“Now isn’t the time to navel gaze or decorate,” writes Christina Rees on GlassTire. “Artists and musicians and writers and filmmakers have always been good at sounding the alarm. I’d sure like to see more of it right here at home…Artists would do well,” she concludes, “to tap their inner revolutionary.”
Meaning lies somewhere between the text and its audience.
To focus on the machine is to miss the work itself, an ever-changing halo of light. It’s an experience that is untranslatable, and that’s really the point.
Abramowitz creates a textured depth that pulls viewers into the composition, into spaces between the fields of color, the layers of tissue paper, where tribal prints depicting animals and abstract forms swim with words and prisms, mouths and hands and demons, icons and pictograms.
Just like the modernists evaluated the canvas and paint, itself, I began to evaluate and deconstruct the blanket.