“Liminal” is the word that best sums up the work of Ewelina Bochenska. Neither strictly painting nor fiber work nor sculpture, her objects encompass elements of all three. They are intimately sized, wrapped with yarn, painted, layered with wooden objects or leather or lace, and painted again. The range of textures and breadth of palette imbues each work with unique, almost undefinable, energy which Ewalina herself describes as an “alien substance” with “otherworldly” characteristics.

Similar qualities are to be found in the artist herself – a globetrotter who draws influence from sources as diverse as folk art and music from her native Poland, to the indigenous Aymara people of the Andes highlands of Bolivia, Peru, and Chile. As Ewelina describes it, for these people “time flows backwards, front to back,” and in her own work the artist often moves between as many as 10 projects at once, listening for them to invite more work or demand to be left alone. She seems to thrill in occupying these thresholds of time and material, acting as the sorcerer for her “alchemical” objects: “I manage to freeze a moment of awkwardness of materials and color and shape and that maybe is when the work is ready – until I break it up again.” She intermittently pauses, listens, adding a new layer, perhaps, to an older piece, playing with their sense of time in creation. She even calls them “artifacts from the future” (artifact, she said, is one of her favorite words).

On the day that I visited Ewelina at M. David Studios in Brooklyn, she was preparing for a group exhibition to be titled “A Montage of Heck” (it was on view from October 12 to November 4th). Little canvases and paper works that she had recently brought from Poland were strewn around the floor, and as we talked about them and her process she began to lift them, one by one. I was surprised to see that the artworks were crafted all the way through – by which I mean that not only do they involve layers on top of the substrate, but that the base material (be it canvas or found thrift shop picture frame) is often covered on its sides and even back. She talked about the looping of yarn and the carving of wooden bits hidden beneath layers of paint – visible only in faint relief when you look closely – and manipulated her work to show me examples of these multitudinous processes. With every new piece handled the works became more sensual and bodily – I was entrapped in Ewelina’s hourglass, my own experience of her work seeming to slow down the pace of the outside world and transport us both away from the noise of neighboring gallery spaces. She continued to turn the objects over – revealing some with secret undersides: lace, embroidery, weaving, a bold signature. “I always want the work to surprise me,” she said, recognizing her process of reworking as well as the experience of others who discover the surprise side to the work, “but it can be subtle, like a whisper.”

She let me handle the objects as well, and I was shocked at their heft. Though some of them were no larger than a sheet of paper, their intricate layering gave them unexpected weight. I found myself holding one work close to my chest, cradling it almost as one would an infant. As I looked around at the abstracted forms – some resembling landscapes, others with sensual curvature that actually seemed bodily – I again thought of their ethereal liminality. Meanwhile, Ewelina talked about color: “The way I experience color – the way I paint – I kind of hear the color or the quality of the material, I kind of feel it, rather than through my other senses, rather than through just sight. So in a sense the color and the texture and all, they become, for me, another dimension.”

This synesthesia was something that I experienced when I first encountered Ewelina’s work at the New York Studio School alumni exhibition this summer, “X Marks the Spot.” Her contribution to this all-female show – a small painting of bright pinks and blues over a maroon carpet, bordered by yellow woven yarn – exemplifies the warm intimacy of Ewelina’s work. The red background implied heat, and the near-neon colored paint strokes drew the eye in a circular motion. I almost felt as though I were watching the Northern Lights from a comfortable old chair, forgetting the white walls of the gallery space in Manhattan.

When I asked about the development of her work, and where she might be going next, she talked about her history: first studying business, living in Ireland and then London, and eventually satisfying her lifelong fascination with art by pursuing a career as an artist. She stressed the word courage – a trait which not only comes through biographically, but also in her  uninhibited play with materials. She said that she has found herself in a moment of transition, and was thinking of heading somewhere in South America for rest and a new spark of inspiration. “I am using the energy of change to catapult myself.”

The post Otherworldly Objects: Ewelina Bochenska discusses her work with Natalie Sandstrom appeared first on artcritical.

ZACH VAN HORN
I know your background is more based in Design before studying at PAFA. Could you talk about some of the differences and similarities (if any) between studying design and studying fine art?

BEN GRZENIA
In design, I was built into the idea that I could not hold my work as something sacred. I had a professor in my undergrad that would tear people’s work apart without giving us a reason, and we had to respond to it with new approaches and ideas. It was harsh, but when we followed through with another approach, it often ended up as a better result. I had to expect changes from the customer and work around their expectations. The practice helped me with criticism and allowed me to take everyone’s feedback into consideration. It is so easy so convince ourselves that we made something great, when in reality it can always be something so much better. The opportunity to make something better will always be there, so why not attempt to take in what others are seeing?

Entering graduate school as a designer was both a blessing and a burden. The problem was that my history in design kept me under the impression that I was making work for someone else. I wasn’t sure what I should create and why it should be created.

What I knew was that I wanted to get my hands dirty. I was excited to break away from the cleanliness of my graphic design past. I lived in the print shop and dove into various techniques until I felt confident enough to make something that was beyond a print experiment.

Printmaking seems like a logical transition stage from design to fine art. Could you elaborate more on what printmaking has given you to become a better artist?

Printmaking made me realize that I enjoy the process just as much as the result. When I had my first successful edition of screen prints, I was ecstatic. It took an ample amount of work to get there. I had to research all of the elements in screen printing before I could get to that moment. It was certainly difficult since I had to work within a timeframe to have something to show my critics. It turned out that I was enjoying each part of the process. The steps were all different but equally important in order to get the print completed successfully.

That said, there was so much failure happening. I was also cursing to myself and crying often. The joy and struggle in learning printmaking was reminding me of a part of my life closer to home. I had moved from Wisconsin, where I have close ties with my family. A hunting family. My dad had taught me everything about hunting, a process-heavy lifestyle that needs to be done carefully and thoughtfully in order to have a result that is successful. It takes a lot of patience, practice, and a lot of passion. When I realized that having a process that made me feel parallel to another process closer to family gave me comfort; I was able to start making works that reminded me of home when I was far away.

The potential pain of failure is definitely a strong reason to why someone might not try something new or push themselves but it seems invaluable to have failure, especially as an artist. I was wondering if you could talk about some of your biggest failures and what lessons you learned from them, if any?

I was learning about pouring heavy amounts of acrylic and water-based binders on one of my larger wood panels. I should add that I previously often used a safe route of making sketches in photoshop to have an idea of what I wanted to paint, but this was going to be a test of impulse. I had bought a $200 gallon of paint and wanted to try to cover the entire panel. I made a few calls to the company I bought it from asking how much of the paint I should use. They suggested using the whole thing. After the call I got confident and poured the entire gallon on to the surface. Terrible idea. My adrenaline was in full force. I was sweating like crazy trying to get the entire panel’s surface even. It turned out that the panel was slightly warped, so the paint started to pool in certain areas. As I tried evening it out paint would drip off of the sides and onto the floor. It took me way too long to sweep that up, and when I swept it some of the dust particles landed on the wet surface. Many delightful swear words followed. I eventually got to a point where I was somewhat okay with the surface and let it dry overnight. Once I felt calm enough to walk back in to check on it, I opened the door to my studio and it looked puke-worthy. There were cracks in the paint, the pooling still managed to happen, dust particles everywhere. I was looking at $200 drain down the gutter in front of my eyes. Adrenaline in full force once again, I had to destroy it. I started ripping paint off of the panel like a bear fighting a locked fridge full of candied bacon.

That moment was one of my greatest accomplishments. I was finding lovely textures and colors that were showing from hidden layers in the ripped painting. I discovered beauty hidden in destruction. It allowed me to accept moments that can’t be controlled. This brought me back to thinking about home. My father has been struggling with COPD, a lung disease that limits what he can do physically as time passes on. It has been a challenge to cope with, but its a situation that has allowed us to further appreciate the memories that we spend with one another. What I originally thought was an expensive punishment became a new aspect of my familial narrative and the memories they contain. My work is heavily inspired by shared moments.

Was coming to Philadelphia for Grad school your first time being far away from your family for an extended period of time?

It sure was. It’s similar to walking away from a painting to understand it more. The distance helped me realize that living in the realms of graphic design and the great outdoors felt like turning a switch on and off between different worlds. It was too separate. Going to graduate school allowed me explore the range between the two, and to find ways to blend them together. I was able to discover artists that danced with a spectrum of ideas in their work, such as Alex Dodge, Jacques Villeglé and Didier William (can I call out my own professor?). The distance also helped me realize my individuality and upbringing in nature. I appreciate it so much more now. I am currently traveling in the middle of nowhere in Canada, but they’ve recently installed satellite internet in the cabin. This place used to be off the grid and allowed visitors to immerse themselves into the outdoors. Now everyone is checking their emails every morning. Going off the grid should be the next big trend.

It sounds like your art practice is a form of therapy for you. Would you agree? It’s a common critique of art that practicing art is narcissistic in the face of climate change and the current political climate. I struggle with this in my own practice and I was wondering if you do as well?

I often see my studio practice as therapy, no doubt. The process of creating and displaying my personal work has helped me form an output for my anxiety and hankerings. I think it’s okay to be moderately selfish in your studio in order to communicate ideas and locate those who share passion about the work that you create. Selfish but genuine. There is a complex web of similarities and differences among us. Anything we create becomes political. I would be lying to you if I said that I loved everything I saw in a museum. I tell my friends and family that it’s really okay to not like a lot of work in a museum. I am just glad they are there to discover what they do like. It is personal treasure hunt in a way, right?

And yes! I struggle with the macro/micro dilemma all of the time. One moment I’m dancing and giddy about where my next piece is going, and the next I’m grabbing my hair desperately asking “What am I saying?” The beautiful part is that we get to ask; to react and make discoveries. My work often comes to a point that is out of my control and the best reaction is to just accept it. The work needs to speak for itself, to further define me and my actions. I still have a hard time coming to terms with that. I will spend the rest of my life art making. It has helped me deal with the inevitable struggles that revolve in and outside of the studio.

What are some of your next goals/desires/plans in your studio?

I was very lucky to have resources at PAFA to make meaningful pieces. My next goal is to start my own print shop! It will include processes I enjoy and also new ones to explore. I would like to sink my teeth into risography: a revived-retro process that produces copies from a stencil that is a blend of screen printing and photocopying. I am excited to collaborate with my wonderful partner, Diana Chu, on self-published books, zines, prints, and paintings together and have multiple outputs for our ideas. We really want to reach out to the community and get others involved that have similar passions. I’m confident we’ll be able to reach out, it will just take time. Patience is key.

The post Hunting: Ben Grzenia in Conversation with Zach Van Horn appeared first on artcritical.

BEN GRZENIA
Looking closely at your work, I can see that you are cutting and collaging your own paintings. I am curious if you have something to say about the purposeful dislocation of the paintings you create?

ZACH VAN HORN
Initially I was interested in this dislocation because of my interest in digital glitches. I stumbled into this because of my interest in the way technology distorts information. I did some minor forced glitches on my own to see how and why they happen and I found that they occur when there is a mistranslation in the code. Computers assume the code is always correct and they will generate whatever the file is telling them to generate.

The process of cutting and collaging (though I prefer to use mosaic over collage) was a result of me wanting to bring that glitch element into painting. Though the glitch was an influential step getting to this point, I find that the end result, though still referencing technology, becomes something else.

Mistranslating digital images requires going into the image’s code, or memory. Would you say there is a ‘code’ in your painting?

There is definitely a code in my work and I would say that that code is the process. I follow the process like a set of rules. I do change it up from piece to piece though. These changes could be switching steps, omitting steps, addings steps, or something as simple as changing the color palette. I’m always amazed by how just a simple change can dramatically alter the outcome.

By altering the process it allows me to learn more about the medium. Every change doesn’t always reveal successful results but that’s valuable information nonetheless.

In some ways, you are mistranslating your own memories within painting, correct?

Oh yeah. One of the best thoughts to chew on I’ve received has been to think about how I am coded. I would say that the mosaic layer and the other layers in the paintings together build up a cocktail of memories, present information intake, and imagination. I don’t think I’m deliberately mistranslating my own memories but I’m trying to show how, when compiled with everything else being processed, my memories can be mistranslated or altered.

What information has your exploration in video and music given you towards your practice?

Both video and music have given me a much stronger understanding of how layering works that I don’t think I would have ever gotten to by just painting. I was originally taught to paint very fast. In undergrad, we would do upwards to 10 paintings a week with time limits on the paintings. It was ingrained in me early that that was how to paint. We also never went back to work more on these paintings. They were always one sitting and that’s it.

The interesting thing about the layering in video and music is you can do dramatic things with little consequence. You can apply endless filters and effects on the layers while still keeping the original video, image, or sound intact. This helps reduce my anxiety towards failure a bit and allows me to be more creative.

I think music has helped me the most to understand layering. The key to producing a great song, for me, is to really have a strong balance between the entire sound spectrum while having each individual sound be hearable. You obtain this by using equalization tools to help allocate sound frequencies. The layering in my paintings are the instruments and when I go into a painting and sand off the top layers, I’m creating that balance between the frequencies in the painting. It then becomes successful when it all seems like it’s producing some new things beyond the original layers.

It seems like the ability to make dramatic gestures in the two previously mentioned mediums have allowed you to be more courageous in painting. What would you say was one of the biggest creative leaps you’ve taken?

I’ve had a couple creative leaps in my work but I would say the most recent has been sanding my paintings. I build up all these layers and for awhile I was satisfied with how that would look but everything felt so stiff. The paintings were too built up and they needed to be destroyed in some way. Around this time I was also looking more intently at Mark Bradford’s work and it all just kinda clicked for me.

The hardest part of sanding was being courageous enough to let it happen. I remember after doing it for the first time, I needed to sit with the painting for a while to figure out what I just did. I think I sat with that piece everyday for two or three weeks. There were days I liked it and there were days I didn’t but I knew that it’s what the work needed so really those two to three weeks was the time needed to get out of my own way so that I could listen to what the painting needs.

Do you have any expectations for the viewer when they are looking at your work? Has the audience made an impact on your work?

That’s a great question. If I said that I don’t think about the audience then that would be a great lie because of course I do to some extent. I definitely think about the audience’s engagement with art with the rise of .jpeg images and instagram and whatnot. It’s because of that that my work aims to be visually complex to pull the viewer away from just looking at their phone.

As for expectations, I hope that my work gives enough, but not too much, information so that the viewer can think through the piece on their own. I love to use the metaphor of my paintings as children. Once I give birth and nurture them, the paintings must then go off on their own to become individuals within society. Sometimes letting them go is very painful but I know it’s the only way they will grow. Part of this growth is that they can speak for themselves. They no longer need me to hold their hand and speak for them. If the work isn’t speaking for itself then it’s back to the studio where, hopefully, I can get them to a point when they can.

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