleboro, Vermont, area.

Klaus left many friends and family members who still cannot comprehend how such a powerful life force could have slipped away so quickly.

Klaus in his studio in Romania, summer of 2007. Photo courtesy of Small Batch Books.

Born in 1951 in Yonkers, New York, Klaus grew up in Fairfield, Connecticut, where the family moved when he was six. Fairfield was a relatively rural place in the 1950s and ’60s, and Klaus roamed free with his siblings and friends. That freedom and constant interaction with the natural world informed his artwork for the rest of his life. He was also a child of his time, exposed to a great deal of commercial images, both still and moving. Klaus was a vast repository of the most obscure jingles and sound bites imaginable, able to pull out appropriate and inappropriate bits at will for any and every occasion.

Although Klaus exhibited his work internationally, and kept Mail Art correspondences with people around the world, his work is not well known. This book is meant to introduce the life and work of Klaus Postler to a larger audience. It is also intended to bring together some of the work he left behind for those who loved and treasured Klaus and his art.

Untitled, mixed media, 18 × 24 in. Photo courtesy of Small Batch Books.

Klaus was a consummate artist. He constantly drew, scribbled, collaged, and wrote. He told me that he had to draw continually in school—it was the only way he could concentrate. He had ADHD with dyslexia, and drawing and making art focused him so that the hours flew by without his realizing it. When he died, he left almost 35 years’ worth of sketchbooks, filling a good-sized bookcase along with more in boxes. They span the ’70s to the end of his life in January 2013. The sketchbooks include everything—detailed accountings of his finances, dreams, life events, cut-out pieces from everywhere and anywhere that caught his attention. There are drawings, copies of drawings, collages, copies of collages, notes on exhibitions and art he’d seen, lists of galleries to apply to, letters and Mail Art from friends and strangers, receipts and musings. He also stored pieces he planned to use for Mail Art, often the covers to be glued onto large manilla envelopes. The books, all shapes and sizes, were also his way of organizing and filing things he might need, including addresses and phone numbers. They are not in a true chronological order; one might span a few years and have a kind of theme, finances, or dreams, but not necessarily exclusively. I’ve helped him try to find some important paper or phone number that was stored in a notebook, both of us going through decades of books to try to find the desired item. There was a kind of order to them, but not order in a way that most people would understand or be able to tolerate. Klaus’s books are a wonderful reflection of the alive and vividly imaginative brain that drove him.

Klaus was fun. Always. His artwork reflects his playfulness and exuberance. It also shows his remarkably sophisticated eye and sensibility. The artwork and sketchbooks remain to attest to his development as an artist and human being, and to his dedication to his work.

Pop, 2005, mixed media, 8.75 × 12 in. Photo courtesy of Small Batch Books.

Klaus Postler – artist
Holyoke, Massachusetts
Website 

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