I used to hate writing art statements.
“I’m expressing this visually,” I argued with my professors, “Why do I have to write something down?”
I thought that writing my thoughts killed the art. If I expressed the idea in words there was no reason to say it visually.
My residency with the Association for the Arts in Mount Pearl ended and I moved “Reframing the Grimm” out of the Annex in March 2024. Since then I’ve been pitching this artwork to granting organizations, galleries, shows, even a convention, and I’m writing a lot of art statements. It’s a job that I now enjoy —not that I’m good at it, but because it challenges me. I write and rewrite art statements for each application, sometimes to fit the new context, sometimes because this artwork keeps changing.
When I write these statements I’m asking myself: What am I saying? What was important enough to make me want to say this? And, what makes this a “Jennifer Morgan” piece of art?
Robert Chafe says that when a story makes him cry, he knows he will write a play about it. Mary Pratt said she “felt a zing” almost sexual, when she saw the light hit an object. In my case, I feel a longing when I see a photograph, or a collection of houses, or a cove placed in a bay, like it was painted inside a teacup. But that feeling doesn’t make an art statement. What are the things I’m attracted to? What are the ideas I end up returning to in woodblock, etching, or in paint?
I create art to understand things around me. Drawings are often called studies. Like other things I have studied, I feel a special affinity for people, places, and objects that I have drawn. I know them (as Mary Pratt might say) in the Biblical sense.
Two years into this project, in the midst of a painful relationship crises, I realized what this piece of art was saying. It was about patterns of behavior that I saw myself repeating, patterns that I thought were protecting me, but which were really hurting me. Once upon a time, I thought this artwork was about the Grimm’s fairy tale “The Juniper Tree”, but that story is completely immaterial to the real theme of this work of art. It only gets credit for getting me to the final goal.
This past March, when people showed up at the Mount Pearl Annex and embodied this labyrinth of bad relationships, I saw the meaning of my immersive book change–again. In the heart of the labyrinth each reader enters a triangle, made up of the back of the printed story, with signposts that read: You Belong; Yes, I Can; and You Are Enough. Here, I reversed the stereotypical roles with “Coach” in gold letters above an upside down “Hero”. Likewise, “Victim” was supplanted by a gold “Risk-taker” and “Challenger” (also in gold) overturns “Bully”. These stereotypes form the three corners of a diagram created by the psychiatrist Stephen B. Karpman, which he called the Karpman Drama Triangle.
Then there are the three meditations hanging in each corner. One is a quote from the Gnostic gospel “Voice of Thunder” the other two are written by me, but inspired by the Gnostics. A Christian sect, influenced by nature mystery religions, the Gnostics believed that wisdom was found in the clash of opposing thoughts. Rather than “either/or” they believed in “both/and”. And, that brings us to the centre, the core of my immersive book. Here in the centre is engraved a little boy in a fetal position, playing a video game on his phone. He is engraved in a tree slice which rests on a pile of books.
This is not a piece with a lot of answers. But there is one thing that I know is true: the most important thing must be the child, everything else is negotiable. The three egos in the three corners of every story we’ve ever triangulated are interchangeable. They are figments of our imagination—which is not to say they are not powerful. That was my meaning of the piece. But every reader came away with a different message. I know because I asked them, and then, the asking became the theme of this work.
In March, I sat in the lobby of the Annex, and listened to people answering my five feedback questions. The last one was, “What did you feel in the centre of the triangle?” Some people felt claustrophobic, some felt peaceful, one felt sad, one felt awed. Four people had gotten lost in the maze and I interrupted our interview to show them where the middle of the triangle was. After that I hung a sign which said “Exit this way”.
“But there was no exit!” two readers complained.
“So how did you exit the triangle?” I asked them.
Some people ducked under the pattern paper, some people retraced their steps. Nobody took down the walls, which I did with the help of the Nia dancers, radically restructuring the story. I’m both relieved and disappointed that no one took my artwork apart.
The point is, the story was just a vehicle. The message of the artwork was in the conversations I had with everyone who came to see my art.
Here’s my new Art Statement: ‘Reframing the Grimm’ is a way for me to get to know my readers better. They are the subject of this work of art.
Now, when I’m out and about in St. John’s, and I see my readers, I feel the same affinity for them that I feel for subjects I have drawn. They honored my artwork with their attention and, in return, allowed me to see them and hear them.
–May 2024
Jennifer Lee Morgan 