Diagram of A Silent Garden
All white 3D render of an alarm clock
All white 3D render of an alarm clock
All white 3D render of an alarm clock
All white 3D render of an alarm clock
All white 3D render of an air plane
All white 3D render of an air plane
All white 3D render of an air plane
All white 3D render of an ATM
All white 3D render of an ATM
All white 3D render of an ATM
All white 3D render of an ATM
All white 3D render of high heels
All white 3D render of high heels
All white 3D render of high heels
All white 3D render of a mailbox
All white 3D render of a mailbox
All white 3D render of a mailbox
All white 3D render of a piggy bank
All white 3D render of a piggy bank
All white 3D render of a piggy bank
All white 3D render of a traffic light
All white 3D render of a traffic light
All white 3D render of a traffic light
All white 3D render of a traffic light

Diagram of a Silent Garden is an open call for a group show, using the title for a prompt and general invitation. Intended to reflect a range of practice in flux with Covid-19, we hoped to create a space to reconsider making work in our new condition. Initiated to be printed matter, not for sale, and distributed solely to the contributors, as our participant pool expanded the project naturally shifted into online form. We are proud to publish these pieces and thankful to those who took the time. This site has become a wide index of these practices, and in an ever-growing nature will continue to be open to new submissions, with the spirit of open discussion.

Core Team: Brian Sing, Jared Fellows; 3D Identity with Ted Youjong Kim; type design & web development by Jake Brussel Faria.

Untitled

Valeria Mancera

A photograph of an artist studio

I am in­ter­ested in the long­ing for home and spaces that are stored in my mem­o­ries. The house that I lost for­ever con­tin­ues to live on in me. This place from child­hood is in my mind and in­sists to me to live again. I con­sider the past, and I re­flect on not hav­ing lived pro­foundly enough in the old house that fills my heart. These mem­o­ries of home ex­pect to breathe through my paint­ings, I feel the need to re­cap­ture this site through my day­dreams. I fear that bit by bit my home in Caracas will be lost in the mists of time, and I vi­su­al­ize it as a shadow, or per­haps as a falling brush­stroke. The weight of not hav­ing my home and fam­ily near me is scat­tered in­side of me —the rooms, the stairs in my grand­fa­ther’s home that de­scended with such cer­e­mo­ni­ous slow­ness, nar­row cages mounted in a spi­ral mo­tion, in the dark­ness of which I walk to­day know­ing I won’t see it again. It is this weight that I at­tempt to free through paint­ing. In other words: my work is not about see­ing or in­vent­ing, but about re­veal­ing a ver­sion of my re­al­ity through the dis­tor­tions of my mem­ory.

An image of a painting

While spend­ing time read­ing and work­ing on my writ­ing in this tran­si­tional pe­riod, I have come not to a cer­tain wis­dom but per­haps to a cer­tain sense. I ask my­self, what does be­ing a painter mean to me? I sup­pose it comes down to sim­ply be­ing true to my imag­i­na­tion and to my his­tory. When I paint some­thing, I think of it not as be­ing fac­tu­ally true, but as be­ing true to some­thing deeper. When I treat a sur­face, I treat it be­cause some­how I be­lieve in it—not as one be­lieves in mere his­tory, but rather as one be­lieves in a dream or an ideal. That’s some­thing that paint­ing does for me that no other for­mat can. I merely try to con­vey what the dream is. And if the dream is a dim one (in my case, it usu­ally is), I do not try to beau­tify, or even to un­der­stand it, I just trust that mo­ment.


After leav­ing my coun­try, Venezuela, I am con­fronted with the im­pos­si­bil­ity of re­turn. My as­sem­bled draw­ing and paint­ings are the medium in which I ex­plore how I re­mem­ber sites, and how I vi­su­al­ize for­got­ten or imag­ined places as I nav­i­gate my ex­pe­ri­ence of ge­o­graph­i­cal mi­gra­tion and its af­ter­ef­fects. The con­struc­tion of mem­ory is cen­tral to my in­quiries, but equally vi­tal are the sites we have imag­ined or for­got­ten and where im­ages of these places are stored or housed. These mem­o­ries of home ex­pect to breathe through my paint­ings, I feel the need to re­cap­ture this site through my day­dreams. Sense of place and dis­place­ment hold both the real and the imag­i­nary and my prac­tice de­picts what this might look like. My work is not about see­ing or in­vent­ing, but about re­veal­ing a ver­sion of my re­al­ity through the dis­tor­tions of my mem­ory.

I am in­ter­ested in long­ing for home and spaces that are stored in my mem­o­ries. The house that I lost for­ever con­tin­ues to live on in me. This place from child­hood is in my mind and in­sists to me to live again. I con­sider the past, and I re­flect on not hav­ing lived pro­foundly enough in the old house that fills my heart. I fear that bit by bit my home in Caracas will be lost in the mists of time, and I vi­su­al­ize it as a shadow, or per­haps as a falling brush­stroke. The weight of not hav­ing my home and fam­ily near me is scat­tered in­side of me —the rooms, the stairs in my grand­fa­ther’s home that de­scended with such cer­e­mo­ni­ous slow­ness, nar­row cages mounted in a spi­ral mo­tion, in the dark­ness of which I walk to­day know­ing I won’t see it again. It is this weight that I at­tempt to free through paint­ing.