Gabriela Medeiros
Senior Thesis
Spring 2018
Mi Primera Muerte (My First Death)
“I want to be able to feel this way all the time. To be able to laugh about
the things that have happened to me, baggage and all, light and dark. To own
it handily enough so that it could be funny and horrifying at once. Maybe this is
the idea I’ve been looking for. Maybe this is something close.”
-Kayla Rae Whitaker, “The Animators.”
Six years ago in June, I woke from a dreamy slumber unable to move. It
was as if, overnight, somehow, the actual weight of the world came to rest on
my chest. After many failed attempts to sit up straight, I plopped off my bed
(which felt like a hundred-foot drop) onto the hardwood floor of my bedroom.
After a long day of MRIs and needles and a plethora of blonde women in
scrubs tying my hair up and adjusting my sheets, I was informed of the gravity
of the situation. Apparently, at the ripe old age of 16, I had suffered a minor
Ischemic stroke. Struggling to stay conscious, a few days later I had another
much larger, much more serious stroke. A month in the hospital, two weeks in
rehab, and a couple dozen medications later, I was expected to reenter the
world, a world that had changed so much and yet so little in this short span of
time. I had to learn a new language and discover a new way to communicate
with people who could not relate to my experiences. I needed to find a way to
talk about the things that happened to me in a way that made sense.
In the intervening years, I’ve found refuge in words and art: the things I
wanted to say but never knew how. The renowned painter, Frida Kahlo, once
said, “My painting carries within it the message of pain.” She was a woman who
knew a great deal about fragility and toughness, and the loneliness that
accompanies grieving who you used to be, knowing that you’ll forever be
changed. Through an exploration of media and technique, and drawing
inspiration from Frida Kahlo, Glenn Ligon, Antonio Gaudi, Sylvia Plath, Kathë
Kollowitz, and the medical world, I aim to create art that carries the weight and
the emotions I can no longer hold onto, and from my work, I trust that the
audience will walk away with a new understanding of the human condition.
When asked the question, “what did it feel like to have a stroke?” My
answer is simple: it feels like your limbs are slowly turning into sandbags; as if
there is a glitch in gravity and an otherworldly source is pulling you against
your will to the ground. This analogy sparked an idea in my beautifully broken
brain. The one image I can’t shake is the idea of sandbags. Upon researching
this somewhat random topic, I discovered that sandbags are more engaging
than I once thought. In preparation for a flood, people will often build wall-like
structures out of sandbags. The sand is so dense that it stops the water from
seeping through, similar to the way a blood clot can prevent blood from
properly circulating to your brain. Other uses for sandbags are in military
trenches and bunkers, shielding glass windows in war zones, and utilized as
backup protection for military tanks and vehicles. Sandbags are so cheap and
versatile, that they are used in many ways, but primarily for survival and
protection.
I recently dove into the world of sculpture, deciding that I needed to go
beyond my traditional printmaking practice and incorporate 3D materials. It is
important that the work created for my thesis exhibition exists in the world, not
just on paper. It needs to take up physical space and occur in reality. It needs
to be aggressive, but delicate at the same time. This is why I decided to create
a sandbag barricade. I am making each individual sandbag out of various
fabrics, which are then printed with a woodcut image, filled with sand, and
arranged in my space.
Originally, the plan was to make the sand bags out of burlap, as they
would traditionally be seen out in the world, but since the burlap is loosely
woven, the material wasn’t picking up ink the way I needed it to. The image
was printing in an engaging way, but it wasn’t right for this piece. I needed a
solid black and white image. So I decided to expand my options and take a
look at some other materials. I walked through the aisles in the fabric stores
waiting for inspiration to strike. I had no idea what I was looking for and
decided to go with whichever material spoke me. I gathered a few swatches
and did some test prints before deciding on two fabrics. One is a mauve
crushed velvet. The other, a light blue patterned cotton. I was drawn to the
velvet because for me, it represents femininity, vulnerability, and adds a
dreamy quality to the piece. Velvet is delicate; it is soft to the touch and
familiar, unlike the blue cotton material, which has a pattern reminiscent of a
hospital gown. At first glance it looks inviting, but upon closer inspection, you
will notice an ambiguous plant repeated in an unwelcoming, grid-like pattern.
The material is firm and uncomfortable. Once filled with sand, these inanimate
pieces of cloth take on a new life, or lack thereof, mimicking the stiff cold body
of a corpse.
The famous Spanish Architect, Antonio Gaudí, approaches sandbags in
a different way. The intended purpose of his sandbag art was for architectural
design. His work wasn’t focused on the sand, but inspired by it. Pablo Alvarez
Funes, a practicing architect and lecturer in Madrid, writes on
sacredarchitecture.org, that Gaudí built his structure of ropes and sandbags to
create an inverted profile of La Sagrada Familia. Alvarez Funes states,
“With these models he determined the inclination of the supporting
tree-columns and optimized structural behavior to transmit loads to its
core. In this way elements work in compression and bent elements are
minimized. This also brings down loads to major interior pillars and not
to perimeter buttresses.”
The model he created is beautiful in and of itself. It shows structure and
support. It also allows Gaudí to calculate and build the most organically
shaped framework. This structure metaphorically bears the weight of religion,
and it literally bears weight.
Another artist whose art is literally and metaphorically heavy is American
conceptual artist Glenn Ligon. Ligon experiments with many techniques such
as painting, printmaking, photography, and installation art. Focusing on
identity and featuring appropriated text, Ligon states: "I consider all the work
I've done self-portraits filtered through other people's texts." Ligon tackles
issues such as race, gender, sex, and citizenship. He brings American history to
the present by “recontextualiz[ing] culturally loaded materials.” (Rothfuss &
Carpenter, P.352). According to Rothfuss and Carpenter, “he seems to remind
us, something as complex as a human being cannot be captured in mere
words.” Ligon collaborated with Korean-American artist Byron Kim, to create
the 1993 piece titled “Rumble Young Man, Rumble.” It is a standard issue
punching bag, which features an excerpt from a Muhammad Ali speech
stenciled on its side. This piece is designed to stimulate the viewer’s senses by
requiring circling the bag in order to read the text. In doing so, the viewer
almost mimics the movement of a boxer dancing around the ring. Ligon puts
the audience in the shoes of his subject in a subtle, yet powerful way. In a
similar manner, I aim to place my audience in my shoes, engulfed by the
weight of the world and surrounded by fragile and scattered non-linear
memories. The viewer must walk around my piece as though in a maze to
experience it, and upon closer inspection, will notice that each sandbag is
printed with a hand-carved woodblock with imagery hinting towards a medical
emergency. Combining tangible photographs and journal entries from the
time, with intangible feelings, memories, and emotions, I produce hauntingly
intimate images and compositions.
The only way I can even begin to describe the affection I feel towards
relief printing is in the words of German Printmaker, Kathë Kollowitz. On page
98 of Kollowitz’s book, “The Diary and Letters of Kathë Kollowitz,” the artist
writes: “Expression is all that I want, and therefore I told myself that the simple
line of the lithograph was best suited to my purposes. But the results of my
work, […] never have satisfied me.” In a similar manner, I assumed that my
passion for drawing would best be translated into lithographic prints. I was
drawn to that process because it seemed limitless. Through lithography, the
artist is open to a wider range of mark making tools, and an entire grey scale,
whereas in relief printing, there are only solid colors and a limited number of
marks you can make. Much like Kollowitz, however, I too was less than satisfied
with the quality of my work. This is then when I turned to relief. “Since I have
been doing woodcuts I find the technique full of temptation.” (Kollowitz, p.
104). I find that through this process, I am able to be more expressive than I
imagined, and my imagery becomes playful, minimalistic, and eye-catching,
while still portraying a sense of darkness and humor.
When showing my work to my peers, the unfilled bags often get
mistaken for pillowcases, which makes me think; how do I want my audience to
react to my art? Am I comfortable with people assuming that my creation is soft
and fluffy as opposed to cold and hard? I sat down and thought of all the
qualities of pillows. I made a word web starting at pillow, which branched
outward to soft, delicate, comforting, and familiar. One word, however, stood
out among the rest; intimate. Sharing a pillow with someone is an inherently
intimate experience. There is a certain bond you have to share with a person in
order to be comfortable lying next to them and bringing them into your space.
I am curating my experience in the most intimate way I can. By making it light
and welcoming on the outside, but harsh and heavy on the inside, I am
masking my darkness in velvet and cotton. There is something I find very
interesting about the idea of someone resting their head on one of these
“pillows” and being completely startled when it turns out that it isn’t what it
appears to be. When a person falls ill, particularly with many chronic illnesses,
the symptoms tend to be invisible to outsiders. Unless the person has a visible
disability, they are suffering in silence. On the outside, they may appear to be
highly functioning, but are forced to adapt to a new sense of “normal” in the
face of both physical and emotional trauma.
Frida Kahlo spent most of her life in a great deal of pain. She contracted
polio at a young age and was later involved in a trolley accident that left her
permanently disabled and prone to a life of surgery and illness. She began
painting after the accident. Since Kahlo was bedridden in a plaster body cast,
followed by a succession of plaster corsets, her photographer-father set up a
mirror and easel in his daughter’s bed allowing her to begin her career as a
self-portrait painter. Her work showcases a mixture of darkness and wit when
creating works about her experiences. Christina Burrus states on page 11 of
her book “Frida Kahlo: painting her own reality,” that, “Frida would always be
haunted by death and violence but remained strongly attached to life.” This
attachment and will to survive is the driving force that launched her career.
Like most artists, Glenn Ligon, Antonio Gaudí, Frida Kahlo and Kathë
Kollowitz have recurring themes in their works. Glenn Ligon often references
the struggle of grappling with one’s own identity. He uses appropriated text
and found objects to do so. Gaudí creates whimsical, fantastical buildings
drawing inspiration from nature. His vivid colors and unique textures are what
draw the viewer in, but his minimal use of harsh edges and sharp corners are
what really makes them think. Frida Kahlo regularly speaks about the
relationship we, as humans, have with life and death. She allows herself to be
vulnerable yet tough by painting a number of self-portraits in which she is
making direct eye contact with the audience during a time of intense suffering.
She curates scenes in her fantasy world composed of dark, sometimes-gory
images, industrial mechanics, Mexican culture, and of course, her famous
unibrow. Kollowitz, on the other hand, deals with death in a more absolute way
than Kahlo. Kollowitz focuses her work on soldiers and memorials, sometimes
gravestones. Her views on death aren’t as optimistic as Kahlo, but they carry a
sense of respect and sorrow. Her woodcut prints are strikingly graphic and
intensely emotional.
Sylvia Plath once wrote, “I wanted each and every one of them, but
choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide,
the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the
ground at my feet.” Here, she is expressing her feelings of distress. She is so
caught up in her anxiety, which stems from deeply embedded trauma that she
is struggling to rationally exist in reality. This excerpt from “The Bell Jar,” has
really resonated with me since I first read it in 2016. In life, as we all probably
know by now, unexpected events happen. Sometimes, these occurrences are
serendipitous, but the ones that tend to stick with us are the traumatic ones. A
common misconception about trauma is that it is caused by one major event.
In actuality, trauma can be defined as a compiled result of a series of negative
events mixed with underdeveloped coping skills.
Some events that may just roll off the backs of certain people can deeply
affect others, sending them into a state of emotional shock. This shock can lead
the affected person to develop triggers and disabilities. The most important
thing when dealing with trauma is simply how we deal with it. We are forced to
adapt to a new way of life and keep moving forward, or die. The journey that
traumatized people go through is inherently a search for completion. They are
looking for the missing parts of themselves, while still remaining guarded and
insecure. The work I have created for this show is the embodiment of my own
trauma. In making this piece, I am in a sense purging my past. I want to show
people what trauma looks like, what it feels like. I want to show them that being
vulnerable is the greatest weapon you can bring into battle when fighting for
your sanity, and fighting for your life.
Works Cited:
-Burrus, Christina. “Frida Kahlo: painting her own reality.” Abrams, 2008.
-Williams, Carla. “Ligon, Glenn.” www.glbtq.com, Glbtq, inc., 2015.
-Avlarez Funes, Pablo. “Barcelona Catechism.”
www.sacredarchitecture.org, Sacred Architecture Journal, 2011. Vol. 19.
-Rothfuss, Joan, and Carpenter, Elizabeth. “Bits & Pieces Put Together to
Present a Semblance of a Whole- Glenn Ligon” MoMa.Org, Walker Art
Center, 2005.
- Kollwitz, Kathë. “The diary and letters of Kathë Kollwitz.” Northwestern
University Press, 1988.
-Plath, Sylvia. “The Bell Jar.” New York: Harper & Row, 1971. Print.