The Commentary - Issue Two
Editors Note: Meet the Writers
by Heather Hershberger
Dear Readers,
I hope that Issue One sparked joy and hope for the future in the artistic communities of Pittsburgh. This issue, I’d like to formally introduce our writers and our program. These ten artists have been developing their skills on and off the page for some time now. Multifaceted and energetic our writers are counselors, students, artists, professionals, community builders, mothers, and so much more.
Vania Evangelique, formerly known as Zeal Eva, works within the visual realms of painting, photography, and curation. Being a visual storyteller her work is deeply rooted in personal history and is heavily influenced by the communities in which she navigates. Her practice, in its rawest form, focuses its foundation on the idea of looking away to look back. She creates works that move her towards the future, while also stepping outside of the present, and in so doing, being able to create and draw parallels from her past that tell of a more dynamic and vulnerable story. She looks beyond the mere creation of art and centers her work on the personhood of it, which is often found in the mundane, transitional, and sometimes stretching processes of life. In her pieces, she utilizes themes of nostalgia, longing, and the complicated realities of comfort, all while exploring the intersections of the natural world and the built environments. Through layered processes and integrated mediums, she anchors herself to the present, in this way, allowing her to draw from the imagined, to reality and back again.
Elizabeth Dawn is a published memoir artist here in Pittsburgh. In her personal artistry, she records, edits, and manipulates video to express her poetry visually. She shares these videos to Instagram and a few are linked to via my website -- memoirtistry.com. Currently writing her second memoir, she writes regularly about her artistic process and also has a podcast where she verbalizes her process in a stream-of-consciousness format.
Lauren M Salopek is new to Pittsburgh and professional artmaking. Her work has been shown here at Wick Monet and also at Redfishbowl Gallery. She has been a lover and observer of art from the time she was a child, and now that she’s become a creator herself, she’s begun to deepen my exploration of art in the new city of Pittsburgh beyond our wonderful well-known museums, and into smaller galleries. An art commentator since college, Lauren’s fresh perspective on local arts and galleries is enlightening.
DÏ is a 24-year-old artist, currently based out of Pittsburgh, PA. DÏ's artistic work explores the relationships between theological, psychological, and philosophical concepts, laden with cross-references and connections to pop culture, history, and the artist's own psyche. DÏ has been creating work seriously since 2018 and has also been featured in shows/galleries across the US, including Pittsburgh, Akron, New York City, and Connecticut. In addition to mixed-media painting, DÏ also has an exhaustive output of photography, poetry, graphic design, music, and fashion. Collectors of DÏ's art exist all over the world, from California to Finland, and include professional athletes, actors, musicians, and private companies. DÏ's recent venture into art criticism is guided by the quest to better their own approach towards art, as well as to explore how the collective unconscious pops up in different creative endeavors around Pittsburgh. In addition to being an artist, DÏ is a mental health counselor and volunteer firefighter.
Pria Dahiya has been a passionate participant in the Pittsburgh arts scene for the past five years. She loves the arts community because of its willingness to support one another. She loves the ability of art to connect people from across the city and across disciplines, and seeing familiar faces as she goes to different events. She is an alumnus of Kelly Strayhorn’s Freshworks Residency. Pria, when not working on her own art (check out New Product Company Theater), attends a huge number of dance, performance art, and theatrical performances year-round, from traditional work at the City Theatre to avant-garde, boundary-pushing work happening at raves, discos, and basements all over town.
Spencer Byham-Carson is a Pittsburgh-based Theatre artist and writer with over half a decade of experience in the educational and professional arts. His work breaches a range of concepts, from exploration of gendered politics to 20th and 21st-century absurdist writing. He is fascinated by how binaries fail to capture the complexities of modern life and investigate how they can be revealed within a post-internet culture. His latest project exploring this topic was the opening of New Product Company’s My First Play.
Layne Shaffer is currently a senior at the University of Pittsburgh. Along with her work through the University, for example, working as a student co-curator of the Andrey Avinoff exhibit at the University Art Gallery, Layne has worked with both Shiftworks and the Associated Artists of Pittsburgh (you may recognize her from the Instagram video series Changing Laynes). Through this work, Layne has realized that her passion for art history lies in research and creative art historical writing on modern and contemporary art. She deeply values the ways that public art folds into everyday life and can connect people to the city they live in through art.
Mercedes Perez-Shillington is an Art History/ Studio Arts student at Pitt. She is pursuing a career in art conservation and is currently working as an intern at CMNH/CMOA with their conservation departments. She considers herself an artist and has a fondness for painting, but also for more "craft" based art like fiber and paper. Art is very therapeutic and the pieces that she creates and am most moved by are usually ones that explore tangible memory.
Shawna Carter has been a creative writer, specifically a poet, for as long as she can remember., and most of her experience in the artist community stems from this gift. Prior to the pandemic, she collaborated with the late Natiq Jalil and was mentored by his wife Crystal to facilitate a monthly spoken word session at RedFishBowl Studios called Lyrics and Libations. In addition, Shawna has worked with the Artist Talks Mental Health cohort and the Therapeutic Spaces cohort.
Renee Catherine Dubaich is an aspiring cultural anthropologist and journalist. She strives to continue learning about and investing her work in the local Pittsburgh art community while developing critical skills in writing, filmmaking, and community collaboration. Writing for The Commentary has allowed her to continue her investment in the arts and bridge the gap between academic dialogue and community engagement within her work.
Here at Wick Monet, my job is to ensure that these writers, already enthusiastic about uplifting communities, have the space and support to make Pittsburgh more sustainable for the arts. And like our writers, Neil and I are curious. We see inefficiencies, we discuss them, and own the burden of doing what we can about them. This program, The Art Commentary Program or ACP is how we are addressing the lack of conversation taking place about the art(ist)s.
Over six months, our writers participate in dynamic workshops, volunteer around the city, and host public art events. Their professional development is important to us but we emphasize access to opportunity and shameless companionship.
If you’re an artist, this is our effort to make you feel heard. These dedicated writers want to bring eyes, ears, and feet to your work. The context. Your humanity. Your journey.
The Art Terminal:
The Pittsburgh International Airport
by Mercedes Perez-Shillington
Nowadays, the suggestion while traveling is to always arrive at the airport approximately two hours before your flight to leave plenty of time for the (most likely) traffic on the way to the airport and the (always) overflowing TSA line. Regardless of your planning, you likely have had the shared human experience of wandering around the airport terminals… waiting… waiting… waiting. Airports have learned to capitalize on the overwhelming boredom and impatience, so the airport lap for the Auntie Anne's pretzels and Dunkin coffee combo was born.
Recently, I was doing my own lap as I planned for the worst-case scenario, and was at the Pittsburgh Airport with too much time to spare. I stopped one of the custodians wiping down some seats in terminal C to ask about a rumor I had heard involving a certain robot repair installation. He was kind enough to direct me to Terminal A where I came across (as promised) Fraley’s Robot Repair. Four large windows let you look into the cluttered room of a mechanic in the middle of several robot repair projects. A giant deconstructed robot arm is propped up in the middle of the room, wires hanging out and tools scattered across the work surfaces. Every surface is covered in retro technology including a rotary phone, clicky typewriter, and various large appliances in various states of deconstruction. The mechanic, a robot named Fraley, sits at his desk chair and pauses in fidgeting with an old school camera. Fraley’s Robot Repair (2015) is a temporary exhibition from the imagination of Pittsburgh artist Toby Fraley, who has installed many works throughout Pittsburgh and Pennsylvania, including the Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh.
This installation in Terminal A of the Pittsburgh International Airport is part of a larger initiative to place local art in a focal point for travelers coming in, out, and through PIT. But has this PIT program been able to balance the need for institutional sponsorship with the elevation of authentic local artists?
The Sense of Place and Art in the Airport programs feature placards and installations throughout the airport that promote the well-known cultural institution giants of Pittsburgh, among them being the Carnegie Museum of Art, the Carnegie Museum of Natural History, the Heinz History Center, and the Frick Museum. Even if a traveler were not actively seeking out interesting things in the airport, it would be impossible not to notice at least a few of the displays. Rather especially obvious is the Tyrannosaurus Rex (an imposing life-size cast) as well as wax figures coursey of the Heinz History Center of George Washington and a Steelers football player as you go down the escalators to the shuttle. These installments of course serve as promotion for their respective institution, reminding visitors of the things that await them in Pittsburgh, including the work of Teenie Harris, an influential Pittsburgh artist showcased at the Carnegie Museum of Art.
These large interventions certainly draw the eye, and some like the Andy Warhol installation of Space Fruit: Still Life Series (1979) are iconic. However, where the Art in the Airport program shines best, is with their spotlight on contemporary local Pittsburgh artists. A favorite of mine was Carin Mincemoyer’s Shy Canopy (2020) which is an installation of geometric “spaceframes” and green organic flat pieces that form a canopy between travelers on a speed-way and a long skylight running vertically through the terminal. They move independently, turning slowly with air currents. Mincemoyer references the social distancing of tree canopies in a phenomenon known as “Crown Shyness” in a subtle reminder of precaution and gratuity for the ability to fly and travel. At the same time, exhausted and stressed travelers can experience momentary calm as they look up at the impression of sunlight moving through treetops as they move automatically on the moving walkway. According to Mincemoyer, Shy Canopy is also rooted and grounded in local Pittsburgh; the spaceframes “take historic regional bridge trusses as a starting point, while the leaf cluster shapes suspended from them reference the leaves of White Oak and Sugar Maple.” Shy Canopy can be found in Terminal A, alongside a memorial dedicated to the Western Pennsylvania Tuskegee Airmen.
Alongside Mincemoyer, the Pittsburgh International Airport features work from Clayton Merrell (The Sky Beneath Our Feet, Near Center Core), Talley Fisher (Confluence, Gate D 78), Daviea Serbin Davis (Pittsburgh, Now and Then, Near the shuttle) and Colin Piepgras (Doppelganger, Gate B 41). These installations take you through the airport and several gates have installations of their own as part of the Art at the Gate program: Bruce Klein (Gate D77), Jim Vecchi (Gate C 53), Sandy Kessler Kaminski (Gate A 20), and Oreen Cohen ( Gate A 19) which showcases the work of Pittsburgh artists.
The Pittsburgh International Airport reflects the balance in the Pittsburgh art scene between large, popular institutions that tend to draw the most attention and dominate the conversations surrounding arts and culture and the grassroots artists living and working in Pittsburgh, inspired by the diverse community of artists and from the sights, sounds, history, and people of Pittsburgh. The Pittsburgh International Airport is currently preparing for a major expansion that will modernize the terminals and hopefully increase efficacy. I can only hope that this new PIT will keep a spotlight on the local artists that vitalize the city.
Trust in Self and Community at
The Archives
by Renee Dubaich
I was reminded of the vitality of Pittsburgh’s art community at Mattress Factory’s annual Community Fest. This year's theme was The Archives and commemorated the vast archival film material including 16mm and digital films created by Pittsburgh artists across generations. Seeing the plethora of vendors, visual artists, musicians, and filmmakers featured at the Fest reminded me how art does not occur in a vacuum. It is the collaboration of artists and art lovers together that sustains and continuously shapes Pittsburgh’s creative ecosystem.
It was Sunday afternoon and despite the intense July heat, the museum’s vicinity was bustling with people. I realized how many faces were unknown to me. I decided to attend the event by myself because—although it can be terrifying as an introvert—I’ve learned to love the opportunities brought by the vulnerability and self-trust of being alone. When I visited the Mattress Factory before, I found it to be a quiet and contemplative endeavor as most museum visits. But here you notice the space filled with music, conversation, participation in active artmaking, and opportunities to connect with a vibrant community of artists.
There was something for everyone at The Archives. The parking lot held various Pittsburgh Vintage Mixer vendors selling a plethora of eclectic clothes, jewelry, magazines, books, and other knick-knacks. The garden space outside of the main lobby consisted of the Children’s Theater, offering hands-on art activities for blooming creatives. Along Sampsonia Way, were local artist vendors including Bryce Hemington with his geometric patterned and wood-fired ceramics, Megalons colorful stained glass jewelry, and many more. I was excited when I saw the make-your-own cyanotype station by MCG Youth, as it is a favorite photographic style of mine that I’ve explored in the past. I picked weeds from the vacant overgrown lot nearby, carefully placed them on a tinted blue sheet of fabric, and watched as the sun exposure began to change the background to a bright blue illuminating the white silhouettes of the weeds.
This hands-on artmaking continued in the museum’s main lobby where Pittsburgh Image and Sound vitalized the space with all kinds of archival film material and equipment. Attendees could showcase their own drawings on an overhead projector, flip through analog photographs, explore contact sheets by placing them over a light box, and watch archived Pittsburgh-based films. One station allowed attendees to experiment with draw-on-film animation. I found empty space on the film stock next to someone’s beating pink heart, and with a black marker, I drew a sequence of a blooming flower. I wonder if they ever ran the film on the projector once the roll was all filled in. For those of us who do not work with analog processes, it was fascinating to engage with the materials and feel more intimately connected to an art form that we usually only see the end product of when it is on screen.
The Archives also featured performances from Pittsburgh's local music scene—such as I4A and Gina Gory who played in Luke Stettner’s State of the Sky exhibit. The room, which replicated a dark room for developing film, was almost pitch black if it were not for the muted red glow from the overhead bulbs. Accompanying the music were projections of films by 1970s-80s Pittsburgh artists. During both sets the room was crowded shoulder-to-shoulder with people swaying to the music like shadows. I4A’s mellow guitar and striking drums intertwine with Natalka Voslakov’s shots of distorted houses and landscapes in cool and sepia tones. It felt like I was looking through a kaleidoscope of someone’s memories—reminding me of fuzzy home videos of forgotten places from childhood. Gina Gory’s dreamlike rock sound and intimate lyrics meshed with Tippi Comden’s rendition of Nosferatu. I noticed that in close proximity shows like this, where there is almost no separation between the performer and audience, how much more connected I feel to music. Oftentimes, my feet begin to move with the percussion and my head sways as if synchronized with those around me.
The night ended with the community short film festival, featuring a selection of forty 16mm and digital films created by Pittsburgh artists. The lobby turned into a small theater with rows of folding chairs facing the black backdrop and the salty-sweet smell of popcorn filled the air. It was a full house and the room was energized with chatter as everyone waited patiently for the screenings; some coming to support their loved ones, and some waiting to see their own film on the big screen. Every film was different whether in style, story, or image but altogether created a polyphonic tapestry of voices within Pittsburgh’s creative community.
It felt like I was looking through a kaleidoscope of someone’s memories—reminding me of fuzzy home videos of forgotten places from childhood.
Fangs & Flesh by Ashton Polak utilizes stop-motion animation of animals and drawings of the heart and stomach juxtaposed together to create a narrative of killing and eating. D0uble, an experimental 3D animated film by Pria Dahiya merges the body of the physical world with one that is distorted and technological; examining the sense of self in a world so impacted by the online. ِThis intertwining of technology with the physical world is also explored in Dylan Cooper’s black-and-white montage-style film Mimesis, consisting of a TV-headed figure in a forest and computer wires tangling around arms like brambles. Playroom by Taylor Raye and Alyssa Waldron, is a sepia-toned horror-esque film that follows children who discover an old armchair that stares intensely back at them. Michael Bagnato joins nature with poetry in Giufà, capturing serene clips of trees, water, and sky with original poems overlaid in text signaling the suffering of the earth at the disposal of man. One line stuck with me from their film: When the first word was spoken, did the earth cry out in joy or fear?
A staff member said before the film screenings that the original mission of the Mattress Factory has lived on ever since its genesis in the 1970s—offering a space for artists by artists. Just like going to places alone, art is a vulnerable practice that necessitates not only self-trust but community trust. Pittsburgh community art events like The Archives encourage reciprocal trust and support between artists and art appreciators. Despite the nerves of putting pen to paper, brush to canvas, or lens to object—you breathe, and know that you are in every way capable of creating something worthwhile and that others will appreciate that work.
The Bloodmire Empire of the artist Chiina
by Elizabeth Dawn of Memoirtistry
Chiina Bloodmire, a petite human with the auric energy of a powerful giant, walked into Big Dog Coffee in Southside and joined me at the table in the front window. Our eyes met, and smiles reflected. “It’s Chiina with two i’s, the better to see you with, and Bloodmire, like vampire, a hybrid witch.”
We eased into conversation, relating with vignettes of our daily lives. I became aware of Chiina through Millvale’s Poetry Lounge owner and independent publisher, Sean Enright. She and I were highlighted in an Instagram post advertising our upcoming book releases.
Bloodmire didn’t consider herself a poet until December 2023, even though she’s been writing poetry for over 15 years. “It was in October [2023] that I lost my mind. Nobody knows who I am, nobody knows what I do. Nobody knows nobody knows anything. I broke down. I was not doing what makes me happy every day, which is writing.”
Her work blends mythical fiction and urban literature. “I write about black ass people in black ass spaces, black scenarios, black magical people being black. All of my characters, everyone is black. You either understand because you're black, or you learn to understand.”
I nodded and without hesitation, she pointed to my skin. “When I tell people of your complexion there are no white people in my stories, they either say it’s not realistic or not relatable.”
I asked if she ever wrote white people in to “balance the score”, and we shared between us a morbid laughter. “I did write them [when I was younger],” she confessed. But she was “writing the same overplayed scenarios we see on TV, the slave bullshit.”
In Bloodmire’s work there may be no white people, but there is also no perpetuation of slavery as acceptable narrative.
Chiina began writing in 2002, when she was 9-years old, learning the craft through text-based role playing similar to the well-known Dungeons and Dragons—a complex interactive character building and storytelling game. In 2006, she created a profile on Gaia Online and birthed a fictional country, with states and cities, that is still active today. Becoming the master of an entire world, she cultivated a gift for developmental editing. For her recent work, she’s reconceptualized the world she built in her childhood. She wrote an entire family of people to life with their own personalities, mannerisms, likes and dislikes.
Chiina herself is one of the family members. “Those are my babies. There’s six of us. They cook together, eat together, throw parties together. They satisfy their clientele; they throw it to people around them.” She smirks, and laughs with her internal crew. “[We have] my own language, my own traditions, my own culture, my own everything.”
Bloodmire is disciplined with her facts. In her youth, she penned a scene, set in the 1920s. Four of her characters are isolated on a boat in the ocean for two months. Rediscovering the piece, the scene made her question why they were on the water so long. Realistically, how long would it take an Ocean Liner to cross the distance? Chiina rewrote the scene to satisfy her now 31-year old self.
Her characters evolve as she herself evolves. “Whenever I need them to write a story, I call on them as if they’re my ancestors,” she explains.
Chiina practices Tulpamancy*, a meditative act which trains the imagination to engage in dialogue with invisible companions called tulpas, or thought-forms. Tulpas share the mind and body of the person who created them, but have autonomous free will and agency. In Tibetan Buddhism and other traditions of mysticism, the tulpa** is a spiritual practice requiring intense concentration.
Bloodmire creates by conscious effort while I lean toward the other end of the spectrum, aiming for unconscious effort. However, Chiina and I agree there are similarities in our writing experiences; the way we “zone out” and channel these inner voices to move their words to the page and identify who is speaking to interpret what they mean. We each have our own tongue with a personal, secret language and it is unveiled in our roles as writers. Poetry offers clues.
A transplant like me, Bloodmire moved to Pittsburgh from Queens, New York in June 2022. Her breakdown in October 2023 led her to invest in herself and reflect upon her life the way only grief can guide us to.
It was April 2019, before the world knew of Covid, that Chiina’s grandfather passed away suddenly. It didn’t make sense; he had the flu that turned into pneumonia. Doctors said he had a week left and the next day, he died with Chiina as witness. “I was sitting in that room, and the first thing I heard was, ‘if you died tomorrow, would you be proud of yourself?’”
Bloodmire’s eyes filled with tears. I greeted her grief with my own—my aunt died unexpectedly in September 2019. The surprise of death changes a person, but resilience is found inside the pain. We agree we must make the most of living while we have lives to live. Chiina fueled her breakdown with poetry, and has been riding an inspiring wave of creative flow and recognition. On her own in a city unknown, magic took her on a journey.
On February 20, Chiina went to “the wrong right place, wrong right date” looking for an open mic event. Discovering Poetry Lounge was an accident. Her performance garnered the attention of Enright who invited Bloodmire to be featured in YAWP Carnival Poetica (April 19) and two board members of the Pittsburgh Poetry Collective plugged their next open mic on February 21. “I was like, I don’t know what this is. I started memorizing my pieces.”
From there, she met poet IncoMEplete who brought her into the fold. On March 6, she attended her first Steel City Slam and won first place. On March 20, she slammed again, winning first place. On April 23, she graced the stage at City of Asylum and secured the Grand Slam Champion title. On May 9, she was featured for her championship at Greer Theater. She thanks her newfound poetic family. “The way I’ve been embraced, seen, felt and heard has me knocking down challenges behind closed doors with ease.”
Bloodmire’s third published work, The Book of Kuu, was released by Poetry Lounge Press on August 20. “Even though she's like, running around, having fun, busying her business,” Bloodmire relays, “she's very serious about what she does.”
Living from the core of one’s artistry is serious work. Bloodmire has three publications available on Amazon, S.I.N.: Shadow Integration & Nurturing, a guided shadow work journal and workbook for healing, self-love and self-discovery with prompts (July 2023), Hai-Kewchie: A Collection of Haikus Telling The Tale of Punani Bliss (June 2024), and The Book of Kuu.
Chiina glows in vibrant sisterhood—no longer a stranger among strangers—that spans time and spins gold.
For readers and fans of Bloodmire, you can access more of her work via Patreon.com/ChateauBloodmire and links to her performances can be found on Instagram @chiina_bloodmire.
**Wikipedia
Moments with Museums
Space with KAWS
by DÏ
Turning the corner into the 2nd floor Warhol gallery, this 8-foot-tall stainless steel sculpture commands the attention of the room. The ceiling lights bounce off the shiny space suit and signature skull-head, and the being depicted in the sculpture appears to the viewer more as a holy apparition than a statue. The kitsch-y nature of the work initially fills my tastebuds with a Jeff Koons-ian flavor (in a bad way). After all, KAWS seems to be more popular amongst the hypebeasts and Depop resellers than art historians. While Space is visually stimulating, I can’t help but wonder if I’m being 'had'. This was my first confrontation with KAWS’s work in real life, and I can’t initially tell if his work is in the Warhol due to his notoriety, or if there is something deeper behind the work.
Gazing deeper into the reflective mirror exterior of the piece, I first notice Andy Warhol's portrait stare back at me, from the sculpture's forehead, to its elbows, to its belly. Next, I try to look for myself. Oddly, I can’t see my own reflection. How self-obsessed am I to look for my own face, a face I have seen thousands of times, in a work that I have never seen before? Maybe I am just as self-centered as I think KAWS is - maybe it's silly to ask a sculpture what it can do for me. What can I do for the sculpture?
I notice that the figure's groin is specifically buttoned up. This is peculiar considering that a groin-flap is not part of traditional space wear. I notice as he shields his eyes, his hands and feet are marked with "X"s, like if Mickey Mouse had the sacred stigmata of Christ. He is in agony, glowing. On one hand, this spaceman is triumphant, shining, and boisterous. On the other hand, he is meek, embarrassed, scared. Finally, I have seen myself in this work.
If you are interested in seeing Space yourself, or many of the other works by KAWS, the exhibition KAWS+WARHOL is available to view from now until January 20th, 2025 at The Andy Warhol Museum.
by Pria Dahiya
Pittsburgh is a Craft City. The Glass Center keeps the sand a-blowing and the Union Projects makes sure I’ll only ever need to drink out of a mug that my friends-sisters-cousins-landlord sold to me at a pop up market for the rest of my life. It’s a city where everyone is whimsically deciding to become a welder or a screen printer or a jewelry maker or a film photographer or a basket weaver and the infrastructure magically appears to do so.
This is a city that values hard work, you can feel it everywhere. There is a midwestern Protestant work ethic, a real love of process.
That’s what makes the special exhibition Beate Kuhn: Turn, so perfect for the Carnegie Museum of Art. While it doesn’t have the overt Pittsburgh-to-the-core sensibilities of Marie Watt’s “Land Stitches Water Sky”, no patron can enter that gallery without even a begrudging astonishment at the organic, undulating forms - that’s before their astonishment when they discover these delicate forms were crafted on the potter’s wheel from clay and porcelain.
This survey show is the first solo museum exhibition of German artist Beate Kuhn (1927–2015) in the United States. The works themselves bear the skill of obsessive turns of the wheel, and a well-curated selection of archival photographs, diagrams and TV interviews with the artist contextualize the intensity of craftsmanship and acute planning Kuhn possessed. I appreciated the care taken to reveal the intense observation, craftsmanship and planning Kuhn used in her nearly monastically repetitive practice.
A similar intensity of care has to be taken to properly enjoy the exhibit - it is far too easy to slink past the 10 or so large-scale sculptures and dismiss them as tchotchkes for a home bookshelf. The sculptures are not epic in size nor conspicuous in their coloring. The crowding of eight or so smaller sculptures on the wall when directly entering the gallery is a difficult choice, as it prevents a 360 viewing of the shape, however the beautifully executed shelving - replicating the shelving within Kuhn’s studio - is a special touch that connects the prestige of the museum to the intimate and decorative histories of craft practitioners.
If you go see the exhibit, my prescription is as follows; each sculpture is four different sculptures, and must be given the proper time to be seen as such. Front, side, back, side, rotate around each and observe the way that the shapes communicate with each other through color, line and edge.
Today, my co-worker, an older volunteer at the Museum who has spent his entire life in Pittsburgh, was speaking to me about his childhood and shared something which rang clear as a bell to the city I live in and love today: “It used to be dirty, it used to be darker, there used to be nothing, but the people were always the salt of the earth.” There’s something “salt of the earth” about Kuhn’s sculptures. They are unpretentious, natural but the product of great effort and strain.
These are the things that make this city the city I love.
Craft at the Carnegie: It’s Beate Kuhn’s Turn
The Social Living Experience
by Shawna Carter
As an artist, how do you define yourself? This question is one that continues to circle my thoughts as I evolve as a creator. Further, I wonder if remaining true to your brand and what your work stands for is feasible. These questions replay as I enjoy a stroll through one of my favorite neighborhoods of Pittsburgh, the undeniably artistic Lawrenceville. I find that I’m always inspired by the plethora of unique murals, artwork, structures and people who inhabit this area which provides me with a sense of belonging. One such person invited me to model his new collection of wearable art and experience what it truly means to create for the culture.
As I made my way up the illuminated staircase of RedFishBowl Studios, I admired the fusion of artwork that lined the wall taking note of the collaged flowers present through an ombré of its neighboring paintings. “They were all hand placed”, was the chill yet genuinely appreciative response that I received after complimenting Darrin, its creator, on its beauty. As we conversed, I felt as if this moment was a homecoming. I began to verbally reminisce about the many connections I’d made during my residence as a literary artist, curating spoken word events for artists and lyricists alike while noting our first interaction years ago. As the owner and creator of the brand Social Living, Darrin Milliner has been a staple of the RedFishBowl community from the beginning. He has used his work to encourage a lifestyle filled with joy and fulfillment. “…Social Living is inspired by my social interactions… my friends, family and anything social”. Admittedly, I wasn’t aware of either of the brand’s philosophies but I would come to understand.
Accompanying Darrin in his art studio was photographer Ian of Kamerahead Productions, whose goal it was to capture every angle of the artistic apparel (and did). Together, we discussed the overall feel for the shoot as I was finger combing my way through the organized rack of new drip. The designer and cameraman provided me free reign to style the pieces according to my personal preference in an effort to appeal to his female client base. From the initial flash of the camera, I felt connected to my surroundings, especially the artist. Although I’d been in the Social Living studio numerous times and have followed the brand for years, this was the first opportunity I’d had to collaborate with its creator as an artist instead of viewing him simply through the lens of a consumer. By doing so, I experienced him, along with every collage, every fashion and every message. I changed into my third shirt adorned with a backdrop of colorless roses against a note that read, “Happiness is My Power, Power is My Happiness” and smiled instantly. Beyond the message itself, the nature of this piece, specifically in terms of florals signified an immediate feeling of self love which Darrin encourages in the most simplistically beautiful way.
Social Living as a brand is easily identifiable with its ode to 1950’s and ‘60’s nostalgia and sense of self-proclaimed “counter culture”. With the primary concepts focused on social interactions and self-fulfillment, each collage reminds audiences to practice habits that lead to internal and environmental happiness. To achieve this feat of continuous improvement, Milliner offers a variety of products beyond his canvases including wearable art and souvenirs that utilize current propaganda to influence mindfulness. The minimalist business card that read “Too Busy to Cry?? We Will Cry for You!”, provided such a sense of support for me, given my difficulty with social vulnerability. To explore the entire collection, the culture can be found on the brand’s website but experiencing the art in person is always encouraged as there’s nothing that compares to social interactions!
Despite the sweltering heat and risk of sunburn, the three of us ventured from the studio to a destination unknown to me … the rooftop. As Ian snapped a few solo photos of the creator in his new casual wear, I marveled at the horizon as I’d never witnessed Lawrenceville from this perspective and began to understand who I’m becoming as an artist. I realized that inspiration is born from community, though it presents uniquely to those who create the tangible product. It was clear that Milliner discovered this during his own evolution as he explains, “…what makes any artist or art-based business grow is good community and the people who embrace the art as well.” I cherished this lesson as I got into position and looked at Darrin with gratitude for such a gift. We got together for the camera to show a comparison of the t-shirts, and in my presence, I was intentional. I noticed how breathable the fabric was and grabbed hold of its softness while holding myself in my happiness.
Following a brief intermission for refreshments and cooling central air, we headed to the streets to obtain our final shots. Excitedly, I transformed into a gray tie-dye tee that I’d been raving about as I’d prepared accessories to complete the look. The top was adorned with a damaged television, retro-esque in terms of style, surrounded by joyous and colorful florals with a message that read, “Turn Off Your T.V. There’s a Beautiful World Outside.” In my truest form, I layered multiple gold necklaces of various sizes with a denim skirt and high top Air Jordans, as requested by the creator. My signature accessory, however, was a pair of lunar tarot card earrings created by two of RedFishBowl’s most beloved artists, Crystal and the late Natiq Jalil. Two inspirational artists with whom I gained a sense of confidence while practicing spoken word, over the years. Those moments combined with time spent learning from Darrin has stirred me.
Understanding, in depth, what Social Living represents encouraged me to pay homage to the connections I’ve made within the artist community as I continue to develop.
Finally escaping the intense heat of the streets, Darrin, Ian and I regrouped at the studio. As we passed his wall of bouquets, I asked Darrin to describe his most memorable piece. He playfully commented on difficulty of selecting just one before explaining his love of nature led him to the collection titled, “Keep That Happiness on Me”. Stating that its marriage of modern images of individuals meshed with florals and butterflies incorporates feelings of joy within him. This translated to me subconsciously as I realized that a recent piece from that very collection resonated with me due to it’s focal image of a woman, similar to myself, being fully visible aside from being shrouded in florals from the eyes upward. The backdrop of orange seemed to illuminate her smile as the cat walked forward through her life. I felt as though I AM HER.
I recognized my own evolution as I stared at our favorite piece amongst the collage of collages. This experience of true social living; the connections and interactions that only physical contact can provide, answered the questions that seemed to keep me stagnant as a creator. I realize that as artists, we are individual and are destined to evolve; meaning who we are will never be definite. What I thought Social Living to be prior to this day, despite years of interest, was based on perspective and lacked the key component of its intention… a joyous life filled with your community. As I develop into the next version of myself as an artist, I choose to define myself, only, as someone who values happiness as she moves forward… and a part of the culture that counters what does not encourage it.
Reflection, Renewal, & What Can't Be Repaired: Bob Freyer’s BROKEN at Ketchup City Creative
by Lauren M Salopek
An eclectic array of frames bursts with bright, even surprising pops of color. Surreal landscapes come alive through the motion of heavy, childlike brushstrokes. Throughout several pieces, a mischievous-looking character grins and bares its horns, fangs, and – yes, that’s an angel’s halo. This is the world of Bob Freyer’s BROKEN as presented at Ketchup City Creative in Sharpsburg. The style of the collection could easily speak to something escapist, a fantastical place with little connection to the real world. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. In this show, Freyer breaks his heart open for the world to see.
I make a sweep through the two dozen pieces of BROKEN armed only with the knowledge in its press release: that the show confronts mingled feelings of sadness and hope as the artist sorts through the broken pieces of himself. Bob is there on opening night, happy to discuss the work and what’s behind it. I mention I’m curious about his process – whether the theme came first, or followed as the pieces came together, and instead of giving the simple either/or answer, Bob opens right up about the inspiration: he painted them all while navigating a divorce. With two kids in the mix, and countless emotions to weather, creating the pieces of BROKEN became his therapy.
With Bob so forthcoming about the realities of where this series came from, I feel I owe it another glimpse. Or two. I circle back around, giving a deeper look. At my side, I know my friend Mike – also going through a divorce – is having his own resonant experience on this walkthrough. We both watch the pieces take on new life, and chat with Bob along the way: he tells us how every frame was thrifted. He removed some of the original pieces to replace them with his own, while with others he painted right over the old canvas. It’s a way of reclaiming something discarded, we all agree, taking something perhaps unwanted and giving it new meaning. While Bob greets others filing into the gallery, Mike and I notice more of the recurring themes: the angel/devil dichotomy of the character who often sports both horns and halo. Smiling suns with empty eyes. Ever-present swords, in one hand or both. It becomes clear: this is a battlefield. We’re in the trenches. And they’re in technicolor.
Mike and I leave, having taken in our fill, and conversation spins out between us: about art, our aesthetic tastes, our joys and struggles with being creative, our joys and struggles of being ourselves. I go home energized by both the show and the conversations though the night, feeling seen and liking what I saw.
More than Bob's use of color to express feeling, the collection as a whole allows viewers to come into dialogue with their own inner worlds. He tells me that a close friend of his, after seeing BROKEN, said that the show expressed exactly how they felt. Knowing Bob's story, and seeing it depicted on canvas, led them to an experience that they described as a rebirth: “For that specific person it was spiritual,” Bob recounts. His friend isn’t alone, though. Bob went through his full circle moment through the show’s production. He tells me about working through the dark emotions that arose while building BROKEN, reflecting on the parts of himself that still need work, but also “gaining small wins along the way.” Just like his paintings, myriad emotions fill the back story that led to their creation. Some have healed, or are on their way to it, and some will have to remain fractured. And finally, now that they have been poured out of him in the form of his art, Bob says that, upon the show's closing, he has "a feeling of completion from this series." It's a kind of closure, even with its still-open wounds, that not everyone gets; but it's a gift Bob is able to give himself.
I reached out to Bob in the following days because I wanted to know more. Years ago as a graduate student, I became struck by the idea of the intimacy of artistic creation, and the vulnerability it takes to share it. Now here, in Bob’s work and in his honesty about its origins, I find my old theories in practice. I ask if through the show he’s connected with viewers who might be dealing with their own demons. Bob mentions that someone told him he depicts “sadness with bright and hopeful colors,” and I am compelled to revisit the works yet again. Their analysis nails why I felt so drawn to these unexpected splatters of color; why it’s so standout, and so honest – how rare is it that we feel only one emotion at a time, especially when going through a world-shifting chapter in our lives? Depression isn’t just greys and blacks and deep blues. There’s a pop of bright here and there – something unexpected that makes you smile, or that spark of hope you’re desperately trying to keep alive. There’s also that tricky little angel/devil character. The horns and halo let us see and feel the multiple versions of us that exist simultaneously: the broken and the healed, the villain and the hero, the defeated and the hopeful. Emotions are multifaceted – humans are multifaceted. BROKEN reflects that with bright, raw honesty.
“It becomes clear: this is a battlefield. We’re in the trenches. And they’re in technicolor.”
He may not have intended or even expected it, but with BROKEN, Bob has created a space where all our ugliest, most hopeful emotions can be witnessed. In our discussion, he mentions that he used to have trouble talking to viewers about his work. If they asked what a piece meant, he’d turn the question back and ask what it meant to them instead. It was a clever, if evasive, tactic to skirt the more personal details while still spurring the conversation forward. Bob wanted to know what it meant to them, because he was afraid of how they’d react to hearing what it meant to him. But now we’re in a new space where it can be both: what do we see? What do we feel, how are we, as individuals, processing whatever it is that we’re going through? Yes, BROKEN is deeply personal. And at the same time, it speaks to a singular perspective of a universal experience: the difficult terrain of confronting the damaged parts of yourself. And in sharing that perspective, there can be healing: for the creator and for the viewer. For those brave enough to wade into the technicolor trenches and come out on the other side.
With all its contrast and unrefined honesty, I don’t think BROKEN asks much from its audience, except this simple request: to “be here” for a little while. Witness the product of these very raw emotions, and let them take on new life in your imagination. Let it connect with something broken inside you. If you are as open as the artist has been, it will be easy to access – if not so easy to heal.
Bob Freyer's works, including the whole of the BROKEN collection, can be found at bfreyerart.com.
Who is this guy and what is this thing?
by Layne Shaffer
When I told my mom I wanted to major in art history, her response wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t “Why don’t you just major in business, you know, as something to fall back on?” or “And what do you plan on doing with that?” No, her response was rooted much more in who she knew I was and what she was hoping I would not become. “I just don’t want you to lose your sense of humor,” she said to me, “I feel like all of those people in the art world are so serious all the time, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to be someone you’re not and, in turn, become someone you’re not.”
Now, of course, this was rooted in what she had seen in the media. Every television show and movie portrays the hostile, chilled nature of white gallery walls with women and men talking about the compositions in front of them. They take champagne flutes off a gilded tray while seemingly looking straight through the server they took them from. Those people aren’t nice.
That is not the reality I’ve found. I have felt the most connected to my community and my peers in these same situations. The work that goes into an exhibition for the public involves getting to know the public. It is vital in creating something that is not catered to the 1%.
As someone who is a student in art history and can adopt an insider’s perspective, a large part of the disconnect that occurs in the arts community – in Pittsburgh as well as elsewhere – develops between academia and the public. Spending the better half of a decade studying within the discipline of art history, especially for a higher degree, can cause a disconnect with the people that interact with this same art “on the ground”. It becomes difficult to see art from a perspective that doesn’t come from a purely academic standpoint.
In these instances, I have found it important to ask the following questions:
How would I feel about this artwork if I knew nothing about it?
What might a person who knows nothing about it find interesting?
How can an analysis or contextualization of this work remain accessible and engaging?
D From my time in the academic field of art history, the solution to these problems is both simple and complicated at the same time. If the question is how we can break down the barriers between the sphere of art professionals and the sphere of the public, asking the above questions may be a good start.
If someone would have told me that I would end my undergraduate degree having focused on and found a passion for modern and contemporary art, I never would have believed them. Modern and contemporary art felt too abstract (no pun intended), so far away from real life. However, when put on a project with Shiftworks working on monumental modern and contemporary steel sculpture at Hartwood Acres park, I found myself intrigued and, upon further research, in love. Sometimes it's hard to love the hunk of steel in front of you that lays claim to being a sculpture. You can’t be told to love it or to hate it, you have to figure it out for yourself.
This enemies-to-lovers trope between me and modern and contemporary art helped me appeal to the individual who might feel the way I originally did about these sculptures in my academic writing. I did this by asking myself the exact questions you see above. When writing narratives for each sculpture, I kept in mind that people might not like it. I kept in mind that academic language would be severely inaccessible found in the middle of a public park. I can understand why people don’t like it. I can understand why people feel it is inaccessible. They think, like I did: Who is this guy, and what is this thing? The inaccessibility of the art world is what has quite obviously ostracized art from many reaches in society. I see this changing, though. Art is coming back to the communities. The narratives that museums support are shifting and being challenged.
In a centuries old art museum it can be difficult to create exhibitions that challenge the traditional narrative. Just recently have we seen this happen regularly in large museums. Metaphorically speaking, artists like Carl Andre are put on trial. Picasso is sent to prison.
There is a long way to go, but we’re getting there.
The Standing Ovation Essay
by Spencer Byham-Carson
I want to pick up a thread left in my previous draft about a play I saw in Braddock two months ago, where I said:
“The lights came back on, and I was curious to see the audience’s response. I believe that the standing ovation has become so commonplace in American theater that almost every show I see, no matter how mediocre, receives a standing ovation. I’m not going to be the one asshole not standing, so I stand alongside everyone else, slow-clapping and not smiling to show that my standing is not for the show but because of social norms, trying to catch eyes with some other audience members to silently say, ‘Are we really doing this?’”
This essay will serve as my anthropological study of the Pittsburgh Standing Ovation, or PSO. Although I’ve been lucky enough to see many shows on the West End in London, a 12-hour-long, once-a-decade performance of the Passion Play in Oberammergau, Germany, and Kabuki theater in Japan, I want to focus on Pittsburgh. Not only am I a native of this town and a lover of theater, having seen the most productions here, but I also find Pittsburgh’s Standing Ovation to be unlike anything else I’ve ever seen.
There is no history of standing ovations, just as there is no history of clapping. Humans have always clapped their hands to show appreciation, much like babies and apes. The very first documented example of clapping is from the 3rd-century BCE poet and playwright Plautus, who wrote “Plaudite” at the end of his play. This is either an instruction to the audience to clap or an alert to the actors saying, “So the audience will make noise with their hands here”—sometimes actors need help. It makes logical sense and is comforting that theater IS the history of applause, comforting because it feels like I am an expert in a dying field, but I can channel this expertise into essays like this.
Before I describe the PSO—continuing to bury my lead—I want to first discuss what I’ve noticed elsewhere. I have spent less time and, therefore, seen less theater anywhere else in the world, so I place reasonable doubt upon my anthropological findings. However, I want to explain other places before sharing what separates the PSO from the pack. People say that the standing ovation is becoming devalued as a currency. There have been multiple New York Times opinion pieces written about it since the turn of the millennium, and one just this last April 30. It makes sense that these pieces come out of New York, as people have enough money to see enough theater to start to take note and turn up their noses at the philistines rushing to prove their adulation to the actor above the rest of the faceless, backlit crowd.
In New York, where I’ve only seen a play and two musicals, standing ovations do feel like what is described in the NYT opinion pieces—overused. Everyone’s got opinions, and everyone’s got standing O’s. In a production of Company I saw with Patti LuPone in her supposed final performance, she sang her big number, “The Ladies Who Lunch.” Patti sang the number in a “I’m too old for this s—” style, expecting and receiving a 2-minute, show-stopping standing ovation in the middle of the performance. Watching my fellow audience members rise I thought, “Hey people, we’ve still got a whole act left,” but they kept on standing and ovating because it was Patti, and Patti is a star, and this is Patti’s last show before she retires. But flash forward to 2024, and she’s back for another run, this time in a production of The Roommate, a play where old women smoke weed.
Last year, I studied abroad in London for 7 months. While I was there, I saw about a dozen plays and musicals, eleven of which were set in America. (I have another essay about how British theater has adapted the American setting.) Most of them were incredible, yet it took much more to get the average theatergoer out of their seat. I made sure to see Ivo Van Hove’s adaptation of A Little Life while I was there—a four-plus-hour-long play adapted from an 800-page novel of the same title. The play was one of the most affecting experiences of my life, as I cried eight times in Act Two alone. The friend who I came with had to leave the show early due to content, so I was left alone. I heard the audience around me shifting and sniffling throughout the performance right there along with me. Yet, when the lights came up—not even to stretch their legs—no one leapt out of their seats to give the performers the applause they deserved, whatever cheap currency a clap may be.
The one word with which I would describe a Pittsburgh Standing Ovation is “genuine.” I feel like Goldilocks of “These people applaud too much” or “These people applaud too little,” but Pittsburgh—Pittsburgh is just right. The show ends; the lights come back up, and I’m once again in Pittsburgh. I study the posture and faces of audience members, many of whom I’ve seen at shows past, and I know that there is not an ounce of shame in their decision-making. I’ve seen whole crowds stand and two people right in the middle sit still. I’ve seen people who couldn’t stand raise their hands so high above their heads in a sign of appreciation that they were the tallest in the room. I feel comforted by this because these same audience members will be at my shows, and when it's all said and done, whether they’re sitting or standing, I know they're being honest.
by Shawna Carter
I find myself returning to Emerald City, a networking venue for black creatives and entrepreneurs quite often lately. There is growth amongst the offices made up of artists derived from all shades of mocha lattes and midnights. Following a meeting of the Minds of Mothers, I decided to revisit a space safe to explore my childhood: a place full of creation, color, and perfectly placed confusion. There stood a seamstress, simply smiling, as she adorned a mannequin with rich flowing textiles. She was introduced as Ms. June Seale, a fiber artist who shares her craft with all who are looking to escape the complacency of daily living. As I entered her realm, I wondered if she knew how opening her doors unintentionally unlocked those I have been afraid to open within myself.
The jade-shaded surroundings of the corridors evolve into an ombré of fabric ions each time I visit. There is no absolute structure between the parallel studios nestled in the right-hand corner of a venue filled with so many office spaces, making me feel comfortable to release all of my responsibilities… at least for a moment.
Following my monthly weekend cohort meetings at Wick Monet Art Gallery, I’d planned to aid Ms. Seale in her preparation for the upcoming annual Juneteenth celebration, Fusion Fest, which honors the freedom of melanated artistry of all avenues through the streets of downtown. Upon my arrival, I found her buried in the cornermost workshop reviewing outlines for the event. I habitually began to explore my surroundings as she provided my to-do list. I enjoyed the backdrop of headpieces laid amongst the works currently in progress, as they awakened my childlike instinct to play dress up. Ms. June, knowing her collection of headwear has this effect on her audience explained, “What I have developed now is called Capes and Crowns. That’s why all of these hats are here”. This reunion encourages senior citizens to explore themselves through her collection of wearable art and more so, gifts reminiscent of royalty. Seale joyfully added, “Just to see them come from a slumped shoulder and dismal look on their face to this queenly pose…” as they glide across a jaded runway, though not jaded at all; I thought to myself.
“As I clothed the mannequins with Seale’s creations, her garments whispered to me: “Become a muse,” as I played in the symphony of fabrics.”
I spent interims of my stay in the princess era I missed in my memory. The baby girl within me now hugged tightly by what Ms. June is best known for, her unique and luxurious capes. Each signifies a distinct moment in the life of a woman, the intricate outerwear design reminds wearers to search within to find your confidence. As I clothed the mannequins with Seale’s creations, her garments whispered to me: “Become a muse,” as I played in the symphony of fabrics. Ms. June sang of her journey, “I didn’t attempt to sew again until several years later,” she began, expressing her complete and utter dissatisfaction at her first attempt at sewing; a pleated skirt made during an elementary school sewing class. She was then presented with a sewing machine as a Christmas gift from her mother which reignited her passion to learn and perfect her craft. As a young professional, the origin of her cloaks began as they were “the ideal outer garment” for June as she traveled from, “the Caribbean to Canada to Bangor, Maine,” and she “needed something that would transition that extreme range of employments.” I resonated with her as she expanded into the evolution of her creative process. The conservative look displayed in her early outerwear equated to the stress she experienced until her innermost emotions filled the interlinings of each garment. “The more stressed, the more elaborate the reverse side would become,” she softly explained. Still, monetizing her original creations was never a remedy for Ms. June, as art offered valuable healing within itself. Just as it does for me, I whispered internally.
We vacated the offices of the Emerald for a final look at the venue for the celebration of melanin nation in hopes of sneaking a peek at the visual masterpieces that would be on display. Our steps alongside on sidewalks were reminiscent of my childhood trips to vintage anywheres with my late Nana. There is a warmth and wisdom only from a black woman with threads of gray provide. As she pointed to a muralist in the midst of showering slate with a family of shades, I saw the finished picture within myself. The Princess inside me needed the Queen, that I am today, to trace a path back to where she was afraid to fail, and replace her tears with the crown she had lost during her trauma. I now cover her daily in my cape of faith and nurture her with the love I’m regaining as I continue to heal each internal scar without the bondage our society assumes we should use in place of inner resolution. I plan to continue my visits to the rightmost workshops in the rear of the jaded corridors often. Where a kingdom of reminiscence remains. Should you visit, ask Ms. Juneyetta Seale, the Queen of Seams, to spare not only a cape or crown, but a word of wisdom to travel on with.
Queen June Seale
