Bernie Lubell's interactive artworks were first introduced to us in 2015. We were looking back on the year, sharing our favorite works. While he's lived in San Francisco for a number of years, his work has been shown locally and internationally, and has received varying number of awards, including the Guggenheim Artists Fellowship in 2011. We're delighted he has joined us for Gathering: A Venison Magazine Retrospective!

Directly opposite Rumberger’s threaded creation are four wall-based sculptures which, at first glance, suggest dioramas or mock schemes for potential installations, but they are not. The fantastical views, all representing the artist’s long term series Metafictions, are discrete objects. Home Sale Prices… is mirrored in the tiny display, its physicality perfectly matching the gallery layout. The artist emphatically asserts that the miniatures – and this applies across the spectrum of her practice – are works unto themselves, and that the overarching “metafiction” assignation is realized when the miniature and full-scale versions of the work are completed. Using metafiction as a grounding point, our attention is drawn to the objects on view, how they relate to and depart from one another in form and content, and ultimately the impermanence or fiction of exhibitions. ​

Seeing Rumberger’s large and small pieces exhibited together satisfies a kind of desire, perhaps one akin to starting and completing a project. In this way, she neatly ties up what would otherwise be nagging experiential loose ends. But meeting desire’s needs is not guaranteed. After seeing small representations from her beautiful/chilling series The March Hare, I sought out – perhaps subconsciously – the piece’s larger pendant image. Hung at a distance from their tiny counterparts, these nearly life-sized paintings juxtapose popular notions of rabbits – fertility, sexuality, life – and death, here represented in eyes drawn from photographs of Civil War militia men. In this instance, my desire was satisfied. Conversely, what reads as incomplete, when either full-size or miniature versions of her data series installation or pieces from other painted series - Santa/President and Modernist Alchemy – are not accompanied by their complementary piece, a palpable cognitive lack is felt. ​

​Centuries on, cabinets of curiosities were amassed as Enlightenment thinking and imperialist expansion brought western Europeans into contact with worldwide civilizations. Through dedicated study of physical artifacts, it was believed, a civilization’s value could be assessed. The sinister footnote to that ambitious effort is, of course, that colonized societies were treated as foreign, as the other, and in need of “civilizing” through paternalistic intervention.

We've got a new blog topic: what to listen to while you work in the studio. We've got some suggestions if you're looking and we welcome you, our loyal reader, to offer up suggestions of your own in the comments. Be it music, podcasts, or even a good Netflix series in the background, we want some good ear-worms to keep our brains creating.

I want to share with you a blog of podcasts out of our very own 'Bay Area' by Kate Rhoades and Maysoun Wazwaz. I couldn't believe I hadn't heard of them until now and I'm overwhelmed with the excitement to share their podcast. If you like to investigate art and culture with a light hearted and humorous nature and you have ears/speak English, I recommend giving this station a listen. They just won a grant from Southern Exposures and was voted the #1 arts and culture podcast in the Bay Area; feel like you've been missing out yet? Well you should!

Enjoy and let us know your thoughts in the comments!

Amber grew up in the Ozark Mountains and it has undeniably had a significant influence on her work. She uses “historically craft based and domestically ripe materials,” such as wool, as mentioned in her artist statement, “to bring comfort to things that are in all honesty, not as pleasant as they initially seem.” Here, we touch basis with the artist and founder on her motivation for starting Venison Magazine.
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What inspired you to launch Venison Magazine?
So this answer comes in a few parts. This is where I was coming from mentally: As a beginning artist, I had just left undergrad and I was finding it incredibly hard to "get out there and meet people." I was part of an art collective that I founded while still in school, but I was finding it difficult to meet new artists and bring more people on board. I just felt awkward and insincere in all my actions. I was intimidated by art openings. I grew up really poor and uncultured, so the gallery scene was about as far removed from a BBQ in Arkansas as you could get. Simply, I felt out of my element.

While working as a panel and stretcher-bar maker at Faultline Artspace, I run into Felicia Gabaldon pretty often. I've been noticing her in the studio more often gearing up for her upcoming 2 person show, Blue Skies, opening June 13th at Campfire Gallery.  Gabaldon's work draws from the imagination, both a mythical and mystic part of human experience in the natural world. Her work is experienced through cultural and folkloric content, expressing the wonders of nature realized through iconic symbols and tradition. 

On Bryan Kring's desk lay multiple twigs with birds and clouds on them. A pile of yellow balloons lay close by, the next piece to be attached on Escape Plan. Paper dragonflies dot the wall of his Oakland studio, where he hands me his prototype for Lunae Secutor- "... a moveable book in the form of a caterpillar specimen. On the lid is a specimen label with the insect’s name and the location of its collection. Folded into the underside of the lid is a fictional scientific account of this particular caterpillar species’ inability to metamorphose into a butterfly. As a solace for this loss it develops an attraction to the moon, which it passionately follows. When the wooden handle is turned the caterpillar 'walks' toward a paper moon that is illuminated by a hidden light."

"I looked up the coordinates where it was 'found'...It's in a desert, in the middle of no where." he says while I cradle the box in my hand. Driven by tiny wooden cams, the caterpillar wriggled around in its box. I began to think of this little paper insect as a strange immortal being out of a grecian legend, fated to keep chasing its lunar love long past any of our lifetimes. 

I set the prototype aside and walk into the other room as Bryan carefully pulled out some of his finished pieces from a suitcase. One after another I am handed beautifully constructed books and boxes: the story of a man who falls in love with a bear (which I recognized from the door knob of his studio); a fold out book telling the story of a man making due on the bottom of the sea when a floating circus woman comes to him in a shipping container; a diorama book of a sea monster terrorizing a ship.  Then he hands me a box with a dragonfly that shuddered around inside, avoiding the many human hands with broomsticks that might thawk it. The letterpress text speaks to an early memory of the death of the dragonfly, and the regret of the broomstick-wielding humans. 

One of the many things my art professors said to me at UC Berkeley was, "go to shows!" This was probably some of the best advice that was given to me, and one of the hardest to put into practice. 

I was one of the lucky, the few who was able to keep up a healthy studio practice after leaving the womb that is 'University'. This wasn't for lack of extreme forward planning. I had spent 5 years between high school and my graduate studies working "dead end jobs" before returning to education. 

So it's safe to say, that I knew what lied ahead for someone with a BA even from a good University. My magic 8 ball would say "outlook was bleak." I had to put into place a system that could help me avoid dropping the art practice I loved. In my junior year I started an art collective with my friends and we began to book group shows at gallery spaces and book shops throughout the city. This started my community and kept my spirits up.

My first year out I spent working as an after-school art teacher. During the week, I would spend from 6am-2pm in the studio before heading off to work. Then, I generally spent either Saturdays or Sundays lesson planning or making work in my studio (aka my living room). I essentially pretended I was still in school, making up deadlines for myself to keep the work flowing and getting shows at the few places I could.

It wasn't until a year and half after I left school that I started to go to shows. I started in the only manner I knew, to Saturday Stroll the First Friday galleries in Oakland. This was fun at first, but soon, I lost interest. I found the few galleries who showed compelling work and I was enjoying a good amount of what was being shown, but I needed more. While Saturday's calmer aspect let me talk to curators and owners, I was alone. I didn't have a stable exhibition buddy. And I'm not the artist to press my work on people. So I wasn't about to tell any of these curators that I was an artist and had them my card... and frankly I also knew my work wasn't strong enough yet. I needed to build my community and hope (aka work-my-ass-off so) the work followed suite. 

I needed to meet people but galleries and artists; the relationship is complicated. I feel like my professors were giving me powerful advice, "go to shows". But the advices was subtlety flawed.  The relationships between galleries and artists has changed. It wasn't too long ago that galleries and curators had portfolio days and now I'm told it's unprofessional to hand a gallery curator your card. But wait, it's a business card. Isn't that THE way you meet people professionally in any other career?

Well I've been told they prefer to see submissions online, but you and I know they are rarely seen for months or years if at all. A lot of galleries have bold texts on their websites saying NO ARTIST SUBMISSIONS. So tell me, what is the professional manner? Secondary introductions? Every curator is different and cold calling is no fun. Not for any party involved. It's not always fruitless, but 99% of the time you'll never hear back anyways.

So, nearly two years out of Uni, I decided to start Venison Magazine. Venison gave me a new way to talk and interact with the art community. To see, investigate, and talk with artist's about their own work. It gave me a way to approach people in a manner that wasn't awkward and self-serving. It allowed me to dig deeper and foster relationships. This started to push my art practice in exciting ways. Not only did my work improve but I started to learn from and become friends with artists I admired. This was emerging through an equal business endeavor, publicity. I had something to give and  in exchange I got answers to my questions.

I can't say I'm BFFs with every artist I interviewed, but I have made a many powerfully uplifting and encouraging friendships through this magazine. Some of which has lead to shows, meeting curators, collaborations and jumping barriers that I was hoping years of going to the saturday strolls might accomplish.  I have learned that going to shows can be great. But it's pretty fruitless unless you are plugging into the community involved. 

I don't really have any sound advice on how to get involved in that community, but from my experience, meeting other artist in my position has propelled me through years of painfully awkward gallery openings and countless wine-overs. It's also good to have someone to talk to while you loiter next to an artist or curator you're hoping to talk to!! You can view my work here. And follow my studio practice on Instagram: @amberimrie

Thanks Readers! 

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Public Reception: Saturday April 11th, 4-8pm
Lost & Foundry Oakland
305 Center Street, Oakland CA, half a block from West Oakland BART

Lost & Foundry Oakland will be unveiling new works by Artist in Residence, Anja Ulfeldt this upcoming Saturday. Time Peace is the culmination of a 5-week residency featuring a series of rotary devices that measure time and symbolize its passage. I wanted to visit her in the studio for a little sneak peek before the opening. Upon entering the metal door of The Lost and Foundry Gallery this past Wednesday, I was immediately confronted with two huge barrel-like structures, and several smaller versions lining the walls. Covered in mahogany and cherry veneer, the wall "tumblers" still had their plexiglass faces covered and tapped tight with blue painters tape, evocative of large faceless wall clocks. 

As part of the crowd funding campaign to build the work during her residency, contributors donated objects that they had felt an attachment to for one reason or another to be weathered down by these tumblers. In effect this transformation would lift the weight of the donor’s previous inability to let go of the objects, relieving them of their attachment through a mechanical weathering of the object. 

“You’ll be able to see through them,” says Ulfeldt, placing her fingers on the blue tape holding the industrial covering onto the plexiglass, gently spinning it on the wall.

“The tumblers are definitely a sound piece. They have these mahogany shelves inside like a dryer, that help lift/stir the contents and then drop them. It's supposed to be like a chorus of randomly timed falling sounds. The motors make a whirring/grumbling sound when they run. I kinda love it! I just got a donation of a pile of coins too which will probably sound great falling every couple of minutes." Across the room she pulls a cardboard box out from under a collapsible table and sits cross-legged on the floor, opening the flaps. Inside rests the collection of objects that have been donated for their eventual destruction. 

“Growing up in what might have qualified as a hoarder house I have a close personal relationship to the question of what gives an object power over us emotionally? What makes us love an object of art for reasons we sometimes don’t understand? Often in art there is a focus on longevity. Some artworks are made of stone and can outlive the civilization that created them while others are intentionally ephemeral. But what about other items those individuals collect and keep in their lives and how does this relate to wealth accumulation and assignment of value on objects, material and art? I'm particularly interested in how we assign value to possessions beyond the obvious monetary value of the materials they contain.”  

 Ulfeldt steps out and explains The Hustle (working title),  “… Invites visitors to enter one of two walks of life: one a fast-moving hustle, the other a seductively soft resting place. These take the form of rotary drums sharing an axle and transmission. The gearing is designed so that the movement of the fast-paced climbers eventually destabilizes those lounging on the slow-moving side. The treadmill … speaks to the labor of love that is sculpture and the sculptors’ love of labor. The Treadmill represents the desire for purpose and the need to work toward that purpose.  If you can understand the idea of art for art’s sake then why not labor for labor’s sake.

"This piece is also inspired by the level of hustle required to survive as an artist in the Bay Area. While the love is the labor and the labor is the love there is still this feeling that if you stop to rest you may never make it back onto the wheel or that the fast paced world of money may just pass you by. The level of hustle required to be an artist in the Bay Area is increasing at a rapid rate and many people are leaving. So I pose the question: How much hustle can you sustain? Is it really worth it?”

Ulfeldt stairs up with tired eyes at the pair of wheels she has meticulously welded together and layered in plywood. I left her to her work at the Lost and Foundry studio. She seemed anxious to get back to it, probably with a grand to-do list looming in her head.

The question Ulfeldt had previously stated rang again and again in my head. At first this question in her statement threw me off.

“Is it worth it?”

As an artist, The Hustle speaks to me of the amount of work many Bay Area artists must endure to be able to sustain their practice: working 40 hours a week, producing art, maintaining the work load and personal relationships, and the attempt to grow an ever evolving network to forward my creative career. This is a task many artists face. It can be wholly overwhelming at times, and can feel utterly unsustainable. How do I keep my own momentum moving forward without overturning everything I’ve been working towards?

“Is it worth it?"

"Is it really worth it?”