2014 excavations: St. Louis

This installation was constructed in response to the suspension of time and artifact found in the St. Louis landscape. Decay, rehabilitation, piles of debris, cranes stopped in mid-air, a glass river, the freezing of a raindrop, flashlights in the night illuminating the jagged shadows of a concrete mountain, the arthritic skeleton of a tree riddled with the carcasses of leaves. Remains of an action, a life, a movement, stopped for an instant. Time suspended amidst the torrent of desctruction and reconstruction.

2014; site-specific installation, mixed media

Decay, rehabilitation, piles of debris, cranes stopped in mid-air, fragments scattered at hand

a glass river

the freezing of a raindrop

flashlights in the night illuminate sharp-toothed shadows

a concrete mountain, the arthritic skeleton of a tree riddled with the carcasses of leaves. Remains

of an action, a life, a movement, stopped for an instant.

Time

suspended amidst the torrent of desctruction and reconstruction.

2014 come as light / little plinth of sky

come as light / little plinth of sky

2014; site specific installation, oak chair, porcelain, hair, clamp light, natural materials

Standing on this cliff, the gray ocean spreads out before me. Virginia’s waves crashing on the rocks below, spray of salt on my stinging cheeks. I put my hand on the dead tree, gray as the sky, pick a white seashell rubbed smooth as paper, with a drawing etched done by the sea. My hair whips around and slaps me across the face, pulled by the same force pushing the tree inward. A gull cries out, and I turn back towards the warm light, glowing behind the window behind the curtain.

Installation in progress at the Kemper Museum in St, Louis MO

2013 once in a while/ i see my breath

2013; 6 channel sound projection, parchment paper, vellum, bark, hair, pigeon feather

once in a while/ i see my breath

2013; 6 channel sound projection, parchment paper, vellum, bark, hair, pigeon feather; dimensions variable (approx 10 x 20 ft - paper extends beyond threshold of room an additional 20 ft)

A long train of paper, extended out from the room. The stack slowly rose. Walking in winter I hear nothing

but the crunch of my feet

each puff of breath

creates a hazy gauze obscuring everything before. There is nothing out here except for the foreboding emptiness of static, each gap and tick of the clock articulated by tiny fenceposts jauntily emerging from the snow.

Leading somewhere into nowhere.

A dim figure, feather or flesh, appears and then disappears on the horizon, wind deep as bass notes rumbles through my chest cavity, made more aware of its own

hollow emptiness. A crow caws,

the black mark of charcoal on paper, and once again I see myself. My breath coming out and disappearing.

floating figure

2013 from inside this tree

2013; Blu-Ray projection, contact mic, field dirt, hair, oak table and chair, glass, milk

from inside this tree

2013; Blu-Ray projection, contact mic, field dirt, hair, oak table and chair, glass, milk

amplified table surface

2013 Moths drink the tears of sleeping birds.

2013; moss, glass, gold leaf, flashlight, graphite on paper, plastic bags, rubber bands, water

Sit (an ekphrastic poem)

Moths drink the tears of sleeping birds. (Rebecca Solnit)

2013; moss, glass, gold leaf, flashlight, graphite on paper, plastic bags, rubber bands, water

Sit (an ekphrastic poem) inspired by the writings of Rebecca Solnit

2013 just a rock

2013; HD projection, black and white photographs, 4' x 8' charcoal on drywall

How can one see a thing as something other than what it appears to be?

I come from a large family of rock lovers. My great grandfather was a rock hound, wading in cold cricks, picking up stones that would eventually be wrapped in silver as leather-strung bolos or belt buckles nestled into bulging bellies. Everyone has special rocks as children, tiny pebbles in tiny hands seem precious in our innocence, yet even in our adult lives, we cannot refuse their silent longing to be touched.

We gently pluck them from the loose gravel roads and soft black dirt. Squinting our eyes against the sun, we first wet them with our spit, cleaning the dust from their round bodies. These are collections of common rocks; the ones we might sweep from our homes or pick from gardens, the ones we pick from fields as hidden hazards for rusty tractors. We wash them with care, cupped in our hands, as we remove thick blankets of dirt to reveal their glistening skins. Then we proudly display them in windowsills as stacks or neat little rows, always still, always watching.

In my 27 years, I’ve never found two of the same rocks; each one looks and feels differently. There are endless and always surprising variations of colors, textures, lines, and weights. I pick up rocks while I walk, rub them as I think while pressing my skin into theirs until I can feel our warmth. To see them best is with closed eyes; slowly running your fingers across each face, each crevice and peak as you would a lover, mapping each surface and every curve all the while moving in tension with the other.

Each rock carries with it a story of its discovery, its beauty, and a hidden mystery recorded in the striations, cracks, smoothed surfaces, and rough edges. Fascinated by an opaque history we try to read the wrinkles of their palms, try to understand their lives. We find this undecipherable history so intoxicating, laced with a sense of time greater than ourselves that we can never understand. Their silence is their beauty.

Whitney Polich

just a rock

2013; HD projection, black and white photographs, 4' x 8' charcoal on drywall

How can one see a thing as something other than what it appears to be?

I come from a large family of rock lovers. My great grandfather was a rock hound, wading in cold cricks, picking up stones that would eventually be wrapped in silver as leather-strung bolos or belt buckles nestled into bulging bellies. Everyone has special rocks as children, tiny pebbles in tiny hands seem precious in our innocence, yet even in our adult lives, we cannot refuse their silent longing to be touched.

We gently pluck them from the loose gravel roads and soft black dirt. Squinting our eyes against the sun, we first wet them with our spit, cleaning the dust from their round bodies. These are collections of common rocks; the ones we might sweep from our homes or pick from gardens, the ones we pick from fields as hidden hazards for rusty tractors. We wash them with care, cupped in our hands, as we remove thick blankets of dirt to reveal their glistening skins. Then we proudly display them in windowsills as stacks or neat little rows, always still, always watching.

In my 27 years, I’ve never found two of the same rocks; each one looks and feels differently. There are endless and always surprising variations of colors, textures, lines, and weights. I pick up rocks while I walk, rub them as I think while pressing my skin into theirs until I can feel our warmth. To see them best is with closed eyes; slowly running your fingers across each face, each crevice and peak as you would a lover, mapping each surface and every curve all the while moving in tension with the other.

Each rock carries with it a story of its discovery, its beauty, and a hidden mystery recorded in the striations, cracks, smoothed surfaces, and rough edges. Fascinated by an opaque history we try to read the wrinkles of their palms, try to understand their lives. We find this undecipherable history so intoxicating, laced with a sense of time greater than ourselves that we can never understand. Their silence is their beauty.

Whitney Polich