Author: Erika Bell

Art in Non-Art Settings

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As I sat waiting to begin a study for one of my courses, I began to look all around me. I had never been in this area of the building before, and I was taken aback by how full of art the walls were. It wasn’t a building dedicated to any artistic profession, but it captured this aura of serenity and culture through its snapshot images placed vertically along the wall. I’ve always been fascinated by how businesses choose to decorate their offices, eating areas, and hallways. Is the art supposed to match the theme of the business? Who chooses what art should go up? Will the artist get their deserved recognition if their pieces are well-received by the customers?

Wynwood Kitchen and Bar

Sometimes what makes a cafe or a restaurant so yummy is the atmosphere that is created by the decor. While we wait for our food, we are drawn to the setting around us, and it becomes our entertainment during our time of hunger. I find it very beneficial for an artist to display their work within restaurant settings because for many people, the desire to eat out is not solely based on the food, but also on the intrigue that the setting brings. An artist’s piece may be so eye-catching and original, like the Wynwood Kitchen and Bar backdrop above, that many people may inquire about who did this piece, and how they can contact them for more work.

 

New York College of Health Professions

I often see art within an educational or professional setting, and to be honest, I’m usually not impressed. I’m not sure if it is the fact that I’m in a dentist’s office or waiting to take an exam, but I rarely connect with the pieces because my thoughts are elsewhere. Some educational institutions may realize this and opt for the still life of a bowl of fruit or flowers, opposed to something more stimulating.

Chicago Dental and Dentist Services

With this in mind, I wonder what the relationship with art that colleges and businesses truly have. Is it for the love of the field or is it more about filling space with simplistic pieces?

Soulmates

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Plopping onto his bed, she could feel the sting of the springs push into her back as she was on her plane.

He pushed his shoes off and flung them across the room, twisting her Old Navy flip-flops around her sturdy toes

He exhaled releasing the tight ball in his gut…it’s been there for days.

He flicked through his phone deleting every text, image, voicemail he could find with that damn red heart next to it.

Her hand became heavy, scabs drying over the waterfall of darkened bruises.

She cleared her throat and closed her eyes resting her head on the seat

Her thoughts becoming jumbled as a shot of pain rushes to her forehead…maybe it was the height of the plane.

“I hate her. I h-ay-tuh her.”

He lies in bed stewing in hate for her and for his eyes pooling in crystallized waves as he sucks in his body’s betrayal and

He searches for sleep.

She lies awake against her sleeping pill’s wishes, dry-eyed, empty, confused.

A Goodbye

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It’s too quiet, I can’t stand it.

We rode in the car one day,

your head bobbing above the seat as we

twisted and turned and whirled

through an eternal wind tunnel.

Your voice.

Like a vacuum sucking up cracker crumbs,

crack crack waaaaaa.

I couldn’t hear you

I wish I could hear you.

Now it’s too quiet I can’t.

Your voice.

Like a cooing baby’s when you wanted to be sweet, I hated it.

I shriveled down two years every time you sprinkled your sweetness on me.

I love it.

Tight hugs, ripped shirts, wet embraces.

You needed that hug.

I need that hug.

You named me after a Disney character who liked honey

and a snack little kids smack between their cheeks,

I imagine

while I write this

those names will fall down on me

from upstairs from your room

It’s too quiet, I can’t stand it.

Le Dénouement

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This was my first semester at U of M, and I got the amazing opportunity to write for Arts Ink. Going back to my first post I talked of my inexperience in the artistic world (basically I was a wannabe who adored the arts, yet I didn’t know the right way to convey how I felt). I think I’ve grown a little from my experience writing, and I am grateful for that little leap of knowledge that I’ve gained. My idea of art wasn’t fully molded when I started out, but I have begun to understand its mission of enacting thought and change, something that I truly appreciate.

I learned of influential artists that I wouldn’t have otherwise researched if it wasn’t for Arts Ink.

From Left: Nikkey Finney, Christophe Jacrot Photography, Validation/Short Film by Kurt Kuenne

I developed concepts that I wouldn’t have otherwise contemplated on a regular day.

Fashion’s Evolution/ Now & Then/WTF happened

Some weeks I was completely sucked dry of where I could take the readers of Arts Ink that Sunday. I asked myself what would you like read about? What would I feel passionate writing about? And some weeks I felt like a complete flop inspiration-wise, and others I was overcome with intrigue at what I came up with in discussion of the artistic world. It was never easy, not one week of writing; however, it’s a learning experience on both sides.

To end this semester with a challenge (let’s shake it up a bit), I challenge you readers out there to do something positive for the enduring arts movement every single day this summer. Take a class, support a band, create a collection of poems, develop a completely biased and opinionated blog about your thoughts of the intricacy of abandoned buildings, and rant about it to your uncle Larry at the next family function. I’ll do the same, and we’ll reconvene in the fall. Good luck!

Pysanka, Hampstead, and the New Hunt for Egg Art

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As a kid, some of my most vivid memories were Easter time when I was given the opportunity to hijack the cartons of eggs in the refrigerator, and create dozens of pretty pastel or neon colored treasures. The worst part was waiting for them to boil and harden, yet when they were ready for my eager hands, I jumped at the opportunity to get my markers, dyes, and glue stick out, so I could use my imagination in creating some of the most original Easter eggs ever.

For some this tradition is unchanging. Kids continue to enjoy the artistic freedom of recreating meal-worthy eggs to original artwork, and many adults still hold on to this time as an opportunity to showcase the possibilities that can come with the spherical blank canvas.

Pysanka (you may have encountered some of these Ukrainian beauties recently) are Ukraine Easter eggs made with wax resist and dye. These eggs mirror some of the traditional Ukrainian folk designs and can bear any design imaginable. The ancient Ukrainian’s viewed eggs as sources of life, and as the time progressed the ideology remained intact, and many Ukrainian families practice the tradition of Pysanka each Easter. These marvels open up the endless possibilities with egg designs, and are open for those willing to learn.

Traditonal Ukrainian Pysanka Eggs

Within the Hampstead School of Art in London, England, the egg hunt is for a different purpose. Sarah John, operations director of the school, created her giant Easter egg in hopes of reviving the fun of the Hampstead neighborhood, and the fun that art can be. The Egg stands at 3ft, and seems to have brought some light into the districts troubles. For more info check out the Hampstead Egg.

Artist Sarah John who made the giant egg for the Hampstead Easter egg hunt. Picture: Nigel Sutton

Artist Sarah John: Nigel Sutton

The new hunt for egg art has quietly taken over and brought a dynamic take to the tradition of egg decoration. Given the beauty of the new movement within egg art, from the detailed colors and designs, to the overall grandiosity, I judge the the majority of egg recreation will stray from a mushed up marker, color dye, and a glue stick, to some of the endless options developed in kid’s imaginations.

Missing Noah’s Ark: an ekphrastic poem adapted from the painting “The Flood”

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I go under.

Water rushing into my ears,

bubbling out of my nose,

eye sockets overflowing with its saltiness

my body sinks

deeper.

As the black dye pinned to my skin

for the past 43 years

seeps off

dissipating into

tendrils,

creating a dark, hazy atmosphere

above my heavy head

My body, feather-light, floats lower,

lower.

I become the black

clunky dye,

drifting higher,

higher,

to the surface then

Spreading.

I am lies

contorted truths of passion and empathy for our family’s downfall.

I am greed

thirsting, devouring, licking clean all the wealth of my life.

I am anger

slapping, spitting, singeing, done to those I know best.

Tunneling down

ricocheting against the green waters,

I become numb to my senses.

I see cloaked darkness,

hearing the grain of dust fall in,

tasting the liquid that consumes my molecular structure.

I hit a wall.

I think my back feels

the splintered wood of a boat.

-Erika Bell