Translation-Tessellation

Translation - the process of turning parts of yourself into the physical realm through art.
Tessellation- repetitions and the equations that add up to form our lives.

“ Life imitates art imitates life imitates art imitates... Presented in full focus in our second exhibition is the contribution of one’s ever-changing environment and continued personal discovery to their subsequent ‘voice’, both artistically and otherwise. Entitled Translation-Tessellation, this show aims not only to present works born of each VA’s completely unique experiences, but also to both highlight the oft-repeated processes so prevalent in the development of a personal practice and offer style comparisons resultant of personal affinities and life paths. One of the most pertinent perspectives a creative has to offer is their own, baring themselves in the ways they alone know best. This allows those close to [and not close to] them to enter an empathetic state that attempts to understand a life that they cannot and will not ever know. Regarding the conflict and chaos in Ukraine and the world right now, we hope that Translation-Tessellation also serves as inspiration for you to reflect on the lived experiences of those around you. As a cooperative people, this process of extrospection is how we ultimately begin to cooperate, heal, and grow through times of turmoil and uncertainty.”

- Denver Nuckolls

Curated by Denver Nuckolls, Lindsey Flickinger, Janella Mele

Featuring

Count The Time, 2022
Ink on paper
each 19 x 24 in (set of 18)
Yolanda Yang

This is a serial, repetitive painting practice, which I can start with a table, a lamp, paper, and a sharpie. Eighteen pieces livestream my 18 nights in a row. The discipline of these paintings is " only paint when I am very drowsy and dizzy “. Through these Automatic Drawings, I want to capture the images of my hallucination caused by the tiresome that is accumulated in the daytime. The Tessellation names my process, and Translation is drilled into every second when ink touches the paper's surface when the shape of nothingness starts moving.

"Events. Physical or immaterial forces. Moments and eras. Storms and QR codes."

Most thankful to Janella Mele. Her work inspired me, so I began to make this practice as small digital glimpses.

Transformare, 2022
Wire, spandex, paint
6 x 5 x 8 in
Yolanda Yang

Transformare, the name of this sculpture unveils this abstract riddle - trans (“across”, preposition) + formare (“form”), presents the configuration of translating 2d paintings Count the Time into 3D kinetic sculpture. Combining various forms, exploring bridging different dimensional work is my translation - tessellation in terms of the art practice. Echoing the shape of the stretched maroon fabric, Transformare imitates the how the individual is being distorted, adapted, and then finally transformed in the time of chaos to survive and thrive.

Thirty Six Days, 2021
Watercolor, gouache on paper
each 4 x 6 in (set of 36)
Joel Rabadan

detail: Thirty Six Days - Room

Left: 7.7.2020. TUES. 01:49, 2020
Watercolor on paper
4 x 6 in
Right: 09.09.2021. THURS. 12:03, 2021
Watercolor on paper
4 x 6 in
Joel Rabadan

This image file is an example of how most of these postcards have a message on the backside.

Mozart Street, 2018
Watercolor on embossed paper
each 20 x 17.5 in (set of 12)
Joel Rabadan

All of these works are a part of a series where I mapped my movements within a space. These spaces are often rooms I have inhabited in my life. They are visual translations of my movements and routines. Collectively, these paintings come together to document my emotional relationship to these physical spaces.

For example, in Mozart Street (Set of 12) all twelve paintings have the same shape embossed in the center, that shape is the layout of the room I had when I lived in an apartment in Jamaica Plain. They document 12 different days during the span of the Summer of 2017. They are affected by the activities of the day, repeated movements or interactions such as if I had visitors or how I spent my time alone.

soften your gaze and look sharp, 2019-21
Cape Town, South Africa (top left), 2019
Maputo, Mozambique (top right), 2019
Sacramento, California (bottom two), 2020, 2021
Photography
Katelyn Leaird

structure & chaos
human/ingenuity
love lies in-between

untitled, 2020
Charcoal and oil on canvas
32 x 24 in
Jon Feng

untitled, 2020
Acrylic, charcoal, and oil on canvas
32 x 24 in
Jon Feng

dreams and nightmares
security and loss
hope and dread

palimpsest [1], 2022
Denver Nuckolls

Written to explore ideas surrounding tension and release via looping landmarks within a slow-moving soundscape, palimpsest [1] develops parabolically through additive and subtractive sequences. This piece encourages the listener to acknowledge the two extremes of repetition: constants and changes. The former is introduced under the guise of a stationary drone, while the latter (functioning as formal catalysts) take the form of linked instrumental and ambient sounds. These individual levels stack as the large-scale form continues to reveal itself, creating a revolving chorus of changes-turned-constants that forms phasing relationships within itself. Accompanying the audio is a similarly structured film, providing a visual representation that follows the work’s over-arching trajectory.

Untitled, 2022
Micron pen on paper
12 x 14.5 in
Elisabeth Gerald

My recent drawings function as explorations of memory. My personal experiences become harder to recall in detail as they shift and change. This collection of marks with an undefined end is an attempt to reconcile what has slipped through with what remains. My hand guides my pen, working in tight circles of dots. As marks start to overlap and seep into each other they bridge the space between. If a record, an inconsistent and fluid one.

The Museum Visits Me

or I am haunted by the tension between want and repulsion

On a desk behind the Do Not Touch line

is a notecard scrawled in a dead art historian’s hand

A poem of sorts:

Suicide Is Not Love

And I Do Not Touch, but I

Do Posit

(isn’t death the highest form of love?)

Never much into classics I find myself

whispering Out OUT, damned spot!

As my fingers bend and bleed and I

picture my fist in your pink amethyst, toothed,

bitten.

This one’s had babies, a man-Visitor whispers to me in a conspiratorial tone, You Can Tell By Her Breasts.

Taste the difference! Exclaims the lesbian portrait

and through this sensual harassment I can.

I stoop for the human gesture of pulling up my sock

and try not to look at your ass as you walk by.

*

I found an apostrophe in the carpet, is it yours?
The Museum Visits Me, 2022
Leighah Scully

Untitled Hall Wall Monster, 2017
Sumi Ink on inkjet vellum scroll
6 x 2 ft
Janella Mele

This is my first Live Painting Performance using a ladder and coffee shop straw.

I Found My Voice Here, 2017
Sumi ink on inkjet vellum scroll installation
5 x 2 ft
Janella Mele

My first diptych expressionist experiment using Sumi Ink. Made during my experience in trauma group therapy.

installation view: I Found My Voice Here

Scutigera, the first 12 months of Covid, 2021
Block prints, black ink on white paper
each 4 x 6 in (set of 12)
Patrick Brennan

The overall theme of these prints is my experience with developing anxiety and depression during the covid era and the continuous feeling of declining mental health now despite the fact I've been able to see all my friends and family much more often, which I foolishly thought would make my internal problems vanish, or at least subside a bit.

I have abstracted these anxious and toxic thoughts into compositions using sharp spindly house centipede legs and bodies because after living in a basement apartment during covid I became very familiar with those creatures and although I am terrified of house centipedes I also feel a strange kinship with them. I wish to use these prints like a vessel or icon to contain those parts of me that are actively trying to subvert my mind and torture me. The process of carving these block prints was extremely cathartic because the satisfaction of violently slicing the block felt like it healed my own wounds as a result, like an inversion of the suffering cast on me.

Erratic Palpitations, 2022
Yarn, clay, acrylic paint, wood, plastic bag
10 x 24 x 12 in
Lindsey Flickinger

Two forms, the inside and the outside. On the left, the cube swirls with internal energy, powering the beating heart. On the right, the plastic is stretched to the cube frame, pulled thin like a skin. The two cubes fit, one inside the other like nesting matryoshka. By separating them, releasing the internal from its suffocating form, both sides are allowed to relax and expand. The self- imposed limitations and boundaries have been released to show the heart, the internal, in a much clearer light. The epidermic block is draped in a second skin, a crocheted blanket reflective of natural forms taken from the body. It is warm and comforting, but also dense and heavy. The crochet stitches build upon each other radially, a repetitive meditative act focusing on the body it is forming. The reds and yellows radiate pain, through the back, the breasts, the hands. It is almost too much for the heart to keep up with. The outside, for so long, has defined what can be expressed by the internal. But those days are ending. They are freeing themselves of each other, while still tied together.

︎︎︎

Pockets of Belief

Unlike other species, humans were not born with ingrained social orders. Every social system and network that exists today was created by our shared imagination. Myths are not limited to epic tales of Greek heroes thousands of years ago; they inform our everyday desires and shape our reality. The Chicago Boys believe in free market capitalism. Catholics believe that Jesus was the son of God. Dawn believes it will clean your dishes and your oil-laden seabirds better than other soap brands. "Pockets of Belief" calls into question the mythologies we interact with on a daily basis. What stories do we choose to believe? Can we write our own?

-Anna Reidister

Curated by Randy Aguilar, Anna Reidister, Carlene MacGoldrick, Isola Murry, Hannah Rus

By Sword We Seek Peace
Digital objects
Anna Reidister

I grew up under the dim fluorescent lighting and styrofoam-asbestos drop ceilings that is a Massachusetts public school, where each November little Anna was fed myth after myth of joyous and peaceful Thanksgiving celebrations. I remember the state flag flying proudly in front of the building, right across from the McDonalds which closed down due to a salmonella outbreak. It wasn't until recently that I took a closer look at the imagery on that flag. Adopted in 1780, it depicts a Native American holding a bow and arrow pointed downwards (signifying peace), a five pointed star, an Englishman’s arm brandishing a sword above the native man, and a blue ribbon bearing a Latin motto which loosely translates to “By the sword we seek peace, but peace only under liberty.” This reappropriated seal brings that white supremacist imagery to the forefront, with a full-bodied Miles Standish poised to strike.

self-fulfilling, 2021
oil on canvas
28 x 22 in

Jon Feng

footsie, 2022
acrylic, modeling paste, and oil on canvas
28 x 22 in

Jon Feng

These works grapple with how my beliefs about a situation can shape its outcome. The situation here relates to dating. In self-fulfilling, the person contemplates the absence of the one lying next to them. In footsie, two people are flirting, and one is having a much rougher time; this illustrates a fatalistic attitude towards deep connections.

Denver Nuckolls · 32922

Talking to Ghosts, 2022
Window Installation Accumulation no.1
Janella Mele

A self-reflexivity on the Funny Farm.

Dispelling Hallucinations, 2022
Sumi Ink on Canson and Rug
7 x 30 in
Janella Mele

An Expressionist tracking of medication changes.

The Hurdy-Gurdy Man

And can you hear the Hurdy-Gurdy play?
An old man’s singing on the road to town,
Where people lock their doors, and hide, and say:
“Just let him pass, don’t worry,” while they frown.
He sits down by the well: “Fortune my foe,”
He starts alone, “why dost thou frown on me ...”
Long months he sings: through harvests, roaring snow,
And muddy springs; neglected crops grow free,
And cattle roam; strong keeps through disrepair
Collapse. Old, rich, young, peasants, slaves ...
All mask their faces, shunning even air,
And see in one another walking graves.
The song is done. He smiles, looks around,
And wanders towards new worlds without a sound.

Andrew Tarantino Harrington

The Hurdy-Gurdy Man Artist Statement

In the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, while I was largely isolated from friends, family, and coworkers, I coped with a sudden sense of world-changing anxiety by turning to my poetry. This particular piece surfaced out of an impulse to draw comparisons between COVID-19 and the bubonic plague. I remembered having once heard about a medieval myth that if an old man playing a hurdy-gurdy (a fiddle-like instrument that replaces bowing with a mechanical motion) came to town, it was
an omen that plague and disaster would follow. Several frantic Google searches trying to confirm that such a myth had ever existed yielded only countless pages about Donovan’s 1968 single Hurdy-Gurdy Man, which, although it’s an enjoyable song, is at best, in a desperately stretched argument, only tangentially relatable to the myth.

Ghost Lights

Warm ghost lights never reach where you should look:
Dark wings, vast flies, deep pits beneath the stage,
Cold seats not sold in distant rows, raw rage,
A bloody prop-sword in a hidden nook.
You’d never think to look downstairs, beside
The men’s room, in the coat-check ... on this wall,
A sealed brick archway seems to tell it all:
Here was a tunnel once where someone died.
Look lower than the noisy street: you’ll find
A grand decaying little jewel ... now grave
Of haunting music only time could save,
But when it lived ... the only of its kind.
That portrait leering from the lobby stairs:
He wanders nightly after every show.
Say: “Goodnight Henry,” and he’ll let you go;
But you’ll still feel his ghastly grasp and glares.
There’s older things lost singing out of sight
In murky corners missed by warm ghost lights.

Andrew Tarantino Harrington

Ghost Lights artist statement

As a MA native and long-time resident of Greater Boston, my world has been shaped by the awareness that Boston is a city built as much with myth as it is with brick and cobblestone. Boston myths range from nationally adopted myths (various everently repeated versions of the Boston Tea Party, the revalence in film and television of the immediately recognizable but totally irreplicable Boston accent, and the widely proliferated stereotype that all Bostonians are Irish and related to one another) to the more local and unique myths that “Only a real Bostonian,” might now (the tragic fate of Charlie on the MTA, the pervasive smell of molasses on Hanover St. more than a century after the Great Molasses Flood, a curse placed on the Boston Red Sox after they traded their star player, the ghost of a British Red Coat patrolling the Boylston St. Green Line station ... to name only a few). What seems to lend credibility to many of Boston’s myths is the fact that they are often tied to tangible properties and recognizable landmarks, and so have a physical home that can be visited, and where they can be in some small way experienced

This particular piece came out of my experiences working as part of Boston’s theatre community, an industry saturated with old, historic theatre buildings, many of which carry their own stories and traditions surrounding hauntings and myths. Beneath the Cutler Majestic Theatre, for example, a foreboding sealed archway is the only remaining evidence of an abandoned secret tunnel, which allegedly once connected the theatre’s basement to the nearest subway stop. At the Huntington Avenue Theatre, a grim portrait of an actor playing the title role in Shakespeare’s infamously cursed Scottish Tragedy overlooks the main lobby; according to legend, that actor’s spirit can be seen after dark on the balcony, and staff attest that if you wish his portrait “Goodnight,” before leaving, you’ll prevent his spirit from walking that night. Deep below the Steinert&Sons piano seller on Boylston St. is the once famous but now abandoned underground theatre, Steinert Hall; perhaps because it remains largely unseen and inaccessible to the general public, Steinert Hall has become shrouded in mythic rhetoric, and has achieved an almost legendary status in the psyche of Boston’s theatre world.

Ruins HH, 2020
Digital
16 x 11 in
Alex Lewis

Queen of the Woods, 2021
Graphite on paper
10 x 12.5 in
Alex Lewis

At the central body of my practice is an on-going existential crisis, one that I explore through reflecting on the human condition, with primary emphasis on identity, death, and nature. The prevalence of nature’s impact on the human condition is a constant throughout the work. It is a swan song, a backdrop of repetition, with a notion of homecoming through points of departure or devouring. Traditional mediums are pushed in untraditional ways, while the digital medium is a playing field for experimentation in exploring the bounds of shape language. Works like Dangerous Drinking Water (2021) and Fresh Water (2021) use abandoned objects as a conversation for vulnerable and estranged populations, while pieces like Queen of the Woods (2021)and Ruins HH (2020) examine the constructs and vulnerabilities of mythos. In these works, viewers are invited to consider what it means to be human and how we justify the choices that we make.

Saint Anthony (Pocket Edition), 2017
Oil on Wood Block
2 x 3 in
Jon Ericksen

The Monument to Humankind, 2020
Concrete, Steel, Earthwork
20 ft x 20 ft x 7 ft
Patrick Brennan

One dream work I always wished to create was a monument to symbolically tell the story of the past, present, and future of the human race through the life of one person. The design work for this sculpture began late in the summer of 2019 and continued until the early spring of 2020. I began construction after the design work was completed, and after nearly a year’s worth of work, the finished statue was unveiled in July 2020.

The first concept piece was constructed in the Massachusetts College of Art and Design courtyard in the winter of 2019.

The second, larger version was constructed in Maynard, Massachusetts in the summer of 2020.
The central monolith is approximately 7 feet tall and made of reinforced concrete.

The three elements of the monument symbolize the three most important things that separate humans from animals. The monolith represents the creation of tools, the torch represents the mastery of fire, and the reliefs represent storytelling.

With 16 relief sculptures, the story of humankind is told symbolically through the life of one person, starting with birth and ending after death with legacy.

The Monument to Humankind (detail)

The first relief is about birth and the genesis of humankind. The idea of birth is reinforced through the symbols of the fruit-bearing tree and the vessel carrying passengers. The snake with the head of a skull and the body sunken under the water are allegories for the death that awaits us from the moment we are born and for the countless dead that allowed for our lives to exist.

The second relief is about play, the innocence of children, and their transition to adulthood through the loss of innocence. The dogs symbolize play and innocence, for unlike children, they never grow out of their eternal innocence. The transition from innocence to adulthood is symbolized by the fruit of the tree and the serpent, representing the apple of knowledge and temptation.

The third relief is about education and the teaching of youth. The owl of wisdom on the head of the child on the left side and the scroll opened by the child and the young man beside him symbolize the passing of knowledge. This piece also portrays the snake-headed teacher as the giver of knowledge, sitting in front of the tree of knowledge. The child holding the torch of knowledge on the bottom right is a symbol for the enlightenment brought about by education.

The fourth relief is about the travel and adventure of young adults when they leave their parents. It shows the perils of failure and potential for success: the snake leads the road to failure while the bird woman leads them to their destination, guided by the distant star. The path of their life is winding and has many setbacks, but they must try again when they fall astray.

The fifth relief is about the first attempt of a young adult to make a life for themselves after they adventure forth into the world. The struggles of making one's own livelihood and becoming fully independent are shown through the fishermen traveling out to the ocean and catching fish with a net and with a rod. The sea, as with all of nature, is unforgiving. Even though their catch seems to be bountiful, large waves summoned by the lady of the sea grow in the distance and could eventually capsize the boat and drown them.

The sixth relief is about the second attempt of a young adult to become self-sufficient. Unlike the first attempt, they ask for guidance from people wiser and more experienced to assist in their struggle, shown by the old man guiding the young man how to hunt deer with a bow and arrow. This piece symbolizes the importance of respecting the wisdom and experience of one's elders, despite their flaws. The flaw of this mentor is shown by the lion pouncing at his back, for no amount of experience can fully prepare one for the harshness of nature, symbolized by the flutist calling the beast to attack the hunters.

The seventh relief is about the first time a young person succeeds in finding their own path and creatively addresses the challenges the world presents them with. This is symbolized by the men working in a team to cut wood and prepare it for a fire, all parts of one group organized to achieve a goal. As the fire is created, a bird rises from it, symbolizing the birth of a new way of life.

The eighth relief is about a time of joy and plenty. This is symbolized by a great feast hosted by a fat and happy man holding a cornucopia and crowned with a torch on his head. Amongst the guests for this feast are the lady of the ocean, the bird born of the fire, and the lady of the woods. Food and drink are bountiful and so are the spirited conversations between guests.

The ninth relief is about a time of stagnation and helplessness. This time of uncertainty and vulnerability is symbolized by three people who find themselves trapped in a frozen wasteland on a cold, dark winter's night. With the assistance of the great winter giant and his large sledge, they will be transported to a more hospitable land. The giant is a symbol for luck, as no amount of determination and hard work could save them if it wasn't for him as well. The moon in this scene is part of a theme continued in the next three reliefs that will represent the transformation of marriage.

The tenth relief is about sex and fertility. This is symbolized using the sowing of a field with seeds by three young men. The first two throw the seeds across the field and the third throws them high into the air, to be carried by the wind to a young woman in the distance. The sun is shown just as it is rising within this scene and is a continuation of the theme shown by the moon in the previous relief.

The eleventh relief is about planning and care. This is symbolized by the man harvesting crops, the pregnant woman, and the mother bird tending to eggs in her nest. In this scene, the sun is shown at noon, high in the sky.

The twelfth relief is about suffering and persistence. This is symbolized through childbirth, shown by the mother holding two newborn twins and by the mother bird caring for her hatched chicks. In this scene the sun is shown setting as this chapter of life has come to its end and a new period of existence begins.

The thirteenth relief is about responsibility and wisdom. This is symbolized through the raising of two children and by the two fully grown birds perched on the branch of the tree on the left side. This scene depicts a ceremony being held by the father for his sons after reaching adulthood; both are given a necklace of jewels to celebrate this achievement.

The fourteenth relief is about loss and despair, shown through the death of one of the sons. The departure of his consciousness is symbolized through a boat traveling into the sea and also by the absence of one of the birds in the tree. His mother, father, and brother mourn him and the mother is about to place a cloth over his face.

The fifteenth relief is about death, cataclysm, and disaster. This is symbolized through the sun destroying all that it has created and marks the end of humanity. In this scene the father and mother are trying to run away from the blinding sun. The mother reaches her hand back to grab the hand of her last surviving son, but none of them survive the heat in the end. Across the right side of the scene, charred corpses litter the ground and the sad face of the sun is shown in the center of the scene with pity for humankind as they are annihilated.

The sixteenth and final relief is about our legacy and the future after humanity is gone. This is symbolized by the sun lighting the torch for the post-human races that follow us. These robed beings carry offerings for the torch and their heads are adorned with crowns symbolizing sentience. Just as during the birth of humankind, the serpent of death is always waiting for them from the moment they are born.