Letha Wilson and Brie Ruais
The landscape is there, overcoming our vision, supporting our steps, entering our pores, holding a space in our memory.
Have you stood at the edge of a cliff at sunset? Have you seen yourself smaller than you know yourself to be? A speck in the rolling terrain of sand below.
It鈥檚 not about you as a figure looking across the land, instead you are inside the picture plane itself and become one of its many striations.
I know it鈥檚 not possible to take the landscape with me, to carry it home. The land can鈥檛 be separated from itself. I can鈥檛 separate from the land. I leave a part of myself there, drifting dust held in a beam of light, floating untethered.
I got lost here.
The images I carry home and cut, fold, crease, cast. Over here I am inlaying a sunset, a dessert-scape, a canyon crevasse, holding it, repeating it, casting it into a thing heavy, dense, held tight. This is where I keep it all. Printing and imprinted.
Something about body and translation of experience through it鈥s the mark of the hand a way of claiming your presence as a body and in actual space? That you were there?*
The earth I push under my fingernails, into my pours, against the balls of my feet. I push up, out, past, down, over and over. Fist prints, foot kicks. Shaping, molding, making below the plane, at the surface, a horizontal field. Maintaining the boundaries of my own reach.
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The landscape is there, overcoming our vision, supporting our steps, entering our pores, holding a space in our memory.
Have you stood at the edge of a cliff at sunset? Have you seen yourself smaller than you know yourself to be? A speck in the rolling terrain of sand below.
It鈥檚 not about you as a figure looking across the land, instead you are inside the picture plane itself and become one of its many striations.
I know it鈥檚 not possible to take the landscape with me, to carry it home. The land can鈥檛 be separated from itself. I can鈥檛 separate from the land. I leave a part of myself there, drifting dust held in a beam of light, floating untethered.
I got lost here.
The images I carry home and cut, fold, crease, cast. Over here I am inlaying a sunset, a dessert-scape, a canyon crevasse, holding it, repeating it, casting it into a thing heavy, dense, held tight. This is where I keep it all. Printing and imprinted.
Something about body and translation of experience through it鈥s the mark of the hand a way of claiming your presence as a body and in actual space? That you were there?*
The earth I push under my fingernails, into my pours, against the balls of my feet. I push up, out, past, down, over and over. Fist prints, foot kicks. Shaping, molding, making below the plane, at the surface, a horizontal field. Maintaining the boundaries of my own reach.
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